"'A dark man is coming into your life'""'A dark man is coming into your life'"
Cynthia gasped ecstatically. She admired dark men.
"It is all clear in the cards. There is the fate card, and there is the dark man."
"I do hope he hasn't a moustache," murmured the listener. "Can you see his name?"
"No."
"And you can't tell where I'll met him, or how, or when?"
"The cards don't say, but it will be soon, and there's the money card, so he'll be rich. You'll both fall in love the moment you meet. He's your affinity."
Cynthia went out of the room in a sentimental trance. At last her dream was coming true. Not a tinge of skepticism lurked in her mind. Hadn't Madame told her all about her innermost feelings, and about her sister Molly having been ill with diphtheria, and about her father having made a big fortune out of pine lands, and about her having refused little Billy Bennington, whose father wasa millionaire and had a huge house on Fifth Avenue? No; there was no room for doubt.
She laughed off the questions of the girls. What she had learned was too sacred to be told to anyone except Amelia and Laura May, and possibly Blanche White.
After the lights were out that night she told them, and their sympathy and excitement were all she could have desired.
"Goodness, but I just envy you, Cynthia Weston," said Amelia in a stage whisper, which was a concession to the faculty's unreasonable prejudice against visiting after "lights-out" bell. "It's the most exciting thing I ever heard. He may pop out at you anywhere. She said it would be soon, didn't she?"
"Very soon." There was a soulful pride in Cynthia's manner, a tremulous thrill in her voice.
"Well, we'll all watch out for him. I'm almost as interested as if I were it," said Laura May generously; and Cynthia crept cautiously to her own room, to dream of a beautiful being with raven hair and piercing black eyes—and no moustache.
The days following that eventful evening were agitating ones for Cynthia. Every dark-haired man who passed the school procession during the morning excursion set her heart palpitating. Katharine Holland's dark-eyed brother turning up unexpectedly at the school was flatteredby the tremendous impression he made upon his sister's friend, Miss Weston; a swarthy book-agent who succeeded in obtaining an interview with Miss Ryder was surprised when a pretty girl whom he passed on the stairs grasped hastily at the baluster and seemed quite overcome by emotion.
At any moment the affinity might appear; but the days went by and still he delayed his coming.
A new play, fresh from Western successes, had begun a New York run upon the preceding Monday night; and with its advent a new matinée idol had dawned upon the theatrical horizon. Critics chanted praises of hisbeaux yeux, a strenuous press-agent scattered broadcast tales of his conquests, of the countless letters he had received from infatuated maidens, of the heiresses and society belles who had fallen victims to his charms. Occasionally someone mentioned that he could act, but that was a minor consideration.
Rumors of his fatal beauty reached the school by way of a day pupil who had seen the play on its first night, and Amelia, Laura May, Cynthia, Blanche and Kittie Dayton promptly bought tickets for the Saturday matinée and asked Belinda to chaperon them. They were in their seats early, and tranquilly watched the curtain go up upon a conventional drawing-room scene; but as Cecil Randolph, the leading man, turned from the window at theback of the stage and strolled toward the footlights, Belinda heard a queer little choking sound from Cynthia, who sat beside her, and saw her clutch Amelia's arm.
The matinée idol was tall, he had black hair and eyes, he was smooth-shaven—and Cynthiaknew!
The other girls were inclined to discount her claim when they had a chance to talk the matter over. Friendship is all very well, but to give a matinée idol up to any one girl, without entering a protest, would be more than human. Still there was no denying that the event fitted into Madame Noveri's prediction at every point, and it was natural to suppose that if Cynthia had met her affinity according to schedule she would be absolutely certain of his identity, so the confidants finally accepted the situation and gave themselves up to vital interest in their friend's romance, while Cynthia herself went about with her head in the clouds, drove her teachers to despair by her absent-mindedness, read the theatrical columns of all the papers, and wasted her substance in riotous buying of photographs. As for the amount of money squandered upon matinée tickets during those weeks—only the long-suffering fathers who were called upon for supplementary pocket-money could do justice to that tale of extravagance.
"... wasted her substance in riotous buying of photographs""... wasted her substance in riotous buying of photographs"
Amelia and Laura May and Blanche stood by nobly. If anything exciting were going to happen they wanted tobe there when it happened; so they went with Cynthia to all her affinity's matinées and occasionally to an evening performance. All of the teachers were successively pressed into service, and when the list gave out the girls began again with Belinda. Sometimes, when the other girls' pocket-money ran short, Cynthia paid for all the seats.
In due course Cecil Randolph noticed the group that invariably occupied seats in the third row, and smiled upon the girls—not his inclusive, catholic, matinée-idol smile, which might be taken to heart by any girl in the audience, but a personal, italicized smile all their own. The chaperon missed the phenomenon, but all four girls thrilled with delight, though three loyal hearts passed the smile on to Cynthia, its rightful owner. Even the idol himself accentuated his smile when it reached the fair girl with the blushing cheeks and eager eyes. She was so uncommonly pretty, and though it paid him to be adored by the plain it was a pleasant thing to be adored by the pretty.
On the eleventh of February Cynthia gave a luncheon and box party to her faithful three with Miss Spogg as chaperon. Mr. Weston's monthly check had been more liberal than usual, and a box is even nearer the stage than the third row of the orchestra chairs.
The idol's special smile followed the group to the box.Perhaps it was even warmer, more melting than usual; for the four girls were uncommonly good to look at, in their dainty frocks and hats, and with the great bunches of long-stemmed single violets, which had been luncheon favors, nestling among their laces and chiffons and furs.
During his great scene in the last act the actor faced the Ryder box and Cynthia bore the brunt of his wild raving. Even near-sighted Miss Spogg had an uncomfortable feeling that all was not quite as it should be, and registered a mental vow that she would protest to Miss Ryder against the conspicuousness of box seats; but the girls were too completely absorbed to feel conspicuous, and Cynthia, cheeks flaming, eyes glowing, red lips apart, drank in the love scene as though she hadn't already known it by heart and were not sharing it with hundreds of strangers. She was absurdly young, unspeakably foolish, but she was beyond a shadow of a doubt enjoying life—and it is hard to be severe with any one so pretty and impractical as Cynthia.
As the curtain fell upon the hero's hopeless passion the little maid's hands went to her breast, and an instant later a huge bunch of long-stemmed violets dropped at the idol's feet. He did not ruin his curtain pose by picking them up, but for one fleeting second he smiled his thanks. Miss Spogg was, of course, irate; but there were ways of appeasing Miss Spogg, and Cynthia knew them.
On Valentine's Day morning the school postman's load was heavy, and the solemnity of chapel was marred by a pervading excitement.
Cynthia had valentines—several of them—yet she did not look happy. All of her envelopes bore home postmarks, and she had expected—well, she hardly knew what she had expected, but something, surely.
After chapel came French recitation, and the Disappointed One was wrestling in melancholy fashion with the imperfect subjunctive, when a maid appeared at the door.
"A box for Miss Weston," she announced to the teacher.
"Put it in her room," commanded Mademoiselle.
"Please, ma'am, it's flowers. Should I open them?"
Mademoiselle smiled. She remembered valentine offerings of her own.
"You may be excused to attend to the flowers, Miss Weston. Come back as soon as possible."
Cynthia took the big, square box and fled to her room. Her prophetic soul told her what the contents would be.
She removed the wrapping and the lid. A gust of fragrance sweetened the room. The blonde head went down over the flowers and the pretty face was hidden in them. Then Cynthia lifted from the box a great mass of long-stemmed single violets, and with fast-beating heart readthe legend on the little valentine tucked among the blossoms.
"Love's offering," said the valentine.
Cynthia quite forgot to go back to the French class; and when, at the end of the period, Amelia, Laura May and Blanche burst in upon her, she was still sitting with the flowers in her lap and the card in her hand.
"Cynthia quite forgot to go back to the French class""Cynthia quite forgot to go back to the French class"
"Fromhim?" chorused the girls.
Cynthia nodded dreamily and handed them the card. Of course they were fromhim.
If the history of that week could be adequately written the chapter might be headed "The Cult of the Violet."
Cynthia worshipped at the shrine of the valentine violets. She clipped their stems, she changed the water in the vase, she opened the window and shut the register because the room was too warm for violets, she shut the window and opened the register for fear of chilling the flowers. When not on duty elsewhere she might ordinarily be seen sitting in her own room gazing at the purple blossoms like a meditating Yogi.
Some time the flowers would fade and she would dry them and lay them away; but if she could only keep them fresh enough to wear to the matinée on Saturday! Of course they would be a little withered, but he would understand that.
Friday night, both Cynthia and Amelia were elected todine at the Waldorf with Kittie Dayton and her uncle—an old bachelor uncle who spent several months in New York each winter, and, feeling that he must do something for Kittie at least once during his stay, lightened his penance by inviting two of her prettiest friends to share his hospitality with her.
Cynthia was too deep in romance to be enthusiastic about the outing, but the engagement was of long standing, and even the most love-lorn of boarding-school girls is not wholly impervious to the charms of a good dinner. So the three girls were escorted to the hotel and left in Mr. Dayton's charge. Under his wing they entered the dining-room, found the table reserved for them, and were seated by an impressive head-waiter.
Then they looked about them and Cynthia stiffened suddenly in her chair, while Amelia gave vent to a smothered "Oh!"
Kittie followed their eyes, but couldn't fully appreciate their emotion.
"Why, there's Cecil Randolph at the next table," she whispered joyously. "What larks to meet him off the stage. Isn't he perfectly seraphic?"
Mr. Dayton's glance travelled idly to the adjoining table.
"Yes, that's Randolph and his wife. Handsome couple, aren't they?"
Amelia swallowed an oyster whole, and created a fortunate though involuntary diversion by choking violently; while Cynthia, under cover of the excitement, clutched at composure and fought a sharp but successful battle against tears.
Married! Her affinity married! Well, after all, Madame Noveri had never promised she would marry the dark man. She had only foretold a coming crisis—and this was the crisis.
The thought of being in the middle of a bona-fide crisis was distinctly uplifting. She must be brave. Her favourite heroines always smiled bravely with white lips when they were sorely smitten by grief.
She and the idol could never marry and live happily ever afterward, but there was a certain consoling splendour in having been loved hopelessly by such a perfect hero—for he did love her. She was sure of that. Of course he ought not to have done it, ought not to have sent her the violets and the love message; but that was Fate! Hadn't Madame Noveri known all about the thing before it happened?
Cynthia sighed miserably. She was quite sure that her heart was broken, but she was glad he loved her, and she would treasure his violets always, though she would not go to the matinée to see him again. All was over.
The dinner ended at last; and as the Dayton party filedpast the Randolph table their progress was blocked by an incoming group. Cynthia did not raise her eyes; but suddenly her affinity's jovial voice fell upon her ears like a blow.
"Look, Daisy, there's the little girl who's so silly over me—yes; the blonde one. Pretty child, isn't she? Too bad to encourage such infants, but they mean box-office receipts, and we have to earn terrapin like this, in one way or another."
Just how Cynthia got out of the room she will never know. She was blushing furiously, for shame's sake, and the tears of mortification in her eyes kept her from recognizing Billy Bennington immediately when he appeared at her elbow.
"Oh, I say, Miss Weston, thisisjolly. Let me go out to the carriage with you."
Billy was a nice little boy, but she hated him. She hoped she'd never see a man again. She wished she were dead. She rather thought she'd go into a convent.
"D-d-id you g-get my valentine?" stammered Billy.
He knew that something had gone wrong with his divinity, and he was embarrassed, but his conscience was clear.
Cynthia shook her head.
"What? You never got my violets?"
She turned toward him swiftly.
"Violets?"
"Why, yes. I sent you those big single ones you like best, and I put a little valentine in with them."
She looked at the chubby little figure, the round, rosy face, the neatly-parted blond hair, the downy moustache.
For a moment a resplendent vision of a raven-haired hero blotted out poor Billy's image, and the little girl winked fast to keep back the tears. She had learned a lesson not down on the Ryder schedule and found it overwhelming, but she managed to smile faintly.
"Yes, I did get the flowers. Thank you so much," she said in a small, wobbly voice.
The carriage door slammed and she was whirled away, while Billy stood gazing fatuously into the night.
The next morning there were long-stemmed single violets and shredded photographs in the Ryder ash-can.
THE QUEER LITTLE THING
BONITA ALLEN was a queer little thing. Everyone in the school, from Miss Ryder down to the chambermaid, had made remarks to that effect before the child had spent forty-eight hours in the house, yet no one seemed able to give a convincing reason for the general impression.
The new pupil was quiet, docile, moderately well dressed, fairly good looking. She did nothing extraordinary. In fact, she effaced herself as far as possible; yet from the first she caused a ripple in the placid current of the school, and her personality was distinctly felt.
"I think it's her eyes," hazarded Belinda, as she and Miss Barnes discussed the newcomer in the Youngest Teacher's room. "They aren't girl eyes at all."
"Fine eyes," asserted the teacher of mathematics with her usual curtness.
Belinda nodded emphatic assent. "Yes, of course; beautiful, but so big and pathetic and dumb. I feel ridiculously apologetic every time the child looks at me, and as for punishing her—I'd as soon shoot a deer at sixpaces. It's all wrong. A twelve-year-old girl hasn't any right to eyes like those. If the youngster is unhappy she ought to cry twenty-five handkerchiefs full of tears, as Evangeline Marie did when she came, and then get over it. And if she's happy she ought to smile with her eyes as well as her lips. I can't stand self-repression in children."
"She'll be all right when she has been here longer and begins to feel at home," said Miss Barnes. But Belinda shook her head doubtfully as she went down to superintend study hour.
Seated at her desk in the big schoolroom she looked idly along the rows of girlish heads until she came to one bent stoically over a book. The new pupil was not fidgeting like her comrades. Apparently her every thought was concentrated upon the book before her, and her elbows were on her desk. One lean little brown hand supported the head, whose masses of straight, black hair were parted in an unerring white line and fell in two heavy braids. The face framed in the smooth, shining hair was lean as the hand, yet held no suggestion of ill-health. It was clean-cut almost to sharpness, brown with the brownness that comes from wind and sun, oddly firm about chin and lips, high of cheekbones, straight of nose.
As Belinda looked two dark eyes were raised from the book and met her own—sombre eyes with a hurt in them—andan uncomfortable lump rose in the Youngest Teacher's throat. She smiled at the sad little face, but the smile was not a merry one. In some unaccountable way it spoke of the sympathetic lump in the throat, and the Queer Little Thing seemed to read the message, for the ghost of an answering smile flickered in the brown depths before the lids dropped over them.
When study hour was over the Youngest Teacher moved hastily to the door, with some vague idea of following up the successful smile and establishing diplomatic relations with the new girl; but she was not quick enough. Bonita had slipped into the hall and hurried up the stairs toward her own room.
Shrugging her shoulders Belinda turned toward the door of Miss Ryder's study and knocked.
"Come in."
The voice was not encouraging. Miss Lucilla objected to interruptions in the late evening hours, when she relaxed from immaculately fitted black silk to the undignified folds of a violet dressing-gown.
When she recognised the intruder she thawed perceptibly.
"Oh, Miss Carewe. Come in. Nothing wrong, is there?"
Belinda dropped into a chair with a whimsical little sigh.
"Nothing wrong except my curiosity. Miss Ryder, do tell me something about that Allen child."
Miss Lucilla eyed her subordinate questioningly.
"What has she been doing?"
"Nothing at all. I wish she would do something. It's what she doesn't do, and looks capable of doing, that bothers me. There's simply no getting at her. She's from Texas, isn't she?"
The principal regarded attentively one of the grapes she was eating, and there was an interval of silence.
"She is a queer little thing," Miss Lucilla admitted at last. "Yes, she's from Texas, but that's no reason why she should be odd. We've had a number of young ladies from Texas, and they were quite like other schoolgirls only more so. Just between you and me, Miss Carewe, I think it must be the child's Indian blood that makes her seem different."
"Indian?" Belinda sat up, sniffing romance in the air.
"Yes, her father mentioned the strain quite casually when he wrote. It's rather far back in the family, but he seemed to think it might account for the girl's intense love for Nature and dislike of conventions. Mrs. Allen died when the baby was born, and the father has brought the child up on a ranch. He's completely wrapped up in her, but he finally realised that she needed to be with women. He's worth several millions, and he wants toeducate her so that she'll enjoy the money—'be a fine lady,' as he puts it. I confess his description of the girl disturbed me at first, but he was so liberal in regard to terms that——"
Miss Lucilla left the sentence in the air and meditatively ate another bunch of grapes.
"Did her father come up with her?" Belinda asked.
"No; he sent her with friends who happened to be coming—a highly respectable couple, but breezy, very breezy. They told me that Bonita could ride any bronco on the ranch and could shoot a Jack-rabbit on the run. They seemed to think she would be a great addition to our school circle on that account. Personally I'm much relieved to find her so tractable and quiet, but I've noticed something—well—er—unusual about her."
As Belinda went up to bed she met a slim little figure in a barbaric red and yellow dressing-gown crossing the hall. There was a shy challenge in the serious child face, although the little feet, clad in soft, beaded moccasins, quickened their steps; and Belinda answered the furtive friendliness by slipping an arm around the girl's waist and drawing her into the tiny hall bedroom.
"You haven't been to see me. It's one of the rules of the school that every girl shall have a cup of cocoa with me before she has been here three evenings," she said laughingly.
The Queer Little Thing accepted the overture soberly, and, curled up in the one big chair, watched the Youngest Teacher in silence.
The cocoa was soon under way. Then the hostess turned and smiled frankly at her guest. Belinda's smile is a reassuring thing.
"Homesick business, isn't it?" she said abruptly, with a warm note of comradeship in her voice.
The tense little figure in the big chair leaned forward with sudden, swift confidence.
"I'm going home," announced Bonita in a tone that made no reservations.
Belinda received the news without the quiver of an eyelash or a sign of incredulity.
"When?" she asked with interest warm enough to invite confession and not emphatic enough to rouse distrust.
"I don't know just when, but I have to go. I can't stand it, and I've written to Daddy. He'll understand. Nobody here knows. They're all used to it. They've always lived in houses like this, with little back yards that have high walls around them, and sidewalks and streets right outside the front windows, and crowds of strange people going by all the time, and just rules, rules, rules everywhere! Everybody has so many manners, and they talk about things I don't know anything about, and nobody would understand if I talked about the real things."
"Perhaps I'd understand a little bit," murmured Belinda. The Queer Little Thing put out one brown hand and touched the Youngest Teacher's knee gently in a shy, caressing fashion.
"No, you wouldn't understand, because you don't know; but you could learn. The others couldn't. The prairie wouldn't talk to them and they'd be lonesome—the way I am here. Dick says you have to learn the language when you are little, or else have a gift for such languages, but that when you've once learned it you don't care to hear any other."
"Who's Dick?" Belinda asked.
"Dick? Oh, he's just Dick. He taught me to ride and to shoot, and he used to read poetry to me, and he told me stories about everything. He used to go to a big school called Harvard, but he was lonesome there—the way I am here."
"The way I am here" dropped into the talk like a persistent refrain, and there was heartache in it.
"I want to go home," the child went on. Now that the dam of silence was down the pent-up feeling rushed out tumultuously. "I want to see Daddy and the boys and the horses and the cattle, and I want to watch the sun go down over the edge of the world, not just tumble down among the dirty houses, and I want to gallop over the prairie where there aren't any roads, and smell thegrass and watch the birds and the sky. You ought to see the sky down there at night, Miss Carewe. It's so big and black and soft and full of bright stars, and you can see clear to where it touches the ground all around you, and there's a night breeze that's as cool as cool, and the boys all play their banjos and guitars and sing, and Daddy and I sit over on our veranda and listen. There's only a little narrow strip of sky with two or three stars in it out of my window here, and it's so noisy and cluttered out in the back yards—and I hate walking in a procession on the ugly old streets, and doing things when bells ring. I hate it! I hate it!"
Her voice hadn't risen at all, had only grown more and more vibrant with passionate rebellion. The sharp little face was drawn and pale, but there were no tears in the big, tragic eyes.
Belinda had consoled many homesick girls, but this was a different problem.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "Don't you think it will be easier after a while?"
The small girl with the old face shook her head.
"No, it won't. It isn't in me to like all this. I'm so sorry, because Daddy wants me to be a lady. He said it was as hard for him to send me as it was for me to come, but that I couldn't learn to be a lady, with lots of money to spend, down there with only the boys and him.There wasn't any lady there on the ranch at all, except Mammy Lou, the cook, and she didn't have lots of money to spend, so she wasn't the kind he meant. I thought I'd come and try, but I didn't know it would be like this. I don't want to be a lady, Miss Carewe. I don't believe they can be very happy. I've seen them in the carriages and they don't look very happy. You're nice. I like you, and I'm most sure Daddy and Dick and the boys would like you, but then you haven't got lots of money, have you? And you were born up here, so you don't know any better, anyway. I'm going home."
The burst of confidence ended where it had begun. She was going home, and she was so firm in the faith that Belinda, listening, believed her.
"But if your father says no?"
The dark little face was quiet again, all save the great eyes.
"I'llhaveto go," said the Queer Little Thing slowly.
Four days later Miss Lucilla Ryder called the Youngest Teacher into the study.
"Miss Carewe, I'm puzzled about this little Miss Allen. I had a letter from her father this morning. He says she has written that she is very homesick and unhappy and doesn't want to stay. He feels badly about it, of course, but he very wisely leaves the matter in our hands—says he realises she'll have to be homesick and he'll have tobe lonesome if she's to be made a lady. But he wants us to do all we can to make her contented. He very generously sends a check for five hundred dollars, which we are to use for any extra expense incurred in entertaining her and making her happy. Now I thought you might take her to the theatre and the art museum, and the—a—the aquarium, and introduce her to the pleasures and advantages of city life. She'll soon be all right."
With sinking heart Belinda went in search of the girl. She found her practising five-finger exercises drearily in one of the music-rooms. As Belinda entered the child looked up and met the friendly, sympathetic eyes. A mute appeal sprang into her own eyes, and Belinda understood. The thing was too bad to be talked about, and the Youngest Teacher said no word about the homesickness or the expected letter. In this way she clinched her friendship with the Queer Little Thing.
But, following the principal's orders, she endeavoured to demonstrate to Bonita the joy and blessedness of life in New York. The child went quietly wherever she was taken—a mute, pathetic little figure to whom the aquarium fish and the Old Masters and the latest matinée idol were all one—and unimportant. The other girls envied her her privileges and her pocket-money, but they did not understand. No one understood save Belinda, and she did her cheerful best to blot out old loves with new impressions;but from the first she felt in her heart that she was elected to failure. The child was fond of her, always respectful, always docile, always grave. Nothing brought a light into her eyes or a spontaneous smile to her lips. Anyone save Belinda would have grown impatient, angry.Sheonly grew more tender—and more troubled. Day by day she watched the sad little face grow thinner. It was pale now, instead of brown, and the high cheekbones were strikingly prominent. The lips pressed closely together drooped plaintively at the corners, and the big eyes were more full of shadow than ever; but the child made no protest nor plea, and by tacit consent she and Belinda ignored their first conversation and never mentioned Texas.
Often Belinda made up her mind to put aside the restraint and talk freely as she would to any other girl, but there was something about the little Texan that forbade liberties, warned off intruders, and the Youngest Teacher feared losing what little ground she had gained.
Finally she went in despair to Miss Ryder.
"The Indian character is too much for me," she confessed with a groan half humorous, half earnest. "I give it up."
"What's the matter?" asked Miss Ryder.
"Well, I've dragged poor Bonita Allen all over the borough of Manhattan and the Bronx and spent manyducats in the process. She has been very polite about it, but just as sad over Sherry's tea hour as over Grant's tomb, and just as cheerful over the Cesnola collection as over the monkey cage at the Zoo. The poor little thing is so unhappy and miserable that she looks like a wild animal in a trap, and I think the best thing we can do with her is to send her home."
"Nonsense," said Miss Lucilla. "Her father is paying eighteen hundred dollars a year."
Belinda was defiant.
"I don't care. He ought to take her home."
"Miss Carewe, you are sentimentalising. One would think you had never seen a homesick girl before."
"She's different from other girls."
"I'll talk with her myself," said Miss Lucilla sternly.
She did, but the situation remained unchanged, and when she next mentioned the Texan problem to Belinda, Miss Lucilla was less positive in her views.
"She's a very strange child, but we must do what we can to carry out her father's wishes."
"I'dsend her home," said Belinda.
It was shortly after this that Katharine Holland, who sat beside Bonita at the table, confided to Belinda that that funny little Allen girl didn't eat a thing. The waitress came to Belinda with the same tale, and the Youngest Teacher sought out Bonita and reasoned with her.
"You really must eat, my dear," she urged.
"Why?"
"Why, you'll be ill if you don't."
"How soon?"
Belinda looked dazed.
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"How soon will I be sick?"
"Very soon, I'm afraid," the puzzled teacher answered.
"That's good. I don't feel as if I could wait much longer."
Belinda gasped.
"Do you mean to say you want to be ill?"
"If I get very sick Daddy will come for me."
The teacher looked helplessly at the quiet, great-eyed child, then launched into expostulation, argument, entreaty.
Bonita listened politely and was profoundly unimpressed.
"It's wicked, dear child. It would make your father wretchedly unhappy."
"He'd be awfully unhappy if he understood, anyway. He thinks I'm not really unhappy and that it's his duty to keep me up here and make a lady of me, no matter how lonely he is without me. He wrote me so—but I know he'd be terribly glad if he had a real excuse for taking me home."
Belinda exhausted her own resources and appealed to Miss Lucilla, who stared incredulously over her nose-glasses and sent for Bonita.
After the interview she called for the Youngest Teacher, and the two failures looked at each other helplessly.
"It's an extraordinary thing," said Miss Lucilla in her most magisterial tone—"a most extraordinary thing. In all my experience I've seen nothing like it. Nothing seems to make the slightest impression upon the child. She's positively crazy."
"You will tell her father to send for her, won't you?"
Miss Lucilla shook her head stubbornly.
"Not at all. It would be the ruination of the child to give in to her whims and bad temper now. If she won't listen to reason she must be allowed to pay for her foolishness. When she gets hungry enough she will eat. It's absurd to talk about a child of twelve having the stoicism to starve herself into an illness just because she is homesick at boarding-school."
Belinda came back to her threadworn argument.
"But Bonita is different, Miss Ryder."
"She's a very stubborn, selfish child," said Miss Ryder resentfully, and turning to her desk she closed the conversation.
Despite discipline, despite pleadings, despite cajolery,Bonita stood firm. Eat she would not, and when, on her way to class one morning, the scrap of humanity with the set lips and the purple shadows round her eyes fainted quietly, Belinda felt that a masterly inactivity had ceased to be a virtue.
James, the house man, carried the girl upstairs, and the Youngest Teacher put her to bed, where she opened her eyes to look unseeingly at Belinda and then closed them wearily and lay quite still, a limp little creature whose pale face looked pitifully thin and lifeless against the white pillow. The Queer Little Thing's wish had been fulfilled, and illness had come without long delay.
For a moment Belinda looked down at the girl. Then she turned and went swiftly to Miss Ryder's study, her eyes blazing, her mouth so stern that Amelia Bowers, who met her on the stairs, hurried to spread the news that Miss Carewe was "perfectly hopping mad about something."
Once in the presence of the August One the little teacher lost no time in parley.
"Miss Ryder," she said crisply—and at the tone her employer looked up in amazement—"I've told you about Bonita Allen. I've been to you again and again about her. You knew that she was fretting her heart out and half sick, and then you knew that for several days she hasn't been eating a thing. I tried to make you understand that the matter was serious and that something radicalneeded to be done, but you insisted that the child would come around all right and that we mustn't give in to her. I begged you to send for her father and you said it wasn't necessary. I'm here to take your orders, Miss Ryder, but I can't stand this sort of thing. I know the girl better than any of the rest of you do, and I know it isn't badness that makes her act so. She's different, queer, capable of feeling things the ordinary girl doesn't know. She isn't made for this life. There's something in her that can't endure it. She's frantic with homesickness, and it's perfectly useless to try to keep her here or make her like other girls. Now she's ill—really ill. I've just put her to bed, and, honestly, Miss Ryder, if we don't send for her father we'll have a tragedy on our hands. It sounds foolish, but it's true. If nobody else telegraphs to Mr. AllenI'mgoing to do it."
The gauntlet was down. The defiance was hurled, and as Belinda stood waiting for the crash she mentally figured out the amount of money needed for her ticket home; but Miss Ryder was alarmed, and in the spasm of alarm she quite overlooked the mutiny.
"Oh, my dear Miss Carewe. This will never do, never do," she said uncertainly. "It would sound so very badly if it got out—a pupil so unhappy with us that she starved herself into an illness. Oh, no, it would never do. We must take steps at once. I wish the child had stayedin Texas—but who could have foreseen—and eighteen hundred dollars is such an excellent rate. I do dislike exceptions. Rules are so much more satisfactory. Now as a rule——"
"She's an exception," interrupted Belinda. "I'll telephone for the doctor while you are writing the telegram."
"Oh, no, not the doctor. He wouldn't understand the conditions, and he might talk and create a false impression."
"I'll manage all that," Belinda assured her soothingly. Miss Lucilla Ryder in a panic was a new experience.
When the doctor came there were bright red spots on the Queer Little Thing's cheeks and she was babbling incoherently about prairie flowers and horses and Dick and Daddy.
"Nerve strain, lack of nourishment, close confinement after an outdoor life," said the doctor gravely. "I'm afraid she's going to be pretty sick, but beef broth and this Daddy and a hope of homegoing will do more for her than medicine. Miss Ryder has made a mistake here, Miss Carewe."
Meanwhile a telegram had gone to Daddy, and the messenger who delivered it heard a volume of picturesque comment that was startling even on a Texas ranch.
"Am coming," ran the answering dispatch received by Miss Ryder that night; but it was not until morning that Bonita was able to understand the news.
"He's scared, but I know he's glad," she said, and she swallowed without a murmur the broth against which even in her delirium she had fought.
One evening, three days later, a hansom dashed up to the school and out jumped a tall, square-shouldered man in a wide-brimmed hat, and clothes that bore only a family resemblance to the clothing of New York millionaires, though they were good clothes in their own free-and-easy way.
A loud, hearty voice inquiring for "My baby" made itself heard even in the sick-room, and a sudden light flashed into the little patient's eyes—a light that was an illumination and a revelation.
"Daddy!" she said weakly; and the word was a heart-throb.
Mr. Allen wasted no time in a polite interview with Miss Ryder. Hypnotised by his masterfulness, the servant led him directly up to the sick-room and opened the door.
The man filled the room, a high breeze seemed to come with him, and vitality flowed from him in tangible waves. Belinda smiled, but there were tears in her eyes, for the big man's heart was in his face.
"Baby!"
"Daddy!"
Belinda remembered an errand downstairs.
When she returned the big Texan was sitting on the side of the bed with both the lean little hands in one of his big, brawny ones, while his other hand awkwardly smoothed the straight, black hair.
"When will you take me home, Daddy?" said the child with the shining eyes.
"As soon as you're strong enough, Honey. The boys wanted me to let them charge New York in a bunch and get you. It's been mighty lonesome on that ranch. I wish to Heaven I'd never been fool enough to let you come away."
He turned to Belinda with a quizzical smile sitting oddly on his anxious face.
"I reckon she might as well go, miss. I sent her to a finishing school, and, by thunder, she's just about finished."
There was a certain hint of pride in his voice as he added reflectively:
"I might have known if she said she'd have to come home she meant it. Harder to change her mind than to bust any bronco I ever tackled. Queer little thing, Baby is."
A CONTINUOUS PERFORMANCE
BELINDA paused in the doorway of the Primary School room, which adjoined her bedroom, and stared in amazement at the five scribes.
The girls were absorbed in their writing, but the Youngest Teacher was reasonably certain that a fine frenzy of studiousness was not the explanation of the phenomenon. When had Amelia and her "set" ever devoted recreation hour to voluntary study?
Suddenly Amelia put down her pen, sat back in her chair and spoke.
"I simply will not have Aunt Ellen ride in the third carriage. So there! She'll think she ought to because she's one of the nearest relatives, but I can't bear her, and I don't care whether she goes to the funeral at all. I'd a good deal rather put May Morton in with cousin Jennie, and cousin Sue, and Uncle Will."
"It'll make an awful fuss in the family," protested Laura May, while all the girls stopped writing to consider the problem.
"I don't care if it does," said Amelia stoutly.
"Well, I don't know," Blanche White put in, nibbling the end of her pen reflectively. "Seems as if everything ought to be sort of sweet and solemn and Christian at a time like that."
"Christian nothing!" Opposition only strengthened Amelia's opinion.
"I'd like to know whose funeral it is anyhow! If you can't have your way about your own funeral it's a funny thing. I never did like Aunt Ellen. She's always telling tales on me and saying that Mamma lets me have too much freedom, and talking about the way girls were brought up when she was young. Mamma makes me be nice to her because she's papa's sister, but when I'm dead I can be honest about her—and anyway if there's a family fuss about it, I'll be out of it. I'm not going to plan any place at all for Aunt Ellen in the carriages."
"Your father'll put her in with the rest of the family."
"No, he won't—not if I fill every single seat and say that it's my last solemn wish that people should ride just that way."
"For charity's sake, girls, tell me what it all means," urged Belinda, seating herself at one of the small desks and eyeing the sheets of paper covered with schoolgirl hieroglyphics.
"We're writing our wills, Miss Carewe," said Amelia with due solemnity.
"Your wills?"
"Yes; I think everybody ought to do it, don't you? I told the girls we all had things we'd like to leave to certain people, and of course we want our funerals arranged to suit us, and there's no telling when anybody may die. It seems to me it's right to be prepared even if we are young."
The five looked preternaturally solemn, and Belinda wrestled triumphantly with her mirth. Much of her success with the girls was due to the fact that she usually met their vagaries with outward seriousness, if with inward glee.
"Now, there's my diamond ring," Amelia went on. "I want Laura May to have it, and I'm perfectly sure they'd give it to Cousin Sue; so I'm going to say, in my will, that it's for Laura May, and she's going to will me her turquoise bracelet. She'd like to give me her sapphire and diamond ring, but she thinks her sister would expect that, and that all the family would think she ought to have it. Of course she can do as she likes, but, as for me, I think when you are making your will is the time to be perfectly independent. I'm leaving Blanche my chatelaine and my La Vallière, and I don't care what anybody thinks about it."
"Is there anything of mine you'd like to have, Miss Carewe?" Kittie Dayton asked with a benevolent air.
"I'd just love to leave you something nice, but I've given away most everything—that is, I've willed it away. Would you care about my pigskin portfolio? It's awfully swell, and Uncle Jack paid fifteen dollars for it. I know because I went to the shop the next day and priced them—but I upset the ink bottle over it twice, so it isn't so very fresh."
"I'd love to have it," said Belinda.
"I've got you down for my fan with the inlaid pearl sticks," announced Amelia, with a dubious tilt of her curly head, "but I don't know. It came from Paris, but one of the sticks is broken. Of course it can be mended, but I kind of think I'd like to leave you something whole, and I can give the fan to one of my cousins. I've got a perfect raft of cousins and they can't all expect to have whole things. There's my gold bonbonière. I might leave you that. Anyway, I've put you in the second carriage."
"The second carriage?" Belinda looked puzzled.
"Yes, at the funeral, you know. I want you to be right with the family. You see there's Papa and Mamma and my brother and George Pettingill in the first carriage."
The Youngest Teacher gasped.
"George Pettingill?" she echoed weakly.
"Yes; I know everybody'll be surprised. They don'tknow we're engaged. It only happened last week. That's one reason why I had to change my will. You see I was engaged to Harvey Porter before Christmas, and of course I put him in the first carriage. Mamma and Papa'd have been surprised about him too; but when it was my last will and testament, they couldn't have had the heart to object to his riding with them. I couldn't die happy if I thought George wouldn't ride in the first carriage. Poor fellow! He'll be perfectly broken-hearted."
Amelia sniffed audibly and her eyes filled with tears. She was revelling in the luxury of woe.
"I hope it will be a cloudy day," she said in a choked voice. "A cloudy day always seems so much more poetic and appropriate for a funeral. Oh, but I was going to tell you about the other carriages. Uncle Joe and Aunt Mary and Cousin Dick—he's my favourite cousin—and you will be in the second carriage; and then the other relatives will be in the other carriages—all except Aunt Ellen. When I was home for Christmas, she told Mamma, right before me, that I was a sentimental chit, and that I ran after Harvey Porter. As if everybody couldn't see that Harvey was crazy over me and that I didn't have to run a step!"
"Don't you think I'd be out of place ahead of so many of the relatives?" Belinda inquired modestly.
"Oh, no; not a bit. We girls talked it over and wedecided we'd all put you in the second carriages. Blanche says she thinks there's a peculiarly intimate tie between a young girl and the teacher who moulds her mind and character, and you're the only one who has moulded us a bit—and then we all simply adore you, anyway."
The Youngest Teacher bowed her head upon her hands as if overcome by emotion at the success of her moulding process or at the prospect of five free rides in second carriages, and her shoulders shook gently.
"We've talked a lot about our funerals, and I've got mine all arranged, even the hymns," continued Amelia, who was always spokesman for her crowd. "I'm going to be buried in the white chiffon dress I wore at the New Year's dance and with that big bunch of pink roses on my breast—the dried bunch in my green hatbox. I met George at that dance and he gave me the roses. Iwasgoing to wear my blue silk in my last will. Harvey loved light blue, but, anyway, white's more appropriate and sweet, don't you think so?"
The Youngest Teacher was driven, by a sense of duty, to extinguish her mirth and remonstrate.
"Do you know, girls, I think this is all very foolish and sentimental," she said sternly. "There's no probability of your dying within fifty years."
"Well, it won't do any harm to be prepared," interrupted Amelia.
"It's absolutely silly and morbid to sit down and deliberately work yourselves into a green and yellow melancholy by thinking about your deaths and your funerals. I'm disgusted with you."
"But, Miss Carewe"—Laura May's voice was plaintive—"the Bible says you ought to think about dying, and only last Sunday the rector said we were too indifferent and that we ought to realise how uncertain life is and make some preparation, instead of just going to dances, and card parties, and eating, and drinking, and doing things like that."
"I hope you don't call sickly sentimentalising over the stage effects for your funerals preparing for death. If you'd stop thinking about your silly selves altogether and think of other people, you'd come nearer preparing for the hereafter."
Amelia's plump face took on an expression of pained surprise.
"Why, Miss Carewe, you don't suppose I'm thinking about the chiffon dress and the roses and all that on my own account, do you? I'd be so dead I wouldn't know anything about it; but I think it would be perfectly sweet for George. He'd know I had planned it all because I was so devoted to him, and I should think that would be a great comfort to him, shouldn't you, Laura May?"
Laura May agreed, and Belinda shrugged her shouldershelplessly. Serious argument was always wasted upon this light-headed group of sentimentalists. There had been a time when, urged on by conscience, she had considered it necessary to labor with Amelia about her lightning-changeaffaires de cœur, had talked to her as she would have talked to an ordinary, reasonable girl about the folly and cheapness of such episodes, had tried to open her eyes to the fine ideals of girlhood, had urged upon her the desirability of perfect frankness and confidence in her relations with her mother and father.
Amelia had only opened her big blue eyes wider and listened politely but uncomprehendingly to a language she could not understand. She adored Miss Carewe, but she realised that the adored one had the failings common to aged folk and lacked, entirely, any understanding of love's young dream.
"You'd think Miss Carewe wasn't too old to understand," she said to Laura May later; "but perhaps she's had an unfortunate love affair that has made her bitter and suspicious." And, out of the softness of her heart, she forgave, in one who had "suffered," even a callous lack of sympathy concerning matters of the affections.
Belinda took her failure to Miss Ryder, who smiled as she listened.
"My dear Miss Carewe," she said, when the tale was ended, "you are right in being conscientious, but youmustn't tilt at windmills. There are girls and girls. Fortunately, a majority of them are amenable to reason, simple minded and comparatively sensible. They have had wise mothers and proper home training. But I've seen a great many girls of Amelia's type, too far advanced in foolishness before they come to us to be straightened out here. They pass silly girlhoods and usually develop into plump, amiable women, devoted to husbands and babies, and given to talking about servants and clothes when they don't talk about the husbands and babies. We must do all we can for such girls, see that they are carefully taught and zealously guarded. No young gentleman calls here on reception night unless I have had a written permission from the parents of the girl upon whom he calls; but because a few of the girls are silly, I will not shut the sensible girls away from social training.
"You can influence the Amelias—but within certain limitations. As for making them see things in the sane way—the thing isn't humanly possible. Do your best with them, but don't take their absurdities too seriously."
In time Belinda had learned that her employer's philosophy was wise, though it did not altogether agree with certain theories set forth in the school prospectus; so the funeral problem did not distress her. It was only one phase of a monumental sentimentality and it would pass as a host of other phases quite as foolish had passed.
The girls gathered up their writing materials as the retiring bell rang, but Amelia lingered for a private word with her teacher.
"Miss Carewe," she said, as the last petticoat whisked down the stairs, "I wish you'd think of something nice to put on my tombstone. You know such a lot about poetry and things of that kind. I've thought and thought, and I went through a whole book of Bible verses, and that Dictionary of Familiar Quotations down in the library, but I couldn't find a single thing that really suited me—and then the ones I did like best seemed sort of conceited for me to pick out. Now, if you'd select something nice and pathetic and complimentary, I could just say, in my will, that you wanted me to have that epitaph and that I had promised you I would."
She checked her eloquence, and waited in the hall until the teacher had turned out the school-room lights and joined her; then the tide of prattle swept on.
"Do you know, Miss Carewe, I'd simply love to be buried in that Protestant cemetery in Rome—the one where Sheets and Kelly are buried."
"Keats and Shelley," corrected the teacher of English literature, with lively horror written on her face.
"Oh, was it that way? Well, anyway, the men who wrote Deserted Village and Childe Harold and the other things. You told us all about the graveyard in literatureclass, and it sounded so perfectly lovely and romantic, with the big Roman wall, and old what's-his-name's pyramid, and daisies and violets and things running all over everything—and that epitaph on Keats' stone was simply splendid—something about his name being made out of water, wasn't it? I don't remember it exactly, but I just loved it. It was so sort of discouraged and blue and mournful. We girls talked about it that night and we all cried like everything over the poor fellow—only Blanche said she did wish his father hadn't been a butcher. You know Blanche is awfully cranky about families, because her mother was a Lee of Virginia and her aunt married a Randolph. It was awfully sad anyway, even if his father was a butcher, and that epitaph was lovely. I do wish I could think of something as good as that for myself. You'll try, won't you, Miss Carewe? Good-night."
"Good-night," replied Belinda in smothered tones, as she closed her bedroom door. There are times when the Youngest Teacher's sense of humour and her dignity meet in mortal combat, and she felt that one of the times was close at hand.
She had rather fancied that talk of hers about Keats, and had been flattered by the sympathetic interest displayed by even the most shallow members of the class. She sighed in the midst of her laughter—if only one could make even the Amelias understand world beautyand world pathos!—but the laughter triumphed. "Sheets and Kelly" could not be viewed seriously.
Nothing more was heard of the Funeral Association, Limited, until a week later, when Belinda, noticing a light in the third-floor classroom, investigated and found Amelia and Laura May bending over one sheet of foolscap.
"More wills?" asked the teacher.
Amelia lifted a flushed and tear-stained face.
"I'm cutting Blanche White out of my will. I've been deceived in her, Miss Carewe. She isn't a true friend, is she, Laura May?"
Laura May shook her head emphatically.
"Perhaps you are mistaken," Belinda suggested, in the interests of peace.
"Iheardher!" Amelia's tone was tragic.
"She told Lizzie Folsom that I was a conceited thing and always wanted to run everything and that I thought every boy that looked at me was in love with me, and that she'd heard lots of boys make fun of me. I was in the next room and couldn't help hearing, so I walked right straight out in front of them and told Blanche what I thought of her.
"'You're a false, double-dealing hypocrite,' I said, 'and I'd scorn to have you for a friend,' and then I walked out of the room, and I could hardly wait till after studyhour to come up here and change my will. Just to think that if anything had happened to me last week, that horrid thing would have had my chatelaine and my La Vallière! Sometimes I don't believe anybody's true—except Laura May. I told everything to Blanche, and I suppose she's betrayed every single thing to that freckled Lizzie Folsom. It's just because Lizzie has so much money for matinées and Huylers."
"That doesn't sound well, Amelia." Belinda's tone was reproving. "Lizzie is a very attractive girl, and though Blanche wasn't very loyal, she may have said some things that were true. I'd advise you to think her criticisms over and see if any of them fit. As for her repeating what you've told her, when one doesn't want things known, one would better keep them to herself. You talk too much."
"I could tell Laura May anything."
Laura May looked modest.
"And I'm going to leave my chatelaine and La Vallière to Laura May."
The Only True One's face brightened.
"Besides the pearl ring?" she asked.
"Yes."
Laura May beamed self-righteously. Apparently true friendship was practically remunerative as well as theoretically fine.
The next night Amelia spent with a day pupil who was to have a birthday party; and the following evening she was in the Primary room as soon as she could escape from study hour. There Belinda found her alone, and the girl looked slightly confused as she met the teacher's questioning glance.
"Another quarrel?"
Amelia blushed.
"Oh, no; I was just changing the carriages a little. I had a heavenly time last night, Miss Carewe."
"Pretty party, was it?"
"Perfectly lovely. Do you know many Columbia men, Miss Carewe?"
"A few."
"Don't you think they're splendid?"
"Well, some of them are pleasant enough."
"I simply adore Columbia men. Their colors are lovely, aren't they?"
"Rather wishy-washy."
"Oh, Miss Carewe, I don't see how you can think that. I think light blue and white are perfectly sweet together—not a bit crude and loud like orange and black or red and black or that ugly bright blue."
Belinda wakened to suspicion.
"Why, Amelia, I thought George Pettingill was a Yale man."
Amelia examined carefully a picture on the other side of the room.
"Well, he is, but only a Freshman, and I don't think bright blue's a nice color. The Yale men are sort of like the color too. Don't you think they're a little bit loud and conceited, Miss Carewe?"
This was rank heresy. Belinda smiled and waited.
"There was a Columbia man at Daisy's party—a Sophomore. He's the most elegant dancer. His name's Lawrence—Charlie Lawrence. He says my step just suits his. We had five two-steps and three waltzes."
For a few moments Amelia lapsed into reminiscent silence, but silence is not hermétier.
"He has three brothers, but no sister at all, and he says a fellow needs a girl's influence to keep him straight. There's such a lot of wickedness in college life, and by the time you're a Sophomore, you know the world mighty well."
There was the glibness of quotation about the recital, and Belinda indulged in a little smiling reminiscence on her own account. She, too, in earlier days, had been in Arcady—with desperately wicked and blasé Sophomores who needed a nice girl's gentle influence. Verily, the old methods wear well.
"He's coming to see me next reception night, if I can get permission from Mamma before then," said Amelia.
"Miss Carewe!" called a voice in the hall. Belinda turned to go.
"But what was wrong with the carriages?" she asked.
Amelia bent her fair head over the will until her face was hidden, but the tips of her ears reddened.
"Oh, I was just thinking that it didn't seem very respectful to Mamma and Papa to put George in the first carriage with them when they haven't known anything about him, so I thought I'd move him back a little way."
"Oh!" commented Belinda, with comprehension in her voice.
A quarrel between Amelia and Laura May, the Only True One, necessitated much remodelling of the unstable will during the next week, but the trouble was finally smoothed over and the pearl ring clause reinstated, though the chatelaine and La Vallière were lost to Laura May forever.
Friday evening was reception evening, and on Saturday morning Amelia flew to the Primary room immediately after breakfast.
She lifted a beaming face when Belinda looked in upon her.
"Do you believe in love at first sight, Miss Carewe?" she asked.
"No."
"Oh, don't you? Why, Iknowit's possible."
Belinda didn't argue the question.
"I'm writing out a whole new will. The other was all mussy and scratched up from being changed so often. Doesn't that look neat?"
She held up a sheet of paper which bore, in systematic grouping, a plan for filling the funeral carriages. Belinda glanced at it.
"Why, where's George Pettingill?" she asked, with a twinkle in her eye.
Amelia tossed her head.
"If he goes to my funeral he can take the trolley," she said with profound indifference. "You see I've only put three people down for the first carriage. I thought I'd just leave one place vacant, in case——"
"Exactly," said Belinda.
Before the successor to the Columbia Sophomore appeared upon the horizon to complicate the carriage problem anew, the funeral fad had run its course and the wills of Amelia and her satellites had gone the way of all waste paper.