_Behind the Footlights_
By the first of the following week the near tragedy of the picnic seemed
only a terrible nightmare to Helen and Margaret and they devoted all of
their extra time to helping Tom get out the next edition of the _Herald_.
Monday morning's mail brought a long letter from Helen's father, a letter
in which he praised them warmly for their first edition of the _Herald_.
He added that he had recovered from the fatigue of his long trip into the
southwest and was feeling much stronger and a great deal more cheerful.
The newsy letter brightened the whole atmosphere of the Blair home and
for the first time since their father had left, Tom and Helen saw their
mother like her old self, smiling, happy and humming little tunes as she
worked about the house.
Events crowded one on another as the school year neared its close. There
were final examinations, the junior-senior banquet, the annual sophomore
party and finally, graduation exercises.
The seniors had been rehearsing their play, "The Spell of the Image," for
a month and for the final week had engaged a special dramatic instructor
from Cranston to put the finishing touches on the cast. Helen had read
the play several times. It was a comedy-drama concerning the finding of
an ancient and valuable string of pearls in an old image. It had action,
mystery and romance and she thrilled when she thought that in two more
years she would be in her own class play.
The dramatic instructor arrived. She was Anne Weeks, a slender,
dark-haired girl of 25 who had attended the state university and majored
in dramatics. Every boy in high school promptly thought he was in love
with her.
The seniors rehearsed their parts every spare hour and every evening. The
play was to go on Thursday night with the graduation exercises Friday
evening.
Dress rehearsal was called for Tuesday and Helen went down to the opera
house to peek in and see how it was going. She found a disconsolate cast
sitting around the stage, looking gloomily at Miss Weeks.
"This looks more like a party of mourners than a play practice," observed
Helen.
"It's just about that bad," replied Miss Weeks. "Sarah Jacobs has come
down with a severe cold and can't talk, which leaves us in a fine
pickle."
"Won't she be able to go on Thursday night?"
"It will be at least a week before she'll be able to use her voice for a
whole evening," Miss Weeks said. "In the meantime, we've got to find
another girl, about Sarah's size, to play her part and every member of
the senior class is in the play now."
She stopped suddenly and looked at Helen.
"You're about Sarah's size," she mused, "and you're blonde and you have
blue eyes. You'll do, Helen."
"Do for what?" asked the astounded Helen.
"Why, for Sarah's part," exclaimed Miss Weeks. "Come now, hurry up and
get into Sarah's costume," and she pointed to a dainty colonial dress
which the unfortunate Sarah was to have worn in the prologue.
"But I don't know Sarah's part well enough," said Helen. "I've only read
the play twice and then just for fun."
"You'll catch on," said Miss Weeks, "if you're half as smart as I think
you are."
"Go on, Helen," urged the seniors. "Help us out. We've got to put the
play across or we'll never have enough money to pay Miss Weeks."
"Now you know why I'm so anxious for you to take the part," smiled the
play instructor.
"I'll do my best," promised Helen, gathering the costume under her arm
and hurrying toward the girls' dressing room.
Ten minutes later she emerged as a dainty colonial dame. Miss Weeks
stared hard at her and then smiled an eminently satisfactory smile.
"Now if she can only get the lines in two nights," she whispered to
herself.
Helen's reading of the play had given her a thorough understanding of the
action and they went through the prologue without a slip. Scenery was
shifted rapidly and the stage changed from a colonial ballroom to a
modern garden scene. Costumes kept up with the scenery and when the
members of the cast reappeared on the stage they were dressed in modern
clothes.
Helen poured over the pages of the play book and because she had only a
minor part in the first act, got through it nicely. The second act was
her big scene and she was decidedly nervous when it came time for her
cue. One of the seniors was to make love to her and she didn't especially
like him. But the play was the thing and the seniors certainly did need
someone to take the vacant part.
She screwed up her courage and played the rĂ´le for all it was worth. Once
she forgot her lines but she managed to fake a little conversation and
they got back to the regular lines without trouble.
When the curtain was rung down on the third act Miss Weeks stepped out of
the orchestra pit where she had been directing the changes in minor
details of the action and came over to Helen.
"You're doing splendidly," she told the young editor of the _Herald_.
"Don't worry about lines. Read them over thoroughly sometime tomorrow and
we'll put the finishing touches on tomorrow night."
When Helen reached home Tom had returned from the office, his work done
for the night.
"Thought you were just going down the street to see how play practice was
coming?" he said.
"I did," Helen replied, "and I'm so thrilled, Tom. Sarah Jacobs, who has
the juvenile lead in the play is ill with a sore throat and Miss Weeks
asked me to take the part."
"Are you going to?"
"I have," smiled Helen. "That's where I've been. Rehearsing for the play
Thursday night."
"Well, you're a fine editor," growled Tom. "How am I going to get out the
paper?"
"Oh, you don't need to worry about copy," Helen assured him. "Margaret
has half a dozen stories to turn in tomorrow noon and I'll have all of
mine written by supper time. And I'll do my usual work Thursday
afternoon."
"I was just kidding," grinned Tom. "I think it's great that Miss Weeks
picked you to fill in during the emergency. Quite a compliment, I say."
Helen's mother, who had been across the street at the Stevens', came home
and Helen had to tell her story over again.
"What about your costumes?" asked her mother.
"The class rents the colonial dress for the prologue," explained Helen,
"and for the other acts Miss Weeks is going to loan me some smart frocks
from her own wardrobe. We're practically the same size."
"What a break for you," Tom laughed. "You'll be the smartest dressed girl
in the class if I know anything about Miss Weeks."
"Which you don't!" retorted his sister.
Helen's regular Wednesday morning round of news gathering took her to the
depot to meet the nine forty-five and she found the agent waiting.
"Remember I promised you a story this week?" he said.
"I'm ready to take it," Helen smiled. "What we want is news, more news
and then more news."
"This is really a good story," the railroad man assured her. "Wait until
you see the nine forty-five."
"What's the matter? Is it two or three hours late?"
"It will be in right on time," the agent promised.
Helen sat down on a box on the platform to await the arrival of the
morning local. Resting there in the warm sunshine, she pulled her copy of
the play book out of her pocket and read the second act, with her big
scene, carefully. The words were natural enough and she felt that she
would have little trouble remembering them.
She glanced at the depot clock. It was nine forty. The local should be
whistling for the crossing down the valley. She looked in the direction
from which the train was coming. There was no sign of smoke and she knew
it would be late.
She had picked up her play book and turned to the third act when a mellow
chime echoed through the valley. It was like a locomotive whistle and yet
unlike one.
"New whistle on the old engine?" Helen asked the agent.
"More than that," he grinned.
The _Herald's_ editor watched for the train to swing into sight around a
curve but instead of the black, stubby snout of the regular passenger
engine, a train of three cars, seemingly moving without a locomotive,
appeared and rolled smoothly toward the station.
As it came nearer Helen could hear the low roar of a powerful gasoline
engine, which gradually dropped to a sputtering series of coughs as the
three car train drew abreast the station.
"Latest thing in local trains," exclaimed the agent. "It's a gas-electric
outfit with the motive power in the front end of the first car. Fast,
clean and smooth and it's economical to run. Don't take a fireman."
Helen jotted down hasty notes. Everyone in the town and countryside would
be interested in seeing and reading about the new train.
The agent gave Helen a hand into the cab where the engineer obligingly
explained the operation of the gas-electric engine.
The conductor called "All aboo-ord," and Helen climbed down out of the
cab.
The gasoline engine sputtered as it took up the load of starting the
train. When the cars were once under way, it settled down to a steady
rumble and the train picked up speed rapidly and rolled out of town on
its way to the state capital.
"What do you think of it?" asked the agent.
"It's certainly a fine piece of equipment," said Helen, "but I hate to
see the old steam engines go. There's something much more romantic about
them than these new trains."
"Oh, we'll have steam on the freight trains," the agent hastened to add.
"Give us a good write up."
"I will," Helen promised as she started for the _Herald_ office to write
her story of the passing of the steam passenger trains on the branch
line.
Margaret came in with a handful of school stories she had written during
an assembly hour.
"Congratulations," she said to Helen. "I've just heard about your part.
You'll put it across."
"I'm glad you think so, Marg, for I'd hate to make a fizzle of it."
Helen finished writing her copy for the paper that afternoon after school
and before she went home to supper with Tom wrote the headlines for the
main stories on page one.
"Did you write a story about the sophomore picnic and what happened to
Margaret?" asked Tom.
"It's with the copy I just put on your machine," Helen replied. "Everyone
knows something about it and of course there is a lot of talk. I've seen
Doctor Stevens and Margaret and they both agree that a story is necessary
and that the simple truth is the best thing to say with no apologies and
nothing covered up."
"Doc Stevens is a brick," exclaimed Tom. "Most men would raise the very
dickens if such a story were printed but it will stop idle talk which is
certainly much worse than having the truth known."
"That's the way he feels," Helen said.
Margaret came over after supper to go down to the opera house with Helen
for play practice.
"I'm getting almost as big a thrill out of it as Helen," she told Mrs.
Blair, "only I wouldn't be able to put it across and Helen can."
Miss Weeks had brought three dresses for Helen to wear, one for each act
in the play. They were dainty, colorful frocks that went well with
Helen's blondness.
The stage was set with all of the properties for the prologue and Helen
hastened into the girl's dressing room to put on her colonial costume.
When she returned to the stage, Miss Weeks was addressing the cast.
"Remember," she warned them, "that this is the last rehearsal. Everything
is just as it will be tomorrow night. Imagine the audience is here
tonight. Play up to them."
The main curtain was dropped, the house lights went off and the battery
of brilliant electrics in the footlights blazed.
The curtain moved slightly; then went up smoothly and disappeared in the
darkness above the stage. The play was on.
The prologue went smoothly and without a mistake and when the curtain
dropped the stage became a scene of feverish activity.
"Five minutes to change," Miss Weeks warned them as they went to their
dressing rooms.
For the first act Helen was to wear a white sport dress with a blazing
red scarf knotted loosely around her neck. She wiggled into her outfit,
brushed her hair with deft hands, dabbed fresh powder on her cheeks,
touched up her lips with scarlet and was ready for her cue. She said her
lines with an ease and clearness that surprised even herself and was back
in the wings and on her way to the dressing room almost before she knew
it.
In the second act Helen had her big part and Miss Weeks had provided a
black, velvet semiformal afternoon gown. It was fashioned in plain,
clinging lines, caught around the waist with a single belt of braided
cloth of gold and with the neckline trimmed in the same material. Golden
slippers and hose and one bracelet, a heavy, imitation gold band,
completed the accessories.
Between acts Miss Weeks came into see how the costume fitted.
"Why, Helen," she exclaimed. "You're gorgeous--beautiful. Every boy in
town will be crazy about you."
"I'll worry about that later," Helen replied. "But I'm so glad you think
I look all right."
"You're perfectly adorable."
The praise from Miss Weeks buoyed Helen with an inner courage that made
her fairly sparkle and she played her part for all it was worth. Again
she forgot her lines but she managed to escape by faking conversation.
When the rehearsal was over, Margaret hastened to the stage.
"You'll be the hit of the show," she whispered to Helen. "And think of
it, one of the sophomores running away with the seniors play."
"But I don't intend to do that," Helen replied. "I'm only here to help
them out. Besides, I may forget my lines and make some terrible mistake
tomorrow night."
"You'll do nothing of the kind," Margaret insisted, as they left the
theater.
Thursday was Helen's busy day. Final examinations for two periods in the
morning and then to the office after lunch to help Tom fold and mail the
week's edition of the _Herald_.
Tom had put the two pages for the last run on the press before going home
for lunch so when they returned the press was ready for the afternoon's
work.
Advertising had not been quite as heavy as the first week and Tom had
used every line of copy Helen had written, but the paper looked clean and
readable.
Helen stacked the papers on the makeup table and started folding. When
Tom finished the press run he folded while Helen started stamping the
names of the subscribers on the papers. By four o'clock every paper was
in the postoffice and half an hour later they were ready to call it a day
and lock up the office.
When Helen reached home her mother made her go to her room and rest for
an hour before supper.
They were eating when Margaret hurried in.
"Here are your tickets," she told Mrs. Blair. "I managed to get them
exchanged so we'll all be together."
"But I thought you had decided not to go to the play?" Helen said to her
mother.
"That was before you had a part in it," smiled Mrs. Blair.
"Where are you going to sit?"
"You don't want to know," put in Tom. "If you did, it would make you
nervous. It's bad enough to know that we'll be there."
The cast had been called to meet on the stage at seven-fifteen for last
minute instructions. The curtain was at eight-fifteen and that would give
them an hour to dress and get into makeup.
Miss Weeks had little to say when she faced the group of seniors and the
lone sophomore.
"Remember that this is no different from last night's rehearsal," she
told them. "Play up to each other. If you forget a few lines, fake the
conversation until you can get back to your cues. You will disappoint me
greatly if you don't put on the best senior play ever given in Rolfe."
Then they were swept away in the rush of last minute preparations for the
first call. The girl's dressing room was filled with the excited chatter
of a dozen girls and the air was thick with the smell of grease paint and
powder. Colonial costumes came out of the large wardrobe which filled one
side of the room and there was the crisp rustle of silk as the girls
donned their costumes. Miss Weeks moved through the room, adding a touch
of makeup here and taking off a bit where some over-zealous young actress
had been too enthusiastic.
"Ten minutes," Miss Weeks warned the girls. "Everyone out and on the
stage."
There was a general checkup on costumes and stage properties. Through the
heavy curtain Helen heard the high school orchestra swing into the
overture. The electrician moved the rheostat which dimmed the house
lights. The banks of electrics in the flies about the stage awoke into
glaring brilliance as the overture reached its crescendo. The stage was
very quiet. Everyone was ready for the curtain.
All eyes were on Miss Weeks and Helen felt a last second flutter of her
heart. In another second or two she would be in the full glare of the
footlights. She was thankful that she had only a few lines in the
prologue. It would give her time to gain a stage composure and prepare
for her big scene in the second act.
Miss Weeks' hand moved. The man at the curtain shifted and it started
slowly upward. Helen blinked involuntarily as she faced the full glare of
the footlights. Beyond them she could see only a sea of faces, extending
row on row toward the back of the theater. Somewhere out there her mother
and Tom would be watching her. And with them would be Margaret and her
parents.
The play was on and Helen forgot her first nervousness. Dainty colonial
dames moved about the stage and curtsied before gallant white-wigged
gentlemen. The prologue was short but colorful. Just enough to reveal
that a precious string of pearls had been hidden in the ugly little image
which reposed so calmly on a pedestal.
As the curtain descended, a wave of applause reached the stage. It was
ardent and prolonged and Miss Weeks motioned for the cast to remain in
their places. The curtain ascended half way and the cast curtsied before
it descended again.
"You're doing splendidly," Miss Weeks told them. "Now everyone to the
dressing rooms to change for the first act. Be back on the stage ready to
go in five minutes."
The girls flocked to the dressing room. Colonial costumes disappeared and
modern dresses took their place. Helen slipped into her white sport
outfit with the scarlet scarf. Her cheeks burned with the excitement of
the hour. She dabbed her face with a powder puff and returned to the
stage. The scenery had been shifted for the first act and the curtain
went up on time to the second.
Helen felt much easier. Her first feeling of stage fright had disappeared
and she knew she was the master of her own emotions. She refused to think
of the possibility of forgetting her lines and resolved to put herself
into the character she was playing and do and act in the coming
situations, as that character would do.
Helen was on the stage only a few minutes during the first act and she
had ample time to change for the second. The dressing room was almost
deserted and she took her time. The heavy, black velvet dress Miss Weeks
had loaned her was entrancing in its rich beauty and distinctiveness.
She combed her blond hair until it looked like burnished gold. Then she
pulled it back and caught it at the nape of her neck. It was the most
simple hair dress possible but the most effective in its sheer
simplicity.
Other girls crowded into the room. The first act was over. Miss Weeks
came in and Helen stood up.
"Wonderful, Helen, wonderful," murmured the instructor, but not so loud
that the other girls would hear.
There was the call for the second act and Helen went onto the stage. The
senior she played opposite came up.
"All set?" he asked.
Helen smiled, just a bit grimly, for she was determined to play her part
for all it was worth.
The orchestra stopped playing and the curtain slid upward. She heard her
cue and walked into the radiance of the lights. She heard the senior, her
admirer in the play, talking to her. He was telling her of his recent
adventures and how, at the end of a long, moonlit trail, he had finally
come upon the girl of his dreams.
Then she heard herself replying, protesting that there was no such thing
as love at first sight, but that ardent young Irish adventurer refused no
for an answer and Helen backed away from him.
She heard a warning hiss from the wings but it was too late. She walked
backwards into a pedestal with a vase of flowers.
There was a sudden crash of the falling pedestal and the tinkle of
breaking glass.
The audience roared with laughter.
Helen was stunned for the moment. In her chance to make good in high
school dramatics she had clumsily backed into the stand and upset it,
breaking the vase. Tears welled into her eyes and her lips trembled. The
senior was staring at her, too surprised to talk.
The laughter continued, and Helen seized the only chance for escape.
Could she make it appear that the accident was a part of the play, a
deliberate bit of comedy?
"Smile," she whispered to the senior. "We can make it look like a part of
the play. Follow my cue." He nodded slightly to show that he understood.
The laughter subsided enough for them to continue their lines and Helen
managed to smile. She hoped it wouldn't look too forced.
"Look what you made me do," she said, pointing at the wreckage of the
vase.
"Sorry," smiled the senior. "I'm just that way about you."
Then they swung back into the lines of the play and three minutes later
Helen was again in the wings.
Miss Weeks was waiting for her and Helen expected a sharp criticism.
"Supreme comedy," congratulated the dramatic instructor. "How did you
happen to think of that?"
"But I didn't think of it," protested Helen. "It was an accident. I was
scared to death."
Miss Weeks stared at her hard.
"Well," she commented, "you certainly carried it off splendidly. It was
the best comedy touch of the show."
The third act went on and then "The Spell of the Image" was over. The
curtain came down on the final curtain call. The orchestra blared as the
audience left the hall while parents and friends trooped onto the stage
to congratulate the members of the cast.
Helen suddenly felt very tired and there was a mist in her eyes, but she
brightened visibly when her mother and Tom, followed by the Stevens,
pushed through the crowd. She listened eagerly to their praises and to
Tom's whole-hearted exclamations over her beauty and charm.
Then the lights of the stage dimmed. She had had her hour as an actress;
she knew she had acquitted herself well. The smell of grease, paint and
powder faded and she was a newspaperwoman again--the editor of the
_Herald_.