Norton, Andre - Novel 23 (16 page)

 
          
 
''She wants you to," Damaris observed.
"But I haven't found out why yet. Though I think she told Mr. Fowke
yesterday—
She
said something to the Poker about
making that clear to him. She always has a reason for things, you know. And
sooner or later I do find out. When I do, I'll tell you—"

 
          
 
Saranna knew that she should not encourage
Damans' chronic eavesdropping, even by her silence now. Yet weakly, she did not
try to reprove the child. She did want to know why Honora was so intent upon
suggesting that Rufus Parton be friends with her father's half sister. Even if
she deemed Saranna so far beneath her notice, surely any such condition of
affairs would be a matter of surprise to Honora's friends. Saranna was as much
a Stowell as Jethro and Honora herself.

 
          
 
At least she now had a time in which to
discover about the pendant. Once more she raised her hand to her basque,
pressed the cloth tightly enough against her breast that she could feel the
full weight of that gem.

 
          
 
"Damaris," she began, "some of
your grandfather's collection are pieces of jewelry—"

 
          
 
The younger girl nodded. "You saw
them," she returned.

 
          
 
"Are those all the pieces of jewelry you
know about?" Saranna interrupted.

 
          
 
"Yes. Why?" Damaris swung about
sidewise on the bench so that her watchful eyes were able to meet Saranna's.
"Why do you ask me that?" she repeated.

 
          
 
"Because—" Saranna's hand went again
to the front of her chemisette. She could see no other way of gaining her
knowledge but with a straight question.
"Because this
morning, when I woke up, I found this lying on my dressing table.
Are
you sure, Damaris, you did not leave it there to surprise me?"

 
          
 
She had found the cord, now she jerked the
pendant up into the light. The purity of the jade carving was even clearer out
here under the sun, and the small inset eyes flashed boldly.

 
          
 
"A white fox—an auspicious omen—"
Damaris repeated those words as if again quoting some precept she had learned
from Captain Whaley. But her complete surprise could not, Saranna believed, be
counterfeit.

 
          
 
Then, almost instantly, her surprise vanished.
She shrank away from Saranna along the length of the bench.

 
          
 
"No!" Her denial was a protest.
"No, it is not true. You didn't see the Princess—you couldn't have! She
doesn't let anyone come to her but me—never, never, never!"

 
          
 
Saranna swallowed. Her dream— But it was not
true, it could not be!

 
          
 
"Damaris!"
She spoke the name sharply, demanding the child's full attention. "Damaris,
you will have to tell me the truth now. Is there someone in the hidden garden,
someone living there?"

 
          
 
Damaris' head turned from side to side slowly
as if she refused to answer. "I can't—I promised! I can't break my promise
ever. Grandfather told me so. He did—he did that just before he died!"

 
          
 
Saranna drew a deep breath. "All right,
Damaris. I won't ask you to break your promise. But I want you to listen to me.
Last night—" Slowly, and summoning every detail she could draw from her
memory, she described her dream— that vision of the Fox Lady dancing before the
company of those who appeared her four-legged kin, of the room beyond the moon
door—and of how she had drunk scented tea from a white jade cup and awakened in
her own bed—with only the pendant lying there to be explained.

 
          
 
Damaris, her face going blank of any
expression, as if she had been able to set some strange curb on her emotions,
listened without interruption.

 
          
 
When Saranna finished, there was silence
between them for a long moment, then the older girl added:

 
          
 
"It must have been a dream. I could not
have seen a dancer with a fox face. Only—here is the pendant—" She looked
to Damaris in appeal. Their position might have been reversed from what she had
felt yesterday when a need to protect the child had moved her. Now she wanted
reassurance from Damaris—some reason for the pendant.

 
          
 
Once more Damaris shook her head slowly.
"I can't tell you, really I can't, Saranna. I promised. But," she
pointed to the pendant, "that is yours, you would not have it if that were
not so. And it is not part of Grandfather's treasure. Only I wouldn't ever let
her see it. She would find a way to get it from you. And that she mustn't.
That's a thing of power. It is of jade which is the Heaven stone, you know. And
it is a white fox, which means very good luck. You keep that hid, never let
anyone know. And—Saraima—" She had slipped from the bench, came to stand
directly before the older girl. "I would tell you if I could, honest I
would!”

 
          
 
Saranna managed a smile. "Yes, I believe
that, Damaris. And I know that this is a precious thing that is better
hidden." She tucked the pendant carefully out of sight. "I only wish
that you might tell me more. But I shall ask no more questions." She sighed.

 
          
 
Damaris' action left her prey to bewilderment.
Maybe she had been in the hidden garden last night after all. Saranna had heard
some talk of a man named Mesmer who had been able to make people believe that
they saw things which did not exist by sending them into a kind of sleep and
impressing on their minds orders he gave. The fox-headed dancer could—must be
an illusion of sorts. Only who had impressed the memory of her on Saranna's
mind? That this could even be done was a frightening thought, one she did not
want to consider.

 
          
 
"Miss Damaris, Miss Saranna—" Millie
had come upon them. "Mrs. Parton, she
do
want as
how you should come, Miss Saranna. She do have some clothes, Miss Honora do say
you should have—"

 
          
 
For a moment Saranna was glad of the
interruption, galling as it might be to her pride to have to accept Honora's
bounty in the way of clothes. Damaris came with her, on up to Saranna's chamber
where the housekeeper was watching Rose turn out a bundle of dresses on the
bed. They were all black, of course. No doubt, Honora's discarded full
mourning. Saranna had no wish to turn them over or examine them with Mrs.
Parton watching.

 
          
 
The housekeeper had picked up a crumpled
skirt, was shaking out the creased folds. She ran her hand along the breadth
with appreciation.

 
          
 
"Excellent material—the very best,"
she commented, glancing at Saranna, perhaps as if to see the girl properly
grateful for such munificence.

 
          
 
But the material she so admired was heavy
satin, and entirely unsuitable for the warming weather of the season. However,
Saranna summoned pride.

 
          
 
"How very kind of Mrs. Whaley,'* she
returned. "I have had a great deal of sewing experience, Mrs. Parton. It
will be unnecessary for me to ask for any aid in making the needful
alterations. I appreciate your kindness in having these brought to me."

 
          
 
Mrs. Parton's expression did not change. She
gave a nod and accepted her implied dismissal, leaving the room. Damaris caught
up the satin skirt the housekeeper had draped across the chair before she left
and took it closer into the light of a window.

 
          
 
"Look here!" she demanded
indignantly. "I thought I recognized this. Look at this! It's the dress
she spilled wine
down,
the stain is all over the
front." Contemptuously, she tossed the offending skirt back toward the
bed, but it landed instead in a heap on the floor. "I wonder what else she
gave you. Things no one could use—"

 
          
 
Saranna made herself examine the clothing.
Most of it was either as damaged as the skirt about which Damaris had been
entirely correct, or else unsuitable for the season. She did manage to find
a black
cambric which could be worn with an underskirt, put
together from one which was ripped but could be repaired. And there was
a poplin
one which Damaris greeted with a laugh,

 
          
 
“I know that one, too. She only wore it once.
Mrs. Langtree had one made almost like it and she was very angry when she came
home from the tea. Most of this stuff, Saranna, it's no good at all! Just what
she would do—"

 
          
 
But Saranna now began to look at the jumble of
castoffs with a new idea dawning. Honora had skimmed from her wardrobe what she
considered to be worthless. But Mrs. Parton had been right in one
way,
the materials were of the best quality. And the girl
had not watched her own mother contrive and plan to get the most out of
comparatively nothing without learning quite a lot. There was no reason to turn
aside because of resentment. She could better be engaged in proving to Honora
that in spite of her present shabbiness, she was not devoid of either clothes
sense or skill.

 
          
 
"You're thinking about something,"
declared Damaris. "I can tell—when you get that funny little wrinkle right
there"—
She
pointed a finger to a spot between
Saranna's eyes—"that means that you're thinking. What are you really going
to do about this mess?" She indicated the tumble of clothes— "You
ought to go right and throw them back at her."

 
          
 
"On the contrary," Saranna said
blandly. "I shall thank her very much for her generosity—“

 
          
 
Damaris made a sound not unlike a snort.

 
          
 
"I shall thank her," Saranna
repeated. "And then—I shall get busy."

 
          
 
"Doing what?" Damaris wanted to
know.

 
          
 
"Cutting out, putting together,
sewing—"

 
          
 
"You mean, use these?”

 
          
 
"Of course.
You
see, Damaris, for some years my mother had to make her living as a dressmaker.
I helped her a lot— though I was also studying to go to school and become a
teacher. But my mother had excellent taste, and she was very clever with her
fingers. Perhaps what she taught me then will be now of more service to me than
any book learning."

 
          
 
"Ladies don't make dresses—" Damaris
said dubiously.

 
          
 
Saranna flashed around to face the younger
girl. "Ladies, Damaris, do any honest work which comes ready to their
hands. Has no one ever taught you sewing?"

 
          
 
Damaris laughed. "Well, Prune Face tried.
She gave up after a while. I was too much for her."

 
          
 
"But, Damaris, you so
admire the beautiful panels of embroidery.
That's needlework. Haven't
you ever wished that you could copy something like that?"

 
          
 
"That wasn't what Prune Face wanted. She
talked about hemming dusters—and sheets— But—" the younger girl studied
Saranna speculatively, "if you want me to learn how to sew. Well, maybe I
just might do it. I'd learn if I could help you turn some of those old things
into a dress to make her eyes pop out. I surely would."

 
          
 
Saranna smiled. "And Millie wants to
learn, too. It will be excellent training for her if she continues as a lady's
personal maid. Very well, we shall have a sewing class— right here—beginning
tomorrow."