Helen in the Editor's Chair Part 20

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 fas.h.i.+oned 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 soph.o.m.ores 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 soph.o.m.ore.

"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 s.h.i.+fted 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 gla.s.s.

The audience roared with laughter.