CHAPTER XII

STORMY WEATHER

“What is it?” asked Honor. “Is it a birthday? Whose, then?”

“Goose!” said Patricia Desmond. “It is a re-birthday, don’t you see? You died up there--or any one else would have died--of sheer dullness; now you are alive again, that’s all. Don’t be stupid, Moriole!”

The dining room of the Pension Madeleine was ablaze, with lights; there must have been fully a dozen candles, where ordinarily two sufficed. The table was decked with flowers and _bonbons_; the best china was displayed, that with the roses and the gold sprig, even to the four tall _compotières_ which seldom emerged from their cupboard. Now they stood at the four corners of the table, filled with translucent preserves of Madame’s very best; peach, apricot, greengage, nectarine. Little Loulou heaved a sigh of rapture, and clasped her hands.

“Ah! Moriole,” she cried, “how we are glad of thy return!”

Seeing Honor stand bewildered, Madame came forward and took her by the hand.

“It is for thee, little one!” she said in her kind, cordial voice. “It is thy festival of return. Welcome back, my child, to our home and to our hearts!”

She _must_ not cry! it would be wicked, not to say ridiculous. She _must_ be glad, and thankful. Honor clenched her hands and shook herself; no tears fell, though her eyes brimmed with them. Her voice trembled as she stammered out her thanks, but it was full of real affection and gratitude. How dear it was of them! how kind they all were! and how could they possibly know?

She sat in the place of honor at Madame’s right hand. Next her was Patricia, regally beautiful in pale green organdie, which set off her exquisite fairness to perfection. Opposite was Stephanie, in her best frock of red silk, with narrow black velvet ribbon--three rows of it--on skirt and bodice. (Floods of tears had been shed over this ribbon. Stephanie wanted five rows; her thrifty mother considered two enough; it was Honor who suggested the compromise of three, and restored harmony to the household.)

Vivette, too, was in her best, the black alpaca which was only less rusty than the one she wore every day. Vivette, so pretty, who might be made so _chic_ if one could only dress her properly. How often had Honor and Patricia debated as to how they would dress Vivette had they but the power! Patricia was for apricot velvet with topazes; Honor maintained that Nile green satin with emeralds was the _only_ thing. Vivette, stolidly French, smiled, and thanked them both, but was entirely satisfied with the suitability of her sober dress.

Jacqueline de la Tour de Provence sat next Vivette, all in white. It was the gala costume of her House, she whispered to Honor. The La Tour de Provences never rejoiced in colors. She spoke gravely, conveying the impression that the wearing of white had originated in, and was confined to, the House of which she spoke. A smile trembled on Honor’s lips, but she suppressed it, and gave a glance of appreciation instead. This too was kindly meant.

Among all the bright faces glowing with pleasure and affection was one which startled Honor as she glanced round the table. Maria Patterson sat in her accustomed place between Rose Marie and little Loulou, both of whom were bubbling with joyous talk; she paid no attention to them, nor, it seemed, they to her. Her eyes were bent on her plate; her face was dark and gloomy. Never an attractive girl, there was, it struck Honor, something tragic in Maria’s face now. What could be the matter? Had she had bad news from home, or was she ill? Honor’s sympathy was ready to flow in any direction; sad at heart herself, she felt strangely out of place in this gay party. Was poor Maria sad too? Honor tried to catch her eye, but without success; the girl never looked up from her plate, but ate her supper in sullen silence.

The dessert appeared; a wonderful _Charlotte Russe_, Honor’s favorite dish; orange jelly with whipped cream; little cakes in profusion, white, pink, brown.

“Ah! Moriole,” sighed the descendant of good Queen Bertha; “would you might return to us every day, cherished one!”

Now appeared pretty, smiling Sophie, trimmest and most correct of maids, bearing a great jug of crystal and gold, the glory of the Pension. It had been given to Madame by the Countess of Lablache-Tournay, “her affectionate and ever-grateful pupil,” as the inscription read. It was filled with “nectar,” Madame’s own special compound of _orgeat_, raspberry syrup and lemon, which must be tasted to be appreciated. The tall glasses were filled; Madame Madeleine rose, and in a few simple words welcomed “their beloved young friend, pupil, _compagne_”, whose absence had darkened the horizon of their family life, whose return once more brought light and joy to their little circle. As was well known, Madame had little knowledge of the majestic language which was the native speech of their dear Honor, and of several other of her young friends. She would ask her sister to express for them both, in English, the sentiments which at the present auspicious moment filled their bosoms.

With an affectionate glance and a wave of her kind hand, Madame sat down, and Soeur Séraphine rose to her feet. There was a flush on the clear rose-white of the little Sister’s cheek; her voice trembled as she began.

“My dear Honor, and young ladies; eet ees wiz _grand plaisir_--pardon! eet ees wiz ’eart-felt plaisure zat I bid you vonce more vell come to Pension Madeleine. We ’ave meessed you treestfulli. Ze ’ouse vas not ze semm wizout _La Moriole_, ze birrd of _plumage d’or_, of golden fezzaires I should to say. And zou, _petite_, hast also been long for ze _pension, n’est-ce pas_? As says ze poète Jonovard Payne,

“Be eet evair so ombel, Zere’s no place like ’ome!”

And ze immortel Shakspire, ’e say also--_n’importe!_ zat escape from my mind. We ozzaires, in Pension Madeleine, ve are not poète, ve ’ave not ze _génie_, but our ’earts zey seeng wiz joy, and yet von time ve bid vell-come back our dear Honor!”

Soeur Séraphine kissed her hand to Honor, and sat down amid tumultuous applause.

“Speech!” cried Patricia. “Speech!” cried all the girls, echoing the cry in varying shades of English; all save Maria Patterson, who still sat, an image of gloom, staring at her plate.

Blushing and tearful, Honor rose.

“Thank you! oh, thank you all!” she cried. “I am so--so glad to see you all again. Dear Madame, dear Sister, you are perfectly angelic to give me this lovely party. I--I can’t say anything _but_ thank you, but I do, with all my heart!”

She could at least say this. She _was_ glad to see them, all the dear good friends. Not to come back--no! no! to say that would be telling a lie; but to see the kind, friendly faces, to hear the welcoming voices--of course she was glad! she would be a wicked, wicked girl if she were not.

At last the feast was over, and after grace and _réverénces_, the girls swept out laughing and chattering, into the garden. Here they surrounded Honor, seizing her hands, pulling her this way and that, all talking at once.

“This way, Honor! come with me!”

“_À moi, Moriole!_ I have a thousand things to say to thee. Ah! for example, Loulou, cease thy pushing, little imbecile!”

“There’s no particular sense in smothering Honor to death!” drawled Patricia. “I prefer her alive myself. Sit down here on the bench, Moriole! I’ll keep them off you with this rake.”

Honor sat down, out of breath, and looked round. Stephanie, Patricia, Rose Marie, Vivette,--were they all here? No!

“Girls,” she asked abruptly, “what’s the matter with Maria Patterson?”

Silence. The girls all looked at each other; then they looked at Patricia. No one except Honor was very fond of Patricia; her tongue was too biting, and she was too openly contemptuous of them all--still excepting La Moriole; but they admired as much as they feared her, and were accustomed to follow her lead, even Stephanie, who detested her.

Patricia now looked up with a peculiar smile that Honor knew well, and gave a little shrug of her graceful shoulders.

“Maria Patterson? My dear, she has ceased to exist, for us. As to what is the matter with her”--another shrug. “What does it matter what is the matter with her? Pouf! I blow her away. Tell us about your exile, child! we are all dying to hear.”

“Not till I know about Maria!” Honor’s tone was resolute; she was not in the least afraid of Patricia.

“And why this sudden interest in Maria Patterson, if I may ask?” Patricia was still smiling in the way Honor knew and did not like. “She never was your heart’s own that I know of, _chérie_. What, I say, does it matter about her? We are all happy, aren’t we?”

“_Voyons_, Patricia! tell her!” said Vivette. “We know our Moriole. When her face sets in that manner, she is Gibraltar in person. If we want to hear anything, we must first tell; that sees itself.”

“Tell yourself, then!” Patricia yawned delicately. “The subject fails to interest me.”

Honor turned to Vivette, whose honest face was pleasanter to look on at this moment than that of the school beauty.

“Marie is--avay!” said Vivette. “She is vat you call in Cov-en-tri. There are six days, we speak her not, we look her not.”

“But why? What has the poor thing done?”

“She has thiefed!” Vivette spoke low, with a glance over her shoulder. “_Chut!_ Madame knows not, nor our Sister. Solely of ourselves we de-cide to--vat vord is dat, Patricia? Carve? Cot?”

“Oh, do hush, Vivette!” said Patricia rather rudely. “You make my ears ache. If you _must_ know, Honor, the poor thing--as you call her--and as she certainly is--stole a ring from my jewel-box. There! are you satisfied? We were not sent here to consort with thieves, so we have simply--shall I say eliminated her? As I told you, she no longer exists.”

“Oh, Patricia! Oh, girls! there must be some mistake!”

Genuinely distressed, Honor looked from one face to another. But now an excited babble broke out, the shrill young voices rising higher and higher.

Maria had always been a sneak, Moriole knew she had. She was a tale-bearer, a meddler, a spy. She was always poking her nose into other people’s affairs; and so on and so on.

Honor listened, her eyes growing wider and wider, as they did when she was troubled. Suddenly her cheeks flushed; her heart began to beat violently. She seemed to hear a voice speaking; a rich, mellow voice, with the sound of bells in it.

“And thus it is our custom to allow no evil to be spoken of any person without a good word being added by each one of the family.”

Honor covered her face with her hands.

“If I had dark hair,” she said to herself, “I could do it! If I had dark hair, I could do it!”

Then suddenly she looked up, first at Patricia’s beautiful, scornful face, then at the others, all excited, all full of anger.

“Maria is _very_ tidy!” she said. “Her bureau drawers are beautiful, and you know she got the prize for the best-made bed last year.”

For a moment all the girls stared, open-mouthed; then Patricia laughed her little silver laugh.

“Even if so?” she said. “We allow her that lofty virtue! My ring was in her pocket, you understand, my dear. Come, Moriole!” she added in a different tone. “A promise is a promise. We have told you what you wanted, now it is your turn. _What_ did you do in that place during seven whole days? We _must_ know!”

“I cannot!” thought Honor. And then--“I _must_!”

“Come then!” she said. “Sit down, all of you! The sand is as dry as dry. Loulou, I cannot tell if you hop on one foot. Listen then!”

She told them about the spinning and knitting; about the bridal quilt; about pretty Madelon, whom she had not seen, and Big Pierre, whom she had; about the carving, and all the marvels and mysteries of cheese-making.

About her three friends themselves she could not talk, she found. And no one knew, no one cared, no one could possibly understand--

“And I made the cheese all myself, the one we had for supper. Was it good?”

“Good? It was mirific! You made it yourself? Ah! Bah! Gretli let you stir it, pat it a little, like that!”

“Gretli did not touch it with the end of her finger! She told me, of course, what to do. ‘Take this and that! do thus and so!’ but not a finger did she put to it. Wait a little! When Margoton next has sour cream, I will make another, and you will see.”

“It must have been rather fun!” said Vivette. “I should like to make cheese, I think. Will you teach me, Moriole?”

“My dear! it would ruin your hands!” Jacqueline examined her own pearly fingertips, over which she spent much of the “meditation hour” when we sat alone in our little rooms and were supposed to think of holy things. Then with a glance at Vivette’s brown, rather stubby hands, she added, “But it might not after all make so much difference!”

“But, Moriole!” said Stephanie, who had been listening eagerly, “the animals! all those terrible animals! were you not in perpetual terror? Me, I never expected to see you alive again. I wept the whole of every night--”

“Thou snorest prettily in thy sleep all the same, Stephanie!” cried Rose Marie. “Heavens! it was a litany to all the saints at once!”

“You shan’t tease my Stephanie!” Honor was slipping back naturally into her school attitude of championing the weak. “Stephanie dear, the animals were darling; but perfectly darling! You have only to learn to know them. Why, Bimbo ate bread from my hand, and danced for me when I held his forefeet. It is true he tried to butt me every day, but he never succeeded. Zitli was too quick, and always caught him over the nose with his crutch.”

“The lame boy? Was he possible at all, Honor?” It was Jacqueline who asked. “Of course the big Twins are very nice in their way: but to be shut up a whole week in a peasant hovel with--”

Honor’s eyes flashed; she felt the blood surging into her cheeks, and she clenched her hands tight in the vain effort to keep it down.

“A hovel?” she cried, and her voice trembled, spite of all she could do. “The _Châlet des Rochers_ is simply the most delightful house I ever was in. The people are the dearest and best people--except Madame and our Sister--I have ever seen, and the week I spent there was the happiest time of my whole life!”