verdict given was that a woman who had been "to burial borne" and
left for dead, who had been
driven from her husband's door and
from her
childhood home, "must be adjudged as dead in law and
fact," was no more daughter or wife, but was set free to form what
new ties she would. The
climax of the whole
selection came in the
line,
"The court pronounces the defendant--DEAD!" and the Story Girl was
wont to render it with such
dramaticintensity and power that the
veriest dullard among her listeners could not have missed its
force and significance.
She swept along through the poem royally, playing on the emotions
of her
audience as she had so often played on ours in the old
orchard. Pity,
terror,
indignation,
suspense, possessed her
hearers in turn. In the court scene she surpassed herself. She
was, in very truth, the Florentine judge, stern, stately,
impassive. Her voice dropped into the
solemnity of the all-
important line,
"'The court pronounces the defendant--'"
She paused for a
breathless moment, the better to bring out the
tragic
import of the last word.
"DEAD," piped up Sara Ray in her
shrill,
plaintive little voice.
The effect, to use a hackneyed but
convenientphrase, can better
be imagined than described. Instead of the sigh of relieved
tension that should have swept over the
audience at the conclusion
of the line, a burst of
laughter greeted it. The Story Girl's
performance was completely spoiled. She dealt the luckless Sara a
glance that would have slain her on the spot could glances kill,
stumbled lamely and impotently through the few remaining lines of
her recitation, and fled with
crimson cheeks to hide her
mortification in the little corner that had been curtained off for
a dressing-room. Mr. Perkins looked things not
lawful to be
uttered, and the
audience tittered at intervals for the rest of
the performance.
Sara Ray alone remained serenely satisfied until the close of the
concert, when we surrounded her with a
whirlwind of reproaches.
"Why," she stammered
aghast, "what did I do? I--I thought she was
stuck and that I ought to
prompt her quick."
"You little fool, she just paused for effect," cried Felicity
angrily. Felicity might be rather
jealous of the Story Girl's
gift, but she was
furious at beholding "one of our family" made
ridiculous in such a fashion. "You have less sense than anyone I
ever heard of, Sara Ray."
Poor Sara dissolved in tears.
"I didn't know. I thought she was stuck," she wailed again.
She cried all the way home, but we did not try to comfort her. We
felt quite out of
patience with her. Even Cecily was seriously
annoyed. This second
blunder of Sara's was too much even for her
loyalty. We saw her turn in at her own gate and go sobbing up her
lane with no relenting.
The Story Girl was home before us, having fled from the
schoolhouse as soon as the programme was over. We tried to
sympathize with her but she would not be sympathized with.
"Please don't ever mention it to me again," she said, with
compressed lips. "I never want to be reminded of it. Oh, that
little IDIOT!"
"She spoiled Peter's
sermon last summer and now she's spoiled your
recitation," said Felicity. "I think it's time we gave up
associating with Sara Ray."
"Oh, don't be quite so hard on her," pleaded Cecily. "Think of
the life the poor child has to live at home. I know she'll cry
all night."
"Oh, let's go to bed," growled Dan. "I'm good and ready for it.
I've had enough of school concerts."
CHAPTER XIX
BY WAY OF THE STARS
But for two of us the adventures of the night were not yet over.
Silence settled down over the old house--the eerie, whisperful,
creeping silence of night. Felix and Dan were already sound
asleep; I was drifting near the coast o' dreams when I was aroused
by a light tap on the door.
"Bev, are you asleep?" came in the Story Girl's whisper.
"No, what is it?"
"S-s-h. Get up and dress and come out. I want you."