Honor Bright. Richards Laura Elizabeth Howe
heard, and some goat would canter a few paces ahead, then fall to nibbling again.
“It is Séraphine who annoys them!” Gretli said. “The creature! Look, my demoiselles. Nanni, her own aunt, you observe, has found a green tuft of the most succulent, and begins to take her pleasure. Now in a moment – regard! comes la Séraphine! biff! it is over! Poor Nanni flies, and that one enjoys the morsel. My faith, she is really of an evil nature, the Séraphine, and gluttonous beyond description. Again, I make my heartfelt apologies to my Sister for giving her holy name to this creature. For example! if I had named La Dumaine for her, now, it would be different!”
Soeur Séraphine laughed heartily at the antics of her namesake, and declared that she had had much the same disposition in her youth. “But not the beauty!” she added. “As Atli says, it is difficult to be severe with so charming a creature.”
“It’s funny that the best cow and the worst goat should be white, isn’t it?” said Vivette.
“As mademoiselle says! A thing very curious. Bimbo, now! a black goat may by right be mischievous, is it not so, my ladies? Yet Bimbo also is handsome, we think.”
As if he heard and understood, Bimbo, the young he-goat, lifted his head, and reconnoitered the party standing on the green; then, slowly and with an air of elaborate carelessness, he detached himself from the flock, and began a circuitous approach, pausing to nibble – or to make a pretence of nibbling – at every other step. He was jet black, with white horns and hoofs; a superb animal, already larger than Moufflon, his father and leader.
“He is a beauty!” said Patricia. “I should like to have a pair of him to drive, wouldn’t you, Moriole? We’d take Stephanie out – and upset her into the lake!” she added in an undertone.
Stephanie did not hear her. Her eyes were fixed in terror on the advancing flock, and especially on Moufflon, a goat of great dignity, with wide-branching horns and a notable beard.
Stephanie was naturally afraid of all animals. Their size mattered little; a cow or a mouse threw her into almost equal agonies of terror. Indeed, the mouse was the more to be dreaded of the two, since – horror! it could, and certainly would if given the opportunity – run up one’s sleeve, in which case one would die on the spot, on the instant. Moreover, the poor child’s nerves had been thoroughly upset by the Purple Cow episode (which naughty Patricia was already turning into verse in her mind!). She had made up her mind that Moufflon meant to attack her. Pressing close to Gretli’s side, shaking in every limb, she kept her eyes fixed on him in the fascination of terror. Ah! but she did not notice —nobody noticed Bimbo! Gretli herself, keeping a watchful eye on the mischievous Séraphine, prepared to check and punish any outbreak on the part of that obstreperous young beauty, had no eye for the black goat, quietly circling to the rear of the party, quietly moving forward, with a sharp glance now and then through his forelock. If any one had cast a glance at Bimbo, he would have been seen nibbling grass, serenely unconscious; the catastrophe might have come just the same: but no one did cast a glance.
Presently, Madame Madeleine called Gretli to her, to ask some question about the descent. Gretli, stepping forward some paces, left Stephanie for the moment standing alone, still holding the unlucky red parasol. Directly in front of her stood Honor, her eyes fixed on the mountains, lost in a dream of the Norse gods. Bimbo’s moment had arrived. Two at a time! glorious sport. Lowering his head, he advanced at a smart gallop. Biff! bang! a wild shriek rang out. Stephanie and Honor were rolling together at the feet of Soeur Séraphine, and the others, turning in bewilderment, saw the black goat quietly nibbling grass, apparently unconscious of them and of the world.
Stephanie sprang up and rushed sobbing and screaming to throw herself into the tender arms of Madame Madeleine. Honor lay still. The air was black and full of sparks; there was a pain somewhere, a rather sickening pain.
Gretli and Soeur Séraphine ran to raise her, and she uttered a little cry.
“It’s all right!” she said. “I hit my head, I think, and my ankle – but it’s all right!” Here she tried to get up, and instead crumpled into a little heap and fainted away.
CHAPTER VI
IN THE CHÂLET OF THE ROCKS
When Honor opened her eyes, it was to look round her in amazement. Where was she? Certainly not at home in the Maison Madeleine. This bed, with its fragrant sheets of coarse heavy linen and its wonderful quilt, was not her own, nor was the little room with its bare white walls and dormer windows.
A quaint little room, homely, yet friendly. Along one wall ran a shelf, on which were many pieces of wood-carving, some of exquisite delicacy. Honor’s still-bewildered eyes rested with delight on a miniature châlet, with tiny cattle and goats, half the length of her little finger, browsing round it, with a fairy sennerin smiling in the doorway. A wonderful piece of work it seemed to her. There must be a very skilful carver here. The wooden bedstead on which she lay was carved too, and its four tall posts were surmounted by four heads, with smiling, friendly faces. What a curious, delightful place!
“Where am I?” said Honor.
Soeur Séraphine was bending over her, her face full of tender anxiety.
“Thank God!” she said. “My little one, you are yourself again, is it not so? But no!” she added, as Honor tried to rise, and sank back with a little moan. “It is to lie quite still, my child! You have sprained your ankle, and must remain tranquil till it restores itself. Our Gretli will care for you, as tenderly as we ourselves could do. A few days only; then Atli will fashion a carrying chair and bring you down the mountain and home to us. Madame left her fondest love for you; she was forced to go, you understand, and now I must follow, lest the boat depart without me. My child, with no one save Gretli and Atli could we possibly have left thee, thou knowest that. The ankle is well bandaged, and Gretli is a skilful nurse; adieu, my little Honor! Thou wilt be good and not unhappy? Adieu!”
The Sister’s kind blue eyes were full of tears as she kissed Honor’s forehead and hurried away. A few moments after, Gretli appeared, and sat down by the bedside with an air of business-like cheerfulness.
“Voilà!” she said. “I have seen her well started, the holy Sister. My faith, she is a good mountaineer; she leaps like a goat. She will soon overtake Madame, who, being of a certain age, must proceed more cautiously. And how does mademoiselle find herself? Not too ill, I hope?”
Honor was still looking about her in a bewildered fashion. “I am all right,” she said, “only my head aches, and my ankle hurts when I try to move. What happened, Gretli? Did somebody knock me down? Why?”
“That,” said Gretli, “is a thing known only to the good God, who created goats. With sorrow and shame I avow it, Mademoiselle Honor; Bimbo, that child of Satan, attacked Mademoiselle Stephanie, from the rear, you understand, with a violence not to be credited had one not seen it. She was flung forward upon you, who stood before her; a loose stone, it would appear, turned under your foot. You fell to the ground, striking your head on another stone. I ran to raise you; you swooned in my arms, poor child. Ah! what confusion! Mademoiselle Stephanie shrieking to the skies that she was killed; Zitli belaboring the misguided beast with his crutch; the demoiselles clustering together in affright; my Ladies full of anxiety and distress. What would you? It was the hour of departure; there is no other boat to-day, and though all would be more than welcome to the Châlet, they could not pass the night in comfort.
“They proposed to carry you between them, these benevolent ladies; I respectfully begged them to reconsider. ‘Leave the little one’ – I demand pardon, mademoiselle; it is only yesterday, it appears, that I carry you in my arms! – ‘leave her with us!’ I said. ‘My faith, I am well used to the care of sprains; she will be safe as in Ste. Gêneviève’s pocket. I will give her soup of cream and onion with cheese, a restorative not worse than another; for her amusement Zitli will tell stories – but, par example! he is a story-teller, that little one! The creatures will all be at her feet, except that ruffian Bimbo, who will not be suffered to approach her. By and by, when all is well, Atli will carry her down the mountain like an egg of glass, will deposit her by your side. Et voilà!’ My Ladies perceived the reasonableness