The promised long waits, in the offices and parlors of musical talent
had descended upon Mrs. Weatherbee and Jane. It having been impossible
to make an appointment for his interviews, the director was accepting
the situation philosophically, but it was trying, and all but
exhausting.
“You see, my dear,” she explained to Jane, “by seeing them personally,
we have a chance to solicit their interest in our college, and some of
these singers are the daughters of former students. That gives us an
opening. This lady we are now waiting for is a stranger, but if we can
obtain her promise to sing for us, our concert will be an assured
success. She is the rage of the season, and a wonderful concert
soprano.”
“Oh, yes, I have seen her pictures, and read her name many times
lately,” Jane followed. “As you say, Mrs. Weatherbee, it will mean
everything if we can secure her.”
“But I have to go back to that violinist at three, my dear, and Mme.
Nalasky will not be able to appear from her boudoir until two thirty. I
wonder if I could leave you here, and go myself to the violinist? Then,
if Madam appears you might make the preliminary appeal. I hate to leave
it to you, but I feel you would have a better chance with her than with
the other, and I cannot be in both places at the same time.”
“Oh, I shall be glad to try, Mrs. Weatherbee,” assented Jane, rather
glad indeed at the prospect of a quiet half hour in the luxurious room,
in which strangers, properly introduced, daily awaited the presence of
the noted singer. “If Madam appears I shall do my best.”
Satisfied it was perfectly safe to leave her charge in the room so well
peopled with women servants of the prima donna, one a secretary, one
evidently a personal maid, and still another a matronly woman who
attended to strangers after they had successfully passed the hall boy’s
scrutiny and stereotyped interrogations, Mrs. Weatherbee hurried off
for her final word from the elusive violinist.
Jane settled down deeply in her cushions. But presently she was aware
of a stir in the room.
“Madam is ready,” briefly announced the secretary, taking the card from
the young woman who had been waiting longest.
Jane sat up attentively. The girl with the great fur scarf was ushered
into the next room. No one read or shifted about the waiting room now.
Everyone was expectant, and evidently a little excited.
“Oh, if Mrs. Weatherbee is not here!” breathed Jane. Then she tidied up
her belongings, and prepared to be ushered in, if that good fortune
came her way next.
She must plead for Wellington. And perhaps she would be able to do so
more effectively than she had supposed. The girl with the fur scarf and
great bundle of music was coming out smiling. Her interview had been
satisfactory, Jane guessed, and very likely it had to do with a musical
ambition. Jane hoped so.
Her own card was in her hand when the secretary approached. That
functionary took it with a pleasant nod and disappeared. Jane felt just
a little nervous. She had secretly hoped Mrs. Weatherbee would appear
in time for the interview.
“Miss Allen!” called the attendant, and Jane self-consciously followed
into the sanctum.
The soft luxury of the room was almost lost upon Jane, so intent was
she on her mission, and so fascinated was her gaze by the living
picture sitting in the small mahogany chair. This was Mme. Nalasky. She
smiled so frankly as Jane approached, the latter’s embarrassment was
swept away in her all-embracing welcome.
“Oh, my dear little girl,” spoke the noted singer, with a distinctly
foreign accent. “What can I do for you?” After a preliminary word of
explanation Jane briefly told of the Golden Jubilee Concert.
“Oh, yes, I have been informed by your honored president. I know of him
for many years—that is, quite many.” She corrected herself, for one
could see the woman was young, and very charming in her blonde, fair
beauty.
Jane then attempted to tell of the talent already secured, and being
somewhat at a loss to guarantee, as yet, anything like a brilliant
array, to support so noted an artist as Mme. Nalasky, she ventured to
suggest that a young girl at college would play the violin, and Jane
declared further, this young girl was quite a promising artist.
In this Madam was at once interested. “I always like to hear of the
young stars,” she said. “Sometimes a very little star comes out
wonderfully when all the cobwebs in her sky have been cleared away.”
Thus encouraged, Jane unfolded quite a story of Helen’s achievement.
Then she remembered the _Bugle_. Therein had been expressed a view of
Helen’s ability, better than Jane could hope to recount, so without a
thought, other than that to benefit the concert, Jane drew from her bag
the copy of the _Bugle_, with its bewildering arraignment of Helen’s
power.
The artist glanced at the little sheet with polite but indifferent
interest. Jane felt, for a moment, she had made a mistake in offering
so humble a testimonial. Then suddenly the prima donna sat erect. Her
eyes showed intense interest. Her long, wonderfully tapering fingers
seemed to clutch the much-abused little _Bugle_ with an intensity at
once strange and foreign to the occasion.
“Oh, my dear!” she exclaimed. “Tell me what is this? Who is this little
artist?” and she glared at Jane as if trying to obtain in that fixed
gaze some explanation of the lines she had just read.
“Why!” faltered Jane. “She is a little freshman—who is at Wellington.
She is a very great friend of mine.”
“But tell me about her!” begged the woman, actually seizing Jane’s
hands. “What does she look like? What is her real name? Do you know?
Please tell me quickly.”
Jane now saw the prima donna was laboring under some great strain and
excitement. So apparent was her agitation the secretary, who had
remained at a respectful distance during the interview, hastened to the
side of her mistress.
“Oh, pray, what is it, Madam?” she asked in alarm. “Why such
excitement?”
“But, Marie, you cannot know!” gasped the artist. “This is more to me
than life itself. Oh, what if it should be——” she hesitated. “Little
lady!” she again directly addressed Jane. “Can you tell me just what
the Polish girl looks like? Has she pretty eyes and pretty hair? And is
she a sweet child? Oh, how shall I ever wait to know!”
The intensity of the excitement was proving too much for Madam Nalasky,
and Jane ardently wished she had kept the hapless _Bugle_ to herself.
But it was too late now. Besides this, in offering the flattering
tribute of Helen’s ability to the singer, Jane had a sense of making
the artist acquainted with Helen, hoping the light knowledge might some
day be of value in her musical career. But now, Madam was almost
overcome. Her attendants were quieting her with smelling draughts from
a tiny bottle. Jane glanced at the outer door hopefully. If only Mrs.
Weatherbee would appear! What if this lady was erratic, and her
suddenly taken a spell? Jane remembered geniuses are apt to be very
temperamental.
“I am so sorry,” she said quietly to a maid. “I hope I have not upset
Madam?”
“Oh, no, my dear. It is not the upset, but the joy, the hope. How shall
I know! Can you not tell me what your friend looks like?” This from
Madam.
Again the singer was on her feet confronting Jane. For a moment Jane
fixed her eyes on the beautiful face, then she exclaimed:
“Oh, Madam! I think she looks like you.”
With a great swirling embrace Jane was actually swept into the singer’s
arms. Strong emotion, always a characteristic of such temperaments, was
now completely swaying the artist. Jane, abashed and disconcerted,
sensed the depth of the emotion, and guessed the identity of Helka
Podonsky was very near to the heart of this handsome woman.
At that moment the appearance of Mrs. Weatherbee at the door brought
welcome relief from the confusion and excitement. Jane quickly made
known Mrs. Weatherbee’s connection with the jubilee concert, and Mme.
Nalasky turned all her attention now to questioning the directress.
After a very storm of inquiries concerning Helen and her whereabouts
before coming to Wellington had been heaped upon the directress, Madam
finally begged leave to go to the college at once.
“But!” protested her secretary, “Madam! Your most important concert
this evening! It is a benefit, you remember, Madam! and they especially
wish you to sing.”
“Oh, Marie, you do not know, and I cannot at present say how very much
this means to me. This is my own grand benefit, and I, Nalasky, who
have given always gladly to others, now claim something for myself. My
understudy must take the concert. I could not close my eyes again,
until I have seen this wonder child. Ah, my dear lady,” to Mrs.
Weatherbee, who was too surprised for utterance at the turn affairs had
taken. “I feel this young girl, Miss Allen, has been an agent of kind
Providence. She has protected this child from a wild and treacherous
world,” and again Madam took refuge in her pillows, sobbing and smiling
alternately.
Realizing that nothing could deter her, the attendants put themselves
to the task of preparing for a hasty departure of their distinguished
mistress, and when Jane and Mrs. Weatherbee took their places in the
Lake Shore train that afternoon, it was in a luxurious and exclusive
private compartment, reserved at the request of Mme. Nalasky, their
companion on the journey.
Immediately upon entraining, Madam was tucked into her couch by the
faithful Marie, who could scarcely restrain from open rebellion, that
Madam should so exhaust herself, to the danger of her marvellous voice.
To these commands the singer reluctantly consented, although it was
clear she would have much preferred taking Mrs. Weatherbee and Jane.
“Oh, Mrs. Weatherbee,” breathed Jane, alone once more with her
director. “Isn’t it too strange for words!”
“Like a fairy story, my dear, but stories follow some people and I
fancy they have a liking for you.” She was in splendid humor and the
very best of spirits, in spite of her hard day spent at collecting
talent for the concert.
“Whatever will Helen say?” Jane could not help wondering aloud.
“We have a pleasant scene ahead of us,” answered Mrs. Weatherbee
smilingly.
“And the little paper—to think it was through that article this has
really come about,” further mused Jane.
“Oh, no, my dear. You would have found this through one means if not
another. True, the _Bugle_ served—but you operated it.” Mrs. Weatherbee
insisted upon being complimentary.
“And I feel, Mrs. Weatherbee,” Jane ventured further, “if this all
comes out beautifully, we ought to forgive Marian. After all, she gave
out the news that did the—that worked the miracle.”
“Well, poor Marian is of the class bound to get into trouble, but I
shall be very glad indeed if we can find some extenuating circumstance
for her latest offence.” She was good natured to the point of
indulgence.
“But, don’t you think, Mrs. Weatherbee, the very fact that this seems
to be providential makes a claim for Marian?” Jane was very cautious
now. She did not mean to appear dictatorial to her superior.
Mrs. Weatherbee smiled. “Leave it to Jane to find an excuse,” she
replied, unmindful of having used a clap-trap phrase. “You do manage
beautifully, my dear, to get girls out of trouble.”
“But, you see, I have been in trouble myself at times,” explained Jane,
“and I know how hard it is to extricate oneself. Marian is spiteful,
and that leads her into mischief, but think of her disadvantages at
home. Then just think of my wonderful daddy——”
The school official smiled broadly. Yes, Jane had reason to be thankful
for her inheritance.
“Your father’s scholarship has done more than it ever promised to
accomplish. I feel we have a beautiful scene to unfold as a prelude to
our Golden Jubilee benefit,” she replied.
“Oh, I am so glad!” sighed Jane as she lay back to watch the sunset
creep over the Catskills.
What would happen when they reached Wellington? However would all the
girls understand the wonderful turn in events? It was too delicious to
contemplate.