Hope Benham Part 19

She was turning it over, when Jimmy said, with a certain quick, sharp note in his voice,--

"I hope you'll excuse my cousin, Miss Benham; she has been so used to handling her own violin carelessly she forgets that other people may feel differently with regard to their instruments; and--"

"Jimmy is as cross as two sticks this morning, Hope; he's done nothing but lecture me ever since he came in," Dolly declared airily; but at the same moment she gave the violin back into its owner's hands, to the owner's great relief, who could not help glancing gratefully at Jimmy as she received it. This glance of grat.i.tude did more to restore Jimmy's good-humor, that had been so sorely disturbed, than anything else could have done; "for," he said to himself, "she doesn't think I'm exactly like Dolly if I _am_ her cousin, and, in spite of Dolly, I believe we should be first-rate friends if we saw more of each other."

He was still more convinced of this possible friendliness as he listened to Hope's playing,--as he saw how thorough an artist she was, how she loved and lived in her music, when the violin was in her hands. No silly little tricks about her, no showing off in her pose and expression like some girl-players he had seen,--like Dolly, for instance,--and yet how pretty she was, with that smooth, brown hair ruffling out around her forehead, and the color coming and going, and the brown eyes, too, coming and going, as it were, in their expression, as she played. As pretty as Dolly _and not thinking_ about it,--not thinking about it a bit, as she stood there, an image of grace, her chin bent lovingly down to her violin, her skilful hands evoking such exquisite strains. And those waltzes! Were there any that were ever written fuller of perfect melody? So absorbed was Jimmy in all this listening and looking, he quite forgot that he had meant to run away directly after Hope had played. Dolly saw that he had forgotten; and while he was yet in the tide of his enthusiastic thanks for the Gungl' waltzes, she slipped the duet she had brought down with her on the music-rack, and said,--

[Ill.u.s.tration: "SHE STOOD THERE AN IMAGE OF GRACE, HER CHIN BENT LOVINGLY DOWN TO HER VIOLIN"]

"Now, Hope, do just try this with me."

"Dolly--Miss Benham must be tired; she must want to rest," broke in Jimmy, his face flus.h.i.+ng, his tone revealing his mortification.

Hope saw the flush, and noted the tone. She could not add to his mortification, and going back to the music-stand, she said quietly,--

"Oh, it is one of those pretty folk-songs. Yes, I'll try it with you; I'm not tired."

And so it was in this way that Kate Van der Berg's prophecy was fulfilled.

"I knew it would come about, I knew it, I knew it!" cried Kate, triumphantly, when Myra Donaldson told her what had happened, "for I never saw such a persistent girl in my life as Dorothea,--so persistent and so thick-skinned."

"But Hope couldn't help giving in to her," explained Myra; "she was so sorry for Dorothea's cousin."

"Of course. I do wonder if Dorothea was clever enough to see that,--to plan it, perhaps."

"No, I don't think she planned it, and I don't think she saw in the least why Hope gave in to her. She probably thought Hope had the leisure just then, and felt like it."

"Well, she _is_ the queerest girl; but her cousin is a dear little fellow. My brother Schuyler and Peter Van Loon like him immensely.

Schuyler likes him so much he wants to get him to come up and visit us this summer. I hope he will; he knows everything about a boat, and that means a great deal in the way of a good time with us."

"Why don't _you_ invite Dorothea to come up with him?"

"Yes, why don't I?" and Kate laughed. Then all at once she burst out seriously: "How she _did_ go on at the party; and look here, Myra, I'll tell you something if you won't speak of it to any one,--any one but Hope,--I've told Hope."

"No, I won't say a word about it."

"Well, you saw how she carried on,--flirted in that silly, loud way with Raymond Armitage?"

"Yes."

"Well, what do you think? She--she's carrying on the flirtation still."

"No--no, you don't mean it!"

"I do."

"_How_ is she carrying it on?"

"The next day after the party, the next morning,--that's day before yesterday,--I was down early, hunting for my carnelian pin; I'd dropped it somewhere, and I thought it might be in the reception-room, as I missed it soon after I had left the room to go upstairs the night before. I found it at last under a chair by the window. It was a little bent, and I stood at the window trying to straighten it, when I saw three or four of the Inst.i.tute boys coming along on their way to school.

One of them was Raymond Armitage; and as he pa.s.sed by, I heard him say to the others,--

"'I have a note from my sister that I've got to leave here. Walk on slowly, and I'll catch up with you.'

"Ann was in the hall dusting, and so his ring was answered immediately; and as the reception-room door was ajar, I heard him say to her,--

"'Will you give this note to Miss Dorothea Dering?'

"Then I knew that he dropped something, some piece of money, into the girl's hand, for I could hear her say,--

"'Oh, thank you, sir, I'll go right up with it now,' which she did the instant she had closed the door."

"Well, if I ever!"

"Wait a minute; this isn't all. Just after luncheon that very day, mamma called and took me down town to be measured for my new jacket. After that was over, I sat waiting in the carriage, while mamma went into a shop to give an order. Michael drew up just beyond to make room for another carriage, and that brought us right in front of Huyler's; and there, through the clear gla.s.s of the door, I saw Dorothea Dering and Raymond Armitage laughing and talking together at the ice-cream soda counter."

"Of all--"

"But wait again; this isn't all. At the same hour after luncheon to-day, as I came along the corridor past Dorothea's room, I saw Ann standing at the open door, and whipping out from under her ap.r.o.n what I knew at once was a box of candy, and I heard her say, 'The same young gentleman as sent the note, miss.' Now, what do you think of all this?"

"I think it is perfectly disgusting. What are you going to do about it?

Something ought to be done to stop it."

"What _can_ I do?"

"Oughtn't you to tell Miss Marr?"

"Yes, I suppose I ought, if nothing else will do; but I hate to be a tell-tale. Boys never tell tales of each other. I've got brothers, you know, and I've heard them talk so much about that. I've heard Schuyler say that girls grew up to be women gossips because they tattle so much at school. If I thought it would do any good, I would speak to Dorothea; but she would resent it, and would very likely tell me, in her blunt way, that she could manage her own affairs, and that I'd better mind my own business, or something of that kind."

"Yes, I suppose that she would; but it _is_ our business as well as hers, when she is doing something that is going to hurt the school. What did Hope say when you told her about it?"

"She said it ought to be stopped some way, just for that reason,--that it would hurt the school dreadfully, as well as Dorothea, and nearly kill Miss Marr."

"Of course it would; it's so vulgar and cheap. When did that cousin of Dorothea's go back?"

"Yesterday."

"He was staying with some relatives, wasn't he?"

"Yes, cousins, I believe."

"Why couldn't somebody tell _them_? They might stop it; and it must be stopped, or--you know what Miss Marr _might_ do? She might, you know, send her home,--expel her at once."

"Yes, I thought of that; and that was one reason I had for not telling her."

"Oh, it's all so silly! What fun could there be in sneaking off to drink ice-cream soda with Raymond Armitage?"

"No particular fun in the soda itself. The fun to Dorothea was just the sneaking off. You can see she thinks she's having 'great larks,' as she'd call it,--is being independent and having adventures and being a great flirt, and that Raymond Armitage admires her for it. And Raymond Armitage is simply laughing in his sleeve at her. Oh, I should think any girl would have better sense, better taste; and Anna Fleming talks about her family."

"But she isn't the only one of her family. There's her cousin; look at him: he's a little gentleman if ever there was one. What would he say to her if he knew? And just think! there she was back again, playing on her violin with him as cool as you please, directly after her lark, and no doubt pluming herself on it."