Helen in the Editor's Chair Part 18

Doctor Stevens jumped into the boat and turned his flashlight on Margaret's face. Helen saw his lips tighten into a thin straight line. He felt her pulse.

"Run ahead," he told Ned Burns, "and tell Mother Linder to open one of those spare beds of hers and get me plenty of hot water."

He stooped and picked Margaret up in his arms, carrying her like a baby.

Mr. Linder hurried ahead to light the way.

Helen stopped to talk with Jim Preston for a moment.

"I think you'd better take the cla.s.s home," she said. "There's nothing more they can do here."

"Will you go back with them now?" asked the boatman.

"No, I'm going to stay here tonight. I'll phone mother."

Helen turned and ran toward the farmhouse. Inside there was an air of quiet, suppressed activity.

Doctor Stevens had carried Margaret into the large downstairs bedroom which Mother Linder reserved for company occasions. Two kerosene lamps on a table beside the bed gave a rich light which softened the pallor of Margaret's cheeks.

Doctor Stevens was busy with an injection from a hypodermic needle, working as though against time. Tragedy had danced on the tips of the waves a few minutes earlier but how close it came to entering the farmhouse only Doctor Stevens knew at that hour for Margaret's strength, sapped by the terrifying experience on the lake, was near the breaking point and only the injection of a strong heart stimulant saved her life.

Two hours later, hours which had been ages long to Helen as she sat beside the bed with the doctor, Margaret opened her eyes.

"Don't talk, Marg," begged Helen. "Everything is all right. You're in a bedroom at the Linders and your father is here with you."

Margaret nodded slightly and closed her eyes. It was another hour before she moved again and when she did Mother Linder was at hand with a steaming bowl of chicken broth. The nouris.h.i.+ng food plus the hour of calm sleep had partially restored Margaret's strength and when she had finished the broth she sat up in bed.

"I've been such a little fool," she said, but her father patted her hand.

"Don't apologize for what's happened," he said. "We're just supremely happy to have you here," his voice so low that only Margaret and Helen heard him.

"I thought it would be a good joke to disappear when Miss Carver started telling the ghost story," explained Margaret. "I got the boat out into the lake without anyone seeing me and let it drift several hundred feet.

When I tried to put the oars in the locks I stumbled, dropped them overboard and that's the last I knew, except that for hours I was falling, falling, falling, and always there was the noise of the waves."

Margaret slipped back into a deep, restful sleep when she had finished her story. Helen, worn by the hours of tension, slid out of her chair and onto the floor, and when Doctor Stevens picked her up she was sound asleep.

CHAPTER X _Behind the Footlights_

By the first of the following week the near tragedy of the picnic seemed only a terrible nightmare to Helen and Margaret and they devoted all of their extra time to helping Tom get out the next edition of the _Herald_.

Monday morning's mail brought a long letter from Helen's father, a letter in which he praised them warmly for their first edition of the _Herald_.

He added that he had recovered from the fatigue of his long trip into the southwest and was feeling much stronger and a great deal more cheerful.

The newsy letter brightened the whole atmosphere of the Blair home and for the first time since their father had left, Tom and Helen saw their mother like her old self, smiling, happy and humming little tunes as she worked about the house.

Events crowded one on another as the school year neared its close. There were final examinations, the junior-senior banquet, the annual soph.o.m.ore party and finally, graduation exercises.

The seniors had been rehearsing their play, "The Spell of the Image," for a month and for the final week had engaged a special dramatic instructor from Cranston to put the finis.h.i.+ng touches on the cast. Helen had read the play several times. It was a comedy-drama concerning the finding of an ancient and valuable string of pearls in an old image. It had action, mystery and romance and she thrilled when she thought that in two more years she would be in her own cla.s.s play.

The dramatic instructor arrived. She was Anne Weeks, a slender, dark-haired girl of 25 who had attended the state university and majored in dramatics. Every boy in high school promptly thought he was in love with her.

The seniors rehea.r.s.ed their parts every spare hour and every evening. The play was to go on Thursday night with the graduation exercises Friday evening.

Dress rehearsal was called for Tuesday and Helen went down to the opera house to peek in and see how it was going. She found a disconsolate cast sitting around the stage, looking gloomily at Miss Weeks.

"This looks more like a party of mourners than a play practice," observed Helen.

"It's just about that bad," replied Miss Weeks. "Sarah Jacobs has come down with a severe cold and can't talk, which leaves us in a fine pickle."

"Won't she be able to go on Thursday night?"

"It will be at least a week before she'll be able to use her voice for a whole evening," Miss Weeks said. "In the meantime, we've got to find another girl, about Sarah's size, to play her part and every member of the senior cla.s.s is in the play now."

She stopped suddenly and looked at Helen.

"You're about Sarah's size," she mused, "and you're blonde and you have blue eyes. You'll do, Helen."

"Do for what?" asked the astounded Helen.

"Why, for Sarah's part," exclaimed Miss Weeks. "Come now, hurry up and get into Sarah's costume," and she pointed to a dainty colonial dress which the unfortunate Sarah was to have worn in the prologue.

"But I don't know Sarah's part well enough," said Helen. "I've only read the play twice and then just for fun."

"You'll catch on," said Miss Weeks, "if you're half as smart as I think you are."

"Go on, Helen," urged the seniors. "Help us out. We've got to put the play across or we'll never have enough money to pay Miss Weeks."

"Now you know why I'm so anxious for you to take the part," smiled the play instructor.

"I'll do my best," promised Helen, gathering the costume under her arm and hurrying toward the girls' dressing room.

Ten minutes later she emerged as a dainty colonial dame. Miss Weeks stared hard at her and then smiled an eminently satisfactory smile.

"Now if she can only get the lines in two nights," she whispered to herself.

Helen's reading of the play had given her a thorough understanding of the action and they went through the prologue without a slip. Scenery was s.h.i.+fted rapidly and the stage changed from a colonial ballroom to a modern garden scene. Costumes kept up with the scenery and when the members of the cast reappeared on the stage they were dressed in modern clothes.

Helen poured over the pages of the play book and because she had only a minor part in the first act, got through it nicely. The second act was her big scene and she was decidedly nervous when it came time for her cue. One of the seniors was to make love to her and she didn't especially like him. But the play was the thing and the seniors certainly did need someone to take the vacant part.

She screwed up her courage and played the role for all it was worth. Once she forgot her lines but she managed to fake a little conversation and they got back to the regular lines without trouble.

When the curtain was rung down on the third act Miss Weeks stepped out of the orchestra pit where she had been directing the changes in minor details of the action and came over to Helen.

"You're doing splendidly," she told the young editor of the _Herald_.

"Don't worry about lines. Read them over thoroughly sometime tomorrow and we'll put the finis.h.i.+ng touches on tomorrow night."

When Helen reached home Tom had returned from the office, his work done for the night.