The Lane That Had No Turning, Complete - Gilbert Parker
"But it's little I know how many I killed, for I was killed meself that
day. A Roosian sabre claved the shoulder and neck of me, an' down I wint,
and over me trampled a squadron of Roosian harses, an' I stopped
thinkin'. Aw, so aisy, so aisy, I slipped away out av the fight! The
shriekin' and roarin' kept dwindlin' and dwindlin', and I dropped all
into a foine shlape, so quiet, so aisy. An' I thought that slip av a lad
from the Liffey soide was houlding me hand, and sayin' 'Mother! Mother!'
and we both wint ashlape; an' the b'ys of the rigimint when Alma was
over, they said to each other, the b'ys they said: 'Kilquhanity's dead.'
An' the trinches was dug, an' all we foine dead b'ys was laid in long
rows loike candles in the trinches. An' I was laid in among thim, and
Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick shtandin' there an' looking at me an' sayin':
'Poor b'y--poor b'y!'
"But when they threw another man on tap of me, I waked up out o' that
beautiful shlape, and give him a kick. 'Yer not polite,' says I to
mesilf. Shure, I couldn't shpake--there was no strength in me. An' they
threw another man on, an' I kicked again, and the Sergeant-Major he sees
it, an' shouts out. 'Kilquhan ity's leg is kickin'!' says he. An' they
pulled aff the two poor divils that had been thrown o' tap o' me, and the
Sergeant-Major lifts me head, an' he says 'Yer not killed, Kilquhanity?'
says he.
"Divil a word could I shpake, but I winked at him, and Captain Masham
shtandin' by whips out a flask.
"'Put that betune his teeth,' says he. Whin I got it there, trust me fur
not lettin' it go. An' the Sergeant-Major says to me: 'I have hopes of
you, Kilquhanity, when you do be drinkin' loike that.'
"'A foine healthy corpse I am; an' a foine thirsty, healthy corpse I am,'
says I."
A dozen hands stretched out to give Kilquhanity a drink, for even the
best story-teller of Pontiac could not have told his tale so well.
Yet the success achieved by Kilquhanity at such moments was discounted
through long months of mingled suspicion and doubtful tolerance. Although
both he and his wife were Catholics (so they said, and so it seemed),
Kilquhanity never went to Confession or took the Blessed Sacrament. The
Cure spoke to Kilquhanity's wife about it, and she said she could do
nothing with her husband. Her tongue once loosed, she spoke freely, and
what she said was little to the credit of Kilquhanity. Not that she could
urge any horrible things against him; but she railed at minor faults till
the Cure dismissed her with some good advice upon wives rehearsing their
husband's faults, even to the parish priest.
Mrs. Kilquhanity could not get the Cure to listen to her, but she was
more successful elsewhere. One day she came to get Kilquhanity's pension,
which was sent every three months through M. Garon, the Avocat. After she
had handed over the receipt prepared beforehand by Kilquhanity, she
replied to M. Garon's inquiry concerning her husband in these words:
"Misther Garon, sir, such a man it is--enough to break the heart of anny
woman. And the timper of him--Misther Garon, the timper of him's that
awful, awful! No conshideration, and that ugly-hearted, got whin a
soldier b'y! The things he does--my, my, the things he does!" She threw
up her hands with an air of distraction.
"Well, and what does he do, Madame?" asked the Avocat simply.
"An' what he says, too--the awful of it! Ah, the bad sour heart in him!
What's he lyin' in his bed for now--an' the New Year comin' on, whin we
ought to be praisin' God an' enjoyin' each other's company in this
blessed wurruld? What's he lying betune the quilts now fur, but by token
of the bad heart in him! It's a wicked could he has, an' how did he come
by it? I'll tell ye, Misther Garon. So wild was he, yesterday it was a
week, so black mad wid somethin' I'd said to him and somethin' that
shlipped from me hand at his head, that he turns his back on me, throws
opin the dure, shteps out into the shnow, and shtandin' there alone, he
curses the wide wurruld--oh, dear Misther Garon, he cursed the wide
wurruld, shtandin' there in the snow! God forgive the black heart of him,
shtandin' out there cursin' the wide wurruld!"
The Avocat looked at the Sergeant's wife musingly, the fingers of his
hands tapping together, but he did not speak: he was becoming wiser all
in a moment as to the ways of women.
"An' now he's in bed, the shtrappin' blasphemer, fur the could he got
shtandin' there in the snow cursin' the wide wurruld. Ah, Misther Garon,
pity a poor woman that has to live wid the loikes o' that!"
The Avocat still did not speak. He turned his face away and looked out of
the window, where his eyes could see the little house on the hill, which
to-day had the Union Jack flying in honour of some battle or victory,
dear to Kilquhanity's heart. It looked peaceful enough, the little house
lying there in the waste of snow, banked up with earth, and sheltered on
the northwest by a little grove of pines. At last M. Garon rose, and
lifting himself up and down on his toes as if about to deliver a legal
opinion, he coughed slightly, and then said in a dry little voice:
"Madame, I shall have pleasure in calling on your husband. You have not
seen the matter in the true light. Madame, I bid you good-day."
That night the Avocat, true to his promise, called on Sergeant
Kilquhanity. Kilquhanity was alone in the house. His wife had gone to the
village for the Little Chemist. She had been roused at last to the
serious nature of Kilquhanity's illness.
M. Garon knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again more loudly, and
still no answer. He opened the door and entered into a clean, warm
living-room, so hot that the heat came to him in waves, buffeting his
face. Dining, sitting, and drawing-room, it was also a sort of winter
kitchen; and side by side with relics of Kilquhanity's soldier-life were
clean, bright tins, black saucepans, strings of dried fruit, and
well-cured hams. Certainly the place had the air of home; it spoke for
the absent termagant.
M. Garon looked round and saw a half-opened door, through which presently
came a voice speaking in a laboured whisper. The Avocat knocked gently at
the door. "May I come in, Sergeant?" he asked, and entered. There was no
light in the room, but the fire in the kitchen stove threw a glow over
the bed where the sick man lay. The big hands of the soldier moved
restlessly on the quilt.
"Aw, it's the koind av ye!" said Kilquhanity, with difficulty, out of the
half shadows.
The Avocat took one burning hand in both of his, held it for a moment,
and pressed it two or three times. He did not know what to say.
"We must have a light," said he at last, and taking a candle from the
shelf he lighted it at the stove and came into the bedroom again. This
time he was startled. Even in this short illness, Kilquhanity's flesh had
dropped away from him, leaving him but a bundle of bones, on which the
skin quivered with fever. Every word the sick man tried to speak cut his
chest like a knife, and his eyes half started from his head with the
agony of it. The Avocat's heart sank within him, for he saw that a life
was hanging in the balance. Not knowing what to do, he tucked in the
bedclothes gently.
"I do be thinkin'," said the strained, whispering voice--"I do be
thinkin' I could shmoke."
The Avocat looked round the room, saw the pipe on the window, and cutting
some tobacco from a "plug," he tenderly filled the old black corn-cob.
Then he put the stem in Kilquhanity's mouth and held the candle to the
bowl. Kilquhanity smiled, drew a long breath, and blew out a cloud of
thick smoke. For a moment he puffed vigorously, then, all at once, the
pleasure of it seemed to die away, and presently the bowl dropped down on
his chin. M. Garon lifted it away. Kilquhanity did not speak, but kept
saying something over and over again to himself, looking beyond M. Garon
abstractedly.
At that moment the front door of the house opened, and presently a shrill
voice came through the door: "Shmokin', shmokin', are ye, Kilquhanity? As
soon as me back's turned, it's playin' the fool--" She stopped short,
seeing the Avocat.
"Beggin' yer pardon, Misther Garon," she said, "I thought it was only
Kilquhanity here, an' he wid no more sense than a babby."
Kilquhanity's eyes closed, and he buried one side of his head in the
pillow, that her shrill voice should not pierce his ears.
"The Little Chemist 'll be comin' in a minit, dear Misther Garon," said
the wife presently, and she began to fuss with the bedclothes and to be
nervously and uselessly busy.
"Aw, lave thim alone, darlin'," whispered Kilquhanity, tossing. Her
officiousness seemed to hurt him more than the pain in his chest.
M. Garon did not wait for the Little Chemist to arrive, but after
pressing the Sergeant's hand he left the house and went straight to the
house of the Cure, and told him in what condition was the black sheep of
his flock.
When M. Garon returned to his own home he found a visitor in his library.
It was a woman, between forty and fifty years of age, who rose slowly to
her feet as the Avocat entered, and, without preliminary, put into his
hands a document.
"That is who I am," she said. "Mary Muddock that was, Mary Kilquhanity
that is."
The Avocat held in his hands the marriage lines of Matthew Kilquhanity of
the parish of Malahide and Mary Muddock of the parish of St. Giles,
London. The Avocat was completely taken aback. He blew nervously through
his pale fingers, raised himself up and down on his toes, and grew pale
through suppressed excitement. He examined the certificate carefully,
though from the first he had no doubt of its accuracy and correctness.
"Well?" said the woman, with a hard look in her face and a hard note in
her voice. "Well?"
The Avocat looked at her musingly for a moment. All at once there had
been unfolded to him Kilquhanity's story. In his younger days Kilquhanity
had married this woman with a face of tin and a heart of leather. It
needed no confession from Kilquhanity's own lips to explain by what hard
paths he had come to the reckless hour when, at Blackpool, he had left
her for ever, as he thought. In the flush of his criminal freedom he had
married again--with the woman who shared his home on the little hillside,
behind the Parish Church, she believing him a widower. Mary Muddock, with
the stupidity of her class, had never gone to the right quarters to
discover his whereabouts until a year before this day when she stood in
the Avocat's library. At last, through the War Office, she had found the
whereabouts of her missing Matthew. She had gathered her little savings
together, and, after due preparation, had sailed away to Canada to find
the soldier boy whom she had never given anything but bad hours in all
the days of his life with her.
"Well," said the woman, "you're a lawyer--have you nothing to say? You
pay his pension--next time you'll pay it to me. I'll teach him to leave
me and my kid and go off with an Irish cook!"
The Avocat looked her steadily in the eyes, and then delivered the
strongest blow that was possible from the opposite side of the case.
"Madame," said he, "Madame, I regret to inform you that Matthew
Kilquhanity is dying."
"Dying, is he?" said the woman, with a sudden change of voice and manner,
but her whine did not ring true. "The poor darlin', and only that Irish
hag to care for him! Has he made a will?" she added eagerly.
Kilquhanity had made no will, and the little house on the hillside, and
all that he had, belonged to this woman who had spoiled the first part of
his life, and had come now to spoil the last part.
An hour later the Avocat, the Cure, and the two women stood in the chief
room of the little house on the hillside. The door was shut between the
two rooms, and the Little Chemist was with Kilquhanity. The Cure's hand
was on the arm of the first wife and the Avocat's upon the arm of the
second. The two women were glaring eye to eye, having just finished as
fine a torrent of abuse of each other and of Kilquhanity as can be
imagined. Kilquhanity himself, with the sorrow of death upon him, though
he knew it not, had listened to the brawl, his chickens come home to
roost at last. The first Mrs. Kilquhanity had sworn, with an oath that
took no account of the Cure's presence, that not a stick nor a stone nor
a rag nor a penny should that Irish slattern have of Matthew
Kilquhanity's!
The Cure and the Avocat had quieted them at last, and the Cure spoke
sternly now to both women.
"In the presence of death," said he, "have done with your sinful clatter.
Stop quarrelling over a dying man. Let him go in peace--let him go in
peace! If I hear one word more," he added sternly, "I will turn you both
out of the house into the night. I will have the man die in peace."
Opening the door of the bedroom, the Cure went in and shut the door,
bolting it quietly behind him. The Little Chemist sat by the bedside, and
Kilquhanity lay as still as a babe upon the bed. His eyes were half
closed, for the Little Chemist had given him an opiate to quiet the
terrible pain.
The Cure saw that the end was near. He touched Kilquhanity's arm: "My
son," said he, "look up. You have sinned; you must confess your sins, and
repent."
Kilquhanity looked up at him with dazed but half smiling eyes. "Are they
gone? Are the women gone?" The Cure nodded his head. Kilquhanity's eyes
closed and opened again. "They're gone, thin! Oh, the foine of it, the
foine of it!" he whispered. "So quiet, so aisy, so quiet! Faith, I'll
just be shlaping! I'll be shlaping now."
His eyes closed, but the Cure touched his arm again. "My son," said he,
"look up. Do you thoroughly and earnestly repent you of your sins?"
His eyes opened again. "Yis, father, oh yis! There's been a dale o'
noise--there's been a dale o' noise in the wurruld, father," said he.
"Oh, so quiet, so quiet now! I do be shlaping."
A smile came upon his face. "Oh, the foine of it! I do be
shlaping-shlaping."
And he fell into a noiseless Sleep.
THE BARON OF BEAUGARD
"The Manor House at Beaugard, monsieur? Ah, certainlee, I mind it very
well. It was the first in Quebec, and there are many tales. It had a
chapel and a gallows. Its baron, he had the power of life and death, and
the right of the seigneur--you understand?--which he used only once; and
then what trouble it made for him and the woman, and the barony, and the
parish, and all the country!"
"What is the whole story, Larue?" said Medallion, who had spent months in
the seigneur's company, stalking game, and tales, and legends of the St.
Lawrence.
Larue spoke English very well--his mother was English.
"Mais, I do not know for sure; but the Abbe Frontone, he and I were
snowed up together in that same house which now belongs to the Church,
and in the big fireplace, where we sat on a bench, toasting our knees and
our bacon, he told me the tale as he knew it. He was a great
scholar--there is none greater. He had found papers in the wall of the
house, and from the Gover'ment chest he got more. Then there were the
tales handed down, and the records of the Church--for she knows the true
story of every man that has come to New France from first to last. So,
because I have a taste for tales, and gave him some, he told me of the
Baron of Beaugard, and that time he took the right of the seigneur, and
the end of it all.
"Of course it was a hundred and fifty years ago, when Bigot was
Intendant-ah, what a rascal was that Bigot, robber and deceiver! He never
stood by a friend, and never fought fair a foe--so the Abbe said. Well,
Beaugard was no longer young. He had built the Manor House, he had put up
his gallows, he had his vassals, he had been made a lord. He had
quarrelled with Bigot, and had conquered, but at great cost; for Bigot
had such power, and the Governor had trouble enough to care for himself
against Bigot, though he was Beaugard's friend.
"Well, there was a good lump of a fellow who had been a soldier, and he
picked out a girl in the Seigneury of Beaugard to make his wife. It is
said the girl herself was not set for the man, for she was of finer stuff
than the peasants about her, and showed it. But her father and mother had
a dozen other children, and what was this girl, this Falise, to do? She
said yes to the man, the time was fixed for the marriage, and it came
along.
"So. At the very hour of the wedding Beaugard came by, for, the church
was in mending, and he had given leave it should be in his own chapel.
Well, he rode by just as the bride was coming out with the man--Garoche.
When Beaugard saw Falise, he gave a whistle, then spoke in his throat,
reined up his horse, and got down. He fastened his eyes on the girl's. A
strange look passed between them--he had never seen her before, but she
had seen him often, and when he was gone had helped the housekeeper with
his rooms. She had carried away with her a stray glove of his. Of course
it sounds droll, and they said of her when all came out that it was
wicked; but evil is according to a man's own heart, and the girl had hid
this glove as she hid whatever was in her soul--hid it even from the
priest.
"Well, the Baron looked and she looked, and he took off his hat, stepped
forward, and kissed her on the cheek. She turned pale as a ghost, and her
eyes took the colour that her cheeks lost. When he stepped back he looked
close at the husband. 'What is your name?' he said. 'Garoche, M'sieu' le
Baron,' was the reply. 'Garoche, Garoche,' he said, eyeing him up and
down. 'You have been a soldier?' 'Yes, M'sieu' le Baron.' 'You have
served with me?' 'Against you, M'sieu' le Baron . . . when Bigot came
fighting.' 'Better against me than for me,' said the Baron, speaking to
himself, though he had so strong a voice that what he said could be heard
by those near him-that is, those who were tall, for he was six and a half
feet, with legs and shoulders like a bull.
"He stooped and stroked the head of his hound for a moment, and all the
people stood and watched him, wondering what next. At last he said: 'And
what part played you in that siege, Garoche?' Garoche looked troubled,
but answered: 'It was in the way of duty, M'sieu' le Baron--I with five
others captured the relief-party sent from your cousin the Seigneur of
Vadrome.' 'Oh,' said the Baron, looking sharp, 'you were in that, were
you? Then you know what happened to the young Marmette?' Garoche trembled
a little, but drew himself up and said: 'M'sieu' le Baron, he tried to
kill the Intendant--there was no other way.' 'What part played you in
that, Garoche?' Some trembled, for they knew the truth, and they feared
the mad will of the Baron. 'I ordered the firing-party, M'sieu' le
Baron,' he answered.
"The Baron's eyes got fierce and his face hardened, but he stooped and
drew the ears of the hound through his hand softly. 'Marmette was my
cousin's son, and had lived with me,' he said. 'A brave lad, and he had a
nice hatred of vileness--else he had not died.' A strange smile played on
his lips for a moment, then he looked at Falise steadily. Who can tell
what was working in his mind! 'War is war,' he went on, 'and Bigot was
your master, Garoche; but the man pays for his master's sins this way or
that. Yet I would not have it different, no, not a jot.' Then he turned
round to the crowd, raised his hat to the Cure, who stood on the chapel
steps, once more looked steadily at Falise, and said: 'You shall all come
to the Manor House, and have your feastings there, and we will drink to
the home-coming of the fairest woman in my barony.' With that he turned
round, bowed to Falise, put on his hat, caught the bridle through his
arm, and led his horse to the Manor House.
"This was in the afternoon. Of course, whether they wished or not,
Garoche and Falise could not refuse, and the people were glad enough, for
they would have a free hand at meat and wine, the Baron being liberal of
table. And it was as they guessed, for though the time was so short, the
people at Beaugard soon had the tables heavy with food and drink. It was
just at the time of candle-lighting the Baron came in and gave a toast.
'To the dwellers in Eden to-night,' he said--'Eden against the time of
the Angel and the Sword.' I do not think that any except the Cure and the
woman understood, and she, maybe, only because a woman feels the truth
about a thing, even when her brain does not. After they had done shouting
to his toast, he said a good-night to all, and they began to leave, the
Cure among the first to go, with a troubled look in his face.
"As the people left, the Baron said to Garoche and Falise: 'A moment with
me before you go.' The woman started, for she thought of one thing, and
Garoche started, for he thought of another--the siege of Beaugard and the
killing of young Marmette. But they followed the Baron to his chamber.
Coming in, he shut the door on them. Then he turned to Garoche. 'You will
accept the roof and bed of Beaugard to-night, my man,' he said, 'and come
to me here at nine tomorrow morning.' Garoche stared hard for an instant.
'Stay here!' said Garoche, 'Falise and me stay here in the Manor, M'sieu'
le Baron!' 'Here, even here, Garoche; so good-night to you,' said the
Baron. Garoche turned towards the girl. 'Then come, Falise,' he said, and
reached out his hand. 'Your room, Garoche, shall be shown you at once,'
the Baron added softly, 'the lady's at her pleasure.'
"Then a cry burst from Garoche, and he sprang forward, but the Baron
waved him back. 'Stand off,' he said, 'and let the lady choose between
us.' 'She is my wife,' said Garoche. 'I am your Seigneur,' said the
other. 'And there is more than that,' he went on; 'for, damn me, she is
too fine stuff for you, and the Church shall untie what she has tied
to-day!' At that Falise fainted, and the Baron caught her as she fell. He
laid her on a couch, keeping an eye on Garoche the while. 'Loose her
gown,' he said, 'while I get brandy.' Then he turned to a cupboard,
poured liquor, and came over. Garoche had her dress open at the neck and
bosom, and was staring at something on her breast. The Baron saw also,
stooped with a strange sound in his throat, and picked it up. 'My glove!'
he said. 'And on her wedding-day!' He pointed. 'There on the table is its
mate, fished this morning from my hunting-coat--a pair the Governor gave
me. You see, man, you see her choice!'
"At that he stooped and put some brandy to her lips. Garoche drew back
sick and numb, and did nothing, only stared. Falise came to herself soon,
and when she felt her dress open, gave a cry. Garoche could have killed
her then, when he saw her shudder from him, as if afraid, over towards
the Baron, who held the glove in his hand, and said: 'See, Garoche, you
had better go. In the next room they will tell you where to sleep.
To-morrow, as I said, you will meet me here. We shall have things to say,
you and I.' Ah, that Baron, he had a queer mind, but in truth he loved
the woman, as you shall see!
"Garoche got up without a word, went to the door and opened it, the look
of the Baron and the woman following him, for there was a devil in his
eye. In the other room there were men waiting, and he was taken to a
chamber and locked in. You can guess what that night must have been to
him!"
"What was it to the Baron and Falise?" asked Medallion.
"M'sieu', what do you think? Beaugard had never had an eye for women;
loving his hounds, fighting, quarrelling, doing wild, strong things. So,
all at once, he was face to face with a woman who has the look of love in
her face, who was young, and fine of body--so the Abbe said--and was
walking to marriage at her father's will and against her own, carrying
the Baron's glove in her bosom. What should Beaugard do? But no, ah no,
m'sieu', not as you think, not quite! Wild, with the bit in his teeth,
yes; but at heart-well, here was the one woman for him. He knew it all in
a minute, and he would have her once and for all, and till death should
come their way. And so he said to her, as he raised her, she drawing back
afraid, her heart hungering for him, yet fear in her eyes, and her
fingers trembling as she softly pushed him from her. You see, she did not
know quite what was in his heart. She was the daughter of a tenant
vassal, who had lived in the family of a grand seigneur in her youth, the
friend of his child--that was all, and that was where she got her manners
and her mind.
"She got on her feet and said: 'M'sieu' le Baron, you will let me go--to
my husband. I cannot stay here. Oh, you are great, you are noble, you
would not make me sorry, make me to hate myself--and you! I have only one
thing in the world of any price--you would not steal my happiness?' He
looked at her steadily in the eyes, and said: 'Will it make you happy to
go to Garoche?' She raised her hands and wrung them. 'God knows, God
knows, I am his wife,' she said helplessly, 'and he loves me.' 'And God
knows, God knows,' said the Baron, 'it is all a question of whether one
shall feed and two go hungry, or two gather and one have the stubble!
Shall not he stand in the stubble? What has he done to merit you?