The Lane That Had No Turning, Complete - Gilbert Parker
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING
By Gilbert Parker
CONTENTS
Volume 1.
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING
Volume 2.
THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P'TITE LOUISON
THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR
A SON OF THE WILDERNESS
A WORKER IN STONE
Volume 3.
THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE
THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER
MATHURIN
THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER
THE WOODSMAN'S STORY OF THE GREAT WHITE CHIEF
UNCLE JIM
THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH
PARPON THE DWARF
Volume 4.
TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC
MEDALLION'S WHIM
THE PRISONER
AN UPSET PRICE
A FRAGMENT OF LIVES
THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA
THE BARON OF BEAUGARD
THE TUNE McGILVERAY PLAYED
The Right Hon. Sir Wilfrid Laurier G.C.M.G.
Dear Sir Wilfrid Laurier, Since I first began to write these tales in
1892, I have had it in my mind to dedicate to you the "bundle of life"
when it should be complete. It seemed to me--and it seems so still--that
to put your name upon the covering of my parcel, as one should say, "In
care of," when it went forth, was to secure its safe and considerate
delivery to that public of the Empire which is so much in your debt.
But with other feelings also do I dedicate this volume to yourself. For
many years your name has stood for a high and noble compromise between
the temperaments and the intellectual and social habits of two races; and
I am not singular in thinking that you have done more than most other men
to make the English and French of the Dominion understand each other
better. There are somewhat awkward limits to true understanding as yet,
but that sympathetic service which you render to both peoples, with a
conscientious striving for impartiality, tempers even the wind of party
warfare to the shorn lamb of political opposition.
In a sincere sympathy with French life and character, as exhibited in the
democratic yet monarchical province of Quebec, or Lower Canada (as,
historically, I still love to think of it), moved by friendly
observation, and seeking to be truthful and impartial, I have made this
book and others dealing with the life of the proud province, which a
century and a half of English governance has not Anglicised. This series
of more or less connected stories, however, has been the most cherished
of all my labours, covering, as it has done, so many years, and being the
accepted of my anxious judgment out of a much larger gathering, so many
numbers of which are retired to the seclusion of copyright, while
reserved from publication. In passing, I need hardly say that the
"Pontiac" of this book is an imaginary place, and has no association with
the real Pontiac of the Province.
I had meant to call the volume, "Born with a Golden Spoon," a title
stolen from the old phrase, "Born with a golden spoon in the mouth"; but
at the last moment I have given the book the name of the tale which is,
chronologically, the climax of the series, and the end of my narratives
of French Canadian life and character. I had chosen the former title
because of an inherent meaning in it relation to my subject. A man born
in the purple--in comfort wealth, and secure estate--is said to have the
golden spoon in his mouth. In the eyes of the world, however, the phrase
has a some what ironical suggestiveness, and to have luxury, wealth, and
place as a birthright is not thought to be the most fortunate incident of
mortality. My application of the phrase is, therefore, different.
I have, as you know, travelled far and wide during the past seventeen
years, and though I have seen people as frugal and industrious as the
French Canadians, I have never seen frugality and industry associated
with so much domestic virtue, so much education and intelligence, and so
deep and simple a religious life; nor have I ever seen a priesthood at
once so devoted and high-minded in all the concerns the home life of
their people, as in French Canada. A land without poverty and yet without
riches, French Canada stands alone, too well educated to have a
peasantry, too poor to have an aristocracy; as though in her the ancient
prayer had been answered "Give me neither poverty nor riches, but feed me
with food convenient for me." And it is of the habitant of Quebec, before
a men else, I should say, "Born with the golden spoon in his mouth."
To you I come with this book, which contains the first thing I ever wrote
out of the life of the Province so dear to you, and the last things also
that I shall ever write about it. I beg you to receive it as the loving
recreation of one who sympathises with the people of who you come, and
honours their virtues, and who has no fear for the unity, and no doubt as
to the splendid future, of the nation, whose fibre is got of the two
great civilising races of Europe.
Lastly, you will know with what admiration and regard I place your name
on the fore page of my book, and greet in you the statesman, the
litterateur, and the personal friend.
Believe me,
Dear Sir Wilfrid Laurier,
Yours very sincerely,
GILBERT PARKER.
20 CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE,
LONDON, S. W.,
14th August, 1900.
INTRODUCTION
The story with which this book opens, 'The Lane That Had No Turning',
gives the title to a collection which has a large share in whatever
importance my work may possess. Cotemporaneous with the Pierre series,
which deal with the Far West and the Far North, I began in the
'Illustrated London News', at the request of the then editor, Mr. Clement
K. Shorter, a series of French Canadian sketches of which the first was
'The Tragic Comedy of Annette'. It was followed by 'The Marriage of the
Miller, The House with the Tall Porch, The Absurd Romance of P'tite
Louison, and The Woodsman's Story of the Great White Chief'. They were
begun and finished in the autumn of 1892 in lodgings which I had taken on
Hampstead Heath. Each--for they were all very short--was written at a
sitting, and all had their origin in true stories which had been told me
in the heart of Quebec itself. They were all beautifully illustrated in
the Illustrated London News, and in their almost monosyllabic narrative,
and their almost domestic simplicity, they were in marked contrast to the
more strenuous episodes of the Pierre series. They were indeed in keeping
with the happily simple and uncomplicated life of French Canada as I knew
it then; and I had perhaps greater joy in writing them and the purely
French Canadian stories that followed them, such as 'Parpon the Dwarf, A
Worker in Stone, The Little Bell of Honour, and The Prisoner', than in
almost anything else I have written, except perhaps 'The Right of Way and
Valmond', so far as Canada is concerned.
I think the book has harmony, although the first story in it covers
eighty-two pages, while some of the others, like 'The Marriage of the
Miller', are less than four pages in length. At the end also there are
nine fantasies or stories which I called 'Parables of Provinces'. All of
these, I think, possessed the spirit of French Canada, though all are
more or less mystical in nature. They have nothing of the simple realism
of 'The Tragic Comedy of Annette', and the earlier series. These nine
stories could not be called popular, and they were the only stories I
have ever written which did not have an immediate welcome from the
editors to whom they were sent. In the United States I offered them to
'Harper's Magazine', but the editor, Henry M. Alden, while, as I know,
caring for them personally, still hesitated to publish them. He thought
them too symbolic for the every-day reader. He had been offered four of
them at once because I declined to dispose of them separately, though the
editor of another magazine was willing to publish two of them. Messrs.
Stone & Kimball, however, who had plenty of fearlessness where literature
was concerned, immediately bought the series for The Chap Book, long
since dead, and they were published in that wonderful little short-lived
magazine, which contained some things of permanent value to literature.
They published four of the series, namely: 'The Golden Pipes, The
Guardian of the Fire, By that Place Called Peradventure, The Singing of
the Bees, and The Tent of the Purple Mat'. In England, because I would
not separate the first five, and publish them individually, two or three
of the editors who were taking the Pierre series and other stories
appearing in this volume would not publish them. They, also, were
frightened by the mystery and allusiveness of the tales, and had an
apprehension that they would not be popular.
Perhaps they were right. They were all fantasies, but I do not wish them
other than they are. One has to write according to the impulse that
seizes one and after the fashion of one's own mind. This at least can be
said of all my books, that not a page of them has ever been written to
order, and there is not a story published in all the pages bearing my
name which does not represent one or two other stories rejected by
myself. The art of rejection is the hardest art which an author has to
learn; but I have never had a doubt as to my being justified in
publishing these little symbolic things.
Eventually the whole series was published in England. W. E. Henley gave
'There Was a Little City' a home in 'The New Review', and expressed
himself as happy in having it. 'The Forge in the Valley' was published by
Sir Wemyss Reid in the weekly paper called 'The Speaker', now known as
'The Nation', in which 'Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch' made his name and
helped the fame of others. 'There Was a Little City' was published in
'The Chap Book' in the United States, but 'The Forge in the Valley' had
(I think) no American public until it appeared within the pages of 'The
Lane That Had No Turning'. The rest of the series were published in the
'English Illustrated Magazine', which was such a good friend to my work
at the start. As was perhaps natural, there was some criticism, but very
little, in French Canada itself, upon the stories in this volume. It soon
died away, however, and almost as I write these words there has come to
me an appreciation which I value as much as anything that has befallen me
in my career, and that is, the degree of Doctor of Letters from the
French Catholic University of Laval at Quebec. It is the seal of French
Canada upon the work which I have tried to do for her and for the whole
Dominion.
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING
CHAPTER I
THE RETURN OF MADELINETTE
His Excellency the Governor--the English Governor of French Canada--was
come to Pontiac, accompanied by a goodly retinue; by private secretary,
military secretary, aide-de-camp, cabinet minister, and all that. He was
making a tour of the Province, but it was obvious that he had gone out of
his way to visit Pontiac, for there were disquieting rumours in the air
concerning the loyalty of the district. Indeed, the Governor had arrived
but twenty-four hours after a meeting had been held under the presidency
of the Seigneur, at which resolutions easily translatable into sedition
were presented. The Cure and the Avocat, arriving in the nick of time,
had both spoken against these resolutions; with the result that the
new-born ardour in the minds of the simple habitants had died down, and
the Seigneur had parted from the Cure and the Avocat in anger.
Pontiac had been involved in an illegal demonstration once before.
Valmond, the bizarre but popular Napoleonic pretender, had raised his
standard there; the stones before the parish church had been stained with
his blood; and he lay in the churchyard of St. Saviour's forgiven and
unforgotten. How was it possible for Pontiac to forget him? Had he not
left his little fortune to the parish? and had he not also left twenty
thousand francs for the musical education of Madelinette Lajeunesse, the
daughter of the village forgeron, to learn singing of the best masters in
Paris? Pontiac's wrong-doings had brought it more profit than penalty,
more praise than punishment: for, after five years in France in the care
of the Little Chemist's widow, Madelinette Lajeunesse had become the
greatest singer of her day. But what had put the severest strain upon the
modesty of Pontiac was the fact that, on the morrow of Madelinette's
first triumph in Paris, she had married M. Louis Racine, the new Seigneur
of Pontiac.
What more could Pontiac wish? It had been rewarded for its mistakes; it
had not even been chastened, save that it was marked Suspicious as to its
loyalty, at the headquarters of the English Government in Quebec. It
should have worn a crown of thorns, but it flaunted a crown of roses. A
most unreasonable good fortune seemed to pursue it. It had been led to
expect that its new Seigneur would be an Englishman, one George Fournel,
to whom, as the late Seigneur had more than once declared, the property
was devised by will; but at his death no will had been found, and Louis
Racine, the direct heir in blood, had succeeded to the property and the
title.
Brilliant, enthusiastic, fanatically French, the new Seigneur had set
himself to revive certain old traditions, customs, and privileges of the
Seigneurial position. He was reactionary, seductive, generous, and at
first he captivated the hearts of Pontiac. He did more than that. He
captivated Madelinette Lajeunesse. In spite of her years in
Paris--severe, studious years, which shut out the social world and the
temptations of Bohemian life--Madelinette retained a strange simplicity
of heart and mind, a desperate love for her old home which would not be
gainsaid, a passionate loyalty to her past, which was an illusory attempt
to arrest the inevitable changes that come with growth; and, with a
sudden impulse, she had sealed herself to her past at the very outset of
her great career by marriage with Louis Racine.
On the very day of their marriage Louis Racine had made a painful
discovery. A heritage of his fathers, which had skipped two generations,
suddenly appeared in himself: he was becoming a hunchback.
Terror, despair, gloom, anxiety had settled upon him. Three months later
Madelinette had gone to Paris alone. The Seigneur had invented excuses
for not accompanying her, so she went instead in the care of the Little
Chemist's widow, as of old Louis had promised to follow within another
three months, but had not done so. The surgical operation performed upon
him was unsuccessful; the strange growth increased. Sensitive, fearful,
and morose, he would not go to Europe to be known as the hunchback
husband of Lajeunesse, the great singer. He dreaded the hour when
Madelinette and he should meet again. A thousand times he pictured her as
turning from him in loathing and contempt. He had married her because he
loved her, but he knew well enough that ten thousand other men could love
her just as well, and be something more than a deformed Seigneur of an
obscure manor in Quebec.
As his gloomy imagination pictured the future, when Madelinette should
return and see him as he was and cease to love him--to build up his
Seigneurial honour to an undue importance, to give his position a
fictitious splendour, became a mania with him. No ruler of a Grand Duchy
ever cherished his honour dearer or exacted homage more persistently than
did Louis Racine in the Seigneury of Pontiac. Coincident with the
increase of these futile extravagances was the increase of his fanatical
patriotism, which at last found vent in seditious writings, agitations,
the purchase of rifles, incitement to rebellion, and the formation of an
armed, liveried troop of dependants at the Manor. On the very eve of the
Governor's coming, despite the Cure's and the Avocat's warnings, he had
held a patriotic meeting intended to foster a stubborn, if silent,
disregard of the Governor's presence amongst them.
The speech of the Cure, who had given guarantee for the good behaviour of
his people to the Government, had been so tinged with sorrowful appeal,
had recalled to them so acutely the foolish demonstration which had ended
in the death of Valmond; that the people had turned from the exasperated
Seigneur with the fire of monomania in his eyes, and had left him alone
in the hall, passionately protesting that the souls of Frenchmen were not
in them.
Next day, upon the church, upon the Louis Quinze Hotel, and elsewhere,
the Union Jack flew--the British colours flaunted it in Pontiac with
welcome to the Governor. But upon the Seigneury was another flag--it of
the golden-lilies. Within the Manor House M. Louis Racine sat in the
great Seigneurial chair, returned from the gates of death. As he had come
home from the futile public meeting, galloping through the streets and
out upon the Seigneury road in the dusk, his horse had shied upon a
bridge, where mischievous lads waylaid travellers with ghostly heads made
of lighted candles in hollowed pumpkins, and horse and man had been
plunged into the stream beneath. His faithful servant Havel had seen the
accident and dragged his insensible master from the water.
Now the Seigneur sat in the great arm-chair glowering out upon the
cheerful day. As he brooded, shaken and weak and bitter--all his thoughts
were bitter now--a flash of scarlet, a glint of white plumes crossed his
line of vision, disappeared, then again came into view, and horses' hoofs
rang out on the hard road below. He started to his feet, but fell back
again, so feeble was he, then rang the bell at his side with nervous
insistence. A door opened quickly behind him, and his voice said
imperiously:
"Quick, Havel--to the door. The Governor and his suite have come. Call
Tardif, and have wine and cake brought at once. When the Governor enters,
let Tardif stand at the door, and you beside my chair. Have the
men-at-arms get into livery, and make a guard of honour for the Governor
when he leaves. Their new rifles too--and let old Fashode wear his medal!
See that Lucre is not filthy--ha! ha! very good. I must let the Governor
hear that. Quick--quick, Havel. They are entering the grounds. Let the
Manor bell be rung, and every one mustered. He shall see that to be a
Seigneur is not an empty honour. I am something in the state, something
by my own right." His lips moved restlessly; he frowned; his hands
nervously clasped the arms of the chair. "Madelinette too shall see that
I am to be reckoned with, that I am not a nobody. By God, then, but she
shall see it!" he added, bringing his clasped hand down hard upon the
wood.
There was a stir outside, a clanking of chains, a champing of bits, and
the murmurs of the crowd who were gathering fast in the grounds.
Presently the door was thrown open and Havel announced the Governor.
Louis Racine got to his feet, but the Governor hastened forward, and,
taking both his hands, forced him gently back into the chair.
"No, no, my dear Seigneur. You must not rise. This is no state visit, but
a friendly call to offer congratulations on your happy escape, and to
inquire how you are."
The Governor said his sentences easily, but he suddenly flushed and was
embarrassed, for Louis Racine's deformity, of which he had not
known--Pontiac kept its troubles to itself--stared him in the face; and
he felt the Seigneur's eyes fastened on him with strange intensity.
"I have to thank your Excellency," the Seigneur said in a hasty nervous
voice. "I fell on my shoulders--that saved me. If I had fallen on my head
I should have been killed, no doubt. My shoulders saved me!" he added,
with a petulant insistence in his voice, a morbid anxiety in his face.
"Most providential," responded the Governor. "It grieves me that it
should have happened on the occasion of my visit. I missed the Seigneur's
loyal public welcome. But I am happy," he continued, with smooth
deliberation, "to have it here in this old Manor House, where other loyal
French subjects of England have done honour to their Sovereign's
representative."
"This place is sacred to hospitality and patriotism, your Excellency,"
said Louis Racine, nervousness passing from his voice and a curious hard
look coming into his face.
The Governor was determined not to see the double meaning. "It is a
privilege to hear you say so. I shall recall the fact to her Majesty's
Government in the report I shall make upon my tour of the province. I
have a feeling that the Queen's pleasure in the devotion of her
distinguished French subjects may take some concrete form."
The Governor's suite looked at each other significantly, for never before
in his journeys had his Excellency hinted so strongly that an honour
might be conferred. Veiled as it was, it was still patent as the sun.
Spots of colour shot into the Seigneur's cheeks. An honour from the young
English Queen--that would mate with Madelinette's fame. After all, it was
only his due. He suddenly found it hard to be consistent. His mind was in
a whirl. The Governor continued:
"It must have given you great pleasure to know that at Windsor her
Majesty has given tokens of honour to the famous singer, the wife of a
notable French subject, who, while passionately eager to keep alive
French sentiment, has, as we believe, a deep loyalty to England."
The Governor had said too much. He had thought to give the Seigneur an
opportunity to recede from his seditious position there and then, and to
win his future loyalty. M. Racine's situation had peril, and the Governor
had here shown him the way of escape. But he had said one thing that
drove Louis Racine mad. He had given him unknown information about his
own wife. Louis did not know that Madelinette had been received by the
Queen, or that she had received "tokens of honour." Wild with resentment,
he saw in the Governor's words a consideration for himself based only on
the fact that he was the husband of the great singer. He trembled to his
feet.
At that moment there was a cheering outside--great cheering--but he did
not heed it; he was scarcely aware of it. If it touched his understanding
at all, it only meant to him a demonstration in honour of the Governor.
"Loyalty to the flag of England, your Excellency!" he said, in a hoarse
acrid voice--"you speak of loyalty to us whose lives for two centuries--"
He paused, for he heard a voice calling his name.
"Louis! Louis! Louis!"
The fierce words he had been about to utter died on his lips, his eyes
stared at the open window, bewildered and even frightened.
"Louis! Louis!"
Now the voice was inside the house. He stood trembling, both hands
grasping the arms of the chair. Every eye in the room was now turned
towards the door. As it opened, the Seigneur sank back in the chair, a
look of helpless misery, touched by a fierce pride, covering his face.
"Louis!"
It was Madelinette, who, disregarding the assembled company, ran forward
to him and caught both his hands in hers.
"O Louis, I have heard of your accident, and--" she stopped suddenly
short. The Governor turned away his head. Every person in the room did
the same. For as she bent over him--she saw. She saw for the first time;
for the first time knew!
A look of horrified amazement, of shrinking anguish, crossed over her
face. He felt the lightning-like silence, he knew that she had seen; he
struggled to his feet, staring fiercely at her.
That one torturing instant had taken all the colour from her face, but
there was a strange brightness in her eyes, a new power in her bearing.
She gently forced him into the seat again.
"You are not strong enough, Louis. You must be tranquil."
She turned now to the Governor. He made a sign to his suite, who, bowing,
slowly left the room. "Permit me to welcome you to your native land
again, Madame," he said. "You have won for it a distinction it could
never have earned, and the world gives you many honours."
She was smiling and still, and with one hand clasping her husband's, she
said:
"The honour I value most my native land has given me: I am lady of the
Manor here, and wife of the Seigneur Racine."
Agitated triumph came upon Louis Racine's face; a weird painful vanity
entered into him. He stood up beside his wife, as she turned and looked
at him, showing not a sign that what she saw disturbed her.
"It is no mushroom honour to be Seigneur of Pontiac, your Excellency," he
said, in a tone that jarred. "The barony is two hundred years old. By
rights granted from the crown of France, I am Baron of Pontiac."
"I think England has not yet recognised the title," said the Governor
suggestively, for he was here to make peace, and in the presence of this
man, whose mental torture was extreme, he would not allow himself to be
irritated.
"Our baronies have never been recognised," said the Seigneur harshly.
"And yet we are asked to love the flag of England and--"
"And to show that we are too proud to ask for a right that none can take
away," interposed Madelinette graciously and eagerly, as though to
prevent Louis from saying what he intended. All at once she had had to
order her life anew, to replace old thoughts by new ones. "We honour and
obey the rulers of our land, and fly the English flag, and welcome the
English Governor gladly when he comes to us--will your Excellency have
some refreshment?" she added quickly, for she saw the cloud on the
Seigneur's brow. "Louis," she added quickly, "will you--"