CHAPTER XXV. THE OPERETTA
The sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth of February were, for Billy,and for all concerned in the success of the operetta, days of hurry,worry, and feverish excitement, as was to be expected, of course. Eachafternoon and every evening saw rehearsals in whole, or in parts. Afriend of the Club-president's sister-in-law-a woman whose husband wasstage manager of a Boston theatre--had consented to come and "coach"the performers. At her appearance the performers--promptly thrown intonervous spasms by this fearsome nearness to the "real thing"--forgothalf their cues, and conducted themselves generally like frightenedschool children on "piece day," much to their own and every one else'sdespair. Then, on the evening of the nineteenth, came the final dressrehearsal on the stage of the pretty little hall that had been engagedfor the performance of the operetta.
The dress rehearsal, like most of its kind, was, for every one, nothingbut a nightmare of discord, discouragement, and disaster. Everybody'snerves were on edge, everybody was sure the thing would be a "flatfailure." The soprano sang off the key, the alto forgot to shriek"Beware, beware!" until it was so late there was nothing to beware of;the basso stepped on Billy's trailing frock and tore it; even the tenor,Arkwright himself, seemed to have lost every bit of vim from his acting.The chorus sang "Oh, be joyful!" with dirge-like solemnity, and dancedas if legs and feet were made of wood. The lovers, after the fashion ofamateur actors from time immemorial, "made love like sticks."
Billy, when the dismal thing had dragged its way through the finalnote, sat "down front," crying softly in the semi-darkness while shewas waiting for Alice Greggory to "run it through just once more" with apair of tired-faced, fluffy-skirted fairies who could _not_ learn that aduet meant a _duet_--not two solos, independently hurried or retarded asone's fancy for the moment dictated.
To Billy, just then, life did not look to be even half worth the living.Her head ached, her throat was going-to-be-sore, her shoe hurt, and herdress--the trailing frock that had been under the basso's foot--couldnot possibly be decently repaired before to-morrow night, she was sure.
Bad as these things were, however, they were only the intimate,immediate woes. Beyond and around them lay others many others. To besure, Bertram and happiness were supposed to be somewhere in the dimand uncertain future; but between her and them lay all these other woes,chief of which was the unutterable tragedy of to-morrow night.
It was to be a failure, of course. Billy had calmly made up her mind tothat, now. But then, she was used to failures, she told herself. Was shenot plainly failing every day of her life to bring about even friendshipbetween Alice Greggory and Arkwright? Did they not emphatically andsystematically refuse to be "thrown together," either naturally, orunnaturally? And yet--whenever again could she expect such opportunitiesto further her Cause as had been hers the past few weeks, through theoperetta and its rehearsals? Certainly, never again! It had been afailure like all the rest; like the operetta, in particular.
Billy did not mean that any one should know she was crying. She supposedthat all the performers except herself and the two earth-bound fairiesby the piano with Alice Greggory were gone. She knew that John withPeggy was probably waiting at the door outside, and she hoped that soonthe fairies would decide to go home and go to bed, and let other peopledo the same. For her part, she did not see why they were struggling sohard, anyway. Why needn't they go ahead and sing their duet like twosolos if they wanted to? As if a little thing like that could make afeather's weight of difference in the grand total of to-morrow night'swretchedness when the final curtain should have been rung down on theirshame!
"Miss Neilson, you aren't--crying!" exclaimed a low voice; and Billyturned to find Arkwright standing by her side in the dim light.
"Oh, no--yes--well, maybe I was, a little," stammered Billy, trying tospeak very unconcernedly. "How warm it is in here! Do you think it'sgoing to rain?--that is, outdoors, of course, I mean."
Arkwright dropped into the seat behind Billy and leaned forward, hiseyes striving to read the girl's half-averted face. If Billy had turned,she would have seen that Arkwright's own face showed white and a littledrawn-looking in the feeble rays from the light by the piano. ButBilly did not turn. She kept her eyes steadily averted; and she went onspeaking--airy, inconsequential words.
"Dear me, if those girls _would_ only pull together! But then, what'sthe difference? I supposed you had gone home long ago, Mr. Arkwright."
"Miss Neilson, you _are_ crying!" Arkwright's voice was low andvibrant. "As if anything or anybody in the world _could_ make _you_ cry!Please--you have only to command me, and I will sally forth at once toslay the offender." His words were light, but his voice still shook withemotion.
Billy gave an hysterical little giggle. Angrily she brushed thepersistent tears from her eyes.
"All right, then; I'll dub you my Sir Knight," she faltered. "But I'llwarn you--you'll have your hands full. You'll have to slay my headache,and my throat-ache, and my shoe that hurts, and the man who stepped onmy dress, and--and everybody in the operetta, including myself."
"Everybody--in the operetta!" Arkwright did look a little startled, atthis wholesale slaughter.
"Yes. Did you ever see such an awful, awful thing as that was to-night?"moaned the girl.
Arkwright's face relaxed.
"Oh, so _that's_ what it is!" he laughed lightly. "Then it's only a bogyof fear that I've got to slay, after all; and I'll despatch that rightnow with a single blow. Dress rehearsals always go like that to-night.I've been in a dozen, and I never yet saw one go half decent. Don't youworry. The worse the rehearsal, the better the performance, every time!"
Billy blinked off the tears and essayed a smile as she retorted:
"Well, if that's so, then ours to-morrow night ought to be a--a--"
"A corker," helped out Arkwright, promptly; "and it will be, too. Youpoor child, you're worn out; and no wonder! But don't worry anotherbit about the operetta. Now is there anything else I can do for you?Anything else I can slay?"
Billy laughed tremulously.
"N-no, thank you; not that you can--slay, I fancy," she sighed."That is--not that you _will_," she amended wistfully, with a suddenremembrance of the Cause, for which he might do so much--if he onlywould.
Arkwright bent a little nearer. His breath stirred the loose, curlinghair behind Billy's ear. His eyes had flashed into sudden fire.
"But you don't know what I'd do if I could," he murmured unsteadily. "Ifyou'd let me tell you--if you only knew the wish that has lain closestto my heart for--"
"Miss Neilson, please," called the despairing voice of one of theearth-bound fairies; "Miss Neilson, you _are_ there, aren't you?"
"Yes, I'm right here," answered Billy, wearily. Arkwright answered, too,but not aloud--which was wise.
"Oh dear! you're tired, I know," wailed the fairy, "but if you wouldplease come and help us just a minute! Could you?"
"Why, yes, of course." Billy rose to her feet, still wearily.
Arkwright touched her arm. She turned and saw his face. It was verywhite--so white that her eyes widened in surprised questioning.
As if answering the unspoken words, the man shook his head.
"I can't, now, of course," he said. "But there _is_ something I want tosay--a story I want to tell you--after to-morrow, perhaps. May I?"
To Billy, the tremor of his voice, the suffering in his eyes, and the"story" he was begging to tell could have but one interpretation: AliceGreggory. Her face, therefore, was a glory of tender sympathy as shereached out her hand in farewell.
"Of course you may," she cried. "Come any time after to-morrow night,please," she smiled encouragingly, as she turned toward the stage.
Behind her, Arkwright stumbled twice as he walked up the incline towardthe outer door--stumbled, not because of the semi-darkness of the littletheatre, but because of the blinding radiance of a girl's illumined facewhich he had, a moment before, read all unknowingly exactly wrong.
A little more than twe
nty-four hours later, Billy Neilson, in her ownroom, drew a long breath of relief. It was twelve o'clock on the nightof the twentieth, and the operetta was over.
To Billy, life was eminently worth living to-night. Her head did notache, her throat was not sore, her shoe did not hurt, her dress hadbeen mended so successfully by Aunt Hannah, and with such comfortingcelerity, that long before night one would never have suspected thefilmy thing had known the devastating tread of any man's foot. Betteryet, the soprano had sung exactly to key, the alto had shrieked"Beware!" to thrilling purpose, Arkwright had shown all his old charmand vim, and the chorus had been prodigies of joyousness and marvelsof lightness. Even the lovers had lost their stiffness, while the twoearth-bound fairies of the night before had found so amiable a meetingpoint that their solos sounded, to the uninitiated, very like, indeed,a duet. The operetta was, in short, a glorious and gratifying success,both artistically and financially. Nor was this all that, to Billy, madelife worth the living: Arkwright had begged permission that evening tocome up the following afternoon to tell her his "story"; and Billy, whowas so joyously confident that this story meant the final crowning ofher Cause with victory, had given happy consent.
Bertram was to come up in the evening, and Billy was anticipating that,too, particularly: it had been so long since they had known a reallyfree, comfortable evening together, with nothing to interrupt.Doubtless, too, after Arkwright's visit of the afternoon, she would bein a position to tell Bertram the story of the suspended romance betweenArkwright and Miss Greggory, and perhaps something, also, of her ownefforts to bring the couple together again. On the whole, life did,indeed, look decidedly worth the living as Billy, with a contented sigh,turned over to go to sleep.