Marjorie Dean Part 24

As the star singer of her cla.s.s, Constance Stevens' name was often brought up for discussion among her cla.s.smates as the possibly successful contestant in the try-out. Besides, was it not Lawrence Armitage's opera? It was generally known that the dark-haired, dreamy-eyed lad had a decided predeliction for Constance's society.

Rumor, therefore, decreed that if Laurie Armitage had the say, Constance would have no trouble in carrying off the leading role.

But the most determined aspirant for fame was none other than Mignon La Salle. With her usual slyness, she kept her own counsel. Nevertheless, she believed she stood a fair chance of winning the prize of which she dreamed. For Mignon could sing. From childhood her father had spared no expense in the matter of her musical education. An ardent lover of music he had decreed that Mignon should be initiated into the mysteries of the piano when a tiny girl, and, although Mr. La Salle had allowed her undisputed liberty to grow up as she pleased, on one point he was firm. Mignon must not merely study music; she must each day practice the required number of hours. In the beginning she had rebelled, but finding her too indulgent parent adamant in this one particular, she had been forced to bow her obstinate head to his decree. In consequence she profited by the enforced practice hours to the extent of becoming a really creditable performer on the piano for a girl of her years. At fourteen she had begun vocal training. Possessed of a strong, clear, soprano voice, three years under the direction of competent instructors had done much for her, and, although she was far too selfish to use her fine voice merely to give pleasure to others, she never allowed an opportunity to pa.s.s wherein she might win public approval by her singing.

The mere fact that "The Rebellious Princess" was Lawrence Armitage's own composition served to spur her on to conquest. Given the leading role, she believed that she might awaken in the young man a distinct appreciation of herself which hitherto he had never demonstrated toward her. Once she had brought him to a tardy realization of her superiority over Constance Stevens, by outsinging the latter, along with all the other contestants, she was certain that admiration for herself as a singer would blot out any unpleasant impression he might earlier have conceived of her. She had heard that "the Stevens girl" could sing. It was to be doubted, however, if her voice amounted to much. Another point in her favor lay in the fact that Professor Harmon was a close friend of her father. He would surely give her the preference.

But while she dreamed of triumphantly holding the center of the stage before a spellbound audience, her rival to be, Constance Stevens, was seriously debating within herself regarding the wisdom of even entering the contest. Of a distinctly retiring nature, Constance was not eager to enter the lists. On the Friday afternoon before the try-out she was still undecided, and when the afternoon session of school was over, and she and the five girls with whom she spent most of her leisure hours were walking down the street, headed for Sargent's and its never-failing supply of sweets, she was curiously silent amid the gay chatter of her friends.

"I suppose you girls know that our dear Mignon has designs on the Princess," announced Jerry Macy, with the elaborate carelessness of one who gives forth important news as the commonest every-day matter.

"Mignon!" exclaimed Marjorie Dean in amazement. "I never even knew she could sing."

"She thinks she can," shrugged Muriel Harding. "Goodness knows she ought to. She has studied for ages. I'm surprised to hear that she is going to enter the try-out, considering it's Laurie's operetta. You know just how much he likes her. She knows, too."

"Who told you, Jerry?" quizzed Susan Atwell. "The way you gather news is positively marvelous. Was it big brother Hal?"

"No, he doesn't know it. If I told him, he'd tell Laurie and Laurie would promptly have a spasm. One of the girls in the senior cla.s.s mentioned it to me."

"Mignon really sings well," put in Irma. "Don't you remember the time she sang at Muriel's party, two years ago? She has been studying ever since. She must have improved a good deal since then."

"Oh, I've heard her sing more than once," said Jerry Macy, "but I don't like her voice. It's--well, it isn't sweet and sympathetic."

"Neither is she," put in Susan with her customary giggle.

"Wait until Connie sings at the try-out. Then someone can gently lead Mignon to a back seat," predicted Jerry. "It would give me a good deal of pleasure to be that 'someone.'"

"I don't think I shall enter the try-out," remarked Constance, flushing.

"Why not?" was the questioning chorus.

"Oh, I don't know, only I just don't care to. If I do, someone might say that I went into it because----" She hesitated, and the flush on her cheeks deepened.

"Because you expected Laurie to choose you, you mean," finished Jerry.

"Yes; that is what I meant," admitted Constance. "Of course, I know there are other girls who are better singers than I, and that I couldn't possibly be chosen. Still, I'd rather not go into it at all, unless I could just be in the chorus."

"You are a goose; a nice, dear goose, but a goose, just the same," was Jerry's plain sentiment.

"Connie Stevens, if you don't try for that part, I'll never speak to you again," threatened Muriel.

"I'll disown you," added Susan in mock menace.

"Connie," Marjorie's voice vibrated with sudden energy, "I think you _ought_ to try for the Princess. I am almost sure no other girl in Sanford High can sing so beautifully. Then there is Laurie. He has always been nice to you. It would hurt his feelings dreadfully if you didn't try for a part in his operetta. Besides, I know it sounds hateful, but I can't help saying that I'd be glad to see you take the Princess away from Mignon. That is, if she really stands a good chance of winning it. I suppose that is what Miss Archer would call 'an ign.o.ble sentiment,' but I mean it, just the same." Marjorie glanced half defiantly around the bright-eyed circle. They were now in Sargent's, seated about their favorite table.

"Hurrah for you, Marjorie!" cried Jerry, flourishing her hand as though it were a pennant of triumph. "That's what I say, too. You are really a human, everyday person, after all. I used to think you were almost too forgiving toward certain persons, but now I can see that you aren't such a model forgiver, after all."

"That is rather a doubtful compliment, isn't it?" laughed Marjorie.

"Frankness is the soul of virtue," jeered Muriel.

"Oh, now, you know what I mean," protested Jerry, looking somewhat sheepish. "You girls do like to tease me. All right, I'll do the forgiving act and order the refreshments. I'll pay for them, too. I've a whole dollar. I am supposed to buy some stationery with it, but I'll just let my correspondence languish and treat instead. Name your eat and you can have it. Fifteen cents apiece is your limit. I need the other ten to buy stamps."

"What is the use in buying stamps if you don't intend to correspond?"

put in Irma mischievously.

"I might need them some day," was Jerry's calm retort. "Besides, if I don't spend the ten cents I may lose it. Now the bureau of information is closed. Order your fifteen cents' worth!"

After changing their minds several times in rapid succession to the infinite disgust of the waitress, the s.e.xtette finally made unanimous decision for a new concoction in the way of a fruit lemonade, known as Sargent Nectar.

"Now," announced Jerry, as the long-suffering waitress deposited the tall gla.s.ses on the table and retired to the back of the room to grumble uncomplimentary comments to a fellow-worker on the ways of high school girls who didn't know their own minds, "let us all drink a toast to Miss Connie Stevens, the celebrated star of 'The Rebellious Princess.' But remember, we can't drink it until the star says she will shine.

"'Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Shall we see you from afar?

On the Sanford stage so shy, For the fame of Sanford High.'

"Who says I'm not a poet?"

"Connie, you can't resist that poetic appeal," giggled Susan.

Constance's blue eyes shone misty affection upon the circle of fresh, young faces, alight with the honest desire for her success. Her voice trembled a little as she said: "I'll take it all back, girls. Now that I know just how you feel about the try-out, _I'd_ be an ungrateful girl to say I wouldn't do my best. I'll sing to-morrow, but if I'm not chosen, please don't be disappointed."

"To Connie, our Princess! Long may she warble!" Jerry raised her gla.s.s of lemonade. "Drink her down!"

CHAPTER XXIV

THE MOMENT OF TRIUMPH

It was a buzzing and excited a.s.semblage of young men and women that gathered in the gymnasium of Weston High School on Sat.u.r.day morning for the much-discussed try-out. As it had been strictly enjoined upon the students of both high schools that unless they desired to take part in the coming operetta their presence was not requested, nor would it be permitted, on the momentous occasion, the great room was only comfortably filled. Weston High School was represented by not more than twenty-five or thirty ambitious aspirants for fame, but at least a hundred girls from Sanford High cherished hopes of gaining admission to the magic cast. After much discussion, Marjorie and her four friends had decided to make a bold attempt at chorus celebrity, purely for the sake of seeing what happened. Constance had earnestly urged them to do so, declaring that she could not sing unless they were present to encourage her.

"I wonder if all this crowd expects to be chosen," was Jerry Macy's blunt comment, as the s.e.xtette of girls stood grouped at one side of the room, waiting for the affair to begin. "I hope I'm not asked to sing alone. Not so much for my own sake. I hate to make other people feel sad. I practised 'America' and 'Marching through Georgia' last night, just to see what I could do. One of our maids came rushing into the living room because she said she wondered who was making all that noise.

Then Hal poked his head in the door and asked if I was hurt. So I quit.

It was time."

Jerry's painful experience as a soloist provoked a burst of laughter from her friends. It had hardly died away when Professor Harmon, a stout, little man, with a shock of bushy hair and an expression of being always on the alert, bustled in. With him came Lawrence Armitage and a tall, dark-haired young man, a stranger to those present. The professor trotted to the piano, opened it, held a hurried conference with his companions, then, stepping forward, ran a searching eye over the a.s.sembled boys and girls. The more ambitious contestants of both s.e.xes carried music rolls containing the selections they intended to offer, but the majority of that carefree congregation aspired to nothing higher than the chorus, looking upon the whole affair as a grand lark.

Professor Harmon proceeded to make a short speech, briefly outlining the plot of the opera and stating the nature of the try-out. "We shall ask those who wish to try for princ.i.p.als to step to that side of the room,"

he said, indicating the left. "I wish to hear them sing, first.

Afterward, I shall select the chorus, and hear them sing together."

"That lets me out," was Jerry's relieved, inelegant comment to Susan Atwell, as she moved to the right. Susan stifled an irrepressible chuckle and sobered her face for what was to come.

Over among the groups of possible princ.i.p.als Constance became obsessed with sudden shyness. The majority of the girls were of the upper cla.s.ses, and she felt lonely and ill at ease. She noted that she and Mignon La Salle were the only representatives of the soph.o.m.ore cla.s.s.

Mignon, looking radiant self-possession in a smart old-rose suit and hat to match, carried herself with the air of one whose success was already a.s.sured. Her black eyes were snapping with excitement as they darted from the professor to the two young men standing beside the piano. She fingered her gray morocco music roll nervously, her thin fingers never still.

Stepping over to the piano the professor seated himself. "That young lady on the right, please come to the piano." The girl indicated, a dignified senior, obeyed the summons, coolly handed the professor her music, stationed herself at his side and awaited trial with the air of a Spartan. After a short prelude she began to sing a popular air that was at that time going the round of Sanford. She sang one verse, then the professor dropped his hands from the keys, inquired her name, made a memorandum on a pad, and, dismissing her, signaled another girl to take her place.