Honor Bright

“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!

“On the Alp the grass is sweetest,Li-u-o, my Queen!”

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.

“Tumpty tum, tumpty tum,Tumpty, tumpty, tumpty tum!”

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:

“Four corners to my bed,Four angels round my head,Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,Bless the bed that I lie on!”THE END

1

“Ah! le bon temps que c’étaitQuand la reine Berthe filait!”

2

Mrs. Hugh Fraser.