THE HILDEGARDE-MARGARET SERIES
By Laura E. Richards
_Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume, $1.65_
Queen Hildegarde
Hildegarde’s Holiday
Hildegarde’s Home
Hildegarde’s Neighbors
Hildegarde’s Harvest
Three Margarets
Margaret Montfort
Peggy
Rita
Fernley House
The Merryweathers
_The above eleven volumes boxed as a set, $18.15_
THE PAGE COMPANY 53 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass.
[Illustration: “‘YOU HAVE SENT MARIA TO COVENTRY: I GO WITH HER!
GOOD-BY!’” (_See page 218_)]
Honor Bright
A STORY FOR GIRLS
BY
LAURA E. RICHARDS
Author of
“The Hildegarde-Margaret Series,” “Captain January,”
“Melody,” “Five Minute Stories,” “Mrs. Tree,”
“Geoffrey Strong,” etc.
_ILLUSTRATED BY_
FRANK T. MERRILL
[Illustration]
THE PAGE COMPANY
BOSTON MDCCCCXX
_Copyright, 1920, by_
THE PAGE COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
First Impression, August, 1920
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.
TO
ELIZABETH SHAW
WITH MUCH LOVE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I AT PENSION MADELEINE 1
II HOW HONOR FOUND HER NEW NAME 13
III THE MOUNTAINEERS 31
IV THE OUTGOING 46
V BIMBO 59
VI IN THE CHÂLET OF THE ROCKS 74
VII ZITLI 89
VIII THE MOUNTAIN FIRESIDE 108
IX STORY-TELLING 131
X COURTSHIP AND CASTLE-BUILDING 151
XI FAREWELL TO THE CHÂLET 171
XII STORMY WEATHER 190
XIII THE WAY TO COVENTRY 207
XIV THE STRANGE OLD LADY 235
XV THE BOMBSHELL 261
XVI THE APPLES OF ATALANTA 284
XVII THE BLAZE OF GLORY 304
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“‘YOU HAVE SENT MARIA TO COVENTRY: I GO
WITH HER! GOOD-BY!’” (_See page 218_) _Frontispiece_
“‘I HAVE THE CAPET HAND, YOU PERCEIVE!’” 26
“ATLI ... WALKED BESIDE HER, HIS ARM ON HER NECK” 52
“STANDING ON ONE SIDE, ARMS AKIMBO” 88
“HONOR COULD HARDLY SPEAK HER DELIGHT” 167
“‘OH!’ CRIED HONOR. ‘OH, HOW LOVELY!’” 307
HONOR BRIGHT
CHAPTER I
AT PENSION MADELEINE
Honor Bright was twelve years old when her parents died, and left her
alone in the world. (Only, as Soeur Séraphine said, Honor would never
be wholly alone so long as the earth was inhabited.) Six of the twelve
years had been spent at school in Vevay, at the Pension Madeleine, the
only home she knew. She was too little to remember the big New York
house where she was born, and where her toddling years were spent.
She was only two when her father accepted the high scientific mission
which banished him to the far East for an indefinite time. Of the years
there she retained only a few vague memories; one of a dark woman with
tinkling ornaments, who sang strange old songs, and whom she called
“Amma”; one of an old man-servant, bent and withered like a monkey,
who carried her on his shoulder, and bowed to the ground when she
stamped her little foot. All beside was a dim mist with curious people
and animals moving through it. Long robes, floating veils, shawls and
turbans; camels and buffaloes, with here and there an elephant, or a
tiger (stuffed, this, with glaring eyes, frightening her at first, till
Amma bade her be proud that Papa Sahib had shot so great a beast);
ringing of bells, smell of incense and musk and flowers, stifling dust
and drowning rain; all part of her, in some mysterious dream-way.
When the child was six, the climate began to tell upon her, as it
does on all white children, and her parents were warned that she must
leave India. They brought her to Switzerland, to Vevay, the paradise
of schoolgirls, and left her there with many tears. Since then she had
seen them only twice or thrice; the journey was long and hard; her
mother delicate.
The last time they came, it was a festival for the whole school. Mrs.
Bright, beautiful and gentle, “like a jasmine-flower,” as Stephanie
Langolles said; Mr. Bright, kind and bluff, his pockets always full
of chocolate, his eyes twinkling with friendliness; they were in and
out of the Pension constantly, during the month they spent at the
Grand Hotel in Vevay. It was destructive to school routine, but as
Madame Madeleine said to Soeur Séraphine, what would you? The case was
exceptional. How to deny anything to these parents, so tender, and so
desolated at parting from their cherished infant? Happily another year
would, under the Providence of God, see this so affectionate family
happily and permanently united.
“One more little year,” said Mrs. Bright, as she embraced Honor at
parting. “Then Papa’s long task is done, and we shall go home, and
take you with us. Home to our own dear country, my little one, where
children can live and be well. No more pensions for you, no more
strange lands for us. Home, for all three; home and happiness!”
“And now,” sighed Soeur Séraphine. “At twelve years old, an orphan! Our
poor little one! And she has seen them so seldom; what tragedy!”
Madame Madeleine shook her head sorrowfully. “As for that, my sister,”
she said, “it appears to me less tragic than if these so-honored
parents had surrounded, as it were, the daily life of the child.
_Tiens!_ She has been with us four years, is it not so? In that period
she has seen her parents thrice, a week each time. What would you? A
child is a child. Honor weeps to-day; to-morrow she will dry her tears;
after to-morrow she will smile; in a month she will forget. And there,
if you will, is tragedy!”
Madame Madeleine was right. A week after the sad news came, Honor was
telling Stephanie (who had been away for a fortnight) all about it:
I must not say with enjoyment, for that would be untrue: but with a
dramatic interest more thrilling than sorrowful.
“Figure to yourself!” she said. “We are in the classroom: it is
arithmetic, and I am breaking my head over a problem wholly frightful.
On the estrade is Madame, calm as a statue, her little white shawl over
her shoulders, _comme ça_. Vivette is making signs to Loulou: it is the
peace of every day. Enter Margoton, a _telegramme_ in the hand. Madame
opens it; reads; a cry escapes her. Calming herself on the instant,
she bids us be _très sages_, and leaves the room. Shortly appears our
Sister, and calling me tenderly to her side, takes my hand and conducts
me to Madame’s boudoir. There I hear the fearful tidings. My parents
are in Paradise!”
Honor paused, and drew a long breath, shaking her hair back with a
dramatic gesture. Stephanie clasped her hands.
“_Chèrie_, how terrible! But continue! What--how did this happen? An
accident?”
“Cholera!” (I fear Honor was enjoying this part!) “The _choléra
Asiatique_, most terrible of all diseases, bringing death in an
instant. Two days ago,--figure to thyself, Stephanie: two days ago,
they were in health: Mamán, whom you remember, all beautiful; Papa,
good as bread, who overwhelmed us with chocolate--the pestilence
breathed upon them, and Heaven opened to receive them. Ah! that is
terrible, if you will!”
The two girls were sitting together in Honor’s little room. Ordinarily,
they would have sat on the floor, but to-day her mourning was to be
considered. The waxed floor shone with a brilliant polish; no speck of
dust was visible anywhere in the spotless cell (it was hardly more in
size); still, one could not be too careful.
“Black is very becoming to thee, my poor dear!” said Stephanie. “Thy
hair is like a cloud of golden fire above it. Nothing could be more
beautiful, I assure thee.”
Honor looked anxiously in the little mirror that hung over the chest
of drawers. It was a pleasant image that she saw; a round rosy face,
with a pretty, wilful mouth, dark blue eyes heavily fringed with black
lashes, a straight little nose, and, as Stephanie said, a perfect cloud
of curly red-gold hair. All this, I say, was pleasant enough; but
Honor did not notice the general effect; what she saw was a collection
of small brown spots on the bridge of the straight little nose, and
extending to the cheeks. Freckles! No one else at Madame Madeleine’s
had freckles. Patricia Desmond, with her complexion like moonlight on
ivory; Vivette, with the crimson glow mantling in her brown cheeks,
Stephanie herself with her smooth, pale skin--
“Ah!” cried poor Honor. “This hideous disfigurement! Shall I ever
outgrow it, I wonder? Maman said I should, but I know not!”
Stephanie thought the freckles quite as dreadful as Honor did, and
looked her sympathy.
“_Tiens!_” she said. “We have the appearance that the good God gives
us.”
Here she glanced at her own reflection, with complacent approval of her
brown velvet eyes and black satin hair.
“My poor Honor! But your hair is always beautiful, and there are no
eyelashes like yours in Vevay. Take courage! In the story your hair is
dark, is it not? The story marches always? When shall I hear another
chapter?”
Honor’s face brightened. The story was always a comfort when the
freckles became too afflicting. It was to be a romance, in three
volumes: the story of her life, beginning when she was sixteen. (She
was now twelve!) It opened thus:
“I was young; they called me fair. My mirror revealed masses of
jet-black hair which rippled smoothly to the floor and lay in silken
piles on the velvet carpet. My eyes--there was one who called them
starry pools of night. My cheek was a white rose.”
Stephanie thought this a wonderful description. Honor, as I say, always
found comfort in it, and forgot the freckles while she was following
the fortunes of her dark-eyed counterpart.
“To-morrow, perhaps! Now--Stephanie, thou must help me in a sorrowful
task. It is to put away--”
“Thy colored dresses, _chérie_? But surely! but thou wilt wear white,
Honor? It is everywhere admitted as mourning, thou knowest!”
“Fiordispina and Angélique!” Honor spoke with sorrowful dignity and
resolve. “Yes, Stephanie, it must be so! While my parents lived, do you
see, I was a child; now--” An eloquent shrug and wave completed the
sentence. “I am resolved!” she said. “These dear ones, with whom my
happy childhood has been passed, must retire to--finally, to the shades
of memory, Stephanie!”
“How noble!” murmured Stephanie. “Thou art heroic, Honor!”
Shaking her head sadly, Honor opened a cupboard door, and with careful
hands drew out--certainly, two of the most beautiful dolls that ever
were seen. Maman had chosen them with her own exquisite taste, in
Paris and Rome. Angélique, the Parisian maiden, was blonde as Patricia
herself, with flaxen hair and eyes of real sky-blue; Fiordispina, on
the other hand, might almost stand for Honor’s dream-self. Her hair
did not reach the ground, much less lie in silken piles on the velvet
carpet, but it was long enough to braid, and it was real hair: moreover
it was hair with a story to it. Maman had bought it in Rome, from a
woman whose daughter had just entered a convent, and had her beautiful
hair cut off. The woman wept, and assured Mrs. Bright that there was
no such hair in Rome. Most of it had been purchased by two noble
Princesses whom age had deprived of their own _chevelure_; there was
but this little tress left. She had thought to preserve it as a memento
of her child, but for the _puppazza_ of so charming a _donzella_ as
the--finally--she named a price, and Fiordispina received her head of
hair, in place of the bit of fuzzy lamb’s wool which had disfigured her
pretty head.
Honor looked long and tenderly at the doll; then, dipping her hand into
the pitcher of water that stood on the commode close by, she sprinkled
some crystal drops on the calm bisque face.
“_Tiens!_” she said. “She weeps, my Fiordispina! how lovely she is in
affliction, Stephanie! If I dressed her in mourning, but deep, you
understand--do you think I might keep her? But no! I have resolved.
The sacrifice is made!”
She produced two neat box beds, and laid Fiordispina, serenely smiling
through her tears, in one, while Stephanie tucked Angélique snugly
in the other. They were covered with their own little satin quilts,
embroidered with their names; the boxes were closed and tied with satin
ribbon.
“The sacrifice is made!” repeated Honor. “It is accomplished. Don’t
tell the other girls!”
And she burst into tears, and wept on Stephanie’s shoulder.