The History of the Lady Betty Stair

by Molly Elliot Seawell

Never was the scene more beautiful. The rains had begun, and in a few days the face of the earth had become green with the most luxuriant foliage. The ships in the little harbor were dressed in honor of the occasion, and the French frigate, anchored in the bay, was covered with flags. On the great plain were found ten thousand men, on three sides of a square. The fourth side was left open, and facing it was General de Bourmont and a splendid staff. Upon the surrounding heights were great multitudes of people,—French, Arabs, Jews, Turks, all watching the scene. A blare of military music smote the morning air, as all the bands in the French-African army crashed out.

Sister Claire’s heart beat; yes, De Bourmont was to have the reward of valor; it was just. And he had that other reward,—the esteem and love which waits upon a commander who loves his men like his children.

Sister Claire had supposed that they would simply be given good positions where they could see the ceremonies of the day, and was rather surprised when the superior, with whom she was walking, moved directly toward the opening in the hollow square; and she was still more surprised when a young aide dashed up, and, dismounting, respectfully led the little band of white-capped nuns to a position very near the staff. And, strangely enough, she began to be agitated, and to feel as if some crisis in her life were at hand. General de Bourmont would probably come up after the ceremonies were over and speak to them—and would he recognize her? And then the bands stopped suddenly, and Sister Claire, looking up, heard the young officer who had escorted them saying, with a smile: “Sister, I believe it is your turn first to be decorated.”

Sister Claire looked at him in dumb amazement, and then looked toward the superior.

“It is true, sister,” said the superior, who was also smiling, but whose eyes were moist. “You are to be decorated. We knew some time ago that you had been recommended, and your decoration arrived yesterday, and we have arranged this as a glorious surprise to you.”

Sister Claire’s face grew a rosy red. She hesitated a moment, but the aide, bowing low, and pointing to the waiting group of officers, where a number of soldiers of all ages who were to be decorated were assembled near them, she advanced with him toward the commander-in-chief. It was some distance across the sand, glowing with the morning sun, and the fierceness of the glare and the emotion that she feared showed in her usually calm face, kept her eyes to the ground. But when she reached the general and his staff, and had paused, a voice rang out that thrilled her to the soul. It was that of General de Bourmont, as he said:—

“Sister Claire!”

At that she raised her eyes, and her gaze met De Bourmont’s. For some moments each forgot everything in the world except the other. They forgot the stretch of more than thirty years since last they had looked into each other’s eyes. They forgot the waiting thousands of troops, the vast multitude of spectators. The white sand and fierce sun of Algiers melted into the gloomy old palace of Holyrood. They were once more De Bourmont and Lady Betty Stair. As they stood thus, each reading the other’s soul through the eyes, some keen inner sympathy told them that, however much their hearts had suffered, their souls had thriven on that nobler life that each had led. And as they felt clearly and more clearly every moment, that in those years of self-sacrifice, and of that agony of separation, their newer and better selves had been born and lived and suffered, so did the dazzling happiness of the life they might have lived together reveal itself in all its splendid beauty. Those moments of solemn exaltation seemed like an age to Sister Claire and De Bourmont; but, in truth, it was only long enough to make the gorgeous group of waiting officers wonder at De Bourmont’s strange silence; and when he spoke, his voice was not altogether calm.

“When scarcely more than twenty-three years of age, you followed our soldiers to Egypt and faithfully tended them. You were severely wounded in the retreat from Acre. You followed the French army to Spain, to Germany, and even to Russia. Your courage in saving ten wounded men at the passage of the Beresina is remembered. You were in every battle from the frontier to the gates of Paris, in 1814, and were three times wounded. At Waterloo you were carried off the field for dead among the corpses of a number of cuirassiers. For three years you have labored in Algiers, and at the battle of Staoueli, when a shell with a burning fuse fell near your ambulance, endangering the lives of your wounded, you picked it up and carried it more than eighty yards before it exploded, wounding you terribly. But your life was preserved in all these dangers, and you have been spared to the soldiers who love you so well. His Majesty, knowing of your devotion to our army, has placed your name at the head of those who are to be rewarded to-day. And, by his command, I present you with the Cross for Tried Bravery. None has deserved it more than you.”

At the first sound of his voice both of them came back out of that shadowy world in which their other selves had met face to face. De Bourmont’s voice grew stronger as he continued speaking; and he fixed his eyes upon her angelic face, shining under her nun’s bonnet. She noticed that he was gray and very grave. She knew, then, as well as if a thousand tongues had told her, that, from the day of their parting, the gay, the careless, the dashing De Bourmont had ceased to exist, and in his place was this earnest and devoted soldier, who lived for his country and was ready to die for it. She became conscious by degrees of the scene around her,—the African sun blazing upon the white sand, the imposing sight of many thousands of veterans assembled to see valor rewarded. And then, De Bourmont’s hand pinned a splendid decoration upon her breast.