The Little Black Doll by Lucy M Montgomery

Books at Bedtime by Calming Anxiety, The Little Black Doll by Lucy Montgomery.

Everybody in the Marshall Household was excited on the evening of the concert at the Harbour Light Hotel, everybody even to little Joyce who couldn't go to the concert because there wasn't anybody else to stay with Denise. Perhaps Denise was the most excited of them all. Denise, who was slowly dying of consumption in the Marshall kitchen chamber because there was no other place in the world for her to die in. And anybody to trouble about her.

Mrs. Roderick Marshall thought it was very good of herself to do so much for Denise. To be sure, Denise was not much bother. The little Joyce did most of the waiting on her. At the tea table, nothing was talked of but the concert.

For his not madame Lauren, the great French Canadian prima donna at the hotel and was she not going to sin? It was the opportunity of a lifetime. The Marshalls would not have missed it for anything. State Lee, handsome old grandmother Marshall was going, an uncle Roderick, an aunt is a beller and of course, Chrissy, who was always taken everywhere because she was pretty and graceful and everything but little Joyce was not.

Little Joyce would have liked to go to the concert for she was very fond of music and besides she wanted to be able to tell Denise all about it. But when you are shy and homely and thin and awkward your grandmaver never takes you anywhere. At least such was little Joyce's belief. Little Joyce knew quite well that grandmother Marshall did not like her.

She thought it was because she was so plain and awkward and in part it was. And Mother Marshall cared very little for granddaughters who did not do her credit. But little Joyce's mother had married a poor man in the face of her family's disapproval. And then both she and her husband had been inconsiderate enough to die and leave a small orphan without a penny to support her.

Grandmother Marshall fed and closed the child. But who would not make anything of such a shy creature with no grips or graces whatever? Grandmother Marshall had no intention of trying. Chrissy, the golden-haired and pink cheeked, was grandmother Marshall's favourite pet.

Little Joyce knew this. She did not envy Chrissy but oh, how she wished grandmother Marshall would love her a little too. Nobody loved her but Denise and the little black doll. And little Joyce was beginning to understand that Denise would not be in the kitchen chamber very much longer.

And the little black doll couldn't tell you that she loved you although she did of course. Little Joyce had no doubt at all on this point. Little Joyce sighed so deeply over this thought that Uncle Roderick smiled at her. Uncle Roderick did smile at her sometimes.

What is the matter, little Joyce here? "I was thinking about my black doll," said little Joyce timidly. "Ah, your black doll." If Madame Lorin were to see it, she'd likely want it.

She makes a hobby of collecting dolls all over the world but I doubt if she has in her collection. A doll that served her muse a little girl 4,000 years ago in the court of the Pharaohs.

"I think Joyce's black doll is very ugly," said Chrissy. "My wax doll with the yellow hair is ever so much prettier." My black doll isn't ugly. Cried little Joyce indignantly.

She could endure to be called ugly herself but she would not hear or bear to have her darling black doll called ugly. In her excitement she upset her cup of tea all over the tablecloth. Art is a bell that looked angry and Grunmother Marshall said sharply, "Joyce, leave the table. You grow more awkward and careless every day."

Little Joyce, on the verge of tears, crept away and went up the kitchen stairs to Denise to be comforted. But Denise herself had been crying. She lay on her little bed by the low window where the glow of the sunset was coming in. Her hollow cheeks were scarlet with meaver.

"Oh, I want so much to hear Madame Loren Singh," she sobbed. "I feel like I could die easier if I hear her sing just one little song." She is a French woman too and she sing all the old French songs. The old songs my mother sang long ago.

I so want to hear Madame Loren Singh. "But you can't, dear Denise," said Little Joyce very softly, stroking Denise's hot forehead with her cool slender hand. Little Joyce had very pretty hands. Only nobody had ever noticed them.

"You're not strong enough to go to the concert. I'll sing for you if you like. Of course, I can't sing very well, but I'll do my best." "You sing like a sweet bird, but you are not Madame Loren," said Denise restlessly.

"It is the great Madame I want to hear. I have not long to live. Oh, I know, Little Joyce. I know what the doctor looked like, and I want to hear Madame Loren Singh before I die.

I know it is impossible, but I long for it so. Just one little song." Denise put her thin hands over her face and sobbed again. Little Joyce went and sat down by the window, looking out into the white birches her heart ached bitterly.

Dear Denise was going to die soon. Oh, very soon. Little Joyce whys and knowing beyond her years saw that. And Denise wanted to hear Madame Loren Singh.

It seemed a foolish thing to think of, but Little Joyce thought hard about it. And when she had finished thinking, she got a little black doll and took it to bed with her. And there, she cried herself to sleep. At the breakfast table next morning, the marshalls talked about the concert and the wonderful Madame Loren.

Little Joyce listened in her usual silence. Her crying the night before had not improved her looks any. Never thought handsome grandmother Marshall had she appeared so salo and homely. Really, grandmother Marshall could not have the patience to look at her.

She decided that she would not take Joyce driving with her and Chrissy that afternoon, and she had thought of after all. In the fornoon, it was discovered that Denise was much worse and the doctor was sent for. He came and shook his head. That being really all he could do under the circumstances.

When he went away, he was way laid at the back door by a small gypsy with big black, serious eyes and long black hair. "Is Denise going to die?" little Joyce asked in the blunt, straight forward fashion, grandmother Marshall found so trying. The doctor looked at her from under his saggy brow and decided that there was one of the people to whom he might as well tell the truth at last, because they were bound to have it. "Yes," he said.

"Soon?" "Very soon I'm afraid, in a few days at most." "Thank you," said little Joyce, gravely. She went to her room and did something with the black doll. She did not cry, but if you could have seen her face, you would have wished that she could cry.

After dinner, grandmother Marshall and Chrissy drove away. An uncle Roderick and aunt Isabella went away too. Little Joyce crept up to the kitchen chamber. Denise was lying in an uneasy sleep with tear stains on her face.

Then little Joyce tipped her down and sped away to the hotel. She did not know just what she would say or do when she got there, but she thought hard all the way to the end of the shore road. When she came out to the shore, a lady was sitting alone on a big rock, a lady with a dark, beautiful face and wonderful eyes. Little Joyce stopped before her and looked up at her meditatively.

Perhaps it would be well to ask advice of this lady. If you please said little Joyce, who is never shy with strangers, for whose opinion she didn't care of at all. I want to see Madam Lorin at the hotel and ask her to do me a very great favour. Will you tell me the best way to go about seeing her?

I shall be much obliged to you. What is this favour you want to ask Madam Lorin and quiet the lady, smiling? I want to ask her if she will come and sing for Denise before she dies. Before Denise dies.

I mean Denise is our French girl and the doctor says she cannot live very long and she wishes with all her heart to hear Madam Lorin sing. It is very bitter you know, to be dying and want something very much and not be able to get it. Do you think Madam Lorin will go? Ask the lady.

I don't know. I am going to offer her my little black doll. If she will not come for that, there is nothing else I can do. A flash of interest it lighted up the lady's brown eyes.

She bent forward. Is it your doll you have in that box? Will you let me see it? Little Joyce nodded, mutely she opened the box and took out the black doll.

The lady gave an exclamation of amazed delight and almost snatched it from Little Joyce. It was a very peculiar little doll indeed, carved out of some black polished wood. Child, where in the world did you get this she cried? Father got it out of a grave in Egypt said Little Joyce.

It was buried with the mummy of a little girl who lived 4,000 years ago. Uncle Roderick says. She must have loved her doll very much to have it buried with her mustn't she? But she could not have loved it any more than I do.

And yet you are going to give it away said the lady looking at her keenly. The Denise is safe, explain little Joyce. I would do anything for Denise because I love her and she loves me. When the only person in the world who loves you is going to die, there is nothing you would not do for her if you could.

The niece was so good to me before she took sick. She used to kiss me and play with me and make little cakes for me and tell me beautiful stories. The lady put the little black doll back in the box, then she stood up and held out her hand. Come she said, I am Madame Lauren and I shall go and sing for Denise.

Little Joyce, piloted Madame Lauren home and into the kitchen and up the back stairs to the kitchen chamber, a proceeding which would have filled Aunt Isabella with horror if she had known. But Madame Lauren did not seem to mind and little Joyce never thought about it at all. It was little Joyce's awkward and martial-like fashion to go to a place by the shortest way there even if it was up the kitchen stairs. Madame Lauren stood in the bare little room and looked hittingly at the waisted, whispered face on the pillow.

This is Madame Lauren and she is going to sing for you Denise, whispered little Joyce. The niece's face lighted up and she clasped her hands. If you please she said faintly, a French song Madame, the old French song that they sing long ago, then did Madame Lauren sing, never had the kitchen chamber been so filled with glorious melody, song after song she sang. The old folklore songs of the Habitat, the songs perhaps that Evangeline listened to in her childhood.

Little Joyce knelt by the bed, her eyes on the singer like one in trance. Denise lay with her face full of joy and rapture, such joy and rapture. Little Joyce did not regret the sacrifice of her black doll, never could she regret it as long as she remembered Denise's look. Thank you Madame, said Denise brokenly when Madame ceased.

That was so beautiful, the angel they cannot sing more sweet. I love music so much Madame, little Joyce she sings to me often and often she sings sweet but not like you, oh not like you. Little Joyce must sing for me, said Madame, smiling as she sat down by the window. I always like to hear fresh childish voices, will you little Joyce?

Oh yes, little Joyce was quite unembarassed and perfectly willing to do anything she could for this wonderful woman who had brought that look to Denise's face. I will sing as well as I can for you. Of course I can't sing very well and I don't know anything but him's. I always sing him's for Denise, although she is a Catholic and him's a Protestant.

But her priest told her it was all right because all music was of God. Denise's priest is a very nice man and I like him. She thought my little backdone, your little backdone, was splendid. I'll sing lead kindly light, that is Denise's favourite hymn.

Then little Joyce, slipping her hand in the tenises, began to sing. At the first note Madame Lauren, who had been gazing out of the window with a rather listless smile, turned quickly and looked at little Joyce with amazed eyes. Delight followed amazement and when little Joyce had finished, the great Madame Rose impulsively had face and eyes glowing, steps swiftly to little Joyce and took the thin dark face between her gend hands. Child, do you know what a wonderful voice you have?

What a marvellous voice, it is, it is. I have never heard such a voice in a child of your age. Mine was nothing to it, nothing at all. You will be a great sinner someday, far greater than I, yes.

But you must have the training, where are your parents? I must see them. I have no parents, said the bewildered little Joyce. I belong to grandmother Marshall and she is out driving.

Then I shall wait until your grandmother Marshall comes home from her drive, said Madame Lauren decidedly. Half an hour later, a very much surprised old lady was listening to Madame Lauren's enthusiastic statements. How is it I have never heard you sing if you can sing so well, ask grandmother Marshall, talking, a little Joyce with something in her eyes that had never been in before, as little Joyce instantly felt to the core of her sensitive song. But little Joyce hung her head.

It had never occurred to sing to grandmother Marshall with her presence there. This child must be trained by and by, said Madame Lauren. If you cannot afford it Mrs. Marshall, I will see to it, such a voice must not be wasted. Thank you, Madame Lauren, said grandmother Marshall with a gracious dignity.

But I am quite able to give my granddaughter all the necessary advantages for the development of her gift. And I thank you very much for telling me of it. Madame Lauren bent and kissed little Joyce's brown cheek. Little Jopsy, goodbye, but come every day to this hotel to see me.

And next summer I will be back and like you, because someday you will be a great singer and because today you are loving unselfish baby. You have forgotten the little black doll Madame said little Joyce gravely. Madame threw up her hand's laughing. No, no.

I shall not take your little black doll of the 4,000 years. Keep it for a mascot. A great singer always needs a mascot. But do not, I can mind you.

Take it out of the box till I am gone. For if I were to see it again, I might not be able to resist the temptation. One day I shall show you all my dolls, but there is not such a gem among them. When Madame Lauren had gone, grandmother Marshall looked at little Joyce.

Come to my room Joyce, I want to see if we cannot find a more becoming way ever arranging your hair. It has grown so thick and long, I had no idea how thick and long. Yes, we must certainly find a better way than that stiff braid come. Little Joyce, taking grandmother Marshall's extended hand, felt very happy.

She realized that this strange, stately old lady who never liked little girls unless they were pretty or graceful or clever, was beginning to love her at last.