CHAPTER XIII

THE WAY TO COVENTRY

Honor lay awake a long time that first night after her return. Her mind was too full of what Vivette called “thinks.” (“Oftentimes,” said poor Vivi, “I have in the night sorry thinks!” That was when she had the toothache, which explained matters.) Her body lay in its own bed--the plain little white enameled bed; no quaint faces of friendly apostles to bless it! Her mind was away at the Châlet; the eyes of her spirit were gazing through the little square window at the great snow mountain, towering in the blue-black sky thick-set with stars, “rising like a cloud of incense from the earth.” In her ears was the low tinkle of musical bells, as the goats moved hither and thither, browsing on the short turf.

“If only I could hear it always!” sighed Honor. “If only every night I could go back, like the Enchanted Fawn! I would sing, as she did, only change the words a little:

“‘Say, how is my Gretli, And how are they all? Oh, say but the word, And I’ll come at your call!’”

How cool and sweet the air came in at the window, the breath of the Mountain himself! (Honor was nearly asleep now, and really fancied herself at the Châlet!) How clear and--silvery--the bells--hark!--who was crying? Gretli was asleep; goats could not cry--

All of a sudden Honor came wide awake, and sat up in bed, listening. Some one _was_ crying! not far from her; long, heavy sobs, full of a dull, hopeless pain. Where--what--who? Honor put out her hand and encountered the smooth iron of her bed. Of course! she was at home, in Pension Madeleine! In the cell on her right was Stephanie: in that on the left--Maria Patterson.

It was from the left that the sobs came. Honor listened intently; dreadful sobs; her heart ached to hear them! She slipped quietly out of bed, turned the handle of the door noiselessly, groped for the next handle--another moment and she was beside Maria, where she sat sobbing in her bed; her warm arms were pressing close the cold, shivering body, her smooth cheek was laid against the other, wet with bitter tears.

“Maria! don’t, my dear! don’t cry! hush! oh, poor thing, hush! there! there!”

Honor rocked back and forth, as if she were soothing a little child. Pity flowed from her like a warm current; she felt the rigid form relax, the head sink on her shoulder. The sobs continued, but they were less heavy and dreadful, more like natural crying.

“There! there!” repeated Honor. “Now you are better, dear. Let me cover you up a little; you are half frozen.”

“Is it--is it Honor?” Maria spoke in a broken whisper.

“Yes! but let me rub your hands, Maria! I’m going to get my hot-water bottle!”

“No! no! don’t leave me! stay just a little longer! You don’t know--or did they tell you?”

“You shall tell me!” Honor gently forced Maria to lie down, and tucked the bed-clothes round her. “Lie still a moment, and I’ll come back.”

In three minutes she was back with the hot-water bottle.

“There! it’s not very hot, just right to hold in your hands. Now tell--no, I won’t take cold; I have my wrapper on, and it’s warm as soup. Tell me all about it, Maria!”

Maria drew a long sobbing breath.

“How good you are!” she said. “But you won’t believe me, Honor: nobody would; and then you will go, and I shall be all alone in the world!”

“Nonsense!” said Honor decidedly. “I _shall_ believe you! Go ahead!”

Brokenly, in a voice shaken by sobs, with bursts of bitter weeping, Maria told her piteous story; how she had seen and admired the ring on Patricia’s finger; a curious little ring, a circle of gold wire with a tiny golden mouse running loose on it. She wanted to see how it went; Patricia hated her so, she could not ask. Then--one day--Patricia’s door was open, and Maria knew she was in the garden.

“Honor, I didn’t mean any harm! I swear to you I didn’t mean any harm. I went in, and the ring was on the pincushion, and I tried it on, and--and--just then Sophie came in, and I didn’t want her to see me with it, and I slipped it into my pocket, meaning to put it back when she had gone out--oh, dear! oh, dear! how _could_ I?” The wailing sobs broke out again.

“Quiet! quiet!” Honor was stroking her forehead with a firm soft hand. “There! there! Go on! You meant to put it back; of course you did. And then--”

“The bell rang for class, and Sophie was still there, sweeping, you know--and I had to go. It was _dictée_, and you know that takes all there is of me, and then I can’t do it decently! Honor, could any one believe I could forget it--the ring, I mean? I did! oh, truly, truly I did! And out in the garden at recess--I pulled out my handkerchief, and--and--”

“And out it came!” Honor finished for her. “Of course I believe every word, Maria. Of course any one would who had any sense. Didn’t you tell Patricia? Didn’t you tell them all, that moment?”

“I _couldn’t_!” Maria’s voice fell into an agonized whisper. “I _couldn’t_, Honor! Patricia looked at me--oh, pray to God that no one will ever look so at you as long as you live!” cried the poor girl. “And she said--”

“What did she say? Quiet, my dear! quiet! words never killed anybody!”

“She said, _‘Tiens!_ are there two mouse-rings in the Pension? Or perhaps only one?’ Then she picked it up and went away, and I saw her telling the other girls. None of them has spoken to me since then!”

“You poor child! what a wicked, wicked shame!”

“Do you--do you really believe me, Honor?”

Maria spoke timidly, and in the half darkness of the room, Honor could feel her eyes peering anxiously into her own.

“Of course I believe you!” she cried. “Every single word, Maria. Nobody could possibly doubt you. Of course it was a pity, and a silly thing to do, and all that; but--why--there’s nothing _dreadful_ about it, Maria. It has only to be explained, and every one will understand in a minute, and everything will be all right. You see if it isn’t!”

“But I can’t explain! How can I, when no one will speak to me? It’s no use, Honor!”

“I’ll explain! I’ll tell the girls all about it to-morrow, after breakfast, and then everything will be all right. Now you must go to sleep like a good girl. Shut your eyes and let go, and I’ll sing to you.”

Exhausted with misery and weeping, Maria was only too glad to shut her eyes and “let go,” while Honor, still stroking her forehead, crooned softly,

“‘On the Alp the grass is sweetest, Li-u-o, my Queen!’”

It was midnight when Honor, chilly but happy, crept back to bed, leaving Maria fast asleep. She nestled down on her pillow cozily.

“Play the heads are here!” she murmured. “Play they are smiling at me:

“Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, Bless the bed that I lie on!”

Honor was sleepy enough next morning after her vigil; but the thought of what she had to do soon roused her. She ran into Maria’s room, hairbrush in hand; it was not permitted, but she could explain; the Sister would understand.

“Hush! listen!” she cried. “Don’t come out in the garden after breakfast, Maria! Come straight back here, and wait till I come for you. It will be all right, see if it isnt!”

Poor Maria, her eyes swollen with weeping, gave her a look of such dog-like devotion and gratitude that Honor could only give her a pat in return, and hurry away. Her heart was beating high. It was a shame; but they had not known; they had not understood; in a little hour now, all would be well.

How slow they were at breakfast! It seemed as if the meal would never end. Nobody looked at Maria; none of the girls at least. Soeur Séraphine cast a keen glance at her swollen, discolored face; one, and then another; but said nothing. Madame called from the head of the table, “Marie, thou dost not eat, my child! How then! It is necessary to eat; finish at least thy little bread!”

Maria crumbled her roll, and made a pretence of eating.

“_Tiens!_” said Soeur Séraphine. “The child is without appetite, my sister. I myself will give her a cup of tea presently. That encourages the stomach.”

After what seemed a really interminable time, the girls streamed out once more into the garden. It was the custom after every meal in good weather. Honor, breathless with eagerness, led the way, beckoning the others to follow. They flocked to the seat under the great trumpet vine.

“What is it?” they all cried. “More tells, Moriole? We haven’t heard half enough!”

“Sit down, girls! I’m out of breath. I want to tell you all--you first, Patricia, but all together--you are all wrong about Maria. Poor thing, she meant no harm. Listen!” and she poured out Maria’s story, the words tumbling over one another with eagerness; the girls listening with wide-open eyes.

“So you see,” she concluded, “it wasn’t wicked, it was only silly; very silly, of course, and she knows it, and is--oh, so _dreadfully_ sorry and ashamed! Pat, you can’t be angry with her any more; you must forgive her, and take her back, don’t you see?”

Patricia laughed. “I’m afraid I don’t see!” she said. “Stealing is stealing, Moriole, my child! No doubt she is sorry. Thieves are apt to be--when they are found out. They are also apt to trump up a pretty story to tell to sympathetic people. This is a very pretty story, my dear, but I don’t see that it alters the facts of the case. The ring was in Maria’s pocket. _Et voilà!_”

“You--you mean--that you do not believe what Maria says?”

Honor spoke slowly, as if bewildered.

“I mean precisely that! I don’t believe one solitary word!”

Honor looked from one to another.

“Girls! Vivette! Stephanie! You believe it?”

No one spoke; all looked embarrassed, except little Loulou, who was pirouetting about, paying little attention.

“I see--you don’t!”

Honor was silent for a moment, thinking. Then, suddenly, a flame seemed to surge up within her. She did not need dark hair this time; red hair would do to be angry with. She sprang to her feet. Her blue eyes flashed, and she clenched her hands, facing them all.

“Very well!” she said. “Then--that is all! You have sent Maria to Coventry: I go with her! Good-by!”

She was gone. The girls looked at one another with blank faces.

“Oh, Patricia!” cried Stephanie. “We can’t send Moriole to Coventry! She has just come back to us, and we all missed her so dreadfully! Do make up with Maria!”

“Pooh!” said Patricia. “She’ll come back. Honor isn’t going to leave us and take up with Maria Patterson. I give her half an hour!”

Honor flew to Maria’s room, her eyes blazing, her cheeks on fire. As she entered, Maria looked up, a spark of hope in her eyes; but at sight of Honor’s face, she cowered down in her chair and covered her face with her hands, with a broken moan.

“You couldn’t!” she said. “I knew you couldn’t! I knew they wouldn’t believe you. Thank you just as much for trying, Honor!”

“Hateful, hateful creatures!” Honor stamped her foot and clenched her hands. “I never want to speak to any of them again. Come, Maria, come out with me! They needn’t speak to us, and we certainly will not speak to them. We’ll live in Coventry together!” And she laughed a defiant laugh.

Maria shook her head drearily.

“No! I can’t go out; and I will not keep you from them. Go, please, Moriole! I will not bring disgrace on you. Please go!”

Honor stood her ground hotly, determined to carry her point; finally the school bell settled the matter by summoning all hands to the classroom.

It was a wretched morning. Maria drooped in her corner. Honor blazed and flashed in hers like a Catherine wheel. She flung her scornful glances here and there, and all quailed beneath them, except Patricia, who only laughed. Stephanie was on the verge of tears and made sad work of her lessons.

“What then ails these children?” said Madame to Soeur Séraphine at recess. “Do they conspire, or are they sickening? There is a fever in the suburbs, Margoton tells me. Perhaps it would be well to send for the doctor?”

“Wait a little, my sister! We shall soon know.” Soeur Séraphine was her usual serene self. “Our little casserole bubbles furiously; soon it will overflow, and we shall learn all about it. They are like that, our dear children! No, they are not sickening: I have examined tongue and pulse of all; all are perfect, except this poor Maria, who is the root of the trouble, I am convinced, and who as yet can tell me nothing. To-morrow I look to know all.”

That was the Sister’s way. She never “poked the nose,” as we said. She hardly ever asked a question; she simply waited and things came to her.

This time she had not long to wait.

The day wore through somehow; a dreadful day. Honor never liked to recall it. In the afternoon walk, she stalked ahead of the rest, her arm round Maria, her head thrown back defiantly, her heart full of rage and bitterness. If only Maria had a particle of spirit, it would be easier, she felt; but Maria had no thought of anything but despair, with the added misery of having involved Honor in her disgrace. She was not in the least a bad girl, poor Maria; only a silly, inquisitive one.

“Look, Maria! what a strange-looking old lady! Isn’t she beautiful? She is looking at us, so don’t stare, but just glance as you go by!”

Maria did not even glance. “I don’t care!” she said, “and how can an old lady be beautiful, anyhow? I don’t dare about anything; I wish I were dead!”

“_That_,” said Honor, “is wicked! You are a goose, Maria, but there is no need of your being wicked, and you shan’t, either. And old ladies are some of the most beautiful in the world, when they _are_ beautiful! Look at our Sister!”

Soeur Séraphine was thirty-three, to be precise; but fourteen takes little count of degrees in age.

A wretched afternoon. A wretched evening, Maria’s forlorn face casting a gloom over the pleasant reading hour, a gloom only accentuated by Honor’s flame of anger, which still burned brightly. Soeur Séraphine, reading aloud peacefully, looked benignantly over the top of her “Télémaque,” and felt that a crisis was approaching. These dear children! By to-morrow all would clear itself, and they would be themselves once more. But for this poor Maria, and our Moriole, it was indeed desolating; nor was Stephanie less unhappy. A special prayer must be offered for these three.

Bedtime came. The girls separated without the usual merry chirping over their lighted candles. Honor, after a brief but energetic effort to make Maria “cheer up,” gave it up in despair for the moment, and hurried to bed, thereby saving five minutes of the allotted fifteen, of which half was usually spent in happy fluttering and twittering from room to room. Placing her candle on the little bedside table, she drew from under her mattress a square leather-bound volume, and settling herself among the pillows, began to write hurriedly.

“My young life was full of sorrows. Treacherous friends deserted me because I just tried to behave decently. My cheek grew pale and thin, but my spirit was undaunted. My tears flowed like a crystal fountain--” Here Honor blinked hard and thought she did perhaps feel something like a tear in one eye--“My silken pillow was wet with them. The poor thing I tried to rescue was no help at all, but of course that made no difference, and I spurned the others from me with flashing eye and regal gesture. One of them was my bosom friend. I never thought she would desert me--

“Who’s there? Maria? Come in! Anybody else, stay out!”

But Stephanie was already in: Stephanie was flinging herself on Honor’s neck, weeping, begging for forgiveness.

“Moriole darling! Speak to me! look at me! Do be friends! Won’t you, Moriole? I can’t bear it without you!”

Did Honor spurn her with flashing eye and regal gesture? No! she hugged her close, and they cried together, and kissed and “made up” like the affectionate creatures they were.

“But--but you forgive Maria?” cried Honor. “You’ll take her back, Stephanie? You can’t have me without her!”

“I’ll take twenty Marias!” whispered Stephanie, “to get back my own, own Moriole!”

Ting! ting! went the bell. Lights out! One parting hug; off flew Stephanie; back went the book under the mattress; out went the candle. Honor nestled down in bed with a warm heart, for the first time since leaving the Châlet.

“Thank you, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John!” she murmured. “You _have_ blessed the bed that I lie on!” and she fell happily asleep, to dream of the Twins and Zitli.

* * * * *

Never yet in all her peaceful years had Honor had two broken nights in succession; but there is a first time for everything.

Late in this second night she was again waked suddenly; not by sobbing this time: not by any noise; all was still. What was it, then? Why was she sitting up in bed, frightened? She sniffed: a strange smell was in her nostrils: acrid, pungent--fire? She was springing out of bed, when she heard some one enter the next room hurriedly; heard a smothered cry; heard the window flung violently open; heard her own name called, low but urgently.

“Honor! Honor! come!”

Honor flew, to find the strange odor pouring out of Maria’s room; to see, by the moonlight which flooded it, Maria lying apparently unconscious, and bending over her, dragging her from the bed--Patricia!

“Help me get her to the window!” said Patricia briefly. “So! Now call the Sister, and get my salts! Quick!”

Again Honor flew, down the corridor, at the end of which a light glanced from the crack under Soeur Séraphine’s door. The little Sister, kneeling at her _prie-Dieu_, turned as the door opened. Her eyes widened at sight of Honor’s horrified face; her delicate nostrils expanded as the pungent odor crept into them; all this Honor saw _afterwards_. It seemed hardly a breathing-space before the Sister had flashed past her, flashed down the corridor, and had Maria in her arms by the open window, while Patricia knelt beside her with the salts. A pure cool breeze blew into the room, driving out the choking vapor. A few anxious moments, a convulsive movement, a quiver of the eyelids: Maria opened her eyes, and looked feebly about her.

“Let us thank the merciful Lord and the blessed saints!” said Soeur Séraphine. “My child, behold you restored to us! How do you find yourself?”

“Oh, dear!” said Maria. “Am I not dead? oh, dear!”

At this moment she caught sight of Patricia’s pale face close beside her. She shrank back with a cry.

“Why couldn’t you let me die?” she cried. “Don’t--don’t laugh at me, Patricia! Please go away, and let me die!”

Patricia was about to speak, but Soeur Séraphine signed to her to be silent.

“A little later!” she murmured. “Go now, my child! Thou also, Honor; return in ten minutes.”

As they turned to go, a piece of paper blew off the table and fell at Patricia’s feet. She picked it up mechanically, and saw her own name on it. The two girls passed into Patricia’s room, which was on the other side of Maria’s. Patricia lighted her candle, and read,

“Patricia, it is true, what I told Honor. I did not mean to steal the ring. Please take Honor back. I will not disgrace her when she was so good to me.

“MARIA PATTERSON.”

“Oh, Patricia!” cried Honor. “What--what did she do? What was that dreadful smell? Patricia! you are white as a sheet! Are you going to faint? Don’t--don’t cry, my dear!”

“I am not crying!” Patricia wiped two large tears from her cheeks. “What did she do? She tried to kill herself. If it had not been for you, I should have been a murderess!”

“Patricia, don’t say such dreadful things! And what have I to do with it?”

“You kept me from going to sleep!” said Patricia curtly. “You little thing--” Patricia laid her hands on Honor’s shoulders, and held her at arm’s length a moment. “You little thing!” she repeated. “You have saved me, as well as Maria!”

“Oh, Patricia!” faltered Honor, her own eyes bright with tears. “What was it? was it poison?”

“Charcoal! The poor creature must have taken some from Margoton’s brazier. Mercifully she didn’t know enough to stop up the keyhole between her room and mine. I smelt it, and then I saw a thin blue thread come creeping through the keyhole; and then--all in a minute I knew! Hark! the Sister calls us. Honor, I can’t talk about it, but I never shall forget this night!”

Honor was almost awe-stricken as Patricia pressed a warm kiss on her cheek; Patricia, who never kissed any one. She returned the caress shyly, but tenderly, and hand in hand the two entered Maria’s room.

Soeur Séraphine’s lovely face was more nearly stern than they had ever seen it. She was sitting on the bed, Maria’s hand in hers. She addressed the two girls gravely.

“Here we have,” she said, “one who has sinned and repented. Her first sin was not grievous, as it appears to me; her repentance was deep and sincere, but it has not been accepted--save by thee, my little Honor! Thy part in this affair has been all that I could wish. Patricia, of thee I would ask, art thou entirely without sin thyself?”

“No, my Sister!” Patricia’s voice was low, her eyes were bent on the floor.

“Thou art right. Pride, vain glory, envy--no, perhaps not that!” as Patricia made an involuntary movement; “hatred, malice and all uncharitableness. Of these thou hast been guilty; is it not so, my child?”

“Yes, my Sister!”

“Dost thou repent of these thy sins? Are they hateful in thine eyes?”

“Oh, yes! yes!”

Soeur Séraphine’s face softened; her eyes shone with their own kind light. She said no word, but with a lovely gesture held out Maria’s hand. Patricia clasped it, and knelt down by the bedside.

“Maria,” she said, in a low, stifled voice, “I have been wicked and hateful, and I beg your pardon!”

“Oh, don’t, Patricia!” gasped Maria. “Oh, please don’t! I--of course it was horrid of me; of course you thought--oh, _do_ get up, Patricia! Oh, of _course_ I forgive you, if you forgive me!”

“So!” The Sister raised Patricia, and seated her beside her. “That is well. Now you are friends once more, and that part of this sad matter may be forgotten. For her second and far more grievous sin, that of attempting to renounce the gift of life given her by the good God, Maria is deeply repentant; is it not so, my child?”

“Oh, yes!” murmured Maria, clasping her hands over her face. “I don’t see how I _could_ have done it!”

“Fitting penance will be devised for thee!” the Sister went on serenely. “Thou preferest to leave it to me and Madame, and it is well. For thee, Patricia; wouldst thou prefer to choose thine own penance, or shall we devise one for thee also?”

“I think--” Patricia spoke slowly, but with something of her usual assured tone: “I think, my Sister, that I will go to Coventry myself!”

“Go to--Cov--what is that, my child? A city of England, is it not? We could not permit--”

Patricia hastened to explain.

“Sending a person to Coventry means--not speaking to her, not having anything to do with her. We--I--sent Maria to Coventry, and made all the other girls do it--except Honor! she wouldn’t! Now I will go myself, for a week. I will not speak to anybody, and nobody shall speak to me. Will that do, my Sister?”

“Oh, Patricia!” cried Honor and Maria in one breath. “You shall not! You must not!”

But Soeur Séraphine nodded approval.

“The idea,” she said, “appears to me admirable!”