Concerning Belinda

AN APOLOGY

To all principals of New York boarding-schools, the author of these sketches offers humble apologies for having approached those excellent institutions chiefly from their humorous side.

That the city boarding-school has its earnest and serious phases, its charming and sensible pupils, no rational mortal could deny; but each finishing school has, also, its Amelias, and their youthful absurdities offer tempting material to the writer of tales.

CHAPTER I

BELINDA AND THE TWELVE

FOR years New York had been beckoning to Belinda. All during her time at the western co-educational college, where she collected an assortment of somewhat blurred impressions concerning Greek roots, Latin depravity, and modern literature, and assisted liberally in the education of her masculine fellow-students, New York, with its opportunities for work and experience, had lured her on. Fortune she would not need. Daddy had attended to that in his will, but success, and a knowledge of the world outside of Indiana, she must have.

This fixed purpose rendered her immune from the sentimental and matrimonial epidemics that devastate the Junior and Senior ranks in co-educational institutions. She graduated with honours – and with scalps. Many Seniors went away sorrowful because of her, the French professor lapsed into hopeless Gallic gloom, and even the professor of ancient history was forced into painful recognition of the importance of the moderns.

When the fortune which had seemed a premise in life's logic shrunk to proportions barely adequate to support the mother and the younger children, and became for Belinda herself a vague hypothesis, New York still hung mystic and alluring upon the horizon; but a public-school position in the home town offered solid ground upon which to stand, while yearning toward the apparently unattainable star. The public-school career was a success. The English classes attained unheard-of popularity; and, if the number of fights between the big boys swelled amazingly, at least the frays did not, as a rule, occur upon the school grounds, and the casualties were no more dire than those contingent upon football glory. Belinda shone for all. She allowed great and small to adore her. To her pupils she was just but merciful, and stoically impartial. The school superintendent, who had weathered the first throes of widowerhood, and reached the stage where he loved sitting upon a veranda in the twilight and hearing nocturnes played by some feminine personality in the parlour, suffered much emotional stress and strain in the endeavour to decide whether he would rather have nocturnes and a parlour-chained Belinda or a Belinda beside him in the twilight and no nocturnes.

Chopin eventually went to the wall; but, just as the superintendent was developing a taste for major harmonies once more, the unexpected happened.

Miss Lucilla Ryder came to town.

Miss Ryder was one of the Misses Ryder. Apart from the other Miss Ryder was incomplete, but she more nearly approximated completion than did Miss Emmeline Ryder under the same conditions.

Together, the elderly maiden sisters made up a composite entity of considerable force; and for something like thirty years this entity had been the mainspring of a flourishing Select School for Young Ladies, located upon a fashionable side street in the most aristocratic district of New York. To the school of the Misses Ryder youthful daughters of New York's first families might be entrusted, with no fear that their expensive and heaven-allotted bloom would be rubbed off by contact with the offspring of second-rate families. As Miss Lucilla Ryder explained, in an effort to soothe the natural fears of a society leader whose great-grandfather had been a most reputable farmer, the young ladies of the school were divided into groups, and the flowers of New York's aristocracy would find in their especial classes only those young ladies with whom they might reasonably expect to be intimate after their school life ended and their social career began.

Miss Ryder did not mention this interesting fact to the fond parents from Idaho and Texas who contemplated placing their daughters in the school, in order that they might acquire a New York lacquer, and make acquaintances among the social elect. In fact, Miss Ryder always dangled before the eyes of these ambitious parents a group of names suggesting a list of guests for the most exclusive of Newport functions, and dwelt eloquently upon the privilege of breathing the air which furnished oxygen to members of these exalted families. Nine times out of ten, mere repetition of the sacred names hypnotised the prospective patrons, and they gladly offered up their daughters upon the altar of social advancement.

An explanation of the class-system would have marred the optimistic hopes of these fond parents, and the Misses Ryder were too altruistic to disturb the happiness of fellow mortals. Moreover, it was a comparatively simple thing to separate day-scholars from boarders without appearing to make a point of it.

In the handling of such delicate matters, the Misses Ryder displayed a tact and a finesse which would have made them ornaments to any diplomatic corps; and, fortunately, the number of the young ladies who were, of necessity, to be kept in cotton wool was small. The great bulk of the school's attendance was more or less genially democratic.

School keeping in an aristocratic section of New York is an expensive matter. It must be done upon a large and daring scale. The Misses Ryder occupied two brownstone houses. The rents were enormous. The houses were handsomely furnished. Teachers of ability were a necessity, and such teachers were expensive. A capable housekeeper and efficient servants were required to make domestic affairs run smoothly. In consideration of all this, it was imperative that the Misses Ryder should gather in, each year, enough boarders to exhaust the room capacity of the two big houses, and that these boarders should be able and willing to pay high prices. In order to insure this condition of things, one of the two principals always made summer pilgrimages to remote places, where wealthy families possessed of daughters hungering for New York advantages might reasonably be supposed to exist; and it was in the course of one of these promoting tours that Miss Lucilla Ryder came to Lanleyville – drawn there by knowledge of certain large milling interests in the place.

It was – with apologies to Tennyson – "the miller's daughter" who was "dear, so dear," to Miss Lucilla, but an unkind fate had decreed that the miller's daughter should show a pernicious desire for college education, and that the miller himself should be as wax in his daughter's hands. Miss Lucilla did not find pupils in Lanleyville, but she found Belinda. That alone should have repaid her for the trip.

The meeting was accidental, being brought about through the aforesaid miller's daughter, who had been, for a High-School period, one of Belinda's adoring slaves.

The Misses Ryder needed a teacher of English; Belinda dreamed of New York. To make a long story short, Belinda was engaged to teach to the Ryder pupils such sections and fragments of the English branches as might be introduced into their heads without resort to surgery. The salary offered was meagre, but the work would be in New York; so the contract was made, and Belinda was inclined to look upon Miss Lucilla as angel of light. Miss Lucilla's opinion of the arrangement was summed up briefly in her next letter to Miss Emmeline.

"I have secured a teacher of English," she wrote. "The young person is much too pretty and girlish, but she is willing to accept a very small salary and is unmistakably a gentlewoman. Her attractions will give her an influence which we may be able to utilize for the benefit of the school."

Two months later Belinda sat upon her trunk in a New York hall bedroom and considered.

The room was the smallest in the Misses Ryder's Select School for Young Ladies, and before the introduction of the trunk it had been necessary to evict the one chair which had been a part of the room's furnishing. The bed was turned up against the wall, where it masqueraded, behind denim curtains, as a bookcase. When the bed came down there was no standing room outside of it, and, as Belinda discovered later, getting into that bed without casualties was a feat calling for fine strategy. A chiffonier retired as coyly as possible into the embrace of a recessed doorway; a washstand of Lilliputian dimensions occupied an infinitesimal fraction of a corner.

The newly arrived instructor of youth studied her domain ruefully from her vantage point on the trunk; and it might have been observed, had there been any one on hand to observe it, that the study was interrupted by occasional attacks of violent winking, also that much winking seemed to impart a certain odd moisture to the singularly long lashes which shielded a pair of rather remarkable gray eyes.

As she winked, the young woman of the gray eyes kicked her heels against the side of the trunk in a fashion that was distinctly undignified, but appeared to be comforting. There was a note of defiance in the heel tattoo, an echo of defiance in the heroic attempt at stubbornness to be noted in a deliciously rounded chin, and a mouth which a beneficent Providence never mapped out upon stubborn lines, but the eyelashes gleamed moistly.

If, as has been claimed by worthy persons who have made physiognomy their study, the eyes reflect one's native spirit, and the mouth proclaims one's acquired character, Belinda's spiritual and emotional heritage was in tears, but her mental habit challenged fate to hurl hall bedrooms ad libitum at her curly head. She had wanted to come to New York. Well, she was in New York. The immortal Touchstone loomed up before her with his disgruntled protest: "Now am I in Arden. When I was at home I was in a better place." Belinda quoted the comment softly. Then suddenly she stopped winking and smiled. The chin and mouth incontinently abandoned their stubborn rôle, and showed what they could do in the line of curves and witchery. Dimples dashed boldly into the open.

Belinda looked up at the large steel engraving of the Pyramids, which filled most of the room's available wall space, and the smile expanded into a laugh. When Belinda laughs, even a city hall bedroom is a cheerful place.

"J'y suis; j'y reste," the young woman announced cheerfully to the largest Pyramid. It looked stolidly benignant. The sentiment was one it could readily understand.

There came a tap upon the closed door.

"Come in," called Belinda. The door opened, and a tall young woman dispassionately surveyed the scene.

"It's a mathematical impossibility," she said gravely, "and that's expert testimony, for I'm Miss Barnes, the teacher of Mathematics. Don't apologize. I had this room myself the first year, and I got so used to it that when I moved to one that is six inches larger each way, I positively rattled around in it. Miss Ryder sent me to ask you to go to her sitting-room. I'll come and call as soon as you've unpacked and settled."

She went away, and Belinda, after dabbing a powderpuff recklessly over her eyelids and nose, hurried to the private sitting-room, which was the Principal's sanctum.

Miss Lucilla, slim, erect, well gowned, superior, sat at a handsome desk between the front windows. Miss Emmeline, a delightful wash drawing of her strongly etched sister, was talking with two twittering girls at the opposite end of the room. Miss Emmeline was always detailed to the sympathetic task. Her slightly vague gentleness was less disconcerting to sentimental or homesick pupils than Miss Lucilla's somewhat glacial dignity.

Belinda hesitated upon the threshold. Miss Emmeline bestowed upon her a detached and impersonal smile. Miss Lucilla summoned her with an autocratic move of a slender hand, a gesture so imperious that it was with difficulty the new teacher refrained from an abject salaam.

"Miss Carewe," said the smooth, cool voice, "some of the young ladies want to go to the theatre to-night. School does not begin until to-morrow; there are no duties to occupy their time and attention, and we are, of course, liable to an epidemic of homesickness and hysteria. Under the circumstances the theatre idea is a good one. It will distract their minds. I have selected a suitable play, and you will chaperon. The teachers who have been here before will be needed to assist me with certain preliminary arrangements to-night. Moreover, you seem to be cheerful, and at present the young ladies need to be inoculated with cheerfulness. Be very careful, however, to be dignified first and cheerful afterward. Remember, however young you may look or feel, you are a teacher with responsibility upon your shoulders. You must make the pupils understand that you cannot be overrun, even though you are young. Unless you take a very wise stand from the first your position will be difficult and you will be of no value to us. Be reasonable but uncompromising."

Belinda had been listening attentively. Already she began to hear the whirring of wheels within wheels in this work of hers, began to understand that in city private-school life "face" must be preserved as religiously as in Chinese ceremonial circles; but she recognised in Miss Lucilla a woman who understood her problem, and she found this middle-aged spinster, with the keen eyes, the Roman nose, the firm lips, and the grande-dame manner, interesting.

"How many girls will go?" she asked meekly.

"Twelve."

Belinda gasped. Twelve strange, homesick girls! She wondered if they would all be as big as the two with Miss Emmeline.

"The theatre is the Garrick. You will start at five minutes of eight."

Miss Lucilla turned to her desk. The interview was finished. No one ever lingered after Miss Lucilla had said her say.

Belinda went back to her room. On the way she met Miss Barnes.

"Where is the Garrick Theatre?" she inquired.

The teacher of mathematics stopped and looked at her.

"Thirty-fifth Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. Walk over and take the stage or the Sixth Avenue car. Make the girls walk in twos and the couples close together. Walk behind them. Watch them. They'll stand it. Don't let them laugh or talk loud or giggle like idiots. I suppose you may as well get broken in first as last."

The voice and manner were brusque, but the eyes had a kindly gleam, and Belinda was devoutly thankful for the information so curtly given.

"Do they ever cry in the street cars?" she asked with an air of grim foreboding.

Miss Barnes's eyes relented still further.

"No, but they flirt in the street cars."

"Not really." Belinda's tone expressed incredulous disgust.

"Really. By the time you've chaperoned miscellaneous specimens of the up-to-date young person for a few months, Miss Carewe, you'll not be surprised at any breach of good taste. The girls carry on handkerchief flirtations with strangers from the windows."

"Girls from respectable families?"

"Girls from excellent families. Of course, there are numbers of well-bred girls who behave correctly; and there's nothing actually bad about the ones who behave badly. They are merely lacking in good taste and overcharged with animal spirits or sentimentality. I'm always surprised that they don't get into all sorts of disgraceful scrapes, but they seldom do. We have to be eternally vigilant, though."

"But handkerchief flirtation is so unspeakably common," said Belinda emphatically – then, with a twinkle, "and such a desecration of a really fine art."

Miss Barnes shook her head.

"The Misses Ryder haven't any sense of humour," she warned; "you'd better let your conversation be yea, yea, and nay, nay" – but she smiled.

At five minutes to eight the Youngest Teacher stood in the lower hall, surrounded by schoolgirls of assorted sizes and shapes, and prayerfully hoping that she didn't look as foolish as she felt.

One of the older teachers, commissioned by Miss Ryder, had come down to see the expedition fairly started. She was a plump, sleek woman with an automatic smile and a pneumatic manner.

"You will all give your car fares to Miss Carewe, young ladies," she purred. "You have your rubbers? That's right. The pavements are damp. Miss Bowers and Miss Somerville, you may lead. Fall in closely, in couples, and be very careful not under any circumstances to become separated from the chaperon. She will report any annoyance you may cause her. I hope you will have a delightful evening."

The door closed upon her unnatural amiability. Six couples swung into the street, with Belinda at their heels. Out of the grim, inclosing walls, with the cool, moist air in their faces, the lights reflected gayly in the glistening pavements, the cabs and carriages dashing by, the mystery and fascination of a great city clinging around them, and a matinée idol beckoning them, the girls began to find life more cheerful. Even fat, babyish little Kittie Dayton, whose face was swollen and blotted almost beyond human semblance by six hours of intermittent weeping, stopped blowing her nose long enough to squeal delightedly:

"Oh-e-e! The man kissed the lady in that cab."

It was with difficulty that Belinda stopped a stampede in the direction of the hansom. This was seeing New York. The melancholy atmosphere of the school was forgotten.

They giggled in the car. It worried Belinda. Later she learned to bow to the inevitable. The young man who gave Amelia Bowers his seat was sociably inclined; but, on the whole, Amelia behaved very well, though she admitted, later, that she thought he had "most romantic eyes, and a perfectly elegant waistcoat."

Belinda squirmed on the car. Arrived at the theatre she squirmed still more. The lobby was well filled. It was almost time for the curtain. She hated leading her line down the middle aisle to the fourth row; she hated the smiles and comment that followed them; she loathed being made conspicuous – and her sentiments were not modified, as she followed the last of the girls through the door, by hearing the manager say jocularly to the doorkeeper:

"My eye! and who's chaperoning the pretty chaperon?"

There was a balk, a tangle, when the fourth row was reached. The acquaintances between most of the girls dated from the morning of that day, but already each of the group had strong convictions in regard to the girls beside whom she chose to sit, and hours of discussion and debate could not have solved the problem to the satisfaction of all concerned.

Belinda firmly hustled the protestants into the seats without regard to prejudices, and sat down in the end chair exhausted and rebellious. She detested the Young Person, individually and collectively. She resented being bear leader. She thought longingly of the Lanleyville High School and the home friends, and the fact that New York seethed round the theatre in which she sat afforded her no consolation. She was profoundly indifferent to the popular actor before whom her charges became as dumb, adoring worshippers. In a little while she would have to lead her flock of geese home, and she wished she dared lose them and run away. She felt a sudden sympathy for Kittie Dayton, whose pudgy, swollen face, though now radiant, looked like an unfinished biscuit. Belinda, too, was homesick – deeply, darkly, dismally homesick. Even her sense of humour was swamped. June and the end of her contract loomed but vaguely beyond a foggy waste of months.

"Isn't he just too perfectly sweet, Miss Carewe?" gurgled Amelia Bowers in her ear.

Belinda was non-committal.

"Did you ever meet him on the street?"

Belinda had never had that rapture.

"Well, one might, you know," said Amelia hopefully. "Alice Ransom plumped right into Faversham, one day, when she was in New York, and he took off his hat to her and said, 'Beg pardon.' She said she felt perfectly faint. His voice sounded just like it does on the stage, and he had the most fascinating eyes and the sweetest bulldog. Alice said it seemed like Fate, running right into him that way, the first time she went out alone. She walked down Fifth Avenue at that same time every day for a week, but she never met him again."

The star and his leading lady fell into each other's arms for the final curtain and later were brought out to bow their amiable acknowledgements, with results disastrous to the seams of Amelia's white gloves.

The crowd rustled to its feet, preened itself, and took lagging flight toward the street. Belinda marshalled her flock and joined the exodus. She would be glad to reach the hall bedroom and shut its door upon a world that was too much with her. She coveted the stolid, tranquil society of the Pyramids. They would watch her cry with the same impenetrable indifference with which they would watch her laugh, but presumably the Garrick Theatre crowd would be impressed if she should burst into floods of tears.

Drearily she followed the six couples of chattering girls who dropped adjectives and exclamations as they went, and who were quite unable to keep in line, according to the prescribed formula, in the midst of the jostling, hurrying crowd; but Belinda was little concerned by that. As a matter of fact, her thoughts were self-centred. This was her first view of a New York crowd, but she received no impression save that men and women alike looked tired and dissatisfied, though surely they were not all elected to spend the next nine months in a boarding-school.

The middle aisle emptied her into the lobby; and as she stood there, vaguely conscious that something was incumbent upon her, her wandering glance fell upon a young man across the lobby. Belinda gasped, flushed. The young man's eyes met hers from where he was wedged against the wall. His face, too, lighted into incredulous joy. It was a good-looking face, a gay, boyish face, but browned to a hue that contrasted oddly with the city-bleached skins around him. Perhaps that was why he had attracted attention, and why several heads turned to discover the cause of the sudden illumination. When the owners of the heads saw Belinda they understood and smiled benignantly. All the world loves a lover.

Belinda was utterly unconscious of the glances, unconscious of anything save that the gods were good.

Here was Jack – Jack, of all men, dropped into the midst of her gloom. Hilarious memories and cheerful anticipations swarmed into her mind. Jack stood for home, old days, old larks, old irresponsibility. New York disappeared from the map. The Select School for Young Ladies ceased to exist. The young ladies themselves were blotted out.

Beaming, dimpling, Belinda squeezed a way across the outgoing current. Grinning, radiant, Jack Wendell forced an opening for his square shoulders.

They met in the whirlpool, and he cleverly hauled her into a high and dry corner.

"Belinda!"

"Jack!"

Everyone near them smiled sympathetically. Belinda's enthusiasm is often misleading, and on this occasion she was unreservedly enthusiastic.

"Is the Massachusetts in?"

"Docked yesterday."

"And you are going to stay?"

"Several weeks – and you?"

"All winter."

Belinda's delight approached effervescence. Jack's face was a luminous harvest moon. Both were oblivious to the fact that he was still holding her hand.

They talked breathlessly in laughter-punctuated gusts. They went back to the beginning of things and rapidly worked down past the Deluge which separated them, and the subsequent wanderings. They brought their life histories almost up to date, and then, suddenly, Miss Lucilla Ryder entered Belinda's tale.

"Miss Lucilla Ryder!"

As she spoke the name she underwent a sudden transformation. Her smiles and dimples vanished, her face lengthened miraculously, her eyes stared fixedly at some awesome vision.

Lieutenant Wendell cast an alarmed look over his shoulder. The glance encountered a blank wall and returned to Belinda's face.

"For Heaven's sake, what is it?" he asked.

"The girls!" said Belinda in a whisper.

Once more the Lieutenant looked over his shoulder.

"Where?" he inquired, eyeing her anxiously.

"I – don't – know," faltered Belinda.

"Good Heavens, Belinda," protested the Lieutenant. "Wake up. What's the matter? Are you ill?"