CHAPTER XVI

THE APPLES OF ATALANTA

The day of the Race dawned clear and bright; as perfect a day as heart could desire. Long before the hour the guests began to arrive; fathers, mothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, all in their best, all with shining faces of expectation. The _Fête d’Atalante_ was Prize Day, Class Day, Commencement, all in one, at Pension Madeleine. The garden was in order; in saying that, one says a great deal. For a week past Margoton had been at work with rake, broom, trowel and shears; for a week the girls, in every spare moment, had diligently weeded the brick alleys, snipped off faded leaves and blossoms, tied up vines, etc., etc. The result was a perfection altogether dazzling, said Madame, making her final round of inspection. Let one but observe these bricks! They shone as if--but as if each one had been waxed.

“_Parbleu!_” said Margoton. “The reason of that, my faith? It is that they _have_ been waxed, saving the honor of Madame.”

The strip of lawn on either side of the broad alley was covered with benches, which filled rapidly as the hour approached. Here was Stephanie’s family, her stout, comfortable father, with frock coat, and double chin; her thin, anxious little mother, whose bead-like eyes were already measuring the paces that must be run, and comparing her child’s legs with those of the other girls. Here were the Marquis and Marquise de la Tour de Provence, very high-nosed and aristocratic, also--it must be confessed--very vacuous in expression. Here was Madame Poirier, Vivette’s mother, in maroon cashmere with an eruption of shiny black buttons along every seam. These buttons had been fashionable some years ago, but were now no longer so, and the good lady had used them, as she fondly imagined, to produce an effect “altogether of gentility.” Here at one side, was a little group that caught the eye at once: a handsome lady, richly dressed, beside her a singularly beautiful girl. Mrs. Damian, entering the garden with Miss Folly, saw them, and made her way toward them at once.

“Desmonds!” she explained to Miss Folly. “I should know a Desmond if I met him in the desert of Sahara; this must be Mrs. Clifford. How do you do, Mrs. Clifford Desmond? I am Mrs. Damian. I came very near marrying your father-in-law a hundred years ago--or perhaps it was only fifty. Is this your elder daughter? I have seen the younger one; knew her for a Desmond across the Public Garden.”

“Is it possible that I have the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Damian?” cried the lady. “A most unexpected privilege! May I present my daughter Helena? Helena, my love, Mrs. Damian!” Mrs. Desmond spoke with great _empressement_. “It was my little Patricia you saw in the garden; my baby! She is a pupil here. Patricia, this way, darling! I wish to present you to Mrs. Damian.”

Patricia made her graceful reverence; greeted her mother civilly, though without enthusiasm, and turned to her sister.

“Hello, Imp! I’m as tall as you!”

“I believe you are, Pixie!” said Helena Desmond, known as Imperia to her friends and schoolmates. “Great weeds do grow apace, you know! I don’t believe you can wear the dress we have brought you from Paris. Who is the girl with red hair? She looks like a duck.”

“She speaks but to quack!” replied Patricia. “That is Honor Bright. She is going away--”

Patricia stopped abruptly. To her amazement and disgust, something seemed to swell up in her throat, choking her; at the same time her eyes began to blur and smart.

“Good-by!” she said. “I must go!” and she fairly ran away.

Honor now came flying up to greet Mrs. Damian. She, like Patricia, was in her running dress, a simple white tunic, reaching just below the knee; her bright hair floated on her shoulders. Mrs. Damian surveyed her with evident pleasure.

“Mrs. Clifford Desmond, this is my little cousin!” she said. “Seymour Bright’s daughter. I am taking her home with me soon. Well, Honor, and do you expect to win the apples? Eh?”

“It is that I shall do my possible!” Honor had made her pretty courtesy to both ladies, and was casting shy, admiring glances at Helena. She spoke now carefully, anxious to have her English correct; and naturally fell into the mistake of over-carefulness. “It is Patricia, who runs bestly, my aunt; we strive, each as we can, in our _manière_. Ah!” she started, and her hands came together with a clasp. “Graciously will to excuse me, mesdames! I see--”

She was gone; Mrs. Damian looked after her complacently.

“They call her ‘Oriole,’ I believe, or some such name. She certainly moves like a bird. Your daughter will have to do _her_ possible, Mrs. Desmond, to win the race.”

“Pat’s legs are longer,” said Helena Desmond judicially, “but the little one has the pace. I shall put my money on her.”

Whither had Honor flown? To the garden gate, that opening from the kitchen garden, in which three figures now appeared. Two of them were tall, massive figures of women, resplendent in full Swiss costume, their broad, comely faces alight with pleasure: the third, that of a boy, slight and delicate, walking with crutches.

“Zitli! Gretli! Oh, I am so glad, so glad to see you! Oh, how angelic of you to come!”

“And we, then, my little mademoiselle!” cried Gretli, seizing the outstretched hands. “Are we glad, do you suppose? Eh, Zitli? Have we missed her, our little guest? Say then, thou!”

Zitli nodded emphatically.

“As one misses the sunlight!” he said. “We are happy to be here, mademoiselle. We come to see you win the apples--which behold!” he added, drawing a parcel from his pocket. “May I not show them, my Sister?”

“But no! certainly not!” Gretli shook her head vehemently. “I must take them at once to Madame. Well then,” seeing the disappointment in both faces, “it may be that a tiny peep--since after all it is Mademoiselle Honor who will finally possess them--But turn thy back, that no one else see!”

Shaking out their wide skirts, the sisters stood before Honor and Zitli, screening them effectively from sight. Eagerly Zitli opened the neat wooden box; eagerly Honor bent forward, to peep at the trophy, the three golden apples shining on their bed of green satin.

“But it is a jewel!” she cried. “Zitli, how beautiful! A queen might wear it.”

“No jewel, mademoiselle; wood simply, and gold leaf; but there are strokes in it, that I confess!”

Zitli spoke modestly, but his eyes shone; he was proud, as he well might be, of his work.

“Behold my Ladies, who approach!” cried Gretli. “Give me quickly the box, my little one! I will return to find thee a place, fear not!”

The sisters moved away, and the boy and girl were left together.

“Zitli,” cried Honor, “tell me quickly! How is everybody? How is Atli? And La Dumaine, and Séraphine, and Bimbo, and Moufflon, and Tell, and--”

“_Sapperli poppette!_” cried Zitli, laughing. “One moment, mademoiselle! One at a time, not so? My brother, he is altogether well. He is in the high Alps, hunting the chamois, in manner that he could not come with us to the fête. The animals? Figure to yourself that La Dumaine has a calf! the image of herself, white as the moon, altogether beautiful. Mademoiselle, we have taken the liberty--my sister thought you would not object--briefly, we have named her La Moriole.”

“_No!_ you haven’t! Oh, Zitli, how perfectly _darling_ of you! Oh, I am so delighted! Oh, how I should like to see her!”

“For example! We are hoping, my sister and I--my brother also, if he were not absent--that mademoiselle will soon do us the honor to visit the Châlet again, to see her namesake, and--”

He stopped short, seeing Honor’s face change.

“Zitli,” she cried, “I shall never see the Châlet again! never, never, never! I am going away, across the ocean, to America. My heart is broken, so I shall not live long, do you see? I am glad of that, of course, because I have to be cheerful, and that is not easy with a broken heart--Zitli! you are laughing at me!”

A quick flush swept over Honor’s face. Zitli, instantly responsive, seized her hand.

“Forgive me, mademoiselle! I implore your forgiveness!” he cried. “I was not laughing, only smiling. Mademoiselle looks so--in fine, so other than heart-broken.”

“Looks mean little!” Honor was really hurt. She had thought Zitli would understand. She longed to quote to him the lines which seemed so appropriate to her condition:

“When hollow hearts shall wear a mask ’Twill break thine own to see, In such a moment I but ask That you’ll remember me!”

Patricia laughed at them, and said they made neither sense nor poetry, but Maria thought them lovely.

“Looks mean little!” she repeated. “I thought you would understand, Zitli!”

“Dear mademoiselle, I do understand, indeed I do. It grieves me to the heart that you must go, and that you are unhappy. Only--to cross the ocean! To see that great wonderful country of America--ah! _sapperli!_ Think how many would give all they possess for a chance!”

“But--but to leave Switzerland, Zitli! You couldn’t bear it yourself?”

Zitli gave his quaint shrug.

“My faith, mademoiselle, I do not know. Not, of course, unless I was sure, sure, of returning to my own country. But it appears to me that America is _your_ own country, Mademoiselle Honor. One has--forgive me, but you have said we are friends--one has a duty to that, not so?”

Honor hung her head.

“I never thought of that!” she said. “How could a great country need a girl like me?”

Zitli looked at her with kind grave eyes; she had not realized before how like he was, on his small scale, to the Twins.

“My brother Atli says, my sister Gretli also, that a country has need of all her children. They should be always ready--pardon, mademoiselle! One beckons you yonder, the ancient lady, very beautiful, on the bench.”

“It is my aunt--at least I am to call her aunt!” explained Honor. “Come, Zitli, come and be introduced to her! She is strange, but so kind and good; I want you to know her.

“My aunt,” she cried, when Zitli, making his best speed on his crutches, had reached the corner where Mrs. Damian sat, and had made his bow, “this is Zitli, my friend! I am glad for him to know you; and for you to know him!” she added, her cheeks glowing with loyal affection.

Mrs. Damian held out her delicate hand with its weight of costly rings; Zitli took it reverentially in his brown, slender fingers and bowed again over it.

“This is Zitli-my-friend, is it?” said the old lady. “How do you do, Zitli-my-friend? Are you a good boy?”

Her dark eyes pierced him, Zitli told Gretli afterward, like a sword; never had he encountered such a gaze. He colored high, but met the look bravely.

“As to that, madame, with reverence be it said, it would be necessary to ask the Eternal Father. To be good is my desire, but not yet my accomplishment.”

Mrs. Damian nodded. “Well answered! We may all say the same, Zitli-my-friend. Honor has told me about you; will you and your sister come to see me at my hotel before you go home? Good! You spend the night in Vevay? To-morrow then!”

She gave him a nod of dismissal, curt but kindly; Zitli bowed again and stumped away to join his sisters.

“You allow your little--a--charge--to make acquaintance with the peasantry?” Mrs. Desmond spoke in a tone of airy silver, like that Patricia used in her bad moments.

“I allow--and desire--my little charge to make the acquaintance of good people, wherever she meets them!” Mrs. Damian spoke dryly, with a nod at each clause. “Folly, the sun is in my eyes. Move my chair over yonder, will you?” She indicated a spot at some distance, and with a ceremonious bow to Mrs. Desmond, moved off.

“I should have bitten that woman in another moment!” she explained. “My Professor never liked me to bite in company. This will do! What? Sun here too? Woman, try to have a _little_ sense! What did you bring the parasol for?”

She seated herself, with a sweep of satin draperies, and continued,

“And it is to the society of people of that description that you are forcing me back. Forcing me back, do you hear? After fifty years of freedom! For the last ten of them, the desolate freedom of the wild ass, as you say--and I hope you think it is a proper remark for you to make--”

“I will not repeat it, Mrs. Damian,” replied Miss Folly, who had not opened her lips.

“See that you don’t! Look! They are going to start. Folly, I--I hope the child will win!”

“I hope she will. It is between her and the Desmond girl, certainly.”

“Trip up the Desmond girl! Throw a stone in front of her, can’t you? You have no invention, Folly. My Indian Amma would have had a snake up her sleeve, at the very least. Western civilization--so-called--is abhorrent to me, do you hear? There they go!”

The girls were ranged at the head of the broad _allée_; five of them: Patricia, Honor, Stephanie, Vivette, and Desirée de Laval, who, though only thirteen, was tall and long-legged. A pretty sight they were, in their white tunics and sandals. A silver whistle sounded a single clear note; they stood at attention, tense as a strung bow, waiting for the start; a second note, and with a flutter of white garments, a shimmer of bright hair, they were off.

The _allée_ was one hundred yards long; the course was twice the length of it. For the first fifty yards the girls kept well together; after that, practice, weight, and form began to tell. Vivette had no chance from the first, and knew it; she “went in” for every prize as a matter of principle and policy, and pounded along doggedly, bent on doing her best, whatever might be the result. Stephanie made a dash for the lead, but not attaining it, soon lost courage.

Oliver Wendell Holmes, usually the kindliest of writers, has shot one barbed arrow at my sex.

“The cow began to run,” he says, “as only cows and--it would not be safe to say it--can run.”

I wish the dear Doctor could have seen Honor and Patricia run. Vivette was cow-like, if you will; Stephanie was swift, but jerky, and with “not one particle of style!” as Helena Desmond murmured to herself. As they came down the _allée_ on the first lap, these two were already dropping behind. Desirée, who was to make in time a notable runner, had not yet found herself, and was leaping like a colt, arms and legs flying like the sails of a windmill.

“But the other two,” said Imperia; “my word, they can run!”

Heads high, arms held close at the side, every muscle in play, yet in perfect control--Patricia and Honor sped down the course, side by side, light as thistle-down, swift as flying arrows, a lovely sight. So Atalanta herself ran, with

“... feet That make the blown foam neither swift nor white Though the wind winnow and whirl it.”

They rounded the turn. Patricia was a step in advance, but only a step; the little breeze that frolicked beside them blew their floating hair together as they ran, the pale gold mingling with the red. Desirée, just behind, gave a wild leap, and dropped on the grass at the side; Stephanie and Vivette were far behind. The excitement grew intense as the two girls came down the home stretch; neck and neck now, not a pace between them.

“Moriole! Moriole!” the girls’ voices broke out in a shrill clamor. “Moriole wins! No! It is Patricia! No, Moriole! Ah, ah! _Vive la Moriole!_”

What happened? Certainly Miss Folly had nothing to do with it, for her arms were folded under her neat mantle. At the very end, when almost touching the goal, Patricia seemed to stumble, as if over a loose stone. She recovered herself in an instant, but that instant had carried Honor past her to the finish, just one pace ahead.

A storm of applause broke out, but Honor did not seem to hear it. Panting, breathless, she stared at her rival, who returned her gaze with a smile which was not quite so gay as she meant it to be.

“Patricia! You are hurt? What was it? But it is not fair! You would have won; I shall tell our Sister! The prize shall be yours!”

“Don’t be grotesque, my dear!” Patricia was entirely herself now, and her speech, though still panting, was her own. “It was a close thing, and a pretty race, and I congratulate you. That’s all there is to it!”

Still bewildered, Honor examined the ground carefully. The hard white sand showed hardly a trace of the flying feet; there was no sign of any stone.

“It must have rolled away,” said Patricia carelessly. “Come on, little thing, and get your prize. And don’t be afraid,” she added, in an enigmatic tone; “I’ll get it next year! No fairy godmother for me, to whisk me overseas. I’ll get the apples next time, little Blackbird!”