THE PASSING OF AN AFFINITY
MADAME NOVERI, reader of palms and cards, and dabbler in astrology, was
an institution in the Ryder school.
The Misses Ryder did not wholly approve of her, but when Miss Lucilla
felt qualms of conscience concerning traffic with the black arts, Miss
Emmeline reminded her that Madame had been patronized by the
Vanderhuysens, and the older sister, whose creed included a belief that
the Four Hundred, like the King, can do no wrong, smoothed the wrinkles
from her brow and her conscience.
"I suppose it would be foolish not to allow her to come occasionally.
The young ladies like it, and she has promised not to tell them anything
tragic," she said reluctantly.
So Madame Noveri came to the school once or twice a year, and she kept
her word about the tragedy, but as for sentiment--little did the Misses
Ryder know of the romances she evoked from rosy palms and greasy cards.
It was Amelia Bowers who suggested calling in the priestess of the
occult to lighten the general gloom following the end of the Christmas
holidays and a return to the Ryder fold.
"This is simply too dead slow for anything," groaned the fair Amelia.
"Let's ask Miss Ryder if we may send for Madame Noveri. I'd like to see
whether meeting George Pettingill at the New Year's dance did anything
to the lines in my hand. Good gracious! I should think it would have
made a perfect furrow."
The other girls seconded Amelia's motion, a deputation waited upon Miss
Ryder, and, within an hour, the palmist was holding Amelia's hand in the
little waiting-room to which the other seekers after knowledge were
admitted, one by one.
Madame instantly detected the havoc wrought by young Pettingill; or, at
least, as Amelia said afterward, "she didn't see his name, but she knew
right away that there had been _some one_ during the holidays." But it
was for Cynthia Weston that Madame Noveri flung wide the gates of the
future and revealed coming events of absorbing interest.
Cynthia enjoyed the enviable distinction of being the prettiest girl in
the school, and disputed with Laura May Lee the honor of being the best
dressed of the Ryder pupils. In addition she was a good student, she was
amiable, and her manners were the admiration of the faculty. Taking all
this into consideration, the fact that she was even more sentimental
than the ever-gushing Amelia could not effectually dim her radiance.
Moreover, her sentimentality was of a finer fibre than that of her chum.
She did not fall in love with the lightning-change-artist celerity
displayed by Amelia. Man dominated her horizon as well as that of her
friend, but for her man was an abstraction, a transcendentally perfect
being, who might come around any corner to meet her, and for whom she
waited breathlessly. She read novels and dreamed of a hero. Amelia read
the same novels and saw a hero in every man she met.
As it happened, for one reason or another, Cynthia had never consulted
Madame Noveri, but the occult note appealed to her romantic side, and
she needed only slight evidence to convince her that Madame was, as
Amelia contended, "a wonder." The evidence was speedily forthcoming.
Closeted with the fortune-teller, Cynthia heard an analysis of her own
character and tastes, which owed its accuracy to skillful pumping of
Amelia, but which impressed the listener profoundly.
By the time Madame Noveri had thrown in a few facts concerning the
Weston family history--also gathered from the unsuspecting
Amelia--Cynthia was ready to accept as inspired truth any revelations
that might be made to her.
Then Madame, shrewd in knowledge of schoolgirl logic, felt that it was
safe to turn to prophecy.
"A crisis is coming in your life," she said solemnly. "It is written in
your hand. Let me see what the cards tell."
She shuffled the cards and bent over them, while Cynthia, thrilled by
the thought of an approaching crisis, watched eagerly.
"Yes; it is here, too. I knew the hand could not lie. A dark man is
coming into your life."
[Illustration: "'A dark man is coming into your life'"]
Cynthia gasped ecstatically. She admired dark men.
"It is all clear in the cards. There is the fate card, and there is the
dark man."
"I do hope he hasn't a moustache," murmured the listener. "Can you see
his name?"
"No."
"And you can't tell where I'll met him, or how, or when?"
"The cards don't say, but it will be soon, and there's the money card,
so he'll be rich. You'll both fall in love the moment you meet. He's
your affinity."
Cynthia went out of the room in a sentimental trance. At last her dream
was coming true. Not a tinge of skepticism lurked in her mind. Hadn't
Madame told her all about her innermost feelings, and about her sister
Molly having been ill with diphtheria, and about her father having made
a big fortune out of pine lands, and about her having refused little
Billy Bennington, whose father was a millionaire and had a huge house
on Fifth Avenue? No; there was no room for doubt.
She laughed off the questions of the girls. What she had learned was too
sacred to be told to anyone except Amelia and Laura May, and possibly
Blanche White.
After the lights were out that night she told them, and their sympathy
and excitement were all she could have desired.
"Goodness, but I just envy you, Cynthia Weston," said Amelia in a stage
whisper, which was a concession to the faculty's unreasonable prejudice
against visiting after "lights-out" bell. "It's the most exciting thing
I ever heard. He may pop out at you anywhere. She said it would be soon,
didn't she?"
"Very soon." There was a soulful pride in Cynthia's manner, a tremulous
thrill in her voice.
"Well, we'll all watch out for him. I'm almost as interested as if I
were it," said Laura May generously; and Cynthia crept cautiously to her
own room, to dream of a beautiful being with raven hair and piercing
black eyes--and no moustache.
The days following that eventful evening were agitating ones for
Cynthia. Every dark-haired man who passed the school procession during
the morning excursion set her heart palpitating. Katharine Holland's
dark-eyed brother turning up unexpectedly at the school was flattered
by the tremendous impression he made upon his sister's friend, Miss
Weston; a swarthy book-agent who succeeded in obtaining an interview
with Miss Ryder was surprised when a pretty girl whom he passed on the
stairs grasped hastily at the baluster and seemed quite overcome by
emotion.
At any moment the affinity might appear; but the days went by and still
he delayed his coming.
A new play, fresh from Western successes, had begun a New York run upon
the preceding Monday night; and with its advent a new matinée idol had
dawned upon the theatrical horizon. Critics chanted praises of his
_beaux yeux_, a strenuous press-agent scattered broadcast tales of his
conquests, of the countless letters he had received from infatuated
maidens, of the heiresses and society belles who had fallen victims to
his charms. Occasionally someone mentioned that he could act, but that
was a minor consideration.
Rumors of his fatal beauty reached the school by way of a day pupil who
had seen the play on its first night, and Amelia, Laura May, Cynthia,
Blanche and Kittie Dayton promptly bought tickets for the Saturday
matinée and asked Belinda to chaperon them. They were in their seats
early, and tranquilly watched the curtain go up upon a conventional
drawing-room scene; but as Cecil Randolph, the leading man, turned from
the window at the back of the stage and strolled toward the footlights,
Belinda heard a queer little choking sound from Cynthia, who sat beside
her, and saw her clutch Amelia's arm.
The matinée idol was tall, he had black hair and eyes, he was
smooth-shaven--and Cynthia _knew_!
The other girls were inclined to discount her claim when they had a
chance to talk the matter over. Friendship is all very well, but to give
a matinée idol up to any one girl, without entering a protest, would be
more than human. Still there was no denying that the event fitted into
Madame Noveri's prediction at every point, and it was natural to suppose
that if Cynthia had met her affinity according to schedule she would be
absolutely certain of his identity, so the confidants finally accepted
the situation and gave themselves up to vital interest in their friend's
romance, while Cynthia herself went about with her head in the clouds,
drove her teachers to despair by her absent-mindedness, read the
theatrical columns of all the papers, and wasted her substance in
riotous buying of photographs. As for the amount of money squandered
upon matinée tickets during those weeks--only the long-suffering fathers
who were called upon for supplementary pocket-money could do justice to
that tale of extravagance.
[Illustration: "... wasted her substance in riotous buying of
photographs"]
Amelia and Laura May and Blanche stood by nobly. If anything exciting
were going to happen they wanted to be there when it happened; so they
went with Cynthia to all her affinity's matinées and occasionally to an
evening performance. All of the teachers were successively pressed into
service, and when the list gave out the girls began again with Belinda.
Sometimes, when the other girls' pocket-money ran short, Cynthia paid
for all the seats.
In due course Cecil Randolph noticed the group that invariably occupied
seats in the third row, and smiled upon the girls--not his inclusive,
catholic, matinée-idol smile, which might be taken to heart by any girl
in the audience, but a personal, italicized smile all their own. The
chaperon missed the phenomenon, but all four girls thrilled with
delight, though three loyal hearts passed the smile on to Cynthia, its
rightful owner. Even the idol himself accentuated his smile when it
reached the fair girl with the blushing cheeks and eager eyes. She was
so uncommonly pretty, and though it paid him to be adored by the plain
it was a pleasant thing to be adored by the pretty.
On the eleventh of February Cynthia gave a luncheon and box party to her
faithful three with Miss Spogg as chaperon. Mr. Weston's monthly check
had been more liberal than usual, and a box is even nearer the stage
than the third row of the orchestra chairs.
The idol's special smile followed the group to the box. Perhaps it was
even warmer, more melting than usual; for the four girls were uncommonly
good to look at, in their dainty frocks and hats, and with the great
bunches of long-stemmed single violets, which had been luncheon favors,
nestling among their laces and chiffons and furs.
During his great scene in the last act the actor faced the Ryder box and
Cynthia bore the brunt of his wild raving. Even near-sighted Miss Spogg
had an uncomfortable feeling that all was not quite as it should be, and
registered a mental vow that she would protest to Miss Ryder against the
conspicuousness of box seats; but the girls were too completely absorbed
to feel conspicuous, and Cynthia, cheeks flaming, eyes glowing, red lips
apart, drank in the love scene as though she hadn't already known it by
heart and were not sharing it with hundreds of strangers. She was
absurdly young, unspeakably foolish, but she was beyond a shadow of a
doubt enjoying life--and it is hard to be severe with any one so pretty
and impractical as Cynthia.
As the curtain fell upon the hero's hopeless passion the little maid's
hands went to her breast, and an instant later a huge bunch of
long-stemmed violets dropped at the idol's feet. He did not ruin his
curtain pose by picking them up, but for one fleeting second he smiled
his thanks. Miss Spogg was, of course, irate; but there were ways of
appeasing Miss Spogg, and Cynthia knew them.
On Valentine's Day morning the school postman's load was heavy, and the
solemnity of chapel was marred by a pervading excitement.
Cynthia had valentines--several of them--yet she did not look happy. All
of her envelopes bore home postmarks, and she had expected--well, she
hardly knew what she had expected, but something, surely.
After chapel came French recitation, and the Disappointed One was
wrestling in melancholy fashion with the imperfect subjunctive, when a
maid appeared at the door.
"A box for Miss Weston," she announced to the teacher.
"Put it in her room," commanded Mademoiselle.
"Please, ma'am, it's flowers. Should I open them?"
Mademoiselle smiled. She remembered valentine offerings of her own.
"You may be excused to attend to the flowers, Miss Weston. Come back as
soon as possible."
Cynthia took the big, square box and fled to her room. Her prophetic
soul told her what the contents would be.
She removed the wrapping and the lid. A gust of fragrance sweetened the
room. The blonde head went down over the flowers and the pretty face was
hidden in them. Then Cynthia lifted from the box a great mass of
long-stemmed single violets, and with fast-beating heart read the
legend on the little valentine tucked among the blossoms.
"Love's offering," said the valentine.
Cynthia quite forgot to go back to the French class; and when, at the
end of the period, Amelia, Laura May and Blanche burst in upon her, she
was still sitting with the flowers in her lap and the card in her hand.
[Illustration: "Cynthia quite forgot to go back to the French class"]
"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 worshipped 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
matinée on Saturday! 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 matinée 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
blushing 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
embarrassed, 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.