by Andre Norton
"We'll explore," the small mistress of Tiensin announced firmly as they came out into the full sun of morning. "You haven't had a chance to see the outside. Of course, Rufe would be glad to show you—" She shot a sidewise glance at Saranna, a faint trace of that malicious amusement in her eyes.
"I think you know better," Saranna refused to allow herself to be in the least ruffled.
" 'Course I do," Damaris agreed. "I was born here, you know. And when Grandfather couldn't get around on his feet much he used to send me out to see how things were kept. He said he could trust me—"
Here was another undercurrent. If Captain Whaley had sent his granddaughter, young as she was, to check upon that part of his estate he could no longer supervise, his action suggested he had reason to believe that there might be trouble.
" 'When a man is at peace, he ought to be as alert as if he were in trouble; so he can forestall an unforeseen contingency. And when he is in trouble, he ought to be as calm as if he were at peace; thus he can bring to an end his crisis'—" Damaris recited the words as she might some set lesson. "That was written down by a sage. Do you know what a sage is, Saranna? The Chinese believed that some men could learn to control their bodies and their thoughts so that they were not men any more, but something else, that they could then live for hundreds of years. But I don't think I can really believe that. Grandfather learned a lot of sayings like that. There's another one he explained to me and that I do believe —'Whether time is long or short, and whether space is broad or narrow, depend upon the mind.' That's right. If you're very interested in something, then time goes fast. But if you have to do something you don't like at all—the time is very long. Now—let's start here—"
With some of the same competence she had used when introducing Saranna to the resources of the house, she marched along the curve of the drive to the back of the Manor.
There the various outhouses, the older girl discovered, formed what was like a small village of their own. Damaris indicated the milk house, corn house, hen house, cheese house, meat house, ice house—the stables, and, farther yet beyond, the orangery where both fruit and out-of-season flowers could be forced at a time not normal for their development.
The blacks in service at the various buildings bobbed curtsies, "made their manners," but Damaris did not speak to any of them. In fact, she gave but a very superficial tour of this portion of the estate.
It was not until they were beyond that cluster of buildings and walking between the orchards of morello cherries and peaches, which she said in passing were grown to make brandy, that Ihe younger girl slowed pace.
"They don't like me," she said then. "The Poker—she gets them to watch me sometimes. But they don't dare do that too closely." Now she smiled. "They just don't dare. They know what would happen if they did—"
"And what would happen?"
Damaris did not look up. She scruffled her slipper on the path.
"They'd just be in trouble, that's all—a lot of trouble." Her answer was evasive and Saranna knew better than to push at this moment. "There is the pergola—" Damaris pointed to a structure beyond which curled the river. Wisteria and vining roses had been trained up its side, hung in heavy festoons. The walls behind those were latticed, and there was an upper deck with a balustrade about it.
"It's for parties—they dance there—" Damaris explained. ''She's going to use it. See, Seth and Ralph are fixing it up."
Saranna halted. The two black boys were not alone. Rufus Parton stood watching their labors. Perhaps he was supervising. She had no desire to catch his attention. But, neither, it seemed, did Damaris either.
"We can go this way!" Her hand thrust into the older girl's, pulled Saranna to the right. They pushed under the low hanging limbs of a tree and out around some flowerbeds to where a bench was backed by a wall of box.
"He can't see us here," Damaris announced. "You don't really like him—?"
"No." Saranna was blunt.
''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."
"Mrs. Parton has a real sewing machine. She doesn’t run it much—she's afraid of it," Damaris volunteered. "And she won't let any of the maids touch it—'cause they might break it. Grandfather ordered it from New York—he meant it for me. But when it came, Mrs. Parton locked it away; she said no child could run it."
"We may even ask her for the use of that," Saranna promised. "Mother saw one demonstrated in Boston, and then had me go and watch, too. But we couldn't afford to buy one. We'll see."
With more purpose she began sorting through the cast-offs for the second time, this time with the intention of guessing just how much could be salvaged from damaged, stained, or otherwise unusable garments. And she finally believed that it might be possible to squeeze out three completely new frocks. Of course, she did not pretend to her mother's skill, but the old fact of economy (well-known in Sussex where one penny was long made to do the work of two), that a bodice could be refurbished by a new chemisette and married to the skirt of another dress whose upper part was past hope, was in her favor. At the worst, she would be better clad when she was through than she was now with her skimpy and far too old dresses.
"Saranna," Damaris sat on the edge of the bed, fingering the stained satin skirt, "you—you talk about your mother as if you were just visiting—as if you were going back home to see her—not as if she were dead. You don't cry when you mention her—"
"No, I don't cry—“ Saranna fought against that painful sudden pressure in her throat. "But that does not mean, Damaris, that I do not think of her, want to—Only that wanting, it is selfish; it is wanting what is best for me, not what is best for her. You see, she was ill, very, very ill when she died. The doctor told me she could never be really well again; she could not work. We did not have any money except what we could earn. If she had lived—she would have been very unhappy. Now I am sure that she is safe. She-does not go hungry; she is never cold. I think of her being as I saw her once when we had a precious day all to ourselves.
"We rode out in the country, away from the town, to see
an old school friend of Mother's. It was a wonderful summer day and we stopped in a big field where there was a brook—with flowers—and ferns—and the lovely, warm soft air—the sunshine. Mother had to work so hard, she sometimes never got out of the house all day to even step into the garden, such as it was, around our cottage. But that day she looked around and told me that she thought that Heaven must be like that field. And I am sure it is—for her. So whenever I get selfish and think I miss her so much —then I think of her in that field with the flowers and the sun—"
Saranna had almost forgotten that she was talking to anyone, she was so caught up in memory.
"I like that. Grandfather—I don't think he would have wanted a field," Damaris observed softly. "He—maybe he's in a place like China where there are a lot of wonderful palaces full of beautiful things. And he's walking through them straight and tall—without having to use his cane anymore—just looking and looking— Oh, Saranna, I'm so glad you've come to live here! I'm so glad!"
Damaris threw herself at the older girl, her arms now about Saranna's waist, her head pressed tightly against her breast right over the pendant. Saranna's arms went out in turn to enfold the child.
"And I am, too, Damaris. I am, too!"
She was, she understood in a kind of wonder. For all its strangeness and shadows, at this moment Tiensin took on the appearance of home.
9
WEI CHI-NOT YET ACCOMPLISHED
Saranna did make a point of thanking Honora, and her tone must have carried sincerity. For, no matter how Honora had intended the gift, Saranna was determined to make the best of it. And her own shabbiness had been a growing discomfort for her, surrounded as she was by the splendors of Tiensin which reflected her own dowdiness that much the more.
But she doubted if Honora greatly cared. She was far too absorbed in her own plans of returning to Baltimore to refurbish her own wardrobe.