Part 36 (2/2)
”I shall come over tomorrow morning and hide them,” John threatened.
But he smiled approvingly at her as he said it, and she knew that he liked her having done it. She knew well enough the long hours he spent with his charity patients, and all the things he did for the people in the village--things he never spoke of.
She thought with a pang that was not a selfish one of John's lot, if he did finally marry Gail. She did not think he could be happy with a girl who would never try to make him so. His mother's affection for him was irresponsible enough, but it was very real and selfless.
You couldn't imagine Gail married to John.
”It'll be too late to hide them,” she answered him brightly, coming out of her muse with an effort. ”They're all done. There wasn't much work on them, comparatively.”
_”Good morrow, good mother, Good mother, good morrow!
By some means or other, Pray banish your sorrow!”_
sang Tiddy, frisking gently up to her. ”It's our turn next, Joy.
Clarence says he thinks we ought to emigrate in a body to the Opry House, and go through this thing _right_.”
John moaned.
”Clarence is always having unnecessary thoughts of that sort. To hear him talk, you would think we had spent the last two weeks going through it wrong.”
”So we have,” said Clarence. ”Come now--all out. We are going over to rehea.r.s.e on the august boards of the opera house, and then we are going home for brief bites, and then we are going back for a dress rehearsal. Tomorrow night is the night, and may the Lord have mercy on your souls!”
At this reminder Clarence's weary company bestirred itself. The princ.i.p.als had been rehearsing, as usual, at the Hewitt house. They were to meet the chorus, it appeared, at the village opera house, and go through the whole thing there with the orchestra of tomorrow night; a kind-hearted orchestra which was willing to rehea.r.s.e twice.
”Why any of us ever began this thing, I _don't_ see,” growled John, as he deftly captured Joy, having made a neat flank movement which prevented Clarence from getting her. ”Do you know, Joy”--he was putting her cloak on for her in the hall by this time--”I've seen about half as much of you as I would if I hadn't been lured into this. The rest of this week, after tomorrow night, you are going to have to spend exclusively in spoiling me. I'm twice as deserving as a high-school girl, and three times as deserving as Clarence and Tiddy. And I've more right to you, besides.”
”If you want rights, sometimes you have to take them,” said Joy demurely.
He laughed.
”Is that a suggestion? If so, it's an excellent one. Consider yourself thoroughly taken. You are not to be discovered in corners with Clarence, nor showing Tiddy how his steps should go.”
But Joy only laughed.
There was little time for discussion after that. They rehea.r.s.ed steadily, with the frenzied feeling of unpreparedness that only amateurs can fully know, till it was more than time for the ”brief bite” of Clarence's description. Then the choruses were shepherded over to the Hewitt house and the Maddox house respectively, and fed, Clarence and Tiddy standing over them to see that no time was wasted.
Then they went back, and went through the whole opera. The audience consisted of a few carefully chosen relatives who had insisted on being there, including the Harrington children. Phyllis was letting them see the dress rehearsal instead of the real performance, because the latter was to end with a dance, and there would have been some difficulty in tearing Philip away while things were still going on. The dress rehearsal promised to be over by nine-thirty, for they had started at six, and were sweeping through without a break, happily unconscious that Clarence intended them to do it all over again with all the mistakes severely corrected, as soon as they had ended the final chorus.
”Gail, that isn't the way to do it,” Clarence called to her sharply, as she danced in with the minimum of effort, in the ”Good morrow, good mother” song that she had with Joy and Tiddy, respectively _Iolanthe_ and _Strephon_. ”Pick up your feet. You'll be down over that garland in the corner if you don't look out.”
”I'll pick them up tomorrow night,” said Gail, pausing to answer him. ”No use putting all this work on rehearsal.”
She was undoubtedly right. And undoubtedly the garland had no business to swing so loose, as Clarence himself afterwards admitted.
But the fact remained. As Gail stepped reluctantly back, and recommenced her song, her high-heeled slipper caught in the swinging garland, and she came down flat, with the ankle badly turned under her.
The opera stopped short while the others crowded around her and tried to find out how badly she was hurt. She sat up straight and tried to smile-Gail disliked having or showing feelings of any sort--but she was white with the pain, and when she tried to stand on the ankle it hurt her, as she admitted.
They carried her off the stage in a chair, and John, who was donning his robes in the other dressing-room, was hurried over to see how badly she was hurt.
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