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!”