THE QUEER LITTLE THING
BONITA ALLEN was a queer little thing. Everyone in the school, from Miss
Ryder down to the chambermaid, had made remarks to that effect before
the child had spent forty-eight hours in the house, yet no one seemed
able to give a convincing reason for the general impression.
The new pupil was quiet, docile, moderately well dressed, fairly good
looking. She did nothing extraordinary. In fact, she effaced herself as
far as possible; yet from the first she caused a ripple in the placid
current of the school, and her personality was distinctly felt.
"I think it's her eyes," hazarded Belinda, as she and Miss Barnes
discussed the newcomer in the Youngest Teacher's room. "They aren't girl
eyes at all."
"Fine eyes," asserted the teacher of mathematics with her usual
curtness.
Belinda nodded emphatic assent. "Yes, of course; beautiful, but so big
and pathetic and dumb. I feel ridiculously apologetic every time the
child looks at me, and as for punishing her--I'd as soon shoot a deer at
six paces. It's all wrong. A twelve-year-old girl hasn't any right to
eyes like those. If the youngster is unhappy she ought to cry
twenty-five handkerchiefs full of tears, as Evangeline Marie did when
she came, and then get over it. And if she's happy she ought to smile
with her eyes as well as her lips. I can't stand self-repression in
children."
"She'll be all right when she has been here longer and begins to feel at
home," said Miss Barnes. But Belinda shook her head doubtfully as she
went down to superintend study hour.
Seated at her desk in the big schoolroom she looked idly along the rows
of girlish heads until she came to one bent stoically over a book. The
new pupil was not fidgeting like her comrades. Apparently her every
thought was concentrated upon the book before her, and her elbows were
on her desk. One lean little brown hand supported the head, whose masses
of straight, black hair were parted in an unerring white line and fell
in two heavy braids. The face framed in the smooth, shining hair was
lean as the hand, yet held no suggestion of ill-health. It was clean-cut
almost to sharpness, brown with the brownness that comes from wind and
sun, oddly firm about chin and lips, high of cheekbones, straight of
nose.
As Belinda looked two dark eyes were raised from the book and met her
own--sombre eyes with a hurt in them--and an uncomfortable lump rose in
the Youngest Teacher's throat. She smiled at the sad little face, but
the smile was not a merry one. In some unaccountable way it spoke of the
sympathetic lump in the throat, and the Queer Little Thing seemed to
read the message, for the ghost of an answering smile flickered in the
brown depths before the lids dropped over them.
When study hour was over the Youngest Teacher moved hastily to the door,
with some vague idea of following up the successful smile and
establishing diplomatic relations with the new girl; but she was not
quick enough. Bonita had slipped into the hall and hurried up the stairs
toward her own room.
Shrugging her shoulders Belinda turned toward the door of Miss Ryder's
study and knocked.
"Come in."
The voice was not encouraging. Miss Lucilla objected to interruptions in
the late evening hours, when she relaxed from immaculately fitted black
silk to the undignified folds of a violet dressing-gown.
When she recognised the intruder she thawed perceptibly.
"Oh, Miss Carewe. Come in. Nothing wrong, is there?"
Belinda dropped into a chair with a whimsical little sigh.
"Nothing wrong except my curiosity. Miss Ryder, do tell me something
about that Allen child."
Miss Lucilla eyed her subordinate questioningly.
"What has she been doing?"
"Nothing at all. I wish she would do something. It's what she doesn't
do, and looks capable of doing, that bothers me. There's simply no
getting at her. She's from Texas, isn't she?"
The principal regarded attentively one of the grapes she was eating, and
there was an interval of silence.
"She is a queer little thing," Miss Lucilla admitted at last. "Yes,
she's from Texas, but that's no reason why she should be odd. We've had
a number of young ladies from Texas, and they were quite like other
schoolgirls only more so. Just between you and me, Miss Carewe, I think
it must be the child's Indian blood that makes her seem different."
"Indian?" Belinda sat up, sniffing romance in the air.
"Yes, her father mentioned the strain quite casually when he wrote. It's
rather far back in the family, but he seemed to think it might account
for the girl's intense love for Nature and dislike of conventions. Mrs.
Allen died when the baby was born, and the father has brought the child
up on a ranch. He's completely wrapped up in her, but he finally
realised that she needed to be with women. He's worth several millions,
and he wants to educate her so that she'll enjoy the money--'be a fine
lady,' as he puts it. I confess his description of the girl disturbed me
at first, but he was so liberal in regard to terms that----"
Miss Lucilla left the sentence in the air and meditatively ate another
bunch of grapes.
"Did her father come up with her?" Belinda asked.
"No; he sent her with friends who happened to be coming--a highly
respectable couple, but breezy, very breezy. They told me that Bonita
could ride any bronco on the ranch and could shoot a Jack-rabbit on the
run. They seemed to think she would be a great addition to our school
circle on that account. Personally I'm much relieved to find her so
tractable and quiet, but I've noticed something--well--er--unusual about
her."
As Belinda went up to bed she met a slim little figure in a barbaric red
and yellow dressing-gown crossing the hall. There was a shy challenge in
the serious child face, although the little feet, clad in soft, beaded
moccasins, quickened their steps; and Belinda answered the furtive
friendliness by slipping an arm around the girl's waist and drawing her
into the tiny hall bedroom.
"You haven't been to see me. It's one of the rules of the school that
every girl shall have a cup of cocoa with me before she has been here
three evenings," she said laughingly.
The Queer Little Thing accepted the overture soberly, and, curled up in
the one big chair, watched the Youngest Teacher in silence.
The cocoa was soon under way. Then the hostess turned and smiled frankly
at her guest. Belinda's smile is a reassuring thing.
"Homesick business, isn't it?" she said abruptly, with a warm note of
comradeship in her voice.
The tense little figure in the big chair leaned forward with sudden,
swift confidence.
"I'm going home," announced Bonita in a tone that made no reservations.
Belinda received the news without the quiver of an eyelash or a sign of
incredulity.
"When?" she asked with interest warm enough to invite confession and not
emphatic enough to rouse distrust.
"I don't know just when, but I have to go. I can't stand it, and I've
written to Daddy. He'll understand. Nobody here knows. They're all used
to it. They've always lived in houses like this, with little back yards
that have high walls around them, and sidewalks and streets right
outside the front windows, and crowds of strange people going by all the
time, and just rules, rules, rules everywhere! Everybody has so many
manners, and they talk about things I don't know anything about, and
nobody would understand if I talked about the real things."
"Perhaps I'd understand a little bit," murmured Belinda. The Queer
Little Thing put out one brown hand and touched the Youngest Teacher's
knee gently in a shy, caressing fashion.
"No, you wouldn't understand, because you don't know; but you could
learn. The others couldn't. The prairie wouldn't talk to them and they'd
be lonesome--the way I am here. Dick says you have to learn the language
when you are little, or else have a gift for such languages, but that
when you've once learned it you don't care to hear any other."
"Who's Dick?" Belinda asked.
"Dick? Oh, he's just Dick. He taught me to ride and to shoot, and he
used to read poetry to me, and he told me stories about everything. He
used to go to a big school called Harvard, but he was lonesome
there--the way I am here."
"The way I am here" dropped into the talk like a persistent refrain, and
there was heartache in it.
"I want to go home," the child went on. Now that the dam of silence was
down the pent-up feeling rushed out tumultuously. "I want to see Daddy
and the boys and the horses and the cattle, and I want to watch the sun
go down over the edge of the world, not just tumble down among the dirty
houses, and I want to gallop over the prairie where there aren't any
roads, and smell the grass and watch the birds and the sky. You ought
to see the sky down there at night, Miss Carewe. It's so big and black
and soft and full of bright stars, and you can see clear to where it
touches the ground all around you, and there's a night breeze that's as
cool as cool, and the boys all play their banjos and guitars and sing,
and Daddy and I sit over on our veranda and listen. There's only a
little narrow strip of sky with two or three stars in it out of my
window here, and it's so noisy and cluttered out in the back yards--and
I hate walking in a procession on the ugly old streets, and doing things
when bells ring. I hate it! I hate it!"
Her voice hadn't risen at all, had only grown more and more vibrant with
passionate rebellion. The sharp little face was drawn and pale, but
there were no tears in the big, tragic eyes.
Belinda had consoled many homesick girls, but this was a different
problem.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "Don't you think it will be easier after a
while?"
The small girl with the old face shook her head.
"No, it won't. It isn't in me to like all this. I'm so sorry, because
Daddy wants me to be a lady. He said it was as hard for him to send me
as it was for me to come, but that I couldn't learn to be a lady, with
lots of money to spend, down there with only the boys and him. There
wasn't any lady there on the ranch at all, except Mammy Lou, the cook,
and she didn't have lots of money to spend, so she wasn't the kind he
meant. I thought I'd come and try, but I didn't know it would be like
this. I don't want to be a lady, Miss Carewe. I don't believe they can
be very happy. I've seen them in the carriages and they don't look very
happy. You're nice. I like you, and I'm most sure Daddy and Dick and the
boys would like you, but then you haven't got lots of money, have you?
And you were born up here, so you don't know any better, anyway. I'm
going home."
The burst of confidence ended where it had begun. She was going home,
and she was so firm in the faith that Belinda, listening, believed her.
"But if your father says no?"
The dark little face was quiet again, all save the great eyes.
"I'll _have_ to go," said the Queer Little Thing slowly.
Four days later Miss Lucilla Ryder called the Youngest Teacher into the
study.
"Miss Carewe, I'm puzzled about this little Miss Allen. I had a letter
from her father this morning. He says she has written that she is very
homesick and unhappy and doesn't want to stay. He feels badly about it,
of course, but he very wisely leaves the matter in our hands--says he
realises she'll have to be homesick and he'll have to be lonesome if
she's to be made a lady. But he wants us to do all we can to make her
contented. He very generously sends a check for five hundred dollars,
which we are to use for any extra expense incurred in entertaining her
and making her happy. Now I thought you might take her to the theatre
and the art museum, and the--a--the aquarium, and introduce her to the
pleasures and advantages of city life. She'll soon be all right."
With sinking heart Belinda went in search of the girl. She found her
practising five-finger exercises drearily in one of the music-rooms. As
Belinda entered the child looked up and met the friendly, sympathetic
eyes. A mute appeal sprang into her own eyes, and Belinda understood.
The thing was too bad to be talked about, and the Youngest Teacher said
no word about the homesickness or the expected letter. In this way she
clinched her friendship with the Queer Little Thing.
But, following the principal's orders, she endeavoured to demonstrate to
Bonita the joy and blessedness of life in New York. The child went
quietly wherever she was taken--a mute, pathetic little figure to whom
the aquarium fish and the Old Masters and the latest matinée idol were
all one--and unimportant. The other girls envied her her privileges and
her pocket-money, but they did not understand. No one understood save
Belinda, and she did her cheerful best to blot out old loves with new
impressions; but from the first she felt in her heart that she was
elected to failure. The child was fond of her, always respectful, always
docile, always grave. Nothing brought a light into her eyes or a
spontaneous smile to her lips. Anyone save Belinda would have grown
impatient, angry. _She_ only grew more tender--and more troubled. Day by
day she watched the sad little face grow thinner. It was pale now,
instead of brown, and the high cheekbones were strikingly prominent. The
lips pressed closely together drooped plaintively at the corners, and
the big eyes were more full of shadow than ever; but the child made no
protest nor plea, and by tacit consent she and Belinda ignored their
first conversation and never mentioned Texas.
Often Belinda made up her mind to put aside the restraint and talk
freely as she would to any other girl, but there was something about the
little Texan that forbade liberties, warned off intruders, and the
Youngest Teacher feared losing what little ground she had gained.
Finally she went in despair to Miss Ryder.
"The Indian character is too much for me," she confessed with a groan
half humorous, half earnest. "I give it up."
"What's the matter?" asked Miss Ryder.
"Well, I've dragged poor Bonita Allen all over the borough of Manhattan
and the Bronx and spent many ducats in the process. She has been very
polite about it, but just as sad over Sherry's tea hour as over Grant's
tomb, and just as cheerful over the Cesnola collection as over the
monkey cage at the Zoo. The poor little thing is so unhappy and
miserable that she looks like a wild animal in a trap, and I think the
best thing we can do with her is to send her home."
"Nonsense," said Miss Lucilla. "Her father is paying eighteen hundred
dollars a year."
Belinda was defiant.
"I don't care. He ought to take her home."
"Miss Carewe, you are sentimentalising. One would think you had never
seen a homesick girl before."
"She's different from other girls."
"I'll talk with her myself," said Miss Lucilla sternly.
She did, but the situation remained unchanged, and when she next
mentioned the Texan problem to Belinda, Miss Lucilla was less positive
in her views.
"She's a very strange child, but we must do what we can to carry out her
father's wishes."
"_I'd_ send her home," said Belinda.
It was shortly after this that Katharine Holland, who sat beside Bonita
at the table, confided to Belinda that that funny little Allen girl
didn't eat a thing. The waitress came to Belinda with the same tale, and
the Youngest Teacher sought out Bonita and reasoned with her.
"You really must eat, my dear," she urged.
"Why?"
"Why, you'll be ill if you don't."
"How soon?"
Belinda looked dazed.
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"How soon will I be sick?"
"Very soon, I'm afraid," the puzzled teacher answered.
"That's good. I don't feel as if I could wait much longer."
Belinda gasped.
"Do you mean to say you want to be ill?"
"If I get very sick Daddy will come for me."
The teacher looked helplessly at the quiet, great-eyed child, then
launched into expostulation, argument, entreaty.
Bonita listened politely and was profoundly unimpressed.
"It's wicked, dear child. It would make your father wretchedly unhappy."
"He'd be awfully unhappy if he understood, anyway. He thinks I'm not
really unhappy and that it's his duty to keep me up here and make a lady
of me, no matter how lonely he is without me. He wrote me so--but I know
he'd be terribly glad if he had a real excuse for taking me home."
Belinda exhausted her own resources and appealed to Miss Lucilla, who
stared incredulously over her nose-glasses and sent for Bonita.
After the interview she called for the Youngest Teacher, and the two
failures looked at each other helplessly.
"It's an extraordinary thing," said Miss Lucilla in her most magisterial
tone--"a most extraordinary thing. In all my experience I've seen
nothing like it. Nothing seems to make the slightest impression upon the
child. She's positively crazy."
"You will tell her father to send for her, won't you?"
Miss Lucilla shook her head stubbornly.
"Not at all. It would be the ruination of the child to give in to her
whims and bad temper now. If she won't listen to reason she must be
allowed to pay for her foolishness. When she gets hungry enough she will
eat. It's absurd to talk about a child of twelve having the stoicism to
starve herself into an illness just because she is homesick at
boarding-school."
Belinda came back to her threadworn argument.
"But Bonita is different, Miss Ryder."
"She's a very stubborn, selfish child," said Miss Ryder resentfully, and
turning to her desk she closed the conversation.
Despite discipline, despite pleadings, despite cajolery, Bonita stood
firm. Eat she would not, and when, on her way to class one morning, the
scrap of humanity with the set lips and the purple shadows round her
eyes fainted quietly, Belinda felt that a masterly inactivity had ceased
to be a virtue.
James, the house man, carried the girl upstairs, and the Youngest
Teacher put her to bed, where she opened her eyes to look unseeingly at
Belinda and then closed them wearily and lay quite still, a limp little
creature whose pale face looked pitifully thin and lifeless against the
white pillow. The Queer Little Thing's wish had been fulfilled, and
illness had come without long delay.
For a moment Belinda looked down at the girl. Then she turned and went
swiftly to Miss Ryder's study, her eyes blazing, her mouth so stern that
Amelia Bowers, who met her on the stairs, hurried to spread the news
that Miss Carewe was "perfectly hopping mad about something."
Once in the presence of the August One the little teacher lost no time
in parley.
"Miss Ryder," she said crisply--and at the tone her employer looked up
in amazement--"I've told you about Bonita Allen. I've been to you again
and again about her. You knew that she was fretting her heart out and
half sick, and then you knew that for several days she hasn't been
eating a thing. I tried to make you understand that the matter was
serious and that something radical needed to be done, but you insisted
that the child would come around all right and that we mustn't give in
to her. I begged you to send for her father and you said it wasn't
necessary. I'm here to take your orders, Miss Ryder, but I can't stand
this sort of thing. I know the girl better than any of the rest of you
do, and I know it isn't badness that makes her act so. She's different,
queer, capable of feeling things the ordinary girl doesn't know. She
isn't made for this life. There's something in her that can't endure it.
She's frantic with homesickness, and it's perfectly useless to try to
keep her here or make her like other girls. Now she's ill--really ill.
I've just put her to bed, and, honestly, Miss Ryder, if we don't send
for her father we'll have a tragedy on our hands. It sounds foolish, but
it's true. If nobody else telegraphs to Mr. Allen _I'm_ going to do it."
The gauntlet was down. The defiance was hurled, and as Belinda stood
waiting for the crash she mentally figured out the amount of money
needed for her ticket home; but Miss Ryder was alarmed, and in the spasm
of alarm she quite overlooked the mutiny.
"Oh, my dear Miss Carewe. This will never do, never do," she said
uncertainly. "It would sound so very badly if it got out--a pupil so
unhappy with us that she starved herself into an illness. Oh, no, it
would never do. We must take steps at once. I wish the child had stayed
in Texas--but who could have foreseen--and eighteen hundred dollars is
such an excellent rate. I do dislike exceptions. Rules are so much more
satisfactory. Now as a rule----"
"She's an exception," interrupted Belinda. "I'll telephone for the
doctor while you are writing the telegram."
"Oh, no, not the doctor. He wouldn't understand the conditions, and he
might talk and create a false impression."
"I'll manage all that," Belinda assured her soothingly. Miss Lucilla
Ryder in a panic was a new experience.
When the doctor came there were bright red spots on the Queer Little
Thing's cheeks and she was babbling incoherently about prairie flowers
and horses and Dick and Daddy.
"Nerve strain, lack of nourishment, close confinement after an outdoor
life," said the doctor gravely. "I'm afraid she's going to be pretty
sick, but beef broth and this Daddy and a hope of homegoing will do more
for her than medicine. Miss Ryder has made a mistake here, Miss Carewe."
Meanwhile a telegram had gone to Daddy, and the messenger who delivered
it heard a volume of picturesque comment that was startling even on a
Texas ranch.
"Am coming," ran the answering dispatch received by Miss Ryder that
night; but it was not until morning that Bonita was able to understand
the news.
"He's scared, but I know he's glad," she said, and she swallowed without
a murmur the broth against which even in her delirium she had fought.
One evening, three days later, a hansom dashed up to the school and out
jumped a tall, square-shouldered man in a wide-brimmed hat, and clothes
that bore only a family resemblance to the clothing of New York
millionaires, though they were good clothes in their own free-and-easy
way.
A loud, hearty voice inquiring for "My baby" made itself heard even in
the sick-room, and a sudden light flashed into the little patient's
eyes--a light that was an illumination and a revelation.
"Daddy!" she said weakly; and the word was a heart-throb.
Mr. Allen wasted no time in a polite interview with Miss Ryder.
Hypnotised by his masterfulness, the servant led him directly up to the
sick-room and opened the door.
The man filled the room, a high breeze seemed to come with him, and
vitality flowed from him in tangible waves. Belinda smiled, but there
were tears in her eyes, for the big man's heart was in his face.
"Baby!"
"Daddy!"
Belinda remembered an errand downstairs.
When she returned the big Texan was sitting on the side of the bed with
both the lean little hands in one of his big, brawny ones, while his
other hand awkwardly smoothed the straight, black hair.
"When will you take me home, Daddy?" said the child with the shining
eyes.
"As soon as you're strong enough, Honey. The boys wanted me to let them
charge New York in a bunch and get you. It's been mighty lonesome on
that ranch. I wish to Heaven I'd never been fool enough to let you come
away."
He turned to Belinda with a quizzical smile sitting oddly on his anxious
face.
"I reckon she might as well go, miss. I sent her to a finishing school,
and, by thunder, she's just about finished."
There was a certain hint of pride in his voice as he added reflectively:
"I might have known if she said she'd have to come home she meant it.
Harder to change her mind than to bust any bronco I ever tackled. Queer
little thing, Baby is."