“There are two ways of doing it!” said Mrs. Damian. “There is the dark lantern, hole-and-corner way, and there is the Blaze of Glory.”
Miss Folly looked up inquiringly. She seldom spoke when a look sufficed.
“We can pack the child up at the Pension,” Mrs. Damian continued, “sneak off in a cab to the station, leaving a trail of tears and sniffs behind us, and depart as if we were all going to the penitentiary together; or we can give her a Party and a Send-off, and go—as I said—in a Blaze of Glory. What do you say?”
“If I were the child, I should prefer the dark lantern,” said Miss Folly thoughtfully.
“Of course you would!” Mrs. Damian swooped like a hawk. “You have not red hair; and you are a mouse. A trained and intelligent mouse—no! I have it! You are a mongoose, Folly. Exactly! There is no difference. ‘The Wild Ass and the Mongoose, an Indian Fable.’ What is the plural of mongoose?”
“Mongooses!” replied Miss Folly promptly.
“Right! My former Affliction—I should say companion—would persist in saying ‘mongeese.’ I corrected her seventeen times; the eighteenth time I threw a sofa-pillow at her, and she left. Egypt was glad at her departing. As I was saying, Mongoose, you have not red hair, nor the dramatic temperament. This child has both. Therefore I decide on the Blaze of Glory. Bring pencil and paper, and we will make a list of the fireworks.”
So it came to pass that the day after the final examinations, when the girls were packing their trunks and exchanging last tokens and protestations of affection, they were told that they were all invited to the Hotel Royal, to spend the evening with Mrs. Damian.
“And with Honor, naturally!” said Soeur Séraphine. “Our Moriole has already gone to join her venerable relative. Mrs. Damian most kindly sends carriages for us at a quarter before seven o’clock precisely; be ready, my children!”
Honor had gone an hour before, after a talk with Madame Madeleine which she was to remember as long as she lived. The dear lady might have been parting with her own child, so tender was she, so full of affectionate solicitude. She repeated again and again her injunctions; to be good, to be happy; to think sometimes of the friends who loved her.
“Happy?” said poor Honor. “I will try to be good, dear Madame; I will be cheerful, because I have promised; but—happy? I shall never be happy again; never, never, never!”
She burst into wild weeping. Madame Madeleine watched her for a little in silence, letting the tears take their way. Then she rose, and opening a drawer of her little escritoire—they were sitting in her own room, to which we were admitted only on special occasions—took out a small object.
“Dry thy tears, my child!” she said, in her grave, kind voice. “I have something to show thee!”
It was a miniature-case that she held in her hand. She opened it, and Honor, wiping her swollen eyes, bent to look. A girl smiled at her; a girl older than herself, yet still in the freshness of youth: joyous, frank, beautiful as a flower, the eyes alight with happiness, the perfect mouth trembling to a smile.
“Oh!” cried Honor. “Oh, how lovely! how exquisite! Who is it, Madame?”
“It is my sister!” said Madame gravely. “It is Soeur Séraphine, whom you see every day and all day long, Honor.”
Honor looked again.
“I see it is!” Her voice was full of awe. “Of course it is! But—oh, Madame! What—what happened to our Sister?”
Madame Madeleine paused, as if communing with herself.
“Why not?” she said finally. “It may help! Listen, Honor! This was my sister Marie Séraphine at eighteen; that is, so much of her as could be caught and fixed in color. Of herself, the spirit of gayety and mirth that she was, it gives but the shadow. She was betrothed, to a man whom she tenderly loved; a man of whom one can but say that he seemed sent to earth to show what man could be. They were happy; they were to be married, from this very house, where then my beloved husband was still with me. A week before the wedding day—”
The kind voice faltered a moment; then went quietly on,
“The two young people were in Paris, visiting friends. A great Bazaar was being held for charity, in a certain chapel. They—they went—” the voice broke.
“Oh, madame! I know! I have heard—That terrible fire! So many lives lost—Oh! they were not there?”
Madame bowed her head.
“When the flames broke out, they were near a window. By God’s mercy, he—René—was able to break the window, and thrust my sister out into the street. Another woman, and yet another, he rescued; then—the crowd found him; they clung to him, they dragged him—he fell back—”
Honor covered her face with her hands, shuddering.
Madame Madeleine was silent for a few moments; then she went on.
“It is not to agonize thee, my child, that I tell this sad tale. Listen still! At first, my sister prayed for death, as one prays for the morning. God did not send her that relief. Then she sought the religious life, and found therein a measure of peace. Time and work and prayer scarfed over the wound that never could wholly heal. For some years she continued in this, till the convent was broken up; then she came to me.
“That is the story, my Moriole, of my sister’s life. I do not often speak of it. I tell it to thee, that thou may’st know what real sorrow is, and how it may be borne. Take this knowledge with thee, my child, and may it prove profitable to thee!”
She kissed Honor’s forehead gravely, then made a little gesture of dismissal, and turned to replace the miniature.
Creeping away with bowed head and beating heart, Honor met Soeur Séraphine coming along the corridor with her light, swift tread. At sight of her, the Sister’s face, tranquil and beautiful, broke into its lovely smile, and Honor started, it was so like the pictured face that had smiled at her a moment; so like, yet—ah, how different!
“Tiens!” said Soeur Séraphine. “My little Moriole, I was seeking thee. The hour approaches, and thy toilette is not yet made. Thou hast been weeping, my child. I could well weep too, at losing thee, but the smile is the better fashion, see’st thou! As Monsieur thy father observed, ‘Bokope,’ my Moriole! Come then, and I will tie thy ribbon for thee!”
“First,” said Mrs. Damian, “we will inspect the tokens.”
“The tokens?” repeated Honor, slightly bewildered; Mrs. Damian was in one of her most swooping moods, and had already taken her breath away twice.
“Of affection!” replied the lady. “Tokens of affection; souvenirs; gimcracks; anything you choose to call them. This way, my dear!”
She led the way into a little boudoir, which seemed to be furnished largely with tissue paper and parcels, and motioned Honor toward a table on which lay a number of small objects. Honor bent over them in wonder and delight. Nine heart-shaped lockets of rock-crystal, each containing a tiny likeness of herself. Beside them, a larger print of her in a silver frame.
“Oh! how lovely!” cried Honor, clasping her hands. “How perfectly lovely! Are they—do they—”
“They are for your schoolmates, naturally. You said there were nine of them? ‘Nine homesick puppies, in nine vehicles, straying sadly down the road to Peking.’2 Quotation; contains a buried city. H’m! Well! Yes. The large one is for the two good ladies, who do not wear gimcracks. Well? Are you pleased?”
2 Mrs. Hugh Fraser.
“But I am enchanted! They are exquisite. And all the girls have been begging me for my picture. But when were they taken, my aunt?”
“Folly snapped her kodak at you, the day of the race, and had the print enlarged. I found the lockets at Interlaken. Now you know as much as I do. Glad you like them!”
“And—oh! and my hair looks dark!” cried Honor. “It really does!”
“Yes, that is the only trouble with the likeness. Red hair should be powdered before photographing, or it looks perfectly black.”
“Oh, if it only were!” cried poor Honor. “I have always longed so for dark hair, madame. In America—would it be wicked if I blacked it, my aunt? It is wicked in Switzerland, our Sister says.”
“It would be idiotic,” said Mrs. Damian, “which is more to the point. Don’t be an idiot, child, whatever else you are. Look! Here is your dressing-case. Like it?”
But here Honor became speechless. Darkest green morocco, lined with satin, fitted with brushes, combs, and innumerable bottles, all in warm-white ivory, all marked—H.B. What could fourteen-year-old Honor say at sight of this marvel? She could only gasp, and clasp her hands together. It was some minutes before she managed to stammer out,
“I am combled! I am altogether combled, madame! What generosity, what goodness!”
“You like it?” repeated Mrs. Damian, watching her with evident pleasure.
“I have dreamed of such a thing!” said Honor. “I never thought to see one. Can it possibly be actually mine, madame?”
“It not only can, but is. Nobody else would want it, you see, with your initials on it.”
“I thank you! Oh, I thank you a hundred thousand times, for the beautiful, beautiful things, but, ah, how much more for your kindness! It enlarges me the heart! I—I—” Honor faltered.
“Don’t cry! If you cry, I’ll break all the bottles. Here! take these chains and put the lockets on them!” Mrs. Damian held out a box containing a number of slender gold chains. “When the girls come, you may put them round their necks and make a pretty speech to each one. I have no time for pretty speeches. H’m! Folly, how about the emeralds? Pretty, with the white frock and the hair, eh?”
“Pretty, but very unsuitable!” said Miss Folly briefly.
“True! though I don’t know what business it is of yours. No ornaments at all, eh? Much better so! Put the diamond stars in my cap, will you? Some one must dress up a little; if you say much more, Mongoose, I’ll make you wear the emeralds yourself, and a pretty sight you’d be!”
Honor privately thought that Miss Folly needed nothing more to make her a pretty sight. In her simple dark blue dress, with the fichu of soft net and the old-fashioned topaz brooch, she was pretty enough, in all conscience. She seemed never in the least discomposed by Mrs. Damian’s abrupt speeches. She smiled now and went away, presumably to arrange the diamonds.
“H’m!” said Mrs. Damian. “Sit down, my dear. Don’t fidget! Your friends will be here soon. The last party I gave—let me see! Was it in Russia? After the last one I gave there, I remember, the servants ate up all the candles. But—no! the very last one was in Africa, in the Great Desert. My dear! would you like to hear about it? Fold your hands in your lap—lightly! Don’t clasp them. I am not Grand Opera. And don’t turn in your toes! So! We were quite a caravan, and there had been a sandstorm which came very near being the final party for all of us—h’m! yes! Well—so when we got to the nearest oasis and found we were all alive, it seemed proper to celebrate. You see?”
Mrs. Damian swooped; Honor blinked and caught her breath, then nodded eagerly.
“I see, my aunt! Continue, I pray you!”
“We ranged the camels and horses in a circle; after watering them, naturally. The mats were spread, and the Mohammedans said their prayers: well, I said mine too, only without demonstration. I am too old to show you how a Moslem prays; he kneels, tumbles forward on his forehead, then back on his heels. Very singular! I’d make Folly do it for you, but she has scruples.” This, as Miss Folly entered with the cap. “Thanks, Folly! Put it on for me, will you? Straight, please! None of your piratical rakishness! I believe you are a Buccaneer in disguise! Well, we supped on fresh dates, locusts and wild honey—I felt like John the Baptist—I had a garment of camel’s hair, too, though probably different from his— What is it, my dear? Keep your eyes in your head; they look better there.”
“Pardon me, my aunt! But—locusts? Really?”
“Really! fried in olive oil; crisp, and not at all bad. The Sheik could not eat with us, we being Infidels, but he sent us coffee, and was very friendly. Indeed, he offered to buy me. I was too old for a wife, he said, but he liked my talk, and thought I would do for a mother. I never was so flattered in my life; but my Professor decided to keep me. We had water that night to wash in; a small pitcherful, but still water, a great luxury. For a week we had washed in sand. But yes, certainly!” at Honor’s exclamation of amazement. “It is often so in the desert, where there isn’t water enough to drink. Sand is efficacious, but gritty. Ah! here come our friends.”
The girls entered on the stroke of seven, blushing and twittering, shepherded by Soeur Séraphine in her gray dress and spotless coif.
“She looks like a Princess of the Blood!” murmured Mrs. Damian. “Learn to hold yourself like that, Honor, and your hair may be red or green or piebald, it will not matter. Good evening, my Sister! I am delighted to see you. Young ladies, you are very welcome.”
Mrs. Damian’s French was that of one who to a natural gift has added fifty years of practice; nevertheless, she spoke English now, having divined with her lightning instinct that the Sister’s one little heavenly vanity was her English.
“Ze plaisir—pardon!—ze plaisure is teetotally to oz, madame! Be’old oz gazzered as von ’eart, von speerit, von sentiment, to greet you and our beloved young friend. Honor, all to thee, my little one! My children, English!”
The last words were a swift aside to the girls, and brought comfort or disaster, according to one’s nationality. All very well for Patricia and Maria, though the latter could only mumble, not having the gift of tongues, scarcely even of her own. Vivette enunciated neatly her “Good evening, Mrs. and Miss. ’Ow do you carry yourself?” and passed on, swelling visibly with modest pride. Rose Marie and most of the others escaped with a polite murmur which might have been English or Choctaw. But poor Stephanie! she had hoped to escape speech altogether by keeping well behind the Sister’s ample robes. English was to her an “apoplexy of a language,” and she rather made a point of not knowing any. But now little Loulou, who had spoken very nicely, and who had her own idea of what was proper, gave a shrewd pinch to Stephanie’s arm, at the very instant when Soeur Séraphine, extending a firm hand, drew her inexorably forward into full view.
“Aie! goodnight!” shrieked Stephanie, bobbing a distracted courtesy.
The girls tittered; Soeur Séraphine flushed. Mrs. Damian’s lips twitched for a moment, but she rose to the occasion.
“I am glad to see you, my dear!” she said cordially. “You are Stephanie Langolles, I think? You are to sit next Honor at supper. And there is the bell this minute!” she added. “Let us come in without ceremony; Honor, lead the way with the Sister, will you?”
Honor would never acknowledge that the Feast of Departure surpassed the Fête de Retour at the Pension, but Soeur Séraphine declared she had never seen anything so charming. Mrs. Damian nodded, well pleased. It was a feast of birds, she explained; of orioles, as nearly as Miss Folly could make it with crêpe paper and black pins. Beside each plate stood a little black and orange bird, holding a card in his bill. The soup was in swan-shaped cups, the long necks curving to form the handles.
“It should be birds’ nest soup, of course,” said the hostess, “but there were no nests in the market.”
The potato balls that accompanied the roast duck were bird-shaped, too, golden-brown ducklings, with peppercorn eyes. And when it came to the dessert—oh! oh! could it be possible? Who ever saw a mother hen of strawberry ice-cream, with pink and white chickens clustering round her? Long before this point was reached, the girls’ tongues were loosened, and they were chattering like a flock of sparrows.
When it came to “second helps,” Mrs. Damian nodded to Honor, who slipped quietly out and returned, bringing the “tokens.” She went round the table, with a kiss and a murmured word for each girl as she clasped the chain round her neck. Her eyes were bright with tears, but she would not let them fall. Mrs. Damian watched her keenly, and nodded to herself well pleased. The child was thoroughbred; no danger of a scene!
As the girls burst into exclamations of wonder and delight, Honor slipped out again, in obedience to a signal from Miss Folly, who without a word led her into the tissue-paper room. On the bed lay a traveling costume of russet wool, tasteful and simple; beside it the prettiest of hats to match. Gloves, belt, shoes of russet suède; nothing was wanting.
“Dress yourself quickly,” said Miss Folly. “I must go and help Mrs. Damian. Don’t stop to think! Time for that afterwards. You have twenty minutes!”
She vanished. Honor never could remember how she got through those twenty minutes. She only knew that before they were over, she was ready, and stood trembling in every limb, unable, it seemed to her, to speak or move. The door opened; there stood Mrs. Damian, Miss Folly behind her, both dressed for traveling.
“Good!” said Mrs. Damian. “You will make a traveler! Come!”
She took Honor’s hand in her firm, cool grasp, and led her back to the dining room. The girls were deep in the mysteries of costume crackers, putting on paper caps and bonnets, shrieking with laughter. At sight of the three, they sprang up in amazement.
“Oh!” cried Stephanie. “Oh, Moriole! No! no! It cannot be. You do not leave us!”
“Hush!” Mrs. Damian’s tone was kindly, but final. “No tears or tantrums! Nothing of the sort. The Sister will explain all. Kiss her, and say good-by!”
All their mirth gone in a moment, the girls flocked round Honor, with tears, embraces, broken words of affection.
“Don’t forget me, little thing!” whispered Patricia. “You’ve done a lot for me, though you don’t know it. Au revoir in New York some day!”
“Moriole,” cried Stephanie, “my heart breaks! I perish!”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Damian.
“Compose thyself, my child!” said Soeur Séraphine. “This is the inevitable, to which we must bow. Adieu, Honor! The good God be with thee, little beloved one!”
“Adieu! Adieu, Moriole! Do not forget us! Come back to us!”
They were all at the door now, clustering like bees, waving hands and handkerchiefs. Looking back for the last time, Honor saw Soeur Séraphine’s face, with its heavenly smile of patience and kindness. She smiled back bravely; the carriage started, rolled swiftly on.
What followed was all like a dream. The station agleam with lights; the train standing panting in slow, regular breaths, ready for the start; the guard’s cry, “In the carriage, gentlemen and ladies, if you please!”; the smiling porter who took possession of them and their belongings, even the precious dressing-bag, to which Honor would fain have clung. Here it was, though, a moment later, in this little fairy-like cabin with its two white berths, one above the other.
“Folly prefers the upper berth,” said Mrs. Damian. “I can’t imagine why, unless from mongoosiness. Good night, child! Sleep well! Remember, the train will say anything you want it to say. Try ‘good luck’!”
What was the train saying? Lying in the white berth, her brain still throbbing, her heart still beating fast, Honor tried to listen, tried to fit words to the rhythmic sound.
“Good luck! good luck!” That did not quite fit. “Clank-clank—good luck! clank—clank—buck up!”
Good-by, ah, good-by!
That went better, but still—
The locomotive found its stride; the train settled into a smooth rhythmic movement, which steadily, insensibly, straightened out the twisted nerves, quieted the throbbing brain, soothed, lulled, comforted.
And as sleep came softly stealing, drawing her veil of quietness over the tired child, she murmured, half awake, half in slumber, the old, old words:
THE END