"You poor dear!" cried Alice, and she knelt down on the floor beside Estelle and put her arms about the weeping girl. Ruth, too, with an expression of sympathy, stroked the bowed head.
"We want so much to help you," Ruth murmured.
"Let me get you something," begged Alice. "Some smelling salts—some ammonia—shall I call any one—the doctor——?"
"No, I—I'll be all right presently," said Estelle in a broken voice. "Just let me alone a little while—I mean stay with me—talk to me—tell me something. I want to get control of my nerves."
Ruth did not seem to know what to say, but Alice pulled a small bottle from her pocket, and held it under Estelle's nose.
"It's the loveliest new scent," she said. "I bought a sample in town."
Estelle burst into a laugh, rather a hysterical laugh, it is true, but a laugh nevertheless. Itshowed that the strain and tension were relaxing to some extent.
"Isn't it sweet?" Alice asked.
"It is, dear. Let me smell it again. It makes me feel better," and Estelle breathed in deep of the odorous scent.
"How silly I was to give way like that," she went on. "But I simply couldn't help it. This has been going on for so long, and it got so I couldn't stand it another minute. How would you like it not to know who you are?"
"Not very much, I'm afraid," said Ruth, softly.
"That, in a way, is why it has been such a relief to be in the moving pictures," Estelle went on. "I could be so many different characters, and, at times, I thought perhaps, by chance, I might be cast for the very part I have lost—cast for my real self, as it were."
"You must have had a hard time," said Alice.
"I haven't told you half the story yet," Estelle went on. "Would you like to hear the rest?"
"Indeed we would!" exclaimed Ruth. "Not from any idle curiosity, but because we want to help you."
"And I do need some one to help me," murmured Estelle. "I am all alone in the world."
"You must have relatives somewhere!" insisted Alice.
"None that I ever heard of. But then, who knows what might have happened in the life that is a blank to me—in the life that lies beyond that impenetrable wall of the past?
"But I mustn't get hysterical again. Just let me think for a moment, so I may tell you my story clearly. I shall be all right in a moment or two."
"Let me make you a cup of tea," proposed Ruth. "I'll make some for all of us," and presently the little kettle was steaming over the spirit lamp, and the girls were sipping the fragrant beverage.
"Thank you. That was good!" murmured Estelle. "I feel better now. I'll tell the rest of my miserable story to you."
"Don't make it too miserable," and Alice tried to make her laugh a gay one.
"I won't—not any more so than I can help. I think it will do me good to let you share the mystery with me."
"Then it is a mystery?" asked Ruth.
"Somewhat, yes. You may think it strange, but I can not think back more than three years—four at the most. I am not at all certain of the time. But go back as far as I can, all I remember is that I was on a large steamer."
"On the ocean?" asked Alice.
"No, on the Great Lakes. I was going toCleveland, which I learned when I asked one of the officers."
"And didn't you know where you were going before you asked?" Ruth questioned.
"I hadn't the least idea, my dear. I might just as well have been going to Europe. In fact, when I first looked out and saw the water, I thought I was on the ocean."
"But where did you come from, what were you doing there, where were your people?" cried Ruth.
"That's it, my dear. Where were they? I didn't know. No one knew. All I could grasp was the fact that I was there on the boat."
"Alone?"
"Yes, all alone."
"But who bought your ticket—who engaged your stateroom?" questioned Ruth.
"That is the queer part of it. I did it myself. When I first became conscious that I was in a strange place I was so shocked that I wanted to scream—to cry out—to ask all sorts of questions. Then I realized if I did that I might be taken for an insane person and be locked up. So I just shut myself in my stateroom and did some thinking.
"The first thing I wanted to know was how I got on the steamer, but how to find that out without asking questions that the steamship people would think peculiar, was a puzzle to me. Finally, I decided to pretend to want to change my room, and when I went to the purser I asked him if that was the only room to be had.
"'Why no, Miss,' he said, 'but when you came on board and I told you what rooms I had, you insisted on taking that one.' That was enough for me. I realized then that I had come on board alone, and of my own volition, though I had not any recollection of having done so, and I knew no more of where I came from than you do now."
"How very strange!" murmured Alice. "And what did you do?"
"Well, I pretended that I had been tired and had not made a wise choice of a room, and asked the purser to give me another.
"'I thought, when you picked it out, you wouldn't like that one,' he said to me, 'but you looked like a young lady who was used to having her own way, so I did not interfere.'
"That was another bit of information. Evidently, I looked prosperous, a fact that was borne out when I examined my purse. I had a considerable sum in it, and the large valise I found in my room was filled with expensive clothes and fittings. Yet where I had obtained it or my money or my clothes I could not tell for the life of me.All I knew was that I was there on board the ship."
"And did you change your stateroom?" asked Ruth.
"Yes; the purser gave me another one. And then I sat down and tried to puzzle it out. Why was I going to Cleveland? I knew no one there, and yet I had bought a ticket to that port—or some one had bought it for me."
"Did that occur to you?" asked Alice. "That some one might have had an object in getting you out of the way."
"Well, if they had, they took a very public and expensive method of doing it," Estelle said. "I was on one of the best boats on Lake Erie, and I had plenty of money."
"Did you find in what name your room was taken?" asked Ruth. "That might have given you a clue."
"The name given was Estelle Brown," was the answer. "I gave that name myself, for I recognized my handwriting on the envelope in which I sealed some of my jewelry before handing it to the purser to put in his safe. Estelle Brown was the name I gave."
"And was it yours?" asked Alice.
"I haven't any reason to believe that it was not. In fact, as I looked back then, and as I lookback now, the name Estelle Brown seems to be my very own—it is associated closely with me. So I'm sure I'm Estelle Brown—that is the only part I am sure about."
"But what did you do?" asked Ruth. "Didn't you make some inquiries?"
"I did; as soon as I reached Cleveland. At first I hoped that my memory would come back to me when I reached that place. I thought I might recognize some of the buildings. In fact, I hoped it would prove to be my home, from which I had, perhaps, wandered in a fit of illness.
"But it was of no help to me. I might just as well have been in San Francisco or New York for all that the place was familiar to me. So I gave that up. Then I began to look over the papers to see if any Estelle Brown was missing. But there was nothing to that effect in the news columns. All the while I was getting more and more worried.
"I went to a good hotel in Cleveland and stayed two or three days. Then I happened to think that perhaps my clothes might offer some clue. I examined them all carefully, and the only thing I found was the name of a Boston firm on a toilet set. At once it flashed on me that I belonged in Boston. I seemed to have a dim recollection of a big monument in the midst of agreen park, of narrow, crooked streets and historical buildings.
"Then, in a flash it came to me—I did belong in Boston. How I had come from there I could not guess, but I was sure I lived there. So I bought a ticket for there and went as fast as the train could take me.
"But my hopes were dashed. Even the sight of Bunker Hill monument did not bring the elusive memory, nor did viewing the other places of historic interest. Yet, somewhere in the back of my brain, I was sure I had been in that city before. I went to the place where my toilet set was bought, but the man had sold out and the new owner could give me no information.
"I did not know what to do. My money was running low, and I had not a friend to whom to turn. I happened to go in to see some moving pictures, and the idea came to me that perhaps I could act. I had rather a good face, so some one had hinted."
"You do photograph beautifully," said Alice.
"That's what one of the managers in Boston told me when I applied to him," said Estelle. "He gave me a small part, and then I learned that New York was really the place to go to get in the movies, so I came on, with a letter to a manager from the Boston firm.
"It must have been my face that got me my first engagement, for now I know I couldn't act. But, somehow or other, I made good, and then I got this engagement with Mr. Pertell.
"And that is my story. You can see what a strange one it is—for me not to know who I am. I'm almost ashamed to admit it, and that is why I have been avoiding all references to my past. But now I have told you, what do you think?"
"I think it's just terrible!" cried Alice. "The idea! Not to know who you are."
"The question is," said Ruth, "what can we do to help you? This must not be allowed to go any further. Valuable time is being lost. We want to help you, Estelle. What can we do? We must try to find out who you are."
"Yes, but how can you?" asked the strange girl.
Ruth did not answer for several seconds. She seemed to be thinking deeply, and Alice, who was fairly bursting with numberless questions she wanted to ask, respected her sister's efforts to bring some logical queries to the fore.
"Then your hopes that Boston would prove to be your home were not borne out?" asked Ruth, after a bit.
"No, but even yet I feel sure that I have lived at least part of my life in Boston, or near there. One doesn't have even shadowy memories of big monuments and historic places without some basis; and it was not the memory of having seen pictures of them. It was a real vision."
"And the name Estelle Brown?"
"Oh, I'm sure that belongs to me. It seems a very part of myself."
"Did you tell any of this to Mr. Pertell or to the other moving picture managers?" asked Alice.
"No. You are the first persons to whom I have told my secret," Estelle said. "I was afraid if I mentioned it they might make it public for advertising purposes, you know. They might make public the fact that a young actress was looking for herself and her parents. I never could bear that!"
"But you want to find your folks, don't you?" asked Alice.
"That's the queer part of it," Estelle replied. "I seem never to have had any relatives. The way I feel about it now, I would never know that I had had a father or a mother. I seem to have just 'growed,' the way poor Topsy did in Uncle Tom's Cabin. That is another strange part of my present existence. I seem to be in a world by myself, and, as far as I can tell, I have always been there."
"What about Lieutenant Varley?" inquired Alice.
"Lieutenant Varley?" and Estelle's voice showed that she was puzzled.
"The young officer who said he met you in Portland."
"Oh, yes. I had forgotten. Well, I have absolutely no recollection of that, and I'm sure I would remember if I had been in the West. I'm certain I never was there."
"And yet if you weren't in the West how did you learn to ride so well?" Ruth queried.
"That's another part of the puzzle, my dear. Riding seems to come as natural to me as breathing. I don't seem ever to have learned it any more than I learned how to dance. I seem always to have known how."
"There's only one way to account for that," Alice said.
"How?"
"From the fact that you must have started to learn to ride and to dance when you were very young—a mere child."
"I suppose that would account for it. And yet, I can't remember ever being a child. I don't recall having played with dolls or having made mud pies. For me my existence begins about three or four years back, and goes on from there, mostly in moving pictures."
"It is a queer case," commented Ruth. "I don't know what to do to help you. Perhaps it would be a good thing to speak to Mr. Pertell about it. Often when children have been kidnapped, you know, their pictures are flashed on the screen in hundreds of cities, and sometimes persons in the audiences recognize them. That might be done with you, Estelle."
"No, I wouldn't dream of doing that. Perhaps something may turn up some day that will tell me who I really am. And perhaps I shall be sorry for having learned."
"No, you will not!" declared Alice. "You come of good people—one can easily tell that."
"Thank you, dear. And now I have inflicted enough of my troubles on you. Let's talk about something pleasant."
"You haven't burdened us with your troubles, Estelle dear," insisted Ruth. "It is a strange story, and we are interested in the outcome."
"Indeed we are," said Alice. "We want very much to help you."
"That's good of you. But I don't see what you can do. I'm just a sort of Topsy, and Topsy I'll remain. Now please don't say anything about what I have told you to any one—not even to your father—unless I give you permission. I don't want to be the object of curiosity, as well as of suspicion."
"Suspicion!" cried Alice.
"Yes, about Miss Dixon's ring."
"Oh! no one in the world believes you took that—not even Miss Dixon herself. I believe she has found the old paste diamond, and is too mean to admit it!" cried impulsive Alice.
"You mustn't say such things!" objected her sister.
"Well, neither must she, then. Oh, Estelle! Wouldn't it be great if you should prove to be the daughter of a millionaire!"
"Too great, my dear. Don't let's think about it. But I feel better for having unburdened some of my troubles on you. And if you will still be as nice to me as you always have been——"
"Why shouldn't we be?" asked Ruth.
"Oh, I don't know, but I thought——"
"Silly!" cried Alice, as she threw her arms about the strange girl and kissed her.
Suddenly, from a distant hill, came a dull, booming sound, that, low as it was, seemed to make the very ground tremble.
"What's that?" cried Alice.
"Thunder," suggested Ruth.
"It sounded more like an explosion," asserted Estelle.
"There it goes again!" exclaimed Alice.
"Look!" cried her sister.
She pointed through the open window, and as the girls peered out they saw the top of the hill fly upward in a shower of dirt and stones.
Once more the deep boom sounded.
"It's a big gun!" cried Alice. "I remember, now. Mr. Pertell said he wanted pictures of a siege of a fort, and he sent for a big gun to get explosive effects. Come on over!"
"And be blown to pieces?" objected Ruth. "Don't dare go, Alice DeVere!"
"Oh, come on! There's no danger. Russ is going to make the films. I guess they're just trying it now. It's too late to make good pictures. Come on."
"I'll go," offered Estelle. "I don't mind the noise."
Ruth declined to go, so the other two girls set off. On the porch they met Russ and Paul, who confirmed their guess that it was a big siege gun which Mr. Pertell had sent to New York to get, so he might show the effect of explosive shells.
"I'm going to film some to-morrow," Russ said.
"Be careful," urged Alice. "Don't get blown up!"
"I'm no more anxious for that than any one," laughed Russ, and together they set off toward the place where the big gun was being tried out.
The big gun which Mr. Pertell had secured to make more realistic the war play he was preparing for the films, was an old fashioned siege rifle, made toward the close of the Civil conflict. It had not been used more than a few times, and then it had been stored away in some arsenal. The director, hearing of it, had secured it to fire at a certain hill on Oak Farm.
This hill would, in the motion pictures, form a stronghold of the Southern forces and it would be demolished by shells from the large cannon, and then would follow a charge on the part of the Union soldiers.
Real shells, with large explosive charges in them, would be used, but it is needless to say that when the shots were fired at the hill the players taking the parts of the Southerners would be at a safe distance.
"They're just trying it out now," observed Russ, who with Paul, was walking over the fieldswith Alice and Estelle. "Mr. Pertell wants to get the range, and decide on the best places from which to make the pictures. I think we'll film some to-morrow if it's a good day."
"What's the matter with your eyes, Estelle?" asked Paul, as he looked at her. "Were you working in the studio to-day? I know those lights always affect my sight."
"Why, no, I wasn't in the studio," and then Estelle realized why her eyes were so inflamed—it was from crying. She gave Alice a meaning glance, as though to enjoin silence, but she need have had no fears. Alice would not betray the secret.
The big gun had been mounted on a level piece of land, not far from the hill, and on this plain had been thrown up earthworks behind which the Union forces would take their stand in an effort to reduce the Confederate stronghold.
"They're going to fire!" cried Estelle as they came within sight of the gun, and saw, by the activities of the men about it, that a shot was about to be delivered.
Alice covered her ears with her hands, and Russ and Paul stood on their tiptoes and opened their mouths wide.
"What in the world are they doing that for?" asked Estelle.
"I can't hear a word you say!" called Alice, making her voice loud, to overcome her own hearing handicap.
"There she goes!" cried Russ.
The earth trembled as flames and smoke belched from the muzzle of the cannon, and the girls screamed.
Something black was seen for an instant in the air amid the swirl of smoke, and then another portion of the hill was seen to lift itself up into the air and dirt and stones were scattered about.
"A good shot!" observed Russ, letting himself down off his tiptoes. "That would make a dandy scene for the film."
"That's right," agreed Paul, also letting himself down and closing his opened mouth.
"Why did you do that?" asked Estelle, when the echoes of the firing had died away. "Why did you stand on your toes, and open your mouths?"
"To lessen the shock to our ear drums," answered Paul. "It is the concussion, that is, the rushing back of air into the vacuum caused by the shot, that does the damage. By opening your mouth you equalize the air pressure on the inside and the outside of your ear drums, just as you do when you go through a river tunnel. When there is a partial vacuum outside your ear, the air inside you presses the drum outward, and by opening your mouth—or by swallowing you make the pressure equal. Sometimes the pressure outside is greater than the pressure inside, and you must also equalize that before you can be comfortable."
"But that wasn't why you stood on your toes," Alice said.
"No; we did that to have less surface of our bodies on the ground so the vibration would be less. If one could leap up off the earth at the exact moment a shot was fired it would be much better, but it is hard to jump at the right instant, and standing on one's toes is nearly as good. Then you present only a comparatively small point which the vibrations of the earth, caused by the explosion of the gun, can act upon."
"That's a good thing to remember," Estelle said. "Are they going to fire again?"
"It looks so," observed Russ. "But if they knock away too much of the hill there won't be any left for the pictures to-morrow."
"I believe they want to make the top of the hill flat," said Paul. "They are going to have some sort of hand-to-hand fight on it after the Unionists capture it," he went on. "I heard Mr. Pertell speaking of it."
"There goes another!" cried Alice, as she saw the same preparations as before and one man standing near the gun to pull the lanyard, which,by means of a friction tube, exploded the charge.
Once more the projectile shot out and, burying itself in the soft dirt of the hill, threw it up in a shower.
"That'll save me a lot of work!" exclaimed a voice behind the young people, and, turning, they saw Sandy Apgar smiling at them. "That's a new way of plowing," he went on. "It sure does stir up the soil."
"Won't it spoil your hill?" asked Alice.
"Not so's you could notice it. That hill isn't wuth much as it stands. It's too steep to plow, and only a goat could find a foothold on it to graze. So if you moving picture folks level it for me I may be able to raise some crops on it. Shoot as much as you like. You can't hurt that hill!"
The men at the gun signaled that they were going to fire no more that day, and then, as it was safe, the young folks made a trip to see the extent of damage caused by the shells.
Great furrows were torn in the earth and the stones, and the top of the hill, that had been rounding, was now quite flat, though far from being smooth.
The next day had been set for filming the scenes with the big gun in them. Contrary to expectations, no pictures could be taken, as thethrowing up of the earthworks had not been finished. But a number of men from both "armies" were set to work, and as it afforded good practice for the militia they were called on to dig trenches, throw up ridges of earth, and go through other needful military tactics.
The girls had no part in the scenes with the big gun, except that, later on, they were to act as nurses in the hospital tent.
On top of the hill a force of Confederates would be stationed, and they were to reply to the fire of the big gun. Of course, when the projectiles struck the hill the soldiers would be a safe distance away, but by means of trick photography scenes would be shown just as if they were sustaining a severe bombardment.
"Is everything ready?" asked Mr. Pertell, a few days after the setting up of the big gun, during which interval a sort of fort had been constructed on the hill and a redoubt thrown up.
"I think so," answered Russ. "We couldn't have a better day, as far as sunshine is concerned. I'm ready to film whenever you are."
"I'll give the word in a minute. Paul, you're in charge of a detachment of Union soldiers that storms the hill as soon as the big gun has silenced the battery there."
"Very well, sir."
The big gun rattled out its booming challenge and was replied to by volleys from the rifles of the Confederates on the hill and by their field artillery, which they hurriedly brought up.
Shot after shot was fired, and one after another the Confederate cannon were disabled. They were blown up by small charges of powder put under them, set off by fuses lighted by the Confederates themselves, but this did not show in the picture, and it looked as though the Southern battery was blown up by shots from the big gun.
"All ready now, Paul! Lead your men!" yelled the director, who was standing near Russ and his camera. "Rush right up the hill. Stop firing here!" he called to those in charge of the big gun.
But something went wrong, or some one misunderstood. As Paul was charging up the hill at the head of his little band, Russ, turning his head for an instant, saw a man about to pull the lanyard of the big gun.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" he yelled. "It's aimed right at Paul and his fellows!"
But Russ was too late. The man pulled the cord. There was a deafening roar, a cloud of smoke, a sheet of fire, and a black projectile was sent hurtling on its way against the hill, up the side of which Paul was climbing with his soldiers.
Nothing could be done! No power on earth could stop that projectile now until it had spent itself, or until it had struck something and exploded.
Horror-stricken, those near the big gun looked across the intervening space. How many would survive what was to follow?
The man who had pulled the lanyard sank to the ground, covering his face with his hands.
For a brief instant Paul, leading his men, looked back at the sound of the unexpected shot. He had been told that no more were to be fired. Doubtless, this was an extra one to make the pictures more realistic. But when he saw, in a flash, something black and menacing leaping through the air toward him and his men, instinctively he cried:
"Duck, everybody! Duck!"
He fell forward on his face and those of his men who heard and understood did likewise.
Ruth, Alice and Estelle, who were watching the scene from a distant knoll, hardly understood what it was all about. They had thought no more shots would be fired when Paul began his charge, but one had boomed out, and surely that was a projectile winging its way toward the partly demolished hill.
"That is carrying realism a little too far," said Ruth. "I hope——"
"Paul has fallen!" cried Alice. "Oh—something has happened!"
One must realize that all this took place at the same time. The firing of the shot, the realization that it was a mistake, Paul's flash of the oncoming projectile, his command to his men and the vision had by the girls. All in an instant, for a shot from a big gun does not leave much margin of time between starting and arriving even when fired with only a small charge of powder for moving picture purposes.
And, so quickly had it happened that Russ had not stopped turning the crank of his camera, nor had an assistant on the hillside, where he had been stationed to film Paul and his soldiers.
And then the projectile struck. Into the soft dirt of the hillside it buried its head, and then, as the explosion came, up went a shower of earth and stones. And ever afterward the gunner whoinserted that charge blessed himself and an ever-watchful Providence that he had put in but half a charge, the last of the powder.
For it was this half-charge that saved Paul and his men. The projectile struck in the hill a hundred feet below where Paul was leading his force up the slope, and though they were well-nigh buried beneath a rain of sand and gravel, they were not otherwise hurt—scratches and bruises being their portion.
"What are they trying to do, kill us?" cried a man, staggering to his feet, blood streaming from a cut on his cheek.
"This is too much like real war for me!" yelled another throwing down his gun. "I'm going to quit!"
"No you don't!" shouted Paul. "Come on. It was a mistake. They won't fire any more. It will make a great scene on the film. Come on!"
He gave one look back toward the Union battery and saw Mr. Pertell fluttering a white flag which meant safety. Waving his sword above his head, Paul yelled again:
"Come on! Come on! It's all right! Up the hill with you! That shot was only to put a little pep in you!"
"Pep! More like sand! I got a mouthful!" muttered a sergeant.
"Get every inch of that. It's the best scene we've had yet, though it was a close call!" telephoned Mr. Pertell to the operator on the side of the hill. "Film every inch of it!"
"All right! I'm getting it," answered the camera man and he went on grinding away at his crank.
The explosion of the shell had, for the moment, stopped the advance of Paul and his men up the hill, but this momentary halt only made it look more realistic—as though they really feared they were in danger, as indeed they had been. Now the director called:
"It's all right, Paul! Go ahead! Keep on just as if that was part of the show."
"It was a lively part all right!" and Paul laughed grimly. "Come on, boys!"
And the charge was resumed.
Back of the dismantled battery, whence they had presumably been driven by the fire from the big gun, the Confederates were massed. They were waiting for Paul's charge, and they, too, had been a little surprised by the unexpected firing of the shell.
But now, in response to a signal on the field telephone, they prepared to resist the assault.
"Come on, boys! Beat the Yankees back!" was the battle cry that would be flashed on the screen.
Then came the fierce struggle, and it was nearly as fierce as it was indicated in the pictures. Real blows were given, and more than one man went down harder than he had expected to. There were duels with clubbed rifles, and fencing combats with swords, though, of course, the participants took care not to cut one another.
In spite of this, several received minor hurts. But this result only added to the effectiveness of the scene, though it was painful. But in providing realism for motion pictures more than one conscientious player has been injured, and not a few have lost their lives. It is devotion of no small sort to their profession.
Back and forth surged the fight, sometimes Paul's men giving way, and again driving the Confederates back from the crest of the hill. Small detachments here and there fired volleys of blank cartridges from their rifles, but there was not as much of this for the close-up pictures as there had been for the larger battle scenes. For while smoke blowing over a big field on which hundreds of men and horses are massed makes a picture effective, if seen at too close range it hides the details of the fighting.
And Mr. Pertell wanted the details to come out in this close-up scene.
Back and forth surged the fight until it hadrun through a certain length of film. Then the orders came that the Confederates were to give up and retreat. Before this, however, a number of them had been killed, as had almost as many Union soldiers.
Then came a spirited scene. Paul, leading his men, leaped up on the earthworks of the Confederate battery, cut down the Southern flag—the stars and bars. In its place he hoisted the stars and stripes, and with a wild yell that made the fight seem almost real, he and his men occupied the heights.
"Well done!" cried Mr. Pertell, enthusiastically, when he came over from the ramparts of the big gun. "Are you sure none of you was hurt when that shell exploded?"
"None of us," answered Paul. "It fell short, luckily, and the dirt was soft. No big rocks were tossed up, fortunately, and we came out of it very nicely."
"Glad to hear it. I've discharged the man who fired the gun."
"That's too bad!"
"Well, I hired him over again—but to do something else less dangerous. I can't afford to take chances with big cannon. But I think the scene went off very well. That stopping and the bursting of the shell made it look very real."
"That's good," Paul said, wiping some of the dirt and blood off his face, for he had been scratched by the point of some one's bayonet.
That ended this particular scene for the day, and the players could take a much-needed rest. Plenty of powder had been burned, and the air was rank and heavy with the fumes.
"Are you sure you're all right, Paul?" asked Alice, when he came up to the farmhouse later in the day.
"Well, I think I'd be better if you would feel my pulse," he said, winking at Russ. "And you don't need to be in a hurry to let go my hand. I sha'n't need it right away."
"Silly!" exclaimed Alice, as she turned, blushing, away.
"It must have been a shock to you," said Ruth.
"It was. But it was over so quickly I didn't have time to be shocked long. Now, let's talk about something nice. Come on in to the town, and I'll buy you all ice-cream."
"That will be nice!" laughed Estelle.
It was several days later that Mr. Pertell, coming to where the moving picture girls and their friends were seated on the porch, said:
"The big scene is for to-morrow. In the hospital. This is where you are looking after the wounded officer, Ruth, and Alice, on pretense ofbeing a nurse seeking to give aid, comes in to get the papers. I want this very carefully done, as it is one of the climaxes of the whole play. So we'll have some rehearsals in the morning."
"Am I to do that riding act?" asked Estelle.
"Yes, you'll do the horse stunt as usual. There's to be a cavalry charge, Miss Brown, so don't get in their way and be run down."
"I'll try not to," she answered.
Long rows of wounded men lay stretched out on white cots in the hospital. Some wore bandages over their heads all but concealing their eyes. Others were so entwined with white wrappings that it was hard to say whether they were men or oriental women. Still others raised themselves on their elbows, spasms of pain corrugating their brows, while red cross nurses held to their lips cooling drinks.
Here at the bedside of one stood a grave surgeon, slowly shaking his head as he came to the melancholy conclusion that a further operation was useless. Over there they were carrying out a motionless form on a stretcher, a sheet mercifully draped over what was left. At the entrance to the hospital other bearers were carrying in those who came from the scene of the distant firing.
The boom of big guns shook the frail shack that had been turned into a hospital. Now andthen, as the wind blew in fitful gusts, there was borne on it the acrid smell of powder. And again, in some dark corner of that building of suffering, there could be seen through the cracks, left by hasty builders, the flash of fire that preceded the booming crash of the cannon.
A sad-faced woman in black moved slowly down the line of cots led by a sympathetic nurse. She came to one bed, stopped as though in doubt, passed her hand over her face as if she did not want to admit that what she saw she did see, and then she fell on her knees in a passion of weeping, while the surgeons turned away their heads. She had found what she had sought.
From the farther door there entered a man, limping on crutches improvised from the limbs of a tree. Stained bandages were about one arm and another leg. His head, too, was wrapped so that only half his face showed. A hurrying orderly met him.
"You can't come in here!" he cried.
"Why not, I'd like to know. Ain't this the horspital?"
"Of course it is."
"Then why can't I come in here. I'm hurt, and hurt bad, pardner. Shot through leg and arm, and part of my jaw gone. Why can't I come in?"
"'Cause you can't. Didn't we just carry you out for dead? What'll the audience think if they see you walking again? Git on out of here!"
"I will not! I've wrapped this bandage around my head on purpose so they won't know me. Let me come in, will you? That's real lemonade them pretty nurses is givin' out to drink, and I'm as dry as a fish. I've been firin' one of them guns until I've swallowed enough smoke to play an animated cannon ball. Let me in the horspital."
"Yes, let him in!" called Mr. Pertell through his megaphone. He was at the far end of the shack that had been hastily erected on Oak Farm as a hospital, for the last big scenes of the war play, "A Girl in Blue and A Girl in Gray."
"All right, just as you say," answered the orderly. "Come on in, Bill. Are you going to die this time?"
"I am not! I'm going to be one of them converts, and get chicken sandwiches and jelly."
"You mean convalescent."
"Um. That's it! Lead me to me bed, will you, for I'm a sadly wounded old soldier—that's what I am."
Amid laughter he was led to a cot, where a smiling nurse tucked him in between the yellow sheets. For, as has been said, yellow takes the place of white in inside scenes.
And this was an inside scene, powerful electric lights dispelling all shadows so the cameras could film every motion and expression.
"Now remember!" called Mr. Pertell when the "wounded man," one of the extra players, had been comfortably put to bed, "remember no smiling or laughing when we begin to make the picture. This is supposed to be serious."
The rehearsal went on and finally the director announced that he was satisfied. Then the scenes were enacted over again, but with more tenseness and with a knowledge that every motion was being filmed with startling exactness.
"Now, Ruth, you come on!" called Mr. Pertell. "We've made a little change from the original scenario. You're to relieve Miss Dixon, who has been on this case. He's one of the Northern officers, you remember, and he has with him papers that the Confederacy would do much to get.
"They are under the officer's pillow, you know. He is afraid to let them out of his possession. You must humor him, though you know that the papers will soon have to be taken away as he is to be operated on. It is here that Alice, as the spy, gets her chance. She pretends to be one of the nurses of this hospital, dons the uniform, and comes in here to get the papers. Are you ready?"
"Yes," answered Ruth.
Then the big hospital scene began.
Ruth, in her garb of a nurse, took her place at the side of the injured officer's cot. She felt his pulse, took his temperature and administered some medicine. Then the injured man, who was Mr. DeVere himself, sank back on his pillows. His hand went under the mass of feathers and brought out a packet of papers. At this point a close-up view was taken, showing on the screen the papers in magnified shape, so that the audience could note that they were Civil War documents. It was these that the officer was afraid would fall into the hands of the Confederates, so he kept them ever near him.
Ruth made as if to remove them when he had placed them under the pillow again, but he awoke with a start and prevented her. This was to show that it was necessary for some one to take them while the operation was being performed.
Then the scene changed to show Alice preparing for her work as a spy. The camera was taken to another part of the hospital, Ruth and her father having a respite, though they maintained their positions.
"Did I do all right, Daddy?" asked Ruth.
"Very well, indeed. You are getting to be a good actress. I wish you were on the speaking stage."
"I like this ever so much better. I never could speak before a whole crowd."
Alice was shown making her way into the hospital, a previous scene having depicted her as promising the Confederate officer in whose employ as a spy she was, that she would get the papers. She entered the hospital, pretending to be in search of a missing relative. Then, watching her chance, she prepared a sleeping powder for a tired and half-sleeping nurse off duty and prepared to take her uniform.
Alice played her part well. The sleeping nurse aroused, took the drugged drink, and went more soundly to sleep than ever. Then Alice was shown in the act of taking off the uniform. Another scene showed her walking boldly into the ward room to relieve Ruth.
There was a little scene between the two sisters, and Ruth registered that Alice must be very careful not to alarm or shock the wounded man who was soon to undergo the operation.
Alice acquiesced, and then sat down beside the cot. Slowly and carefully, like some pickpocket, she inserted her fingers under the pillow. Amid a tenseness that affected even the actors working with her, Alice took out the papers, inch by inch, and began to move away with them.
It was at this point that she was to be discovered by Paul, in the next bed. He had, in a previous scene, supposed to have taken place several months before, saved Alice's life, and they had fallen in love, Alice promising to wed him after the war. He supposed her to be a true Northern girl, and now he discovered that she was a Southern spy.
There was a strong scene here. Paul leaped from his bed, and tried to get the papers away from Alice. She, horror-stricken at being discovered as a spy by her lover, is torn between affection for him and duty to the South. She throws him from her, as he is weakened by illness, and is about to escape with the papers, when she fears Paul is dying and she is stricken with remorse. She decides to give up her task for the sake of her lover.
Slowly and softly, without awakening the old officer, she puts the papers back under his pillow and then, stooping over Paul, who has fainted from loss of blood, she kisses his forehead and goes out in a "fadeaway."
"Good! Great! Couldn't be better!" cried Mr. Pertell, as Alice came out of range of the camera. "That was better than I dared to hope. This will make a big hit!"
"Have you made up your mind yet, Estelle?"
"No, Ruth! I haven't. I don't know what to do."
The two girls were in Estelle's room. Miss Brown was putting some protective padding under her outer garments, for in a little while she was to take part in a desperate ride—one of the last scenes in the big war play—a ride that had a part in a cavalry charge that was to be made by the desperate Confederates on the hosts of Unionists, who were closing in on their enemies. It was to be the last battle—a final stand of the Southern States, and they were to lose.
But Estelle was to make a desperate ride to try to save the day. This time she was to pose as a daughter of the South. The ride would necessarily be a reckless one, and Estelle felt that she might fall; so she was preparing for it.
"I don't know what to do," she went on to Ruth, who was helping her. "Sometimes I feellike doing as you and your sister suggest, and let your father into the secret—and Mr. Pertell too—and have them try what they can do to discover who I am.
"Then again, as I think it over, I'm afraid. Suppose I should turn out to be some one altogether horrid?"
"You couldn't, my dear, not if you tried. But if you don't want my father to know, and would rather work out this mystery yourself, why, I won't say another word."
"I want to think about it a little more," Estelle said.
They had been talking about her strange case, and the possible outcome of it. Alice had suggested that a motion picture story be written around it.
"It could be called 'Who is Estelle Brown?'" Alice said, "and it could be a serial. You could pose in it, Estelle, and make a lot of money. And, not only that, but you'd find out who your relatives were, I'm sure."
"Oh, I couldn't do it!" Estelle had cried. "I'd like the money, of course. I never was so happy as when I found I had a purse full when I was on that Cleveland boat! But I could not capitalize my misfortune that way."
"No, I was only joking," said Alice. And sothe matter had gone on. Now Ruth had broached the subject again, and Estelle was still undecided.
"Wait until after this big ride of mine," she said. "Then I'll make up my mind. I really do want to know who I am, and I think, after this engagement, if I don't find out before, I'll go to Boston again. I'm sure my people are from that vicinity."
So it was left.
From outside came the stirring notes of a bugle. At the sound of it Ruth and Estelle started.
"That's the signal," said the latter. "I must hurry."
"I'll help you," offered Ruth, and she assisted in the tying of the last strings, and the snapping of the final fastenings of the suit of protective padding the rider wore.
"You don't take part in the actual charge, do you?" asked Alice, who came in at this point.
"Well, I have to ride ahead of the Union forces for a way," Estelle answered. "But I'm not afraid. Petro will carry me safely, as he has done before."
The girls went down and out into the yard. Off on the distant meadow of Oak Farm, which had been turned into a battlefield for the time being, were two hostile armies. The two regiments of cavalry were to meet in a final clash thatwas to end the war. There was to be the firing of many rifles and cannon. There were to be charges and countercharges. Men would fall from their horses shot dead. Certain horses, trained for the work, would stumble and fall, going down with those who rode them, the men having learned how to roll out of the way without getting a broken arm or leg. In spite of their training and practice, nearly all expected to be scratched and bruised. However, it was all part of the game and in the day's work.
"All ready now!" called Mr. Pertell. "We're going to have the first skirmish, and, after that, Miss Brown, you are to do your ride. Are you ready?"
"Yes," Estelle told the director.
The signal was given through the field telephone and then, with his ever-present megaphone, the director began to issue his orders.
The rifles cracked, the big guns rumbled and roared, smoke blew across the battlefield and horses snorted and pawed at the ground impatient to be off and in the charge. To them it was real, even though their masters knew it was only for the movies.
Bugles tooted their inspiring calls, and the officers, who knew the significance of the cadence of notes, issued their orders accordingly.
"Deploy to the left!" came the command to a squad of Union cavalry, and the men trotted off, to try a flank movement. Then came the firing of a Confederate battery in a desperate attempt to scatter the Union forces.
All the camera men in the employ of the Comet Film Company were engaged this day, and Russ was at his wits' end to keep each machine loaded with film, and to see that his own was working properly.
Pop Snooks had never before been called on to provide so many "props" as he was for this occasion, but he thoroughly enjoyed the work, and when, at the last minute, he had to make a rustic bridge whereon two lovers had a farewell before the soldier rode off to battle, the veteran property man improvised one out of bean poles and fence rails that made a most artistic picture.
"They'll have to get up the day before breakfast to beat Pop Snooks!" exclaimed Russ, admiringly.
All was now ready for the big cavalry charge.
"All ready!" came the order from Mr. Pertell. "Cameras!"
And the cranks began to work, reeling off the sensitive film.
The two bodies of cavalry rushed toward one another, hoofs thundering, carbines cracking,sabres flashing in the sun, white puffs of smoke showing where the cannon were firing.
"Now Miss Brown!" yelled the director, above the riot of noise. "This is where you make the ride of your life!"
"All right!" answered the brave girl, and, giving rein to her horse, she dashed off ahead of a detachment of cavalry that was to try to intercept her.
On and on rode Estelle. Ruth and Alice, who had finished their part in this scene, stood on a little hill, watching her.
On and on dashed Estelle, doing her part well, and foot after foot of the film registered her action. She was almost at the end now. She reached the Confederate ranks, gave over the message she had carried through such danger, and then, turning her horse, dashed away.
How it happened no one could tell. But suddenly Petro stumbled, and though Estelle tried to keep him on his feet she could not.
"Oh—oh!" gasped Ruth. "Look!" and then she turned her head away so as not to see.
Alice had a flash of Estelle flying over the head of her falling horse, and then, unable to stop, the rushing soldiers on their horses rode over the very place where Estelle had fallen.
Confused shouts, cries, and orders echoed over the field, Mr. Pertell, dropping his megaphone, rushed toward the scene of the accident, calling on Russ to follow and yelling back an order to have the stretcher men and the doctor follow him.
Dr. Wherry was even then waiting in readiness, for it had been feared that this big scene might result painfully, if not dangerously, for more than one. Some men had also been detailed as stretcher bearers and were in waiting.
"Shall we film this?" asked one of Russ's helpers, as the former dashed past on his way to help Estelle.
"No. Don't take that accident. It won't fit in with the rest of the film. It's all right up to that point, though. We can make a retake of the last few feet if we have to."
Even in this time of danger and suspense it was necessary to think of the play. That must go on, no matter what happened to the players.
"Go on with the cavalry charge—farther over!" directed Mr. Pertell, when he arrived on the scene and found a group of men about the fallen girl. "You can't do any good here. We'll look after her. I can't delay any longer on this scene. Go on with the charge, and carry out the program as it was outlined to you. Russ, you look after the camera men."
"What about Estelle?"
"Dr. Wherry and I will see to her."
The girl's golden hair was tumbled about her head, having come loose and fallen from under her hat in her fall. She lay in a senseless heap at one side of her horse. The animal had not gotten up, and at first it was thought he had been killed. But it developed that Estelle had trained him to play "dead" after a fall of this kind, and the intelligent creature must have thought this was one of those occasions.
"Easy with her, boys," cautioned the director, as the stretcher men tenderly picked up the limp form. "She may have some broken bones."
They placed her carefully on the stretcher and bore her to the hospital. Mrs. Maguire was ready to assist the trained nurse, who was kept ready for just such emergencies.
"The poor little dear!" exclaimed the motherly Irish woman. "Poor little dear!"
Meanwhile, the cavalry charge went on. Estelle had done her part in this. Was it the last part she was to play?
Ruth and Alice asked themselves this as they hurried toward the hospital.
"Oh, if she should be killed!" gasped Ruth.
"Wouldn't it be dreadful? And no one to tell who she really is," added Alice. "We must go to her."
"Yes, as soon as they will let us see her," agreed Ruth.
Dr. Wherry and the trained nurse were busy over the injured girl. A quick examination disclosed no broken bones, but it could not yet be told whether or not there were internal injuries. They could only wait for her to recover consciousness and hope for the best. All that could be done was done.
"Plucky little girl!" murmured Mr. Pertell, when told that Estelle was resting easily, but was still insensible. "She must have seen that she was going to have a bad fall, but she kept on and saved the film for us. We won't have to retake her scene at all—merely cut out the accident. Do your best for her, Dr. Wherry."
"I will, you may be sure."
Ruth and Alice were told that they could see Estelle as soon as she recovered consciousness, andit was safe for visitors to be admitted. And several hours after the accident the nurse, Miss Lyon, came to summon them from their room, where they were waiting.
"She has opened her eyes," Miss Lyon said.
"Did she ask for us?" Alice asked.
"I can't say that she did. She seems dazed yet. Sometimes in falls like this, where the head is injured, it is days before the patient realizes what has happened."
"Is her head injured?" Ruth inquired.
"Yes, she seems to have received a hard blow on it. Whether there is a fracture or a concussion Dr. Wherry had not yet determined. It will take a little time to decide. Meanwhile, you may see her, just for a moment."
Alice and Ruth softly entered the room where Estelle lay on a white bed. Her face was pale, but her eyes were bright. There was a subtle odor of disinfectants, of opiates and of other drugs in the room—a veritable hospital atmosphere.
"Don't startle her," cautioned the nurse, motioning for silence.
"We'll be careful," promised Alice, in a whisper.
The two sisters approached the bed. Estelle looked at them but, strange to say, there was nolook of recognition in her eyes. Ruth and Alice might have been two strangers for all the notice Estelle took of them.
"She—she doesn't know us," whispered Ruth.
"She will, as soon as you speak," said Miss Lyon. "Just talk to her in a low voice, but naturally. She'll know you then, I'm sure."
"How—how are you feeling?" asked Ruth, in a whisper.
There was no response—no light of recognition in the eyes.
"A little louder and call her by name," suggested the nurse.
"You try, Alice," Ruth whispered.
Her sister stepped to the bedside.
"Estelle, don't you know me?" Alice asked.
The eyes turned in the direction of the voice.
"Were you speaking to me?" came the question, and both Ruth and Alice started at the changed tones of their friend.
"Yes, to you," Alice answered.
"I—Idon'tknow you," was the gentle response.
"Don't you know me—Alice DeVere? And this is my sister, Ruth. Don't you know us, Estelle?"
"Is your name Estelle?" came the query.
"No, that isyourname," and Alice smiled,though a cold hand seemed to be clutching at her heart. "That is your name—you are Estelle. Don't you remember?"
"Estelle what? Who is Estelle?"
"You are. You are Estelle Brown! Don't you know your own name?"
The golden head on the white pillow was slowly moved from side to side. The bright eyes showed no sign of recognition. Then came the gentle voice:
"I am not Estelle Brown. I don't know her. What do you mean? I don't know any of you. Why am I here? What has happened? I wish you would take me home at once. I live at the Palace."
"What—what does she mean?" gasped Ruth, looking in alarm at the nurse.
"I don't know. Perhaps she is delirious and imagines she is playing in the moving pictures. Was there a palace scene?"
"Not since she joined the company. But why does she deny her identity?"
"I can not say. Sometimes after an injury like this happens, people say queer things. We had better not disturb her further. I'll call Dr. Wherry."
Alice made one more effort to bring recollection to Estelle.
"Don't you know me, dear?" she asked softly. "I am Alice—your friend Alice. This is Ruth, and you are Estelle Brown, from Boston, you know."
"Boston? I was never in Boston. And I am not Estelle Brown. You must be mistaken."
Her eyes roved around the hospital room, and a look of pain and fright dimmed them. Then, seeming to fear that she had been unkind, she said gently to Alice:
"I am sorry I do not know you, for you are trying to help me, I am sure. But I never heard the name Estelle Brown. I am not she—that is certain. If you would only take me home! My people will be worried. We live at the Palace and——"
She tried to raise herself up in bed. A look of pain came over her face, and she fell back with closed eyes.
"She has fainted!" cried Miss Lyon. "I must get Dr. Wherry at once! Don't disturb her!"
She hastened off, while Ruth and Alice, not knowing what to think, went softly from the room.