Читать книгу Honor Bright - Richards Laura Elizabeth Howe, Laura Richards - Страница 1

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.