“Oh, dear, what a lazy girl I am. Nine o’clock and I have not had breakfast. What day is it? Thursday,—and Mr. Ludlow coming here at one o’clock. I must hurry for I must practice some,” murmured Dorothy to herself.
“Dorothy girl, are you still in bed?” called Aunt Betty from the next room.
“I’ll be with you in just a minute, Aunty dear. I’m most ready. Oh, Alfy, please help me,—please,” called Dorothy.
“All right,” replied Alfy, “do you need me to do up the back of your dress?”
“Yes, and that’s all. I’m so late. I did want to write Frau this morning, too,” said Dorothy crossly. “Come, let’s go to breakfast.”
After breakfast Dorothy practiced and Aunt Betty and Alfaretta took a walk and visited some of the large stores where they did a little shopping, Aunt Betty buying the girls each a pair of longwhite gloves and an Irish-lawn collar at Altman’s.
Dorothy was all dressed and waiting for them when they got home. She had on a very simple white dress, one they had made, with just a touch of pink, a small pink bow, at the waist, and a pink hair ribbon. She had practiced the two compositions thoroughly and felt that she knew them perfectly. True, she did feel a slight bit nervous, but in her past experience when she had her violin in her hands she lost self-consciousness and became wrapped up in her music.
“Dorothy,” called Alfy, “we are home, and, see, Aunt Betty bought me these. They are so pretty and I always did want them. I’m so glad I have them. But you go to Aunt Betty, she has something for you.”
“You are a funny girl, Alf,” answered Dorothy. “You have been talking away and I haven’t any idea what you were trying to get at. Aunt Betty, where are you?”
“In the sitting room, dear,” answered Aunt Betty.
“What is Alfy talking about, Aunt Betty?” asked Dorothy, walking into the room.
“This and this,” replied Aunt Betty, holding up two packages. “These are for you, dear.”
Dorothy, taking the two packages and kissing her aunt, murmured: “You dear, dear Aunt Betty. I must see what’s inside.”
She carefully opened the first and exclaimed as she drew forth a long pair of white gloves, “Oh, goody, goody. Just what I have been longing for.” And then opening the second package she found it contained a very beautiful Irish crochetted collar. “Aunt Betty! You dear, dear Aunt Betty. Just think how fine this will look with my gray coat. Just like all the girls we see here in New York. You are the best aunt ever a girl had.”
Dorothy then gathered up her treasures and took them with her into the next room to put them away.
Aunt Betty went into Alfy’s room and said, “Alfy dear, if you will give me your coat I will help you sew the collar on it so you can wear it this afternoon.”
“Oh! that will be fine! I can wear it to the concert. And can I wear the red hair ribbon Ma Babcock bought me from Liza Jane’s?” said Alfy.
“Ting-a-ling. Ting-a-ling,” rang the telephone bell. Dorothy rushed across the room to answer itand found that Mr. Ludlow was waiting for her below in a taxicab.
“Good-bye, Aunt Betty, dear,” called Dorothy; then running into her Aunt’s room she kissed her several times. “You will all surely come. I do need you all there.”
“We’ll be there in plenty of time, Dorothy dear,” answered Aunt Betty. “Now run along girlie, and don’t forget your violin.”
“Here it is,” cried Alfy from the next room, “I’ll bring it to you.”
“You’re a dear, Alfy,” called Dorothy, who by this time was already in the hall.
Mr. Ludlow escorted Dorothy to the taxicab, getting in with her and, shutting the door, he directed the driver to go to Carnegie Hall.
“Well, Dorothy, child,” asked Mr. Ludlow, “is everything all right? You are not scared, are you? You just try to do your best and everything will be fine.”
“I’m not scared, I’m sure of that; but do you think the people will like me?” questioned Dorothy.
“Sure of that, my dear, sure of that. All you must do is just be your very own self,” laughedMr. Ludlow. “But here we are and we must get out.”
The driver stopped the cab and they quickly descended and walked into the building.
“Now, Dorothy, I am going to show you around the place. Just follow me,” directed Mr. Ludlow.
Dorothy looked at the large room and the many chairs and said hesitatingly, “Will it be crowded?”—and when Mr. Ludlow said he hoped so, she sighed and murmured: “My, what a lot of people I shall have to please!” then she added softly to herself, “Jim, Alfy and Aunt Betty; they will surely be pleased and the rest will, too, if I can make them.”
Mr. Ludlow then led Dorothy to the stage and made her walk up and down and all over the place so that she would get familiar with it.
“Mr. Ludlow,” asked Dorothy, “where shall I stand?”
“Right about here,” answered Mr. Ludlow, walking to the front of the stage and a little to the left. “Don’t face directly front.”
“Is this right?” asked Dorothy, taking the position Mr. Ludlow requested.
“That will do,—that will do just right,” answeredMr. Ludlow. “Now come inside and I will take you to see some of the noted artists who are going to play or sing.” He led Dorothy in from the stage and through a long narrow passage which terminated in a large room where there were numerous chairs, tables and couches. Dorothy noticed three or four girls talking together in the center of the room but those in other groups all seemed to be older.
Mr. Ludlow walked over to the group in the center of the room and addressing a small, fair girl, said, “Good afternoon, Miss Boothington.”
The girl turned and seeing Mr. Ludlow, exclaimed, “Mr. Ludlow, I am so glad you are here. I did want you to hear my singing and criticize. You will, will you not?”
“Miss Boothington, that shall be as you please. But now let me present you to a little friend of mine. This,” remarked Mr. Ludlow, turning to Dorothy, “is Miss Dorothy Calvert, and Dorothy, this is my ward, Miss Ruth Boothington. Miss Boothington sings, and will be one of our companions on your trip.”
“I am so glad to meet you, Miss Calvert,” replied Miss Boothington.
“As we are to be so much together, please call me Dorothy if you will,” interrupted Dorothy.
“And you will call me Ruth,” Miss Boothington remarked. “I know we shall have some very fine times together. And you are a solo violinist?”
“Yes, I play the violin,” answered Dorothy. “Are you going to sing to-day?”
“Yes,” answered Ruth. “At least I am going to try to.”
“Here, here. That will never do, Miss Ruth. You should have said that you would sing. Of course you would sing,” remarked Mr. Ludlow. Turning to Dorothy, he said, “Well, Dorothy, I think I shall leave you here with Miss Boothington. I guess she can take care of you. I am going to the front and will sit with your Aunt Betty.”
With that Mr. Ludlow left the two girls and walked out and around front where he looked for Aunt Betty.
“Is this the place? My, ain’t it big!” exclaimed Alfy, as Aunt Betty and Jim followed her to the door.
“I have our tickets here,” remarked Jim, presenting them to the doorkeeper.
“I guess we shall have to go right in and get our seats,” added Aunt Betty. “Keep close to me, Alfy, and Jim, you see that Alfy doesn’t get lost.”
They were at last ushered into a large box on the right side of the house.
“My, what a lot of seats. Is there going to be people in all of them?” asked Alfy, leaning so far out of the box that she almost fell over the rail.
“Here! You sit still,” sharply corrected Jim. “And, Alfy, try to act like a young lady, not like a back-woods little girl. Sit still.”
Alfy reluctantly subsided and appeared to be rather angry. Aunt Betty, noticing this said, “Watch me, Alfy, and do as I do and you will be all right.”
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Ludlow,” said Jim, making room for him.
“Good-afternoon, all,” answered Mr. Ludlow, seating himself next Aunt Betty.
“Did you come to keep us company all the afternoon?” asked Aunt Betty. “Or did you just wish to hear Dorothy play?”
“I thought you wouldn’t mind if I sat with you,” replied Mr. Ludlow. “I have quite a few young friends who are to help entertain us this afternoon. I do hope you shall enjoy them.”
Ruth had, in the meantime, presented Dorothy to the other girls in the group, and they all chattered gayly for a while.
Ruth glanced at her watch, and drawing Dorothy aside, said, “Let’s sit down quietly for a few minutes, and say nothing at all. It always helps to calm you and give you self-possession.”
The girls walked to a far end of the room and sat down, keeping silent for several minutes.
Then Ruth broke the silence by asking, “Where is your violin, Dorothy?”
“I guess it’s over there where we were standing before,” replied Dorothy, rising and making her way quickly to the spot. But no violin was visible.
“My!” exclaimed Ruth. “What did you do with it?”
“Oh,” lamented Dorothy, “I don’t know.”
“Where did you have it last?” questioned Ruth.
“I had it home in the hotel,” moaned Dorothy, most in tears. “I remember I did bring it. Alfy handed it to me and I took it in the taxi.”
“In the taxi? That’s where you left it, you foolish child,” interrupted Ruth.
“How, oh how, can I get it? I must have it. I have to play,” groaned Dorothy.
“Run! Run and telephone. Call up the NewYork Taxicab Company,” breathlessly exclaimed Ruth. “Oh, oh, Dorothy, I must go! I must! I just must, yet how can I leave you here—but I have got to sing now. Oh, I am all out of breath.”
“Stop talking, you dear girl, and go and sing your best so as to make them give you an encore, anything to gain more time for me. Now go!” And Dorothy kissed her and pushed her forward.
Running down the length of the room, she flew into a telephone booth, and hastily searching out the number called up Columbus 6,000.
“Hello, hello,” called Dorothy, frantically. “Hello! Is—has—a man come back with a violin in his taxicab—I must have it! I have to play! Yes. Yes. Yes. No. No. Good-bye.”
She hung up the receiver, and sat back despondently. The cab had not returned in which she had ridden to the hall.
“Oh, what shall I do! No violin and my turn to play next. What shall I do, oh, what shall I do?”
“Miss Calvert,” called the boy. “Your turn next.”
“Oh, dear,” moaned Dorothy, “see if you canborrow an instrument for me from one of the musicians in the orchestra.”
Just then a man rushed into the room carrying a violin under his arm. Dorothy ran up to him and fairly snatched the precious thing out of his arms, exclaiming, “I can play now. I can. I can! Oh, thank you, thank you! But I must go. Please come to the Prince Arthur to-night at 8.30 p. m. I will see you then.”
With that she dashed off, and trying to calm herself, walked upon the stage.
She carefully positioned herself just where Mr. Ludlow had told her to stand, and waiting for the introduction to be played by the orchestra, looked around the house, and discovering the box party, smiled at them gayly. When the last few bars of the music were played, gracefully placing her violin in position she commenced to draw her bow gently across the strings and produced clear, vibrant tones. Her body moved rhythmically, swaying back and forward in perfect accord with the music.
The audience listened spellbound, and when she had finished the whole house echoed with applause. She then walked slowly off the stage, only to be motioned back again to play an encorewhich she did with as much success as she had scored with her first piece.
When she turned from the stage the second time Ruth, who was waiting in the wings, whispered in her ear, “Dorothy dear, you did just splendidly, and you will surely be a great success. The people applauded you so very much I thought they would never stop.”
“Oh, I’m so glad. I do hope Mr. Ludlow liked it, and is satisfied with me,” murmured Dorothy.
“I can answer that, Dorothy,” said a voice in back of her that belonged to Mr. Ludlow, who had left the box just as Dorothy had finished playing and come to speak to them. “Both of you girls did very well indeed. Very well indeed. But come now with me and we’ll go around and sit in the box and listen to the rest of the concert. I want to hear it all.”
With that they traced their way back and soon were seated with the rest of the party. Dorothy told them all about how she had lost her violin and at the last minute recovering it vowed that she would be more careful of it in the future.
The little party was loud in its praises of Dorothy’s playing and Ruth’s singing, for Dorothypresented her new friend to them as soon as she could.
That evening they learned that it was the chauffeur of the taxicab who had found the violin in the auto before he had returned to the garage, and he had immediately started back for the hall with it, knowing it would be needed. Dorothy sent a letter of thanks and a reward, and Aunt Betty, learning the next day that he had a little boy with a broken leg in the hospital, sent a large basket of fruit for the young sufferer.
The girls spent the next day in a very quiet manner. The morning passed quickly as they wrote letters and fixed up their rooms. About dinner time Jim knocked at the door and Dorothy answered.
“Dorothy, I have written and ’phoned Mr. Ford and I can’t seem to get any answer from him,” announced Jim.
“What did you want him for, Jim?” questioned Dorothy.
“Why, I wanted to get his opinion on that position I want to take with the Edison Co.,” answered Jim.
“I have it!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Send him a telegram.”
“I might try that, though I have about made up my mind——”
Just at that moment Aunt Betty called from her room, “Dorothy, Dorothy, girl!”
“Yes, Aunt Betty,” answered Dorothy, going to her aunt’s door. “What may you want?”
“Don’t you think it would be real nice if we four went for a drive this afternoon? It’s a nice warm afternoon and we can go up Fifth avenue and into the park,” suggested Aunt Betty.
“That will be fine. I’ll run and tell Alfy and we’ll get ready,” responded Dorothy, going quickly out of the room. “Alfy! Alfy! Where are you?”
“In here,” called Alfy from her room.
Dorothy rushed into the room, crying, “Alfy dear, just think, we are going driving this afternoon, Aunt Betty, Jim, and you and I. We are going driving—driving.”
“Oh, that’s just great,” exclaimed Alfy, dancing round the room. “It’s fun to go driving in a big city.”
“Let’s get ready right away,” said Dorothy, taking Alfy’s hand and dancing round in a circle with her, singing, “Let’s get ready, let’s get ready, let’s get ready right away.” And then they let go of each other’s hands and danced away to accomplish the art of “getting ready right away.”
Very soon the girls were in the sitting room waiting for Jim and Aunt Betty.
Just then Jim burst into the room crying,“Dorothy, I can’t get a horse and carriage here to drive myself like one has in Baltimore, but I did get a nice automobile. I guess it will not cost any more, for we cover so much ground in a short time. I found a large, red touring car that just holds five and the chauffeur is downstairs now waiting for us, so hustle into your things.”
“An auto ride! That’s better still,” responded Alfy as she rushed to put on her hat and coat.
“I am all ready, dear,” called Aunt Betty from the next room.
“Well, then, come on,” answered Jim. “All come with me.” And they followed him down and out to the automobile.
They were very much delighted with the auto car, and the three, Aunt Betty, Dorothy and Alfy, climbed into the back seat, and Jim took his place with the driver.
Aunt Betty called, “Jim, Jim, please tell the chauffeur to drive slowly and to go up Fifth avenue.”
Away they went. “Oh, oh, oh!” gasped Alfy at the first corner. “Oh, I most thought we would bump into that trolley car!”
“Well,” said Jim, “we didn’t, but it was a pretty close shave.”
“Just think of all the people we might have hurt if we had,” said Dorothy.
“I guess,” replied Jim, “that the only ones hurt would have been ourselves, for the trolley is so heavy we couldn’t have bothered that much.”
Just then they turned into Fifth avenue and joined the procession of already too many machines that were slowly wending their way up and down that old thoroughfare.
“Dorothy and Alfy,” said Aunt Betty, “in those large houses live the very rich of New York.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t live in a house like that,” said Alfy, “if I was rich. I couldn’t, I just could never be happy in one like that,” pointing to a large gray stone mansion. “It hasn’t any garden and windows only in the front, and looks like a pile of boxes, one on top of the other.”
“Don’t the people in New York care for gardens, aunty dear?” questioned Dorothy.
“Yes. Yes, indeed, dear. But these are only their winter homes,” laughed Aunt Betty. “They have summer homes in the country where they have very beautiful gardens. They only spend a few months here in these houses each winter.”
“Well, I would rather have a real home forall the time,” said practical Jim. “A real home, like Bellevieu.”
“Dear, dear old Bellevieu, I wouldn’t exchange it either for all of these places,” whispered Dorothy. “And after this trip is over, and I have made a lot of money, we will all go back there again, and I will build that new sun-parlor Aunt Betty has so long wanted.”
Aunt Betty sighed, for she and she only knew how badly off was the poor old estate. The mortgage that must be paid and the repairs and other things that were needed. She hoped that Dorothy’s trip would be a success, and that she could pay off the mortgage at last.
Then answering Dorothy, she said, “Dear, dear little girl, you are always trying to think of something pleasant for someone else. Never mind your old Aunt Betty, dear.”
“But I do,” whispered Dorothy in her ear, “because I love you more than anyone else in the world.”
“Yes, dear, maybe now you do,” rejoined Aunt Betty, “but some day, some day wait and see.”
They eagerly looked at the beautiful homes, the large and handsome hotels and most of all the happy throng of people who filled the streets, remarkingthat they had never before seen quite so many people, each hurrying along apparently to do his or her special duty.
From Fifth avenue they went up Riverside Drive, around Grant’s Tomb. Then as the limit of time they had arranged for was nearly up they told the chauffeur to drive home, all happy and full of thoughts of the new things they had seen.
“Well, what next, Dorothy girl?” exclaimed Aunt Betty.
“Why, I don’t quite know. Let me see—just what day is this?” said Dorothy to herself. “It’s—it’s—oh, yes, it’s Friday! Oh, oh! Why we must all hurry, hurry, hurry—dress right at once.”
“Dorothy, child, what ails you?” laughed Aunt Betty. “Talking away so fast and all to yourself. Come now, tell me what you want us to dress for?”
“Why, aunty, I had most forgotten it. It’s Friday, and we promised—I mean I promised—but I forgot all about it,” continued Dorothy.
Just then Alfy interrupted. “Dorothy I am most dead with curiosity; tell us quick, please.”
“Well,” rejoined Dorothy, “it’s just this. You see, I promised—”
“You said all that before,” interrupted Alfy again.
“Be still, Alfy, or I just won’t tell,” scolded Dorothy. “Mr. Ludlow is coming here at eight o’clock to take us all to the opera. Miss Boothington, Ruth, is going also. He told me to tell you all, and I just guess I must have since then forgotten. I don’t see how I did, but I just did. Oh, aunty, it’s a box Mr. Ludlow has and we must dress all up ’cause all the millionaires of New York go to the opera.”
“Dorothy dear, whatever made you forget?” asked Aunt Betty.
“Guess ’cause she is doing and seeing so much she has lost track of the days. Isn’t that so?” chimed in Alfy.
“That doesn’t excuse my little girl,” remarked Aunt Betty, and turning to Dorothy, “What is it we are going to hear, dearest?”
“I think Mr. Ludlow said ‘Koenigskinder’,” answered Dorothy. “I am not sure but that’s what I think he said.”
“Ah, yes,” said Aunt Betty, “that is a comparatively new opera and Miss Geraldine Farrar sings the principal part in it. She plays the part of the goose-girl. Well, I guess we had betterhurry. We must dress and have dinner before Mr. Ludlow gets here for us.”
“Can I wear that new pink dress, Aunty?” called Dorothy.
“Why, dear, I would keep that one for one of your concerts, and if I were you I would wear the little white one with the blue ribbons, and tell Alfy she might wear the white dress Miss Lenox made for her before we left Baltimore,” said Aunt Betty.
“All right,” called back Dorothy.
It didn’t take the girls long to get dressed, and when they were finished they appeared in the sitting room. Both Jim and Aunt Betty declared that there weren’t two finer girls in all New York City. And Jim added under his breath, “In all the world,” thinking only of Dorothy then.
Down they went for dinner, and so anxious were they that they should not be late that the meal was passed over as quickly and quietly as possible.
They had just reached their rooms when Mr. Ludlow was announced, and gathering up their wraps and long white gloves—for Alfy thought more of these white gloves than anything else sheowned just then—they went forth to meet Mr. Ludlow.
“Well, well,” said Mr. Ludlow, who was standing beside Ruth in the lobby, “all here and all ready. I do wish you would set the same example of promptness for Ruth. She is always, always late.”
“Well,” replied Ruth, “somehow I always try but just can’t seem to get dressed in time. I didn’t keep you waiting very long to-day, did I?”
“Well, dear, that is because I said that the longer you kept me waiting, the less you could have for dinner,” laughed Mr. Ludlow.
“Maybe that is why, because I do get so tired of boarding house meals,” rejoined Ruth, and, turning to Dorothy, “Come dear, the auto is all ready and we are not so very early.”
The others followed them and soon they reached the Metropolitan Opera House, and after passing through the crowded lobby, entered the foyer. It was quite dark, and very quietly they followed Mr. Ludlow, whose box was on the right hand side, well toward the stage.
They were presently all seated, but before they had time to talk or look around much the music began. And such music. Dorothy was obliviousto all else as she followed the score. For memory’s convenience she wrote out the plot of the opera, the next day, and here is a copy from her diary:
The Goose-Girl lives in the hills which look down in the town of Hellabrunn. Around her stray her geese. She lies on the green grass, beneath the branches of a shady linden-tree. Near her is the hut which she inhabits with an old cruel Witch. Behind her stretch wild woods and lonely mountains. She sings and feeds her flock. The Witch appears, scolding and berating the girl, whom she orders to prepare a magic pasty which will kill whoever eats of it. The Goose-Girl begs the Witch to let her go into the world of men. But she implores in vain.Out of the woods, and from the hills, a youth comes roving. He seems poor. But by his side there hangs a sword and in his hand he holds a bundle. He is the King’s Son, though the Goose-Girl does not know it. And in the bundle is a royal crown.The King’s Son tells the Goose-Girl of his wanderings. He has left his home, and the King’s service, to be free. The Goose-Girl asks him what a King may be. He answers her, marvellingat her beauty and her ignorance. She longs to follow him. He falls in love with her, and asks her to go maying with him, through the summer land. He kisses her; and then a gust of wind blows the girl’s wreath away. The King’s Son picks up the wreath and hides it near his heart. In exchange for it he offers her his crown. The sweethearts are about to run off together when a wild wind alarms them and the Goose-Girl finds her feet glued to the ground. Thinking she is afraid to roam with him the King’s Son tosses his crown into the grass, tells the girl that she is unworthy to be a King’s mate and leaves her, vowing she shall never see him more till a star has fallen into a fair lily which is blooming near.The Goose-Girl is still sighing for her lover, when the Witch returns, abuses her for having wasted her time on a man and weaves a magic spell to prevent her escape.A Fiddler enters, singing a strange song. He is followed by two citizens of Hellabrunn, a Woodcutter and a Broom (or besom) maker, who have been sent to ask the Witch where they can find the son of the King, who is just dead. They are in mortal fear of the old woman. But the Fiddlerscoffs at her and all her arts. The Fiddler, acting as their mouthpiece, says that the people of Hellabrunn are dying to have a King or a Queen to rule over them. The Witch replies that the first person, rich or in rags, who enters the town gate next day at noon should be enthroned. The Woodcutter and Broom-maker go back to Hellabrunn. But the Fiddler lingers, suspecting that the Goose-Girl is in the hut. Soon she appears and confides her sorrows to the Fiddler, who assures her she shall wed the King’s Son. The Witch, however, jeers at the thought and tells the Fiddler that the girl is the child of a hangman’s daughter. In spite of all, the Goose-Girl plucks up heart, for she feels that her soul is royal and she knows that she will not shame her kingly lover. She prays to her dead father and mother for help. And as she kneels, a shooting star falls into the lily. The Goose-Girl runs off into the woods with her flock, to join her sweetheart, and this ends the first act.In the second act the town of Hellabrunn is in a turmoil of excitement, awaiting the new ruler. Near the town-gate is an inn. The Innkeeper’s Daughter is scolding the Stable-Maid, when the King’s Son enters, poorly clad as before. Thoughshe despises his poverty, the Innkeeper’s Daughter coquettes with him; for he is comely. She gives him food and drink, which seem coarse to him, and advises him to get married. He declines and arouses the girl’s anger.The people enter, seat themselves and drink. A Gate-keeper forbids any to approach the gate, which must be left free for the coming King. Musicians enter, playing pipes and bagpipes. A dance begins. The Innkeeper and his servants bustle about. He sees the King’s Son, who offers himself to him as an apprentice, but is told that there is no work for him, unless he is willing to be a swineherd. He consents. The Woodcutter appears, with the Broom-maker and his thirteen daughters. The Woodcutter, swelling with importance, tosses a gulden on the Innkeeper’s table, to wipe out an old score, but pockets it again when unobserved.One of the Broom-maker’s daughters asks the King’s Son to play at Ring-a-rosy with her. Their game is interrupted by the entrance of the Town Councillors and well-to-do Burghers, with their wives and children. The Councillors seat themselves in a tribune erected for them and the eldest of them invites the Woodcutter to relate his adventuresin the woods. The King’s Son is amazed to hear him tell of imaginary dangers which he has encountered with the Broom-maker. He learns from the Woodcutter’s account, however, that on the stroke of twelve a King’s Son, richly clad, and bright with gems, will enter by the now closed gate. He asks the people if the expected monarch might not come in rags. They laugh at the idea and he is accused of being a meddler, rogue and thief. The clock strikes twelve. The crowd rushes toward the gate. An intuition warns the King’s Son who is near. Then, as the gate is opened, the poor Goose-Girl enters, escorted by her geese. She tells the King’s Son she has come to join him on his throne. But the crowd jeers at her and scorns her youthful lover and though the Fiddler storms and rages at their blindness, the two lovers are driven out with sticks and stones. Only the Fiddler and the little daughter of the Broom-maker believe them worthy of the throne.This was where the curtain went down and I thought it was the end. Oh, how disappointed I was, and then how happy, when I knew there was another act.Winter has come. Since the expulsion of theKing’s Son and his sweetheart, the Witch has been burned at the stake for her supposed betrayal of the people to whom she had promised a new ruler. The Fiddler, who has been maimed and imprisoned for defending the outcasts, now lives alone in the Witch’s hut, where he is feeding the doves the Goose-Girl has left behind. He is disturbed by the arrival of the Woodcutter and the Broom-maker, with a troop of children who have come to entreat him to come back to Hellabrunn. He refuses. But when one of the children begs him to lead them all in search of the lost King’s Son and his bride, he consents. The Woodcutter and the Broom-maker withdraw into the hut, where they discover the poisoned pasty which the Witch had baked.Hardly have the echoes of a song sung by the Fiddler died away, when the King’s Son and the Goose-Girl re-appear, hungry and thirsting and worn out with wandering. They stop to rest and the King’s Son knocks at the door of the hut to beg food and shelter. The Woodcutter refuses to give them anything. To comfort her sweetheart, the Goose-Girl pretends she is none the worse for her long travels over hill and dale in the vain effort to discover the King’s Son’s oldhome. She sings and dances to him. But she soon grows faint and falls. To save his love from starving, the King’s Son then barters his royal crown, which he has found again, for the poisoned pasty. The outcasts eat it and soon after die, fancying themselves happy in a land of love and roses. With her last breath the Goose-Girl braves grim Death who threatens her and sighs “I love thee, dear!”The Fiddler and the troop of little children then return, only to learn that they have found the outcasts but to lose them. They lay the youthful lovers on a bier and bear them away to bury them on a high hill. And as they go, they sing a last lament for the poor “Kingly Children.”
The Goose-Girl lives in the hills which look down in the town of Hellabrunn. Around her stray her geese. She lies on the green grass, beneath the branches of a shady linden-tree. Near her is the hut which she inhabits with an old cruel Witch. Behind her stretch wild woods and lonely mountains. She sings and feeds her flock. The Witch appears, scolding and berating the girl, whom she orders to prepare a magic pasty which will kill whoever eats of it. The Goose-Girl begs the Witch to let her go into the world of men. But she implores in vain.
Out of the woods, and from the hills, a youth comes roving. He seems poor. But by his side there hangs a sword and in his hand he holds a bundle. He is the King’s Son, though the Goose-Girl does not know it. And in the bundle is a royal crown.
The King’s Son tells the Goose-Girl of his wanderings. He has left his home, and the King’s service, to be free. The Goose-Girl asks him what a King may be. He answers her, marvellingat her beauty and her ignorance. She longs to follow him. He falls in love with her, and asks her to go maying with him, through the summer land. He kisses her; and then a gust of wind blows the girl’s wreath away. The King’s Son picks up the wreath and hides it near his heart. In exchange for it he offers her his crown. The sweethearts are about to run off together when a wild wind alarms them and the Goose-Girl finds her feet glued to the ground. Thinking she is afraid to roam with him the King’s Son tosses his crown into the grass, tells the girl that she is unworthy to be a King’s mate and leaves her, vowing she shall never see him more till a star has fallen into a fair lily which is blooming near.
The Goose-Girl is still sighing for her lover, when the Witch returns, abuses her for having wasted her time on a man and weaves a magic spell to prevent her escape.
A Fiddler enters, singing a strange song. He is followed by two citizens of Hellabrunn, a Woodcutter and a Broom (or besom) maker, who have been sent to ask the Witch where they can find the son of the King, who is just dead. They are in mortal fear of the old woman. But the Fiddlerscoffs at her and all her arts. The Fiddler, acting as their mouthpiece, says that the people of Hellabrunn are dying to have a King or a Queen to rule over them. The Witch replies that the first person, rich or in rags, who enters the town gate next day at noon should be enthroned. The Woodcutter and Broom-maker go back to Hellabrunn. But the Fiddler lingers, suspecting that the Goose-Girl is in the hut. Soon she appears and confides her sorrows to the Fiddler, who assures her she shall wed the King’s Son. The Witch, however, jeers at the thought and tells the Fiddler that the girl is the child of a hangman’s daughter. In spite of all, the Goose-Girl plucks up heart, for she feels that her soul is royal and she knows that she will not shame her kingly lover. She prays to her dead father and mother for help. And as she kneels, a shooting star falls into the lily. The Goose-Girl runs off into the woods with her flock, to join her sweetheart, and this ends the first act.
In the second act the town of Hellabrunn is in a turmoil of excitement, awaiting the new ruler. Near the town-gate is an inn. The Innkeeper’s Daughter is scolding the Stable-Maid, when the King’s Son enters, poorly clad as before. Thoughshe despises his poverty, the Innkeeper’s Daughter coquettes with him; for he is comely. She gives him food and drink, which seem coarse to him, and advises him to get married. He declines and arouses the girl’s anger.
The people enter, seat themselves and drink. A Gate-keeper forbids any to approach the gate, which must be left free for the coming King. Musicians enter, playing pipes and bagpipes. A dance begins. The Innkeeper and his servants bustle about. He sees the King’s Son, who offers himself to him as an apprentice, but is told that there is no work for him, unless he is willing to be a swineherd. He consents. The Woodcutter appears, with the Broom-maker and his thirteen daughters. The Woodcutter, swelling with importance, tosses a gulden on the Innkeeper’s table, to wipe out an old score, but pockets it again when unobserved.
One of the Broom-maker’s daughters asks the King’s Son to play at Ring-a-rosy with her. Their game is interrupted by the entrance of the Town Councillors and well-to-do Burghers, with their wives and children. The Councillors seat themselves in a tribune erected for them and the eldest of them invites the Woodcutter to relate his adventuresin the woods. The King’s Son is amazed to hear him tell of imaginary dangers which he has encountered with the Broom-maker. He learns from the Woodcutter’s account, however, that on the stroke of twelve a King’s Son, richly clad, and bright with gems, will enter by the now closed gate. He asks the people if the expected monarch might not come in rags. They laugh at the idea and he is accused of being a meddler, rogue and thief. The clock strikes twelve. The crowd rushes toward the gate. An intuition warns the King’s Son who is near. Then, as the gate is opened, the poor Goose-Girl enters, escorted by her geese. She tells the King’s Son she has come to join him on his throne. But the crowd jeers at her and scorns her youthful lover and though the Fiddler storms and rages at their blindness, the two lovers are driven out with sticks and stones. Only the Fiddler and the little daughter of the Broom-maker believe them worthy of the throne.
This was where the curtain went down and I thought it was the end. Oh, how disappointed I was, and then how happy, when I knew there was another act.
Winter has come. Since the expulsion of theKing’s Son and his sweetheart, the Witch has been burned at the stake for her supposed betrayal of the people to whom she had promised a new ruler. The Fiddler, who has been maimed and imprisoned for defending the outcasts, now lives alone in the Witch’s hut, where he is feeding the doves the Goose-Girl has left behind. He is disturbed by the arrival of the Woodcutter and the Broom-maker, with a troop of children who have come to entreat him to come back to Hellabrunn. He refuses. But when one of the children begs him to lead them all in search of the lost King’s Son and his bride, he consents. The Woodcutter and the Broom-maker withdraw into the hut, where they discover the poisoned pasty which the Witch had baked.
Hardly have the echoes of a song sung by the Fiddler died away, when the King’s Son and the Goose-Girl re-appear, hungry and thirsting and worn out with wandering. They stop to rest and the King’s Son knocks at the door of the hut to beg food and shelter. The Woodcutter refuses to give them anything. To comfort her sweetheart, the Goose-Girl pretends she is none the worse for her long travels over hill and dale in the vain effort to discover the King’s Son’s oldhome. She sings and dances to him. But she soon grows faint and falls. To save his love from starving, the King’s Son then barters his royal crown, which he has found again, for the poisoned pasty. The outcasts eat it and soon after die, fancying themselves happy in a land of love and roses. With her last breath the Goose-Girl braves grim Death who threatens her and sighs “I love thee, dear!”
The Fiddler and the troop of little children then return, only to learn that they have found the outcasts but to lose them. They lay the youthful lovers on a bier and bear them away to bury them on a high hill. And as they go, they sing a last lament for the poor “Kingly Children.”
After the opera, Mr. Ludlow invited them to a supper at one of the cafes, but Aunt Betty demurred, as it was quite late, and so they were driven straight home.
“Alfy,” said Dorothy, when they had reached their rooms, “you are such a funny girl. You didn’t half pay attention to the opera at all. All I saw you doing was looking at the ladies in the boxes.”
“I was trying to remember the dress of the lady in that one box, the one that glistened allover with diamonds. I wanted to write and tell Ma Babcock just how to make it. It was so stylish, and had such a nice low neck and long train,” said Alfy.
“Alfy, are you sure you are not crazy?” laughed Dorothy. “Oh, oh! Just imagine Ma Babcock in a dress like that! Oh, dear! It’s so funny.”
“Why, Dorothy!” angrily added Alfy, “why couldn’t ma have a dress like that? And anyway, I couldn’t understand a word they were singing. I am going right to bed, I am, so there!”
“Alfy, dear, don’t you know that people only wear dresses like that to evening affairs, and, of course, you couldn’t understand, it was all in German. Here, kiss me good-night.” The girls kissed each other and were soon fast asleep.
The next morning no one arose very early. They were all quite willing to rest. Jim, first of all, was up and out. He had been working over a list of boarding houses as he had quite decided to take the position, and his salary would not permit him to live in an expensive hotel. He had not been very successful and on returning to the hotel found Aunt Betty reading in their sitting room.
“Aunt Betty,” said Jim.
“Yes,” answered Aunt Betty, “what is it? Do you want to talk business with me?”
“Yes, business,” responded Jim, doubtfully. “I have been out all the morning trying to find a boarding house.”
“A boarding house?” echoed Aunt Betty.
“Yes, a boarding house,” answered Jim. “You see I have quite decided to take the position. I received a letter from Mr. Ford’s secretary sayingMr. Ford is abroad, and not expected back for some time. And if I work there at the Edison, I must live in a boarding house not too far away from there. I didn’t have much luck.”
“Why not ask Mr. Ludlow? He might know of a place,” suggested Aunt Betty. “Or maybe you could see if there is a room at that place where Ruth, Miss Boothington, is staying. You remember her saying that she was tired of boarding house meals, do you not?”
“I never thought of that,” added Jim. “Suppose I ask Dorothy where she lives, maybe she knows.”
“Yes, call her,” replied Aunt Betty.
“Dorothy! Dorothy! Where are you?” called Jim.
“Here, in Alfy’s room, I have been writing in my diary,” answered the girl. “I will be there in just a minute. Oh, dear,” she continued to herself, “I just can’t seem to ever write to Frau. Every time I start on that letter someone calls, and then I stop writing, and it is so long before I can get at it again. I have to begin all over.”
“Well, young man, what is it this time?” she said, turning to Jim as she entered the room.
“It’s just this, Dorothy. You see, I am goingto take the position in New York and I must live here,” started Jim.
“Ah, Jim, you never told me anything about really taking a position. I just supposed that—well, I don’t quite know—but I didn’t think you really meant to do it,” interrupted Dorothy.
“I do, Dorothy, mean it. And I have made up my mind to take it and work, so hard that some day I can make a man out of myself like Dr. Sterling and some others I know,” replied Jim. “But to get down to the point why we called you, Aunt Betty thought you might help in finding a boarding place for me. You see, I must live here in the city, and it’s hard to find a good boarding place. Miss Ruth, last night, said something about her place. Do you know where it is?”
“No, Jim, I can’t say that I do, but I heard her say that it was down on lower Fifth avenue—way downtown, she said. I might call up Mr. Ludlow and find out right now, or you can wait till to-night, for I play at that concert at the Hippodrome this evening, you know.”
“Call him up now, dear,” suggested Aunt Betty from her corner. “Then you and Jim can take a walk there this afternoon. Alfy and I can findsomething to amuse ourselves with. We could take one of those stages and ride up Fifth avenue on it. It’s a fine ride on a nice day like this.”
“Very well,” answered Dorothy, immediately going to the telephone, and acting on her aunt’s suggestion.
Jim and Aunt Betty sat quietly by till she had finished her conversation at the telephone.
“Mr. Ludlow says that Ruth lives on Fifth avenue, near Washington square, and it’s a very large, old-fashioned boarding house run by an elderly southern lady, who, being in very adverse circumstances, had to take hold and do something. He said that the rooms were fairly large, the meals first rate and the charges moderate, and that we had better see her at once because she has usually a pretty full house,” added Dorothy.
“Why not start at once, dear,” replied Aunt Betty. “Then you can come home and practice this afternoon, and as Alfy and I will be out there will be nothing to distract you.”
“Yes, let’s go now, Dorothy, if you can spare the time to go with me,” pleaded Jim. “Where is it near?”
“He says it is near Ninth street,” replied Dorothy. “All right, Jim, I will be ready in a fewminutes. Oh dear,” she sighed to herself, “poor Frau will not get her letter very soon, I guess. Well, I can write this afternoon, after I practice, and I will make the letter extra long so as to make up for the time I have taken to write her.”
“Good-bye, Aunt Betty,” called Dorothy a short time later.
“Good-bye, Aunt Betty,” echoed Jim. “We’ll be back soon.”
With that the two disappeared and Aunt Betty from her corner sighed as she thought of what a charming pair the pretty Dorothy and the tall youth made.
“Shall we ride?” asked Jim.
“No. Let’s walk, it is not far, only a few blocks,” said Dorothy.
“That’s just what I wanted to do,” replied Jim, “only I was most afraid you would not care to. We haven’t had a good walk in a long time.”
They walked on silently as the streets were so crowded and there was lots to see, and the crossings required much attention, these two not being used to the busy streets of New York, where one has to look in all directions at once and keep moving lively to avoid being run into by the many automobiles or trucks that are hurrying along.
Finally Dorothy, observing the number on the houses, said: “Here we are, this is the house.”
Up the steps they ran and Jim gave the old-fashioned bell a vigorous pull. “Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling,” vaguely sounded from somewhere within and presently a pleasant faced young girl with white cap and apron and dark dress, said in a low voice, “Whom do you wish to see?”
Jim answered, “Will you tell Miss Boothington that Miss Dorothy Calvert wishes to see her?”
Slowly they followed the neat maid into the old fashioned parlor and waited there for her to take the message to Ruth.
“Oh, Jim,” whispered Dorothy, very softly putting her hand on Jim’s arm. “Jim, if I were you I should love to stay here. It is more like a home, a real home than any place I have been in, in the big city.”
“Yes, it is. And it is so quiet and restful. I do hope there will be room for me here,” answered Jim.
Just then they heard foot-steps on the stairs and in a second Ruth’s cheery voice greeted them with a “Hello!” from the hall.
“Well, this is a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you till to-night, Dorothy. Have I you tothank for bringing her to me?” she asked, smiling at Jim.
“Yes, I guess so,” replied Dorothy. “We came on business.”
“On business!” echoed Ruth.
“Yes, on business,” answered Jim. “It’s just this: You see I have taken a position in New York and I have to board here. We didn’t know of any place and Aunt Betty thought of something you had said the night before about boarding-house meals.”
“Yes,” continued Dorothy, “and I called Mr. Ludlow up and he recommended this place and we came right down here, and we have just fallen in love with the place at first sight. Haven’t we, Jim?”
“Wait. Let me see. You want to see Mrs. Quarren. She is out just now, but she is such a dear. I know! You must both stay to lunch. It is just eleven forty-five and we lunch here at twelve. You see so many of the boarders here do not come home at noon-time, they work too far to come back, so that there will be plenty of room. And then you can see how the table suits you. Mrs. Quarren is always in for meals. You seeshe is just a great dear mother to us all. I won’t know what to do without her.”
“I will lend you Aunt Betty when you are with us,” volunteered Dorothy. “But we must let her know we are going to stay here for lunch.”
“I’ll telephone her if you will show me where the ’phone is,” spoke up Jim.
“Right this way, please,” said Ruth, leading Jim into the hall where he saw the little table and ’phone. “Come back to the parlor when you are through,” and Ruth went back to Dorothy.
“You are to play to-night, are you not?” she inquired.
“Yes, and are you to sing?” questioned Dorothy.
“Right after you play. We are each to do just one thing to-night. I am going to sing ‘Still vie de Nochte,’ or in English, ‘Still as the Night,’ you see it’s just a little German song. What are you to play?” asked Ruth.
“I thought I was to play two selections—Mr. Ludlow said so——” started Dorothy.
“Yes, dear, you were,” interrupted Ruth, “but he changed his mind after I had coaxed him and he has consented to let me sing so we each can have one number then.”
“Well, then I will play that old medley, ‘Southern Airs.’ I like that best of all. It makes me think of home,” answered Dorothy.
“And I always can just fairly see old Bellevieu when you play that piece,” added Jim from the doorway. “Aunt Betty said it was satisfactory, and that she and Alfy would go out this afternoon and for you to come home soon and practice.”
Just then the luncheon bell sounded and the three went quickly down stairs. They were seated at a small table near the window. Ruth always sat there and as the other guests at that table were never present for luncheon, Dorothy and Jim could sit there too. So the three had the little table all to themselves.
Just as soon as she could, Mrs. Quarren came over to the table, for she had returned from her duties outside. Ruth presented Dorothy and Jim to her, and as she sat pleasantly chatting, Jim told her of his want. She said she would see him after dinner in the library.
“Well, Dorothy, you come to my room with me while Jim sees Mrs. Quarren in the library,” said Ruth, rising and carefully pushing her chair back under the table.
“You are very kind. I would like to see yourroom. You lead and I will follow,” answered Dorothy.
“Oh, the room is not much. You come too, Jim, and I will show you where the library is,” said Ruth, leading the way upstairs. “Right in there, Jim.”
Jim entered the library and the girls ascended to the floors above.
“I am going out this afternoon with a friend,” said Ruth. “I promised I would go shopping with her,” and she opened the door of her room.
The room was a large, sunny one with simple furnishings.
“I’ll sit here,” announced Dorothy, “till you are ready to go.”
“I will just hustle with my things and be ready in a moment,” replied Ruth, suiting her actions to her words.
In a very few minutes the girls were ready and slowly descended the stairs again to wait for Jim in the parlor.
“Well, here I am. Room engaged and all,” said a cheery voice from the hall which they knew as Jim’s.
“Where is it?” questioned Ruth.
“Yes, where?” echoed Dorothy.
“Where do you suppose?” mocked Jim. “Well, I will tell you. Ruth it is your room.”
“My room!” exclaimed the girl.
“Yes, your room,” laughed Jim. “I am to have it next Wednesday. Mrs. Quarren said you were to leave it Tuesday.”
“Tuesday!” interrupted Dorothy, in a very much surprised tone of voice.
“Yes, dear, Tuesday. Didn’t Mr. Ludlow tell you?” added Ruth. “Tuesday we go to Washington on the noon train.”
“Ah, is it so soon? I didn’t know it. It makes me feel so sad. I hate to leave New York now, just as I am becoming used to it,” wailed Dorothy. “Oh, I just must go back to the hotel. I have to practice and it is getting late.”
“Come on, Dorothy,” said Jim, rising and walking to the door.
“Good-bye till to-night,” said Dorothy.
“Good-bye, dear, till to-night,” answered Ruth.
With that Dorothy and Jim made their departure for home. The way back was rather quiet, for the news that the girls were to start so soon had made Jim sad. And Dorothy couldn’t help but feel the same way. When at last theyhad silently reached the hotel and had gone up to the rooms, Dorothy spoke.
“Jim, do you want to stay here and be my audience while I practice and tell me what you think of my playing?”
“Yes, indeed I do,” answered Jim, gladly grasping the opportunity to be near the girl, and when he had seated himself in a great chair added, “I’ll be more than audience, I’ll be newspaper reporter and a very exacting and critical one at that. And then, when you finish I will tell you what I would put in the paper about you and your playing.”
“That’s a bargain,” answered Dorothy, taking her violin in hand. “I will start right now.”
So saying she commenced playing slowly at first, anon faster and faster, then again more slowly that beautiful composition, “A Medley of Southern Airs,” putting all her love and yearning for her own southern home into the effort. Jim from his chair by the window could picture each phase of the piece, and when she had finished with the beautiful sad strains of “Home, Sweet Home,” he could hardly control himself, and man that he was, he could not keep the tears from his eyes.
For a brief moment neither spoke. Dorothy laid down her violin and came over to him. Jim arose and took both her hands, saying softly, “Dorothy girl, it was wonderful, but it makes me so sad. I just can’t bear to think of parting from you.”
“Jim, dear, you too feel sad?” she questioned softly, but withdrawing her hands.
Jim let the little hands slowly drop but took her by the shoulders, looking eagerly into her eyes. “You will miss me?” he questioned, “really miss me?”
“Of course I will, dreadfully so,” she answered.
Then without a word of warning he drew her gently to him and kissed her full on the lips. For one brief moment they clung together, then Dorothy withdrew his arms.
“Jim, oh, Jim! what have you done?” she sobbed.
“Girl, I just couldn’t help it,” answered Jim, gently drawing her into his embrace again. “Dorothy, little Dorothy, didn’t you know before? Couldn’t you guess?”
“Jim, dear, I never thought of you that way, and it’s so new and strange. I can’t realize it all.” And with that Dorothy rushed away and into her own room.
Just before dinner Dorothy came slowly from her room into the sitting room where she found Jim all alone, seated in the same large chair by the window. She had dressed this evening with much care and wore a white dress with blue ribbons at her waist.
She had also fixed her hair differently and more in the prevailing fashion. The girls of New York she had noticed wore their hair “up,” and as Dorothy was eighteen, she thought she too must dress it like they did. So carefully this afternoon did she arrange it, with three little curls at her neck and a tiny curl just peeping out at each ear. It made her look a little older and very fascinating indeed. Decidedly Jim so thought, as he turned to look at her as she entered the room.
“Come here and sit down. I want to talk to you just a few minutes, dear,” he said, drawing up a chair close to his for her.
Dorothy obeyed, as some way she always wasaccustomed to obeying this boy, although he was really only five years older than she was. “What is it you want to say?” she asked, seating herself leisurely.
“It’s about what happened this afternoon,” Jim began, and hesitated, hardly knowing how to continue. Looking at Dorothy he thought that she too had changed since the afternoon; she seemed more fair, more grown up, as if she had become a full grown woman instead of a child.
“Dear, I am sorry for what I said and did. I can’t make any excuses, I just lost control. The thought of your going away maddened me. I can’t help loving you, caring for you. I have done that now for years. I didn’t mean to speak to you until I had made good. And now I have spoiled it all by my recklessness,” he added, bitterly.
Then quickly changing his tone of voice to a more cheerful one, he continued: “Dear, never mind, we can be the same old friends again, can’t we?”
“Yes, and no, Jim,” quietly responded Dorothy, who had already felt a complete change that before she didn’t realize and even now didn’t understand.
Jim seized her hands and asked hurriedly, “Could you love me? Could you? You don’t know how much I would give for just one little word of hope. Don’t leave me back here in New York, working, fighting, all by myself with no word of cheer. Answer me girl, answer me. Could you care, not as much as I do, now, but just a little?”
“Jim, I do, a little,” was all she could manage to say before she was seized eagerly in his arms again and having kisses showered upon her hair, cheeks and lips.
“Jim, Jim, you are behaving shamefully and mussing me all up,” she said, struggling to free herself, but she was held fast and stern tones pleaded, “I just can’t let you go now. I just can’t.”
“Jim, dear, you must or I won’t even love you a little,” she laughed.
“Well, if I must, I must,” he said, kissing her just once again. “My girl, my own girl,” he added.
“Jim, I haven’t promised you anything, and I just said I cared for you a little. I’d have to love you a lot before I could promise you anything. You mustn’t call me yours. If, when Icome back from my trip, and that’s a long time from now, I do love you——” added Dorothy.
“You will promise me then? You will? Oh girl, you make me so happy, so happy!” cried Jim. “I will work so hard all winter and save up so much. I have considerable saved up now. Then you will come to me, girl?”
“I said if I did love you then,” teased Dorothy, “and that’s if——”
“You little tease,” interrupted Jim. “I will punish you.”
“No you won’t,” Dorothy added quickly. “And never, never say anything of the kind to me again, or even try to love me, or I’ll just never, never love you. I have my music to attend to and you mustn’t disturb my practice or even try to make me think of you when I should be thinking of it.”
“Very well,” acquiesced Jim, sadly, “it will be very hard though. I’ll promise if you will write me every day while you are away.”
“Every day!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Not every day. I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“All you would have to say to me would be, ‘I love you,’ over and over again,” laughed Jim.
“But I can’t, cause maybe I don’t,” teased Dorothy, “but I’ll write sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” complained Jim, mournfully.
“Sometimes is better than never,” laughed the girl.
“Very well. I’ll hope that sometimes is very often or nearly every day,” said Jim. “Kiss me once more, then I won’t bother you again.” Then folding her to him he kissed that dear, dear face and thought of the many times he used to blush and show all kinds of discomfort when Dorothy kissed him of her own free will, and then he remembered Gerald Beck’s comments that any fellow would go a long, long way to kiss Dorothy. And thinking of the difference now, he drew her closer as she was drawing away, and turning her head back, kissed her on the brow and then she slowly turned and walked to the table, picking up her violin and played.
While she was playing Aunt Betty and Alfy came in. They sat down quietly so as not to disturb her. Dorothy finished her piece and then came over and kissed her aunt, saying, “Dear Aunt Betty, have you and Alfy enjoyed yourselves?”
“Oh, yes indeed, dear. We took a stage up toNinety-sixth street, through to Riverside Drive and then back again,” answered Aunt Betty.
“And what did you think of it, Alfy?” asked Jim, turning to the girl.
“I just couldn’t keep my eyes off the crowds of people walking up and down Fifth avenue, all of them dressed up as if they were going to church, and Aunt Betty said they were all going to tea at the hotels—afternoon tea—and men too. Why, I saw a lot of men and they were all dressed up too, and had on some of those yellow gloves and carried canes. And all the ladies carried silver chain purses or bags. Ah,” and Alfy heaved a great sigh, “I wish I had a silver bag; they make you look so dressed up. Then there were so many, many stores and such nice things to buy in all of them. I would like to be rich just for one day and then I could buy all I wanted. I would get—oh, I just couldn’t tell you all I would get. I saw so many things I just wanted so bad.”
And I guess Alfy would have continued indefinitely if the telephone bell had not interrupted her.
Dorothy answered the call and turning to Aunt Betty, said, “Aunt Betty, dear, Ruth wants to know if I can take dinner with her and Mr. Ludlowat the Hotel Astor at six o’clock, so we can go to the Hippodrome real early and find out our places before the concert starts.”
“Certainly, if you wish it,” answered Aunt Betty.
So Dorothy returned to the telephone and continued her conversation with Ruth and when finished hung up the receiver and turned again to Aunt Betty, saying, “Ruth said for me to hurry and dress and they—Ruth and Mr. Ludlow—would call for me—about six o’clock. What shall I wear?”
“The little pink dress, dear; that is quite pretty and most appropriate for the occasion,” answered Aunt Betty. “I am tired, so Alfy will help you. Besides, I want to talk to Jim.”
“Oh, Aunt Betty,” interrupted Dorothy. “I forgot to tell you that this afternoon while we were at Ruth’s, we learned of the fact that we start on our trip on Tuesday—the noon train for Washington. Jim can tell you all the rest while I dress.”
“And did you get a room there where Ruth is, Jim?” questioned Aunt Betty. Whereat Jim told of his arrangements, discussing the matter till Dorothy returned.
“Take your violin, dear, and hurry. The ’phone is ringing now and I guess that is them. Yes, it is,” said Aunt Betty, answering the call.
“Good-bye, all, for just a little while. You all be early,” called Dorothy, as she left the room.
After a remarkably fine dinner at the Hotel Astor, which the girls enjoyed immensely, they all drove to the Hippodrome. Mr. Ludlow led the girls inside and showed them where they were to sit while they waited for their turn to play or sing. There were many, many people in a large room and Mr. Ludlow told them they were the artists and their friends, but that presently all that were to take part would meet in the room where the girls were. He left them there for a few minutes and went away to find out if they had been given their places on the list. He found their numbers were five and six, Ruth being five. He came back, told the girls this and then left them to themselves till their turns came. They sat still, not saying much but enjoying all the people about them,—some of them seemed to them so queer.
Finally it was Ruth’s turn to sing. Slowly she got up, walked to the entrance and on the stage. She rendered her simple song, “Still vie dieNochte” very well, and amid a volley of applause, left the stage. She could not give an encore so she simply walked to the front again and bowed.
Dorothy, listening, had heard all and was preparing for her task, tuning her violin. Just then Ruth, returning, whispered in her ear, “Good luck,” as she passed her.
Dorothy turned and smiled at her new friend, and then proceeded forward to the stage, violin in hand. One brief glimpse she caught of the crowded house, and she thought she had never seen so many, many people before.
The Hippodrome is very large, the stage being one of the largest in the world, and the seating capacity being many thousands. So you see there were a great number of people there. The house was over-crowded, as naturally every one was interested in the home for blind babies, and the talent of the evening had called forth a very large attendance.
Slowly Dorothy raised her violin and started the initial strain of the melody. The beautiful “Southern Airs” appealed to many, as there were a large number of southerners present that night. Played by the beautiful girl, it made the old go back in memory to days that were the happiestin their lives. They longed for the South; the large plantations, the beautiful gardens, the spacious, old, rambling houses, the darkies playing on their violins in the moonlight, the cabins with the little pickaninies disporting in front—all of these and more dreams floated vividly before them, inspired by the wonderful music.
Then softly, very softly the music fell from the violin, the sweet strains of “Dixie,” when suddenly a piercing shriek, another, still another, rent the air. People turned pale. Some started to rise from their seats. A woman or two fainted.
Then another and more awful shriek, which sounded as if some one was being murdered. The people in their seats hesitated! Was it fire? Was someone being robbed, or murdered, or what? In a single second a great restlessness took possession of them all, tending to make of the crowd an angry mob, and panic a possible result.
Dorothy from her place on the stage for a moment was rooted immovable to the spot. She looked in the direction from which the screams came and saw a man throw up his hands and shriek again. It was the man who played the trombone in the orchestra. He threw his instrumentin the air and turned as white as chalk, then stiffened out and began to froth at the mouth.
In a moment she knew that the man had convulsions. She had somewhere seen someone in a similar state. The orchestra had suddenly stopped playing. Out in the audience she saw a sight that terrified her more than she would admit to herself. One thought raced through her brain. She, she alone might—nay must—prevent a panic; people were becoming more excited every moment.
Instinct of some sort made her grasp her violin and raise it. Then she knew what to do. Without accompaniment, in clear, sweet tones she played “America.” Slowly the people rose, rose to pay their respects to their national hymn, patriotism immediately conquering all fear. While she played the poor trombone player was carried out to receive medical attention. All through the three verses of the hymn Dorothy held the audience, and then as she finished and the curtain fell, the house broke out in thunderous applause, for now they realized what this girl had done, what possibilities she had saved them from. So insistent was the applause that Dorothy had to stop in front of the curtain again and again.