Chapter 21
THE DANCING MAMMA IS FOUND
Philip determined that Betsy and her mother and Jo needed some diversion, too, and accordingly persuaded them to accompany him to the show at the Court House. Theatrical performances were few and far between, and when a show was given the town hall was always crowded.
The Bollings and Taylors arrived at the same time, the horses were hitched to adjoining posts, and as Philip entered the hall with his mother and sister, Spottswood Taylor and Rebecca were immediately behind them.
"Let's all sit together," suggested Rebecca, slipping her arm in Mrs. Bolling's, whose other arm was held by her son, while Jo crowded in next to Rebecca.
The hall was already beginning to fill, and six seats in a row not being available, what more natural than that Rebecca should remain with her friends and Spot and blushing Betsy should have to take their seats side by side a little removed from the rest?
"God bless Rebecca!" Spot whispered in a tone almost inaudible, but Betsy heard him and blushed again.
The show was like any other traveling vaudeville booked to play in small towns. There was the usual song-and-dance Irish comedian and the usual soprano who sang the latest sentimental songs in a voice that one hoped had seen better days. There was an act by trained dogs and one by pigeons, with the burning of the tiny paper house and the fire brigade of sleek, intelligent birds.
The company brought its own orchestra—a violinist and pianist. After the pigeon act all lights were turned off and the music changed from the tinkling tunes appropriate for the bird act to a mad whirling dance. A red spotlight was thrown on the stage and in it could be seen the swaying, graceful figure of a lovely young woman, with flashing, devil-may-care eyes and a saucy carmine mouth with teeth so white they looked almost cruel.
When the small orchestra played the opening bars of the mad dance Rebecca unconsciously clutched Philip's arm on one side and Jo's on the other. Her breath came in short gasps and for a moment she closed her eyes. She opened them on the swaying, whirling, beautiful dancer.
"The dagger is in her bodice!" she whispered. "Watch! After the next movement she will snatch it out! Oh, Mr. Philip Bolling, that is Mamma!"
The child gave a great sob and trembled violently. Philip put his arm around her and whispered, "Do you want me to take you out?"
"Oh, no! I must see her! She is all that is left of my old life! That is the dance she danced to make Daddy fall in love with her. That is the dance she danced when poor Papa died. Oh, Mr. Philip Bolling, when it is over take me behind the scenes and let me speak to her."
"Of course I will."
The music rose to wild heights and with a final twirl the dancer plunged the glinting dagger into an imaginary victim; then gave a piercing shriek and sank in a glowing heap on the floor.
"How can she? How can she? That is exactly the shriek she gave when poor Papa died," shuddered Rebecca. "Can we go now?"
With a word to his mother, who was always a person to understand quickly and to accept unquestionably, and one to Jo to look after his mother, Philip led Rebecca from the hall, and then by a narrow passage they made their way to the back of the little stage.
"This young lady wants to speak to the dancer," he explained to the manager of the show, who combined in his one person scene shifter, prompter, ladies' maid, electrician and curtain raiser. He was engaged at the time in hooking up the dress of a young woman soon to go on in the one-act play with which the performance closed.
'You mean Nell Morgan? Sure, you can speak to her. She'll have to answer her encore first. Nell always gets an encore on that dagger dance."
They waited for what seemed an interminable time to Rebecca while the music again pulled her heartstrings with memories of the death of her stepfather. Over at last! The dancer came tripping behind the scenes.
"Party wants to speak to you!" said the manager over his shoulder as he slid on some scenery.
"Me? I don't know a soul in this God-and-man-forsaken burg."
Rebecca came forward. "Don't you know me, Mamma?"
"I'm not anybody's Mamma, thank goodness! Guess again, kid! Why, bless my soul, if it ain't little Rebecca! Heavens, child! Where on earth did you come from? Now I remember that old O'Shea did tell me you had gone to Virginia. I was mad enough, too, when I found you had taken my widow's bonnet with you—worn it off. I didn't have a rag of black to show respect for my poor dead husband. But he liked you better than he did me and it was right for you to wear the widow's weeds, I reckon.
"What did your father's folks think of having their po' kin sent back on their hands? If I had known about them I certainly would have shipped you to them long ago. I never thought of looking in that old trunk. I might have found those letters and if you hadn't been there your Daddy and I would have been living together yet—that is, of course, provided he hadn't got sick. I can't bear sick folks—never could. I knew all the time he liked you better than he did me—found you more his class. He was a clever guy—poor old fellow!"
All this she rattled off without stopping. She asked questions, but never waited for an answer.
"You've changed a lot, child! I reckon you get better eats than you did on Tenth Street."
"I'm real glad to see you," faltered Rebecca. "Do you know why Mrs. O'Shea doesn't answer my letters? You saw her in New York after I left?"
"The old fool has shipped as stewardess on a slow ship sailing to Calcutta. The Lord knows where she is by this time. Married to a Chinee, more than likely. I went to the studio and got my things. You know everything there belonged to me," she added a little fiercely. "I never got a real divorce from my husband."
"I never thought—I guess there wasn't much left there, 'cause I had to sell so much to keep things going when Daddy was sick."
"Oh, don't talk about it. Didn't you just hear me say I couldn't bear sick folks?"
"No, I won't mention it, but Mamma—I can't help calling you Mamma—do you know what became of the trunk full of letters that belonged to my own father?"
"Sure! I sent them to storage with all the other junk. More fool me, too! No doubt the storage bill will be more than the stuff is worth. I always was a sentimentalist, though, and I couldn't bear to part with the things."
"Oh, Mamma, could you send the trunk to me here in Virginia? I want you to meet Mr. Philip Bolling. He is my neighbor and the best friend I have here," she exclaimed as Philip stepped forward.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bolling," said the dancer.
"Bless you, Rebecca, I'm not going back to New York for months. I'm booked up with these barnstormers until July and then I'm going to make tracks for Georgia and see my folks."
"You might give Rebecca an order on the warehouse company for the trunk," suggested Philip, producing a fountain pen and tearing a sheet from his note book. "The trunk is marked, is it not, Rebecca?"
"Oh, yes! T. Taylor is on one end and it is plastered all over with foreign labels. It is a small leather trunk."
"You will give the order, won't you?" Philip asked with respectful courtesy that appealed to the pretty dancer.
"Sure, if you ask it. Write out the order; describe the trunk. Make it out to bearer and let me sign it. It's the Victory Warehouse Corporation. You'll have to pay the back storage, though, before you can take anything out," she added shrewdly.
"I believe Grandfather would not mind, no matter what it costs," said Rebecca.
"So your folks are rich?"
"No, not rich—at least not now—" and then Rebecca saw the blood mount to Philip's forehead and she wished she had not said such a thing.
"Lost their money? Oh, well, folks that can't keep what they have don't deserve it! Well, so long, kid! I have a date. Hope the old letters will get to you safely. I don't bear you any grudge, even if you did steal my husband from me and then take my widow's weeds."
With an airy wave of her hand, the woman turned from the child with perfect indifference.
Rebecca's lip trembled a bit, but she forced a smile and looked up into Philip's eyes.
"She was always that way. But, anyhow, we have the order for the trunk and before long we'll have the trunk. Then—then—I won't be poor kin any more, but belong to the Taylor family just as much as Aunt Myra and Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Spot. Oh, Mr. Philip Bolling, you are always saving me and seeing me through!"