CHAPTER III

THE ELOPEMENT OF EVANGELINE MARIE

EVA MAY rose, like a harvest moon, above the Ryder school horizon late in November. Large bodies being proverbially slow of motion, she had occupied the first two months of the school year in acquiring enough momentum to carry her from Laurelton, Mississippi, to New York and install her in the Misses Ryder's most desirable room--providentially left vacant by a defection in the school ranks.

The price of the room was high, but money meant nothing to Eva May. Creature comfort meant much. The new pupil clamoured for a private bath, but finally resigned herself to the least Spartan variety of school simplicity, bought a large supply of novels, made an arrangement by which, for a consideration, the second-floor maid agreed to smuggle fresh chocolates into the house three times a week, unpacked six wrappers, and settled down to the arduous process of being "finished" by a winter in New York.

Miss Lucilla Ryder, conscientious to a fault in educational matters, made an effort to plant Eva May's feet upon the higher paths of learning, and enrolled the girl in various classes; but the passive resistance of one hundred and ninety pounds of inert flesh and a flabby mind were too much for the worthy principal.

"We must do what we can with her," Miss Lucilla said helplessly to the Youngest Teacher. "She may acquire something by association; and, at least, she seems harmless."

Belinda agreed with due solemnity.

"Yes, unless she falls upon someone, she'll do no active damage."

"But her laziness and lack of ambition set such bad standards for the other girls," sighed Miss Lucilla.

Belinda shook her head in protest.

"Not at all. She's valuable as an awful example."

So Eva May, whose baptismal name was Evangeline Marie, and whose father, John Jenkins, a worthy brewer, had wandered from Ohio to the South, married a French creole, and accidentally made a colossal fortune out of a patent spigot, rocked her ponderous way through school routine, wept over the trials of book heroines, munched sweets, filled the greater part of the front bench in certain classes where she never, by any chance, recited, furnished considerable amusement to her schoolmates, and grew steadily fatter.

"If she stays until June we'll never be able to get her out through the door," prophesied Miss Barnes, the teacher of mathematics one morning, as she and Belinda stood at the door of the music-room during Eva May's practice hour, and looked at the avalanche of avoirdupois overflowing a small piano-stool. "Something really must be done."

Chance provided something. The ram in the thicket took the form of an epidemic started by Amelia Bowers, whose fond parents conceived the idea that their child was not having exercise enough in city confines and wrote that they wanted her to have a horse and ride in the Park. Being a southern girl she was used to riding, but they thought it would be well for her to have a few lessons at a good riding-school, and, of course, a riding-master or reliable groom must accompany her in the Park.

The Misses Ryder groaned. A teacher must chaperon the fair Amelia to riding-school, and sit there doing absent chaperoning until her charge should be restored to her by the riding-master. The teachers were already too busy. Still, as Mr. Bowers was an influential patron, the arrangement must be made.

No sooner was the matter noised abroad than the whole school was bitten by the riding mania. Those who could ride wanted to ride. Those who couldn't wanted to learn. Frantic appeals went forth by letters to parents throughout the United States, but riding in New York is an expensive pastime, and only five fathers responded with the desired blessings and adequate checks.

Miss Ryder wrote to the head of a popular riding-school and asked that someone be sent to talk the arrangements over with her.

The next evening, during recreation hour, the girls fortunate enough to be in the drawing-room saw a radiant vision ushered in by the maid and left to await the coming of the principal.

He was slim, he was dapper, he was exquisite, he was French. His small black moustache curved briskly upward from red lips curved like a bow; his nose was faultlessly straight; his black eyes were sparkling; his brows were well marked, his dark hair was brushed to a high, patent-leather polish.

He wore riding clothes of the most elaborate type, despite the hour of his visit, and as he sat nonchalantly upon the red-damask sofa he tapped his shining boots with a knowing crop, curled his moustache airily, and allowed his glance to rove boldly over the display of youthful femininity. A number of the older girls rose and left the room, but a majority lingered fearfully, rapt in admiration and wonder.

Eva May palpitated upon a commodious window-seat. Here was a realization of her brightest dreams. So Comte Robert Montpelier Ravillon de Brissac must have looked as he sprang lightly from his curveting steed and met the Lady Angelique in the Park of Flamberon. In her agitation she tucked a caramel in each cheek and forgot that they were there.

"Young ladies, you may be excused."

Miss Emmeline Ryder had arrived.

The girls departed, and a buzz of excited conversation floated back from the hall; but Evangeline Marie went silently to her room, sore smitten.

If Miss Lucilla Ryder had been selected by the Fates to meet Monsieur Albert de Puys, the chances are that some riding-school other than Manlay's would have been patronized by the Ryder school, for Miss Lucilla was a shrewd judge of men and things; but, as luck would have it, Miss Lucilla was suffering from neuralgia, and Miss Emmeline, gentle, vague, confiding, was sent down to conduct the interview.

Monsieur de Puys, clever in his own fashion, was deferential and diplomatic.

Miss Emmeline quite overlooked his _beaux yeux_ and the havoc they might work in girlish hearts. She made arrangements for the lessons, settled the details, and reported to Miss Lucilla that everything was satisfactory and that the envoy was "a very pleasant person."

So the girls rode, and the teachers chaperoned, and the fathers paid, and on the surface all went well.

Belinda was elected, more often than any of her fellow-teachers, to take the girls to the riding-school; and, on the whole, she liked the task, for it gave her a quiet hour with a book while the young equestriennes tore up the tanbark or were out and away in the Park. She merely represented the conventions, and her position was more or less of a sinecure. Occasionally she watched the girls who took their lessons indoors, and she conceived a violent dislike for one of the masters--a Frenchman with an all-conquering manner and an impertinent smile; but she never thought of taking the manner and smile seriously. If it occurred to her that the swaggering Frenchman devoted himself to Eva May more persistently than to any of the other pupils, she set the thing down to Gallic spirit and admired the instructor's bravery.

Mounted upon a sturdy horse built more for strength than for speed, Evangeline Marie was an impressive sight, but she brought to the exercise an energy and a devotion that surprised everyone who knew her.

"She'll not make the effort more than once," Miss Lucilla had said; but the weeks went by and still Eva May went to her riding-lessons with alacrity and regularity. She said that she was riding to reduce her flesh and had lost six pounds, and the cause seemed so worthy that the phenomenon soon ceased to excite wonder.

In course of time the other schoolgirls who belonged to the riding contingent dropped the fad, but still Evangeline Marie was faithful. All through April and into the fragrant Maytime she went religiously to the riding-school twice a week, but all of her lessons were taken outdoors now, and Belinda waited upon a bench near the Park entrance, thankful to be out in the spring world.

A good-looking young man, wearing his riding clothes and sitting his horse in a fashion that bespoke long acquaintance with both, passed the bench with surprising frequency, and in course of time it was borne in upon the Youngest Teacher that his unfailing appearance during Eva May's lessons was too methodical to be a mere coincidence. But, beyond a smile in his eyes, the horseman gave no sign of interest in the lonely figure upon the bench, so there was no reason for resentment, and Belinda learned to look for the bay horse and its boyish rider and for the smiling eyes with a certain pleasant expectation that relieved her chaperoning duty of dullness.

One morning she sat upon her own particular bench with a book open in her lap and a listless content written large upon her. Green turf and leafy boughs and tufts of blossoms stretched away before her. There were lilac scents in the warm spring air and the birds were twittering jubilates. The man on the bay horse had ridden past once, and the smile in his eyes had seemed more boyish than ever. She wondered when he would come by again--and then, looking down the shaded drive, she saw him coming.

Even at a distance she recognised something odd in the fashion of his approach. He was bending forward and riding rapidly--too rapidly for compliance with Park rules. She watched to see him slow down and walk his horse past the bench in the usual lingering way; but, instead, he came on at a run, pulled his horse up abruptly, dismounted and came toward her with his hat in his hand.

Belinda drew a quick breath of surprise and embarrassment, but there was no smile in the eyes that met hers, and she realised in an instant that the stranger was in earnest--too much in earnest for thought of flirtation.

"I beg your pardon," he was saying. "Maybe I'm making an ass of myself, but I couldn't feel as if it were all quite right. I've seen you here so often, you know, and I knew you were chaperoning those schoolgirls, and I didn't believe you'd allow that fat one to go off in a hansom with that beast of a Frenchman."

"Wh-w-what?" she asked breathlessly.

"You didn't know? I thought not. You see, I was riding past one of the Fifth Avenue gates in the upper end of the Park, and Peggy here--my horse--went lame for a minute, so I got off to see what was wrong. Just then up came the Frenchman and your fat friend, and he climbed off his horse and helped her down. Anybody could see she was excited and ripe for hysterics, and De Puys looked more like a wax Mephistopheles than usual, so I just fooled with Peg's foot and watched to see what was up. There was a boy on hand and a cab was standing outside the gate. Frenchy gave the horses to the boy and boosted the girl into the cab, and I heard him say, 'Grand Central, and hurry.' They went off at a run, and I mounted and was starting up the drive when all of a sudden it struck me that the thing was deuced queer and that maybe you didn't know anything about it. So I piked off to tell you."

Belinda looked at him helplessly.

"She's eloped with him. It's her money, I suppose. What can I do?"

The stranger sprang into his saddle.

"Head them off, of course. You wait at the gate until I lose Peggy and get a cab. Perhaps we can catch them at the station."

He was gone, and Belinda did as she was told. It was a comfort to have a man take things in hand, and she didn't stop to think that the man was a stranger.

In three minutes he was at the gate with a cab, helped her into it and climbed in himself.

"There's an extra dollar in it if you break the record," he said cheerfully to the cabby, and off they clattered.

Not a word was spoken on the way to the station, but as the stranger paid the extra dollar Belinda fumbled in her purse.

"Never mind; we'll settle up afterward. Let's see if they are here."

No sign of the runaway couple. Belinda collapsed weakly into a seat and there were tears in her eyes.

"Don't, please don't," begged the man beside her. "You sit here and I'll try the gatemen. Anybody'd be likely to spot a freak couple like that. Perhaps their train hasn't gone yet."

A few minutes later Belinda saw him bolt into the waiting-room and stop at a ticket window.

"Come on," he said, as he rushed up to her. "They've gone to Albany--train left fifteen minutes ago. Gateman thought they were funny, and noticed their tickets. He says the girl was crying. We'll have to step lively."

"B-b-but what are we going to do?" stammered Belinda, as he hurried her through the gate and down the long platform.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you. We're going to Albany on the Chicago Express."

He helped her on the train, deposited her in a seat on the shady side of a Pullman car, sat down beside her and fanned his flushed face with his cap.

Belinda strove for speech, but no words came. Things appeared to be altogether out of her hands.

"They took a local express," explained the stranger by whom she was being personally conducted. "Afraid to wait in the station, I suppose. Our train passes theirs up the road, and we'll wait for them in Albany."

"But perhaps they'll get off before they reach Albany," replied Belinda.

"Well, their tickets were for Albany, and we'll have to gamble on that. It's a fair chance. Probably they want to lose themselves somewhere until the storm blows over and papa makes terms."

"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.