Only two brief exercises,—a short essay by Anna Fleming and a little aria of Schumann's by Myra Donaldson, and then ho, for the anticipated festival fun, these waiting girls jubilantly thought; and so absorbed were they in this thought that their attention was only half given to Anna's clever little essay upon School Friendships, which had some sharp hits in it; but they nevertheless joined in the vigorous applause, though by that time their attention had entirely wandered from the stage to the movements of a new late arrival just outside the doorway,—a tall fine-looking man that Mrs. Sibley, Hope's friend, was smiling radiantly upon, and beckoning to her seat. Who could he be? But hark! what—what sound was that? A violin? But Schumann's aria was a solo,—Hope was not to play with Myra! No, no, Hope was not to play with Myra, for there—there upon the stage, Hope in her white dress was standing beside—Dorothea! The duet had not been omitted then, only carried forward!
No more yawning and fidgeting now from the group of girls; with eager interest they leaned forward to see the two white-robed figures as they stood there side by side,—one with her waving golden-brown hair, her golden-brown eyes, and fair soft coloring; the other with her shining black locks, her great sombre orbs,—for there was no light of laughter in them at this moment,—and the strange pallor of coloring that at that instant lent almost a tragic look to her face. No, no more yawning and fidgeting now, and no more doubt or question of Dorothea's ability to play her part, as the sweet full strains rose harmoniously together. Dorothea had studied, indeed,—had studied so ardently that she had greatly surprised Hope at the last by her accuracy and finish. But as she stood there before the festival audience, she surprised her still further by the something more than the accuracy and finish,—that something that every musical artist recognizes, that Hope at once recognized,—the touch of living, breathing, individual emotion, of passionate personal appeal. With a thrill of sympathy, Hope instinctively responded to this, and there arose a strain of such moving, melting power that the audience, listening in breathless delight, broke forth at the end in a little whirlwind of applause.
The aria that followed was beautifully rendered, but the audience could not seem to fix its attention upon it as it should have done; and Myra had scarcely struck her last note when there was a general uprising, and hastening forward toward the little flock of girl-students who had taken part in the exercises. In the centre of this flock, standing together, were Hope and Dorothea, and there was a buzz of girl talk going on about them,—a buzz of congratulation, of enthusiasm, not one of the girls hanging back,—when over it all, Hope suddenly caught the sound of another voice,—a deep manly voice,—the voice of—of—oh, could it be? Yes, yes, it was; and starting forward, she cried joyfully, "Oh it is—it is my father!" and the next instant her father's arms were round her, and his kisses on her cheek.
Her father! Dorothea glanced up eagerly. That, that distinguished-looking man the man who was once a locomotive engineer! Had she heard aright? Yes, she had heard aright, for presently there was Mrs. Sibley saying in answer to some questioner,—
"It's her father, yes; he's the great inventor, you know. He came on unexpectedly, and is to take Hope back with him to spend the summer in the north of France."
And presently, again, Dorothea saw Miss Marr and the Van Der Bergs and the Sibleys and—yes, the Armitages, looking up and listening with the most admiring interest to this man who was once a locomotive engineer!
What would Dorothea have thought, how would she have felt, if she had heard Mrs. Armitage say to one of her acquaintances a little later,—
"There must be something fine and good, after all, in this Dorothea Dering, to attract to herself and make a friend of such a girl as Mr. Benham's daughter; and certainly she has shown a very refined taste in her manner of playing. I wonder if she hasn't been improved all round by Miss Benham's influence?"
And what would she have thought if she had heard Miss Marr talking in somewhat the same strain to Mr. Benham,—telling him what a restraining, refining influence his dear little daughter had had over one of the most difficult of all her charges; and what would she have felt if she could have known all Mr. Benham's thoughts on this subject as he listened there with that rather grave smile of his?
But Dorothea heard and knew nothing of all this. She only heard and felt the warmth of appreciation that had followed her violin performance. She only saw that the little world that had turned away from her was now turning toward her, and her spirits began to rise once more. But they did not overflow all reasonable bounds as before. There was a new reserve in her demeanor that certainly did not rob her of her attractiveness, if one could judge from the kindly looks cast upon her by some of the older people, as she helped in the tea-table hospitalities.