CHAPTER XXIX—THE BOY STANISLAUS

As night gathered around Wellington, and while the fast train cut through the hills, back to the little station where so many happy, and perhaps a few sad hearts had come and gone from the old college, there was hidden in one of the campus houses a girl who had refused her meals, and lay disconsolate on her couch, wretched and alone; perhaps even forgotten by her erstwhile companions. This was Marian Seaton.

“Oh, if Jane Allen were only here!” she repeated again and again. “She would be good enough to at least tell me what to do.”

Nor was it strange that the avowed enemy of Jane should take refuge in this thought; for Marian Seaton well knew that Jane Allen would never stoop to seek revenge; even from one so unloved as she.

But Jane was in New York. She had been away when the storm broke over Marian’s head, and Marian felt the full force of the blow which had fallen without the intervention Jane Allen would have been sure to exert.

When Drusilla and Judith had sufficiently recovered from the spell of indignation occasioned by the perusal of the _Bugle_ account of the Barn Swifts and the “Mystery of Wellington College,” they set out directly to call Marian Seaton to account. Nor did they allow her much opportunity for explanation. Marian reluctantly admitted she had given out that information, and also confessed to knowledge of the penalty for such an offense. During the arraignment the girl kept herself up with that courage peculiar to most young offenders. But immediately her inquisitors were gone she collapsed.

And there she lay, all in a miserable heap. Poor Marian! Surely Jane would be good to her when she knew how much her sympathy was needed.

The fate of Dolorez was of little interest. She might be outside the big gate in the shabby cottage banging around and breaking up the unfortunate furniture, for all anyone within the gates knew or cared; for Dolorez had been expelled peremptorily, the day previous. Not even a kind look from the troops of girls passing in and out was offered to mitigate her indignity. Dolorez evidently cared little for anything other than enterprise, and that of a forbidden variety when found around girls’ colleges, where the fostering of unwholesome vanity is considered detrimental to their interests.

But Marian was still a pupil of old Wellington, and she was also a young and now a very heart-broken girl. With a throbbing head, she finally arose and bathed her tear-stained face. She was determined to seek out Judith and ask for her intervention before Mrs. Weatherbee should arrive. Out on the lonely path—all the girls were at their studies after the evening meal—Marian pulled up suddenly at the sight of a shadow coming toward her. It was just dark enough to outline the figure as that of a man. Marian stepped out of the path to allow him to pass. First she was impelled to slip behind the big oak tree, then with something of a reckless abandon, she kept to the roadway and encountered the youth face to face, under a dimly burning street lamp.

He stopped and raised his hat. Then spoke with an accent, inquiring for the office. Marian directed him, and was passing on when he asked:

“Do you happen to know is there here a young lady who is called Helen?”

Marian could not repress a smile. A girl named Helen!

“Oh, yes. There are a number of Helens here,” she replied. “What other name?”

“Oh, I beg pardon,” and he swung his hat with a grace peculiar to cultured foreigners. “I should have said Helen Powderly.”

“Oh, yes, I know Helen very well. She is at Ivy Nook,” replied Marian. “But you would have to see her in the office,” she added not unkindly.

“I should suppose so,” he agreed. “That is why I shall go to the building. I am glad to know she is still here, and I thank you, mademoiselle.”

“You are entirely welcome,” replied Marian. “But I am going toward Helen’s house—could I take the message?”

“That would be very kind. I should be glad if Helen knew I—Stanislaus—am here, if mademoiselle would tell her.”

“Oh, yes, certainly,” replied Marian, a sting of conscience stabbing her at the utterance of that name “Stanislaus.” That was the name Dolorez had forged to the flower card.

And this princely young foreigner was Stanislaus. Marian turned toward Helen’s cottage, a new thought possessing her. Perhaps now she could do something to make amends! She would give Helen the good news and—joy might banish the thought of anger, of revenge!

Quickly Marian sped over the campus in the early night shadows, while the stranger continued his way to the office of Wellington College. It was still a reasonable time to receive messages, at least, from the outside world, and the office kept in touch with all the campus houses for any such emergency.

But what if Helen were not there? She, Marian, had not been out of her room since that eventful visit of Judith, directly after lunch, and Helen may not have been in Wellington since the day before, so far as she knew. At that time Dolorez had promised, in her threats, she would oust the little Polock and give her a taste of the “sort of treatment” she, Dolorez, had been exposed to.

“Yes, there is a light,” she murmured, looking up over the little porch at the window she knew to be Helen’s. “How shall I tell her?”

Running lightly up the stairs of the tastefully arranged Ivy Nook, Marian was presently at Helen’s door. She hesitated, patted her hair, and corrected the flying ribbon of her tie. The situation of meeting Helen now actually confronted her, even the courage so gratefully accepted when down the campus path, seemed waning. But, presently Marian tapped lightly at the door.

There was a step within, and then the door opened. Helen drew back at the sight of her visitor. She had not expected Marian Seaton.

“Oh, Helen,” gasped Marian. “I have such good news——”

“_You_ have good news,” repeated the astonished girl, with an unpleasant inflection of the pronoun.

“Yes, Helen. Do be—reasonable. I am in such a hurry. There is a caller for you at the office——”

“Won’t you step in?” asked Helen, interested now.

“Oh, yes, Helen,” and Marian, condescending and abject, crossed the sill. “I don’t know how to tell you, but he gave the name Dolorez forged to your card. He says he is—Stanislaus!”

“Oh, my Stanislaus! Where is he! You are not deceiving me again!” and with this question, the excited girl seized Marian, whirled her around to the light, and glared into her frightened face.

“Oh, no, Helen. I would not deceive you like that. I did not write that card, or think of it. It was Dol——”

“Yes, you need talk to me of her, and I believe you now, although—but never mind,” suddenly breaking off her unfinished sentence. “Where is the one who says he—is—my—Stanislaus?”

“At the office. I met him looking for you, and I offered to come. But just one moment, Helen, please. I am in deep trouble, and I want to ask your forgiveness first.”

The Polish girl breathed heavily, and drew away just a trifle. But that action gave Marian her answer.

“But you know Jane would be reasonable, Helen, and I want to have the courage to face her—when she comes. Think, you have had so much worry, but now it will soon be over surely, yet I am more alone than you, for I have no—good friend.”

This appeal touched the heart of the other, and she quickly laid her hand into that of the trembling Marian.

“I see your grief is sincere, and, as you say, Jane is always—forgiving, so if it pleases her, you need have no fear from me. But let me get to the office. Are you coming back?” asked Helen.

“Yes, no, I don’t know. I am so anxious to see them first, after the train comes in. It will be due very soon. You go along, Helen, and thank you. I hope your friend brings you very good news.”

“Oh, he will! Stanislaus never fails!” and at that Helen was off down the stairs, and only the light slam of the door closing, brought to Marian the realization of being alone.

The door opened as she mounted the steps, and Miss Bennet, secretary to Mrs. Weatherbee, awaited her arrival.

“I just phoned over for you, Miss Powderly,” she said. “A friend is waiting,” and her smile betrayed something of the good news expected.

“Oh, Stanislaus! My friend! My brother!” exclaimed the overwrought Helen, rushing in and grasping the two outstretched hands of the young man who stood in the center of the office. “At last you have come! Oh, it is too good!”

“And as good to me, little sister!” replied the young man affectionately, returning Helen’s greeting. “It seems years I have been looking.”

“Let us sit down,” said Helen, finally releasing the hand of her caller, “over there by the big palm. You see, Stan, I have a very lovely home. And we will tell our story in English, Stan, for Miss Bennet is my very good friend.”

Miss Bennet smiled her appreciation of the compliment. Had Helen chosen to use her native tongue, Polish, the secretary would have felt like one endured through sufferance, but English has a way of floating around, even to the corners of such an office as that of Wellington.

“And now tell me, Stan dear,” begged Helen. “Where have you been and how did you lose me?” She smiled prettily at this question, then continued. “After that you may tell me how you have found me.”

The young man smiled in return. He was of light complexion, and had curls to add to his distinguished appearance—but wait until Jane or Judith would see those curls! Noting his wonderful broad forehead, even Miss Bennet guessed he must be a very talented young man, indeed.

“I will tell you all about it, little sister,” he began in a subdued voice. “After I left you at the young ladies’ seminary at Blindwood I returned to New York, and there, I found, I was being watched by those Russians!”

“Oh, those men! I, too, saw them, and had much trouble to get away!” interrupted Helen.

“Then I knew I should not again risk going to your school, or even sending a letter. I waited for weeks, hoping to find some way to send you word, when I was suddenly called West to fulfill a contract in a big city. That took me far away, and with sorrow I left you, sending no word. It was like the old world then, here in this America. The traitor was everywhere and I could not risk your happiness once more. So I went to the West.”

“But you were very wise, Stan,” Helen insisted, “for all the time at that school, I had money, and all things I wanted. You arranged things so beautifully.”

“I am happy, Siostra,” he replied, using the Polish term for sister. “I would that little Helka had never to know sorrow, she has suffered too much.”

“But now—no more,” and Helen grasped his hand in sheer gratitude.

“It was while in Chicago,” continued the young man, “I met a social worker, she was called, and this young lady told me what to do to get a message to you. She wrote a letter to the New York worker, Miss Mahon, and that was how I found you had come here from Blindwood.”

“Oh—I see!” exclaimed Helen, as if the information had answered a long standing question.

“But now tell me how it is with you, Siostra? You are very happy here?”

Memories of the tearful face of Marian Seaton delayed for a moment her reply. Then she smiled brightly and told him, it was a very wonderful school, and she had many very good friends, but her benefactor!

“You shall know the most wonderful girl of all,” enthused Helen. “My real sister and protector, Miss Allen. You have yet, my friend, something great to know, for you will learn what a girl can do for kindness alone.”

“Oh, little one. I know what anyone can do for so good a sister as Helka Podonsky, but I shall like also to know this wonderful friend. I hope she may not take all the glory from Stanislaus?” This a playful quib proclaimed the youth of the boy, and one capable of enjoying persiflage.

“That could not be,” replied Helen. “But I must tell you about the man who followed me in New York. He came one day to my apartment where I was with Miss Allen and her friend. He waited until he knew I was alone, then he came to my door. I was so much terrified I could only shut that door, then I fainted.”

“Poor little girl,” replied the young man, “I knew they would follow you, but how did you elude them?”

“That very day we left New York, and came safely to this far-away place. Oh! Stanislaus, you cannot know what Miss Allen has done for me. Always when she asked to find my friends, and I say—wait—she will wait. If then she make known where I am, I would again be found by those robbers,” and the violet eyes blazed at the thought.

“But I do know something of your good friend,” he replied. “The social worker of New York wrote in her letters of this young lady. She said many fine things about her.”

“She could not say half,” briefly replied Helen.

The sound of a motor outside interrupted them. Miss Bennet opened the door to admit the wayfarers from New York City.