A subdued breath of wondering admiration stirred the audience upstairs and down as this lovely apparition of Night glided to the center of the stage. For a brief instant she tarried there, raising her white arms and lowering them with a slow, sweeping gesture that gave the effect of darkness suddenly dropping down upon the earth. Then the orchestra sounded a soft sighing prelude and the black and silver figure circled the stage like a floating, elusive shadow. Few persons in that assemblage had ever before witnessed an interpretative dance such as Veronica performed. It was as though she had become embued with the very spirit of Night and sought to impress it upon her audience. Every movement and gesture was replete with meaning. She brought to the imagination that stir of supreme mystery with which one often watches the darkness gather and the first stars of the evening begin to twinkle in the firmament. At the end of it she exited with a quick, gliding run, arms horizontally outstretched, hands holding up the loose folds of her robe, a veritable winged Night itself rushing swiftly on toward dawn.
Before the first wild echo of applause had spent itself, she was back on the stage, miraculously metamorphosed into a gorgeous black and orange butterfly. She proceeded to give the Sanfordites a spectacle in toe dancing worthy a premiere. Even as she had put the soul of the Night itself into her previous dance, now she truly resembled a huge butterfly, sailing joyously about in the sunshine. The perfection of her interpretation took the audience by storm. When she disappeared, or rather fluttered from the stage, a tumult of approbation set in. Laurie was obliged to mount the platform and explain that Miss Browning would not respond to an encore, before quiet was again restored and the sextette made its appearance.
Although the remaining numbers of the revue each received a generous mead of approval, the honors of the performance were decidedly Veronica’s. Even Constance, for once, held second place. The grace and originality of the former’s interpretations had aroused enthusiasm on all sides.
There was one person, however, who had not been pleasantly impressed by Veronica’s dancing. Mignon La Salle was enraged beyond measure at the triumph of “that servant girl.” Her own solo, as usual a difficult French song which few present had understood and could therefore only mildly appreciate, had been received with a far lesser degree of enthusiasm than she had confidently expected. She blamed Marjorie Dean, who had helped Laurie arrange the program, for placing her song so near to the end of the revue. She was also furious with Jerry Macy. The stout girl had calmly refused to place the lemonade bowl in one of the booths, explaining that, as it in itself was a feature, its present position would not be bettered by moving it to a booth.
Completely out of sorts with the world in general, Mignon cherished a lawless desire to swoop down upon the big cut glass lemonade bowl, overturn it, send it crashing to the floor and fling the cups that surrounded it, after it. Her second thought was to go to Jerry, refuse to become a purveyor of lemonade and shake the dust of the Armory from her disdainful feet. Crafty reflection whispered to her that this course would be folly. Jerry would take her at her word and show little sorrow at being thus deprived of her services. It behooved her to hit upon some new method of retaliation which would doubly repay these hateful girls for the fancied wrongs she had suffered at their hands. She vowed that before the third and last evening of the bazaar had ended she would find a way to do it.
CHAPTER XVII—CHOOSING A VICTIM
The military maneuvers by the Sanford Guards over, the well-pleased spectators made an orderly rush for the big drill floor, there to take more active part in the Campfire. Opening as it did on a national holiday, everyone was in high good humor and willing to spend money. The space reserved for the dancing had been roped in, leaving a good-sized aisle all the way around the Armory between the ropes and the booths. There was no room on the lower floor for chairs, but the gallery offered a vantage point to those who preferred to become onlookers of the dancing rather than take part in it.
That it had been a highly profitable evening became evident to the Lookouts, when just before midnight they happily viewed their depleted booths and fell to counting their gains. Everything had progressed with unrivaled smoothness. Even Mignon’s black eyes glistened as she counted the wealth of nickels and small silver which had accrued from the despised lemonade bowl. She had taken in almost thirty dollars and plumed herself accordingly. Jerry had been right in her calculation as to the best place for the lemonade. Far from admitting it, Mignon merely felt increasing bitterness toward Jerry.
Busy Jerry was quite unaware of Mignon’s dark sentiments toward herself. Had she known of them, they would have caused her small anxiety. She was too blissfully elated over the success of the Campfire to do anything but rejoice loudly as she moved from booth to booth, a good-sized cash box in hand, to collect the evening’s profits.
“It’s a howling success,” she caroled joyously, as she entered the candy booth. Seated on a high stool Marjorie was too much absorbed in the counting of little piles of money, from notes to pennies, to do more than nod emphatically to this triumphant salutation.