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?”
“Oh! Oh, must I? Broiled chicken! I thank madame most respectuously--”
Miss Folly nodded cheerfully, and departed. Nine pairs of eyes, opened
to their roundest extent, gazed at one another. Then Honor held out her
arm, solemnly.
“Pinch me, Stephanie!” she said. “Quite hard, please--ow! that will do.
Because if I am not asleep and dreaming, then we are all in a fairy
story, that’s all.”
* * * * *
Still more fairy-like it seemed when at a quarter before six o’clock,
punctually, Miss Folly appeared, like a matter-of-fact fairy godmother,
and whisked Honor off in the victoria with the long-tailed black
horses, the very carriage in which--_hélas!_ poor pretty Maman and kind
Papa used to take her on those long drives. There had been a solemn
consultation over Honor’s dress for the occasion. She felt in her heart
that black velvet, with a long train and point lace flounces, was the
fitting attire. Diamonds, of course; her superb dark tresses woven into
a stately coronal (she had just discovered “coronal,” and thought it a
beautiful word) with a single ostrich plume, snowy white, curling above
it. These decorations not being at hand, she turned her mind with a
sigh to the actual choice, the dark blue cashmere with crochet buttons,
or the white embroidered muslin, Maman’s last gift, now let down to
its fullest extent; a trifle short in the sleeves, but still “all that
there was of most gracious!” Soeur Séraphine declared. Madame was
rather in favor of the cashmere; it was more composed, she said; more
sedate, and wholly suitable. Stephanie, who assisted at the conference,
affectionately pressed upon Honor her own best dress, the red silk
with black velvet ribbon. Soeur Séraphine suppressed a shudder, and
promptly decided on the white, for which Honor thanked her with an
eloquent glance. It was darling of Stephanie, but--and, besides, Maman
had told her _never_ to wear red or pink; “Unless, when you are forty,
my darling, a deep red velvet; your hair will be darker by then, and it
will suit your tint.”
Honor did not feel as if she would ever be forty; why not four hundred
at once? But she knew that this infliction of her hair could be made
better or worse by her choice of colors. She gladly put on the white
dress, and was pondering the question of a sash, when she heard a light
step in the corridor; then a soft rustle as of silk; a touch on the
handle of the door, and the step retreating again. She flew to the door
and opened it, to see the last flutter of a skirt disappearing, and
hanging on the doorhandle--Patricia’s beautiful new sash of pale-green
brocaded ribbon, with the shoulder-knots to match.
“Oh, my Sister, see!” cried Honor, the tears springing to her eyes.
“See what Patricia has done! her very best sash! Oh, mayn’t I just run
and give her a hug for thanks?”
“On no account!” The Sister’s face was shining with pleasure. “Our dear
Patricia is making her salvation with assured steps; let no one cause
her to stumble! Be tranquil, my child, that I arrange for thee this
charming garniture! It completes to perfection a costume wholly _jeune
fille_!”
In the little, richly gilt private _salon_ of the hotel, Mrs. Damian
received Honor with abrupt cordiality. She wore the costume of Honor’s
dreams, minus the flounces and the ostrich plume. Her dark eyes were
as bright as her diamonds, Honor thought, and the rich velvet set
off her ivory skin and delicate high-bred features to perfection. As
to the point lace, it was gathered in graceful folds at her throat,
and crowned her snowy hair in a quaint and charming cap. Altogether,
Honor thought her one of the most beautiful things she had ever
seen. Admiration was evidently no new thing to Mrs. Damian, but it
as evidently gave her pleasure; she smiled as Honor made her pretty
reverence, and held out her fragile hand.
“You are prompt!” she said. “That is good! You have been taught not to
waste other people’s time. There is not time enough in the world to go
round, and yet--ring the bell, will you, Folly?--people waste it--or
steal it--as if it were water. Do you understand?”
Honor started at the sudden question, which was like the swoop of a
hawk.
“Not--not altogether, madame!” she faltered. “To waste time; we are
taught that that is at once foolish and sinful; to steal--how then?”
“Listen! If you waste your own time, that is your own affair. If you
had been half or even a quarter of an hour late, you would have wasted
my time. It does not belong to you; therefore you steal it! Do you see?”
“I see, madame!” Honor glanced thankfully at the little gilt clock on
the mantel, which had struck six as she entered the room. Miss Folly
had kept her waiting in the ante-room five minutes before ushering her
in; she wondered why. Was that--
“To come too early,” Mrs. Damian continued, with her abrupt nod, “is no
better. In that case also it is my time you take. If I had wanted you
at half-past five, I should have said so. Do you see?”
She swooped again.
“Yes, madame!” murmured Honor, this time with a grateful glance at Miss
Folly, who gave her an enigmatic smile and poked the fire.
“I allowed five minutes for arrival and reception; it is now--ah! on
the moment, here comes supper!”
Such a wonderful supper! The dishes were white and gold, like the
_salon_; the broiled chicken, the fried potatoes, the crisp rolls, all
showed various tints of brownish gold. Mrs. Damian watched with keen
eyes as Honor ate, with the wholesome appetite of vigorous girlhood,
yet with the delicate nicety which was part of the education at Pension
Madeleine. She herself supped on a cup of soup and a roll; but it was
a gold cup, and the soup looked very good. She talked easily, telling
of her recent travels; now and then asking a question in her odd,
pouncing way, but mostly, it seemed, content to watch the child and
enjoy her enjoyment.
“I wonder how you would like a Japanese dinner, Honor! I was in
Japan last winter, and I dined several times with a friend of mine.
We sat on mats on the floor--but yes!” as Honor raised wide eyes of
astonishment--“there is nothing else to sit on in my friend’s house;
she does not care for European customs. My table was like your doll’s
table, about ten inches high. I wore Japanese dress, for I was expected
to carry food away--but yes! in my sleeves. Eat your supper, child,
and don’t open your eyes too wide; as I said before, they might drop
out. The sleeves are very wide--a kimono, in short--and have large
pockets in them, lined with something easily cleaned; I forget its
name. The last time I took away--let me see!--a fried fish, a crab,
some rice-balls, a quantity of dried ginger and some ripe lychee nuts.
Catch Miss Honor’s eyes, Folly; they _are_ dropping out!”
Mrs. Damian laughed, the prettiest little dry laugh.
“Many countries, many customs!” she continued. “You will find that out,
when you begin to move about, child. If I had not taken away these
things, I should have affronted my hostess by appearing not to like
her delicacies. You see? Some ice-cream in your pocket?” as the waiter
handed the _café mousse_ a second time. “Your sleeves are too small!
Alphonse, bring more of these little cakes, and a box; mademoiselle
will take some to her companions.”
“Oh, madame, you are too kind!” Honor had just been wishing that
Stephanie and Vivette could see these marvelous little cakes, with the
pink and green frosting. “You--you _comble_ me!”
Honor meant “overwhelm”; when she forgot an English word, she
Anglicized the French one; it was quite simple, when one understood.
Mrs. Damian appeared to understand, for she repeated “comble” with her
rustling laugh.
“I was a schoolgirl myself before the Flood! Would your teacher let the
girls have some ice-cream? Alphonse, a mold of this--two quarts--in the
carriage at eight o’clock, with the cakes. My compliments to--what’s
her name? Madame Madeleine, and I trust she will permit a little treat,
before bed-time. So! Now, Honor, come and sit beside me on this sofa.
I have done all the talking hitherto; now I must rest, and you shall
talk.”
Honor was stricken dumb: she gazed at her hostess, mute and round-eyed.
“Talk!” said Mrs. Damian sharply. “You are not deaf? Nor dumb? Very
well!” She settled herself among a pile of satin cushions.
“Pardon, madame!” faltered Honor. “Of what shall I talk? I--I know so
little--”
“Talk of what interests you! Talk to Miss Folly; I shall take forty
winks. Tell her what you want to do when you leave school!”
“I shall like to hear that!” Miss Folly spoke in her pleasant, cordial
voice. “I used to make all kinds of plans when I was at school.
For some time, I meant to be a circus rider, but I decided to be a
lion-tamer instead. What is your ambition, Miss Honor?”
“I wish to be a sennerin of the Alps!”
Singular it is, that so often a strange hand is needed to turn the key
of a heart! Not to Madame or Soeur Séraphine, the friends of all her
child-life; not to Stephanie or Vivette, her friends and intimates;
not--no, not even to the mountain friends themselves, toward whom her
heart was constantly yearning, could Honor have opened the door of her
longing hope; but here was a bright-eyed stranger, who with a glance,
a few kindly questions, plucked out the heart of her mystery. Out it
came, pouring in a torrent all the swifter for the weeks of silence.
“And--and I am strong, you see; and there is no one in all the world
who needs me--but no one! and I love it so; and--and when Atli and
Gretli are married, Zitli will be all alone, and he is lame, and I
would be his sister, and keep house and cook while he takes care of the
stock; I can make cheese already, and pancakes--and--”
“Good gracious!”
Mrs. Damian was sitting bolt upright amid her cushions. Honor started
violently. Mrs. Damian spoke again quickly, but now in her usual kind,
abrupt tone.
“Honor, child, it is eight o’clock, and the carriage will be coming.
Goodnight, little creature! You will come again soon; tell Madame
What’s-her--oh! Madeleine--that I will do myself the honor of calling
on her to-morrow. Miss Folly will see you home; goodnight, my dear!”
And when Honor, bewildered, had stammered her thanks and adieux and
been whisked away by Miss Folly, Mrs. Damian, still sitting bolt
upright, repeated several times with emphasis, “Good gracious!” Then
after a pause she added: “It’s high time I came! Lord forgive me for
staying away so long!”