Concerning Belinda

Miss Ryder wrote to the head of a popular riding-school and asked that someone be sent to talk the arrangements over with her.

The next evening, during recreation hour, the girls fortunate enough to be in the drawing-room saw a radiant vision ushered in by the maid and left to await the coming of the principal.

He was slim, he was dapper, he was exquisite, he was French. His small black moustache curved briskly upward from red lips curved like a bow; his nose was faultlessly straight; his black eyes were sparkling; his brows were well marked, his dark hair was brushed to a high, patent-leather polish.

He wore riding clothes of the most elaborate type, despite the hour of his visit, and as he sat nonchalantly upon the red-damask sofa he tapped his shining boots with a knowing crop, curled his moustache airily, and allowed his glance to rove boldly over the display of youthful femininity. A number of the older girls rose and left the room, but a majority lingered fearfully, rapt in admiration and wonder.

Eva May palpitated upon a commodious window-seat. Here was a realization of her brightest dreams. So Comte Robert Montpelier Ravillon de Brissac must have looked as he sprang lightly from his curveting steed and met the Lady Angélique in the Park of Flambéron. In her agitation she tucked a caramel in each cheek and forgot that they were there.

"Young ladies, you may be excused."

Miss Emmeline Ryder had arrived.

The girls departed, and a buzz of excited conversation floated back from the hall; but Evangeline Marie went silently to her room, sore smitten.

If Miss Lucilla Ryder had been selected by the Fates to meet Monsieur Albert de Puys, the chances are that some riding-school other than Manlay's would have been patronized by the Ryder school, for Miss Lucilla was a shrewd judge of men and things; but, as luck would have it, Miss Lucilla was suffering from neuralgia, and Miss Emmeline, gentle, vague, confiding, was sent down to conduct the interview.

Monsieur de Puys, clever in his own fashion, was deferential and diplomatic.

Miss Emmeline quite overlooked his beaux yeux and the havoc they might work in girlish hearts. She made arrangements for the lessons, settled the details, and reported to Miss Lucilla that everything was satisfactory and that the envoy was "a very pleasant person."

So the girls rode, and the teachers chaperoned, and the fathers paid, and on the surface all went well.

Belinda was elected, more often than any of her fellow-teachers, to take the girls to the riding-school; and, on the whole, she liked the task, for it gave her a quiet hour with a book while the young equestriennes tore up the tanbark or were out and away in the Park. She merely represented the conventions, and her position was more or less of a sinecure. Occasionally she watched the girls who took their lessons indoors, and she conceived a violent dislike for one of the masters – a Frenchman with an all-conquering manner and an impertinent smile; but she never thought of taking the manner and smile seriously. If it occurred to her that the swaggering Frenchman devoted himself to Eva May more persistently than to any of the other pupils, she set the thing down to Gallic spirit and admired the instructor's bravery.

Mounted upon a sturdy horse built more for strength than for speed, Evangeline Marie was an impressive sight, but she brought to the exercise an energy and a devotion that surprised everyone who knew her.

"She'll not make the effort more than once," Miss Lucilla had said; but the weeks went by and still Eva May went to her riding-lessons with alacrity and regularity. She said that she was riding to reduce her flesh and had lost six pounds, and the cause seemed so worthy that the phenomenon soon ceased to excite wonder.

In course of time the other schoolgirls who belonged to the riding contingent dropped the fad, but still Evangeline Marie was faithful. All through April and into the fragrant Maytime she went religiously to the riding-school twice a week, but all of her lessons were taken outdoors now, and Belinda waited upon a bench near the Park entrance, thankful to be out in the spring world.

A good-looking young man, wearing his riding clothes and sitting his horse in a fashion that bespoke long acquaintance with both, passed the bench with surprising frequency, and in course of time it was borne in upon the Youngest Teacher that his unfailing appearance during Eva May's lessons was too methodical to be a mere coincidence. But, beyond a smile in his eyes, the horseman gave no sign of interest in the lonely figure upon the bench, so there was no reason for resentment, and Belinda learned to look for the bay horse and its boyish rider and for the smiling eyes with a certain pleasant expectation that relieved her chaperoning duty of dullness.

One morning she sat upon her own particular bench with a book open in her lap and a listless content written large upon her. Green turf and leafy boughs and tufts of blossoms stretched away before her. There were lilac scents in the warm spring air and the birds were twittering jubilates. The man on the bay horse had ridden past once, and the smile in his eyes had seemed more boyish than ever. She wondered when he would come by again – and then, looking down the shaded drive, she saw him coming.

Even at a distance she recognised something odd in the fashion of his approach. He was bending forward and riding rapidly – too rapidly for compliance with Park rules. She watched to see him slow down and walk his horse past the bench in the usual lingering way; but, instead, he came on at a run, pulled his horse up abruptly, dismounted and came toward her with his hat in his hand.

Belinda drew a quick breath of surprise and embarrassment, but there was no smile in the eyes that met hers, and she realised in an instant that the stranger was in earnest – too much in earnest for thought of flirtation.

"I beg your pardon," he was saying. "Maybe I'm making an ass of myself, but I couldn't feel as if it were all quite right. I've seen you here so often, you know, and I knew you were chaperoning those schoolgirls, and I didn't believe you'd allow that fat one to go off in a hansom with that beast of a Frenchman."

"Wh-w-what?" she asked breathlessly.

"You didn't know? I thought not. You see, I was riding past one of the Fifth Avenue gates in the upper end of the Park, and Peggy here – my horse – went lame for a minute, so I got off to see what was wrong. Just then up came the Frenchman and your fat friend, and he climbed off his horse and helped her down. Anybody could see she was excited and ripe for hysterics, and De Puys looked more like a wax Mephistopheles than usual, so I just fooled with Peg's foot and watched to see what was up. There was a boy on hand and a cab was standing outside the gate. Frenchy gave the horses to the boy and boosted the girl into the cab, and I heard him say, 'Grand Central, and hurry.' They went off at a run, and I mounted and was starting up the drive when all of a sudden it struck me that the thing was deuced queer and that maybe you didn't know anything about it. So I piked off to tell you."

Belinda looked at him helplessly.

"She's eloped with him. It's her money, I suppose. What can I do?"

The stranger sprang into his saddle.

"Head them off, of course. You wait at the gate until I lose Peggy and get a cab. Perhaps we can catch them at the station."

He was gone, and Belinda did as she was told. It was a comfort to have a man take things in hand, and she didn't stop to think that the man was a stranger.

In three minutes he was at the gate with a cab, helped her into it and climbed in himself.

"There's an extra dollar in it if you break the record," he said cheerfully to the cabby, and off they clattered.

Not a word was spoken on the way to the station, but as the stranger paid the extra dollar Belinda fumbled in her purse.

"Never mind; we'll settle up afterward. Let's see if they are here."

No sign of the runaway couple. Belinda collapsed weakly into a seat and there were tears in her eyes.

"Don't, please don't," begged the man beside her. "You sit here and I'll try the gatemen. Anybody'd be likely to spot a freak couple like that. Perhaps their train hasn't gone yet."

A few minutes later Belinda saw him bolt into the waiting-room and stop at a ticket window.

"Come on," he said, as he rushed up to her. "They've gone to Albany – train left fifteen minutes ago. Gateman thought they were funny, and noticed their tickets. He says the girl was crying. We'll have to step lively."

"B-b-but what are we going to do?" stammered Belinda, as he hurried her through the gate and down the long platform.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you. We're going to Albany on the Chicago Express."

He helped her on the train, deposited her in a seat on the shady side of a Pullman car, sat down beside her and fanned his flushed face with his cap.

Belinda strove for speech, but no words came. Things appeared to be altogether out of her hands.

"They took a local express," explained the stranger by whom she was being personally conducted. "Afraid to wait in the station, I suppose. Our train passes theirs up the road, and we'll wait for them in Albany."

"But perhaps they'll get off before they reach Albany," replied Belinda.

"Well, their tickets were for Albany, and we'll have to gamble on that. It's a fair chance. Probably they want to lose themselves somewhere until the storm blows over and papa makes terms."

"But why should you go to Albany? You've been awfully good and I'm so much obliged to you, but now I'll just go on by myself."

He looked down at the independent young woman, and the familiar smile came back into his eyes.

"That would be a nice proposition. I can see a life-size picture of myself letting you go up to Albany alone to handle De Puys. A chap like that needs a man. You can get the girl. I wouldn't attempt to handle her without a derrick, but I'll just make a few well-chosen remarks to that rascally Frenchman myself."

"But it is an imposition upon – "

"Nothing of the sort. It's an interposition – of Providence. I've spent weeks wondering how it could ever be done."

Belinda looked puzzled. "You knew they were going to elope?"

"No, that wasn't what I meant."

"It's dreadful, isn't it?" wailed Belinda.

He shook his head. "It's heavenly," he said.

She tried to look puzzled again, but broke down, blushed, and became absorbed in the landscape.

"My name is Morgan Hamilton."

She shot a swift look at him, then turned to the window again.

"I'm Miss Carewe, one of Miss Ryder's teachers."

"Yes; I knew you weeks ago."

Belinda lost her grasp upon her dignity and laughed.

"Then it isn't like going to Albany with a perfect stranger," she said with an air of profound relief.

The trip to Albany is a short one – much shorter than the railway time-schedules indicate. Both Belinda and Morgan Hamilton are prepared to testify to that effect. Also, they are willing to swear that the time between the arrival of the Chicago Express at Albany and the coming of the next New York train is grossly over-estimated. As the local train pulled into the Albany station a look of conscious guilt mingled with the excitement upon Belinda's face.

"I wonder if they will come," she whispered.

"I'd forgotten all about them," confessed the man at her side.

The look of guilt deepened. She had forgotten, too.

They came.

From afar off the waiting couple saw Eva May's mighty bulk and the dapper figure at her side.

Belinda stepped forward and the girl saw her. There was a pause, a moment's frightened silence, then Evangeline Marie made a noise 'twixt a groan and a squeal and clutched her beloved one's arm.

Monsieur de Puys looked quickly around, saw the small but determined Nemesis in his path, and swore eloquently in good Anglo-Saxon.

"Get into a cab," he said harshly to the hysterical girl beside him; and, as she made a move to obey, he turned threateningly to Belinda – but a tall, square-shouldered figure intervened, and two contemptuous eyes looked down at him.

"That's enough, you contemptible whelp," said a very low but emphatic voice. "Your game's up, and you don't marry an heiress this trip. Now, get out, before I kick you out. If it weren't for the ladies I'd treat myself to the satisfaction of kicking you before you could go. I'll cut it out on their account, but if ever I hear of your speaking to that girl again or mentioning her name to anyone I'll make it my business to look you up and thrash you within an inch of your scoundrelly life."

The red lips of Eva May's hero curled back from his white teeth in a snarl. The shallow, handsome face was white and vicious, but the insolent black eyes of the coward could not meet those of the man before him. A curious crowd was collecting.

"Get out of this," said Morgan in a voice that held a warning.

And the Frenchman went at once, muttering ineffectual vows of vengeance, but with never a look toward the fair Evangeline Marie, who was weeping upon Belinda's shoulder.

The next train from the west took on only three passengers at Albany – a fair, good-looking young fellow in riding clothes, a fat, red-eyed girl in riding habit, and a pretty young woman in conventional garb. The fat girl fell into a seat, shut her eyes, and sobbed occasionally in a spasmodic way.

The man held out his hand to the young woman.

"I'll go into the smoker. I can't be of use any longer, but I'll see that you get a cab, and – "

He hesitated, looked at her imploringly.

"And – if – if I —

Belinda smiled.

"Why, I'd be delighted," she said in answer to the question in his face.

"Oh, may I come? Really? That's awfully good of you."

And as he sat in the smoking-car puffing mechanically at a cigar that was not lighted Morgan Hamilton vowed a thank-offering to the god of chance.

CHAPTER IV

A WOLF IN THE FOLD

MISS LUCILLA RYDER, clothed in stateliness as in a garment, was conducting a business interview in her study.

Facing her, sat a slender young woman gowned in black. The black frock, the black hat, the black gloves were simple, unobtrusive, altogether suitable for an impecunious instructor of youth; but there was a subtle something about them that would have whispered "French" to a worldly-wise observer, even if their wearer had not been speaking the purest of Parisian French in a voice calculated to impart melody to any language.

Miss Lucilla bent upon this attractive applicant for the position left vacant by the illness of Madame Plongeon – long-time French chaperon in the Ryder school – what she fondly believed to be a keen and penetrating scrutiny.

Mademoiselle de Courcelles met the judicial glance with a sweet and deprecatory smile.

In Miss Lucilla's hand were several letters, each written in flowing, graceful French upon stationery bearing an imposing crest. Madame la duchesse de Rochechouart, Madame la comtesse de Pourtales, Madame la comtesse de St. Narcy had in those gracious letters expressed their enthusiastic appreciation of Mademoiselle de Courcelles's rare qualities of mind and heart, their absolute confidence in her integrity and ability, and their deep regret that they had been unable to persuade her to remain in Paris and continue her supervision of the education of certain prospective dukes and counts.

One note, less aristocratic in character, was from Mrs. Dent-Smyth, head of the teachers' agency to which the Misses Ryder resorted in emergencies like the present one.

This worthy lady wrote frankly that as Mademoiselle de Courcelles's advent had been almost coincident with Miss Ryder's request for a teacher, there had been no time to investigate the Frenchwoman's Paris references. Mrs. Dent-Smyth was, however, of the opinion that these references seemed most satisfactory, and she believed that a personal interview with the applicant would convince Miss Ryder that the young woman was a very superior person, and her French of a superfine quality.

Miss Lucilla, albeit maintaining a non-committal exterior, mentally agreed with Mrs. Dent-Smyth. Mademoiselle de Courcelles was distinguished in appearance, polished in manner, sweet of voice. She spoke English haltingly, but her French was of a quality to suit the most exacting of parents. To all of Miss Ryder's questions she made deferential, modest, yet self-possessed answer.

She was, it seemed, but newly come to America. Financial reverses had forced her, an orphan of good family, to earn her living. There were wealthy and influential friends who were willing to help her, but a De Courcelles – Mademoiselle spoke the word proudly – could not live upon charity. She had taught in the families of several of these friends, but the situation was impossible, and she had decided that it would be easier to live her life among strangers, where she would be unhampered by old traditions and associations.

Sounding titles flitted through the tale, brought in quite casually, but proving none the less impressive to a thoroughgoing republican.

Miss Lucilla listened thoughtfully, glancing from time to time at the crests upon the letters she held. As a freeborn American she scorned to truckle to the effête aristocracy of Europe; but still, she admitted, there was really something pleasing about a title. Of course she had always been very particular about looking up references, but this was an exceptional case. She would consult Miss Emmeline.

Now when Miss Lucilla says that she will consult Miss Emmeline, her mind is already made up. Miss Emmeline has never, by any chance, volunteered an opinion upon a subject without having first heard the elder sister's opinion upon the same subject. Having heard, she echoes.

"I believe this young person will be a great addition to the staff," said Miss Lucilla.

"I'm sure of it," murmured Miss Emmeline.

"We might possibly mention in our next circular the names of the noble families with which she has been associated in France."

"Certainly," echo answered.

So Mademoiselle de Courcelles was engaged.

Twenty-four hours later the new French teacher and three large trunks were installed in a small room on the top floor of the Ryder school. The size and number of the trunks excited comment among the servants, but the expressman who carried Mademoiselle's impedimenta up four flights of stairs noticed that the trunks were surprisingly light in weight.

From the first Mademoiselle was a success, and by the time she had spent a fortnight in the school her popularity among the girls moved many of the teachers to jealousy, and even wakened in Belinda's heart a slight sense of injury to which she wouldn't have confessed for worlds. Miss Barnes, herself impervious alike to adoration or disapproval, expressed her opinion of the new comer with her usual frankness.

"Cat!" she said calmly. "Graceful, sleek, purring, ingratiatory, but cat all the same."

"She's very attractive," murmured Belinda.

"Bad eyes," Miss Barnes commented curtly.

"Handsome eyes."

"All the worse for that. Mark my words, that woman isn't to be trusted."

But Miss Barnes was alone in her verdict. Mademoiselle taught preparatory French so cleverly yet so modestly that Professor Marceau himself expressed his approval; and Professor Marceau, the distinguished and expensive French instructor-in-chief of the school, had never before unbent to a subordinate.

Under Mademoiselle's stimulus the twenty perfunctory French phrases demanded of each pupil during the progress of dinner expanded into something approaching French conversation. Amelia Bowers and Laura May Lee, who had memorized a small section of dialogue from a Labiche play, and were in the habit of reciting it to each other every evening with much expression, thereby impressing distant teachers with the idea of fluent French chat, abandoned their brilliant scheme to talk chaotic French with Mademoiselle. In the drawing-room during evening recreation hour girls who had regarded conversation with Madame Plongeon as punishment dire, crowded around Mademoiselle de Courcelles, listening breathlessly to her vivacious stories, her reminiscences of life among the French nobility. The tide of flowers, fruit, candy, etc., that had flowed Belinda's way set heavily toward the new teacher. A French chaperon – once a calamity to be avoided at all costs – became the heart's desire of all shopping, theatre-going and holiday-making pupils.

"She's perfectly lovely, Miss Carewe," gushed Amelia Bowers, "and she's had the most interesting experiences. I should think you and she would be bosom friends. You couldn't help loving her if you'd just get to knowing her well. Why, every single one of our crowd has got the most dreadful crush on her. Laura May says she's just like a heroine out of a book; and you needn't think because she's so gay and jolly that she's always been happy. That's just the French way. She says the French even go to death jesting. Isn't that splendid? But she's had awful sorrows. It would make you cry to hear her talk about them – that is, she doesn't exactly tell you about them, you know, but you can tell from the way she talks that she's had them, and that's what makes her so sympathetic and lovely about other people's troubles. Why, I could just tell her anything."

Amelia heaved a cyclonic sigh, and assumed the expression of one who could reveal much to a properly sympathetic soul.

Finding no encouragement in Belinda's face, she plunged again into praise of Mademoiselle.

"All the girls feel that way. They tell her every blessed thing that ever happened to them. Laura May says she never saw anybody before that she could reveal her most sacred feelings to. She told Mademoiselle all about Jim Benton the very first night she met her. Mademoiselle says she had almost the same sort of a time – she called it 'une affaire' – with Comte Raoul de Cretigny, when they were both very young, but that one does get over such things. She encouraged Laura May a lot; but she said such beautiful things about first love and about how no love that came afterward could have just the same exquisite flavour – at least it wasn't exactly 'flavour' she used, and it wasn't 'bloom' either, but it was something like that. Anyway, Laura May cried bucketfuls, and yet she said she felt encouraged to hope she might forget and love again. That's like Mademoiselle. Now some people would have encouraged Laura May too much, and wouldn't have understood how sad the whole thing was, and that would have spoiled everything."

The breathless Amelia came of necessity to a full stop, and Belinda went on her way to her room with a queer little smile hovering around her lips.

Not only the emotional contingent of the school, but the sensible girls as well, appeared to come under the siren's spell.

"She's awfully clever and amusing, Miss Carewe," said Katherine Holland, Belinda's staunch and faithful satellite. "Of course I'm not dotty over her like Amelia's crowd, but she really is great fun, and I like being with her when those girls aren't around. She does talk such sentimental trash to them."

"If you want to criticise any of the teachers you may find another room and another listener, my dear." Belinda's dignified reproof was most impressive and Katherine subsided, with a murmured, "Oh, but I do like her, you know."

As the weeks passed by the general enthusiasm gradually crystallised into particular adoration.

Mademoiselle was still universally popular, but with a certain clique she was a mania. All of the moneyed pupils belonged to this set, and their devotion was such that they were one and all unwilling to go for an outing save under convoy of the French chaperon. Even Evangeline Marie Jenkins was stirred to her depths by Mademoiselle's charm and, rising above the handicap of avoirdupois and temperament, became almost energetic in her shopping and theatre-going, in order to enjoy the privilege of the charmer's society.

At first Miss Lucilla Ryder was inclined to interfere in the interest of humanity, and save Mademoiselle de Courcelles from being imposed upon; but the little Frenchwoman met the kindly interference with good-natured protest.

"Ah, Miss Ryder, you are so good, so thoughtful," she said in her delicious French. "You have the kind heart; but I must earn my salary, and if it is in this way that I am most useful to you, let me show my goodwill, my devotion to your school, by going where the young ladies will. They amuse me – those dear children. I love being with them, and I am strong and well. I do not tire.