Fifty-Two Stories For Girls 7 – Anonymous · Verses Across
Literature · Short Stories
Fifty-Two Stories For Girls 7Part 1 · The Palm-Bearers
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Literature · Short Stories
Fifty-Two Stories For Girls 7
Part 1 · The Palm-Bearers
AnonymousEnglish
Miss Melford, and a chosen party of the senior girls (of whom I was one), stood in our beautiful Art Gallery attentively studying a water colour on the line. The picture was numbered 379 in the catalogue, was called "Palm-Bearers," and was painted by Miss Margot Revere! Our Margot, the girl who had been my classmate, whom I had loved as a sister. The scene portrayed was a procession of early Christians entering an Eastern city at Eastertide. There were matrons and maids, golden-haired children, and white-haired men, all bearing green palm branches, under an intense, cerulean sky.
"Well done, Margot," said Miss Melford softly, with a suspicious dimness in her eyes, and there was a general chorus of approval from all beholders.
Margot, who was much older than I, had left school long since, had studied, worked, copied in the great Art Galleries, exhibited, and sold her works.
She was then in Rome with her father, who had become blind, and I had at that moment a long letter from her in my bag, as I stood looking at her picture. In one passage of it she had written: "the girl with the crown of white roses in my last painting is my little Gloria, my girl comrade, who consoled me when I was sad, who watched next my pillow when I was sick, and when sad memories made me cry at night crept to me through the long dormitory and knelt beside me, like a white-robed ministering angel. Apropos of palms, mama was a palm-bearer; I must win one before I look on her dear, dear face." As I thought on these words, Miss Melford's voice speaking to Gurda broke in on my thoughts.
"Dear, dear, how extremely like to Gloria is that figure in the middle of Margot's painting!"
"Of course, Miss Melford, Margot will have sketched it from her. She was her chum, her soul's sister."
"Her soul's sister!" Those three words went with me through the gallery; into the sculpture room, amidst white marble figures, into the room full of Delia Robbia and majolica ware, everywhere!
Even when we descended the flight of steps, and came into the great white square, I seemed to hear them in the plashing of the fountains.
