CHAPTER XXX—THE ACORN AND THE OAK

“Oh, it’s Jane! Come on!” called Judith, dragging in her wake such of the girls as she could collect from the study hall. “Come on and hear all the news.”

At that moment the party from New York, Mrs. Weatherbee, Jane and their distinguished guest, Mme. Nalasky, were being shown in to the halls of old Wellington. There, just across the polished floor within the confines of the cozy office, Helen and her guest awaited, expectantly, and with evidence of suppressed excitement.

“Here we come!” announced Jane, who led the way. “Helen—you here? We stopped at your house,” then seeing the strange young man, Jane repressed her joyous enthusiasm.

Madam Nalasky was holding back a little, at the urgent request of her secretary, Marie, who openly rebelled that Madam should so endanger her voice with all this excitement. Mrs. Weatherbee was saying a private word with Miss Bennet, and that left Jane with Helen and the stranger. Jane had volunteered to go on ahead to prepare Helen for the news. She stood now, debating how to undertake her task.

“Helen, you can never guess who is here?” she finally blurted out in true school girl fashion. “Have you ever heard of the fairies?”

“Of a fairy godmother—yes,” replied Helen with surprising promptness. “I want to introduce to you. Miss Allen, my childhood friend—Stanislaus,” she said simply.

The young man bowed, and Jane smiled, as she accepted the introduction. But her eye was over her shoulder on the door where Mme. Nalasky was being held back.

“Oh, Helen, I am all excited,” admitted Jane. “We have such wonderful news. We have found—guess whom?”

“Oh, not my Matka! Do not tell me my dreams are all come true. It cannot be my mother!” and Helen, too overcome to say more grasped Jane and clung to her, trembling visibly.

“There is a lady here who cannot wait another moment to see you, may I——”

But the tide could no longer be stemmed and in rushed Mme. Nalasky.

“My baby! My own darling!” exclaimed the singer, brushing into the room and embracing the astonished Helen.

Jane drew back, and stood near Stanislaus, who was viewing the scene with quite as much astonishment as it were possible for a young man to experience. At the moment Jane could not refrain from indulging her old-time delight of clapping her hands. As if that were a signal, Judith and her followers actually entered the room in battle formation. Mrs. Weatherbee was about to expostulate, when Madam Nalasky turned smiling to the group.

“Ah, this is all too beautiful! Like a grand opera climax. I would not have the young ladies leave, if you please, madam,” to Mrs. Weatherbee. “May they not all hear our wonderful story? I think of a certainty, the companions of Miss Allen must indeed be worthy of so much pleasure.”

Judith almost chuckled. Jane dragged her in nearer and squeezed her hand. Drusilla, Dicky, Weasie, Gloria, besides all the others waiting impatiently in the big hall could hear their invitation to take part in the climax of the grand opera. Helen was dumbfounded. She stood staring at the woman beside her, as if she could not trust her senses. Then Marie, the faithful protector of talent, stepped up and deliberately led her mistress to a chair. Madam did sit down. She knew Marie’s power, but from the small throne she might still direct that girls’ opera.

She motioned Helen to come nearer, and then begun in true stage fashion to unfold the tale.

“This little girl,” she said, “is my own sweet daughter. When I left her in Petrograd at a conservatory she was in the care of the very wonderful man, my uncle. I had been—somewhat with the nobility, was obliged to leave the beautiful Poland, and too soon my kind old uncle—he who had taken Helka to watch over, was gone also!”

Stanislaus stood there like a guard, Jane thought, and as Madam described the scene it was truly one of dramatic value.

“When my uncle was gone, my baby was lost to me entirely. I had no way of finding her as these Russian artists who wanted her for her talent had put her in another conservatory. She showed talent so early in her baby life when her dear father would play his beloved violin,” she paused at this memory, then proceeded. “I searched the whole country and at last found she had come to America.”

She stopped while Stanislaus was exchanging significant looks, but he did not venture to interrupt the narrative. Jane was having all she could do to keep the girls in check, for Judith tugged at her sleeve. Weasie had pulled off her coat, while Gloria was making such eyes, across the room, poor Jane felt almost helpless, under the silent demands of her constituents. She wigwagged, and blinked, but had no reason to believe they would restrain themselves if this recital did not soon come home to Jane.

“When I found she came to America I followed,” went on Madam. “But not one word was I able to get of the child until to-day, this wonderful young girl came to me to ask me to sing at this concert—” indicating the surrounding as Wellington. “How, can you say, she was not sent to me directly, when all these years I have sought in vain, and every clue I would come to I soon would lose in some mysterious way—perhaps always arranged by those enemies?”

“May I speak, Madam—Matka?” Helen corrected herself. “You do not know how I reached America. It was through this young man, who like me was left at that awful conservatory. He got the passports and I came to America with him and his good old aunt.”

Everyone now turned to the embarrassed Stanislaus.

“But that was very little, Madam,” he said with his gallant sweeping bow. “I only got the passports and we came here to study more safely. I had hoped to reach my good old friend, Madam Strutsky, but she had gone, my aunt had found the school for young ladies, and there Helka went. From there I also lost her.”

“Helen! Helen!” exclaimed Jane. “How could we guess we had such a lost and found girl among us?”

“Ah, but my friend,” and Helen stepped forward, still keeping up the stage effect, “I have been through much trouble, and have found many friends, but it was Jane Allen who saved me when all the others were so far away. Even my good, kind Stanislaus had left me for the time, when she came, and everyone here knows how she has quietly worked to keep me from despair in the dark hours.”

“Please! please!” interrupted Judith. “If I do not speak, Mrs. Weatherbee, something dreadful will happen. You see, I was with Jane from the beginning of this episode, and I feel I should be permitted to say something for the girls. You would not close a scene like this without a chorus?”

“Judy!” begged Jane, thinking of that dreadful glee stuff about the girl, and her name was Jane, “Please don’t start any cheering.”

“Oh, _no_,” but her voice said “Oh, _yes_.” Then, “You just wait until the girls get their breath. I am emoting like a six cylinder.”

Jane glanced over the heads of those surrounding her, and in the hall caught sight of Marian Seaton’s face. It was strained and saddened, and the look returned to Jane’s pleaded silently for the unhappy outcast.

“Oh, Marian,” called Jane instantly. “Do come in and let us tell you that the story in the _Bugle_ helped wonderfully to untangle—the tangle. After all, it did no damage, but good.”

“But the good came through you,” said Marian, entering the room. “Jane, I am sorry, and have told Helen so.”

“Now, come on, girls, and all join the circle,” exclaimed Jane, smiling as she took Marian’s hand. “We will have a wonderful time after dinner.”

THE END