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 her
maid brought in,--a cup of chocolate and a roll.
"In our country the very minute you wake up you can _feel_ that it is a
holiday. Outdoors it's nearly always cold and gray, with everything
covered with snow. Inside you can smell turkey and pies and all sorts of
good spicy things. Here it is so warm that the windows are open and
flowers blooming in the garden, and there isn't a thing to make it seem
different from any other old day."
Here her grumbling was interrupted by a knock at the door, and Madame
Gréville's maid, Berthé, came in with a message.
"Madame and monsieur intend spending the day in Tours, and since
Mademoiselle Ware has written that Mademoiselle Joyce is to have no
lessons on this American holiday, they will be pleased to have her
accompany them in the carriage. She can spend the morning with them
there or return immediately with Gabriel."
"Of course I want to go," cried Joyce. "I love to drive. But I'd rather
come back here to lunch and have it by myself in the garden. Berthé, ask
madame if I can't have it served in the little kiosk at the end of
the arbor."
As soon as she had received a most gracious permission, Joyce began to
make a little plan. It troubled her conscience somewhat, for she felt
that she ought to mention it to madame, but she was almost certain that
madame 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 drove
towards town, no sooner had madame and monsieur stepped from the
carriage, 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 treat
myself to something nice," she said apologetically to her conscience, as
she gave up the twenty francs to the clerk to be changed.
If Gabriel wondered what was in the little parcels which she brought
back to the carriage, he made no sign. He only touched his hat
respectfully, as she gave the next order: "Stop where the road turns by
the cemetery, Gabriel; at the house with the steps going up to an
iron-barred gate. I'll be back in two or three minutes," she said, when
she 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 a
freshly 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 Joyce
running at the top of her speed to meet a little goatherd in wooden
shoes and blue cotton blouse,--a common little peasant goatherd.
"It's Thanksgiving Day. Jules," she announced, gasping, as she sank down
on the ground beside him. "We're the only Americans here, and everybody
has gone off; and Cousin Kate said to celebrate in some way. I'm going
to have a dinner in the garden. I've bought a rabbit, and we'll dig a
hole, and make a fire, and barbecue it the way Jack and I used to do at
home. And we'll roast eggs in the ashes, and have a fine time. I've got
a lemon tart and a little iced fruit-cake, too."
All this was poured out in such breathless haste, and in such a
confusion of tongues, first a sentence of English and then a word of
French, that it is no wonder that Jules grew bewildered in trying to
follow her. She had to begin again at the beginning, and speak very
slowly, in order to make him understand that it was a feast day of some
kind, and that he, Jules, was invited to some sort of a strange,
wonderful entertainment in Monsieur Gréville's garden. "But Brossard is
away 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 the
same if he were home," he added, sadly. "He would not let me go, I am
sure. I have never been out of sight of that roof since I first came
here, except on errands to the village, when I had to run all the way
back." He pointed to the peaked gables, adorned by the scissors of his
crazy 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 that
way. Isn't there a field with a fence all around it, that you could
drive the goats into for a few hours?"
Jules shook his head.
"Well, I can't have my Thanksgiving spoiled for just a couple of old
goats," exclaimed Joyce. "You'll have to bring them along, and we'll
shut them up in the carriage-house. You come over in about an hour, and
I'll be at the side gate waiting for you."
Joyce had always been a general in her small way. She made her plans and
issued her orders both at home and at school, and the children accepted
her leadership as a matter of course. Even if Jules had not been willing
and anxious to go, it is doubtful if he could have mustered courage to
oppose the arrangements that she made in such a masterful way; but Jules
had not the slightest wish to object to anything whatsoever that Joyce
might propose.
It is safe to say that the old garden had never before even dreamed of
such a celebration as the one that took place that afternoon behind its
moss-coated walls. The time-stained statue of Eve, which stood on one
side of the fountain, looked across at the weather-beaten figure of
Adam, on the other side, in stony-eyed surprise. The little marble satyr
in the middle of the fountain, which had been grinning ever since its
endless shower-bath began, seemed to grin wider than ever, as it watched
the children's strange sport.
Jules dug the little trench according to Joyce's directions, and laid
the iron grating which she had borrowed from the cook across it, and
built the fire underneath. "We ought to have something especially
patriotic and Thanksgivingey," said Joyce, standing on one foot to
consider. "Oh, now I know," she cried, after a moment's thought. "Cousin
Kate has a lovely big silk flag in the top of her trunk. I'll run and
get that, and then I'll recite the 'Landing of the Pilgrims' to you
while the rabbit cooks."
Presently a savory odor began to steal along the winding paths of the
garden, between the laurel-bushes,--a smell of barbecued meat sputtering
over the fire. Above the door of the little kiosk, with many a soft
swish of silken stirrings, hung the beautiful old flag. Then a clear
little 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, setting
out the plates and rattling cups and saucers. She could not keep a
little quaver out of her voice, for, as she went on, all the scenes of
all the times that she had sung that song before came crowding up in her
memory. There were the Thanksgiving days in the church at home, and the
Washington's birthdays at school, and two Decoration days, when, as a
granddaughter of a veteran, she had helped scatter flowers over the
soldiers' graves.
Somehow it made her feel so hopelessly far away from all that made life
dear 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 so
earnestly by his homesick little teacher. Something that could not be
put into words stirred within him, as, looking up at the soft silken
flutterings of the old flag, he listened for the first time to the story
of the Pilgrim Fathers.
The rabbit cooked slowly, so slowly that there was time for Jules to
learn how to play mumble-peg while they waited. At last it was done, and
Joyce proudly plumped it into the platter that had been waiting for it.
Marie had already brought out a bountiful lunch, cold meats and salad
and a dainty pudding. By the time that Joyce had added her contribution
to 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 the
Loire throughout all the region of fair Tourraine, rise the turrets of
many an old château. Great banquet halls, where kings and queens once
feasted, still stand as silent witnesses of a gay bygone court life; but
never in any château or palace among them all was feast more thoroughly
enjoyed than this impromptu dinner in the garden, where a little
goatherd was the only guest.
It was an enchanted spot to Jules, made so by the magic of Joyce's
wonderful gift of story-telling. For the first time in his life that he
could remember, he heard of Santa Claus and Christmas trees, of
Bluebeard and Aladdin's lamp, and all the dear old fairy tales that were
so entrancing he almost forgot to eat.
Then they played that he was the prince, Prince Ethelried, and that the
goats in the carriage-house were his royal steeds, and that Joyce was a
queen whom he had come to visit.
[Illustration: A LESSON IN PATRIOTISM.]
But it came to an end, as all beautiful things must do. The bells in
the village rang four, and Prince Ethelried started up as Cinderella
must have done when the pumpkin coach disappeared. He was no longer a
king's son; he was only Jules, the little goatherd, who must hurry back
to the field before the coming of Brossard.
Joyce went with him to the carriage-house. Together they swung open the
great door. Then an exclamation of dismay fell from Joyce's lips. All
over the floor were scattered scraps of leather and cloth and hair, the
kind used in upholstering. The goats had whiled away the hours of their
imprisonment by chewing up the cushions of the pony cart.
Jules turned pale with fright. Knowing so little of the world, he judged
all grown people by his knowledge of Henri and Brossard. "Oh, what will
they do to us?" he gasped.
"Nothing at all," answered Joyce, bravely, although her heart beat twice
as 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?" Joyce
saw his distress, and with quick womanly tact recognized her duty as
hostess. It would never do to let this, his first Thanksgiving Day, be
clouded by a single unhappy remembrance. She would pretend that it was a
part of their last game; so she waved her hand, and said, in a
theatrical voice, "You forget, Prince Ethelried, that in the castle of
Irmingarde she rules supreme. If it is the pleasure of your royal steeds
to feed upon cushions they shall not be denied, even though they choose
my own coach pillows, of gold-cloth and velour."
"But what if Gabriel should tell Brossard?" questioned Jules, his teeth
almost chattering at the mere thought.
"Oh, never mind, Jules," she answered, laughingly. "Don't worry about a
little thing like that. I'll make it all right with madame as soon as
she gets home."
Jules, with utmost faith in Joyce's power to do anything that she might
undertake, drew a long breath of relief. Half a dozen times between the
gate and the lane that led into the Ciseaux field, he turned around to
wave his old cap in answer to the hopeful flutter of her little white
handkerchief; but when he was out of sight she went back to the
carriage-house and looked at the wreck of the cushions with a sinking
heart. After that second look, she was not so sure of making it all
right with madame.
Going slowly up to her room, she curled up in the window-seat to wait
for the sound of the carriage wheels. The blue parrots on the wall-paper
sat in their blue hoops in straight rows from floor to ceiling, and hung
all their dismal heads. It seemed to Joyce as if there were thousands of
them, and that each one was more unhappy than any of the others. The
blue roses on the bed-curtains, that had been in such gay blossom a few
hours before, looked ugly and unnatural now.
Over the mantel hung a picture that had been a pleasure to Joyce ever
since she had taken up her abode in this quaint blue room. It was called
"A Message from Noël," and showed an angel flying down with gifts to
fill a pair of little wooden shoes that some child had put out on a
window-sill below. When madame had explained that the little French
children put out their shoes for Saint Noël to fill, instead of hanging
stockings for Santa Claus, Joyce had been so charmed with the picture
that she declared that she intended to follow the French custom herself,
this year.
Now, even the picture looked different, since she had lost her joyful
anticipations of Christmas. "It is all No-el to me now," she sobbed. "No
tree, no Santa Claus, and now, since the money must go to pay for the
goats' mischief, no presents for anybody in the dear little brown house
at home,--not even mamma and the baby!"
A big salty tear trickled down the side of Joyce's nose and splashed on
her hand; then another one. It was such a gloomy ending for her happy
Thanksgiving Day. One consoling thought came to her in time to stop the
deluge that threatened. "Anyway, Jules has had a good time for once in
his life." The thought cheered her so much that, when Marie came in to
light the lamps, Joyce was walking up and down the room with her hands
behind her back, singing.
As soon as she was dressed for dinner she went down-stairs, but found no
one in the drawing-room. A small fire burned cozily on the hearth, for
the November nights were growing chilly. Joyce picked up a book and
tried to read, but found herself looking towards the door fully as
often as at the page before her. Presently she set her teeth together
and swallowed hard, for there was a rustling in the hall. The portière
was pushed aside and madame swept into the room in a dinner-gown of dark
red velvet.
To Joyce's waiting eyes she seemed more imposing, more elegant, and more
unapproachable than she had ever been before. At madame's entrance Joyce
rose as usual, but when the red velvet train had swept on to a seat
beside the fire, she still remained standing. Her lips seemed glued
together after those first words of greeting.
"Be seated, mademoiselle," said the lady, with a graceful motion of her
hand towards a chair. "How have you enjoyed your holiday?"
Joyce gave a final swallow of the choking lump in her throat, and began
her humble confession that she had framed up-stairs among the rows of
dismal blue wall-paper parrots. She started with Clotilde Robard's story
of Jules, told of her accidental meeting with him, of all that she knew
of his hard life with Brossard, and of her longing for some one to play
with. 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 been
holding tightly clenched in her hand, and poured its contents in the red
velvet 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 the
cushions, I'll write to Cousin Kate, and maybe she will lend me
the rest."
Madame gathered up the handful of coin, and slowly rose. "It is only a
step to the carriage-house," she said. "If you will kindly ring for
Berthé to bring a lamp we will look to see how much damage has
been done."
It was an unusual procession that filed down the garden walk a few
minutes later. First came Berthé, in her black dress and white cap,
holding a lamp high above her head, and screwing her forehead into a
mass of wrinkles as she peered out into the surrounding darkness. After
her came madame, holding up her dress and stepping daintily along in her
high-heeled little slippers. Joyce brought up the rear, stumbling along
in the darkness of madame's large shadow, so absorbed in her troubles
that she did not see the amused expression on the face of the grinning
satyr in the fountain.
Eve, looking across at Adam, seemed to wink one of her stony eyes, as
much as to say, "Humph! Somebody else has been getting into trouble.
There's more kinds of forbidden fruit than one; pony-cart cushions, for
instance."
Berthé opened the door, and madame stepped inside the carriage-house.
With her skirts held high in both hands, she moved around among the
wreck of the cushions, turning over a bit with the toe of her slipper
now and then.
Madame wore velvet dinner-gowns, it is true, and her house was elegant
in its fine old furnishings bought generations ago; but only her
dressmaker and herself knew how many times those gowns had been ripped
and cleaned and remodelled. It was only constant housewifely skill that
kept the antique furniture repaired and the ancient brocade hangings
from falling into holes. None but a French woman, trained in petty
economies, could have guessed how little money and how much thought was
spent in keeping her table up to its high standard of excellence.
Now as she looked and estimated, counting the fingers of one hand with
the thumb of the other, a wish stirred in her kind old heart that she
need not take the child's money; but new cushions must be bought, and
she must be just to herself before she could be generous to others. So
she went on with her estimating and counting, and then called Gabriel to
consult with him.
"Much of the same hair can be used again," she said, finally, "and the
cushions were partly worn, so that it would not be right for you to have
to bear the whole expense of new ones. I shall keep sixteen,--no, I
shall keep only fifteen francs of your money, mademoiselle. I am sorry
to take any of it, since you have been so frank with me; but you must
see that it would not be justice for me to have to suffer in
consequence of your fault. In France, children do nothing without the
permission of their elders, and it would be well for you to adopt the
same rule, my dear mademoiselle."
Here she dropped two francs and two sous into Joyce's hand. It was more
than she had dared to hope for. Now there would be at least a little
picture-book apiece for the children at home.
This time Joyce saw the grin on the satyr's face when they passed the
fountain. She was smiling herself when they entered the house, where
monsieur was waiting to escort them politely in to dinner.