A Girl of To-day

by Ellinor Davenport Adams

“That is kind of you, Harry,” said the girl, looking at the rustic with the frank kindliness which acted like a charm on her poorer neighbours, and made them her faithful allies. “I just wanted somebody very strong and rather patient. It will take a good while to move the benches, but it would have taken the boys twice as long as it will take you.”

“Never fear, Miss,” said the giant heartily; “I’ll turn this ’ere place upside-down in ’arf an hour, if so be as you want it.”

Then they all set busily to work. The school-house contained one large room, of which the upper part possessed a platform which was used for all sorts of village entertainments, such as penny-readings and magic-lantern shows. The young Altruist carpenters had rigged-up a plain screen of wood above and at the sides of the platform, and this, when hung with drapery, took the place of a proscenium, and was fitted with a curtain which would draw up and down. There were two entrances, right and left of the stage, and simple appliances to hold the simple scenery. Not much scope was given, perhaps, for elaborate effects; but Miss Carlyon as stage-manager, and Florry as dramatist, had used their wits, and some of their contrivances were wonderfully ingenious. They had availed themselves, too, of such opportunities as were offered by the command of a passage running from one stage-door to the other, outside the room. Here they marshalled their processions, and assembled their hidden choir, and even found room for one or two members of the orchestra when these were wanted to discourse music at moving moments of the performances.

Owing to the length of the programme, the proceedings were to begin at four o’clock, with a generous tea. Before the hour arrived the Carlyons made their appearance, and were immediately in the thick of everything. Edward, his long coat flying behind him, dashed hither and thither in response to agonized calls from boys in difficulties; while Muriel gave helping hands to her girls, until the preparations for tea were complete.

Every Altruist wore a crimson badge, and a similar one was presented to every guest on entrance. The stage-hangings were crimson; the Christmas greetings hung up on the walls were fashioned in crimson letters on a white ground. Of course the room was prettily decorated with green-stuffs and berries, and the long tables grouped in the background were ornamented with lovely flowers. Altogether, the aspect of the room was distinctly festive when, as the clock struck four, the doors were thrown open and the guests began to pour in. Men, women, and children—all had been invited; and for once the denizens of Lumber’s Yard mingled with the better-class cottagers. Bell Baker, still pale, and poorly-clad, was brought under the care of the Doctor himself, who had borrowed a bath-chair, and packed his suffering charge into it. With Bell came her three eldest children; the baby was being cared for by an enterprising cottage-woman, who had decided to stay at home from the Altruist Feast and “take in” babies at a penny the head! The resulting fortune in shillings was a satisfactory consolation to her for the loss of her treat.

The Altruist fund might have fallen short of the demands made on it for the expenses of the grand entertainment, had it not been amply supplemented by those well-to-do inhabitants of Woodend who were interested in the undertaking. The feasts proper—both tea and supper—were “entirely provided by voluntary contributions”, as Frances had proudly announced at the last meeting of the Society. The rector offered fifty pounds of beef; Miss Carlyon’s cookery-class made a score of plum-puddings and a hundred mince-pies, the materials coming from the kitchens of Altruists’ mothers; the oranges and apples and almonds and raisins, with such trifles as bon-bons and sweets, were sent in by various Altruists’ fathers. Mrs. Morland promised fifty pounds of cake, and as Austin was allowed to do the ordering it was as plummy as Christmas cake knows how to be. In this way gifts rapidly mounted up; and by the time it became necessary to reckon up the funds, Frances found that she had only sugar to provide!

This was very cheering to the young leader of the Altruists, who had dreaded having to check the bounding ambition of her associates. The sewing-meetings had done great things with scarlet flannel and crimson wool; but in this direction, also, the grown-ups were kind. Mrs. Morland, who had quietly assumed the headship of Woodend society, dropped polite hints at dinner-parties and distributed confidences at “At Homes”. It became generally understood that all contributions of new and useful clothing would be thankfully received in the club-room. Perhaps Mrs. Morland’s patronage did less for the cause than did the popularity of her daughter. Frances was everybody’s favourite; and the pleasure of receiving her earnest thanks, and seeing the joyful light in her grave gray eyes, sent many a Woodend matron and maid to the making of shirts.

The Carlyons had determined privately to run no risk of usurping the credit which belonged of right to the originators of the entertainment; and they kept very much behind the scenes during the evening, except when sharing the labours of the party told off to preserve order and see that all the guests were comfortably placed. Tea over, and the tables cleared, the orchestra struck up a lively medley of popular tunes, while the company were ranged on the benches that Harry had set in two rows, facing the stage, in the upper part of the long room. Behind these benches was a small space, and then a few rows of chairs for the families and friends of the Altruists, who were to be permitted to view the performances in consideration of their liberal help.

When all were seated, and quiet reigned in the neighbourhood of the empty tea-tables, the orchestra ceased to make melody, and Miss Carlyon, slipping round from the back, took her place before the piano, the fifteen-year-old Pianist of the band retiring modestly to a three-legged stool that she shared with the fourteen-year-old First Violin. The footlights were turned up, the gas in the auditorium was turned down; on the whole audience fell the hush of expectancy. Miss Carlyon played a few bars of a simple children’s song; then the curtain swayed backward a little to allow two performers to step before it.