Part 22 (1/2)

Then Papa wanted to go at once to the convent, and bring Maman home.

What had he come back for, if not for that? As a matter of fact, Marise was not very sure why he had come back, or why she had felt it so necessary to get word to him at once. Now that she had had time to think about it, she realized that she dreaded very much having Maman see Papa just now, right after ... after all that. It would have been better for her to have had a little time to get over it, and like Marise, to think what to say.

But, of course, this was one of the things she could not speak to Papa about. All she could do was to find out that lunch was nearly ready and they would better eat that before they went to the convent.

Isabelle, her head turned with the sudden removal of Jeanne's heavy-handed authority, had prepared a gala luncheon with the best silver and linen, and ”What a pretty bunch of flowers,” remarked Papa.

Marise looked silently at the white rose-buds, now opening into roses.

Was it only yesterday morning that Jeanne had given her those? Was it only two days before, that she had been walking along with the Garniers, with nothing in her head but mockery of Madame Garnier's shoes and hat?

No, that must have been somebody else, some one she had distantly known, that girl who had laughed with the others so, over their foolishness behind the scenes.

”Let me see,” remarked Papa, ”you must be almost fifteen, aren't you, Molly?”

”Yesterday was my birthday.”

”Funny kind of celebration.”

Marise looked at him across an immense chasm, and said nothing. She couldn't ever remember having a meal at a table alone with Papa before.

”Don't you want to go with me?” he asked later, as the dessert was served. ”I don't know how to find my way around a convent--of all places! Whatever possessed your Mama to go there anyhow?”

”She and Soeur Ste. Lucie are such good friends,” explained Marise. She decided not to say anything about the old monk, because she didn't know whether Papa knew about Maman's going to see him before; but after thinking for an instant she decided that it would do no harm to add, ”Soeur Ste. Lucie wants Mama to be a Catholic, you know.”

Papa said quickly, ”What's that?”

Marise was surprised at his tone. Perhaps that _was_ one of the things she oughtn't to tell about. ”Why, would you mind if she did?” she asked.

Papa thought for a moment, and dropped back into his usual slow casual comment, ”Oh, no, I guess not, if she wants to.” There was a silence broken by Papa's saying something else, in an earnest tone as though this time he really wanted Marise to listen to him. ”All I _ever_ want, Molly, is for Mama to have things the way she wants them.”

Marise's heart was nervously sensitive that day, in a sick responsiveness to the faintest indication of what was in other people's hearts.

She could not put another morsel of food to her lips. She sat looking down at her plate, trying to master or at least understand the surge of feeling within her. ”_All I ever want is for Mama to have things the way she wants them._” There was so much to think of in that, that she was still lost in thinking, when Papa pushed back his chair and got up, pulling down his vest, with his usual after-dinner gesture.

”I'll have a look at the mail while you get your things on,” he suggested. Evidently he was still set on going at once to see Maman.

Perhaps more than he admitted, he really didn't like her being in a convent.

Marise went to get her hat, and with it in her hand, went to join her father, standing by her mother's writing-desk in the alcove. He had an American newspaper in his hand, his fore-finger inserted in the wrapper.

He tore it open and stood looking at the headlines, while Marise put on her broad-brimmed sailor-hat and, tilting her head forward, slipped the rubber under her hair behind.

”All ready?” said Papa, and they set out.

How much less _exciting_ everything was, now that Papa was home. But would it be--if he--but he never would! Who would tell him? Not Maman certainly, although Marise wished that poor Maman could have had a few days more without seeing Papa, to get over being excited so she could be surer of what she was saying. Not Jeanne. Not herself. n.o.body else knew him well enough to tell him anything. If Maman could only get through to-day all right....

V

At the convent they waited in the usual bare, white-washed convent parlor with the shutters drawn, with the usual little rush-bottomed chairs, so light that the one Papa sat down on, groaned and creaked under his great weight. The usual black-walnut book-case displayed the usual Lives of the Saints. Through an open door they could look down a long, long, gray stone corridor, very empty, till they saw Soeur Ste.

Lucie hurrying noiselessly down it towards them.

As she came near, Marise saw that her sweet face looked anxious and worried. She told them at once that Madame Allen had been taken very ill, that they had been up all night with her and had sent for the doctor early that morning.