MINGLED JOY AND SORROW
Old Dicran lay on the bed where Takvor had left him, when on that
moonless night nearly three weeks before he went out to search for
Armenouhi. Vassinag was sitting on the divan by the window. Startled at
the unexpected appearance of the dervishes, the old man raised himself
and stared wildly at them.
“Don’t you know us, Dede? We have come home,” cried Armenouhi, starting
toward him.
At the sound of her voice, he bounded from the bed, like one restored
to life. He pulled the cloth from her head and gazed inquiringly into
her face. The little, dark, ragged dervish was surely Armenouhi; and
with his arm about her, he had her sit down by him, and tenderly
caressed her, while Vassinag with a faint smile of recognition on her
pale face, remained motionless on the divan.
Touched by her sister’s sadness, Armenouhi went to her, stooped to kiss
her forehead, and returned to her grandfather, to whom she now related
how she had been carried away.
“Dervishes who have come so far must be tired and hungry,” suggested
the grandfather after he had gazed at her to his satisfaction, and he
called to the servant to bring food.
“No, Dede, we are not tired,” declared Armenouhi. “We have driven most
of the way.”
“Do dervishes drive?” he asked, smiling.
The sound of approaching wheels announced the arrival of the innkeeper,
and Takvor explained how a friend had driven them from Brusa. The
innkeeper’s horse was put in the stable. The good-natured Greek, who
now joined them, brought much cheer; with Takvor he assisted the
servant in preparing the food, and while eating, amusingly related the
adventures of the way. The meal was over, and Armenouhi, again at her
grandfather’s side, went on describing her experiences. She pictured
the old house, the talkative Shareef, and the fat mother; and she
grotesquely described the ancient eunuch Ali, and Takvor disguised
as an old Turkish lady, seated by the ravine. Her story, frequently
supplemented by the humorous remarks of the innkeeper and Takvor,
excited mingled laughter and tears.
“Dede, do you know what it was that helped Takvor find me?”
“What was it, Armenouhi?”
“It was this, Dede;” and she took from her dress the little enameled
pin. “And, Dede,” she continued, “you should be very glad that I came
back, for I might have been the Padishah’s wife, and lived in the great
palace.”
Again in her joy she shook her grandfather by the shoulders, and kissed
him. “But I liked you best, Dede.”
Her story was ended. For a moment she sat in silence, while her gaze
wandered about the room, first to Vassinag, then to Takvor, then to the
innkeeper, and then back to her Dede. Suddenly her eyes became moist;
the happy expression on her face turned to sadness, and her bosom
heaved.
“Poor papa!” she murmured, and breaking into unrestrained sobbing,
threw her arms about the old man’s neck, burying her face in his
breast.