CHAPTER V.
A THANKSGIVING BARBECUE.
"This doesn't seem a bit like Thanksgiving Day, Marie," said Joyce,plaintively, as she sat up in bed to take the early breakfast that hermaid brought in,--a cup of chocolate and a roll.
"In our country the very minute you wake up you can _feel_ that it is aholiday. Outdoors it's nearly always cold and gray, with everythingcovered with snow. Inside you can smell turkey and pies and all sorts ofgood spicy things. Here it is so warm that the windows are open andflowers blooming in the garden, and there isn't a thing to make it seemdifferent from any other old day."
Here her grumbling was interrupted by a knock at the door, and MadameGreville's maid, Berthe, came in with a message.
"Madame and monsieur intend spending the day in Tours, and sinceMademoiselle Ware has written that Mademoiselle Joyce is to have nolessons on this American holiday, they will be pleased to have heraccompany them in the carriage. She can spend the morning with themthere or return immediately with Gabriel."
"Of course I want to go," cried Joyce. "I love to drive. But I'd rathercome back here to lunch and have it by myself in the garden. Berthe, askmadame if I can't have it served in the little kiosk at the end ofthe arbor."
As soon as she had received a most gracious permission, Joyce began tomake a little plan. It troubled her conscience somewhat, for she feltthat she ought to mention it to madame, but she was almost certain thatmadame would object, and she had set her heart on carrying it out.
"I won't speak about it now," she said to herself, "because I am not_sure_ that I am going to do it. Mamma would think it was all right,but foreigners are so queer about some things."
Uncertain as Joyce may have been about her future actions, as they drovetowards town, no sooner had madame and monsieur stepped from thecarriage, on the Rue Nationale, than she was perfectly sure.
"Stop at the baker's, Gabriel," she ordered as they turned homeward,then at the big grocery on the corner. "Cousin Kate told me to treatmyself to something nice," she said apologetically to her conscience, asshe gave up the twenty francs to the clerk to be changed.
If Gabriel wondered what was in the little parcels which she broughtback to the carriage, he made no sign. He only touched his hatrespectfully, as she gave the next order: "Stop where the road turns bythe cemetery, Gabriel; at the house with the steps going up to aniron-barred gate. I'll be back in two or three minutes," she said, whenshe had reached it, and climbed from the carriage.
To his surprise, instead of entering the gate, she hurried on past it,around the bend in the road. In a little while she came running back,her shoes covered with damp earth, as if she had been walking in afreshly ploughed field.
If Gabriel's eyes could have followed her around that bend in the road,he would have seen a sight past his understanding: Mademoiselle Joycerunning at the top of her speed to meet a little goatherd in woodenshoes and blue cotton blouse,--a common little peasant goatherd.
"It's Thanksgiving Day. Jules," she announced, gasping, as she sank downon the ground beside him. "We're the only Americans here, and everybodyhas gone off; and Cousin Kate said to celebrate in some way. I'm goingto have a dinner in the garden. I've bought a rabbit, and we'll dig ahole, and make a fire, and barbecue it the way Jack and I used to do athome. And we'll roast eggs in the ashes, and have a fine time. I've gota lemon tart and a little iced fruit-cake, too."
All this was poured out in such breathless haste, and in such aconfusion of tongues, first a sentence of English and then a word ofFrench, that it is no wonder that Jules grew bewildered in trying tofollow her. She had to begin again at the beginning, and speak veryslowly, in order to make him understand that it was a feast day of somekind, and that he, Jules, was invited to some sort of a strange,wonderful entertainment in Monsieur Greville's garden. "But Brossard isaway from home," said Jules, "and there is no one to watch the goats,and keep them from straying down the road. Still it would be just thesame if he were home," he added, sadly. "He would not let me go, I amsure. I have never been out of sight of that roof since I first camehere, except on errands to the village, when I had to run all the wayback." He pointed to the peaked gables, adorned by the scissors of hiscrazy old ancestor.
"Brossard isn't your father," cried Joyce, indignantly, "nor your uncle,nor your cousin, nor anything else that has a right to shut you up thatway. Isn't there a field with a fence all around it, that you coulddrive the goats into for a few hours?"
Jules shook his head.
"Well, I can't have my Thanksgiving spoiled for just a couple of oldgoats," exclaimed Joyce. "You'll have to bring them along, and we'llshut them up in the carriage-house. You come over in about an hour, andI'll be at the side gate waiting for you."
Joyce had always been a general in her small way. She made her plans andissued her orders both at home and at school, and the children acceptedher leadership as a matter of course. Even if Jules had not been willingand anxious to go, it is doubtful if he could have mustered courage tooppose the arrangements that she made in such a masterful way; but Juleshad not the slightest wish to object to anything whatsoever that Joycemight propose.
It is safe to say that the old garden had never before even dreamed ofsuch a celebration as the one that took place that afternoon behind itsmoss-coated walls. The time-stained statue of Eve, which stood on oneside of the fountain, looked across at the weather-beaten figure ofAdam, on the other side, in stony-eyed surprise. The little marble satyrin the middle of the fountain, which had been grinning ever since itsendless shower-bath began, seemed to grin wider than ever, as it watchedthe children's strange sport.
Jules dug the little trench according to Joyce's directions, and laidthe iron grating which she had borrowed from the cook across it, andbuilt the fire underneath. "We ought to have something especiallypatriotic and Thanksgivingey," said Joyce, standing on one foot toconsider. "Oh, now I know," she cried, after a moment's thought. "CousinKate has a lovely big silk flag in the top of her trunk. I'll run andget that, and then I'll recite the 'Landing of the Pilgrims' to youwhile the rabbit cooks."
Presently a savory odor began to steal along the winding paths of thegarden, between the laurel-bushes,--a smell of barbecued meat sputteringover the fire. Above the door of the little kiosk, with many a softswish of silken stirrings, hung the beautiful old flag. Then a clearlittle voice floated up through the pine-trees:
"My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing!"
All the time that Joyce sang, she was moving around the table, settingout the plates and rattling cups and saucers. She could not keep alittle quaver out of her voice, for, as she went on, all the scenes ofall the times that she had sung that song before came crowding up in hermemory. There were the Thanksgiving days in the church at home, and theWashington's birthdays at school, and two Decoration days, when, as agranddaughter of a veteran, she had helped scatter flowers over thesoldiers' graves.
Somehow it made her feel so hopelessly far away from all that made lifedear to be singing of that "sweet land of liberty" in a foreign country,with only poor little alien Jules for company.
Maybe that is why the boy's first lesson in patriotism was given soearnestly by his homesick little teacher. Something that could not beput into words stirred within him, as, looking up at the soft silkenflutterings of the old flag, he listened for the first time to the storyof the Pilgrim Fathers.
The rabbit cooked slowly, so slowly that there was time for Jules tolearn how to play mumble-peg while they waited. At last it was done, andJoyce proudly plumped it into the platter that had been waiting for it.Marie had already brought out a bountiful lunch, cold meats and saladand a dainty pudding. By the time that Joyce had added her contributionto the feast, there was scarcely an inch of the table left uncovered.Jules did not know the names of half the dishes.
Not many miles away from that old garden, scattered up and down theLoire throughout all the region of fair Tourraine, rise the turrets ofmany an old chatea
u. Great banquet halls, where kings and queens oncefeasted, still stand as silent witnesses of a gay bygone court life; butnever in any chateau or palace among them all was feast more thoroughlyenjoyed than this impromptu dinner in the garden, where a littlegoatherd was the only guest.
It was an enchanted spot to Jules, made so by the magic of Joyce'swonderful gift of story-telling. For the first time in his life that hecould remember, he heard of Santa Claus and Christmas trees, ofBluebeard and Aladdin's lamp, and all the dear old fairy tales that wereso entrancing he almost forgot to eat.
Then they played that he was the prince, Prince Ethelried, and that thegoats in the carriage-house were his royal steeds, and that Joyce was aqueen whom he had come to visit.
A LESSON IN PATRIOTISM.]
But it came to an end, as all beautiful things must do. The bells inthe village rang four, and Prince Ethelried started up as Cinderellamust have done when the pumpkin coach disappeared. He was no longer aking's son; he was only Jules, the little goatherd, who must hurry backto the field before the coming of Brossard.
Joyce went with him to the carriage-house. Together they swung open thegreat door. Then an exclamation of dismay fell from Joyce's lips. Allover the floor were scattered scraps of leather and cloth and hair, thekind used in upholstering. The goats had whiled away the hours of theirimprisonment by chewing up the cushions of the pony cart.
Jules turned pale with fright. Knowing so little of the world, he judgedall grown people by his knowledge of Henri and Brossard. "Oh, what willthey do to us?" he gasped.
"Nothing at all," answered Joyce, bravely, although her heart beat twiceas fast as usual as monsieur's accusing face rose up before her.
"It was all my fault," said Jules, ready to cry. "What must I do?" Joycesaw his distress, and with quick womanly tact recognized her duty ashostess. It would never do to let this, his first Thanksgiving Day, beclouded by a single unhappy remembrance. She would pretend that it was apart of their last game; so she waved her hand, and said, in atheatrical voice, "You forget, Prince Ethelried, that in the castle ofIrmingarde she rules supreme. If it is the pleasure of your royal steedsto feed upon cushions they shall not be denied, even though they choosemy own coach pillows, of gold-cloth and velour."
"But what if Gabriel should tell Brossard?" questioned Jules, his teethalmost chattering at the mere thought.
"Oh, never mind, Jules," she answered, laughingly. "Don't worry about alittle thing like that. I'll make it all right with madame as soon asshe gets home."
Jules, with utmost faith in Joyce's power to do anything that she mightundertake, drew a long breath of relief. Half a dozen times between thegate and the lane that led into the Ciseaux field, he turned around towave his old cap in answer to the hopeful flutter of her little whitehandkerchief; but when he was out of sight she went back to thecarriage-house and looked at the wreck of the cushions with a sinkingheart. After that second look, she was not so sure of making it allright with madame.
Going slowly up to her room, she curled up in the window-seat to waitfor the sound of the carriage wheels. The blue parrots on the wall-papersat in their blue hoops in straight rows from floor to ceiling, and hungall their dismal heads. It seemed to Joyce as if there were thousands ofthem, and that each one was more unhappy than any of the others. Theblue roses on the bed-curtains, that had been in such gay blossom a fewhours before, looked ugly and unnatural now.
Over the mantel hung a picture that had been a pleasure to Joyce eversince she had taken up her abode in this quaint blue room. It was called"A Message from Noel," and showed an angel flying down with gifts tofill a pair of little wooden shoes that some child had put out on awindow-sill below. When madame had explained that the little Frenchchildren put out their shoes for Saint Noel to fill, instead of hangingstockings for Santa Claus, Joyce had been so charmed with the picturethat she declared that she intended to follow the French custom herself,this year.
Now, even the picture looked different, since she had lost her joyfulanticipations of Christmas. "It is all No-el to me now," she sobbed. "Notree, no Santa Claus, and now, since the money must go to pay for thegoats' mischief, no presents for anybody in the dear little brown houseat home,--not even mamma and the baby!"
A big salty tear trickled down the side of Joyce's nose and splashed onher hand; then another one. It was such a gloomy ending for her happyThanksgiving Day. One consoling thought came to her in time to stop thedeluge that threatened. "Anyway, Jules has had a good time for once inhis life." The thought cheered her so much that, when Marie came in tolight the lamps, Joyce was walking up and down the room with her handsbehind her back, singing.
As soon as she was dressed for dinner she went down-stairs, but found noone in the drawing-room. A small fire burned cozily on the hearth, forthe November nights were growing chilly. Joyce picked up a book andtried to read, but found herself looking towards the door fully asoften as at the page before her. Presently she set her teeth togetherand swallowed hard, for there was a rustling in the hall. The portierewas pushed aside and madame swept into the room in a dinner-gown of darkred velvet.
To Joyce's waiting eyes she seemed more imposing, more elegant, and moreunapproachable than she had ever been before. At madame's entrance Joycerose as usual, but when the red velvet train had swept on to a seatbeside the fire, she still remained standing. Her lips seemed gluedtogether after those first words of greeting.
"Be seated, mademoiselle," said the lady, with a graceful motion of herhand towards a chair. "How have you enjoyed your holiday?"
Joyce gave a final swallow of the choking lump in her throat, and beganher humble confession that she had framed up-stairs among the rows ofdismal blue wall-paper parrots. She started with Clotilde Robard's storyof Jules, told of her accidental meeting with him, of all that she knewof his hard life with Brossard, and of her longing for some one to playwith. Then she acknowledged that she had planned the barbecue secretly,fearing that madame would not allow her to invite the little goatherd.At the conclusion, she opened the handkerchief which she had beenholding tightly clenched in her hand, and poured its contents in the redvelvet lap.
"There's all that is left of my Christmas money," she said, sadly,"seventeen francs and two sous. If it isn't enough to pay for thecushions, I'll write to Cousin Kate, and maybe she will lend methe rest."
Madame gathered up the handful of coin, and slowly rose. "It is only astep to the carriage-house," she said. "If you will kindly ring forBerthe to bring a lamp we will look to see how much damage hasbeen done."
It was an unusual procession that filed down the garden walk a fewminutes later. First came Berthe, in her black dress and white cap,holding a lamp high above her head, and screwing her forehead into amass of wrinkles as she peered out into the surrounding darkness. Afterher came madame, holding up her dress and stepping daintily along in herhigh-heeled little slippers. Joyce brought up the rear, stumbling alongin the darkness of madame's large shadow, so absorbed in her troublesthat she did not see the amused expression on the face of the grinningsatyr in the fountain.
Eve, looking across at Adam, seemed to wink one of her stony eyes, asmuch as to say, "Humph! Somebody else has been getting into trouble.There's more kinds of forbidden fruit than one; pony-cart cushions, forinstance."
Berthe opened the door, and madame stepped inside the carriage-house.With her skirts held high in both hands, she moved around among thewreck of the cushions, turning over a bit with the toe of her slippernow and then.
Madame wore velvet dinner-gowns, it is true, and her house was elegantin its fine old furnishings bought generations ago; but only herdressmaker and herself knew how many times those gowns had been rippedand cleaned and remodelled. It was only constant housewifely skill thatkept the antique furniture repaired and the ancient brocade hangingsfrom falling into holes. None but a French woman, trained in pettyeconomies, could have guessed how little money and how much thought wasspent in keeping her table up to its high standard of excellence.
Now as she looked and estimated, counting the fingers of one hand withthe thumb of the other, a wish stirred in her kind old heart that sheneed not take the child's money; but new cushions must be bought, andshe must be just to herself before she could be generous to others. Soshe went on with her estimating and counting, and then called Gabriel toconsult with him.
"Much of the same hair can be used again," she said, finally, "and thecushions were partly worn, so that it would not be right for you to haveto bear the whole expense of new ones. I shall keep sixteen,--no, Ishall keep only fifteen francs of your money, mademoiselle. I am sorryto take any of it, since you have been so frank with me; but you mustsee that it would not be justice for me to have to suffer inconsequence of your fault. In France, children do nothing without thepermission of their elders, and it would be well for you to adopt thesame rule, my dear mademoiselle."
Here she dropped two francs and two sous into Joyce's hand. It was morethan she had dared to hope for. Now there would be at least a littlepicture-book apiece for the children at home.
This time Joyce saw the grin on the satyr's face when they passed thefountain. She was smiling herself when they entered the house, wheremonsieur was waiting to escort them politely in to dinner.