THE BOMBSHELL
Calm before storm! In after days, Honor often looked back to that week
that followed her first interview with Mrs. Damian. It was a peaceful
week, memorable--it seemed then--only by the return of Patricia from
Coventry; a softened, chastened Patricia, who had found, she declared,
the remedy for most of the ills of life.
“Silence and solitude! Nothing like them, my dear. I shall be a
Trappist nun as soon as I am old enough!”
Madame Madeleine and Soeur Séraphine went to return Mrs. Damian’s
call; went again, by special invitation, to tea; came back looking
very grave. After the second visit they showed--it was recalled
later--peculiar tenderness toward Honor. Always kindness itself,
it seemed as if they could not now do enough for her. A pat on her
shoulder, a reconstructive touch on her hair-ribbon, an anxious
eye on her appetite. Honor was deeply touched, but was also
conscience-stricken. They did not dream, these dear ladies! Ought she
to tell them, that her heart was no longer in the school? That all day
long she was thinking of her mountains, and of her mountain friends?
Was she false-hearted, ungrateful, wicked?
Then, one day, the bombshell exploded. Mrs. Damian had come, it
appeared, with authority from Honor’s guardian, the mysterious Mr.
Stanford, to take her away, if she judged it wise, to take her to
America, to--virtually--to adopt her. Not only did Mrs. Damian think it
wise, but Madame Madeleine and Soeur Séraphine agreed with her. With
tears in her eyes, the little Sister tried to explain.
“Eet ees for zy well-to-be, my all-cherished one! Zy own contree--zy
own pe-ople to zee--zou understandest?”
But Honor did not, could not understand. She could only cling round the
Sister’s neck, weeping bitterly, begging, with choking sobs, not to be
sent away.
“It isn’t my own country!” she sobbed. “They aren’t my own people; I
don’t know anything about them, and I don’t want to. My country is
here, where I have always lived. I shall die if you send me away!
And I won’t--I won’t be a burden!” cried the child. “I’ll work, my
Sister! I can make b-b-butter and cheese; I can knit and spin and sew.
Don’t--don’t send me away! And when I grow up, I want--I want to be a
sennerin, my Sister; and then I can make--all kinds of things--”
It was a bitter hour. The little Sister’s tender heart was torn, as she
strove to quiet the distracted child. Finally, no way remained but the
quiet, direct command which was never questioned.
“Go to thy room, my child! There pray for strength and guidance, and
remain till thou hast composed thyself!”
Meantime the class-room simmered like a covered pipkin. It was History
Hour, and M. Arnoult was on the estrade, blue-eyed and benign. He
noticed Honor’s absence, and was distressed at hearing that she was
indisposed. For the rest, he noticed little, the dear gentleman. Notes
circulated under his very nose, that patrician feature of which he
was gently proud; notes conveying varied information. Mrs. Damian
was Honor’s grandmother in disguise; her great-aunt; a friend only
of her family; a stranger who saw and loved her from afar. (This was
Stephanie’s version, naturally.) She was _Américaine_, enormously rich,
very aristocratic, all that there was of most _chic_. She would adopt
La Moriole; would make her her heir; would cause her to be enveloped
in bank-notes as it were a cloak.
On the contrary, a life of stern austerity awaited our unfortunate
comrade. To attend the failing hours of a person undoubtedly “born”
(i.e., well-bred), but of an age transcending that of the everlasting
hills; was that, Jacqueline asked, a smiling prospect?
“And what relation, mesdemoiselles, was the elder of these two to the
younger?” asked Professor Arnoult in his calm, sonorous voice.
“Great-aunt!” promptly answered Stephanie.
“Grandmother!” cried Vivette.
“How then? Behold what would be of singularity indeed! My young ladies
are apparently not aware that I am speaking of King Louis XI and the
Duke of Burgundy, surnamed Charles the Bold. They were cousins, but in
what degree? Ah! at the good hour, behold Mademoiselle Honor!”
Here was Honor indeed, very pale, and with dark circles round her eyes,
but quiet and composed. She could not fail her dear old Professor.
She was the only one who really loved history, and he knew it. Amid
suppressed titters, she straightened out the relationship between the
two princes, related briefly but clearly the principal events of Louis’
reign, and wound up with the comment of Philippe de Comines (with which
she wholly disagreed)--“in fine, for a prince, not so bad!”
The Professor’s face, which before her entrance had exhibited a network
of puzzled and exasperated wrinkles, relaxed into its usual calm
benignity.
“Behold a recital of the highest order!” he declared. “I take heartfelt
pleasure in marking it A.”
Honor thanked him in what she tried to make a cheerful tone. It was not
easy, when her heart was beating the refrain: “It is the last time; the
last, last time!”
As a matter of fact, this was not the last history lesson. After much
agitated thought, Madame and Soeur Séraphine had written a joint note
to Mrs. Damian, beseeching that, if it were possible, their beloved
pupil might remain long enough to take part in the closing exercises of
the school. It was now the first of June. Two little weeks, and Honor
could not only finish her course for the year, but could take part in
those exercises of which she could hardly fail to be the brightest
ornament. If Mrs. Damian would in her graciousness permit this delay--
“Of course! of course!” said Mrs. Damian, tossing the note to Miss
Folly. “Poor good souls, they think me an ogress, naturally, if not
a cannibal. Tell ’em--no! give me my writing things! here! Take this
note over when you take the box; and see what you can do, Folly, will
you? The child couldn’t bear to see me just now, and I certainly cannot
cope with tantrums; but see what you can do! We’ll go over to Montreux,
and get that lace I wanted--I know now why I didn’t get it when I was
there--and leave ’em to simmer down for a week. We’ll be back in time
for the close, tell ’em! Take plenty of bonbons,” she added; “and hand
over the Russian dictionary before you go!”
The Box which Miss Folly was to take over was a large one, stamped with
the magic words, “_Au Bon Marché_.” Being opened, it displayed various
wonderful things; frocks as simple and exquisite as those Maman used
to bring; sashes, ribbons,--all the dainty _frou-frou_ which a month
before would have filled Honor’s heart with rapture. Now she watched
listlessly, as Miss Folly laid them out on the bed. They were very
pretty, she said; Madame was all that was most kind and generous. Yes,
the green muslin was altogether charming.
“It is the shade of the sash you wore the other night,” said Miss
Folly. “Mrs. Damian liked it, and bade me match it as nearly as might
be.”
“She is very kind!” repeated Honor mechanically.
Miss Folly looked at her, and dropped the green muslin.
“Yes!” she said. “She is very kind, and very much interested in you.
You will be fond of her when you come to know her. She likes to make
young people happy.”
Honor looked up, a faint gleam in her heavy eyes.
“Would she--mademoiselle--would she like to make me happy--but really
happy? Then--” her voice shook so that she could hardly bring out the
words--“then ask if she will leave me here, in my home. I shall die,
do you see, if she takes me away, and that will only be troublesome to
her. A funeral, that is very expensive, and much trouble besides.”
“Nonsense!” Miss Folly sat down deliberately on the foot of the bed,
and folding her hands, fixed her bright, sharp blue eyes full on Honor.
“You are talking nonsense, my dear,” she repeated, “and selfish
nonsense at that.”
“Selfish?” repeated Honor. “I--I only ask to be left in my home,
mademoiselle. Here, I give no trouble to any one; grown a woman, I go
to my Alps. You will--”
“Stuff--and--nonsense! You cannot go to your Alps. You will see, by and
by, why it is impossible; now, others must decide for you. But, Honor
(I’ll drop the ‘Miss,’ if you don’t mind!), I don’t want to talk about
that now; I am not the person to decide for you. I want to show you the
other side, about which you seem to take no thought at all.”
“The other side?” repeated Honor vaguely.
“Mrs. Damian’s side. You have not thought of that at all, eh? Let me
show it to you. Mrs. Damian is an old woman, as you see. More than half
of her long life has been spent in foreign travel. Professor Damian,
her husband, was a famous traveler and scientist, and she went with him
everywhere, all over Europe and Asia, into Africa even. She has seen
many wonderful places, many interesting people. Wherever she went, she
was welcomed, admired, fêted; first as a beautiful and brilliant woman,
later as a wise and witty one. Now, she is old; most of her friends
are dead; her health begins to fail; she must give up the life she
loves, and take up that of an old woman and--I fear--an invalid. This
is bitter to her; the days before her look very dark. Honor, you can
brighten those days, if you will.”
“I, mademoiselle?”
“You! You are young, and of her own blood, bearing her own name. She is
interested in you, more interested than she has been in anything since
she decided to go back to America--to die, as she says. You can--when
you have pulled yourself together--make the world a brighter place for
her. How old are you?”
“Fourteen.” Honor’s eyes were very wide, as she kept them fixed on
those keen blue ones.
“H’m! I was twelve when my father died and my mother took to her bed.
I brought up--under God, and with my uncle’s help--my five brothers
and sisters, and took care of my mother besides. You are old enough to
think about something beside your own pleasure. That’s all!” said Miss
Folly, rising. “Think it over! Good-by!”
With a friendly nod, she was turning to go, but Honor caught her arm.
“Mademoiselle! one moment! I will--I will go!”
“Good!” Miss Folly paused, her hand on the door. “But--understand! It
must be a cheerful going, Honor. There must be no tears nor tantrums!”
“Tan-trom? What is that? As of a trumpet--tan-ta-ra? But assuredly not,
mademoiselle! But--yes, I will be cheerful, believe me!”
When Honor said “Believe me!” it meant something. Miss Folly saw this,
and held out her hand.
“Good child,” she said, rather gruffly. “We shall be friends, you and
I. Good-by, my dear!”
* * * * *
“My brow was marble, my heart was ice!” wrote Honor in her book. “I
locked my secret in its frozen depths, and turned on the world a
smiling face. Courage, cold heart! Soon Death will come to set thee
free; till then, you must beat for the happiness of others, and wear a
gay smile while in your frozen depths--”
Here Honor paused, perceiving that she had written “frozen depths”
twice. While she was hesitating between “icy caverns” and “marble
tomb”--only she had said both “ice” and “marble” before--the supper
bell rang, and she went down and made an excellent meal on sweet
omelette and ginger preserves.
Bureau Drawer Week! An uneasy feeling pervaded the Pension Madeleine.
Girls lingered in their rooms till the last possible moment before
meals, flying downstairs on the last stroke of the bell, almost
late--but not quite, for that meant no dessert. After class, after
recess, there were hurried flights upstairs, for a peep, a touch, a
straightening here or there; it was an anxious time. At any moment,
whenever it pleased them, Madame or Soeur Séraphine might inspect the
bureau in any room. The _Prix de Propreté_, the prize for neatness, a
much coveted work-box of blue morocco, with silver fittings, awaited
the pupil whose drawers showed on several occasions a neatness and
order such as, Soeur Séraphine said, befitted the surroundings of a
young girl well brought up.
Honor sighed. Tidiness was not her strong point. She admired it, but
found it difficult to attain. She was usually in a hurry, and her
things had a fatal way of catching on knobs and hooks. Suppose that
(as actually happened several times) she straightened her top-drawer
to admiration: collars in their box, handkerchiefs in their case,
ribbons folded neatly. The very first time thereafter that she came to
get a handkerchief, her cuff-button would catch--say, in the fringe of
her blue scarf. With her quick, bird-like motion, out came the scarf,
dragging after it ribbons, belts, gloves; pell mell went all in a heap
on the floor. It was supper time--or class time, or bed-time; back went
everything pell mell, into the drawer, and off flew La Moriole, with
never another thought. Accordingly, her top drawer was apt to resemble
rather the nest of a field-mouse, said Soeur Séraphine severely,
than the drawer of a pupil of the Pension Madeleine. Honor was truly
sorry. She would try; she _did_ try, whenever she could bring her
mind to such things as bureau drawers. But with the History Prize to
be really studied for--not so much for its own sake as to please the
dear Professor, and for love of the study itself--and with her other
lessons, and the visits to Mrs. Damian and the daily practicing for the
Race--how _could_ she remember her top drawer? And even if she should
have the most perfect drawer in the world, it would be too mean to take
the prize away from poor old Maria, when it was the only prize she
could ever get.
There had been some doubt in the minds of the Ladies whether Honor
ought to be allowed to run in the race for the golden apples. It
would break her heart not to do so, but was her ankle strong enough?
The doctor was anxiously consulted. After a thorough examination, he
decided that she might run if two weeks of daily practice produced
no ill effect. The ankle was upon probation. Every day Honor ran so
many times along the _allée_; every evening the probationary member
was rubbed and kneaded, to the accompaniment of a running fire of
questions.
“Here, my child, there is no pain? You are positive? How when I press
on _this_ spot?” etc., etc. But there never was any pain, and with
every practice run, Honor declared she felt stronger and stronger.
Bureau Drawer Week drew toward its fateful close, and hearts beat high
with hope or low with discouragement; all but Honor’s, which found it
impossible to be deeply interested. One day she and Patricia were in
Stephanie’s room, discussing the matter--in whispers, for it was “quiet
time.” Stephanie confessed that she “perished with desire” for the
prize. It was so charming: hush! she had tried on the thimble, and it
fitted her to a marvel. “And Maria has had it two years running! What
can she do with three work-boxes?”
“It isn’t the box, it’s the getting it!” said Honor. “I wish there were
two prizes, Stephanie. Of course I want you to have one, and your
drawer is lovely; but it means so much to Maria, and--and she is so
forlorn, poor thing!”
“She is a poor-spirited granny,” said Patricia, “but you are right,
Moriole, and I hope she will get it. You can get the arithmetic prize,
Stephanie!” she added wickedly. “Hark! what’s that? Some one in your
room, Honor!”
Stephanie’s room, as we know, was next to Honor’s. The three girls
listened intently. They heard a light step, then a soft sliding sound
with a squeak at the end.
“Some one is opening my top-drawer!” whispered Honor. “There is no
mistaking that squeak. Is it Madame, do you suppose, or our Sister?”
“Easy enough to find out!” Patricia bent quietly forward.
“Patricia! You are not going to look through the keyhole?”
“And why not? It’s Stephanie’s keyhole, I believe! If she doesn’t
mind--Well! did-you-ever?”
She gazed a moment; then silently beckoned to Honor.
Honor was a human child of fourteen; if the keyhole was Stephanie’s,
the bureau in the room beyond was her own. She sank on her knees, and
applied her eye to the keyhole.
In front of the bureau stood--Maria Patterson! She had pulled the
drawer out to its fullest extent, and was contemplating its disorder,
which certainly was extreme. Honor had recently been hunting for her
purse, with disastrous results. A breathless moment passed; Honor’s
heart was beating fast. Could it--no, it could _not_ be possible! Maria
was _not_ a thief. But what was she about?
Swiftly, noiselessly, Maria’s hands moved here and there. She was
taking everything out, laying everything on the bed. Now--what was that
in her hand? Her own silk duster, one of her prized possessions. She
wiped the drawer out carefully, prodding the corners with a hairpin
wrapped in a fold of the silk. She examined the duster anxiously,
evidently seeking a speck of dust; finding none, she began to lay
the various articles back methodically, arranging them in piles with
exquisite precision. Her plain face was illuminated with a look which
made it almost lovely.
The tears were rolling down Honor’s cheeks. Silently, she beckoned to
Patricia, and then in turn to Stephanie. They looked and drew back.
Patricia’s eyes were very bright, one might almost have thought with
tears, only of course she never cried; Stephanie’s were large and
round. She opened her lips to speak, but Honor made her an imperious
sign to be quiet. Still as mice they listened; heard the squeak of the
closing drawer; heard a contented sniff--poor Maria always sniffed,
whatever she did--heard the door shut, the quiet footstep retreat along
the corridor.
For a moment the three girls stood looking at one another. Then,
before the others could speak, Honor flung open the door between the
two rooms; flashed bird-like to the bureau; pulled open the drawer;
scattered the contents right and left, “as if she were making a
pudding!” said Stephanie afterward; flashed back again, and closing the
door noiselessly, faced her companions, breathless, but with a shining
face.
“Hush!” she whispered. “I thought I heard our Sister’s door open.
Listen! Yes, she comes. I was only just in time.”
Again they listened; again heard a quiet footstep enter Honor’s room;
again heard the squeak of the top drawer. Silence, and then a gentle
sigh, a murmured, “Alas! what to do with this dear child?” Then once
more the sounds of closing and departure.
“Moriole!” gasped Stephanie, “You must let me speak, or I shall burst!
Why--_why_ have you done this? Have your senses left you?”
Honor stared. “I thought I heard her door open; I was right, you see. I
had to get it done before she came.”
“Done! for example! Get it _un_done, you mean! It was done, and
perfectly done, by this poor Maria. For friendship she did it; I find
that beautiful, I. You destroy her work, restore the confusion as of a
rat’s nest--finally, will you tell me _why_?”
“Stephanie,” Honor spoke gently, “it was my drawer, not Maria’s. I
couldn’t let the Sister think I had put it in that beautiful order. I
hadn’t, you see.”
“Quite right!” said Patricia shortly. “Of course you couldn’t, you
little thing--being the little thing you are!”
“You do see, don’t you, Stephanie dear?” continued Honor anxiously. “I
couldn’t take the credit that didn’t belong to me: and if I had waited
to explain afterward, I might have got Maria into trouble, when she
had done this lovely thing to help me, as she thought.”
“My faith, I do not see at all!” Stephanie spoke doggedly. “Your drawer
was at four pins” (_à quatre epingles_; as we should say “in apple-pie
order”) “when our Sister inspected it. What more is required? I think
you are all mad together, you Americans and English. And now Maria will
get the prize!”
“I sincerely hope she will!” said Honor.