then, as she turned, she saw Jennifer and stopped dead, her lips parted, her breast rising and falling as if she had been running.
She was young, dark, and very lovely; even the faded blue cotton of her orphan's garb could not deny the eager grace of her body. Her hair hung loosely over her shoulders, as if the wind of her running had tossed and ruffled it out, and her cheeks were flushed. Her hands were full of flowers.
She hesitated for a moment, looking at Jennifer, then she crossed the grass swiftly toward her, and knelt down by the new grave. She pulled the fading gentians out of the bowl, and began, rather hurriedly, to arrange the fresh ones in their place.
"Are you Celeste?"
The girl shot her a shy upward look and nodded. Jennifer said, "I am Madame Lamartine's cousin. I came to visit her today, and was told of her death. Sister Louisa tells me that you helped to nurse her. I'm very grateful to you."
Celeste had sat back on her heels and was regarding Jennifer with wide eyes. "Her cousin?" Her look was both puzzled and distressed. "I—I am sorry, madame. It must have been a great shock to find—to hear—I am so very sorry, madame...."
"Yes," said Jennifer, "it was." She was watching the girl, but the beautiful eyes held nothing but compassion, and a growing bewilderment. "I did not know she had a cousin," said Celeste. "If we had known, madame, that there were relatives------"
"You would no doubt have informed them of her illness, or at least of her death?"
said Jennifer gently.
"But of course!" cried Celeste. With a quick gesture she pushed the hair back from her face, and stared up at Jennifer. "Is it not strange, madame, that she should not have told us?"
Jennifer looked at her. "Yes. Very strange. That is, if she was not too ill to tell you, Celeste."
The girl shook her head. "There were times—several times —when she was quite herself, when she could have told us anything. Indeed, we asked her ourselves if there was anyone we should get in touch with."
"Did you indeed?" said Jennifer softly.
"It's usual," said Celeste, and turned back to the bowl of gentians. "And now, madame, I must go. I'm a bit late already." She pushed the last flowers into place, and got to her feet, but Jennifer put out a hand.
"Just one more thing ... I should have thanked you, too, for bringing these flowers for my cousin."
"It was nothing."
"It was a great deal, that you should have nursed her and—and comforted her."
Jennifer hesitated, wondering how to go on.
The girl flushed and looked at her feet. "It was nothing," she said again. "I—I liked her." She looked up at Jennifer, and the lovely eyes were swimming with tears. "I am sorry, madame, indeed I am. And that you should have found it out—in this way------" She made a little gesture, and bit her lip.
In the face of what was, patently, quite genuine distress, Jennifer hesitated again.
And in that moment someone spoke from behind her.
"Celeste!"
It was Dona Frandsca's voice, and at the sound the girl started and spun around, and the red ebbed from her cheeks as the foam blows from the wave. Jennifer was conscious of a slight constriction in her own breathing as she turned her head to watch the tall black figure of the bursar approaching across the grass. Annoyed at herself, she shook her uneasiness from her, and said, calmly, "I hope I haven't made Celeste late for chapel, Doña Francisca. Sister Louisa told me how she helped you nurse my cousin, and I was thanking her."
The hooded eyes met hers briefly. The Spaniard bent her head, then turned her gaze on the girl. "You should have been in your room half an hour ago, Celeste. Where have you been?"
The girl's voice was low. "Gathering flowers for our Sister Lamartine's grave." She did not look at Doña Francisca. Her hands were nervously pleating the front of her dress.
There was a flash of something that might have been irritation in the woman's eyes, but she spoke smoothly enough.
"A kind thought,
She was young, dark, and very lovely; even the faded blue cotton of her orphan's garb could not deny the eager grace of her body. Her hair hung loosely over her shoulders, as if the wind of her running had tossed and ruffled it out, and her cheeks were flushed. Her hands were full of flowers.
She hesitated for a moment, looking at Jennifer, then she crossed the grass swiftly toward her, and knelt down by the new grave. She pulled the fading gentians out of the bowl, and began, rather hurriedly, to arrange the fresh ones in their place.
"Are you Celeste?"
The girl shot her a shy upward look and nodded. Jennifer said, "I am Madame Lamartine's cousin. I came to visit her today, and was told of her death. Sister Louisa tells me that you helped to nurse her. I'm very grateful to you."
Celeste had sat back on her heels and was regarding Jennifer with wide eyes. "Her cousin?" Her look was both puzzled and distressed. "I—I am sorry, madame. It must have been a great shock to find—to hear—I am so very sorry, madame...."
"Yes," said Jennifer, "it was." She was watching the girl, but the beautiful eyes held nothing but compassion, and a growing bewilderment. "I did not know she had a cousin," said Celeste. "If we had known, madame, that there were relatives------"
"You would no doubt have informed them of her illness, or at least of her death?"
said Jennifer gently.
"But of course!" cried Celeste. With a quick gesture she pushed the hair back from her face, and stared up at Jennifer. "Is it not strange, madame, that she should not have told us?"
Jennifer looked at her. "Yes. Very strange. That is, if she was not too ill to tell you, Celeste."
The girl shook her head. "There were times—several times —when she was quite herself, when she could have told us anything. Indeed, we asked her ourselves if there was anyone we should get in touch with."
"Did you indeed?" said Jennifer softly.
"It's usual," said Celeste, and turned back to the bowl of gentians. "And now, madame, I must go. I'm a bit late already." She pushed the last flowers into place, and got to her feet, but Jennifer put out a hand.
"Just one more thing ... I should have thanked you, too, for bringing these flowers for my cousin."
"It was nothing."
"It was a great deal, that you should have nursed her and—and comforted her."
Jennifer hesitated, wondering how to go on.
The girl flushed and looked at her feet. "It was nothing," she said again. "I—I liked her." She looked up at Jennifer, and the lovely eyes were swimming with tears. "I am sorry, madame, indeed I am. And that you should have found it out—in this way------" She made a little gesture, and bit her lip.
In the face of what was, patently, quite genuine distress, Jennifer hesitated again.
And in that moment someone spoke from behind her.
"Celeste!"
It was Dona Frandsca's voice, and at the sound the girl started and spun around, and the red ebbed from her cheeks as the foam blows from the wave. Jennifer was conscious of a slight constriction in her own breathing as she turned her head to watch the tall black figure of the bursar approaching across the grass. Annoyed at herself, she shook her uneasiness from her, and said, calmly, "I hope I haven't made Celeste late for chapel, Doña Francisca. Sister Louisa told me how she helped you nurse my cousin, and I was thanking her."
The hooded eyes met hers briefly. The Spaniard bent her head, then turned her gaze on the girl. "You should have been in your room half an hour ago, Celeste. Where have you been?"
The girl's voice was low. "Gathering flowers for our Sister Lamartine's grave." She did not look at Doña Francisca. Her hands were nervously pleating the front of her dress.
There was a flash of something that might have been irritation in the woman's eyes, but she spoke smoothly enough.
"A kind thought,
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