CHAPTER VIII.
CHRISTMAS PLANS AND AN ACCIDENT.
That night, when Marie came in to light the lamps and brush Joyce's hairbefore dinner, she had some news to tell.
"Brossard has been sent away from the Ciseaux place," she said. "A newman is coming to-morrow, and my friend, Clotilde Robard, has alreadytaken the position of housekeeper. She says that a very different lifehas begun for little Monsieur Jules, and that in his fine new clothesone could never recognize the little goatherd. He looks now like what heis, a gentleman's son. He has the room next to monsieur's, all freshlyfurnished, and after New Year a tutor is coming from Paris.
"But they say that it is pitiful to see how greatly the child fears hisuncle. He does not understand the old man's cold, forbidding manner, andit provokes monsieur to have the little one tremble and grow palewhenever he speaks. Clotilde says that Madame Greville told monsieurthat the boy needed games and young companions to make him more likeother children, and he promised her that Monsieur Jules should come overhere to-morrow afternoon to play with you."
"Oh, good!" cried Joyce. "We'll have another barbecue if the day isfine. I am so glad that we do not have to be bothered any more by thosetiresome old goats."
By the time the next afternoon arrived, however, Joyce was far too muchinterested in something else to think of a barbecue. Cousin Kate hadcome back from Paris with a trunk full of pretty things, and a plan forthe coming Christmas. At first she thought of taking only madame intoher confidence, and preparing a small Christmas tree for Joyce; butafterwards she concluded that it would give the child more pleasure ifshe were allowed to take part in the preparations. It would keep herfrom being homesick by giving her something else to think about.
Then madame proposed inviting a few of the little peasant children whohad never seen a Christmas tree. The more they discussed the plan thelarger it grew, like a rolling snowball. By lunch-time madame had a listof thirty children, who were to be bidden to the Noel fete, and CousinKate had decided to order a tree tall enough to touch the ceiling.
When Jules came over, awkward and shy with the consciousness of his newclothes, he found Joyce sitting in the midst of yards of gaily coloredtarletan. It was heaped up around her in bright masses of purple andorange and scarlet and green, and she was making it into candy-bagsfor the tree.
In a few minutes Jules had forgotten all about himself, and was as busyas she, pinning the little stocking-shaped patterns in place, andcarefully cutting out those fascinating bags.
"You would be lots of help," said Joyce, "if you could come over everyday, for there's all the ornaments to unpack, and the corn to shell,and pop, and string. It will take most of my time to dress the dolls,and there's such a short time to do everything in."
"You never saw any pop-corn, did you, Jules?" asked Cousin Kate. "When Iwas here last time, I couldn't find it anywhere in France; but the otherday a friend told me of a grocer in Paris, who imports it for hisAmerican customers every winter. So I went there. Joyce, suppose you getthe popper and show Jules what the corn is like."
Madame was interested also, as she watched the little brown kernelsshaken back and forth in their wire cage over the glowing coals. Whenthey began popping open, the little seeds suddenly turning into bigwhite blossoms, she sent Rosalie running to bring monsieur to see thenovel sight.
"We can eat and work at the same time," said Joyce, as she filled a dishwith the corn, and called Jules back to the table, where he had beencutting tarletan. "There's no time to lose. See what a funny grain thisis!" she cried, picking up one that lay on the top of the dish. "Itlooks like Therese, the fish woman, in her white cap."
"And here is a goat's head," said Jules, picking up another grain. "Andthis one looks like a fat pigeon."
He had forgotten his shyness entirely now, and was laughing and talkingas easily as Jack could have done.
"Jules," said Joyce, suddenly, looking around to see that the olderpeople were too busy with their own conversation to notice hers. "Jules,why don't you talk to your Uncle Martin the way you do to me? He wouldlike you lots better if you would. Robard says that you get pale andfrightened every time he speaks to you, and it provokes him for you tobe so timid."
Jules dropped his eyes. "I cannot help it," he exclaimed. "He looks sogrim and cross that my voice just won't come out of my throat when Iopen my mouth."
Joyce studied him critically, with her head tipped a little to one side."Well, I must say," she exclaimed, finally, "that, for a boy born inAmerica, you have the least dare about you of anybody I ever saw. YourUncle Martin isn't any grimmer or crosser than a man I know at home.There's Judge Ward, so big and solemn and dignified that everybody ishalf way afraid of him. Even grown people have always been particularabout what they said to him.
"Last summer his little nephew, Charley Ward, came to visit him.Charley's just a little thing, still in dresses, and he calls his uncle,Bill. Think of anybody daring to call Judge Ward, _Bill!_ No matter whatthe judge was doing, or how glum he looked, if Charley took a notion, hewould go up and stand in front of him, and say, 'Laugh, Bill, laugh!' Ifthe judge happened to be reading, he'd have to put down his book, and nomatter whether he felt funny or not, or whether there was anything tolaugh at or not, he would have to throw his head back and just roar.Charley liked to see his fat sides shake, and his white teeth shine.I've heard people say that the judge likes Charley better than anybodyelse in the world, because he's the only person who acts as if he wasn'tafraid of him."
Jules sat still a minute, considering, and then asked, anxiously, "Butwhat do you suppose would happen if I should say 'Laugh, Martin,laugh,' to my uncle?"
Joyce shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "Mercy, Jules, I did not meanthat you should act like a three-year-old baby. I meant that you oughtto talk up to your uncle some. Now this is the way you are." She pickedup a kernel of the unpopped corn, and held it out for him to see. "Youshut yourself up in a little hard ball like this, so that your unclecan't get acquainted with you. How can he know what is inside of yourhead if you always shut up like a clam whenever he comes near you? Thisis the way that you ought to be." She shot one of the great white grainstowards him with a deft flip of her thumb and finger. "Be free and openwith him."
Jules put the tender morsel in his mouth and ate it thoughtfully. "I'lltry," he promised, "if you really think that it would please him, and Ican think of anything to say. You don't know how I dread going to thetable when everything is always so still that we can hear theclock tick."
"Well, you take my advice," said Joyce. "Talk about anything. Tell himabout our Thanksgiving feast and the Christmas tree, and ask him if youcan't come over every day to help. I wouldn't let anybody think that Iwas a coward."
Joyce's little lecture had a good effect, and monsieur saw the wisdom ofMadame Greville's advice when Jules came to the table that night. He hadbrought a handful of the wonderful corn to show his uncle, and in theconversation that it brought about he unconsciously showed somethingelse,--something of his sensitive inner self that aroused hisuncle's interest.
Every afternoon of the week that followed found Jules hurrying over toMadame Greville's to help with the Christmas preparations. He strungyards of corn, and measured out the nuts and candy for each of the gaybags. Twice he went in the carriage to Tours with Cousin Kate and Joyce,to help buy presents for the thirty little guests. He was jostled by theholiday shoppers in crowded aisles. He stood enraptured in front ofwonderful show windows, and he had the joy of choosing fifteen thingsfrom piles of bright tin trumpets, drums, jumping-jacks, andpicture-books. Joyce chose the presents for the girls.
The tree was bought and set up in a large unused room back of thelibrary, and as soon as each article was in readiness it was carried inand laid on a table beside it. Jules used to steal in sometimes and lookat the tapers, the beautiful colored glass balls, the gilt stars andglittering tinsel, and wonder how the stately cedar would look in allthat array of loveliness. Everything belonging to it seemed sacred, even
the unused scraps of bright tarletan and the bits of broken candles. Hewould not let Marie sweep them up to be burned, but gathered themcarefully into a box and carried them home. There were several thingsthat he had rescued from her broom,--one of those beautiful red balls,cracked on one side it is true, but gleaming like a mammoth red cherryon the other. There were scraps of tinsel and odds and ends of ornamentsthat had been broken or damaged by careless handling. These he hid awayin a chest in his room, as carefully as a miser would have hoarded abag of gold.
Clotilde Robard, the housekeeper, wondered why she found his candleburned so low several mornings. She would have wondered still more ifshe had gone into his room a while before daybreak. He had awakenedearly, and, sitting up in bed with the quilts wrapped around him, spreadthe scraps of tarletan on his knees. He was piecing together with hisawkward little fingers enough to make several tiny bags.
Henri missed his spade one morning, and hunted for it until he was outof patience. It was nowhere to be seen. Half an hour later, coming backto the house, he found it hanging in its usual place, where he hadlooked for it a dozen times at least. Jules had taken it down to thewoods to dig up a little cedar-tree, so little that it was not over afoot high when it was planted in a box.
Clotilde had to be taken into the secret, for he could not hide it fromher. "It is for my Uncle Martin," he said, timidly. "Do you think hewill like it?"
The motherly housekeeper looked at the poor little tree, decked out inits scraps of cast-off finery, and felt a sob rising in her throat, butshe held up her hands with many admiring exclamations that made Julesglow with pride.
"SITTING UP IN BED WITH THE QUILTS WRAPPED AROUND HIM."]
"I have no beautiful white strings of pop-corn to hang over it likewreaths of snow," he said, "so I am going down the lane for somemistletoe that grows in one of the highest trees. The berries are likelovely white wax beads."
"You are a good little lad," said the housekeeper, kindly, as she gavehis head an affectionate pat. "I shall have to make something to hang onthat tree myself; some gingerbread figures, maybe. I used to know how tocut out men and horses and pigs,--nearly all the animals. I must try itagain some day soon."
A happy smile spread all over Jules's face as he thanked her. The words,"You are a good little lad," sent a warm glow of pleasure through him,and rang like music in his ears all the way down the lane. How brightthe world looked this frosty December morning! What cheeriness there wasin the ring of Henri's axe as he chopped away at the stove-wood! Whatfriendliness in the baker's whistle, as he rattled by in his big cart!Jules found himself whistling, too, for sheer gladness, and all becauseof no more kindness than might have been thrown to a dog; a pat on thehead and the words, "You are a good little lad."
* * * * *
Sometime after, it may have been two hours or more, Madame Greville wasstartled by a wild, continuous ringing of the bell at her front gate.Somebody was sending peal after peal echoing through the garden, withquick, impatient jerks of the bell-wire. She hurried out herself toanswer the summons.
Berthe had already shot back the bolt and showed Clotilde leaningagainst the stone post, holding her fat sides and completely exhaustedby her short run from the Ciseaux house.
"Will madame send Gabriel for the doctor?" she cried, gasping for breathat every word. "The little Monsieur Jules has fallen from a tree and isbadly hurt. We do not know how much, for he is still unconscious and hisuncle is away from home. Henri found him lying under a tree with a bigbunch of mistletoe in his arms. He carried him up-stairs while I ranover to ask you to send Gabriel quickly on a horse for the doctor."
"Gabriel shall go immediately," said Madame Greville, "and I shallfollow you as soon as I have given the order."
Clotilde started back in as great haste as her weight would allow,puffing and blowing and wiping her eyes on her apron at every step.Madame overtook her before she had gone many rods. Always calm andself-possessed in every emergency, madame took command now; sent theweeping Clotilde to look for old linen, Henri to the village forMonsieur Ciseaux, and then turned her attention to Jules.
"To think," said Clotilde, coming into the room, "that the last thingthe poor little lamb did was to show me his Christmas tree that he wasmaking ready for his uncle!" She pointed to the corner where it stood,decked by awkward boyish hands in its pitiful collection of scraps.
"Poor little fellow!" said madame, with tears in her own eyes. "He hasdone the best he could. Put it in the closet, Clotilde. Jules would notwant it to be seen before Christmas."
Madame stayed until the doctor had made his visit; then the report thatshe carried home was that Jules had regained consciousness, and that,as far as could be discovered, his only injury was a broken leg.
Joyce took refuge in the pear-tree. It was not alone because Jules washurt that she wanted to cry, but because they must have the Noel fetewithout him. She knew how bitterly he would be disappointed.
The Gate of the Giant Scissors Page 8