CHAPTER XXIII—THE BARN SWIFTS—A TRAGEDY

“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.