CHAPTER XVIII. SARA RAY HELPS OUT
We all missed Aunt Olivia greatly; she had been so merry andcompanionable, and had possessed such a knack of understanding smallfry. But youth quickly adapts itself to changed conditions; in a fewweeks it seemed as if the Story Girl had always been living at UncleAlec's, and as if Uncle Roger had always had a fat, jolly housekeeperwith a double chin and little, twinkling blue eyes. I don't think AuntJanet ever quite got over missing Aunt Olivia, or looked upon Mrs.Hawkins as anything but a necessary evil; but life resumed its eventenor on the King farm, broken only by the ripples of excitement overthe school concert and letters from Aunt Olivia describing her tripthrough the land of Evangeline. We incorporated the letters in OurMagazine under the heading "From Our Special Correspondent" and werevery proud of them.
At the end of June our school concert came off and was a great eventin our young lives. It was the first appearance of most of us on anyplatform, and some of us were very nervous. We all had recitations,except Dan, who had refused flatly to take any part and was consequentlycare-free.
"I'm sure I shall die when I find myself up on that platform, facingpeople," sighed Sara Ray, as we talked the affair over in UncleStephen's Walk the night before the concert.
"I'm afraid I'll faint," was Cecily's more moderate foreboding.
"I'm not one single bit nervous," said Felicity complacently.
"I'm not nervous this time," said the Story Girl, "but the first time Irecited I was."
"My Aunt Jane," remarked Peter, "used to say that an old teacher of herstold her that when she was going to recite or speak in public she mustjust get it firmly into her mind that it was only a lot of cabbage headsshe had before her, and she wouldn't be nervous."
"One mightn't be nervous, but I don't think there would be muchinspiration in reciting to cabbage heads," said the Story Girldecidedly. "I want to recite to PEOPLE, and see them looking interestedand thrilled."
"If I can only get through my piece without breaking down I don't carewhether I thrill people or not," said Sara Ray.
"I'm afraid I'll forget mine and get stuck," foreboded Felix. "Some ofyou fellows be sure and prompt me if I do--and do it quick, so's I won'tget worse rattled."
"I know one thing," said Cecily resolutely, "and that is, I'm goingto curl my hair for to-morrow night. I've never curled it since Peteralmost died, but I simply must tomorrow night, for all the other girlsare going to have theirs in curls."
"The dew and heat will take all the curl out of yours and then you'lllook like a scarecrow," warned Felicity.
"No, I won't. I'm going to put my hair up in paper tonight and wet itwith a curling-fluid that Judy Pineau uses. Sara brought me up a bottleof it. Judy says it is great stuff--your hair will keep in curl fordays, no matter how damp the weather is. I'll leave my hair in thepapers till tomorrow evening, and then I'll have beautiful curls."
"You'd better leave your hair alone," said Dan gruffly. "Smooth hair isbetter than a lot of fly-away curls."
But Cecily was not to be persuaded. Curls she craved and curls she meantto have.
"I'm thankful my warts have all gone, any-way," said Sara Ray.
"So they have," exclaimed Felicity. "Did you try Peg's recipe?"
"Yes. I didn't believe in it but I tried it. For the first few daysafterwards I kept watching my warts, but they didn't go away, and thenI gave up and forgot them. But one day last week I just happened to lookat my hands and there wasn't a wart to be seen. It was the most amazingthing."
"And yet you'll say Peg Bowen isn't a witch," said Peter.
"Pshaw, it was just the potato juice," scoffed Dan.
"It was a dry old potato I had, and there wasn't much juice in it,"said Sara Ray. "One hardly knows what to believe. But one thing iscertain--my warts are gone."
Cecily put her hair up in curl-papers that night, thoroughly soaked inJudy Pineau's curling-fluid. It was a nasty job, for the fluid was verysticky, but Cecily persevered and got it done. Then she went to bed witha towel tied over her head to protect the pillow. She did not sleepwell and had uncanny dreams, but she came down to breakfast with anexpression of triumph. The Story Girl examined her head critically andsaid,
"Cecily, if I were you I'd take those papers out this morning."
"Oh, no; if I do my hair will be straight again by night. I mean toleave them in till the last minute."
"I wouldn't do that--I really wouldn't," persisted the Story Girl. "Ifyou do your hair will be too curly and all bushy and fuzzy."
Cecily finally yielded and went upstairs with the Story Girl. Presentlywe heard a little shriek--then two little shrieks--then three. ThenFelicity came flying down and called her mother. Aunt Janet went up andpresently came down again with a grim mouth. She filled a large pan withwarm water and carried it upstairs. We dared ask her no questions, butwhen Felicity came down to wash the dishes we bombarded her.
"What on earth is the matter with Cecily?" demanded Dan. "Is she sick?"
"No, she isn't. I warned her not to put her hair in curls but shewouldn't listen to me. I guess she wishes she had now. When peoplehaven't natural curly hair they shouldn't try to make it curly. They getpunished if they do."
"Look here, Felicity, never mind all that. Just tell us what hashappened Sis."
"Well, this is what has happened her. That ninny of a Sara Ray broughtup a bottle of mucilage instead of Judy's curling-fluid, and Cecily puther hair up with THAT. It's in an awful state."
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Dan. "Look here, will she ever get it out?"
"Goodness knows. She's got her head in soak now. Her hair is just mattedtogether hard as a board. That's what comes of vanity," said Felicity,than whom no vainer girl existed.
Poor Cecily paid dearly enough for HER vanity. She spent a bad forenoon,made no easier by her mother's severe rebukes. For an hour she "soaked"her head; that is, she stood over a panful of warm water and keptdipping her head in with tightly shut eyes. Finally her hair softenedsufficiently to be disentangled from the curl papers; and then AuntJanet subjected it to a merciless shampoo. Eventually they got all themucilage washed out of it and Cecily spent the remainder of the forenoonsitting before the open oven door in the hot kitchen drying her ill-usedtresses. She felt very down-hearted; her hair was of that order which,glossy and smooth normally, is dry and harsh and lustreless for severaldays after being shampooed.
"I'll look like a fright tonight," said the poor child to me withtrembling voice. "The ends will be sticking out all over my head."
"Sara Ray is a perfect idiot," I said wrathfully
"Oh, don't be hard on poor Sara. She didn't mean to bring me mucilage.It's really all my own fault, I know. I made a solemn vow when Peter wasdying that I would never curl my hair again, and I should have kept it.It isn't right to break solemn vows. But my hair will look like driedhay tonight."
Poor Sara Ray was quite overwhelmed when she came up and found whatshe had done. Felicity was very hard on her, and Aunt Janet was coldlydisapproving, but sweet Cecily forgave her unreservedly, and they walkedto the school that night with their arms about each other's waists asusual.
The school-room was crowded with friends and neighbours. Mr. Perkins wasflying about, getting things into readiness, and Miss Reade, who wasthe organist of the evening, was sitting on the platform, looking hersweetest and prettiest. She wore a delightful white lace hat with afetching little wreath of tiny forget-me-nots around the brim, a whitemuslin dress with sprays of blue violets scattered over it, and a blacklace scarf.
"Doesn't she look angelic?" said Cecily rapturously.
"Mind you," said Sara Ray, "the Awkward Man is here--in the cornerbehind the door. I never remember seeing him at a concert before."
"I suppose he came to hear the Story Girl recite," said Felicity. "He issuch a friend of hers."
The concert went off very well. Dialogues, choruses and recitationsfollowed each other in rapid succession. Felix got through his without"getting stuck," and Peter did excellent
ly, though he stuffed his handsin his trousers pockets--a habit of which Mr. Perkins had vainly triedto break him. Peter's recitation was one greatly in vogue at that time,beginning,
"My name is Norval; on the Grampian hills My father feeds his flocks."
At our first practice Peter had started gaily in, rushing through thefirst line with no thought whatever of punctuation--"My name is Norvalon the Grampian Hills."
"Stop, stop, Peter," quoth Mr. Perkins, sarcastically, "your name mightbe Norval if you were never on the Grampian Hills. There's a semi-colonin that line, I wish you to remember."
Peter did remember it. Cecily neither fainted nor failed when it cameher turn. She recited her little piece very well, though somewhatmechanically. I think she really did much better than if she had had herdesired curls. The miserable conviction that her hair, alone amongthat glossy-tressed bevy, was looking badly, quite blotted out allnervousness and self-consciousness from her mind. Her hair apart, shelooked very pretty. The prevailing excitement had made bright her eyeand flushed her cheeks rosily--too rosily, perhaps. I heard a Carlislewoman behind me whisper that Cecily King looked consumptive, just likeher Aunt Felicity; and I hated her fiercely for it.
Sara Ray also managed to get through respectably, although she waspitiably nervous. Her bow was naught but a short nod--"as if her headworked on wires," whispered Felicity uncharitably--and the wave of herlily-white hand more nearly resembled an agonized jerk than a wave. Weall felt relieved when she finished. She was, in a sense, one of "ourcrowd," and we had been afraid she would disgrace us by breaking down.
Felicity followed her and recited her selection without haste, withoutrest, and absolutely without any expression whatever. But what matteredit how she recited? To look at her was sufficient. What with hersplendid fleece of golden curls, her great, brilliant blue eyes, herexquisitely tinted face, her dimpled hands and arms, every member of theaudience must have felt it was worth the ten cents he had paid merely tosee her.
The Story Girl followed. An expectant silence fell over the room, andMr. Perkins' face lost the look of tense anxiety it had worn all theevening. Here was a performer who could be depended on. No need tofear stage fright or forgetfulness on her part. The Story Girl was notlooking her best that night. White never became her, and her facewas pale, though her eyes were splendid. But nobody thought about herappearance when the power and magic of her voice caught and held herlisteners spellbound.
Her recitation was an old one, figuring in one of the School Readers,and we scholars all knew it off by heart. Sara Ray alone had not heardthe Story Girl recite it. The latter had not been drilled at practicesas had the other pupils, Mr. Perkins choosing not to waste time teachingher what she already knew far better than he did. The only time she hadrecited it had been at the "dress rehearsal" two nights before, at whichSara Ray had not been present.
In the poem a Florentine lady of old time, wedded to a cold and cruelhusband, had died, or was supposed to have died, and had been carried to"the rich, the beautiful, the dreadful tomb" of her proud family. Inthe night she wakened from her trance and made her escape. Chilled andterrified, she had made her way to her husband's door, only to be drivenaway brutally as a restless ghost by the horror-stricken inmates. Asimilar reception awaited her at her father's. Then she had wanderedblindly through the streets of Florence until she had fallen exhaustedat the door of the lover of her girlhood. He, unafraid, had taken herin and cared for her. On the morrow, the husband and father, havingdiscovered the empty tomb, came to claim her. She refused to return tothem and the case was carried to the court of law. The verdict given wasthat a woman who had been "to burial borne" and left for dead, who hadbeen driven from her husband's door and from her childhood home, "mustbe adjudged as dead in law and fact," was no more daughter or wife, butwas set free to form what new ties she would. The climax of the wholeselection came in the line,
"The court pronounces the defendant--DEAD!" and the Story Girl was wontto render it with such dramatic intensity and power that the veriestdullard among her listeners could not have missed its force andsignificance.
She swept along through the poem royally, playing on the emotions of heraudience as she had so often played on ours in the old orchard. Pity,terror, indignation, suspense, possessed her hearers in turn. Inthe court scene she surpassed herself. She was, in very truth, theFlorentine judge, stern, stately, impassive. Her voice dropped into thesolemnity of the all-important line,
"'The court pronounces the defendant--'"
She paused for a breathless moment, the better to bring out the tragicimport of the last word.
"DEAD," piped up Sara Ray in her shrill, plaintive little voice.
The effect, to use a hackneyed but convenient phrase, can better beimagined than described. Instead of the sigh of relieved tension thatshould have swept over the audience at the conclusion of the line,a burst of laughter greeted it. The Story Girl's performance wascompletely spoiled. She dealt the luckless Sara a glance that would haveslain her on the spot could glances kill, stumbled lamely and impotentlythrough the few remaining lines of her recitation, and fled with crimsoncheeks to hide her mortification in the little corner that had beencurtained off for a dressing-room. Mr. Perkins looked things not lawfulto be uttered, and the audience tittered at intervals for the rest ofthe performance.
Sara Ray alone remained serenely satisfied until the close of theconcert, when we surrounded her with a whirlwind of reproaches.
"Why," she stammered aghast, "what did I do? I--I thought she was stuckand that I ought to prompt her quick."
"You little fool, she just paused for effect," cried Felicity angrily.Felicity might be rather jealous of the Story Girl's gift, but shewas furious at beholding "one of our family" made ridiculous in such afashion. "You have less sense than anyone I ever heard of, Sara Ray."
Poor Sara dissolved in tears.
"I didn't know. I thought she was stuck," she wailed again.
She cried all the way home, but we did not try to comfort her. We feltquite out of patience with her. Even Cecily was seriously annoyed. Thissecond blunder of Sara's was too much even for her loyalty. We saw herturn in at her own gate and go sobbing up her lane with no relenting.
The Story Girl was home before us, having fled from the schoolhouse assoon as the programme was over. We tried to sympathize with her but shewould not be sympathized with.
"Please don't ever mention it to me again," she said, with compressedlips. "I never want to be reminded of it. Oh, that little IDIOT!"
"She spoiled Peter's sermon last summer and now she's spoiled yourrecitation," said Felicity. "I think it's time we gave up associatingwith Sara Ray."
"Oh, don't be quite so hard on her," pleaded Cecily. "Think of the lifethe poor child has to live at home. I know she'll cry all night."
"Oh, let's go to bed," growled Dan. "I'm good and ready for it. I've hadenough of school concerts."