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Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School

<h3>GRACE KEEPS HER SECRET</h3> The "best" Oakdale people did not often see the melodramas that appeared from time to time at the small opera house. Occasionally, if something really good came along, Oakdale society turned out in force and filled the boxes and the orchestra seats; but, generally speaking, the little theater was only half filled. And such was the case on this Thanksgiving night. Most of the audience was made up of farmers out holiday-making with their families, factory girls from the silk mills and a few storekeepers and clerks. "I am glad there are so few people here," observed Grace, looking around the scanty audience; "because, if we have to resort to my scheme, it will make it much easier and less dangerous." "What in the world is it?" pleaded Jessica. "Never mind," answered her friend. "I'm afraid you'll object, so I won't tell until the last minute." Just then a wheezy orchestra struck up a march and the High School party settled down in their seats, each with a secret feeling that it was rather good fun, in spite of the peculiar reason that had taken them there. "Here he is," said Nora, pointing to the name on the programme. "He takes the part of Amos Lord, owner of the woolen mills." At that moment the lights went down and the music stopped short. The curtain rolled up slowly disclosing the front of a church. It was night and lights gleamed through the stained glass windows. Snow was falling and from the church came the sound of organ music playing the wedding march. The picture was really very impressive, although the music was somewhat throaty and the flakes of snow were larger than life-size. But who was it half lying, half sitting on the church steps, shivering with cold? The girls had not been so often to the theater that they could afford to be disdainful over almost any passable play, and from the very moment the curtain went up their interest was aroused. Certainly, there was something extremely romantic and interesting about the lonely little figure on the church steps. "That's the heroine," whispered Jessica. "Her name is Evelyn Chase." Then people began to go into the church. It was a wedding evidently, although the groom was a tall, lean, middle-aged individual with gray hair. "It's Mr. Pierson himself," exclaimed Nora in a loud whisper. The bride-to-be was young and quite pretty. She was not dressed in white, but it was plain she was the bride because she carried a bouquet and hung on the arm of Anne's incorrigible parent. As they started up the steps, what should they stumble over but the half-frozen form of the young girl! Then, there was a great deal of acting, not badly done at all, thought David, who had had more experience in these matters than his friends. The bride refused to go on with the ceremony until the poor little thing was taken care of. The groom would brook no delay, for, oh, perfidy, he had recognized in the still figure his own child by a former wife deserted years before. Slowly the forsaken girl regained consciousness, lifted her head from the steps, threw back her shawl, and—— "Heavens and earth, it's Anne herself!" exclaimed Grace. It was Anne. They were so startled and amazed they nearly tumbled off their seats. "As I live, it is Anne, and acting beautifully!" whispered David. "Where did she learn how?" demanded Jessica. "Strange she never told it." But they were too interested to reply, for the action of the play was excellent and the interest held until the curtain rang down on the first act. "No wonder he wants to keep her with him," ejaculated David when the lights went up. "She is the star performer in the show." "She is wonderful," declared Grace. "To think that little, brown, quiet thing could be so talented! I always imagined acting was the hardest thing in the world to do, but it seems as though she had always been on the stage." "Are we still going to try to save her?" asked Nora. "Of course," replied David. "She doesn't want to act. Didn't you hear her say so that night? She wants to go to school." "But it seems a pity, somehow, when she is so talented." "She's just as talented in her studies," said Grace, "and I've often heard that stage life is very hard. No, no! I intend to do my best to get Anne away this very night, if it upsets the entire town of Oakdale." When the second act was over, and Anne had actually so moved her audience that one old farmer was audibly sobbing into a red cotton handkerchief, and the girls themselves were secretly wiping their eyes, Grace whispered to David: "I'm going to write a note, if you'll lend me a pencil and a slip of paper, and wrap it around the stem of this chrysanthemum. When Anne appears in the next act, you go up in the box, and if she's alone an instant pitch it to her. Then she will know what she's to do." "But what is she to do?" demanded the others. "I won't tell," persisted Grace. "You'll object, if I do." "All right," said David. "I'll obey you Mistress Grace, although I wish you would confide in me." But Grace was obdurate. She would tell no one. The last act disclosed an attic at the top of an old tenement, with dormer windows looking out on a wintry scene. Anne appeared, more ragged than ever, carrying a little basket of matches. It was evident that she was a match girl by trade, and that this was her wretched domicile. As she crept down the center of the stage, ill and wretched, for she was supposed to be about to die—David saw his opportunity. From behind the curtain of the box he tossed the chrysanthemum, which fell right at her feet. "If she only sees it," he thought. But apparently she didn't. Going wearily to an old cupboard, she took out a crust of bread. Then she drew the ragged curtains at the windows and lit a candle. Simultaneously the entire attic was illuminated, for stage candles have remarkable powers of diffusing light. "Why doesn't she pick up the flower?" exclaimed Grace. "If she doesn't the scheme won't work at all." "I believe she's going to die," whispered Nora in a broken voice. Just then the Irish comedian appeared, puffing and blowing from the long climb he had had to the top of the house. He had come to bring help to the dying girl, but he was funny in spite of the dreary tragedy, and Nora changed her tears to laughter and began to giggle violently, burying her face in her handkerchief in her effort to control her mirth. Her laughter was always contagious, and presently her two friends were giggling in chorus. "Do hush, Nora O'Malley!" whispered Jessica nervously. "You know that if you once get us started we'll never stop." A countryman, sitting back of Nora, touched her on the shoulder. "Be you laughing or crying, miss?" he asked. "It ain't a time for laughing nor yet for crying, since the young lady ain't dead yet and I don't believe she's goin' to die, either." "She just is," exclaimed Nora, wiping the tears from her eyes. "She'll die before she gets off that bed to-night, I'll wager anything." All this while, the chrysanthemum with the note twisted and pinned to its stem lay in the middle of the stage. In the meantime, Anne had fallen into a stupor from cold and hunger. The kind little comedian rushed about the stage, making a fire, putting on the tea kettle and stumbling over his own feet in an effort to be useful. "Now, all the others will enter in a minute," whispered Grace disgustedly, "and she'll never get it at all." Just then Anne turned on her pillow and opened her eyes. They looked straight at David, who was sitting in the front of the box. He pointed deliberately at the chrysanthemum. "She sees it," said Jessica, for Anne's eyes were now fixed on the flower. When the kind Irishman departed to spend his last cent on medicine and food for the dying girl, she rose, staggered across the stage, seized the chrysanthemum and rushed back again, just in time to be lying prone when her father entered, now a repentant and sorrowful sinner. "It's all right," whispered Grace in a relieved tone. "I feel sure that the plan will work to perfection." Anne did die a stage death, and there was not a dry eye in the house when she forgave her father, bade farewell to the entire company, who had now gathered in the attic, and her soul passed out to soft music while the lights were turned very low. "Fire! Fire!" rang out a voice from the darkened house. Where did the voice come from? Nora and Jessica were so startled they could only clutch each other and wonder, while Grace whispered: "Don't move from your seats." "Grace, was that your voice?" whispered David, who had joined the girls during the death-bed scene. But Grace made no reply. She only put her finger to her lips as she held his arm with a detaining hand. There was a panic in the house. The audience rushed for the doors while the actors leaped over the footlights in their mad scramble to escape. Several women's voices took up the cry of fire and the place was in wild confusion. Evidently the man who managed the lights had been too frightened to turn them on again, for the theater still remained in semi-darkness. The four young people did not move while the audience was crowding out of the aisles. "We might as well be suffocated as crushed," observed David. "It's a much more comfortable death, and besides I can't smell any smoke." Grace smiled but was silent. "I'm here at last," announced Anne's well-known voice behind them. And there she was, still in her ragged stage dress, carrying her hat and coat on her arm. "Why, Anne Pierson!" cried Nora, "I thought you were dead and gone." Anne laughed. "Not dead," she said. "But I would certainly have been gone in another half hour. We needn't hurry," she continued. "I don't believe he would ever think of looking for me inside the theater, and, for the time being, this is the safest place." "Anne, why did you never tell us you were an actress!" demanded David. "I was afraid to," faltered the girl. "I was afraid you would all hate me if you knew the truth. Besides, I never acted but six months in all my life. We toured in this play a year ago, and I knew the part perfectly. It would have been cruel of me not to have played to-night. The girl who usually does it was sick and there was no one to take her part. When father told me that, I knew I should have to do it this once, but if the fire panic hadn't started I couldn't have gotten away from him very easily. He would have made a terrible scene. And even then, it might have been difficult. No stranger would have helped me run away from my own father, who is determined that I shall go on the stage. He thinks I have the making of an actress. But I don't like the stage life. It is hard and ugly. I want to study, and be with girls like you." A charming smile radiated her small, intelligent face. "Where do I come in?" asked David, looking at her. "I think you are the best friend I have in the world, David," declared Anne. "I can never forget your kindness." "And now, Mademoiselle Annette Piersonelli," asked David, secretly much pleased at the girl's earnestness, "can't you divest yourself of your ragged dress before we go?" "Yes, indeed," she replied. "I am fully clothed underneath." She slipped off the stage dress and put on her hat and coat. Meanwhile, not a soul was left in the theater except two of the ushers, who were sniffing around trying to find out where the fire scare had originated. "There comes father," whispered Anne. "Can't we hide behind the seats?" "Quick," cautioned David. "He's coming down the center aisle." The five young people crouched low while the actor stalked down the aisle. But it was plain he was not looking for his daughter in the theater, for he called out to one of the ushers moving about at a distance: "Have you seen anything of the young girl who was with the company? I lost her during the panic and I haven't been able to locate her since. I must be leaving town in a few minutes," he added, consulting his watch. "It's almost time for the train now." "The company all left with the audience," said the usher. "I guess she went along with 'em." "Now is our time," said Anne, when the actor had disappeared. "Suppose we go out the stage entrance and down that side street!" Whereupon she led the way back of the boxes and into the wings, followed by her friends, who looked curiously about them at the unusual sight. "What a queer place," said Grace, "and how smudgy the scenery looks! Are these little places dressing rooms, Anne?" "Yes," answered Anne. "You see, it's all horrid when you are close. And the life is worse—riding almost every day on smoky trains and spending each night in a different place. The people are so different, too. I would rather go to Oakdale High School," she exclaimed, "than be the greatest actress in the world." They were standing in one of the larger dressing rooms while Anne endeavored to wipe the powder and rouge from her face with a pocket handkerchief. A tall figure darkened the doorway, and in the glass Anne saw the reflection of her father's face. Without a word, she ran to the open window and jumped out on the fire escape. The others followed nimbly after her. Mr. Pierson turned and rushed down the passage to the side entrance. "Hurry, Anne!" called David. "He will meet you at the bottom if you don't." They climbed quickly down the ladder, almost treading on each other's fingers in their haste, and in another moment they were running down an alleyway. "Another narrow escape," cried Anne, when they were out of danger. "How shall I ever thank you, dear friends?" "You have already discharged the debt, Anne, by letting us see you act," answered Grace. "By the way, Grace," commanded David, "own up now. It was you, wasn't it, who started the fire panic?" "I told you I wouldn't tell," answered Grace, "and I never shall." "Anne, did she say anything about it in her note?" asked Nora. "No," said Anne mysteriously, "she never mentioned the word 'fire' at all." "I feel certain it was you who called 'fire,' Grace," said Jessica. "I'll never, never tell," cried Grace teasingly; "so you'll never, never know." She turned in at her own gate and to this day the mystery is still unsolved. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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