“And now for the Barn Swifts.”
“Everyone is crazy to come, Dickey. I’m afraid we will have an
overflow.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I suppose Nell will completely douse all the rest
of us. That’s the way with foolish college girls. First they cut and
then they plaster.”
“Now, Dickey, you know you are Nell’s best friend.”
“That’s just it. I am and have always been her friend. I know a
thoroughbred when I see one, but these other folks,” and Dickey made a
gesture of disgust. “They make me tired. I heard Toney and Tim planning
to give her flowers.”
“You did?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Then, Dick, we must be careful. Such a manifestation as flowers
spells—trouble.”
“What do you mean, Clare?”
“I mean that Toney and Tim are Marian’s best workers, and when they
fall to our side with flowers! Look out!”
“I am willing to take a chance with anyone but Dolorez Vincez, and must
admit she is too much for us.”
“I think you are right, Dicky duck. But how do I look? Like my wings?”
“Wonderful. But the left is a big scough-gee! There, that’s better.
What do you think of the shawl? I borrowed it from Maggie and promised
to return it without getting the folds out—an utter impossibility.”
They were almost dressed for the big event—the Barn Swifts’ show. As
hinted at, the scene was laid in London, but more than that could not
be even hinted at—it would all come out in the Barn. Troups of freshmen
trooped—no other word would describe the going back and forth to the
big barn—all afternoon and now, that it was almost time for the curtain
to go up, a silence, formidable in its import, settled on the stretch
of road leading to the gaily lighted auditorium commonly known as the
Barn.
Every seat had been taken, and as Clare anticipated, an overflow was
imminent. Faculty, grads, undergrads, and all the sororities turned out
in full force, to do credit to the inspired freshmen, and that a real
artist, Helen Powderly, would render “original compositions, including
the famous ‘Wellington Sonata’” added not a little zest to the promised
program.
As a curtain raiser Weasie Blair made some announcements. These
included one for the Flippers’ Pop-Corn Sale, another for a Musicale to
be given in aid of the Shut-ins, a call to arms—which translated meant
that such girls as had any of the War Samplers, being finished for the
Mirabile Dictu, would please send them in by Wednesday. The obsequies
over, Weasie bowed prettily, and the real show proceeded.
Janet Clark played beautifully—some martial music on the old square
piano, the same piano standing up remarkably under the strain of use,
of ill use, and catalogue changes. A second curtain reluctantly hitched
itself up, revealing the stage setting—improvised wilds of London—if
there be any such, the scenes all carefully laid in discarded wall
paper, and strips of nondescript table oilcloth. The idea was all
right—but the detail a little sketchy.
Applause was easier to obtain than dramatic action, and what ever the
latter failed the former supplied.
Dickey Ripple, in Maggie’s shawl, made a very pathetic picture, sitting
by the wet roadside, with great snowflakes fluttering down. It was
Janet Clark’s task to take care of the snowstorm, as she had only to
perform on the piano otherwise, and Janet was never known to be
accurate. Consequently her storm was heavy—too heavy for snow. More
like an avalanche, and the paper flakes at times acted as if some one
had ground out the motto slips from the upper flies. Nevertheless the
effect was thrilling, and Dickey in the snow brought forth rapturous
applause.
To the rescue came tripping a bevy of Barn Swifts. Even the most
critical could find little to complain of in that ballet. The piano and
violin (Helen played behind the scenes now)—this music inspired the
sprites rhythmically and when finally they danced around, surrounding
Dickey, and carrying her off to the woodlands, the house “went mad,” as
Gloria Gude expressed it.
More London scenes of trials and trouble, pathetic and miserable, the
story not the acting, then came the climax!
A real little chimney sweep, a ragged urchin, made “his” awful way down
the chimney (a slide cased in around the old brick fireplace) and after
the wildest, weirdest strains of music (Helen at her best) the urchin
came down—down until finally he landed in a very dim light, all huddled
up close to the big, ramshackle chimney.
There should have been applause—the work deserved it, still the house
was silent—spellbound. Not a hand clapped!
Weirdly the violin strains wailed and wafted the plaint of the
inspired, yet mad Chimney Swift! This was the original music, this was
the much talked of star act of Helen Powderly, the promising artist of
Europe, the little freshman who was delaying her musical studies to
obtain a correct knowledge of English.
Now the entire scene changed. It was no longer a school girls’ amateur
comedy, but a performance of such musical merit as Wellington had never
before discovered among her own students.
When the plaint was finished, and the violin slipped down under the
pile of leaves and brambles, Helen’s face could not be seen, so dim was
the light. She had insisted on that sombre accompaniment.
For a few moments everyone waited, then one of the faculty ventured to
start the applause.
Instantly the tumult amounted to an ovation. Jane and Judith were
breathless and allowed everyone else to do the applauding, while they
wondered.
That was really Helen! She had composed that sighing, wailing, moaning
strain out in the trees, when she caught the tune of the winds.
They knew!
But the students would not now be satisfied, and Helen was obliged to
respond to an encore. Trite as is that statement, it expresses the
fact, and Helen did finally respond.
When she stepped out to the edge of the platform she revealed herself
the true artist. Not the absurd rags, nor the comic make-up hid the
personality of Helka Podonsky. The very manner of that graceful bow,
the splendid tilt of her pretty curly head and above all the way she
carried and caressed her violin proclaimed her the artist.
For an encore she played the “Wellington Etude.” This was the
composition advertised, and it fully bore out the promised merit.
When finally after the last note, like a bit of spun glass, blew its
way to the heaven of true sounds, again came the thunderous applause.
“Just as I expected,” groaned Dickey Ripple. “We won’t be able to go on
with the drama.”
“Oh, yes, we will. She will not play another note, not if they take the
rafters down, and as soon as the audience discovers that, they will
quit,” appeased Weasie.
“Oh, they’re giving her flowers!” whispered Clare, her eye to the
peephole. “An usher just brought a big bunch!”
Helen could be seen accepting the flowers. She bowed gracefully, then
glanced at the dangling card. The next moment she had dropped the
flowers to the floor, and she stood there, like one transfixed!
Everyone saw what happened! When Helen read the card she dropped the
flowers!
There was a breathless pause. Finally a timid clap came like a signal
from Jane’s chair. Helen glanced over, recovered herself and with a
murmur of apology regained her flowers.
But not before the mischief had been done.
Everyone wanted to know what was written on that card, and the
remainder of the Barn Swifts’ performance went by the wayside. The
tragic little incident had stirred the audience to evident curiosity,
and whispers broke out ruthlessly at the most thrilling moments.
Applause was sounded where the audience should have wept, and when
Gloria spoke the most dramatic line of the whole plot, when tears
should have burst from eyes and sighs escaped from trembling lips, some
one cheered!
“Awful!” moaned Dickey, the coach.
Unsteadily Helen came within the “flies” a little pale, but smiling and
hugging her roses. She was instantly surrounded by a crowd, too
overcome to really offer compliments, but the way they caressed her
with their eyes told the story.
Helen had made the Barn Swifts famous, and what matter about drivelling
drama!
When eventually the audience stirred, Mrs. Weatherbee succeeded in
reaching Jane, and was now talking to her in a serious tone.
“I had no idea of her genius,” the directress said. “She has a positive
gift. She should not be wasting her precious time here in commonplace
English.”
“Yes, I know, Mrs. Weatherbee,” Jane faltered. “But she wants so much
to acquire a knowledge of our language. And Helen is still very young.”
“Oh, I realize that, my dear, but she is—an artist. She has given all a
wonderful treat. Tell her to drop in the office to see me, when she is
composed again. I fancy the whole matter made her a little nervous. She
dropped her flowers, as if frightened for a moment.”
“Yes, I noticed that,” said Jane foolishly. As if everyone had not
“noticed that.”
Out in the lane, a bypath that wound round to the campus houses, Marian
Seaton and Dolorez Vincez were tramping along, arm in arm, minds
working in a strain of peculiar satisfaction.
“I knew that would get her,” said Dolorez.
“Yes, wasn’t it perfectly tragic!” exclaimed Marian.
“Great!” declared the other, less choice with her expression than was
Marian. “I would not have missed that for a farm.”
“The effect was certainly very startling. Yet she did recover herself.
What a wonderful player she is! How ever did she learn all that in her
scant years?”
“Born that way,” tritely contributed Dolorez. “One doesn’t have to
learn—talent.”
“I suppose not. But how wonderful it is. Why was not I born that way,
as you say? Think what talent would mean to me?” this with a sigh.
“Oh, come, Molly,” and Dolorez wrapt her arm more tightly around the
velvet cloak. “You have talent. What about all that money we are going
to make?”
“Hush, Dol! The girls passing might hear you.”
“What if they did?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t for the world!”
“Pray, why not?” with a show of indignation.
“We never talk of making money at Wellington,” said Marian, when a
group of passing girls faded out of earshot.
“I don’t see why not. I am sure less important things are talked of,”
persisted the tantalizing Dolorez.
“But, Dol, you don’t seem to understand. We all have a rating here, and
we could not get here without it. We are not in the money-making
class—not that such are inferior to us,” Marian hastened to add, “but
because our social standing is supposed to be fixed outside of trade.”
A grating, mocking laugh followed this explanation. Evidently Dolorez
Vincez had no such notion of correct social standing. She was plainly
getting on Marian’s nerves.
“I hope we will not get into trouble on account of to-night’s affair,”
Marian said. “I really begin to fear trouble,” she sighed again.
Another mocking titter answered this.
“Good thing then, Molly, that you have me to fall back on. Cold feet
are very unhealthy.”
Even the callous Marian shrank away from that. Dolorez was forgetting
herself and “reverting to type,” as Marian expressed it.
Jane and Judith talked little, but thought much. They had detached
themselves from the more noisy element, with a determination to get
Helen and escort her safely to her little house with Dickey, and
Weasie; this was their ulterior motive; they also wanted quiet.
Judith was strong for Helen, and her enthusiasm grew as the moments
passed. They waited for some time at the stage door, ran around to all
other doors (Jane did, Judith still limped) yet Helen had not been
discovered. Just now Jane was peeping in a window, through which a torn
shade allowed a view of the interior. This was the annex used for
dressing.
“Where can she be?” asked Jane again.
“Didn’t Dickey see her?” questioned Judith.
“Not since she left the stage door. She said she was going over here to
get her things.”
“May be home in bed by now. Good sense if she is.”
“I hardly think so. Wait! I’ll slip in through the window. The door is
locked.”
Judith resigned herself to an old stump while Jane “slipped in.” She
waited some moments then knocked for Jane.
“Can’t lose her as well,” commented the tired junior. “Jane, why don’t
you come along?” she called lightly.
Then Jane opened the door. She had an arm around a shrinking little
form, that even under the heavy cloak could be seen to tremble.
“It’s only Judith,” whispered Jane. “Come on, Helen. I won’t let anyone
see you. You are just too scared to speak. Poor little dear.” Judith
was too surprised to speak. Also she sensed Helen had one of her
nervous spells, and very prudently Judith wrapt her arm around the
shaking figure, and together the three trudged along to the Ivy Nook,
the campus house of Helen’s lodgings.