CHAPTER VI.
JOYCE PLAYS GHOST.
Monsieur Ciseaux was coming home to live. Gabriel brought the news whenhe came back from market. He had met Henri on the road and heard it fromhim. Monsieur was coming home. That was all they knew; as to the day orthe hour, no one could guess. That was the way with monsieur, Henrisaid. He was so peculiar one never knew what to expect.
Although the work of opening the great house was begun immediately, anda thorough cleaning was in progress from garret to cellar, Brossard didnot believe that his master would really be at home before the end ofthe week. He made his own plans accordingly, although he hurried Henrirelentlessly with the cleaning.
As soon as Joyce heard the news she made an excuse to slip away, and randown to the field to Jules. She found him paler than usual, and therewas a swollen look about his eyes that made her think that maybe he hadbeen crying.
"What's the matter?" she asked. "Aren't you glad that your uncle iscoming home?"
Jules gave a cautious glance over his shoulder towards the house, andthen looked up at Joyce. Heretofore, some inward monitor of pride hadclosed his lips about himself whenever he had been with her, but, sincethe Thanksgiving Day that had made them such firm friends, he had wishedevery hour that he could tell her of his troubles. He felt that she wasthe only person in the world who took any interest in him. Although shewas only three years older than himself, she had that motherly littleway with her that eldest daughters are apt to acquire when there is awhole brood of little brothers and sisters constantly claimingattention.
So when Joyce asked again, "What's the matter, Jules?" with so muchanxious sympathy in her face and voice, the child found himself blurtingout the truth.
"Brossard beat me again last night," he exclaimed. Then, in response toher indignant exclamation, he poured out the whole story of hisill-treatment. "See here!" he cried, in conclusion, unbuttoning hisblouse and baring his thin little shoulders. Great red welts lay acrossthem, and one arm was blue with a big mottled bruise.
Joyce shivered and closed her eyes an instant to shut out the sight thatbrought the quick tears of sympathy.
"Oh, you poor little thing!" she cried. "I'm going to tell madame."
"No, don't!" begged Jules. "If Brossard ever found out that I had toldanybody, I believe that he would half kill me. He punishes me for theleast thing. I had no breakfast this morning because I dropped an oldplate and broke it."
"Do you mean to say," cried Joyce, "that you have been out here in thefield since sunrise without a bite to eat?"
Jules nodded.
"Then I'm going straight home to get you something." Before he couldanswer she was darting over the fields like a little flying squirrel.
"Oh, what if it were Jack!" she kept repeating as she ran. "Dear oldJack, beaten and starved, without anybody to love him or say a kindword to him." The mere thought of such misfortune brought a sob.
In a very few minutes Jules saw her coming across the field again, moreslowly this time, for both hands were full, and without their aid shehad no way to steady the big hat that flapped forward into her eyes atevery step. Jules eyed the food ravenously. He had not known how weakand hungry he was until then.
"It will not be like this when your uncle comes home," said Joyce, asshe watched the big mouthfuls disappear down the grateful little throat.Jules shrugged his shoulders, answering tremulously, "Oh, yes, it willbe lots worse. Brossard says that my Uncle Martin has a terrible temper,and that he turned his poor sister and my grandfather out of the houseone stormy might. Brossard says he shall tell him how troublesome I am,and likely he will turn me out, too. Or, if he doesn't do that, theywill both whip me every day."
Joyce stamped her foot. "I don't believe it," she cried, indignantly."Brossard is only trying to scare you. Your uncle is an old man now, soold that he must be sorry for the way he acted when he was young. Why,of course he must be," she repeated, "or he never would have brought youhere when you were left a homeless baby. More than that, I believe hewill be angry when he finds how you have been treated. Maybe he willsend Brossard away when you tell him."
"I would not dare to tell him," said Jules, shrinking back at the baresuggestion.
"Then _I_ dare," cried Joyce with flashing eyes. "I am not afraid ofBrossard or Henri or your uncle, or any man that I ever knew. What'smore, I intend to march over here just as soon as your uncle comes home,and tell him right before Brossard how you have been treated."
Jules gasped in admiration of such reckless courage. "Seems to meBrossard himself would be afraid of you if you looked at him that way."Then his voice sank to a whisper. "Brossard is afraid of one thing, I'veheard him tell Henri so, and that is _ghosts_. They talk about themevery night when the wind blows hard and makes queer noises in thechimney. Sometimes they are afraid to put out their candles for fearsome evil spirit might be in the room."
"I'm glad he is afraid of something, the mean old thing!" exclaimedJoyce. For a few moments nothing more was said, but Jules felt comfortednow that he had unburdened his long pent up little heart. He reached outfor several blades of grass and began idly twisting them aroundhis finger.
Joyce sat with her hands clasped over her knees, and a wicked littlegleam in her eyes that boded mischief. Presently she giggled as if someamusing thought had occurred to her, and when Jules looked upinquiringly she began noiselessly clapping her hands together.
"I've thought of the best thing," she said. "I'll fix old Brossard now.Jack and I have played ghost many a time, and have even scared eachother while we were doing it, because we were so frightful-looking. Weput long sheets all over us and went about with pumpkin jack-o'-lanternson our heads. Oh, we looked awful, all in white, with fire shining outof those hideous eyes and mouths. If I knew when Brossard was likely towhip you again, I'd suddenly appear on the scene and shriek out like abanshee and make him stop. Wouldn't it be lovely?" she cried, morecarried away with the idea the longer she thought of it. "Why, it wouldbe like acting our fairy story. You are the Prince, and I will be thegiant scissors and rescue you from the Ogre. Now let me see if I canthink of a rhyme for you to say whenever you need me."
Joyce put her hands over her ears and began to mumble something that hadno meaning whatever for Jules: "Ghost--post--roast--toast,--no that willnever do; need--speed deed,--no! Help--yelp (I wish I could make himyelp),--friend--spend--lend,--that's it. I shall try that."
There was a long silence, during which Joyce whispered to herself withclosed eyes. "Now I've got it," she announced, triumphantly, "and it'severy bit as good as Cousin Kate's:
"Giant scissors, fearless friend, Hasten, pray, thy aid to lend.
"If you could just say that loud enough for me to hear I'd come rushingin and save you."
Jules repeated the rhyme several times, until he was sure that he couldremember it, and then Joyce stood up to go.
"Good-by, fearless friend," said Jules. "I wish I were brave like you."Joyce smiled in a superior sort of way, much flattered by the new title.Going home across the field she held her head a trifle higher thanusual, and carried on an imaginary conversation with Brossard, in whichshe made him quail before her scathing rebukes.
Joyce did not take her usual walk that afternoon. She spent the timebehind locked doors busy with paste, scissors, and a big muff-box, thebest foundation she could find for a jack-o'-lantern. First she coveredthe box with white paper and cut a hideous face in one side,--greatstaring eyes, and a frightful grinning mouth. With a bit of wire shefastened a candle inside and shut down the lid.
"Looks too much like a box yet," she said, after a critical examination."It needs some hair and a beard. Wonder what I can make it of." Sheglanced all around the room for a suggestion, and then closed her eyesto think. Finally she went over to her bed, and, turning the coversback from one corner, began ripping a seam in the mattress. When theopening was wide enough she put in her thumb and finger and pulled out ahandful of the curled hair. "I can easily put it back when I have usedit, and
sew up the hole in the mattress," she said to her conscience."My! This is exactly what I needed." The hair was mixed, white andblack, coarse and curly as a negro's wool.
She covered the top of the pasteboard head with it, and was so pleasedthat she added long beard and fierce mustache to the already hideousmouth. When that was all done she took it into a dark closet and lightedthe candle. The monster's head glared at her from the depth of thecloset, and she skipped back and forth in front of it, wringing herhands in delight.
"Oh, if Jack could only see it! If he could only see it!" she keptexclaiming. "It is better than any pumpkin head we ever made, and scaryenough to throw old Brossard into a fit. I can hardly wait until it isdark enough to go over."
Meanwhile the short winter day drew on towards the close. Jules, out inthe field with the goats, walked back and forth, back and forth, tryingto keep warm. Brossard, who had gone five miles down the Paris road tobargain about some grain, sat comfortably in a little tobacco shop, witha pipe in his mouth and a glass and bottle on the table at his elbow.Henri was at home, still scrubbing and cleaning. The front of the greathouse was in order, with even the fires laid on all the hearths readyfor lighting. Now he was scrubbing the back stairs. His brush bumpednoisily against the steps, and the sound of its scouring was nearlydrowned by the jerky tune which the old fellow sung through his nose ashe worked.
A carriage drove slowly down the road and stopped at the gate with thescissors; then, in obedience to some command from within, the vehicledrove on to the smaller gate beyond. An old man with white hair andbristling mustache slowly alighted. The master had come home. He putout his hand as if to ring the bell, then on second thought drew a keyfrom his pocket and fitted it in the lock. The gate swung back and hepassed inside. The old house looked gray and forbidding in the dulllight of the late afternoon. He frowned up at it, and it frowned down onhim, standing there as cold and grim as itself. That was hisonly welcome.
The doors and windows were all shut, so that he caught only a faintsound of the bump, thump of the scrubbing-brush as it accompaniedHenri's high-pitched tune down the back stairs.
Without giving any warning of his arrival, he motioned the man besidethe coachman to follow with his trunk, and silently led the wayup-stairs. When the trunk had been unstrapped and the man had departed,monsieur gave one slow glance all around the room. It was in perfectreadiness for him. He set a match to the kindling laid in the grate, andthen closed the door into the hall. The master had come home again, moresilent, more mysterious in his movements than before.
Henri finished his scrubbing and his song, and, going down into thekitchen, began preparations for supper. A long time after, Jules came upfrom the field, put the goats in their place, and crept in behind thekitchen stove.
Then it was that Joyce, from her watch-tower of her window, saw Brossarddriving home in the market-cart. "Maybe I'll have a chance to scare himwhile he is putting the horse up and feeding it," she thought. It was inthe dim gloaming when she could easily slip along by the hedges withoutattracting attention. Bareheaded, and in breathless haste to reach thebarn before Brossard, she ran down the road, keeping close to the hedge,along which the wind raced also, blowing the dead leaves almost as highas her head.
Slipping through a hole in the hedge, just as Brossard drove in at thegate, she ran into the barn and crouched down behind the door. There shewrapped herself in the sheet that she had brought with her for thepurpose, and proceeded to strike a match to light the lantern. The firstone flickered and went out. The second did the same. Brossard wascalling angrily for Jules now, and she struck another match in nervoushaste, this time touching the wick with it before the wind couldinterfere. Then she drew her dress over the lantern to hide the light.
"Wouldn't Jack enjoy this," she thought, with a daring little gigglethat almost betrayed her hiding-place.
"I tell thee it is thy fault," cried Brossard's angry voice, drawingnearer the barn.
"But I tried," began Jules, timidly.
His trembling excuse was interrupted by Brossard, who had seized him bythe arm. They were now on the threshold of the barn, which was as darkas a pocket inside.
Joyce, peeping through the crack of the door, saw the man's arm raisedin the dim twilight outside. "Oh, he is really going to beat him," shethought, turning faint at the prospect. Then her indignation overcameevery other feeling as she heard a heavy halter-strap whiz through theair and fall with a sickening blow across Jules's shoulders. She hadplanned a scene something like this while she worked away at the lanternthat afternoon. Now she felt as if she were acting a part in someprivate theatrical performance. Jules's cry gave her the cue, and thecourage to appear.
As the second blow fell across Jules's smarting shoulders, a low,blood-curdling wail came from the dark depths of the barn. Joyce had notpractised that dismal moan of a banshee to no purpose in her ghostdances at home with Jack. It rose and fell and quivered and rose againin cadences of horror. There was something awful, something inhuman, inthat fiendish, long-drawn shriek.
Brossard's arm fell to his side paralyzed with fear, as that same hoarsevoice cried, solemnly: "Brossard, beware! Beware!" But worse than thatvoice of sepulchral warning was the white-sheeted figure, coming towardshim with a wavering, ghostly motion, fire shooting from the demon-likeeyes, and flaming from the hideous mouth.
Brossard sank on his knees in a shivering heap, and began crossinghimself. His hair was upright with horror, and his tongue stiff. Julesknew who it was that danced around them in such giddy circles, firstdarting towards them with threatening gestures, and then gliding back toutter one of those awful, sickening wails. He knew that under thatfiery head and wrapped in that spectral dress was his "fearless friend,"who, according to promise, had hastened her aid to lend; nevertheless,he was afraid of her himself. He had never imagined that anything couldlook so terrifying.
The wail reached Henri's ears and aroused his curiosity. Cautiouslyopening the kitchen door, he thrust out his head, and then nearly fellbackward in his haste to draw it in again and slam the door. One glimpseof the ghost in the barnyard was quite enough for Henri.
Altogether the performance probably did not last longer than a minute,but each of the sixty seconds seemed endless to Brossard. With a finaldie-away moan Joyce glided towards the gate, delighted beyond measurewith her success; but her delight did not last long. Just as she turnedthe corner of the house, some one standing in the shadow of it clutchedher. A strong arm was thrown around her, and a firm hand snatched thelantern, and tore the sheet away from her face.
"BROSSARD, BEWARE! BEWARE!"]
It was Joyce's turn to be terrified. "Let me go!" she shrieked, inEnglish. With one desperate wrench she broke away, and by the lightof the grinning jack-o'-lantern saw who was her captor. She was face toface with Monsieur Ciseaux.
"What does this mean?" he asked, severely. "Why do you come masqueradinghere to frighten my servants in this manner?"
For an instant Joyce stood speechless. Her boasted courage had forsakenher. It was only for an instant, however, for the rhyme that she hadmade seemed to sound in her ears as distinctly as if Jules werecalling to her:
"Giant scissors, fearless friend, Hasten, pray, thy aid to lend."
"I will be a fearless friend," she thought. Looking defiantly up intothe angry face she demanded: "Then why do you keep such servants? I camebecause they needed to be frightened, and I'm glad you caught me, for Itold Jules that I should tell you about them as soon as you got home.Brossard has starved and beaten him like a dog ever since he has beenhere. I just hope that you will look at the stripes and bruises on hispoor little back. He begged me not to tell, for Brossard said you wouldlikely drive him away, as you did your brother and sister. But even ifyou do, the neighbors say that an orphan asylum would be a far betterhome for Jules than this has been. I hope you'll excuse me, monsieur, Itruly do, but I'm an American, and I can't stand by and keep still whenI see anybody being abused, even if I am a girl, and it isn't polite fo
rme to talk so to older people."
Joyce fired out the words as if they had been bullets, and so rapidlythat monsieur could scarcely follow her meaning. Then, having relievedher mind, and fearing that maybe she had been rude in speaking soforcibly to such an old gentleman, she very humbly begged his pardon.Before he could recover from her rapid change in manner and her torrentof words, she reached out her hand, saying, in the meekest of littlevoices, "And will you please give me back those things, monsieur? Thesheet is Madame Greville's, and I've got to stuff that hair back in themattress to-night."
Monsieur gave them to her, still too astonished for words. He had neverbefore heard any child speak in such a way. This one seemed more like awild, uncanny little sprite than like any of the little girls he hadknown heretofore. Before he could recover from his bewilderment, Joycehad gone. "Good night, monsieur," she called, as the gate clangedbehind her.
The Gate of the Giant Scissors Page 6