CHAPTER NINE

ITS TRIUMPH

When her young guests had gone, and the little grey house was quiet for the night, Mrs. Grey stood before the charred embers on the hearth, thoughtfully regarding the blackened scales, with their under edges still glowing, which lay all along the sides of the bits of logs remaining.

Kiku-san stirred, stretched his paws, lifted his head and remarked: "M-m-m-mmm?" in a cooing voice, at once welcoming and inquiring. Mrs. Grey looked up to see Wythie in her violet kimono. She held out her arms without speaking, for she knew what Oswyth had come to say.

Wythie sprang into the loving arms and nestled her head on her mother's shoulder.

"Basil wants--" she began.

"You, when the time comes, darling," whispered Mrs. Grey. "I suppose we have known that for a long time."

"Yes, but he said so," Wythie whispered back.

"And that alters it? Yes, a little. But I want it to be just as little as possible, my Wythie," returned her mother. "We won't talk about it to any one outside the little grey house, and you and Basil will be just the same friendly, simple comrades you have always been. You are so young, dear, and Basil is still in college. But we understand, as we have understood all along, that by and by your friendship is to broaden and deepen into much more."

"It can't, Mardy," said Wythie.

"Ah, Oswyth, everything broadens and deepens with time. Youth feels tempestuously, but years bring profounder depths. You are too much a child to know the truth of what I say to you. Be a young girl still, my Wythie, and be happy. Basil is all we could wish him to be," said Mrs. Grey, speaking out of the knowledge of her years of sacrificial love and her widowhood.

"Then you are willing, you don't mind, Mardy?" murmured Wythie.

"I am very glad, dearest, and I believe my gentle girl is going to be a happy woman. I mind nothing now but that she should miss sleep and take cold. Go to bed, little daughter, and go to sleep. Waking or sleeping my very breathing prays for you and Robin and little Prudy."

Mrs. Grey kissed Wythie hastily and half pushed her from her. Wythie clung to her as she returned the kiss, but went instantly away with her tear-wet face smiling. It was the mother, left standing beside the hearth, whose tears fell without the smiles. At last she stirred, sighed, stooped to pick up the fallen hearth brush, and stroked Kiku-san with the other hand.

"Of course I am glad, glad and thankful," she said, with only the white cat to hear. "But joy seems brief when one is a widow at forty-three, and mothers are selfish creatures." And this most unselfish mother brushed the ashes over the dying embers of the fire, looked at each window fastening, slowly put out her reading-lamp, and crept up-stairs like one that craved for rest.

Twelfth Night was not long in coming; it was to bring such a great event that it even successfully hurried the holidays out of the way.

Rob, watching Wythie jealously, saw no change in her except a greater sweetness and gentleness, and a deeper look of contentment in her brooding eyes.

"You see I am not very old, Rob, and Mardy says that I'm not to be formally engaged; only to go happily on till the time comes to go happier further," explained Wythie.

"H'm!" ejaculated Rob, inconsistently exasperated by the fulfilment of her own wishes. "I don't know about the formality--we're not particularly formal as a family--but you're as much engaged as you can be, and I long to put you back into short dresses and braid your hair down your back."

"And whip me soundly and put me to bed, like the old woman that lived in the shoe?" laughed Wythie. "Your voice sounds threatening. You silly Robin! You're much taller than I am. I doubt my having a monopoly of growing up, or----"

Wythie stopped suggestively, and Rob said hastily:

"Here comes Aunt Azraella, critically examining the boundaries of the path I dug around the clothes whirligig, out through the back yard towards her place. Her Aaron and I met at the fence. Poor Aunt Azraella; she looks older! She has her little black bag; I believe she is coming to render her account of the tickets that she has sold for to-morrow night."

"I went over to Mrs. Silsby's on my way home from market this morning," Mrs. Winslow said without preliminary on entering. "She is having her great parlours decorated beautifully, and her arrangement of the spectators' seats is perfect. I think it is safe to say that this will be the finest affair ever held in this place. I have seventy-four dollars here for thirty-seven tickets, and several people sent to me for tickets while I was out. Elvira could not find them; I had them all with me."

Prue could not repress a tiny giggle at this excellent reason for Elvira's failure. But Wythie covered it by saying: "I can deliver them when I go out. Everybody is coming up on the same train this afternoon, Battalion B and the Baldwins; I am going to meet them after I have done a few errands. We have a dress rehearsal to-night up at Mrs. Silsby's. I can take the tickets to the people who sent for them, Aunt Azraella."

"Very well. I will send Aaron around with the carriage; you'll be too tired if you walk everywhere, and rehearse dancing to-night. I'll send the victoria, and you can bring the Baldwins and two of the Rutherfords home with you," said Aunt Azraella with her new consideration of the Grey's comfort.

"Thank you, Aunt," said Wythie. "Hester writes that there will be more than a car full of people from New York to-morrow--Oh, I do so hope the good weather will hold out!"

"My almanac says that we shall have fair weather for six days; this is the third day," said Aunt Azraella confidently; she pinned her faith to a certain venerable publication, withstanding frequent failures on the part of her prophet. "The good weather began with the change of the moon, which occurred at the right hour--shortly after midnight; this weather will hold."

"If your almanac won't play us false this time I will ask no more of it," said Rob.

"It never fails," said Aunt Azraella with generous oblivion to facts. "If it makes what seem like mistakes sometimes it is owing to local currents, which cannot be foretold. Is your mother up-stairs? I want to see her and Charlotte."

"They are together, in Cousin Charlotte's room. You look serious, Aunt Azraella," said Rob.

"I feel serious, and I want to consult them about something serious," returned her aunt. "After this excitement is over you will know what it is about; I shall be guided by their advice."

"The best advice we ever got was from those two ladies, Aunt Azraella," said Rob. "I am sure you will not look serious after you get it."

"You don't know what you are talking about," returned Mrs. Winslow moving majestically away.

Aunt Azraella's victoria brought up Hester, her cousin and Basil; Bruce and Bartlemy arrived on foot, and all the performers, except little Polly Flinders, went up to the Silsbys for their final dress rehearsal that night. They came back to the little grey house so excited by its result that there was no checking the flood of chatter till past one o'clock.

"This was Eleventh Night," as Prue suggested, and Twelfth Night, _the_ night, followed as quickly as it could, coming into weather that fully justified Aunt Azraella's almanac-maker. Crisp, cold, clear, January sunshine--there could not be better weather for a revel.

The day sped in a whirl of excitement, a delightful day to all but Lydia's orderly soul. She could hardly be expected to approve it, since it included no meal at a normal time, and this disturbance was, besides, the prelude to a dance, which Lydia regarded with horror.

After a supper at half past five which none of the gavotteers, as Rob called them, wanted in the least, Aunt Azraella's carriage came to take them up to Mrs. Silsby's.

Frances flew out to meet them, and the flushed faces of the other three girl performers beamed on them as they descended.

Mrs. Grey superintended the dressing-room with four maids to assist her. It was a trying office, with eight girls chattering like magpies, and eighty things to be done at once, admitting of no delay. The concert that was to precede the gavotte was to be costumed fantastically, and when the girls were ready one could hardly have said whether the picture they presented, huddled, laughing together, was prettier or funnier.

Wythie was a dear little Puritan maiden, in her grey dress and folded kerchief; Rob a brilliant fantasy in her ante-bellum gown with its hoops and sloping shoulders, and her lovely, rebellious hair ringletted from a tremendous back comb. Prue would not consent to being fantastic, so she looked beautiful in a pale green muslin of the empire style, with her golden hair filetted with gold and a great feather fan waving from her long-gloved hand. But the cream of them all was solemn little Polly.

The child was not pretty, but something gathered through her few sad years in the lonely home whence all the other children had departed, her frail health and active imagination, had written itself on her sensitive, pale little face. Now her dilated eyes shone like stars; grey eyes they were, under black lashes, the sort that have a trick of looking black, but whose colour is hard to determine.

They had dressed her in a long gown, belonging to some Puritan child in the days when costumes not merely denied, but annihilated childhood. Polly's gown had a stiff long stomacher, its front was cut square, like a court lady's, and the heavy silk stood out around her figure, disdaining a hint of a droop. A round cap surmounted the pale brown hair which had been brushed smoothly back from the blue-veined brow, and yellow lace fell around the childish throat and tiny thin hands. There was something in the child herself, poor as her home had been, that exactly suited her quaint fineness of habiliment, and she stood, a quick breathing little poem, a picture of perfect harmony and of a quality that made every artist-eye that rested upon her flash with the perception of its values.

When the door of the dressing-room opened and its occupants came forth it was to encounter in the hall a long line of queer and pretty figures of other Fayre girls who were to compose the chorus, and big lads in the collars and coats of their ancestors, delightful foils to the girls' brilliant colours. First and last Fayre, an old colonial town, possessed a goodly store of relics of the past, and there was no lack of material for costuming the concert.

While they were dressing the singers had been hearing carriage after carriage roll up the Silsby driveway, and depart, and when they peeped through a life-saving hole in the curtain, but for which they would have perished of curiosity, they saw the ample accommodations which Mrs. Silsby had provided for an audience already filled, and people beginning to station themselves standing at the sides of the long rooms, in the best positions now obtainable.

A small orchestra of harps and violins, 'cellos and bass viols, had been Mrs. Silsby's welcome contribution to the affair, and the concert began with an overture by it while the curtain slowly parted and rolled away, disclosing the thirty-five singers seated on the stage, the double quartette which, later was to dance the gavotte, in the front row, and little Polly, the soloist of the occasion, seated alone before them all. She did not seem at all frightened; the hand that Rob contrived to slip between the rounds of her chair for a little pressure on her shoulder, was not necessary.

Polly sat quite still, very pale, but not frightened, with an uplifted look on the pathetic little face, with the big eyes staring upward, unseeing of the considerable audience. Miss Charlotte and Rob had told Polly that she was to sing for suffering children, without homes, friends, or childhood, and Polly's whole soul was bent on singing for them so well that all these blessings should be theirs at the close of the concert.

Choruses, quartettes, trios, double quartettes, followed each other on the programme, old-time songs and classics, bright, lively, sad, and patriotic. The audience applauded wildly, which was to be expected at an amateur entertainment. In this case the applause took on enthusiastic fervour from the real enjoyment which the music was giving; it was good in itself, and not "considering." It was a delightful surprise to hear the quality, the precision, the expression of these choruses and quartettes, for, when it comes to amateur music, given for charities, few of us can echo the sentiments of the gentleman in Punch, who replied to his hostess' inquiry as to whether he was fond of music: "Madam, I am not afraid of it."

At last came Polly's turn, and she arose at a signal from Rob and walked quietly down to the front of the stage. No one applauded for fear of frightening the child, but the effect the little figure produced could be felt in the sudden stillness, together with a tension of interest.

A single violin played "Annie Laurie" and Polly began to sing. Not a tremble in the clear voice, not a false note in the sweet tones, as they soared up, thrilled with feeling and died away in pathos that the singer was far too young to feel. For an instant the room was still and then the applause rang out. Polly stood very quiet, looking up at the ceiling, forgetful of the bow in which she had been carefully drilled. It did not matter. The violin began again, and the child sang on and on, as the audience clamoured for more at the end of each song. She did not seem to tire, but a red spot glowed in each cheek, and the tiny figure trembled.

"Sit down, Polly," said Rob at last, fearing the effect on Polly of such repressed excitement.

Polly obediently turned and seated herself amid the plaudits of her audience. Then she remembered her duty, arose, went forward, took her stiff skirt in her hands on each side, and dropped the ceremonious courtesy of the period which she represented. The applause broke out anew, but Polly was to sing no more. A rousing chorus covered the clapping, and the audience settled down to listen to the remainder of the programme.

A young artist from the city who had been trolled to Fayre by Mr. Baldwin, generously offered to amuse the audience while the gavotte was being costumed, and gave a Chinese three part play, in which he was the maiden, her lover, and the stern parent by turns, with a Chinese song chanted wonderfully as a last touch. It was really very funny, and Mrs. Silsby gratefully heard the audience laughing as she hastily surveyed the supper room which was to be her surprise to the performers, after the gavotte.

In the meantime, Mrs. Grey and the maids were getting eight excited girls into their beautiful gowns for the dance. It really did not take long but it was a time into which so much disturbance of mind, so many thrills were compressed that it seemed a little eternity.

When they were ready the eight filed forth, and met their eight cavaliers in the hall.

Wythie in her white silk, brocaded with violets, and with the romance of Oswyth Grey in her heart, under the gown that she had once worn, joined Basil in his purple velvet court costume, and led the way down the stairs.

Eleanor Dinsmore in the blush pink, brocaded with rosebuds, came next. Her partner was a youth in black velvet.

Then came Frances in her pale blue; with her was to dance Lester Baldwin, in dark blue velvet.

Hester in glorious crimson, with silver headdress, petticoat and trimmings, joined her partner in white satin, with gold lace.

Edith Hooper in overshot white and silver danced with Jack Dinsmore in red velvet.

Helen Lacey, a clear, dark brunette, wore a bronze brocade that revealed its blue lining with every motion; her partner in golden brown velvet made them into an autumn harmony.

Rob's brocade was dark green, overstrewn with a pale green conventional design. A silver petticoat revealed her silver slippers with the big paste buckles, and splendid silver lace fell over her pointed bodice and bare arms. Bruce, her partner, wore black velvet with green satin waistcoat, and flashing knee-buckles on the green ribbons that bound his knees.

Prue came last, regal in her golden raiment, so beautiful that Mrs. Grey's heart leaped and then contracted with fear as she fell back to look at her, for beauty is a difficult crown to carry steadily, thought this simple, loving woman.

Bartlemy wore hunting green--it did not matter what he wore, he said, while he danced beside the golden girl.

The curtain went up on the empty stage, and the orchestra played the air of the gavotte. The dancers entered, hands joined and held high, and marched in minuet step around and up and down the stage, crossing and recrossing, bowing, forming brief figures, instantly dissolved into the march. Then they took their places for the gavotte, and in the pause between the end of the march and its beginning the audience went quite wild with delight over the really beautiful picture.

The orchestra sounded a few bars, and suddenly the sixteen dancers began to sing to the old French gavotte the words which Rob had written, beginning the dance at the same time. In breathless silence the audience watched and listened. The colours blended and contrasted, the girls flushed and dimpled, carrying their heads regally under their powdered hair, while the young men, not less gorgeous in their degree, led them forth with courtly bendings of their powdered heads, managing their swords and the laced hats which they carried with creditable grace and dignity.

There could not have been a more beautiful picture. Faint, irrepressible applause broke out at intervals, quickly silenced that the audience might not lose one note, one lovely, gracious motion. But when it was ended the room was stormed with plaudits, unescapable demands for a repetition, which the dancers were not in the least reluctant to accord, when they were satisfied that the demand was sincere.

There were many in the audience who were strangers to all the performers; several from New York whom only Hester knew slightly, but the majority were friends or familiar acquaintances of the dancers, and after the curtain had gone down they came forth in all their ancient splendour to mingle with the audience and to be congratulated.

Rob went to Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin as straight as circumstances allowed her to go.

Mr. Baldwin took her hands with the fatherly affection that he always showed her, almost equal to that which he gave to his own girl.

"It was fine, Rob; really fine, a gavotte in colouring and execution worthy the old days of Daly's Theatre, and the dances he used to give us in 'Much Ado' and 'Twelfth Night.' You look like a dryad in your green, my Robin. And how really magnificent Prue is going to be! Hers is wonderful beauty for a girl of sixteen. I have a ward of mine here who says he never dreamed of such a girl. He wants to speak to Prue. Shall I take him over there?"

"He is a nice boy, Mr. Baldwin?" asked Rob.

"What a dragon of an elder sister--and only two years the elder!" laughed Mr. Baldwin. "Trust me, Rob, not to introduce any but nice boys to my Grey girls! This is not precisely a boy, though. He is twenty-four, and that is a great age compared to sixteen. He is still my ward, because I was to take charge of his property, by his father's will, until he was thirty. I'll go take him to Prue. Mr. Armstrong is here, and wants to see you."

"Mr. Armstrong who bought Patergrey's patent?" cried Rob.

"The very same. He has never forgotten your describing it to him in his office, so frightened, yet so brave," said Mr. Baldwin. "He heard of this entertainment, and came out for your sake."

"What a lovely world this is!" laughed Rob. "I'll go find him." And she moved off in search of her elderly acquaintance, looking back to see Mr. Baldwin taking up to radiant Prue a young man whose face was turned from her, but whose "back looked well-bred" Rob thought.

Her progress towards Mr. Armstrong was impeded by congratulations, but at last Rob reached him.

"I am glad to see that you have not forgotten me," said the old gentleman, grasping the hand she extended.

"I am not likely ever to forget you," returned Rob simply.

"No, it is not likely; our acquaintance was brief, but impressive to us both," said Mr. Armstrong. "You will be glad to learn that your father's invention has proved valuable to us, Miss Grey. Are you Miss Grey?"

"Not yet," said Rob with her whimsical twist of the lips as she smiled up into the kindly face. "It is delightful to know that my dear father's work was all he believed it to be."

"Fully," assented the old gentleman. "But Miss Roberta, what about the child that sang here to-night? They tell me she is a protégé of yours. She is a prodigy. I want to know about her. I am not going back to town to-night; I have no fancy for these late, crawling trains back from suburban pleasures. I am staying over night at your Fayre hotel--why do you have a town with a name so provocative of puns? May I call on you to-morrow? Not only to tell you what real pleasure you young people gave me to-night, but to hear about this child?"

"We should all be glad, indeed, to see you, Mr. Armstrong, with no errand whatever," said Rob. "I'll tell you all there is to learn of Polly. I suppose I shouldn't stop now; there are so many people to whom I ought to speak."

"Run along, run along, lovely little green great-grandmother," said Mr. Armstrong, with an appreciative downward glance at Rob's beautiful costume.

The rooms were rapidly thinning out as she turned away from the old gentleman; Frances was beckoning her.

Rob crossed over to her. "Mother has a spread for us, the thirty-five performers, in the dining-room--she is the dearest thing! We are going to have a glorious time, so hurry up and do the pretty-behaved to those who bought your tickets, and then come to the banquet."

Rob needed no further hint. The eight heroines of the gavotte sipped the sweets of adulation for a short time, completely overshadowing their less brilliant but equally meritorious partners, till the last of their audience had departed.

"Come ghosts of departed years; come ancestral descendants; come and see if modern viands have a pleasant flavour," cried Mrs. Silsby from the doorway, and the picture-figures, seizing their proper partners' arms, burst into the song of the gavotte and to it marched to supper.