Jane Allen, Center

by George Cary Eggleston

  CHAPTER XVIII--THE WOES OF "ALIAS HELEN"

  A fall evening, dark, dreary and drizzling.

  The amount of work to be prepared for next day seemed heavier and moredifficult than usual and Jane Allen, humanly responsive, felt keenlythe natural reaction of the wild week of honors and excitement.

  It was almost time to "call it a day" when a very timid tap at thedoor, brought the bronze head up with welcome attention.

  "Come!"

  It was Helen--teary, and distrait. Helen with tie askew and hairtousled. Helen with eyes too bright and cheeks too red, and breath tooshort for normal.

  "Oh, Helen, do come in! What is the matter?"

  Jane brushed the papers from the wicker chair, and Helen sank in it.The red eyes were pressed with a small wet ball, and the unsympatheticcurls from her forehead dug into teary lashes with pure teasingpersistency.

  "Child, why do you cry?" asked Jane with a precision of manner suitablefor an occasion such as this. Helen regarded abrupt speech as a mark ofindifference, and Jane surmised this was no time for indifference.

  "Oh, my dear friend!" sobbed the crestfallen Helen. "It--is too much, Icannot to--stand it!"

  "What, Helen? What has happened? Tell your own Janey!" and with acaress, unmistakable in its sincerity, Jane dropped on a stool at thefeet of the sobbing Polish girl.

  "I thought not to tell you--it is too much that I should be like ababy," went on Helen, endeavoring with poor result, to check herchoking sobs, "but to-night, I feel I must go!"

  "Why, child! Go where?"

  "That is what is too hard. I cannot know where, but to go--Oh, I must,Jane darling! I can no longer stand it all!"

  "Now, Helen, tell me about it. You know it cannot be so serious that weshall not find a remedy," Jane coaxed.

  "First, when I came here you know I heard many words--of anger that I,Helen Podonsky, should be at an American college." Something liketriumph rang in the voice that now spoke the Polish name. "But I didnot protest, I had the very good friends, and I loved them dearly." Thebrown curly head tossed with unmistakable pride, and Jane was surprisedand charmed at the note evolving in the hitherto docile little Helen.

  "Very many times," continued Helen in even tones, "I would have toldyou about that detestable girl--she who goes about at my heels, andlistens at my door, until my dear roommate, Dicky Ripple, told Mrs.Weatherbee all about it."

  "Dicky told Mrs. Weatherbee about whom?" asked Jane in surprise.

  "I hate the name too much to utter it. To-night you must pardon me, mydear Jane, but I am indignant, and I feel the Podonsky power breakingin all my veins." An eloquent gesture, two arms thrust out with powerunmistakable, accompanied this assertion. Surely, Helen was betraying anew attribute--she was dramatically indignant! Something had aroused herslumbering pride, something had awakened her dormant lineal glory.Helen Powderly was not at the moment Helka Podonsky. It was a newHelka, all Polish, all artist, all self confident, that confrontedJane.

  "Oh, you mean Marian Seaton?" Jane was glad to insert. "I have had somuch trouble from that girl, Helen dear, that I am now immune, that is,it no longer gives sorrow or worry. I just expect it like bad stormsand other calamities."

  "But when a girl is a sneak, when she makes trouble, so one cannot goto sleep, when she hisses into other girls' ears such things asare--lies--then, what would you do?"

  "She has done all of that to me, Helen. My first year here was anightmare, in spots," and Jane tried to inject a little mirth into thefast-growing seriousness of the conversation. "But I got over it (shemight have said 'rose above it,' but Jane was humble). Yes, Helen, Idid suffer just as you have described, and now you see the other girlsare my friends, and she is losing all her companions."

  "For you, yes, that is all good. You are the president of our class,and much loved, much honored, Jane Allen. But for Helen Powderly, whohas a wrong name, who got to college by tricks, who is perhaps somespy! Ugh! It is too much!"

  That surely was foreign. No American girl could indulge in that sort ofmelodrama, and hope to retain her reputation as a well-bred member ofsociety. It was too impassioned, too effusive, too altogether out ofharmony. Yet Jane was secretly admitting it was sincere! It rang true!And it was gloriously frank! She admired the spirit, if she didsomewhat discount the tone of voice.

  "Now, Helen dear, I am sure you are just a little bit mistaken. Eventhe hateful Marian would not do such injustice as to pile all thatdishonor on your pretty head. Don't you think something has made yournerves--too tight, and they hurt the way you are stretching them?" Janerealized this was a weak simile, but it was not easy to give Helen aclear understanding always, and the intricacies of this conversationtaxed even Jane's ready flow of speech.

  "Nerves! nerves!" repeated Helen with something like a sneer. "We donot grow nerves in Poland, my dear friend. We must work hard for ourart, and every hardship puts its foot on the squirming nerves. Noartist can grow big, with those nerves biting her power."

  Another revelation! Helen had her own psychology. This "killing ofnerves" for the good of talent, was quite philosophical, if a triflevague in the abstract. Jane bethought herself a nerveless career was,indeed, idealistic.

  "But what has happened just now?" pressed Jane. "What has Marian beendoing to so distress you?"

  Helen sank again into an attitude of polite concentration. She evensmiled into the gray eyes that compelled her love, and confidence.

  "I was out in the far grove, under the trees," she began. "I go thereto hear the wild wind shriek and wail, so I may make those notes on myviolin. Last night the wind howled like some awful frightened spirit,and I knew our masters made their wonderful music from suchinspiration. I was sitting in a low branch, the wind rocked me like aplaymate, and up in the trees, those shrieking, wonderful notes, oh--ifI can only catch them!" she paused, and in the interval Jane visionedHelen up in that tree--as Judith would have said, "she had a life-sizedpicture" of the girl and her violin, in the tree, under the shriekingnight winds, strong enough last night to blow girl and violin intorealms of inspiration she so coveted. Presently as Jane nodded:

  "It was too lovely to be there, and gently draw from my beloved violinthe echo of that wind music. But the hateful girl! She had followed,and when I was so happy, with one magic strain, when she laughed outloud, horrible! She hissed and--made the noise to destroy myinspiration, to frighten away my beloved notes, and their littlegraces."

  "Oh, that was too bad, surely, Helen," considered the rather bewilderedJane. She knew very well what effect the "movie" in the tree wouldnaturally have on a girl like Marian. "But you must understand sheknows nothing of the art or its inspirations," finished Jane.

  "That I know also, and I could forgive the ignorance. But she mocksme," declared the unhappy girl, "she says vile things--she says--Iam--mad!"

  "Oh!"

  That was it! Marian had taunted Helen with being mad! This was reallyserious, and Jane showed her apprehension by a complete silence. Toprevent the little foreigner from a precipitous withdrawal fromWellington was now her problem.