The Lane That Had No Turning, Complete - Gilbert Parker
Julie slyly eyed the wardrobe and as slyly smiled, and then, imitating
Farette's manner--though Farette could not see it, and Parpon spluttered
with laughter--said:
"M'sieu', you are a great man. The grey poplin is noble, also the flour,
and the writing on the brown paper. M'sieu', you go to Mass, and all your
teeth are sound; you have a dog-churn, also three feather-beds, and five
rag carpets; you have sat on the grand jury.
"M'sieu', I have a dot; I accept you. M'sieu', I will keep the brown
paper, and the grey poplin, and the flour." Then with a grave elaborate
bow, "M'sieu'!"
That was the beginning and end of the courtship. For though Farette came
every Sunday evening and smoked by the fire, and looked at Julie as she
arranged the details of her dowry, he only chuckled, and now and again
struck his thigh and said:
"Mon Dieu, the ankle, the eye, the good child, Julie, there!"
Then he would fall to thinking and chuckling again. One day he asked her
to make him some potato-cakes of the flour he had given her. Her answer
was a catastrophe. She could not cook; she was even ignorant of
buttermilk-pudding. He went away overwhelmed, but came back some days
afterwards and made another speech. He had laid his plans before
Medallion, who approved of them. He prefaced the speech by placing the
blank marriage certificate on the table. Then he said that his first wife
was such a cook, that when she died he paid for an extra Mass and twelve
very fine candles. He called upon Parpon to endorse his words, and Parpon
nodded to all he said, but, catching Julie's eye, went off into gurgles
of laughter, which he pretended were tears, by smothering his face in his
capote. "Ma'm'selle," said the miller, "I have thought. Some men go to
the Avocat or the Cure with great things; but I have been a pilgrimage, I
have sat on the grand jury. There, Ma'm'selle!" His chest swelled, he
blew out his cheeks, he pulled Parpon's ear as Napoleon pulled Murat's.
"Ma'm'selle, allons! Babette, the sister of my first wife-ah! she is a
great cook also--well, she was pouring into my plate the soup--there is
nothing like pea-soup with a fine lump of pork, and thick molasses for
the buckwheat cakes. Ma'm'selle, allons! Just then I thought. It is very
good; you shall see; you shall learn how to cook. Babette will teach you.
Babette said many things. I got mad and spilt the soup. Ma'm'selle--eh,
holy, what a turn has your waist!"
At length he made it clear to her what his plans were, and to each and
all she consented; but when he had gone she sat and laughed till she
cried, and for the hundredth time took out the brown paper and studied
the list of Farette's worldly possessions.
The wedding-day came. Julie performed her last real act of renunciation
when, in spite of the protests of her friends, she wore the grey
watered-poplin, made modern by her own hands. The wedding-day was the
anniversary of Farette's first marriage, and the Cure faltered in the
exhortation when he saw that Farette was dressed in complete mourning,
even to the crape hat-streamers, as he said, out of respect for the
memory of his first wife, and as a kind of tribute to his second. At the
wedding-breakfast, where Medallion and Parpon were in high glee, Farette
announced that he would take the honeymoon himself, and leave his wife to
learn cooking from old Babette.
So he went away alone cheerfully, with hymeneal rice falling in showers
on his mourning garments; and his new wife was as cheerful as he, and
threw rice also.
She learned how to cook, and in time Farette learned that he had his one
true inspiration when he wore mourning at his second marriage.
MATHURIN
The tale was told to me in the little valley beneath Dalgrothe Mountain
one September morning. Far and near one could see the swinging of the
flail, and the laughter of a ripe summer was upon the land. There was a
little Calvary down by the riverside, where the flax-beaters used to say
their prayers in the intervals of their work; and it was just at the foot
of this that Angele Rouvier, having finished her prayer, put her rosary
in her pocket, wiped her eyes with the hem of her petticoat, and said to
me:
"Ah, dat poor Mathurin, I wipe my tears for him!"
"Tell me all about him, won't you, Madame Angele? I want to hear you tell
it," I added hastily, for I saw that she would despise me if I showed
ignorance of Mathurin's story. Her sympathy with Mathurin's memory was
real, but her pleasure at the compliment I paid her was also real.
"Ah! It was ver' longtime ago--yes. My gran'mudder she remember dat
Mathurin ver' well. He is not ver' big man. He has a face-oh, not ver'
handsome, not so more handsome as yours--non. His clothes, dey hang on
him all loose; his hair, it is all some grey, and it blow about him head.
He is clean to de face, no beard--no, nosing like dat. But his eye--la,
M'sieu', his eye! It is like a coal which you blow in your hand,
whew!--all bright. My gran'mudder, she say, 'Voila, you can light your
pipe with de eyes of dat Mathurin!' She know. She say dat M'sieu'
Mathurin's eyes dey shine in de dark. My gran'fadder he say he not need
any lights on his cariole when Mathurin ride with him in de night.
"Ah, sure! it is ver' true what I tell you all de time. If you cut off
Mathurin at de chin, all de way up, you will say de top of him it is a
priest. All de way down from his neck, oh, he is just no better as
yoursel' or my Jean--non. He is a ver' good man. Only one bad ting he do.
Dat is why I pray for him; dat is why everybody pray for him--only one
bad ting. Sapristi!--if I have only one ting to say God-have-mercy for, I
tink dat ver' good; I do my penance happy. Well, dat Mathurin him use to
teach de school. De Cure he ver' fond of him. All de leetla children,
boys and girls, dey all say: 'C'est bon Mathurin!' He is not ver'
cross--non. He have no wife, no child; jes live by himself all alone. But
he is ver' good friends with everybody in Pontiac. When he go 'long de
street, everybody say, 'Ah, dere go de good Mathurin!' He laugh, he tell
story, he smoke leetla tabac, he take leetla white wine behin' de door;
dat is nosing--non.
"He have in de parish five, ten, twenty children all call Mathurin; he is
godfadder with dem--yes. So he go about with plenty of sugar and sticks
of candy in his pocket. He never forget once de age of every leetla child
dat call him godfadder. He have a brain dat work like a clock. My
gran'fadder he say dat Mathurin have a machine in his head. It make de
words, make de thoughts, make de fine speech like de Cure, make de gran'
poetry--oh, yes!
"When de King of Englan' go to sit on de throne, Mathurin write ver' nice
verse to him. And by-and-by dere come to Mathurin a letter--voila, dat is
a letter! It have one, two, three, twenty seals; and de King he say to
Mathurin: 'Merci mille fois, m'sieu'; you are ver' polite. I tank you. I
will keep your verses to tell me dat my French subjects are all loyal
like M. Mathurin.' Dat is ver' nice, but Mathurin is not proud--non. He
write six verses for my granmudder--hein? Dat is something. He write two
verses for de King of Englan' and he write six verses for my
granmudder--you see! He go on so, dis week, dat week, dis year, dat year,
all de time.
"Well, by-and-by dere is trouble on Pontiac. It is ver' great trouble.
You see dere is a fight 'gainst de King of Englan', and dat is too bad.
It is not his fault; he is ver' nice man; it is de bad men who make de
laws for de King in Quebec. Well, one day all over de country everybody
take him gun, and de leetla bullets, and say, I will fight de soldier of
de King of Englan'--like dat. Ver' well, dere was twenty men in Pontiac,
ver' nice men--you will find de names cut in a stone on de church; and
den, three times as big, you will find Mathurin's name. Ah, dat is de
ting! You see, dat rebellion you English call it, we call it de War of de
Patriot--de first War of de Patriot, not de second-well, call it what you
like, quelle difference? The King of Englan' smash him Patriot War all to
pieces. Den dere is ten men of de twenty come back to Pontiac ver' sorry.
Dey are not happy, nobody are happy. All de wives, dey cry; all de
children, dey are afraid. Some people say, What fools you are; others
say, You are no good; but everybody in him heart is ver' sorry all de
time.
"Ver' well, by-and-by dere come to Pontiac what you call a colonel with a
dozen men--what for, you tink? To try de patriots. He will stan' dem
against de wall and shoot dem to death--kill dem dead. When dey come, de
Cure he is not in Pontiac--non, not dat day; he is gone to anudder
village. De English soldier he has de ten men drew up before de church.
All de children and all de wives dey cry and cry, and dey feel so bad.
Certainlee, it is a pity. But de English soldier he say he will march dem
off to Quebec, and everybody know dat is de end of de patriots.
"All at once de colonel's horse it grow ver' wild, it rise up high, and
dance on him hind feet, and--voila! he topple him over backwards, and de
horse fall on de colonel and smaish him--smaish him till he go to die.
Ver' well; de colonel, what does he do? Dey lay him on de steps of de
church. Den he say: 'Bring me a priest, quick, for I go to die.' Nobody
answer. De colonel he say: 'I have a hunder sins all on my mind; dey are
on my heart like a hill. Bring to me de priest,'--he groan like dat.
Nobody speak at first; den somebody say de priest is not here. 'Find me a
priest,' say de colonel; 'find me a priest.' For he tink de priest will
not come, becos' he go to kill de patriots. 'Bring me a priest,' he say
again, 'and all de ten shall go free.' He say it over and over. He is
smaish to pieces, but his head is all right. All at once de doors of de
church open behin' him--what you tink! Everybody's heart it stan' still,
for dere is Mathurin dress as de priest, with a leetla boy to swing de
censer. Everybody say to himself, What is dis? Mathurin is dress as de
priest-ah! dat is a sin. It is what you call blaspheme.
"The English soldier he look up at Mathurin and say: 'Ah, a priest at
last--ah, M'sieu' le Cure, comfort me!' Mathurin look down on him and
say: 'M'sieu', it is for you to confess your sins, and to have de office
of de Church. But first, as you have promise just now, you must give up
dese poor men, who have fight for what dey tink is right. You will let
dem go free dis women?' 'Yes, yes,' say de English colonel; 'dey shall
go free. Only give me de help of de Church at my last.' Mathurin turn to
de other soldiers and say: 'Unloose de men.'
"De colonel nod his head and say: 'Unloose de men.' Den de men are
unloose, and dey all go away, for Mathurin tell dem to go quick.
"Everybody is ver' 'fraid becos' of what Mathurin do. Mathurin he say to
de soldiers: 'Lift him up and bring him in de church.' Dey bring him up
to de steps of de altar. Mathurin look at de man for a while, and it seem
as if he cannot speak to him; but de colonel say: 'I have give you my
word. Give me comfort of de Church before I die.' He is in ver' great
pain, so Mathurin he turn roun' to everybody dat stan' by, and tell dem
to say de prayers for de sick. Everybody get him down on his knees and
say de prayer. Everybody say: 'Lord have mercy. Spare him, O Lord;
deliver him, O Lord, from Thy wrath!' And Mathurin he pray all de same as
a priest, ver' soft and gentle. He pray on and on, and de face of de
English soldier it get ver; quiet and still, and de tear drop down his
cheek. And just as Mathurin say at de last his sins dey are forgive, he
die. Den Mathurin, as he go away to take off his robes, he say to
himself: 'Miserere mei Deus! miserere mei Deus!'
"So dat is de ting dat Mathurin do to save de patriots from de bullets.
Ver' well, de men dey go free, and when de Governor at Quebec he hear de
truth, he say it is all right. Also de English soldier die in peace and
happy, becos' he tink his sins are forgive. But den--dere is Mathurin and
his sin to pretend he is a priest! The Cure he come back, and dere is a
great trouble.
"Mathurin he is ver' quiet and still. Nobody come near him in him house;
nobody go near to de school. But he sit alone all day in de school, and
he work on de blackboar' and he write on de slate; but dere is no child
come, becos' de Cure has forbid any one to speak to Mathurin. Not till de
next Sunday, den de Cure send for Mathurin to come to de church. Mathurin
come to de steps of de altar; den de Cure say to him:
"'Mathurin, you have sin a great sin. If it was two hunderd years ago you
would be put to death for dat.'
"Mathurin he say ver' soft: 'Dat is no matter. I am ready to die now. I
did it to save de fadders of de children and de husbands of de wives. I
do it to make a poor sinner happy as he go from de world. De sin is
mine.'
"Den de Cure he say: 'De men are free, dat is good; de wives have dere
husbands and de children dere fadders. Also de man who confess his
sins--de English soldier--to whom you say de words of a priest of God, he
is forgive. De Spirit of God it was upon him when he die, becos' you
speak in de name of de Church. But for you, blasphemer, who take upon you
de holy ting, you shall suffer! For penance, all your life you shall
teach a chile no more.'
"Voila, M'sieu' le Cure he know dat is de greatest penance for de poor
Mathurin! Den he set him other tings to do; and every month for a whole
year Mathurin come on his knees all de way to de church, but de Cure say:
'Not yet are you forgive.' At de end of de year Mathurin he look so thin,
so white, you can blow through him. Every day he go to him school and
write on de blackboar', and mark on de slate, and call de roll of de
school. But dere is no answer, for dere is no children. But all de time
de wives of de men dat he have save, and de children, dey pray for him.
And by-and-by all de village pray for him, so sorry.
"It is so for two years; and den dey say dat Mathurin he go to die. He
cannot come on his knees to de church; and de men whose life he save, dey
come to de Cure and ask him to take de penance from Mathurin. De Cure
say: 'Wait till nex' Sunday.' So nex' Sunday Mathurin is carry to de
church--he is too weak to walk on his knees. De Cure he stan' at de
altar, and he read a letter from de Pope, which say dat Mathurin his
penance is over, and he is forgive; dat de Pope himself pray for
Mathurin, to save his soul. So Mathurin, all at once he stan' up, and
his face it smile and smile, and he stretch out his arms as if dey are on
a cross, and he say, 'Lord, I am ready to go,' and he fall down. But de
Cure catch him as he fall, and Mathurin say: 'De children--let dem come
to me dat I teach dem before I die.' And all de children in de church dey
come close to him, and he sit up and smile at dem, and he say:
"'It is de class in 'rithmetic. How much is three times four?' And dem
all answer: 'T'ree times four is twelve.' And he say: 'May de Twelve
Apostles pray for me!' Den he ask: 'Class in geography--how far is it
roun' de world?' And dey answer: 'Twenty-four t'ousand miles.' He say:
'Good; it is not so far to God! De school is over all de time,' he say.
And dat is only everything of poor Mathurin. He is dead.
"When de Cure lay him down, after he make de Sign upon him, he kiss his
face and say: 'Mathurin, now you are a priest unto God.'"
That was Angele Rouvier's story of Mathurin, the Master of the School,
for whom the women and the children pray in the parish of Pontiac, though
the school has been dismissed these hundred years and more.
THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER
For a man in whose life there had been tragedy he was cheerful. He had a
habit of humming vague notes in the silence of conversation, as if to put
you at your ease. His body and face were lean and arid, his eyes oblique
and small, his hair straight and dry and straw-coloured; and it flew out
crackling with electricity, to meet his cap as he put it on. He lived
alone in a little but near his lime-kiln by the river, with no near
neighbours, and few companions save his four dogs; and these he fed
sometimes at expense of his own stomach. He had just enough crude poetry
in his nature to enjoy his surroundings. For he was well placed. Behind
the lime-kiln rose knoll on knoll, and beyond these the verdant hills,
all converging to Dalgrothe Mountain. In front of it was the river, with
its banks dropping forty feet, and below, the rapids, always troubled and
sportive. On the farther side of the river lay peaceful areas of meadow
and corn land, and low-roofed, hovering farm-houses, with one larger than
the rest, having a wind-mill and a flag-staff. This building was almost
large enough for a manor, and indeed it was said that it had been built
for one just before the conquest in 1759, but the war had destroyed the
ambitious owner, and it had become a farm-house. Paradis always knew the
time of the day by the way the light fell on the wind-mill. He had owned
this farm once, he and his brother Fabian, and he had loved it as he
loved Fabian, and he loved it now as he loved Fabian's memory. In spite
of all, they were cheerful memories, both of brother and house.
At twenty-three they had become orphans, with two hundred acres of land,
some cash, horses and cattle, and plenty of credit in the parish, or in
the county, for that matter. Both were of hearty dispositions, but Fabian
had a taste for liquor, and Henri for pretty faces and shapely ankles.
Yet no one thought the worse of them for that, especially at first. An
old servant kept house for them and cared for them in her honest way,
both physically and morally. She lectured them when at first there was
little to lecture about. It is no wonder that when there came a vast deal
to reprove, the bonne desisted altogether, overwhelmed by the weight of
it.
Henri got a shock the day before their father died when he saw Fabian
lift the brandy used to mix with the milk of the dying man, and pouring
out the third of a tumbler, drink it off, smacking his lips as he did so,
as though it were a cordial. That gave him a cue to his future and to
Fabian's. After their father died Fabian gave way to the vice. He drank
in the taverns, he was at once the despair and the joy of the parish;
for, wild as he was, he had a gay temper, a humorous mind, a strong arm,
and was the universal lover. The Cure, who did not, of course, know
one-fourth of his wildness, had a warm spot for him in his heart. But
there was a vicious strain in him somewhere, and it came out one day in a
perilous fashion.
There was in the hotel of the Louis Quinze an English servant from the
west, called Nell Barraway. She had been in a hotel in Montreal, and it
was there Fabian had seen her as she waited at table. She was a
splendid-looking creature--all life and energy, tall, fair-haired, and
with a charm above her kind. She was also an excellent servant, could do
as much as any two women in any house, and was capable of more airy
diablerie than any ten of her sex in Pontiac. When Fabian had said to her
in Montreal that he would come to see her again, he told her where he
lived. She came to see him instead, for she wrote to the landlord of the
Louis Quinze, enclosed fine testimonials, and was at once engaged. Fabian
was stunned when he entered the Louis Quinze and saw her waiting at
table, alert, busy, good to behold. She nodded at him with a quick smile
as he stood bewildered just inside the door, then said in English: "This
way, m'sieu'."
As he sat down he said in English also, with a laugh and with snapping
eyes: "Good Lord, what brings you here, lady-bird?"
As she pushed a chair under him she whispered through his hair: "You!"
and then was gone away to fetch pea-soup for six hungry men.
The Louis Quinze did more business now in three months than it had done
before in six. But it became known among a few in Pontiac that Nell was
notorious. How it had crept up from Montreal no one guessed, and, when it
did come, her name was very intimately associated with Fabian's. No one
could say that she was not the most perfect of servants, and also no one
could say that her life in Pontiac had not been exemplary. Yet wise
people had made up their minds that she was determined to marry Fabian,
and the wisest declared that she would do so in spite of
everything--religion (she was a Protestant), character, race. She was
clever, as the young Seigneur found, as the little Avocat was forced to
admit, as the Cure allowed with a sigh, and she had no airs of badness at
all and very little of usual coquetry. Fabian was enamoured, and it was
clear that he intended to bring the woman to the Manor one way or
another.
Henri admitted the fascination of the woman, felt it, despaired, went to
Montreal, got proof of her career, came back, and made his final and only
effort to turn his brother from the girl.
He had waited an hour outside the hotel for his brother, and when Fabian
got in, he drove on without a word. After a while, Fabian, who was in
high spirits, said:
"Open your mouth, Henri. Come along, sleepyhead."
Straightway he began to sing a rollicking song, and Henri joined in with
him heartily, for the spirit of Fabian's humour was contagious:
"There was a little man,
The foolish Guilleri
Carabi.
He went unto the chase,
Of partridges the chase.
Carabi.
Titi Carabi,
Toto Carabo,
You're going to break your neck,
My lovely Guilleri!"
He was about to begin another verse when Henri stopped him, saying:
"You're going to break your neck, Fabian."
"What's up, Henri?" was the reply.
"You're drinking hard, and you don't keep good company."
Fabian laughed. "Can't get the company I want, so what I can get I have,
Henri, my lad."
"Don't drink." Henri laid his freehand on Fabian's knee.
"Whiskey-wine is meat and drink to me--I was born on New Year's Day, old
coffin-face. Whiskey-wine day, they ought to call it. Holy! the empty
jars that day." Henri sighed. "That's the drink, Fabian," he said
patiently. "Give up the company. I'll be better company for you than that
girl, Fabian."
"Girl? What the devil do you mean!"
"She, Nell Barraway, was the company I meant, Fabian."
"Nell Barraway--you mean her? Bosh! I'm going to marry her, Henri."
"You mustn't, Fabian," said Henri, eagerly clutching Fabian's sleeve.
"But I must, my Henri. She's the best-looking, wittiest girl I ever
saw--splendid. Never lonely with her."
"Looks and brains isn't everything, Fabian."
"Isn't it, though? Isn't it? Tiens, you try it!"
"Not without goodness." Henri's voice weakened.
"That's bosh. Of course it is, Henri, my dear. If you love a woman, if
she gets hold of you, gets into your blood, loves you so that the touch
of her fingers sets your pulses going pom-pom, you don't care a sou
whether she is good or not."
"You mean whether she was good or not?"
"No, I don't. I mean is good or not. For if she loves you she'll travel
straight for your sake. Pshaw, you don't know anything about it!"
"I know all about it."
"Know all about it! You're in love--you?"
"Yes."
Fabian sat open-mouthed for a minute. "Godam!" he said. It was his one
English oath.
"Is she good company?" he asked after a minute.
"She's the same as you keep--voila, the same."
"You mean Nell--Nell?" asked Fabian, in a dry, choking voice.
"Yes, Nell. From the first time I saw her. But I'd cut my hand off first.
I'd think of you; of our people that have been here for two hundred
years; of the rooms in the old house where mother used to be."
Fabian laughed nervously. "Holy heaven, and you've got her in your blood,
too!"
"Yes, but I'd never marry her. Fabian, at Montreal I found out all about
her. She was as bad--"
"That's nothing to me, Henri," said Fabian, "but something else is. Here
you are now. I'll make a bargain." His face showed pale in the moonlight.
"If you'll drink with me, do as I do, go where I go, play the devil when
I play it, and never squeal, never hang back, I'll give her up. But I've
got to have you--got to have you all the time, everywhere, hunting,
drinking, or letting alone. You'll see me out, for you're stronger, had
less of it. I'm soon for the little low house in the grass. Stop the
horses."
Henri stopped them and they got out. They were just opposite the
lime-kiln, and they had to go a few hundred yards before they came to the
bridge to cross the river to their home. The light of the fire shone in
their faces as Fabian handed the flask to Henri, and said: "Let's drink
to it, Henri. You half, and me half." He was deadly pale.
Henri drank to the finger-mark set, and then Fabian lifted the flask to
his lips.
"Good-bye, Nell!" he said. "Here's to the good times we've had!" He
emptied the flask, and threw it over the bank into the burning lime, and
Garotte, the old lime-burner, being half asleep, did not see or hear.
The next day the two went on a long hunting expedition, and the following
month Nell Barraway left for Montreal.