Concerning Belinda Part 16

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Cynthia quite forgot to go back to the French cla.s.s"]

"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 wors.h.i.+pped 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 matinee on Sat.u.r.day! 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 matinee 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 blus.h.i.+ng 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 embarra.s.sed, 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," a.s.serted the teacher of mathematics with her usual curtness.

Belinda nodded emphatic a.s.sent. "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 punis.h.i.+ng 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 ma.s.ses of straight, black hair were parted in an unerring white line and fell in two heavy braids. The face framed in the smooth, s.h.i.+ning 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 establis.h.i.+ng 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.