Concerning Belinda

Belinda shook her head. "What I do depends upon you. Perhaps I ought to tell. I owe a duty to Miss Ryder – but then I owe something to Katharine, too. She needs sympathy and sane counsel more than harshness. I think you are honest – though that was a dishonest, underhand trick of yours. If you will give me your word of honour as a gentleman not to try to see Katharine again while she is here I will say nothing about this."

He hesitated, looked down at the rumpled head upon Belinda's shoulder.

"Shall I do it, Katharine?"

Belinda's face flamed indignantly.

"Are you coward enough to shift the responsibility to her? Aren't you man enough to do what is best for her, no matter what she says?"

The broad shoulders squared themselves.

"I'll promise."

"Does any one know about this escapade?"

"James."

"Can you shut his mouth securely?"

"I will."

"You would better go now."

He moved a step nearer.

"Good-by, dear."

Katharine lifted a tear-stained face.

"You'll not stop caring?" There was a sob in her voice.

"It's only a question of waiting, sweetheart," he said gently; "and we love each other well enough to wait."

He looked beseechingly at the Youngest Teacher, who, being a very human pedagogue, turned her back upon the tragic young things; but a moment later she held out a friendly hand to the departing lover.

"Good-by. I'll trust you."

"Good-by. You may. I do love her. Be good to her," he added brokenly as he disappeared through the door.

Belinda was good to her; and long after the girl was asleep, the Youngest Teacher lay awake, puzzling over problems of right and wrong, of duty and impulse, of justice and mercy.

"They are only children," she said from her pinnacle of two-and-twenty years.

"But children's hurts are hard to bear while they last," her heart answered promptly.

"Perhaps I was all wrong. Probably I ought to have been more severe – but now I've promised" – and Belinda was asleep.

The next morning the incomparable Augustus had disappeared from the horizon. The faithful James, attired in a sporty new suit, new shoes and necktie, and looking astonishingly well and prosperous for a man who reported himself as just back from the gates of death, was once more in his accustomed place.

"James is a good soul, but Augustus had so much more resourcefulness and initiative," said Miss Lucilla regretfully.

"He had," agreed Belinda.

CHAPTER VII

THE PASSING OF AN AFFINITY

MADAME NOVERI, reader of palms and cards, and dabbler in astrology, was an institution in the Ryder school.

The Misses Ryder did not wholly approve of her, but when Miss Lucilla felt qualms of conscience concerning traffic with the black arts, Miss Emmeline reminded her that Madame had been patronized by the Vanderhuysens, and the older sister, whose creed included a belief that the Four Hundred, like the King, can do no wrong, smoothed the wrinkles from her brow and her conscience.

"I suppose it would be foolish not to allow her to come occasionally. The young ladies like it, and she has promised not to tell them anything tragic," she said reluctantly.

So Madame Noveri came to the school once or twice a year, and she kept her word about the tragedy, but as for sentiment – little did the Misses Ryder know of the romances she evoked from rosy palms and greasy cards.

It was Amelia Bowers who suggested calling in the priestess of the occult to lighten the general gloom following the end of the Christmas holidays and a return to the Ryder fold.

"This is simply too dead slow for anything," groaned the fair Amelia. "Let's ask Miss Ryder if we may send for Madame Noveri. I'd like to see whether meeting George Pettingill at the New Year's dance did anything to the lines in my hand. Good gracious! I should think it would have made a perfect furrow."

The other girls seconded Amelia's motion, a deputation waited upon Miss Ryder, and, within an hour, the palmist was holding Amelia's hand in the little waiting-room to which the other seekers after knowledge were admitted, one by one.

Madame instantly detected the havoc wrought by young Pettingill; or, at least, as Amelia said afterward, "she didn't see his name, but she knew right away that there had been some one during the holidays." But it was for Cynthia Weston that Madame Noveri flung wide the gates of the future and revealed coming events of absorbing interest.

Cynthia enjoyed the enviable distinction of being the prettiest girl in the school, and disputed with Laura May Lee the honor of being the best dressed of the Ryder pupils. In addition she was a good student, she was amiable, and her manners were the admiration of the faculty. Taking all this into consideration, the fact that she was even more sentimental than the ever-gushing Amelia could not effectually dim her radiance. Moreover, her sentimentality was of a finer fibre than that of her chum. She did not fall in love with the lightning-change-artist celerity displayed by Amelia. Man dominated her horizon as well as that of her friend, but for her man was an abstraction, a transcendentally perfect being, who might come around any corner to meet her, and for whom she waited breathlessly. She read novels and dreamed of a hero. Amelia read the same novels and saw a hero in every man she met.

As it happened, for one reason or another, Cynthia had never consulted Madame Noveri, but the occult note appealed to her romantic side, and she needed only slight evidence to convince her that Madame was, as Amelia contended, "a wonder." The evidence was speedily forthcoming. Closeted with the fortune-teller, Cynthia heard an analysis of her own character and tastes, which owed its accuracy to skillful pumping of Amelia, but which impressed the listener profoundly.

By the time Madame Noveri had thrown in a few facts concerning the Weston family history – also gathered from the unsuspecting Amelia – Cynthia was ready to accept as inspired truth any revelations that might be made to her.

Then Madame, shrewd in knowledge of schoolgirl logic, felt that it was safe to turn to prophecy.

"A crisis is coming in your life," she said solemnly. "It is written in your hand. Let me see what the cards tell."

She shuffled the cards and bent over them, while Cynthia, thrilled by the thought of an approaching crisis, watched eagerly.

"Yes; it is here, too. I knew the hand could not lie. 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 was a 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 flattered by 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 his beaux 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 the back 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 Cynthia knew!

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.

Amelia and Laura May and Blanche stood by nobly. If anything exciting were going to happen they wanted to be 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 read the 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.

"From him?" chorused the girls.

Cynthia nodded dreamily and handed them the card. Of course they were from him.

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 to dine 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 filed past 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, this is jolly. 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.

CHAPTER VIII

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 six paces. 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 – and an 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.