Kitabı oku: «Helen in the Editor's Chair», sayfa 6
CHAPTER X
Behind the Footlights
By the first of the following week the near tragedy of the picnic seemed only a terrible nightmare to Helen and Margaret and they devoted all of their extra time to helping Tom get out the next edition of the Herald.
Monday morning’s mail brought a long letter from Helen’s father, a letter in which he praised them warmly for their first edition of the Herald. He added that he had recovered from the fatigue of his long trip into the southwest and was feeling much stronger and a great deal more cheerful. The newsy letter brightened the whole atmosphere of the Blair home and for the first time since their father had left, Tom and Helen saw their mother like her old self, smiling, happy and humming little tunes as she worked about the house.
Events crowded one on another as the school year neared its close. There were final examinations, the junior-senior banquet, the annual sophomore party and finally, graduation exercises.
The seniors had been rehearsing their play, “The Spell of the Image,” for a month and for the final week had engaged a special dramatic instructor from Cranston to put the finishing touches on the cast. Helen had read the play several times. It was a comedy-drama concerning the finding of an ancient and valuable string of pearls in an old image. It had action, mystery and romance and she thrilled when she thought that in two more years she would be in her own class play.
The dramatic instructor arrived. She was Anne Weeks, a slender, dark-haired girl of 25 who had attended the state university and majored in dramatics. Every boy in high school promptly thought he was in love with her.
The seniors rehearsed their parts every spare hour and every evening. The play was to go on Thursday night with the graduation exercises Friday evening.
Dress rehearsal was called for Tuesday and Helen went down to the opera house to peek in and see how it was going. She found a disconsolate cast sitting around the stage, looking gloomily at Miss Weeks.
“This looks more like a party of mourners than a play practice,” observed Helen.
“It’s just about that bad,” replied Miss Weeks. “Sarah Jacobs has come down with a severe cold and can’t talk, which leaves us in a fine pickle.”
“Won’t she be able to go on Thursday night?”
“It will be at least a week before she’ll be able to use her voice for a whole evening,” Miss Weeks said. “In the meantime, we’ve got to find another girl, about Sarah’s size, to play her part and every member of the senior class is in the play now.”
She stopped suddenly and looked at Helen.
“You’re about Sarah’s size,” she mused, “and you’re blonde and you have blue eyes. You’ll do, Helen.”
“Do for what?” asked the astounded Helen.
“Why, for Sarah’s part,” exclaimed Miss Weeks. “Come now, hurry up and get into Sarah’s costume,” and she pointed to a dainty colonial dress which the unfortunate Sarah was to have worn in the prologue.
“But I don’t know Sarah’s part well enough,” said Helen. “I’ve only read the play twice and then just for fun.”
“You’ll catch on,” said Miss Weeks, “if you’re half as smart as I think you are.”
“Go on, Helen,” urged the seniors. “Help us out. We’ve got to put the play across or we’ll never have enough money to pay Miss Weeks.”
“Now you know why I’m so anxious for you to take the part,” smiled the play instructor.
“I’ll do my best,” promised Helen, gathering the costume under her arm and hurrying toward the girls’ dressing room.
Ten minutes later she emerged as a dainty colonial dame. Miss Weeks stared hard at her and then smiled an eminently satisfactory smile.
“Now if she can only get the lines in two nights,” she whispered to herself.
Helen’s reading of the play had given her a thorough understanding of the action and they went through the prologue without a slip. Scenery was shifted rapidly and the stage changed from a colonial ballroom to a modern garden scene. Costumes kept up with the scenery and when the members of the cast reappeared on the stage they were dressed in modern clothes.
Helen poured over the pages of the play book and because she had only a minor part in the first act, got through it nicely. The second act was her big scene and she was decidedly nervous when it came time for her cue. One of the seniors was to make love to her and she didn’t especially like him. But the play was the thing and the seniors certainly did need someone to take the vacant part.
She screwed up her courage and played the rôle for all it was worth. Once she forgot her lines but she managed to fake a little conversation and they got back to the regular lines without trouble.
When the curtain was rung down on the third act Miss Weeks stepped out of the orchestra pit where she had been directing the changes in minor details of the action and came over to Helen.
“You’re doing splendidly,” she told the young editor of the Herald. “Don’t worry about lines. Read them over thoroughly sometime tomorrow and we’ll put the finishing touches on tomorrow night.”
When Helen reached home Tom had returned from the office, his work done for the night.
“Thought you were just going down the street to see how play practice was coming?” he said.
“I did,” Helen replied, “and I’m so thrilled, Tom. Sarah Jacobs, who has the juvenile lead in the play is ill with a sore throat and Miss Weeks asked me to take the part.”
“Are you going to?”
“I have,” smiled Helen. “That’s where I’ve been. Rehearsing for the play Thursday night.”
“Well, you’re a fine editor,” growled Tom. “How am I going to get out the paper?”
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about copy,” Helen assured him. “Margaret has half a dozen stories to turn in tomorrow noon and I’ll have all of mine written by supper time. And I’ll do my usual work Thursday afternoon.”
“I was just kidding,” grinned Tom. “I think it’s great that Miss Weeks picked you to fill in during the emergency. Quite a compliment, I say.”
Helen’s mother, who had been across the street at the Stevens’, came home and Helen had to tell her story over again.
“What about your costumes?” asked her mother.
“The class rents the colonial dress for the prologue,” explained Helen, “and for the other acts Miss Weeks is going to loan me some smart frocks from her own wardrobe. We’re practically the same size.”
“What a break for you,” Tom laughed. “You’ll be the smartest dressed girl in the class if I know anything about Miss Weeks.”
“Which you don’t!” retorted his sister.
Helen’s regular Wednesday morning round of news gathering took her to the depot to meet the nine forty-five and she found the agent waiting.
“Remember I promised you a story this week?” he said.
“I’m ready to take it,” Helen smiled. “What we want is news, more news and then more news.”
“This is really a good story,” the railroad man assured her. “Wait until you see the nine forty-five.”
“What’s the matter? Is it two or three hours late?”
“It will be in right on time,” the agent promised.
Helen sat down on a box on the platform to await the arrival of the morning local. Resting there in the warm sunshine, she pulled her copy of the play book out of her pocket and read the second act, with her big scene, carefully. The words were natural enough and she felt that she would have little trouble remembering them.
She glanced at the depot clock. It was nine forty. The local should be whistling for the crossing down the valley. She looked in the direction from which the train was coming. There was no sign of smoke and she knew it would be late.
She had picked up her play book and turned to the third act when a mellow chime echoed through the valley. It was like a locomotive whistle and yet unlike one.
“New whistle on the old engine?” Helen asked the agent.
“More than that,” he grinned.
The Herald’s editor watched for the train to swing into sight around a curve but instead of the black, stubby snout of the regular passenger engine, a train of three cars, seemingly moving without a locomotive, appeared and rolled smoothly toward the station.
As it came nearer Helen could hear the low roar of a powerful gasoline engine, which gradually dropped to a sputtering series of coughs as the three car train drew abreast the station.
“Latest thing in local trains,” exclaimed the agent. “It’s a gas-electric outfit with the motive power in the front end of the first car. Fast, clean and smooth and it’s economical to run. Don’t take a fireman.”
Helen jotted down hasty notes. Everyone in the town and countryside would be interested in seeing and reading about the new train.
The agent gave Helen a hand into the cab where the engineer obligingly explained the operation of the gas-electric engine.
The conductor called “All aboo-ord,” and Helen climbed down out of the cab.
The gasoline engine sputtered as it took up the load of starting the train. When the cars were once under way, it settled down to a steady rumble and the train picked up speed rapidly and rolled out of town on its way to the state capital.
“What do you think of it?” asked the agent.
“It’s certainly a fine piece of equipment,” said Helen, “but I hate to see the old steam engines go. There’s something much more romantic about them than these new trains.”
“Oh, we’ll have steam on the freight trains,” the agent hastened to add. “Give us a good write up.”
“I will,” Helen promised as she started for the Herald office to write her story of the passing of the steam passenger trains on the branch line.
Margaret came in with a handful of school stories she had written during an assembly hour.
“Congratulations,” she said to Helen. “I’ve just heard about your part. You’ll put it across.”
“I’m glad you think so, Marg, for I’d hate to make a fizzle of it.”
Helen finished writing her copy for the paper that afternoon after school and before she went home to supper with Tom wrote the headlines for the main stories on page one.
“Did you write a story about the sophomore picnic and what happened to Margaret?” asked Tom.
“It’s with the copy I just put on your machine,” Helen replied. “Everyone knows something about it and of course there is a lot of talk. I’ve seen Doctor Stevens and Margaret and they both agree that a story is necessary and that the simple truth is the best thing to say with no apologies and nothing covered up.”
“Doc Stevens is a brick,” exclaimed Tom. “Most men would raise the very dickens if such a story were printed but it will stop idle talk which is certainly much worse than having the truth known.”
“That’s the way he feels,” Helen said.
Margaret came over after supper to go down to the opera house with Helen for play practice.
“I’m getting almost as big a thrill out of it as Helen,” she told Mrs. Blair, “only I wouldn’t be able to put it across and Helen can.”
Miss Weeks had brought three dresses for Helen to wear, one for each act in the play. They were dainty, colorful frocks that went well with Helen’s blondness.
The stage was set with all of the properties for the prologue and Helen hastened into the girl’s dressing room to put on her colonial costume. When she returned to the stage, Miss Weeks was addressing the cast.
“Remember,” she warned them, “that this is the last rehearsal. Everything is just as it will be tomorrow night. Imagine the audience is here tonight. Play up to them.”
The main curtain was dropped, the house lights went off and the battery of brilliant electrics in the footlights blazed.
The curtain moved slightly; then went up smoothly and disappeared in the darkness above the stage. The play was on.
The prologue went smoothly and without a mistake and when the curtain dropped the stage became a scene of feverish activity.
“Five minutes to change,” Miss Weeks warned them as they went to their dressing rooms.
For the first act Helen was to wear a white sport dress with a blazing red scarf knotted loosely around her neck. She wiggled into her outfit, brushed her hair with deft hands, dabbed fresh powder on her cheeks, touched up her lips with scarlet and was ready for her cue. She said her lines with an ease and clearness that surprised even herself and was back in the wings and on her way to the dressing room almost before she knew it.
In the second act Helen had her big part and Miss Weeks had provided a black, velvet semiformal afternoon gown. It was fashioned in plain, clinging lines, caught around the waist with a single belt of braided cloth of gold and with the neckline trimmed in the same material. Golden slippers and hose and one bracelet, a heavy, imitation gold band, completed the accessories.
Between acts Miss Weeks came into see how the costume fitted.
“Why, Helen,” she exclaimed. “You’re gorgeous – beautiful. Every boy in town will be crazy about you.”
“I’ll worry about that later,” Helen replied. “But I’m so glad you think I look all right.”
“You’re perfectly adorable.”
The praise from Miss Weeks buoyed Helen with an inner courage that made her fairly sparkle and she played her part for all it was worth. Again she forgot her lines but she managed to escape by faking conversation.
When the rehearsal was over, Margaret hastened to the stage.
“You’ll be the hit of the show,” she whispered to Helen. “And think of it, one of the sophomores running away with the seniors play.”
“But I don’t intend to do that,” Helen replied. “I’m only here to help them out. Besides, I may forget my lines and make some terrible mistake tomorrow night.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Margaret insisted, as they left the theater.
Thursday was Helen’s busy day. Final examinations for two periods in the morning and then to the office after lunch to help Tom fold and mail the week’s edition of the Herald.
Tom had put the two pages for the last run on the press before going home for lunch so when they returned the press was ready for the afternoon’s work.
Advertising had not been quite as heavy as the first week and Tom had used every line of copy Helen had written, but the paper looked clean and readable.
Helen stacked the papers on the makeup table and started folding. When Tom finished the press run he folded while Helen started stamping the names of the subscribers on the papers. By four o’clock every paper was in the postoffice and half an hour later they were ready to call it a day and lock up the office.
When Helen reached home her mother made her go to her room and rest for an hour before supper.
They were eating when Margaret hurried in.
“Here are your tickets,” she told Mrs. Blair. “I managed to get them exchanged so we’ll all be together.”
“But I thought you had decided not to go to the play?” Helen said to her mother.
“That was before you had a part in it,” smiled Mrs. Blair.
“Where are you going to sit?”
“You don’t want to know,” put in Tom. “If you did, it would make you nervous. It’s bad enough to know that we’ll be there.”
The cast had been called to meet on the stage at seven-fifteen for last minute instructions. The curtain was at eight-fifteen and that would give them an hour to dress and get into makeup.
Miss Weeks had little to say when she faced the group of seniors and the lone sophomore.
“Remember that this is no different from last night’s rehearsal,” she told them. “Play up to each other. If you forget a few lines, fake the conversation until you can get back to your cues. You will disappoint me greatly if you don’t put on the best senior play ever given in Rolfe.”
Then they were swept away in the rush of last minute preparations for the first call. The girl’s dressing room was filled with the excited chatter of a dozen girls and the air was thick with the smell of grease paint and powder. Colonial costumes came out of the large wardrobe which filled one side of the room and there was the crisp rustle of silk as the girls donned their costumes. Miss Weeks moved through the room, adding a touch of makeup here and taking off a bit where some over-zealous young actress had been too enthusiastic.
“Ten minutes,” Miss Weeks warned the girls. “Everyone out and on the stage.”
There was a general checkup on costumes and stage properties. Through the heavy curtain Helen heard the high school orchestra swing into the overture. The electrician moved the rheostat which dimmed the house lights. The banks of electrics in the flies about the stage awoke into glaring brilliance as the overture reached its crescendo. The stage was very quiet. Everyone was ready for the curtain.
All eyes were on Miss Weeks and Helen felt a last second flutter of her heart. In another second or two she would be in the full glare of the footlights. She was thankful that she had only a few lines in the prologue. It would give her time to gain a stage composure and prepare for her big scene in the second act.
Miss Weeks’ hand moved. The man at the curtain shifted and it started slowly upward. Helen blinked involuntarily as she faced the full glare of the footlights. Beyond them she could see only a sea of faces, extending row on row toward the back of the theater. Somewhere out there her mother and Tom would be watching her. And with them would be Margaret and her parents.
The play was on and Helen forgot her first nervousness. Dainty colonial dames moved about the stage and curtsied before gallant white-wigged gentlemen. The prologue was short but colorful. Just enough to reveal that a precious string of pearls had been hidden in the ugly little image which reposed so calmly on a pedestal.
As the curtain descended, a wave of applause reached the stage. It was ardent and prolonged and Miss Weeks motioned for the cast to remain in their places. The curtain ascended half way and the cast curtsied before it descended again.
“You’re doing splendidly,” Miss Weeks told them. “Now everyone to the dressing rooms to change for the first act. Be back on the stage ready to go in five minutes.”
The girls flocked to the dressing room. Colonial costumes disappeared and modern dresses took their place. Helen slipped into her white sport outfit with the scarlet scarf. Her cheeks burned with the excitement of the hour. She dabbed her face with a powder puff and returned to the stage. The scenery had been shifted for the first act and the curtain went up on time to the second.
Helen felt much easier. Her first feeling of stage fright had disappeared and she knew she was the master of her own emotions. She refused to think of the possibility of forgetting her lines and resolved to put herself into the character she was playing and do and act in the coming situations, as that character would do.
Helen was on the stage only a few minutes during the first act and she had ample time to change for the second. The dressing room was almost deserted and she took her time. The heavy, black velvet dress Miss Weeks had loaned her was entrancing in its rich beauty and distinctiveness.
She combed her blond hair until it looked like burnished gold. Then she pulled it back and caught it at the nape of her neck. It was the most simple hair dress possible but the most effective in its sheer simplicity.
Other girls crowded into the room. The first act was over. Miss Weeks came in and Helen stood up.
“Wonderful, Helen, wonderful,” murmured the instructor, but not so loud that the other girls would hear.
There was the call for the second act and Helen went onto the stage. The senior she played opposite came up.
“All set?” he asked.
Helen smiled, just a bit grimly, for she was determined to play her part for all it was worth.
The orchestra stopped playing and the curtain slid upward. She heard her cue and walked into the radiance of the lights. She heard the senior, her admirer in the play, talking to her. He was telling her of his recent adventures and how, at the end of a long, moonlit trail, he had finally come upon the girl of his dreams.
Then she heard herself replying, protesting that there was no such thing as love at first sight, but that ardent young Irish adventurer refused no for an answer and Helen backed away from him.
She heard a warning hiss from the wings but it was too late. She walked backwards into a pedestal with a vase of flowers.
There was a sudden crash of the falling pedestal and the tinkle of breaking glass.
The audience roared with laughter.
Helen was stunned for the moment. In her chance to make good in high school dramatics she had clumsily backed into the stand and upset it, breaking the vase. Tears welled into her eyes and her lips trembled. The senior was staring at her, too surprised to talk.
The laughter continued, and Helen seized the only chance for escape. Could she make it appear that the accident was a part of the play, a deliberate bit of comedy?
“Smile,” she whispered to the senior. “We can make it look like a part of the play. Follow my cue.” He nodded slightly to show that he understood.
The laughter subsided enough for them to continue their lines and Helen managed to smile. She hoped it wouldn’t look too forced.
“Look what you made me do,” she said, pointing at the wreckage of the vase.
“Sorry,” smiled the senior. “I’m just that way about you.”
Then they swung back into the lines of the play and three minutes later Helen was again in the wings.
Miss Weeks was waiting for her and Helen expected a sharp criticism.
“Supreme comedy,” congratulated the dramatic instructor. “How did you happen to think of that?”
“But I didn’t think of it,” protested Helen. “It was an accident. I was scared to death.”
Miss Weeks stared at her hard.
“Well,” she commented, “you certainly carried it off splendidly. It was the best comedy touch of the show.”
The third act went on and then “The Spell of the Image” was over. The curtain came down on the final curtain call. The orchestra blared as the audience left the hall while parents and friends trooped onto the stage to congratulate the members of the cast.
Helen suddenly felt very tired and there was a mist in her eyes, but she brightened visibly when her mother and Tom, followed by the Stevens, pushed through the crowd. She listened eagerly to their praises and to Tom’s whole-hearted exclamations over her beauty and charm.
Then the lights of the stage dimmed. She had had her hour as an actress; she knew she had acquitted herself well. The smell of grease, paint and powder faded and she was a newspaperwoman again – the editor of the Herald.
