Читать книгу: «Concerning Belinda», страница 3
"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.
"But there is one thing, chère Mademoiselle Ryder. I know that the other teachers – my associates – dislike the shopping. They object to chaperoning the young ladies upon the little expeditions to the shops. Me, I do not mind. I am glad to go if it will save the others from a duty that is disagreeable. It has come to me that perhaps the theatre is more popular than the shopping, that it may give pleasure to chaperon to the theatre, the opera, the concert. That is so, is it not?"
Miss Ryder admitted that there might be reason in the theory.
Mademoiselle smiled, a sweet, swift smile. "Ah, it is so. Then you will do me a favour? Yes? It would be better that for the theatre other chaperons should be chosen. Me, I will take for myself all the shopping. It will give me pleasure to have it so. I will feel that it is for the happiness of my fellow-teachers, and that will give me happiness. You will arrange it so, is it not?"
Miss Lucilla demurred. The arrangement was unfair. Shopping was the teachers' bête noire. It would not do to load all of the unpleasant duty upon one pair of shoulders.
Mademoiselle refused to be spared. She appreciated her superior's consideration, but she was bent upon being noble, and begged for martyrdom.
"After all it is not as if I, too, disliked the thing. Me, I am French. I love the shops. Fatiguing? Yes, the young ladies are slow in making up their minds, but it is all one to me."
In the end Miss Lucilla yielded, and in due course the announcement was made in faculty meeting that Mademoiselle de Courcelles would chaperon all shopping expeditions, but would do no evening chaperoning. Miss Lucilla accompanied the announcement by a few remarks concerning the cheerful spirit in which Mademoiselle de Courcelles accepted the undesirable duty. Mademoiselle looked modestly deprecatory. The teachers were surprised and pleased. Only Miss Barnes, unmoved, eyed the willing martyr with a coolly speculative glance.
Shopping was always a vital issue with a certain set of the Ryder pupils. The girls were extravagant and amply provided with pocket-money by parents foolishly indulgent. Moreover, shopping commissions from home were many; and, though one of the school rules carefully embalmed in the circulars was to the effect that no pupil could be allowed more than one shopping expedition in any one week, this rule, like many another, was more honored in the breach than in the observance.
So Mademoiselle de Courcelles found her hands full with her self-elected task, and not a day went by without her leading forth from one to fifteen girls bent upon storming the shops.
As Christmas holidays approached, the shopping fever waxed more violent, and there was no afternoon of rest for the shopping chaperon. Not only had each of the girls a long Christmas list of purchases she must make for herself, but the lists of commissions from home grew and multiplied.
Through all the strain and stress Mademoiselle de Courcelles maintained her cheerful serenity. Her amiability never wavered, her gay volatility never flagged. The girls chorused her praises. She was the most helpful of advisers, the most wise of shoppers, the most unwearying of chaperons.
Sometimes she came home to dinner with dark circles under her eyes and lines of fatigue about her mouth, but her spirits were always intact, and even Miss Barnes admitted that the Frenchwoman was good-natured and that her amiable self-sacrifice had been a boon to the rest of the resident teachers.
During the last week of the term several annoying incidents disturbed the serenity of the Misses Ryder, and caused more or less excitement among the girls. First and most distressing was the loss of Laura May Lee's pocket-book. Under ordinary circumstances this would not have been a calamity, for Laura May's pocket-money melted away as if by magic, and her pocket-book was chronically flat. But, as it happened, Mr. Lee, a wealthy Southern widower, had been confiding enough to send Laura May a check for $500, and commission her to select two rings as Christmas presents for herself and her younger sister. The rings were chosen after several expeditions to famous jewellery shops, and at last one afternoon Laura May and a group of chosen friends, chaperoned by Mademoiselle de Courcelles, set forth to bring home the spoils.
Miss Ryder had cashed the check, the $500 in cash reposed snugly in Laura May's purse; but when, at the jeweller's, Laura May opened her shopping-bag, lo! the purse had vanished and the $500 with it – gone, evidently, to swell some pickpocket's holiday harvest.
Only a few days later Mademoiselle de Courcelles, in an interview behind closed doors, reported to Miss Ryder that a small sum of money had been stolen from her trunk, and that circumstantial evidence pointed to Ellen, one of the chamber-maids, as the thief. Mademoiselle explained that she did not mind the personal loss, but as the pupils had been complaining of the disappearance of money, jewellery, silver toilet articles, etc., she felt it her duty to report her suspicions.
Miss Lucilla promptly ordered Ellen's trunks and bureau drawers searched and, a gold hatpin belonging to Evangeline Marie Jenkins having materialized in one of the bureau drawers, Ellen, weeping and to the last protesting her innocence, was summarily turned out of the house.
After this excitement, school life flowed on smoothly until the last Saturday before the holiday vacation.
"The whole school's going shopping to-day," Amelia Bowers announced at the breakfast table on this particular Saturday morning. "Everybody's got a Christmas list a mile long, and it's going to be something awful. The stores will be simply jammed and it'll take an hour to buy a paper of pins."
Miss Lucilla Ryder smiled tolerantly and omitted her usual criticism of Amelia's extravagant speech.
"You will need assistance to-day, Mademoiselle de Courcelles. I will send some of the young ladies out with other teachers."
She did; but Mademoiselle's ardent admirers were faithful, and she started out at half-past nine in charge of twelve of the richest girls in the school.
From shop to shop the flock fluttered, chattering, giggling, elbowing their way through the crowds, buying many things, inspecting more, meeting smiles and good nature on every hand. There's something about the effervescent exuberance of a boarding-school crowd that thaws even the icy hauteur of the average saleswoman, and stirs any salesman to spectacular affability.
It was after a hasty and simple luncheon, beginning with lobster salad and ending with tutti-frutti ice cream and chocolate éclairs, that the Ryder expedition drifted into a well-known jewellery shop.
Belinda, helping Katherine Holland to choose a stickpin for her brother, saw the familiar faces and idly watched the girls as they bore down upon a counter where a bland salesman greeted them with welcoming smiles. She knew that Laura May was once more in quest of rings – her long-suffering father having dutifully forwarded a second cheque when told, in a tear-blotted letter, of the fate that had met the first gift – and she smiled when Laura May triumphantly fished a chamois-skin bag out of her blouse front and extracted a roll of bills which she clutched firmly in her hand, while her glance, roaming suspiciously over the surrounding crowd, glared defiance at all pickpockets.
Suddenly Belinda's smile faded. Her eyes opened wide in amazement.
She had seen a swift, deft movement of Mademoiselle's hand – but no, it was impossible. She had imagined it. Yet she stood staring in a bewildered fashion at the Frenchwoman until Katherine touched her arm.
"What's the matter, Miss Carewe? I'm ready to go."
Belinda smiled vaguely, and moved toward the door in the wake of Mademoiselle and her charges, who were also leaving. She lost sight of them in the crowd; but, as she neared the door, there was a sudden swirling eddy in the incoming and outgoing tides. Something was happening outside. The sound of excited girlish voices floated into the shop. A crowd was forming on the sidewalk.
Belinda's cheeks flamed scarlet. A look of startled comprehension gleamed in her eyes.
"Hurry," she urged curtly; and, with her hand on Katherine's arm, forged ahead through the door, unceremoniously pushing aside everyone who interfered with her rapid exit.
Once outside, she turned unhesitatingly toward a group blocking the sidewalk. A policeman's helmet loomed large above the heads of the crowd; and, as Belinda approached, the policeman's sturdy form forced a way through the circle. Following came Mademoiselle de Courcelles escorted by two men whose faces wore smiles of quiet satisfaction. Behind was a bewildered, hysterical group of girls, weeping, lamenting, protesting, entreating.
Belinda stopped the procession.
"There must be some mistake," she said falteringly. "What is wrong?"
One of the keen-eyed men took off his hat respectfully.
"Sorry, Miss; but it's French Liz, all right. We got the tip from Paris that she was working New York again, but we couldn't spot her till to-day."
"B-b-but what has she done?" stammered Belinda, to whom twelve anguish-stricken girls were attempting to cling, while a mixed audience looked on appreciatively.
"Cleverest shop-lifter in the graft," explained the detective. "She's got plenty of the goods on her right now; but I say" – and his glance wandered to the girls – "who'd a-thought of this lay except Liz? She's a bird, she is!"
He turned to Mademoiselle de Courcelles with honest admiration in his eyes, and she smiled at him recklessly, with white lips.
"You'd have been too late to-morrow. I was expecting a telegram calling me away to-night."
All the hesitation was gone from her English. She spoke fluently, and a hard metallic ring had crept into the velvety voice.
The detective looked at Belinda.
"This other fellow is the shop-detective. We'll have to take her in here and see what swag she has beside the diamonds we saw her lift. I don't know as there's any use keeping the young ladies – "
Evangeline Marie gave a smothered wail at the suggestion, and Laura May showed signs of fainting in Belinda's arms.
"Boarding-school crowd, I see. Now, Miss, if you'll just give me the name of the school and the address, you can take the bunch along home. It isn't likely that any of those babes are in the game with Liz. She's just used them for a blind. Holy smoke! but that was a good idea. Turn a crowd of boarding-school girls loose at a counter, and their teacher could steal the clerks blind without their suspecting her. Lost anything in the school?"
Belinda had a sudden vision of the disgraced Ellen's tearful face, and a thought of Laura May's pocket-book smote her, but she merely wrote the address on a card and handed it to the detective.
"If you could keep the name of the school out of the scandal it would be worth your while," she said in a low voice.
The detective nodded.
"I'll try; but I guess the papers will get it one way or another. Don't let anyone touch Liz's trunks. I'll be up to go through them just as soon as I've finished here."
For the first time, Mademoiselle faced Belinda and the wide-eyed girls.
"Ces chères demoiselles! Cette superbe Mees Ryder! Bah! It was too easy. I mention a duchess, a countess. The lofty Mees Ryder falls upon my neck. I tell stories of the French noblemen who have adored me, persecuted me with their devotion until I fled from France; poor but honest. The little schoolgirls gulp it all down and beg for more. Oh, but they are stupid – these respectable people. You have my sympathy, Mademoiselle Carewe. You must live among them. For me – give me les gens d'esprit, give me a society interesting. Adieu, mes chères. It was amusing, that boarding-school experience, but to endure it long —mon dieu, I prefer even this!"
She waved her hand airily toward the policeman and the grinning detectives, and, with a shrug, moved toward the shop door, then paused for a parting message.
"My regards to the venerable spinsters. It pains me that I shall never be able to arrange for them a meeting with the Duchesse de Rochechouart and Madame la Comtesse de Pourtales. The maid of the duchess collected stationery for me at one time. It is often of use, the stationery that carries a good crest. Adieu!"
Belinda convoyed a subdued group of girls back to the school; but, by the time they reached the door, their spirits had soared. It is sad to be disillusioned, but after all it is something to have been intimately associated with a famous criminal, and to have been an eye-witness of her capture.
Only Laura May Lee mourned and refused to be comforted.
"I will never again open my soul to anyone," she vowed hysterically.
"I said the woman was a cat," commented Miss Barnes when the news reached her ears.
What Miss Lucilla Ryder said in the first fervor of her surprise no one save Belinda knew, for their interview was behind closed doors, but when she came from her room to meet the detective Miss Lucilla's calm dignity was without a ripple.
The investigation of teachers' credentials is now her pet hobby, and she freezes at the mention of the French nobility.
