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In three minutes she was back with the hot-water bottle.
“There! it’s not very hot, just right to hold in your hands. Now tell
—no, I won’t take cold; I have my wrapper on, and it’s warm as
soup. Tell me all about it, Maria!”
Maria drew a long sobbing breath.
“How good you are!” she said. “But you won’t believe me, Honor:
nobody would; and then you will go, and I shall be all alone in the
world!”
“Nonsense!” said Honor decidedly. “I shall believe you! Go ahead!”
Brokenly, in a voice shaken by sobs, with bursts of bitter weeping,
Maria told her piteous story; how she had seen and admired the ring
on Patricia’s finger; a curious little ring, a circle of gold wire with a
tiny golden mouse running loose on it. She wanted to see how it
went; Patricia hated her so, she could not ask. Then—one day—
Patricia’s door was open, and Maria knew she was in the garden.
“Honor, I didn’t mean any harm! I swear to you I didn’t mean any
harm. I went in, and the ring was on the pincushion, and I tried it
on, and—and—just then Sophie came in, and I didn’t want her to
see me with it, and I slipped it into my pocket, meaning to put it
back when she had gone out—oh, dear! oh, dear! how could I?” The
wailing sobs broke out again.
“Quiet! quiet!” Honor was stroking her forehead with a firm soft
hand. “There! there! Go on! You meant to put it back; of course you
did. And then—”
“The bell rang for class, and Sophie was still there, sweeping, you
know—and I had to go. It was dictée, and you know that takes all
there is of me, and then I can’t do it decently! Honor, could any one
believe I could forget it—the ring, I mean? I did! oh, truly, truly I
did! And out in the garden at recess—I pulled out my handkerchief,
and—and—”
“And out it came!” Honor finished for her. “Of course I believe
every word, Maria. Of course any one would who had any sense.
Didn’t you tell Patricia? Didn’t you tell them all, that moment?”
“I couldn’t!” Maria’s voice fell into an agonized whisper. “I couldn’t,
Honor! Patricia looked at me—oh, pray to God that no one will ever
look so at you as long as you live!” cried the poor girl. “And she said
—”
“What did she say? Quiet, my dear! quiet! words never killed
anybody!”
“She said, ‘Tiens! are there two mouse-rings in the Pension? Or
perhaps only one?’ Then she picked it up and went away, and I saw
her telling the other girls. None of them has spoken to me since
then!”
“You poor child! what a wicked, wicked shame!”
“Do you—do you really believe me, Honor?”
Maria spoke timidly, and in the half darkness of the room, Honor
could feel her eyes peering anxiously into her own.
“Of course I believe you!” she cried. “Every single word, Maria.
Nobody could possibly doubt you. Of course it was a pity, and a silly
thing to do, and all that; but—why—there’s nothing dreadful about
it, Maria. It has only to be explained, and every one will understand
in a minute, and everything will be all right. You see if it isn’t!”
“But I can’t explain! How can I, when no one will speak to me? It’s
no use, Honor!”
“I’ll explain! I’ll tell the girls all about it to-morrow, after breakfast,
and then everything will be all right. Now you must go to sleep like a
good girl. Shut your eyes and let go, and I’ll sing to you.”
Exhausted with misery and weeping, Maria was only too glad to
shut her eyes and “let go,” while Honor, still stroking her forehead,
crooned softly,
“‘On the Alp the grass is sweetest,
Li-u-o, my Queen!’”
It was midnight when Honor, chilly but happy, crept back to bed,
leaving Maria fast asleep. She nestled down on her pillow cozily.
“Play the heads are here!” she murmured. “Play they are smiling
at me:
“Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,
Bless the bed that I lie on!”
Honor was sleepy enough next morning after her vigil; but the
thought of what she had to do soon roused her. She ran into Maria’s
room, hairbrush in hand; it was not permitted, but she could
explain; the Sister would understand.
“Hush! listen!” she cried. “Don’t come out in the garden after
breakfast, Maria! Come straight back here, and wait till I come for
you. It will be all right, see if it isnt!”
Poor Maria, her eyes swollen with weeping, gave her a look of
such dog-like devotion and gratitude that Honor could only give her
a pat in return, and hurry away. Her heart was beating high. It was a
shame; but they had not known; they had not understood; in a little
hour now, all would be well.
How slow they were at breakfast! It seemed as if the meal would
never end. Nobody looked at Maria; none of the girls at least. Soeur
Séraphine cast a keen glance at her swollen, discolored face; one,
and then another; but said nothing. Madame called from the head of
the table, “Marie, thou dost not eat, my child! How then! It is
necessary to eat; finish at least thy little bread!”
Maria crumbled her roll, and made a pretence of eating.
“Tiens!” said Soeur Séraphine. “The child is without appetite, my
sister. I myself will give her a cup of tea presently. That encourages
the stomach.”
After what seemed a really interminable time, the girls streamed
out once more into the garden. It was the custom after every meal
in good weather. Honor, breathless with eagerness, led the way,
beckoning the others to follow. They flocked to the seat under the
great trumpet vine.
“What is it?” they all cried. “More tells, Moriole? We haven’t heard
half enough!”
“Sit down, girls! I’m out of breath. I want to tell you all—you first,
Patricia, but all together—you are all wrong about Maria. Poor thing,
she meant no harm. Listen!” and she poured out Maria’s story, the
words tumbling over one another with eagerness; the girls listening
with wide-open eyes.
“So you see,” she concluded, “it wasn’t wicked, it was only silly;
very silly, of course, and she knows it, and is—oh, so dreadfully sorry
and ashamed! Pat, you can’t be angry with her any more; you must
forgive her, and take her back, don’t you see?”
Patricia laughed. “I’m afraid I don’t see!” she said. “Stealing is
stealing, Moriole, my child! No doubt she is sorry. Thieves are apt to
be—when they are found out. They are also apt to trump up a pretty
story to tell to sympathetic people. This is a very pretty story, my
dear, but I don’t see that it alters the facts of the case. The ring was
in Maria’s pocket. Et voilà!”
“You—you mean—that you do not believe what Maria says?”
Honor spoke slowly, as if bewildered.
“I mean precisely that! I don’t believe one solitary word!”
Honor looked from one to another.
“Girls! Vivette! Stephanie! You believe it?”
No one spoke; all looked embarrassed, except little Loulou, who
was pirouetting about, paying little attention.
“I see—you don’t!”
Honor was silent for a moment, thinking. Then, suddenly, a flame
seemed to surge up within her. She did not need dark hair this time;
red hair would do to be angry with. She sprang to her feet. Her blue
eyes flashed, and she clenched her hands, facing them all.
“Very well!” she said. “Then—that is all! You have sent Maria to
Coventry: I go with her! Good-by!”
She was gone. The girls looked at one another with blank faces.
“Oh, Patricia!” cried Stephanie. “We can’t send Moriole to
Coventry! She has just come back to us, and we all missed her so
dreadfully! Do make up with Maria!”
“Pooh!” said Patricia. “She’ll come back. Honor isn’t going to leave
us and take up with Maria Patterson. I give her half an hour!”
Honor flew to Maria’s room, her eyes blazing, her cheeks on fire.
As she entered, Maria looked up, a spark of hope in her eyes; but at
sight of Honor’s face, she cowered down in her chair and covered
her face with her hands, with a broken moan.
“You couldn’t!” she said. “I knew you couldn’t! I knew they
wouldn’t believe you. Thank you just as much for trying, Honor!”
“Hateful, hateful creatures!” Honor stamped her foot and clenched
her hands. “I never want to speak to any of them again. Come,
Maria, come out with me! They needn’t speak to us, and we
certainly will not speak to them. We’ll live in Coventry together!” And
she laughed a defiant laugh.
Maria shook her head drearily.
“No! I can’t go out; and I will not keep you from them. Go, please,
Moriole! I will not bring disgrace on you. Please go!”
Honor stood her ground hotly, determined to carry her point;
finally the school bell settled the matter by summoning all hands to
the classroom.
It was a wretched morning. Maria drooped in her corner. Honor
blazed and flashed in hers like a Catherine wheel. She flung her
scornful glances here and there, and all quailed beneath them,
except Patricia, who only laughed. Stephanie was on the verge of
tears and made sad work of her lessons.
“What then ails these children?” said Madame to Soeur Séraphine
at recess. “Do they conspire, or are they sickening? There is a fever
in the suburbs, Margoton tells me. Perhaps it would be well to send
for the doctor?”
“Wait a little, my sister! We shall soon know.” Soeur Séraphine was
her usual serene self. “Our little casserole bubbles furiously; soon it
will overflow, and we shall learn all about it. They are like that, our
dear children! No, they are not sickening: I have examined tongue
and pulse of all; all are perfect, except this poor Maria, who is the
root of the trouble, I am convinced, and who as yet can tell me
nothing. To-morrow I look to know all.”
That was the Sister’s way. She never “poked the nose,” as we said.
She hardly ever asked a question; she simply waited and things
came to her.
This time she had not long to wait.
The day wore through somehow; a dreadful day. Honor never
liked to recall it. In the afternoon walk, she stalked ahead of the
rest, her arm round Maria, her head thrown back defiantly, her heart
full of rage and bitterness. If only Maria had a particle of spirit, it
would be easier, she felt; but Maria had no thought of anything but
despair, with the added misery of having involved Honor in her
disgrace. She was not in the least a bad girl, poor Maria; only a silly,
inquisitive one.
“Look, Maria! what a strange-looking old lady! Isn’t she beautiful?
She is looking at us, so don’t stare, but just glance as you go by!”
Maria did not even glance. “I don’t care!” she said, “and how can
an old lady be beautiful, anyhow? I don’t dare about anything; I
wish I were dead!”
“That,” said Honor, “is wicked! You are a goose, Maria, but there is
no need of your being wicked, and you shan’t, either. And old ladies
are some of the most beautiful in the world, when they are
beautiful! Look at our Sister!”
Soeur Séraphine was thirty-three, to be precise; but fourteen
takes little count of degrees in age.
A wretched afternoon. A wretched evening, Maria’s forlorn face
casting a gloom over the pleasant reading hour, a gloom only
accentuated by Honor’s flame of anger, which still burned brightly.
Soeur Séraphine, reading aloud peacefully, looked benignantly over
the top of her “Télémaque,” and felt that a crisis was approaching.
These dear children! By to-morrow all would clear itself, and they
would be themselves once more. But for this poor Maria, and our
Moriole, it was indeed desolating; nor was Stephanie less unhappy. A
special prayer must be offered for these three.
Bedtime came. The girls separated without the usual merry
chirping over their lighted candles. Honor, after a brief but energetic
effort to make Maria “cheer up,” gave it up in despair for the
moment, and hurried to bed, thereby saving five minutes of the
allotted fifteen, of which half was usually spent in happy fluttering
and twittering from room to room. Placing her candle on the little
bedside table, she drew from under her mattress a square leather-
bound volume, and settling herself among the pillows, began to
write hurriedly.
“My young life was full of sorrows. Treacherous friends deserted
me because I just tried to behave decently. My cheek grew pale and
thin, but my spirit was undaunted. My tears flowed like a crystal
fountain—” Here Honor blinked hard and thought she did perhaps
feel something like a tear in one eye—“My silken pillow was wet with
them. The poor thing I tried to rescue was no help at all, but of
course that made no difference, and I spurned the others from me
with flashing eye and regal gesture. One of them was my bosom
friend. I never thought she would desert me—
“Who’s there? Maria? Come in! Anybody else, stay out!”
But Stephanie was already in: Stephanie was flinging herself on
Honor’s neck, weeping, begging for forgiveness.
“Moriole darling! Speak to me! look at me! Do be friends! Won’t
you, Moriole? I can’t bear it without you!”
Did Honor spurn her with flashing eye and regal gesture? No! she
hugged her close, and they cried together, and kissed and “made
up” like the affectionate creatures they were.
“But—but you forgive Maria?” cried Honor. “You’ll take her back,
Stephanie? You can’t have me without her!”
“I’ll take twenty Marias!” whispered Stephanie, “to get back my
own, own Moriole!”
Ting! ting! went the bell. Lights out! One parting hug; off flew
Stephanie; back went the book under the mattress; out went the
candle. Honor nestled down in bed with a warm heart, for the first
time since leaving the Châlet.
“Thank you, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John!” she murmured. “You
have blessed the bed that I lie on!” and she fell happily asleep, to
dream of the Twins and Zitli.
Never yet in all her peaceful years had Honor had two broken
nights in succession; but there is a first time for everything.
Late in this second night she was again waked suddenly; not by
sobbing this time: not by any noise; all was still. What was it, then?
Why was she sitting up in bed, frightened? She sniffed: a strange
smell was in her nostrils: acrid, pungent—fire? She was springing out
of bed, when she heard some one enter the next room hurriedly;
heard a smothered cry; heard the window flung violently open;
heard her own name called, low but urgently.
“Honor! Honor! come!”
Honor flew, to find the strange odor pouring out of Maria’s room;
to see, by the moonlight which flooded it, Maria lying apparently
unconscious, and bending over her, dragging her from the bed—
Patricia!
“Help me get her to the window!” said Patricia briefly. “So! Now
call the Sister, and get my salts! Quick!”
Again Honor flew, down the corridor, at the end of which a light
glanced from the crack under Soeur Séraphine’s door. The little
Sister, kneeling at her prie-Dieu, turned as the door opened. Her
eyes widened at sight of Honor’s horrified face; her delicate nostrils
expanded as the pungent odor crept into them; all this Honor saw
afterwards. It seemed hardly a breathing-space before the Sister
had flashed past her, flashed down the corridor, and had Maria in her
arms by the open window, while Patricia knelt beside her with the
salts. A pure cool breeze blew into the room, driving out the choking
vapor. A few anxious moments, a convulsive movement, a quiver of
the eyelids: Maria opened her eyes, and looked feebly about her.
“Let us thank the merciful Lord and the blessed saints!” said Soeur
Séraphine. “My child, behold you restored to us! How do you find
yourself?”
“Oh, dear!” said Maria. “Am I not dead? oh, dear!”
At this moment she caught sight of Patricia’s pale face close
beside her. She shrank back with a cry.
“Why couldn’t you let me die?” she cried. “Don’t—don’t laugh at
me, Patricia! Please go away, and let me die!”
Patricia was about to speak, but Soeur Séraphine signed to her to
be silent.
“A little later!” she murmured. “Go now, my child! Thou also,
Honor; return in ten minutes.”
As they turned to go, a piece of paper blew off the table and fell
at Patricia’s feet. She picked it up mechanically, and saw her own
name on it. The two girls passed into Patricia’s room, which was on
the other side of Maria’s. Patricia lighted her candle, and read,
“Patricia, it is true, what I told Honor. I did not mean to steal the
ring. Please take Honor back. I will not disgrace her when she was
so good to me.
“Maria Patterson.”
“Oh, Patricia!” cried Honor. “What—what did she do? What was
that dreadful smell? Patricia! you are white as a sheet! Are you going
to faint? Don’t—don’t cry, my dear!”
“I am not crying!” Patricia wiped two large tears from her cheeks.
“What did she do? She tried to kill herself. If it had not been for you,
I should have been a murderess!”
“Patricia, don’t say such dreadful things! And what have I to do
with it?”
“You kept me from going to sleep!” said Patricia curtly. “You little
thing—” Patricia laid her hands on Honor’s shoulders, and held her at
arm’s length a moment. “You little thing!” she repeated. “You have
saved me, as well as Maria!”
“Oh, Patricia!” faltered Honor, her own eyes bright with tears.
“What was it? was it poison?”
“Charcoal! The poor creature must have taken some from
Margoton’s brazier. Mercifully she didn’t know enough to stop up the
keyhole between her room and mine. I smelt it, and then I saw a
thin blue thread come creeping through the keyhole; and then—all in
a minute I knew! Hark! the Sister calls us. Honor, I can’t talk about
it, but I never shall forget this night!”
Honor was almost awe-stricken as Patricia pressed a warm kiss on
her cheek; Patricia, who never kissed any one. She returned the
caress shyly, but tenderly, and hand in hand the two entered Maria’s
room.
Soeur Séraphine’s lovely face was more nearly stern than they had
ever seen it. She was sitting on the bed, Maria’s hand in hers. She
addressed the two girls gravely.
“Here we have,” she said, “one who has sinned and repented. Her
first sin was not grievous, as it appears to me; her repentance was
deep and sincere, but it has not been accepted—save by thee, my
little Honor! Thy part in this affair has been all that I could wish.
Patricia, of thee I would ask, art thou entirely without sin thyself?”
“No, my Sister!” Patricia’s voice was low, her eyes were bent on
the floor.
“Thou art right. Pride, vain glory, envy—no, perhaps not that!” as
Patricia made an involuntary movement; “hatred, malice and all
uncharitableness. Of these thou hast been guilty; is it not so, my
child?”
“Yes, my Sister!”
“Dost thou repent of these thy sins? Are they hateful in thine
eyes?”
“Oh, yes! yes!”
Soeur Séraphine’s face softened; her eyes shone with their own
kind light. She said no word, but with a lovely gesture held out
Maria’s hand. Patricia clasped it, and knelt down by the bedside.
“Maria,” she said, in a low, stifled voice, “I have been wicked and
hateful, and I beg your pardon!”
“Oh, don’t, Patricia!” gasped Maria. “Oh, please don’t! I—of course
it was horrid of me; of course you thought—oh, do get up, Patricia!
Oh, of course I forgive you, if you forgive me!”
“So!” The Sister raised Patricia, and seated her beside her. “That is
well. Now you are friends once more, and that part of this sad
matter may be forgotten. For her second and far more grievous sin,
that of attempting to renounce the gift of life given her by the good
God, Maria is deeply repentant; is it not so, my child?”
“Oh, yes!” murmured Maria, clasping her hands over her face. “I
don’t see how I could have done it!”
“Fitting penance will be devised for thee!” the Sister went on
serenely. “Thou preferest to leave it to me and Madame, and it is
well. For thee, Patricia; wouldst thou prefer to choose thine own
penance, or shall we devise one for thee also?”
“I think—” Patricia spoke slowly, but with something of her usual
assured tone: “I think, my Sister, that I will go to Coventry myself!”
“Go to—Cov—what is that, my child? A city of England, is it not?
We could not permit—”
Patricia hastened to explain.
“Sending a person to Coventry means—not speaking to her, not
having anything to do with her. We—I—sent Maria to Coventry, and
made all the other girls do it—except Honor! she wouldn’t! Now I
will go myself, for a week. I will not speak to anybody, and nobody
shall speak to me. Will that do, my Sister?”
“Oh, Patricia!” cried Honor and Maria in one breath. “You shall not!
You must not!”
But Soeur Séraphine nodded approval.
“The idea,” she said, “appears to me admirable!”
CHAPTER XIV
THE STRANGE OLD LADY
Patricia performed her penance faithfully. At her request, Soeur
Séraphine explained matters briefly to the girls next morning; so far,
that is to say, as she considered explanation desirable. Patricia, she
told them, had become convinced that she had been unjust to Maria,
and had taken upon herself the punishment which she and they had
inflicted upon that imprudent but well-meaning young person. For
the space of a week, they would hold no communication with
Patricia, nor she with them: Madame approving this entirely. After
that time, their happy relations with one another would be resumed,
and never again, the Sister trusted, would their clear horizon be
clouded in such manner. The girls were to remark that a little folly,
arousing the evil passions of our sinful nature, had brought about
this sad state of affairs. Let them pray without ceasing for truth,
courage and kindness, since these three formed the tripod on which
humanity must stand. Dismissed!
As the girls left the classroom, Patricia, who was standing at the
door, shook hands with each of them, as if taking leave. She did not
speak, nor did any one dare speak to her. Her face was grave, but
the scornful look was gone; the insolence of her beauty was veiled,
as it were, by a thoughtful, almost a sorrowful look. She gave Honor
a lovely smile; Honor’s arms were open in an instant to embrace her,
but Patricia shook her head, and laid her finger on her lips.
“I don’t see how I can!” said Honor to herself, as she passed out,
“but I must!” she added, “and so I will!”
This sensible resolve she communicated to the other girls, as they
clustered round her under the trumpet vine. Patricia was walking by
herself at the other end of the garden, pacing up and down in a
sober, business-like way.
“How can we?” cried one and another. “Maria made no difference
one way or another: but Patricia—it will be like losing you over
again, Moriole!”
“We just plain have to!” said Honor stoutly. “That’s all there is
about it. And mind you be good to Maria, girls! It’s the least you can
do, after treating her so horribly. Poor thing! she is really sick this
morning, so our Sister made her stay in bed; but she will be down to
dinner, and I say, let’s all try to make her forget about it.”
All agreed, though without any special enthusiasm. They were
ashamed of the part they had played, but after all, Maria was Maria.
“Tiens, la Moriole!” It was Jacqueline de la Tour de Provence who
spoke, in her languid, graceful drawl. “Why this sudden interest in
Maria,—for thee, I mean? Thou hast never shown it before. She is
bourgeoise to a degree! She cannot belong to even the lowest order
of noblesse!”
“We are Americans!” said Honor shortly. “We have no noblesse.
And if we had—how about noblesse oblige, Jacqueline?”
Jacqueline blushed slightly, and murmured something about her
House; but it was noticed that she was moderately civil to Maria,
when the latter, still depressed, and sniffing at intervals, appeared at
dinner.
“But, Maria,” cried Honor, dragging her into a corner after dinner,
“you simply must buck up! You can’t go round cringing and sniffing
like—like a poodle that’s just been shaved! Hold up your head! Look
them in the eye! Show them that you are as good as they are!”
“But I am not!” said poor Maria, who did seem to be made of
putty, as Patricia once said, and poor putty at that.
“You are! a great deal better than some of them. Buck up, I tell
you!”
“Bokope!” Soeur Séraphine, passing, paused with a smile of
inquiry. “Eet ees to me a word wholly new, la Moriole. It means—vat,
for example?”
Honor colored hotly, and hung her head.
“It’s—it’s argot, my Sister!” she confessed meekly. “Slang, you
know, we call it. It means to—to collect oneself—to—to take a brace
—oh, dear! that’s slang too! I’m afraid ‘buck up’ is really what it does
mean, my Sister. Papa used to say it!” she added timidly.
The little Sister glowed sympathetic.
“Tiens! If thy honored father used the expression, it is without
doubt a valuable one. Bokope! it is to remember, that!”
She passed on, leaving Honor struggling between amusement and
remorse.
The days passed quickly, as days do; they missed Patricia woefully.
Even Stephanie confessed to missing her, though she declared,
pacing the Garden, arm in arm with her newly-recovered Moriole,
that this was nothing compared with the desolation of last week.
“Patricia has behaved nobly, I grant that!” she said. “I forgive her
much, even her pride, which is insufferable. But to have thee back,
my cherished one, that makes to bound the heart; I could better do
without all than to lose thee, my Moriole!”
Was Stephanie always so sentimental? Had she herself been so,
before she went to the Châlet? Honor wondered; then she fell to
wondering what they were all doing up there. It was four o’clock.
The goats would be coming home soon. Perhaps Big Pierre was
there, courting Gretli. In that case Zitli would be in his own nook
behind the garden, sitting alone, looking at the mountain, thinking
perhaps a little of his friend. She must write to them to-night. She
had already written once, but Zitli said letters were a rare treat, and
she loved to write them.
“Look, Honor! that old lady again who regards thee. My faith, but
her eyes devour thee. One would say she was hungry, not so?”
Honor looked up, to find a pair of bright dark eyes fixed on her
with singular intentness. They belonged to a lady whom the girls
had seen several times of late in the Garden; an old lady, richly
dressed, who sometimes drove slowly in a victoria, sometimes, as
to-day, sat on a garden chair under the trees. She was accompanied
by a trim, rosy little person, who might be nurse, companion or
courier. She seemed interested in all the girls, but specially in Honor,
whose looks and motions she studied openly and deliberately.
To-day, after a prolonged look which yet was not a stare, she said
a few words to her companion, who stepped forward and in turn
addressed Soeur Séraphine, who was shepherding her little flock.
The Sister looked up in surprise; glanced toward the lady on the
garden chair; then hastily adjuring the girls to be extremely sage
and to observe well the beauties of Nature, she advanced with an air
of respectful interest toward the old lady, who, with a civil nod,
beckoned her to a seat beside her. The nurse, companion or courier
retired to a discreet distance. The girls, devoured by curiosity, paid
scant attention to the beauties of nature.
“Stephanie, you must not stare!” whispered Honor. “Look at that
swan; he is pecking the young one as hard as he can.”
Stephanie glanced anxiously at the swan. “They are savage
creatures!” she said. “A swan once pecked my grandmother, tearing
large portions of flesh from her bones. It was a frightful thing; she
turned black with terror. Observe her dress, Moriole! It is richness
itself, though sombre, and in distinguished taste.”
“Your grandmother’s? Or the swan’s?” Honor laughed.
“A squirrel! a squirrel!” cried little Loulou. “Where are the nuts,
Vivette?”
Squirrel and nuts made a brief diversion, but it was hard not to
glance more often than one should at the couple on the garden
chairs. They were talking earnestly; the Sister with her pretty,
fluttering gestures, the other with an occasional wave of a delicate
ringed hand, or an emphatic nod. Finally—oh, wonder! oh, thrill
upon thrill!—the Sister rose and beckoned—to whom? Jacqueline de
la Tour de Provence rose with dignity, and was gliding forward,
swanlike, when the Sister’s voice was heard, silver clear.
“Honor! Approach, my child!”
Jacqueline drew back with an air of elaborate unconcern. Honor,
with a deprecating glance at her, and a round-eyed flash at
Stephanie, advanced timidly.
“Honor, my little one,” the Sister’s voice trembled; “that I present
thee to Madame—”
“Mrs. Damian!” The lady spoke in an odd, abrupt tone. “How do
you do, child? Your grandfather Bright was my first cousin; you are
therefore my second cousin once removed. Sit down! If you open
your eyes too wide, they might drop out. I asked you how you did!”
Honor blinked and sat down hastily, trembling and amazed.
“I am very well, I thank you, madame!” she answered. “I trust
your distinguished health is also good.”
“My distinguished health is as good as can be expected, I thank
you!” with an amused twinkle. “Your name is Honor? So is mine!
There is always an Honor in the family. You never heard your father
speak of me, I suppose? No! how should you? I haven’t seen him for
twenty years. He was a nice boy then. Well! you wonder what sky I
have dropped from, eh? I heard of your parents’ death a year or
more ago; I was in Russia at the time. I am a traveler, child; I have
been traveling for many years. I was in Russia, and since then I
have been in the East. I have always meant to look you up; I wrote
your guardian, Mr. Stanford, that I would. You have never seen Mr.
Stanford?”
Honor shook her head. “He writes to Madame,” she said. “Twice a
year he writes, to make inquiry for me, and to send money; he
comes never.”
“Busy man! You’ll see him—” Mrs. Damian spoke in short, abrupt
sentences, each one punctuated with a nod. The last sentence
remained unfinished, and she nodded twice.
“Folly!” she spoke over her shoulder, and the rosy person
approached. “This is the little cousin! Honor, this is Miss Folly, who
keeps me alive. A ridiculous fuss she makes about it, too. What now,
Folly? Why do you look at me?”
“It’s time to come home, Mrs. Damian!” Miss Folly spoke in a
cheerful, cordial voice which struck Honor’s ear like music. “Shall I
call the carriage?”
“Do so! Honor, your teacher gives you permission to take supper
with me at the hotel this evening. Will you come?”
Honor faltered her thanks; with great pleasure would she do
herself the honor—
“That’s good! Miss Folly will come for you at a quarter before six.
Au revoir, child!”
She nodded dismissal. Honor’s head was spinning; her heart was
beating fast; but she made her best courtesy, and murmuring, “Au
revoir, madame! Au plaisir, mademoiselle!” she turned and scurried
away toward the group of girls, who, at the further end of the
Gardens, were turning eager heads in her direction. On the way, she
caught sight of Patricia, taking her solitary walk in a shady by-path,
and stopped short, her heart beating louder than ever. She could not
—how could she pass Patricia without a word?
A squirrel was hopping along the path, expectant of nuts.
“Squirrel!” cried Honor. The squirrel stopped; Patricia turned, saw
her, and stopped too. “Give my love to Patricia!” Honor addressed
Master Frisky, breathlessly. “Tell her we miss her dreadfully! And—
squirrel—tell her I am going to supper at the hotel with my
grandfather’s cousin, Mrs. Damian, who has been in Russia. Tell her
it’s that beautiful old lady we saw the other day. That’s all!” and
kissing her hand—but not to the squirrel—Honor ran on.
The girls surged round her like a wave; questions flew like spray.
What? Who? Why? How? She was explaining as well as she could,
when Miss Folly appeared, very bright-eyed, a little out of breath
from walking quickly.
“Excuse me!” she said with a smile, as the girls drew back in
confusion. “Miss Honor, Mrs. Damian asks what you like best to eat.”
Honor fairly gasped. “Oh! oh, mademoiselle, it is of no import!
Anything that Madame—”
Miss Folly dismissed the remark with a gesture. “What do you like
best?” she repeated. “Mrs. Damian wishes to know.”
“Oh! oh, dear! ice-cream!” faltered Honor.
Miss Folly smiled again. “That, naturally! but before ice-cream?”
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