CHAPTER VII.
OLD "NUMBER THIRTY-ONE."
No sooner had the gate closed upon the subdued little ghost, shorn nowof its terrors, than the old man strode forward to the place whereBrossard crouched in the straw, still crossing himself. This suddenappearance of his master at such a time only added to Brossard's fright.As for Jules, his knees shook until he could scarcely stand.
Henri, his curiosity lending him courage, cautiously opened the kitchendoor to peer out again. Emboldened by the silence, he flung the doorwide open, sending a broad stream of lamplight across the little groupin the barnyard. Without a word of greeting monsieur laid hold of thetrembling Jules and drew him nearer the door. Throwing open the child'sblouse, he examined the thin little shoulders, which shrank away as ifto dodge some expected blow.
"Go to my room," was all the old man said to him. Then he turnedfiercely towards Brossard. His angry tones reached Jules even after hehad mounted the stairs and closed the door. The child crept close to thecheerful fire, and, crouching down on the rug, waited in a shiver ofnervousness for his uncle's step on the stair.
Meanwhile, Joyce, hurrying home all a-tingle with the excitement of heradventure, wondered anxiously what would be the result of it. Undercover of the dusk she slipped into the house unobserved. There wasbarely time to dress for dinner. When she made her appearance monsieurcomplimented her unusually red cheeks.
"Doubtless mademoiselle has had a fine promenade," he said.
"No," answered Joyce, with a blush that made them redder still, and thatcaused madame to look at her so keenly that she felt those sharp eyesmust be reading her inmost thoughts. It disturbed her so that she upsetthe salt, spilled a glass of water, and started to eat her soup with afork. She glanced in an embarrassed way from madame to monsieur, andgave a nervous little laugh.
"The little mademoiselle has been in mischief again," remarked monsieur,with a smile. "What is it this time?"
The smile was so encouraging that Joyce's determination not to tellmelted away, and she began a laughable account of the afternoon'sadventure. At first both the old people looked shocked. Monsieurshrugged his shoulders and pulled his gray beard thoughtfully. Madamethrew up her hands at the end of each sentence like horrified littleexclamation points. But when Joyce had told the entire story neither ofthem had a word of blame, because their sympathies were so thoroughlyaroused for Jules.
"I shall ask Monsieur Ciseaux to allow the child to visit heresometimes," said madame, her kind old heart full of pity for themotherless little fellow; "and I shall also explain that it was onlyyour desire to save Jules from ill treatment that caused you to do suchan unusual thing. Otherwise he might think you too bold and too--well,peculiar, to be a fit playmate for his little nephew."
"Oh, was it really so improper and horrid of me, madame?" asked Joyce,anxiously.
Madame hesitated. "The circumstances were some excuse," she finallyadmitted. "But I certainly should not want a little daughter of mine tobe out after dark by herself on such a wild errand. In this country alittle girl would not think it possible to do such a thing."
Joyce's face was very sober as she arose to leave the room. "I do wishthat I could be proper like little French girls," she said, witha sigh.
Madame drew her towards her, kissing her on both cheeks. It was such anunusual thing for madame to do that Joyce could scarcely help showingsome surprise. Feeling that the caress was an assurance that she was notin disgrace, as she had feared, she ran up-stairs, so light-hearted thatshe sang on the way.
As the door closed behind her, monsieur reached for his pipe, saying, ashe did so, "She has a heart of gold, the little mademoiselle."
"Yes," assented madame; "but she is a strange little body, so untamedand original. I am glad that her cousin returns soon, for theresponsibility is too great for my old shoulders. One never knows whatshe will do next."
Perhaps it was for this reason that madame took Joyce with her when shewent to Tours next day. She felt safer when the child was in her sight.
"It is so much nicer going around with you than Marie," said Joyce,giving madame an affectionate little pat, as they stood before theentrance of a great square building, awaiting admission. "You take me toplaces that I have never seen before. What place is this?" She stoopedto read the inscription on the door-plate:
"LITTLE SISTERS OF THE POOR."
Before her question could be answered, the door was opened by a wrinkledold woman, in a nodding white cap, who led them into a reception-room atthe end of the hall.
"Ask for Sister Denisa," said madame, "and give her my name."
The old woman shuffled out of the room, and madame, taking a smallmemorandum book from her pocket, began to study it. Joyce sat lookingabout her with sharp, curious glances. She wondered if these littlesisters of the poor were barefoot beggar girls, who went about thestreets with ragged shawls over their heads, and with baskets in theirhands. In her lively imagination she pictured row after row of suchunfortunate children, marching out in the morning, empty-handed, andcreeping back at night with the results of the day's begging. She didnot like to ask about them, however, and, in a few minutes, hercuriosity was satisfied without the use of questions.
Sister Denisa entered the room. She was a beautiful woman, in the plainblack habit and white head-dress of a sister of charity.
"Oh, they're nuns!" exclaimed Joyce, in a disappointed whisper. She hadbeen hoping to see the beggar girls. She had often passed the convent inSt. Symphorien, and caught glimpses of the nuns, through the high barredgate. She had wondered how it must feel to be shut away from the world;to see only the patient white faces of the other sisters, and to walkwith meekly folded hands and downcast eyes always in the same old paths.
But Sister Denisa was different from the nuns that she had seen before.Some inward joy seemed to shine through her beautiful face and make itradiant. She laughed often, and there was a happy twinkle in her clear,gray eyes. When she came into the room, she seemed to bring the outdoorswith her, there was such sunshine and fresh air in the cheeriness ofher greeting.
Madame had come to visit an old pensioner of hers who was in the home.After a short conversation, Sister Denisa rose to lead the way to her."Would the little mademoiselle like to go through the house whilemadame is engaged?" asked the nun.
JOYCE AND SISTER DENISA.]
"Oh, yes, thank you," answered Joyce, who had found by this time thatthis home was not for little beggar girls, but for old men and women.Joyce had known very few old people in her short life, except herGrandmother Ware; and this grandmother was one of those dear, sunny oldsouls, whom everybody loves to claim, whether they are in the family ornot. Some of Joyce's happiest days had been spent in her grandmother'scountry home, and the host of happy memories that she had stored upduring those visits served to sweeten all her after life.
Old age, to Joyce, was associated with the most beautiful things thatshe had ever known: the warmest hospitality, the tenderest love, thecheeriest home-life. Strangers were in the old place now, andGrandmother Ware was no longer living, but, for her sake, Joyce heldsacred every wrinkled face set round with snow-white hair, just as shelooked tenderly on all old-fashioned flowers, because she had seen themfirst in her grandmother's garden.
Sister Denisa led the way into a large, sunny room, and Joyce lookedaround eagerly. It was crowded with old men. Some were sitting idly onthe benches around the walls, or dozing in chairs near the stove. Somesmoked, some gathered around the tables where games of checkers andchess were going on; some gazed listlessly out of the windows. It wasgood to see how dull faces brightened, as Sister Denisa passed by with asmile for this group, a cheery word for the next. She stopped to brushthe hair back from the forehead of an old paralytic, and pushed anotherman gently aside, when he blocked the way, with such a sweet-voiced"Pardon, little father," that it was like a caress. One white-haired oldfellow, in his second childhood, reached out and caught at her dress, asshe passed by.
Crossing a porch w
here were more old men sitting sadly alone, or walkingsociably up and down in the sunshine, Sister Denisa passed along a courtand held the door open for Joyce to enter another large room.
"Here is the rest of our family," she said. "A large one, is it not? Twohundred poor old people that nobody wants, and nobody cares whatbecomes of."
Joyce looked around the room and saw on every hand old age that hadnothing beautiful, nothing attractive. "Were they beggars when they werelittle?" she asked.
"No, indeed," answered the nun. "That is the saddest part of it to me.Nearly all these poor creatures you see here once had happy homes oftheir own. That pitiful old body over by the stove, shaking with palsy,was once a gay, rich countess; the invalid whom madame visits was amarquise. It would break your heart, mademoiselle, to hear the storiesof some of these people, especially those who have been cast aside byungrateful children, to whom their support has become a burden. Severalof these women have prosperous grandchildren, to whom we have appealedin vain. There is no cruelty that hurts me like such cruelty toold age."
Just then another nun came into the room, said something to SisterDenisa in a low voice, and glided out like a silent shadow, her rosaryswaying back and forth with every movement of her clinging black skirts."I am needed up-stairs," said Sister Denisa, turning to Joyce. "Will youcome up and see the sleeping-rooms?"
They went up the freshly scrubbed steps to a great dormitory, where,against the bare walls, stood long rows of narrow cots. They were allempty, except one at the farthest end, where an old woman lay with herhandkerchief across her eyes.
"Poor old Number Thirty-one!" said Sister Denisa. "She seems to feel herunhappy position more than any one in the house. The most of them arethankful for mere bodily comfort,--satisfied with food and shelter andwarmth; but she is continually pining for her old home surroundings.Will you not come and speak to her in English? She married a countrymanof yours, and lived over thirty years in America. She speaks of thattime as the happiest in her life. I am sure that you can give her agreat deal of pleasure."
"Is she ill?" said Joyce, timidly drawing back as the nun started acrossthe room.
"No, I think not," was the answer. "She says she can't bear to be herdedin one room with all those poor creatures, like a flock of sheep, withnothing to do but wait for death. She has always been accustomed tohaving a room of her own, so that her greatest trial is in having noprivacy. She must eat, sleep, and live with a hundred other old womenalways around her. She comes up here to bed whenever she can find theslightest ache for an excuse, just to be by herself. I wish that wecould give her a little spot that she could call her own, and shut thedoor on, and feel alone. But it cannot be," she added, with a sigh. "Ittaxes our strength to the utmost to give them all even a bare home."
By this time they had reached the cot, over the head of which hung acard, bearing the number "Thirty-one."
"Here is a little friend to see you, grandmother," said Sister Denisa,placing a chair by the bedside, and stooping to smooth back the locks ofsilvery hair that had strayed out from under the coarse white night-cap.Then she passed quickly on to her other duties, leaving Joyce to beginthe conversation as best she could. The old woman looked at her sharplywith piercing dark eyes, which must have been beautiful in their youth.The intense gaze embarrassed Joyce, and to break the silence shehurriedly stammered out the first thing that came to her mind.
"Are you ill, to-day?"
The simple question had a startling effect on the old woman. She raisedherself on one elbow, and reached out for Joyce's hand, drawing hereagerly nearer. "Ah," she cried, "you speak the language that my husbandtaught me to love, and the tongue my little children lisped; but theyare all dead now, and I've come back to my native land to find no homebut the one that charity provides."
Her words ended in a wail, and she sank back on her pillow. "And this ismy birthday," she went on. "Seventy-three years old, and a pauper, castout to the care of strangers."
The tears ran down her wrinkled cheeks, and her mouth trembledpitifully. Joyce was distressed; she looked around for Sister Denisa,but saw that they were alone, they two, in the great bare dormitory,with its long rows of narrow white cots. The child felt utterly helplessto speak a word of comfort, although she was so sorry for the poorlonely old creature that she began to cry softly to herself. She leanedover, and taking one of the thin, blue-veined hands in hers, patted ittenderly with her plump little fingers.
"I ought not to complain," said the trembling voice, still broken bysobs. "We have food and shelter and sunshine and the sisters. Ah, thatlittle Sister Denisa, she is indeed a smile of God to us all. But atseventy-three one wants more than a cup of coffee and a cleanhandkerchief. One wants something besides a bed and being just NumberThirty-one among two hundred other paupers."
"I am _so_ sorry!" exclaimed Joyce, with such heartfelt earnestness thatthe sobbing woman felt the warmth of her sympathy, and looked up with abrighter face.
"Talk to me," she exclaimed. "It has been so long since I have heardyour language."
While she obeyed Joyce kept thinking of her Grandmother Ware. She couldsee her outdoors among her flowers, the dahlias and touch-me-nots, thefour-o'clocks and the cinnamon roses, taking such pride and pleasure inher sweet posy beds. She could see her beside the little table on theshady porch, making tea for some old neighbor who had dropped in tospend the afternoon with her. Or she was asleep in her armchair by thewestern window, her Bible in her lap and a smile on her sweet, kindlyface. How dreary and empty the days must seem to poor old NumberThirty-one, with none of these things to brighten them.
Joyce could scarcely keep the tears out of her voice while she talked.Later, when Sister Denisa came back, Joyce was softly humming alullaby, and Number Thirty-one, with a smile on her pitiful old face,was sleeping like a little child.
"You will come again, dear mademoiselle," said Sister Denisa, as shekissed the child good-by at the door. "You have brought a blessing, mayyou carry one away as well!"
Joyce looked inquiringly at madame. "You may come whenever you like,"was the answer. "Marie can bring you whenever you are in town."
Joyce was so quiet on the way home that madame feared the day had beentoo fatiguing for her. "No," said Joyce, soberly. "I was only thinkingabout poor old Number Thirty-one. I am sorrier for her than I was forJules. I used to think that there was nothing so sad as being a littlechild without any father or mother, and having to live in an asylum.I've often thought how lovely it would be to go around and find abeautiful home for every little orphan in the world. But I believe, now,that it is worse to be old that way. Old people can't play together, andthey haven't anything to look forward to, and it makes them somiserable to remember all the things they have had and lost. If I hadenough money to adopt anybody, I would adopt some poor old grandfatheror grandmother and make'm happy all the rest of their days."
The Gate of the Giant Scissors Page 7