“AMERICA.”
Just before dinner Dorothy came slowly from her room into the sitting room where she found Jim all alone, seated in the same large chair by the window. She had dressed this evening with much care and wore a white dress with blue ribbons at her waist.
She had also fixed her hair differently and more in the prevailing fashion. The girls of New York she had noticed wore their hair “up,” and as Dorothy was eighteen, she thought she too must dress it like they did. So carefully this afternoon did she arrange it, with three little curls at her neck and a tiny curl just peeping out at each ear. It made her look a little older and very fascinating indeed. Decidedly Jim so thought, as he turned to look at her as she entered the room.
“Come here and sit down. I want to talk to you just a few minutes, dear,” he said, drawing up a chair close to his for her.
Dorothy obeyed, as some way she always was accustomed to obeying this boy, although he was really only five years older than she was. “What is it you want to say?” she asked, seating herself leisurely.
“It’s about what happened this afternoon,” Jim began, and hesitated, hardly knowing how to continue. Looking at Dorothy he thought that she too had changed since the afternoon; she seemed more fair, more grown up, as if she had become a full grown woman instead of a child.
“Dear, I am sorry for what I said and did. I can’t make any excuses, I just lost control. The thought of your going away maddened me. I can’t help loving you, caring for you. I have done that now for years. I didn’t mean to speak to you until I had made good. And now I have spoiled it all by my recklessness,” he added, bitterly.
Then quickly changing his tone of voice to a more cheerful one, he continued: “Dear, never mind, we can be the same old friends again, can’t we?”
“Yes, and no, Jim,” quietly responded Dorothy, who had already felt a complete change that before she didn’t realize and even now didn’t understand.
Jim seized her hands and asked hurriedly, “Could you love me? Could you? You don’t know how much I would give for just one little word of hope. Don’t leave me back here in New York, working, fighting, all by myself with no word of cheer. Answer me girl, answer me. Could you care, not as much as I do, now, but just a little?”
“Jim, I do, a little,” was all she could manage to say before she was seized eagerly in his arms again and having kisses showered upon her hair, cheeks and lips.
“Jim, Jim, you are behaving shamefully and mussing me all up,” she said, struggling to free herself, but she was held fast and stern tones pleaded, “I just can’t let you go now. I just can’t.”
“Jim, dear, you must or I won’t even love you a little,” she laughed.
“Well, if I must, I must,” he said, kissing her just once again. “My girl, my own girl,” he added.
“Jim, I haven’t promised you anything, and I just said I cared for you a little. I’d have to love you a lot before I could promise you anything. You mustn’t call me yours. If, when I come back from my trip, and that’s a long time from now, I do love you——” added Dorothy.
“You will promise me then? You will? Oh girl, you make me so happy, so happy!” cried Jim. “I will work so hard all winter and save up so much. I have considerable saved up now. Then you will come to me, girl?”
“I said if I did love you then,” teased Dorothy, “and that’s if——”
“You little tease,” interrupted Jim. “I will punish you.”
“No you won’t,” Dorothy added quickly. “And never, never say anything of the kind to me again, or even try to love me, or I’ll just never, never love you. I have my music to attend to and you mustn’t disturb my practice or even try to make me think of you when I should be thinking of it.”
“Very well,” acquiesced Jim, sadly, “it will be very hard though. I’ll promise if you will write me every day while you are away.”
“Every day!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Not every day. I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“All you would have to say to me would be, ‘I love you,’ over and over again,” laughed Jim.
“But I can’t, cause maybe I don’t,” teased Dorothy, “but I’ll write sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” complained Jim, mournfully.
“Sometimes is better than never,” laughed the girl.
“Very well. I’ll hope that sometimes is very often or nearly every day,” said Jim. “Kiss me once more, then I won’t bother you again.” Then folding her to him he kissed that dear, dear face and thought of the many times he used to blush and show all kinds of discomfort when Dorothy kissed him of her own free will, and then he remembered Gerald Beck’s comments that any fellow would go a long, long way to kiss Dorothy. And thinking of the difference now, he drew her closer as she was drawing away, and turning her head back, kissed her on the brow and then she slowly turned and walked to the table, picking up her violin and played.
While she was playing Aunt Betty and Alfy came in. They sat down quietly so as not to disturb her. Dorothy finished her piece and then came over and kissed her aunt, saying, “Dear Aunt Betty, have you and Alfy enjoyed yourselves?”
“Oh, yes indeed, dear. We took a stage up to Ninety-sixth street, through to Riverside Drive and then back again,” answered Aunt Betty.
“And what did you think of it, Alfy?” asked Jim, turning to the girl.
“I just couldn’t keep my eyes off the crowds of people walking up and down Fifth avenue, all of them dressed up as if they were going to church, and Aunt Betty said they were all going to tea at the hotels—afternoon tea—and men too. Why, I saw a lot of men and they were all dressed up too, and had on some of those yellow gloves and carried canes. And all the ladies carried silver chain purses or bags. Ah,” and Alfy heaved a great sigh, “I wish I had a silver bag; they make you look so dressed up. Then there were so many, many stores and such nice things to buy in all of them. I would like to be rich just for one day and then I could buy all I wanted. I would get—oh, I just couldn’t tell you all I would get. I saw so many things I just wanted so bad.”
And I guess Alfy would have continued indefinitely if the telephone bell had not interrupted her.
Dorothy answered the call and turning to Aunt Betty, said, “Aunt Betty, dear, Ruth wants to know if I can take dinner with her and Mr. Ludlow at the Hotel Astor at six o’clock, so we can go to the Hippodrome real early and find out our places before the concert starts.”
“Certainly, if you wish it,” answered Aunt Betty.
So Dorothy returned to the telephone and continued her conversation with Ruth and when finished hung up the receiver and turned again to Aunt Betty, saying, “Ruth said for me to hurry and dress and they—Ruth and Mr. Ludlow—would call for me—about six o’clock. What shall I wear?”
“The little pink dress, dear; that is quite pretty and most appropriate for the occasion,” answered Aunt Betty. “I am tired, so Alfy will help you. Besides, I want to talk to Jim.”
“Oh, Aunt Betty,” interrupted Dorothy. “I forgot to tell you that this afternoon while we were at Ruth’s, we learned of the fact that we start on our trip on Tuesday—the noon train for Washington. Jim can tell you all the rest while I dress.”
“And did you get a room there where Ruth is, Jim?” questioned Aunt Betty. Whereat Jim told of his arrangements, discussing the matter till Dorothy returned.
“Take your violin, dear, and hurry. The ’phone is ringing now and I guess that is them. Yes, it is,” said Aunt Betty, answering the call.
“Good-bye, all, for just a little while. You all be early,” called Dorothy, as she left the room.
After a remarkably fine dinner at the Hotel Astor, which the girls enjoyed immensely, they all drove to the Hippodrome. Mr. Ludlow led the girls inside and showed them where they were to sit while they waited for their turn to play or sing. There were many, many people in a large room and Mr. Ludlow told them they were the artists and their friends, but that presently all that were to take part would meet in the room where the girls were. He left them there for a few minutes and went away to find out if they had been given their places on the list. He found their numbers were five and six, Ruth being five. He came back, told the girls this and then left them to themselves till their turns came. They sat still, not saying much but enjoying all the people about them,—some of them seemed to them so queer.
Finally it was Ruth’s turn to sing. Slowly she got up, walked to the entrance and on the stage. She rendered her simple song, “Still vie die Nochte” very well, and amid a volley of applause, left the stage. She could not give an encore so she simply walked to the front again and bowed.
Dorothy, listening, had heard all and was preparing for her task, tuning her violin. Just then Ruth, returning, whispered in her ear, “Good luck,” as she passed her.
Dorothy turned and smiled at her new friend, and then proceeded forward to the stage, violin in hand. One brief glimpse she caught of the crowded house, and she thought she had never seen so many, many people before.
The Hippodrome is very large, the stage being one of the largest in the world, and the seating capacity being many thousands. So you see there were a great number of people there. The house was over-crowded, as naturally every one was interested in the home for blind babies, and the talent of the evening had called forth a very large attendance.
Slowly Dorothy raised her violin and started the initial strain of the melody. The beautiful “Southern Airs” appealed to many, as there were a large number of southerners present that night. Played by the beautiful girl, it made the old go back in memory to days that were the happiest in their lives. They longed for the South; the large plantations, the beautiful gardens, the spacious, old, rambling houses, the darkies playing on their violins in the moonlight, the cabins with the little pickaninies disporting in front—all of these and more dreams floated vividly before them, inspired by the wonderful music.
Then softly, very softly the music fell from the violin, the sweet strains of “Dixie,” when suddenly a piercing shriek, another, still another, rent the air. People turned pale. Some started to rise from their seats. A woman or two fainted.
Then another and more awful shriek, which sounded as if some one was being murdered. The people in their seats hesitated! Was it fire? Was someone being robbed, or murdered, or what? In a single second a great restlessness took possession of them all, tending to make of the crowd an angry mob, and panic a possible result.
Dorothy from her place on the stage for a moment was rooted immovable to the spot. She looked in the direction from which the screams came and saw a man throw up his hands and shriek again. It was the man who played the trombone in the orchestra. He threw his instrument in the air and turned as white as chalk, then stiffened out and began to froth at the mouth.
In a moment she knew that the man had convulsions. She had somewhere seen someone in a similar state. The orchestra had suddenly stopped playing. Out in the audience she saw a sight that terrified her more than she would admit to herself. One thought raced through her brain. She, she alone might—nay must—prevent a panic; people were becoming more excited every moment.
Instinct of some sort made her grasp her violin and raise it. Then she knew what to do. Without accompaniment, in clear, sweet tones she played “America.” Slowly the people rose, rose to pay their respects to their national hymn, patriotism immediately conquering all fear. While she played the poor trombone player was carried out to receive medical attention. All through the three verses of the hymn Dorothy held the audience, and then as she finished and the curtain fell, the house broke out in thunderous applause, for now they realized what this girl had done, what possibilities she had saved them from. So insistent was the applause that Dorothy had to stop in front of the curtain again and again.