AT THE BONNIVELS'.
The Bonnivels were at dinner, one evening, somewhat before the events related in the past few pages, and were discussing in lively tones a long letter which had come from Leon that day—Leon Bonnivel, the absent son and brother who was in a ship of war off the South Atlantic coast. He had just been advanced to a first lieutenancy, and the family were jubilant in consequence.
For the Bonnivels had known hard times in their southern home, when Dorette and Leon were little, and his appointment to the Naval school had been the first lightening of their fortunes, Dorette's marriage to an honest young fellow in a good situation the second.
That Madame Bonnivel and Camille were never allowed to feel their dependence upon Mr. and Mrs. Larrimer Driscoll took from its bitterness, yet it was to Leon both looked as the family's true head, by whose advancement all would certainly be gainers. They loved the spirited young soldier-sailor as helpless women do love their braves, who go out from them to fight the battles of life, and they watched his career with their hearts' pendulums swinging between pride and dread—joy and alarm.
Madame Bonnivel's face was now radiant, while her sightless eyes sparkle with enthusiasm. Dorette looked placidly pleased, Larry kindly sympathetic, while Camille showed her delight in her rattling tongue and eager gestures. "We must tell Joyce," she cried, squeezing Dodo's arm in a vain effort to express all she felt. "She is as fond of him as we are. Maman, how old was she when the Earlys came to board with us?"
"About two, and the dearest baby!" answered Madame with readiness, for next to talking of Leon she loved to talk of Joyce. "Her poor mother even then was marked for death, and when she passed away, during one of her husband's frequent absences, I took her baby right into my arms and heart."
"And Leon must have been about five then?"
"Half-past five, as he used to say, and Dorette here was seven. Such a houseful of babies!"
"Luckily I had not appeared on the scene then," laughed Camille. "I'm afraid I was not a welcome guest."
Her mother turned fond, reproving eyes upon her, while Dodo broke in between big mouthfuls of oatmeal and milk,
"But me was dere, jus' de same. Me 'members all about it."
"Oh, you remember more than the rest of us have forgotten!" cried her auntie, catching the child's chubby arm and shaking little trills of merriment out of her, at which the young father exclaimed with mock savagery.
"Will you never leave that child alone, Gypsy? You're always squeezing or pinching her."
"But I lubs her so!" with a shower of pats and punchings. "I could eat her up."
"Better stick to your dinner—it's a good one! My wife is chef of this establishment."
Dorette's soft eyes met his in a fond, merry glance.
"Thank you, Larry! You always appreciate good things."
"Don't I, though! But go on, mother. You were telling us about the babies."
"You know it all as well as I. We loved little Joyce as our very own, and when her father took her away—for somehow he never liked us, I think because I once spoke too plainly about his neglect of his delicate wife—when he took her to a woman he had engaged to look after her, she moaned and cried in the most pitiful way, refusing all food and begging day and night for 'ma mère,' as she had learned to call me. Nothing would pacify her, and at length in desperation he brought her back. We were poor then, but I did not receive her because of the board money he would pay——"
"Did you keep it in a ginger-jar, Mother?" put in Larry, with a chuckle. She caught his meaning quickly, and returned at once,
"I was about to add, because I knew from past experience there would be little of it to hoard, even in a ginger-jar. James Early was not as prompt a payer as collector," dryly. "No, I took back my baby because we all missed her so, especially Leon, who had wailed all day and half the night, calling on 'Doyce! Doyce!' even in his dreams, poor little man! It was the end of the second day when Mr. Early, looking decidedly sheepish, reappeared with his little daughter—about this time, in fact. I can see, even now, the look of perfect rest and happiness upon her tear-stained little face as she nestled into my arms that evening, while Leon and you, Dorette, fairly radiant with joy, bent above her. I never saw one of you show one moment's jealousy, which was a bit odd, for Joyce was an imperious baby, and exacted a great deal of my attention. But how charming was her good-nature! That night she sat throned on my knees, like a little princess, and patty-caked, threw kisses, went to mill and to meeting, and said over her whole short vocabulary of French and English words, so gracious and lovely that even your studious father pushed back his books and papers to join the frolic. We were wonderfully happy that night! I think the child is magnetic. She gives out her own happiness like electric sparks. She never can bottle it up and enjoy it selfishly."
"And she stayed till she was fifteen?"
"Yes. Then her father began to make money, and he made it——"
"Hand-over-fist," interposed Larry.
"Exactly. And I never saw one so puffed up with pride and vain-glory. It would have been funny, only that he made us feel it so tragically. He tore Joyce away—the word is not an exaggeration for she fought him at every point and only yielded to positive compulsion. He put her into a fashionable school and bade her have nothing more to do with those 'down-at-the-heel Bonnivels.' It was a trifle hard after the love and care we had lavished upon her."
"It was beastly!" muttered Larry between his shut teeth. "Did he never give you even gratitude, let alone money?"
"No. He measured out a niggardly sum for her board, and gave it over with the air of munificently rewarding me. I would have refused to accept it, but your father was gone, then, and I nearly blind. I could not let my little ones suffer to gratify my own pride. I took it, but I dared not speak for fear I should say too much. I simply bowed my head in acknowledgment, and thanked God when he was gone, because I had been able to control myself!"
"But Joyce did not see that?" put in Dorette.
"No, I am glad to say she did not. The scene with her had ended with her passionate rush to the carriage, where she was lying back on the seat half fainting amid her tears."
"Oh, how cruel!" cried Camille, almost in tears herself.
"And when you had gone blind through your constant embroidering to keep your little tribe together—Joyce and all!"
"Never mind, dear! Larry came then and saved us all."
She turned a sweet glance upon her son-in-law, which made him flush with pleasure.
"I don't know about that saving process, mother. I've pretty often declared in my own mind that Dorette and you came along just in the nick of time to save me."
"Me too," put in Dodo, insistent on general principles.
"And me!" added Camille, laughing and squeezing the baby afresh, her moods as quick to change as those of capricious April, always.
"Yes, the whole shirackety of you," returned Larry, folding his napkin. "And Joyce has made amends since, I'm sure."
"Indeed she has, dear child!"
"But mother, even Joyce has never given——"
"Hush, Camille! Don't say it. Joyce knows we are entirely comfortable, and she has large plans to carry out. She gives us unstinted love and gratitude. Joyce has never failed me yet."
Camille was silenced. She caught Dodo out of her high chair, and made the movement from table general.
They had scarcely reached the homelike living-room when the doorbell sounded a quick peal that rang through the house. It made the Madame exclaim,
"Why, that sounds like her now!" and, sure enough, in a moment Joyce stood, laughing, in their midst.
"Are you glad to see me?" she cried merrily, passing her greetings about, but returning to the mother's side directly. "I had Gilbert bring me over, for I've something to talk about; and may I stay all night?"
A universal cry of assent having answered her, she turned, with her brightest smile, to Larry.
"Will the honorable householder dismiss my coachman, then?" and as, with an exaggerated bow and flourish, he disappeared to execute the commission, she turned swiftly upon Madame Bonnivel. "Ma mère, aren't you paler than you should be? What is the matter?"
"I've had just a trifle of a headache, chèrie, nothing worth mentioning."
"I don't like those headaches—do see Dodo! Her eyes are falling asleep while she is running about; if she stops one instant she'll be a goner!"
All laughed as the child opened her drooping lids to their widest, and declared she "was dest as wide awake as a hen," but papa, who had re-entered, caught her regardless of protests.
"I'll put her to bed, Dorette. You stay and visit, but don't, Joyce, tell quite all you know till I get back. Come, Sleepyhead! Papa'll tell about the little red hen"—aside to Joyce—"It's my stock yarn. Couldn't tell another to save my head, and studied that out, word for word, on purpose. But luckily she wants it every time. I should be bankrupt if she didn't. Come now, say good-night to all like a lady, Toddlekins."
"Oh, don't bother her, Larry. Joyce can take the ceremony for granted," put in the affectionate aunt, who could not bear that any should tease baby except herself.
"Yes, there's my kiss," throwing it, "and don't get her roused up, Larry. I've things to discuss."
"All right. We go, but I return. Au revoir. And talk woman's foolishness till I get back—do! I want to be here when you get off the latest fallals."
But she began tamely enough.
"I saw something in the paper the other day that I want to ask about. Is it your house here that is advertised for sale?"
Madame Bonnivel nodded, and Dorette answered,
"Yes, isn't it too bad? The owner has died and the estate is to be turned into money wherever possible. We can stay until it is sold, or can leave by giving a fortnight's notice at any time, if we prefer."
"And then where will you go?"
"Oh, we haven't planned that far," said Camille. "I say, let it be in the suburbs. I hate to think of an apartment, again."
"But, my dear, there are far pleasanter ones than we used to know," put in her mother gently. "I do regret leaving here, though. It will be difficult to find another place, within our means, where we will find so much room out-doors and in. Poor Dodo will miss the grassy yard."
"And Dodo's grandmother, too," added Camille. "You ought to see how chummy they are, Joyce, out under our one maple."
Joyce was looking at that spiritual woman with an expression that arrested the girl's thought and words. It was the look of one who longs, hopes, yet fears, and mingled withal was that adoring fondness she often showed this mother of her heart.
"I see, ma mère. You cannot go into an apartment. It would mean imprisonment for you. And so—and so—oh! I don't know just how to get it out, but—I have had two of the houses at Littleton especially fitted up, and they are close together in what will soon be a great lawn. They are very much alike, but altogether different—that is, they are just different enough not to be tiresomely similar and—where was I?"
All broke into laughter. Joyce's confusion was too funny.
"I think you were in either a maze of syntax, or of building-lots; I scarcely know which," remarked the Madame, evidently overflowing.
"Well, there are two houses—that is sure. One is for me, and the other"—she looked all about with a beautiful smile, nodded brightly at Larry who appeared opportunely in the doorway, and laid a tender hand on Madame's knee—"the other is for ma mère, if she will only be good enough to live close beside her naughty baby, and help her along in life."
"Oh, Joyce! Joyce," cried that lady, catching the hand between her own, while with a sharp little sound Camille sprang to her feet, Dorette meanwhile breaking into a laugh almost like Dodo's for innocent joy.
"I knew you, Joyce!" said she, and Madame, caressing the girl's hand, added tremulously, "My dear, dear child!"
"And so I'm no longer to be proprietor and boss," cried Larry, coming forward. "Oh, I've heard you plotting and planning. Mother Bonnivel, are you going to turn us Driscolls out of doors, now you've come into your palace?"
"Oh dear, no palace! Just a comfortable home with room enough to swing all Dodo's kittens in," laughed Joyce, to keep back the tears, for the dear mother's joy upset her.
"I should dread a palace, chèrie," said the latter, then turned to the young husband of her daughter, whom she loved as a son. "We've had no mine and thine so far, Larrimer, and we won't begin now."
"Oh!" was Camille's outburst, "how perfectly charming it is to have it come from Joyce. If it was anybody else mother could never be induced to take it. Do tell us more, Joycey love—how far out is Littleton by rail? Could Larry live there and go in to his work? Could I go on with my music and cadet teaching?"
"It is forty minutes ride by rail. You saw the town before anything was done and in early spring. You would not know it now. It is green where it was brown, clean where it was dirty, trim where it was shabby. It begins to look like a great park, and the cottages are really ornamental, as well as comfortable. Our homes are to overlook the town and face the park at its broad end—you know it is triangular in shape—and they are already at the decorating stage. I did not want to go further without letting the rest of you have your say."
"Oh, delicious!" cried Camille. "I do think planning out pretty rooms is perfectly fascinating. Can't you tell us something how they are built?"
Joyce laughed, and took from her pocket a large sheet of letter paper, looking meanwhile with half suffused eyes towards Madame.
"Do you remember, ma mère," she said tenderly, "how we used to sew and plan together in those old days when we were so poor in money and so rich in dreams?"
"Indeed I do, Joyce."
"And, one winter's day, when the house was so cold we had to huddle close around the old wood stove and shiver, do you remember telling how we would have our home if we could, and how perfectly it should be warmed in winter and cooled in summer? We all got enthusiastic over it; there were you and Dorette and I, while Camille lay fast asleep in her cradle; and first one, then another, would propose some convenience, until we forgot the cold entirely. Finally you cried gaily, 'Wait, I'll draw a plan. These are good ideas for somebody, if not for us. Give me a pencil and paper Joyce,' and presently you showed us what you had drawn."
"Oh, yes! The pretty house with the dumb waiter going from cellar to attic, and the soiled clothes dump from the upper floors to the laundry, and the store-room down-stairs for trunks and heavy furniture, and—"
"And the long drawers under the deep window-seats for best gowns," broke in Dorette with unusual excitement, "and the little cedar closet for furs, and the elegant lighted closets. I remember the plan perfectly. But that—is that it, Joyce?"
"This is the very self-same drawing," said the latter merrily.
"I had wondered what became of it, then forgot it entirely," laughed the Madame. "So you have had it all the time?"
"Yes, I stole it. And, ma mère, the house is built. There are the very little nooks, sunny and warm, that you planned in the library for reading and writing; the pretty Dutch kitchen with its long low window, and the central hall with its wide fireplace. They are all real now, not a dream any more. And they are yours. You have only to take possession, after giving a few orders to the decorators about colors, and so forth. If you say so, Gilbert shall drive us out to-morrow. We can take Dodo, and carry a luncheon to picnic by the wayside. It will be a lovely outing. Won't we, everybody?"
But somehow words came tardily just then. Larry had caught Joyce's hand, and was pumping it up and down somewhat wildly, while his lips quivered under his mustache; Madame Bonnivel had a trembling grasp upon the other hand, while Dorette and Camille were each kissing an ear, or an eye—they could not see for tears and did not care anyhow, so long as it was a bit of Joyce. Till, flinging her arms about them all, she broke out into a sudden passionate, "Oh, dear people! My people! Let's cling together. I've nobody in all the world but you!" At which heart-breaking cry the mother quickly responded,
"Why, child, you are a part of us. We have had you always when we could. Do you suppose we would ever let you go?"
So Joyce turned her giving into begging, and in assuring her of the love and loyalty she longed for, all forgot their words of thanks till Larry said whimsically, "I'm afraid things are getting a little mixed here, and I'm not quite certain, now, whether we're to be grateful to Joyce for a beautiful home, or she to us for deigning to live beside her."
This set Camille off into a near approach to hysterics, and let them all gently down to earth once more.
Presently the Madame began in her tender voice, which could never seem to interrupt,
"We haven't told our news yet, Joyce. It pales a little before your grand tidings, but I think it will interest you still. Leon has been promoted."
Joyce turned quickly, her face all aglow, her eyes like stars.
"Oh, is it true? Then he is first lieutenant?"
"Yes, with special work in the engineering department, and such kind words from his higher officers in their congratulations! We had thought our cup of joy quite full when you came in; now it has overflowed."
"And mother was telling all about you and Leon when you were little," put in Camille in so oblivious a tone that Larry, catching some fun in the situation, laughed outright.
"What a giggler you are, Larry! Just like a school-boy," admonished the gypsy-maid, frowning at him. "What she said about their childish devotion was very touching, I thought, and not at all funny."
Even Madame Bonnivel joined in his hearty laugh, now, and poor Joyce, to hide her burning cheeks, broke out,
"Come, Camille, where's your mandolin? I haven't heard you play for an age. 'Do let's play and be cheerful!'"
"Just what Leon always used to say! All right, I'll give you my last serenade; it's awfully sweet. Turn down the lights, Larry. Now, you must all imagine you are on the water in Venice, and that I'm stealing by in my gondola to call up my lady, love from sleep. She's up in the tower-room of that dingy old castle yonder. Hus-sh all!"
They were silent in the dim room, but Joyce's heart was still beating hard. Would Leon be as pleased as they? She hoped they would tell him in just the right way, he was so proud, and on the dainty "tinkle-tinkle-tum" of the stringed instrument her thoughts floated outward over the broad sea, to find her childhood's mate again.