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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:25 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:25 -0700 |
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diff --git a/1048-h/1048-h.htm b/1048-h/1048-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c2bba5f --- /dev/null +++ b/1048-h/1048-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6759 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Ruling Passion, by Henry Van Dyke + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1048 ***</div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE RULING PASSION + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Henry van Dyke + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + A WRITER’S REQUEST OF HIS MASTER + </h2> + <p> + Let me never tag a moral to a story, nor tell a story without a meaning. + Make me respect my material so much that I dare not slight my work. Help + me to deal very honestly with words and with people because they are both + alive. Show me that as in a river, so in a writing, clearness is the best + quality, and a little that is pure is worth more than much that is mixed. + Teach me to see the local colour without being blind to the inner light. + Give me an ideal that will stand the strain of weaving into human stuff on + the loom of the real. Keep me from caring more for books than for folks, + for art than for life. Steady me to do my full stint of work as well as I + can: and when that is done, stop me, pay what wages Thou wilt, and help me + to say, from a quiet heart, a grateful AMEN. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> + <p> + In every life worth writing about there is a ruling passion,—“the + very pulse of the machine.” Unless you touch that, you are groping around + outside of reality. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes it is romantic love: Natures masterpiece of interested + benevolence. In almost all lives this passion has its season of empire. + Therefore, and rightly, it is the favourite theme of the storyteller. + Romantic love interests almost everybody, because almost everybody knows + something about it, or would like to know. + </p> + <p> + But there are other passions, no less real, which also have their place + and power in human life. Some of them come earlier, and sometimes they + last longer, than romantic love. They play alongside of it and are mixed + up with it, now checking it, now advancing its flow and tingeing it with + their own colour. + </p> + <p> + Just because love is so universal, it is often to one of the other + passions that we must look for the distinctive hue, the individual quality + of a life-story. Granted, if you will, that everybody must fall in love, + or ought to fall in love, How will he do it? And what will he do + afterwards? These are questions not without interest to one who watches + the human drama as a friend. The answers depend upon those hidden and + durable desires, affections, and impulses to which men and women give + themselves up for rule and guidance. + </p> + <p> + Music, nature, children, honour, strife, revenge, money, pride, + friendship, loyalty, duty,—to these objects and others like them the + secret power of personal passion often turns, and the life unconsciously + follows it, as the tides in the sea follow the moon in the sky. + </p> + <p> + When circumstances cross the ruling passion, when rocks lie in the way and + winds are contrary, then things happen, characters emerge, slight events + are significant, mere adventures are transformed into a real plot. What + care I how many “hair-breadth ‘scapes” and “moving accidents” your hero + may pass through, unless I know him for a man? He is but a puppet strung + on wires. His kisses are wooden and his wounds bleed sawdust. There is + nothing about him to remember except his name, and perhaps a bit of + dialect. Kill him or crown him,—what difference does it make? + </p> + <p> + But go the other way about your work: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Take the least man of all mankind, as I; + Look at his head and heart, find how and why + He differs from his fellows utterly,”— +</pre> + <p> + and now there is something to tell, with a meaning. + </p> + <p> + If you tell it at length, it is a novel,—a painting. If you tell it + in brief, it is a short story,—an etching. But the subject is always + the same: the unseen, mysterious, ruling passion weaving the stuff of + human nature into patterns wherein the soul is imaged and revealed. + </p> + <p> + To tell about some of these ruling passions, simply, clearly, and + concretely, is what I want to do in this book. The characters are chosen, + for the most part, among plain people, because their feelings are + expressed with fewer words and greater truth, not being costumed for + social effect. The scene is laid on Nature’s stage because I like to be + out-of-doors, even when I am trying to think and learning to write. + </p> + <p> + “Avalon,” Princeton, July 22, 1901. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> A WRITER’S REQUEST OF HIS MASTER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>I. A LOVER OF MUSIC</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> IV </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> <b>II. THE REWARD OF VIRTUE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> IV </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> <b>III. A BRAVE HEART</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> III </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> <b>IV. THE GENTLE LIFE</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> <b>V. A FRIEND OF JUSTICE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> III </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> <b>VI. THE WHITE BLOT</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> III </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> <b>VII. A YEAR OF NOBILITY</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> III </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> <b>VIII. THE KEEPER OF THE LIGHT</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> IV </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + I. A LOVER OF MUSIC + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + He entered the backwoods village of Bytown literally on the wings of the + wind. It whirled him along like a big snowflake, and dropped him at the + door of Moody’s “Sportsmen’s Retreat,” as if he were a New Year’s gift + from the North Pole. His coming seemed a mere chance; but perhaps there + was something more in it, after all. At all events, you shall hear, if you + will, the time and the manner of his arrival. + </p> + <p> + It was the last night of December, some thirty-five years ago. All the + city sportsmen who had hunted the deer under Bill Moody’s direction had + long since retreated to their homes, leaving the little settlement on the + border of the Adirondack wilderness wholly under the social direction of + the natives. + </p> + <p> + The annual ball was in full swing in the dining-room of the hotel. At one + side of the room the tables and chairs were piled up, with their legs + projecting in the air like a thicket of very dead trees. + </p> + <p> + The huge stove in the southeast corner was blushing a rosy red through its + thin coat of whitewash, and exhaling a furious dry heat flavoured with the + smell of baked iron. At the north end, however, winter reigned; and there + were tiny ridges of fine snow on the floor, sifted in by the wind through + the cracks in the window-frames. + </p> + <p> + But the bouncing girls and the heavy-footed guides and lumbermen who + filled the ball-room did not appear to mind the heat or the cold. They + balanced and “sashayed” from the tropics to the arctic circle. They swung + at corners and made “ladies’ change” all through the temperate zone. They + stamped their feet and did double-shuffles until the floor trembled + beneath them. The tin lamp-reflectors on the walls rattled like castanets. + </p> + <p> + There was only one drawback to the hilarity of the occasion. The band, + which was usually imported from Sandy River Forks for such festivities,—a + fiddle, a cornet, a flute, and an accordion,—had not arrived. There + was a general idea that the mail-sleigh, in which the musicians were to + travel, had been delayed by the storm, and might break its way through the + snow-drifts and arrive at any moment. But Bill Moody, who was naturally of + a pessimistic temperament, had offered a different explanation. + </p> + <p> + “I tell ye, old Baker’s got that blame’ band down to his hotel at the + Falls now, makin’ ‘em play fer his party. Them music fellers is onsartin; + can’t trust ‘em to keep anythin’ ‘cept the toon, and they don’t alluz keep + that. Guess we might uz well shet up this ball, or go to work playin’ + games.” + </p> + <p> + At this proposal a thick gloom had fallen over the assembly; but it had + been dispersed by Serena Moody’s cheerful offer to have the small melodion + brought out of the parlour, and to play for dancing as well as she could. + The company agreed that she was a smart girl, and prepared to accept her + performance with enthusiasm. As the dance went on, there were frequent + comments of approval to encourage her in the labour of love. + </p> + <p> + “Sereny’s doin’ splendid, ain’t she?” said the other girls. + </p> + <p> + To which the men replied, “You bet! The playin’ ‘s reel nice, and good + ‘nough fer anybody—outside o’ city folks.” + </p> + <p> + But Serena’s repertory was weak, though her spirit was willing. There was + an unspoken sentiment among the men that “The Sweet By and By” was not + quite the best tune in the world for a quadrille. A Sunday-school hymn, no + matter how rapidly it was rendered, seemed to fall short of the necessary + vivacity for a polka. Besides, the wheezy little organ positively refused + to go faster than a certain gait. Hose Ransom expressed the popular + opinion of the instrument, after a figure in which he and his partner had + been half a bar ahead of the music from start to finish, when he said: + </p> + <p> + “By Jolly! that old maloney may be chock full o’ relijun and po’try; but + it ain’t got no DANCE into it, no more ‘n a saw-mill.” + </p> + <p> + This was the situation of affairs inside of Moody’s tavern on New Year’s + Eve. But outside of the house the snow lay two feet deep on the level, and + shoulder-high in the drifts. The sky was at last swept clean of clouds. + The shivering stars and the shrunken moon looked infinitely remote in the + black vault of heaven. The frozen lake, on which the ice was three feet + thick and solid as rock, was like a vast, smooth bed, covered with a white + counterpane. The cruel wind still poured out of the northwest, driving the + dry snow along with it like a mist of powdered diamonds. + </p> + <p> + Enveloped in this dazzling, pungent atmosphere, half blinded and + bewildered by it, buffeted and yet supported by the onrushing torrent of + air, a man on snow-shoes, with a light pack on his shoulders, emerged from + the shelter of the Three Sisters’ Islands, and staggered straight on, down + the lake. He passed the headland of the bay where Moody’s tavern is + ensconced, and probably would have drifted on beyond it, to the marsh at + the lower end of the lake, but for the yellow glare of the ball-room + windows and the sound of music and dancing which came out to him suddenly + through a lull in the wind. + </p> + <p> + He turned to the right, climbed over the low wall of broken ice-blocks + that bordered the lake, and pushed up the gentle slope to the open + passageway by which the two parts of the rambling house were joined + together. Crossing the porch with the last remnant of his strength, he + lifted his hand to knock, and fell heavily against the side door. + </p> + <p> + The noise, heard through the confusion within, awakened curiosity and + conjecture. + </p> + <p> + Just as when a letter comes to a forest cabin, it is turned over and over, + and many guesses are made as to the handwriting and the authorship before + it occurs to any one to open it and see who sent it, so was this rude + knocking at the gate the occasion of argument among the rustic revellers + as to what it might portend. Some thought it was the arrival of the + belated band. Others supposed the sound betokened a descent of the Corey + clan from the Upper Lake, or a change of heart on the part of old Dan + Dunning, who had refused to attend the ball because they would not allow + him to call out the figures. The guesses were various; but no one thought + of the possible arrival of a stranger at such an hour on such a night, + until Serena suggested that it would be a good plan to open the door. Then + the unbidden guest was discovered lying benumbed along the threshold. + </p> + <p> + There was no want of knowledge as to what should be done with a + half-frozen man, and no lack of ready hands to do it. They carried him not + to the warm stove, but into the semi-arctic region of the parlour. They + rubbed his face and his hands vigorously with snow. They gave him a drink + of hot tea flavoured with whiskey—or perhaps it was a drink of + whiskey with a little hot tea in it—and then, as his senses began to + return to him, they rolled him in a blanket and left him on a sofa to thaw + out gradually, while they went on with the dance. + </p> + <p> + Naturally, he was the favourite subject of conversation for the next hour. + </p> + <p> + “Who is he, anyhow? I never seen ‘im before. Where’d he come from?” asked + the girls. + </p> + <p> + “I dunno,” said Bill Moody; “he didn’t say much. Talk seemed all froze up. + Frenchy, ‘cordin’ to what he did say. Guess he must a come from Canady, + workin’ on a lumber job up Raquette River way. Got bounced out o’ the + camp, p’raps. All them Frenchies is queer.” + </p> + <p> + This summary of national character appeared to command general assent. + </p> + <p> + “Yaas,” said Hose Ransom, “did ye take note how he hung on to that pack o’ + his’n all the time? Wouldn’t let go on it. Wonder what ‘t wuz? Seemed + kinder holler ‘n light, fer all ‘twuz so big an’ wropped up in lots o’ + coverin’s.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the use of wonderin’?” said one of the younger boys; “find out + later on. Now’s the time fer dancin’. Whoop ‘er up!” + </p> + <p> + So the sound of revelry swept on again in full flood. The men and maids + went careering up and down the room. Serena’s willing fingers laboured + patiently over the yellow keys of the reluctant melodion. But the ancient + instrument was weakening under the strain; the bellows creaked; the notes + grew more and more asthmatic. + </p> + <p> + “Hold the Fort” was the tune, “Money Musk” was the dance; and it was a + preposterously bad fit. The figure was tangled up like a fishing-line + after trolling all day without a swivel. The dancers were doing their + best, determined to be happy, as cheerful as possible, but all out of + time. The organ was whirring and gasping and groaning for breath. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a new music filled the room. + </p> + <p> + The right tune—the real old joyful “Money Musk,” played jubilantly, + triumphantly, irresistibly—on a fiddle! + </p> + <p> + The melodion gave one final gasp of surprise and was dumb. + </p> + <p> + Every one looked up. There, in the parlour door, stood the stranger, with + his coat off, his violin hugged close under his chin, his right arm making + the bow fly over the strings, his black eyes sparkling, and his stockinged + feet marking time to the tune. + </p> + <p> + “DANSEZ! DANSEZ,” he cried, “EN AVANT! Don’ spik’. Don’ res’! Ah’ll goin’ + play de feedle fo’ yo’ jess moch yo’ lak’, eef yo’ h’only DANSE!” + </p> + <p> + The music gushed from the bow like water from the rock when Moses touched + it. Tune followed tune with endless fluency and variety—polkas, + galops, reels, jigs, quadrilles; fragments of airs from many lands—“The + Fisher’s Hornpipe,” “Charlie is my Darling,” “Marianne s’en va-t-au + Moulin,” “Petit Jean,” “Jordan is a Hard Road to Trabbel,” woven together + after the strangest fashion and set to the liveliest cadence. + </p> + <p> + It was a magical performance. No one could withstand it. They all danced + together, like the leaves on the shivering poplars when the wind blows + through them. The gentle Serena was swept away from her stool at the organ + as if she were a little canoe drawn into the rapids, and Bill Moody + stepped high and cut pigeon-wings that had been forgotten for a + generation. It was long after midnight when the dancers paused, breathless + and exhausted. + </p> + <p> + “Waal,” said Hose Ransom, “that’s jess the hightonedest music we ever had + to Bytown. You ‘re a reel player, Frenchy, that’s what you are. What’s + your name? Where’d you come from? Where you goin’ to? What brought you + here, anyhow?” + </p> + <p> + “MOI?” said the fiddler, dropping his bow and taking a long breath. “Mah + nem Jacques Tremblay. Ah’ll ben come fraum Kebeck. W’ere goin’? Ah donno. + Prob’ly Ah’ll stop dis place, eef yo’ lak’ dat feedle so moch, hein?” + </p> + <p> + His hand passed caressingly over the smooth brown wood of the violin. He + drew it up close to his face again, as if he would have kissed it, while + his eyes wandered timidly around the circle of listeners, and rested at + last, with a question in them, on the face of the hotel-keeper. Moody was + fairly warmed, for once, out of his customary temper of mistrust and + indecision. He spoke up promptly. + </p> + <p> + “You kin stop here jess long’s you like. We don’ care where you come from, + an’ you need n’t to go no fu’ther, less you wanter. But we ain’t got no + use for French names round here. Guess we ‘ll call him Fiddlin’ Jack, hey, + Sereny? He kin do the chores in the day-time, an’ play the fiddle at + night.” + </p> + <p> + This was the way in which Bytown came to have a lover of music among its + permanent inhabitants. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + Jacques dropped into his place and filled it as if it had been made for + him. There was something in his disposition that seemed to fit him for + just the role that was vacant in the social drama of the settlement. It + was not a serious, important, responsible part, like that of a farmer, or + a store-keeper, or a professional hunter. It was rather an addition to the + regular programme of existence, something unannounced and voluntary, and + therefore not weighted with too heavy responsibilities. There was a touch + of the transient and uncertain about it. He seemed like a perpetual + visitor; and yet he stayed on as steadily as a native, never showing, from + the first, the slightest wish or intention to leave the woodland village. + </p> + <p> + I do not mean that he was an idler. Bytown had not yet arrived at that + stage of civilization in which an ornamental element is supported at the + public expense. + </p> + <p> + He worked for his living, and earned it. He was full of a quick, cheerful + industry; and there was nothing that needed to be done about Moody’s + establishment, from the wood-pile to the ice-house, at which he did not + bear a hand willingly and well. + </p> + <p> + “He kin work like a beaver,” said Bill Moody, talking the stranger over + down at the post-office one day; “but I don’t b’lieve he’s got much + ambition. Jess does his work and takes his wages, and then gits his fiddle + out and plays.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell ye what,” said Hose Ransom, who set up for the village philosopher, + “he ain’t got no ‘magination. That’s what makes men slack. He don’t know + what it means to rise in the world; don’t care fer anythin’ ez much ez he + does fer his music. He’s jess like a bird; let him have ‘nough to eat and + a chance to sing, and he’s all right. What’s he ‘magine about a house of + his own, and a barn, and sich things?” + </p> + <p> + Hosea’s illustration was suggested by his own experience. He had just put + the profits of his last summer’s guiding into a new barn, and his + imagination was already at work planning an addition to his house in the + shape of a kitchen L. + </p> + <p> + But in spite of his tone of contempt, he had a kindly feeling for the + unambitious fiddler. Indeed, this was the attitude of pretty much every + one in the community. A few men of the rougher sort had made fun of him at + first, and there had been one or two attempts at rude handling. But + Jacques was determined to take no offence; and he was so good-humoured, so + obliging, so pleasant in his way of whistling and singing about his work, + that all unfriendliness soon died out. + </p> + <p> + He had literally played his way into the affections of the village. The + winter seemed to pass more swiftly and merrily than it had done before the + violin was there. He was always ready to bring it out, and draw all kinds + of music from its strings, as long as any one wanted to listen or to + dance. + </p> + <p> + It made no difference whether there was a roomful of listeners, or only a + couple, Fiddlin’ Jack was just as glad to play. With a little, quiet + audience, he loved to try the quaint, plaintive airs of the old French + songs—“A la Claire Fontaine,” “Un Canadien Errant,” and “Isabeau s’y + Promene”—and bits of simple melody from the great composers, and + familiar Scotch and English ballads—things that he had picked up + heaven knows where, and into which he put a world of meaning, sad and + sweet. + </p> + <p> + He was at his best in this vein when he was alone with Serena in the + kitchen—she with a piece of sewing in her lap, sitting beside the + lamp; he in the corner by the stove, with the brown violin tucked under + his chin, wandering on from one air to another, and perfectly content if + she looked up now and then from her work and told him that she liked the + tune. + </p> + <p> + Serena was a pretty girl, with smooth, silky hair, end eyes of the colour + of the nodding harebells that blossom on the edge of the woods. She was + slight and delicate. The neighbours called her sickly; and a great doctor + from Philadelphia who had spent a summer at Bytown had put his ear to her + chest, and looked grave, and said that she ought to winter in a mild + climate. That was before people had discovered the Adirondacks as a + sanitarium for consumptives. + </p> + <p> + But the inhabitants of Bytown were not in the way of paying much attention + to the theories of physicians in regard to climate. They held that if you + were rugged, it was a great advantage, almost a virtue; but if you were + sickly, you just had to make the best of it, and get along with the + weather as well as you could. + </p> + <p> + So Serena stayed at home and adapted herself very cheerfully to the + situation. She kept indoors in winter more than the other girls, and had a + quieter way about her; but you would never have called her an invalid. + There was only a clearer blue in her eyes, and a smoother lustre on her + brown hair, and a brighter spot of red on her cheek. She was particularly + fond of reading and of music. It was this that made her so glad of the + arrival of the violin. The violin’s master knew it, and turned to her as a + sympathetic soul. I think he liked her eyes too, and the soft tones of her + voice. He was a sentimentalist, this little Canadian, for all he was so + merry; and love—but that comes later. + </p> + <p> + “Where’d you get your fiddle, Jack? said Serena, one night as they sat + together in the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “Ah’ll get heem in Kebeck,” answered Jacques, passing his hand lightly + over the instrument, as he always did when any one spoke of it. “Vair’ + nice VIOLON, hein? W’at you t’ink? Ma h’ole teacher, to de College, he was + gif’ me dat VIOLON, w’en Ah was gone away to de woods.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to know! Were you in the College? What’d you go off to the woods + for?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah’ll get tire’ fraum dat teachin’—read, read, read, h’all taim’. + Ah’ll not lak’ dat so moch. Rader be out-door—run aroun’—paddle + de CANOE—go wid de boys in de woods—mek’ dem dance at ma + MUSIQUE. A-a-ah! Dat was fon! P’raps you t’ink dat not good, hem? You + t’ink Jacques one beeg fool, Ah suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “I dunno,” said Serena, declining to commit herself, but pressing on + gently, as women do, to the point she had in view when she began the talk. + “Dunno’s you’re any more foolish than a man that keeps on doin’ what he + don’t like. But what made you come away from the boys in the woods and + travel down this way?” + </p> + <p> + A shade passed over the face of Jacques. He turned away from the lamp and + bent over the violin on his knees, fingering the strings nervously. Then + he spoke, in a changed, shaken voice. + </p> + <p> + “Ah’l tole you somet’ing, Ma’amselle Serene. You ma frien’. Don’ you h’ask + me dat reason of it no more. Dat’s somet’ing vair’ bad, bad, bad. Ah can’t + nevair tole dat—nevair.” + </p> + <p> + There was something in the way he said it that gave a check to her gentle + curiosity and turned it into pity. A man with a secret in his life? It was + a new element in her experience; like a chapter in a book. She was lady + enough at heart to respect his silence. She kept away from the forbidden + ground. But the knowledge that it was there gave a new interest to Jacques + and his music. She embroidered some strange romances around that secret + while she sat in the kitchen sewing. + </p> + <p> + Other people at Bytown were less forbearing. They tried their best to find + out something about Fiddlin’ Jack’s past, but he was not communicative. He + talked about Canada. All Canadians do. But about himself? No. + </p> + <p> + If the questions became too pressing, he would try to play himself away + from his inquisitors with new tunes. If that did not succeed, he would + take the violin under his arm and slip quickly out of the room. And if you + had followed him at such a time, you would have heard him drawing strange, + melancholy music from the instrument, sitting alone in the barn, or in the + darkness of his own room in the garret. + </p> + <p> + Once, and only once, he seemed to come near betraying himself. This was + how it happened. + </p> + <p> + There was a party at Moody’s one night, and Bull Corey had come down from + the Upper Lake and filled himself up with whiskey. + </p> + <p> + Bull was an ugly-tempered fellow. The more he drank, up to a certain + point, the steadier he got on his legs, and the more necessary it seemed + for him to fight somebody. The tide of his pugnacity that night took a + straight set toward Fiddlin’ Jack. + </p> + <p> + Bull began with musical criticisms. The fiddling did not suit him at all. + It was too quick, or else it was too slow. He failed to perceive how any + one could tolerate such music even in the infernal regions, and he + expressed himself in plain words to that effect. In fact, he damned the + performance without even the faintest praise. + </p> + <p> + But the majority of the audience gave him no support. On the contrary, + they told him to shut up. And Jack fiddled along cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + Then Bull returned to the attack, after having fortified himself in the + bar-room. And now he took national grounds. The French were, in his + opinion, a most despicable race. They were not a patch on the noble + American race. They talked too much, and their language was ridiculous. + They had a condemned, fool habit of taking off their hats when they spoke + to a lady. They ate frogs. + </p> + <p> + Having delivered himself of these sentiments in a loud voice, much to the + interruption of the music, he marched over to the table on which Fiddlin’ + Jack was sitting, and grabbed the violin from his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Gimme that dam’ fiddle,” he cried, “till I see if there’s a frog in it.” + </p> + <p> + Jacques leaped from the table, transported with rage. His face was + convulsed. His eyes blazed. He snatched a carving-knife from the dresser + behind him, and sprang at Corey. + </p> + <p> + “TORT DIEU!” he shrieked, “MON VIOLON! Ah’ll keel you, beast!” + </p> + <p> + But he could not reach the enemy. Bill Moody’s long arms were flung around + the struggling fiddler, and a pair of brawny guides had Corey pinned by + the elbows, hustling him backward. Half a dozen men thrust themselves + between the would-be combatants. There was a dead silence, a scuffling of + feet on the bare floor; then the danger was past, and a tumult of talk + burst forth. + </p> + <p> + But a strange alteration had passed over Jacques. He trembled. He turned + white. Tears poured down his cheeks. As Moody let him go, he dropped on + his knees, hid his face in his hands, and prayed in his own tongue. + </p> + <p> + “My God, it is here again! Was it not enough that I must be tempted once + before? Must I have the madness yet another time? My God, show the mercy + toward me, for the Blessed Virgin’s sake. I am a sinner, but not the + second time; for the love of Jesus, not the second time! Ave Maria, gratia + plena, ora pro me!” + </p> + <p> + The others did not understand what he was saying. Indeed, they paid little + attention to him. They saw he was frightened, and thought it was with + fear. They were already discussing what ought to be done about the fracas. + </p> + <p> + It was plain that Bull Corey, whose liquor had now taken effect suddenly, + and made him as limp as a strip of cedar bark, must be thrown out of the + door, and left to cool off on the beach. But what to do with Fiddlin’ Jack + for his attempt at knifing—a detested crime? He might have gone at + Bull with a gun, or with a club, or with a chair, or with any recognized + weapon. But with a carving-knife! That was a serious offence. Arrest him, + and send him to jail at the Forks? Take him out, and duck him in the lake? + Lick him, and drive him out of the town? + </p> + <p> + There was a multitude of counsellors, but it was Hose Ransom who settled + the case. He was a well-known fighting-man, and a respected philosopher. + He swung his broad frame in front of the fiddler. + </p> + <p> + “Tell ye what we’ll do. Jess nothin’! Ain’t Bull Corey the blowin’est and + the mos’ trouble-us cuss ‘round these hull woods? And would n’t it be a + fust-rate thing ef some o’ the wind was let out ‘n him?” + </p> + <p> + General assent greeted this pointed inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “And wa’n’t Fiddlin’ Jack peacerble ‘nough ‘s long ‘s he was let alone? + What’s the matter with lettin’ him alone now?” + </p> + <p> + The argument seemed to carry weight. Hose saw his advantage, and clinched + it. + </p> + <p> + “Ain’t he given us a lot o’ fun here this winter in a innercent kind o’ + way, with his old fiddle? I guess there ain’t nothin’ on airth he loves + better ‘n that holler piece o’ wood, and the toons that’s inside o’ it. + It’s jess like a wife or a child to him. Where’s that fiddle, anyhow?” + </p> + <p> + Some one had picked it deftly out of Corey’s hand during the scuffle, and + now passed it up to Hose. + </p> + <p> + “Here, Frenchy, take yer long-necked, pot-bellied music-gourd. And I want + you boys to understand, ef any one teches that fiddle ag’in, I’ll knock + hell out ‘n him.” + </p> + <p> + So the recording angel dropped another tear upon the record of Hosea + Ransom, and the books were closed for the night. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + For some weeks after the incident of the violin and the carving-knife, it + looked as if a permanent cloud had settled upon the spirits of Fiddlin’ + Jack. He was sad and nervous; if any one touched him, or even spoke to him + suddenly, he would jump like a deer. He kept out of everybody’s way as + much as possible, sat out in the wood-shed when he was not at work, and + could not be persuaded to bring down his fiddle. He seemed in a fair way + to be transformed into “the melancholy Jaques.” + </p> + <p> + It was Serena who broke the spell; and she did it in a woman’s way, the + simplest way in the world—by taking no notice of it. + </p> + <p> + “Ain’t you goin’ to play for me to-night?” she asked one evening, as + Jacques passed through the kitchen. Whereupon the evil spirit was + exorcised, and the violin came back again to its place in the life of the + house. + </p> + <p> + But there was less time for music now than there had been in the winter. + As the snow vanished from the woods, and the frost leaked out of the + ground, and the ice on the lake was honeycombed, breaking away from the + shore, and finally going to pieces altogether in a warm southeast storm, + the Sportsmen’s Retreat began to prepare for business. There was a garden + to be planted, and there were boats to be painted. The rotten old wharf in + front of the house stood badly in need of repairs. The fiddler proved + himself a Jack-of-all-trades and master of more than one. + </p> + <p> + In the middle of May the anglers began to arrive at the Retreat—a + quiet, sociable, friendly set of men, most of whom were old-time + acquaintances, and familiar lovers of the woods. They belonged to the + “early Adirondack period,” these disciples of Walton. They were not very + rich, and they did not put on much style, but they understood how to have + a good time; and what they did not know about fishing was not worth + knowing. + </p> + <p> + Jacques fitted into their scheme of life as a well-made reel fits the butt + of a good rod. He was a steady oarsman, a lucky fisherman, with a real + genius for the use of the landing-net, and a cheerful companion, who did + not insist upon giving his views about artificial flies and advice about + casting, on every occasion. By the end of June he found himself in steady + employment as a guide. + </p> + <p> + He liked best to go with the anglers who were not too energetic, but were + satisfied to fish for a few hours in the morning and again at sunset, + after a long rest in the middle of the afternoon. This was just the time + for the violin; and if Jacques had his way, he would take it with him, + carefully tucked away in its case in the bow of the boat; and when the + pipes were lit after lunch, on the shore of Round Island or at the mouth + of Cold Brook, he would discourse sweet music until the declining sun drew + near the tree-tops and the veery rang his silver bell for vespers. Then it + was time to fish again, and the flies danced merrily over the water, and + the great speckled trout leaped eagerly to catch them. For trolling all + day long for lake-trout Jacques had little liking. + </p> + <p> + “Dat is not de sport,” he would say, “to hol’ one r-r-ope in de ‘and, an’ + den pool heem in wid one feesh on t’ree hook, h’all tangle h’up in hees + mout’—dat is not de sport. Bisside, dat leef not taim’ for la + musique.” + </p> + <p> + Midsummer brought a new set of guests to the Retreat, and filled the + ramshackle old house to overflowing. The fishing fell off, but there were + picnics and camping-parties in abundance, and Jacques was in demand. The + ladies liked him; his manners were so pleasant, and they took a great + interest in his music. Moody bought a piano for the parlour that summer; + and there were two or three good players in the house, to whom Jacques + would listen with delight, sitting on a pile of logs outside the parlour + windows in the warm August evenings. + </p> + <p> + Some one asked him whether he did not prefer the piano to the violin. + </p> + <p> + “NON,” he answered, very decidedly; “dat piano, he vairee smart; he got + plentee word, lak’ de leetle yellow bird in de cage—‘ow you call + heem—de cannarie. He spik’ moch. Bot dat violon, he spik’ more deep, + to de heart, lak’ de Rossignol. He mak’ me feel more glad, more sorree—dat + fo’ w’at Ah lak’ heem de bes’!” + </p> + <p> + Through all the occupations and pleasures of the summer Jacques kept as + near as he could to Serena. If he learned a new tune, by listening to the + piano—some simple, artful air of Mozart, some melancholy echo of a + nocturne of Chopin, some tender, passionate love-song of Schubert—it + was to her that he would play it first. If he could persuade her to a + boat-ride with him on the lake, Sunday evening, the week was complete. He + even learned to know the more shy and delicate forest-blossoms that she + preferred, and would come in from a day’s guiding with a tiny bunch of + belated twin-flowers, or a few purple-fringed orchids, or a handful of + nodding stalks of the fragrant pyrola, for her. + </p> + <p> + So the summer passed, and the autumn, with its longer hunting expeditions + into the depth of the wilderness; and by the time winter came around + again, Fiddlin’ Jack was well settled at Moody’s as a regular Adirondack + guide of the old-fashioned type, but with a difference. He improved in his + English. Something of that missing quality which Moody called ambition, + and to which Hose Ransom gave the name of imagination, seemed to awaken + within him. He saved his wages. He went into business for himself in a + modest way, and made a good turn in the manufacture of deerskin mittens + and snow-shoes. By the spring he had nearly three hundred dollars laid by, + and bought a piece of land from Ransom on the bank of the river just above + the village. + </p> + <p> + The second summer of guiding brought him in enough to commence building a + little house. It was of logs, neatly squared at the corners; and there was + a door exactly in the middle of the facade, with a square window at either + side, and another at each end of the house, according to the common style + of architecture at Bytown. + </p> + <p> + But it was in the roof that the touch of distinction appeared. For this, + Jacques had modelled after his memory of an old Canadian roof. There was a + delicate concave sweep in it, as it sloped downward from the peak, and the + eaves projected pleasantly over the front door, making a strip of shade + wherein it would be good to rest when the afternoon sun shone hot. + </p> + <p> + He took great pride in this effort of the builder’s art. One day at the + beginning of May, when the house was nearly finished, he asked old Moody + and Serena to stop on their way home from the village and see what he had + done. He showed them the kitchen, and the living-room, with the bed-room + partitioned off from it, and sharing half of its side window. Here was a + place where a door could be cut at the back, and a shed built for a summer + kitchen—for the coolness, you understand. And here were two stoves—one + for the cooking, and the other in the living-room for the warming, both of + the newest. + </p> + <p> + “An’ look dat roof. Dat’s lak’ we make dem in Canada. De rain ron off + easy, and de sun not shine too strong at de door. Ain’t dat nice? You lak’ + dat roof, Ma’amselle Serene, hein?” + </p> + <p> + Thus the imagination of Jacques unfolded itself, and his ambition appeared + to be making plans for its accomplishment. I do not want any one to + suppose that there was a crisis in his affair of the heart. There was + none. Indeed, it is very doubtful whether anybody in the village, even + Serena herself, ever dreamed that there was such an affair. Up to the + point when the house was finished and furnished, it was to be a secret + between Jacques and his violin; and they found no difficulty in keeping + it. + </p> + <p> + Bytown was a Yankee village. Jacques was, after all, nothing but a + Frenchman. The native tone of religion, what there was of it, was strongly + Methodist. Jacques never went to church, and if he was anything, was + probably a Roman Catholic. Serena was something of a sentimentalist, and a + great reader of novels; but the international love-story had not yet been + invented, and the idea of getting married to a foreigner never entered her + head. I do not say that she suspected nothing in the wild flowers, and the + Sunday evening boat-rides, and the music. She was a woman. I have said + already that she liked Jacques very much, and his violin pleased her to + the heart. But the new building by the river? I am sure she never even + thought of it once, in the way that he did. + </p> + <p> + Well, in the end of June, just after the furniture had come for the house + with the curved roof, Serena was married to Hose Ransom. He was a young + widower without children, and altogether the best fellow, as well as the + most prosperous, in the settlement. His house stood up on the hill, across + the road from the lot which Jacques had bought. It was painted white, and + it had a narrow front porch, with a scroll-saw fringe around the edge of + it; and there was a little garden fenced in with white palings, in which + Sweet Williams and pansies and blue lupines and pink bleeding-hearts were + planted. + </p> + <p> + The wedding was at the Sportsmen’s Retreat, and Jacques was there, of + course. There was nothing of the disconsolate lover about him. The noun he + might have confessed to, in a confidential moment of intercourse with his + violin; but the adjective was not in his line. + </p> + <p> + The strongest impulse in his nature was to be a giver of entertaininent, a + source of joy in others, a recognized element of delight in the little + world where he moved. He had the artistic temperament in its most + primitive and naive form. Nothing pleased him so much as the act of + pleasing. Music was the means which Nature had given him to fulfil this + desire. He played, as you might say, out of a certain kind of selfishness, + because he enjoyed making other people happy. He was selfish enough, in + his way, to want the pleasure of making everybody feel the same delight + that he felt in the clear tones, the merry cadences, the tender and + caressing flow of his violin. That was consolation. That was power. That + was success. + </p> + <p> + And especially was he selfish enough to want to feel his ability to give + Serena a pleasure at her wedding—a pleasure that nobody else could + give her. When she asked him to play, he consented gladly. Never had he + drawn the bow across the strings with a more magical touch. The wedding + guests danced as if they were enchanted. The big bridegroom came up and + clapped him on the back, with the nearest approach to a gesture of + affection that backwoods etiquette allows between men. + </p> + <p> + “Jack, you’re the boss fiddler o’ this hull county. Have a drink now? I + guess you ‘re mighty dry.” + </p> + <p> + “MERCI, NON,” said Jacques. “I drink only de museek dis night. Eef I drink + two t’ings, I get dronk.” + </p> + <p> + In between the dances, and while the supper was going on, he played + quieter tunes—ballads and songs that he knew Serena liked. After + supper came the final reel; and when that was wound up, with immense + hilarity, the company ran out to the side door of the tavern to shout a + noisy farewell to the bridal buggy, as it drove down the road toward the + house with the white palings. When they came back, the fiddler was gone. + He had slipped away to the little cabin with the curved roof. + </p> + <p> + All night long he sat there playing in the dark. Every tune that he had + ever known came back to him—grave and merry, light and sad. He + played them over and over again, passing round and round among them as a + leaf on a stream follows the eddies, now backward, now forward, and + returning most frequently to an echo of a certain theme from Chopin—you + remember the NOCTURNE IN G MINOR, the second one? He did not know who + Chopin was. Perhaps he did not even know the name of the music. But the + air had fallen upon his ear somewhere, and had stayed in his memory; and + now it seemed to say something to him that had an especial meaning. + </p> + <p> + At last he let the bow fall. He patted the brown wood of the violin after + his old fashion, loosened the strings a little, wrapped it in its green + baize cover, and hung it on the wall. + </p> + <p> + “Hang thou there, thou little violin,” he murmured. “It is now that I + shall take the good care of thee, as never before; for thou art the wife + of Jacques Tremblay. And the wife of ‘Osee Ransom, she is a friend to us, + both of us; and we will make the music for her many years, I tell thee, + many years—for her, and for her good man, and for the children—yes?” + </p> + <p> + But Serena did not have many years to listen to the playing of Jacques + Tremblay: on the white porch, in the summer evenings, with bleeding-hearts + abloom in the garden; or by the winter fire, while the pale blue moonlight + lay on the snow without, and the yellow lamplight filled the room with + homely radiance. In the fourth year after her marriage she died, and + Jacques stood beside Hose at the funeral. + </p> + <p> + There was a child—a little boy—delicate and blue-eyed, the + living image of his mother. Jacques appointed himself general attendant, + nurse in extraordinary, and court musician to this child. He gave up his + work as a guide. It took him too much away from home. He was tired of it. + Besides, what did he want of so much money? He had his house. He could + gain enough for all his needs by making snow-shoes and the deerskin + mittens at home. Then he could be near little Billy. It was pleasanter so. + </p> + <p> + When Hose was away on a long trip in the woods, Jacques would move up to + the white house and stay on guard. His fiddle learned how to sing the + prettiest slumber songs. Moreover, it could crow in the morning, just like + the cock; and it could make a noise like a mouse, and like the cat, too; + and there were more tunes inside of it than in any music-box in the world. + </p> + <p> + As the boy grew older, the little cabin with the curved roof became his + favourite playground. It was near the river, and Fiddlin’ Jack was always + ready to make a boat for him, or help him catch minnows in the mill-dam. + The child had a taste for music, too, and learned some of the old Canadian + songs, which he sang in a curious broken patois, while his delighted + teacher accompanied him on the violin. But it was a great day when he was + eight years old, and Jacques brought out a small fiddle, for which he had + secretly sent to Albany, and presented it to the boy. + </p> + <p> + “You see dat feedle, Billee? Dat’s for you! You mek’ your lesson on dat. + When you kin mek’ de museek, den you play on de violon—lak’ dis one—listen!” + </p> + <p> + Then he drew the bow across the strings and dashed into a medley of the + jolliest airs imaginable. + </p> + <p> + The boy took to his instruction as kindly as could have been expected. + School interrupted it a good deal; and play with the other boys carried + him away often; but, after all, there was nothing that he liked much + better than to sit in the little cabin on a winter evening and pick out a + simple tune after his teacher. He must have had some talent for it, too; + for Jacques was very proud of his pupil, and prophesied great things of + him. + </p> + <p> + “You know dat little Billee of ‘Ose Ransom,” the fiddler would say to a + circle of people at the hotel, where he still went to play for parties; + “you know dat small Ransom boy? Well, I ‘m tichin’ heem play de feedle; + an’ I tell you, one day he play better dan hees ticher. Ah, dat ‘s + gr-r-reat t’ing, de museek, ain’t it? Mek’ you laugh, mek’ you cry, mek’ + you dance! Now, you dance. Tek’ your pardnerre. EN AVANT! Kip’ step to de + museek!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + Thirty years brought many changes to Bytown. The wild woodland flavour + evaporated out of the place almost entirely; and instead of an independent + centre of rustic life, it became an annex to great cities. It was + exploited as a summer resort, and discovered as a winter resort. Three or + four big hotels were planted there, and in their shadow a score of + boarding-houses alternately languished and flourished. The summer cottage + also appeared and multiplied; and with it came many of the peculiar + features which man elaborates in his struggle toward the finest + civilization—afternoon teas, and amateur theatricals, and + claw-hammer coats, and a casino, and even a few servants in livery. + </p> + <p> + The very name of Bytown was discarded as being too American and + commonplace. An Indian name was discovered, and considered much more + romantic and appropriate. You will look in vain for Bytown on the map now. + Nor will you find the old saw-mill there any longer, wasting a vast + water-power to turn its dripping wheel and cut up a few pine-logs into + fragrant boards. There is a big steam-mill a little farther up the river, + which rips out thousands of feet of lumber in a day; but there are no more + pine-logs, only sticks of spruce which the old lumbermen would have + thought hardly worth cutting. And down below the dam there is a pulp-mill, + to chew up the little trees and turn them into paper, and a chair factory, + and two or three industrial establishments, with quite a little colony of + French-Canadians employed in them as workmen. + </p> + <p> + Hose Ransom sold his place on the hill to one of the hotel companies, and + a huge caravansary occupied the site of the house with the white palings. + There were no more bleeding-hearts in the garden. There were beds of + flaring red geraniums, which looked as if they were painted; and across + the circle of smooth lawn in front of the piazza the name of the hotel was + printed in alleged ornamental plants letters two feet long, immensely + ugly. Hose had been elevated to the office of postmaster, and lived in a + Queen Antic cottage on the main street. Little Billy Ransom had grown up + into a very interesting young man, with a decided musical genius, and a + tenor voice, which being discovered by an enterprising patron of genius, + from Boston, Billy was sent away to Paris to learn to sing. Some day you + will hear of his debut in grand opera, as Monsieur Guillaume Rancon. + </p> + <p> + But Fiddlin’ Jack lived on in the little house with the curved roof, + beside the river, refusing all the good offers which were made to him for + his piece of land. + </p> + <p> + “NON,” he said; “what for shall I sell dis house? I lak’ her, she lak’ me. + All dese walls got full from museek, jus’ lak’ de wood of dis violon. He + play bettair dan de new feedle, becos’ I play heem so long. I lak’ to + lissen to dat rivaire in de night. She sing from long taim’ ago—jus’ + de same song w’en I firs come here. W’at for I go away? W’at I get? W’at + you can gif’ me lak’ dat?” + </p> + <p> + He was still the favourite musician of the county-side, in great request + at parties and weddings; but he had extended the sphere of his influence a + little. He was not willing to go to church, though there were now several + to choose from; but a young minister of liberal views who had come to take + charge of the new Episcopal chapel had persuaded Jacques into the + Sunday-school, to lead the children’s singing with his violin. He did it + so well that the school became the most popular in the village. It was + much pleasanter to sing than to listen to long addresses. + </p> + <p> + Jacques grew old gracefully, but he certainly grew old rapidly. His beard + was white; his shoulders were stooping; he suffered a good deal in damp + days from rheumatism—fortunately not in his hands, but in his legs. + One spring there was a long spell of abominable weather, just between + freezing and thawing. He caught a heavy cold and took to his bed. Hose + came over to look after him. + </p> + <p> + For a few days the old fiddler kept up his courage, and would sit up in + the bed trying to play; then his strength and his spirit seemed to fail + together. He grew silent and indifferent. When Hose came in he would find + Jacques with his face turned to the wall, where there was a tiny brass + crucifix hanging below the violin, and his lips moving quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t ye want the fiddle, Jack? I ‘d like ter hear some o’ them old-time + tunes ag’in.” + </p> + <p> + But the artifice failed. Jacques shook his head. His mind seemed to turn + back to the time of his first arrival in the village, and beyond it. When + he spoke at all, it was of something connected with this early time. + </p> + <p> + “Dat was bad taim’ when I near keel Bull Corey, hein?” + </p> + <p> + Hose nodded gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Dat was beeg storm, dat night when I come to Bytown. You remember dat?” + </p> + <p> + Yes, Hose remembered it very well. It was a real old-fashioned storm. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but befo dose taim’, dere was wuss taim’ dan dat—in Canada. + Nobody don’ know ‘bout dat. I lak to tell you, ‘Ose, but I can’t. No, it + is not possible to tell dat, nevair!” + </p> + <p> + It came into Hose’s mind that the case was serious. Jack was going to die. + He never went to church, but perhaps the Sunday-school might count for + something. He was only a Frenchman, after all, and Frenchmen had their own + ways of doing things. He certainly ought to see some kind of a preacher + before he went out of the wilderness. There was a Canadian priest in town + that week, who had come down to see about getting up a church for the + French people who worked in the mills. Perhaps Jack would like to talk + with him. + </p> + <p> + His face lighted up at the proposal. He asked to have the room tidied up, + and a clean shirt put on him, and the violin laid open in its case on a + table beside the bed, and a few other preparations made for the visit. + Then the visitor came, a tall, friendly, quiet-looking man about Jacques’s + age, with a smooth face and a long black cassock. The door was shut, and + they were left alone together. + </p> + <p> + “I am comforted that you are come, mon pere,” said the sick man, “for I + have the heavy heart. There is a secret that I have kept for many years. + Sometimes I had almost forgotten that it must be told at the last; but now + it is the time to speak. I have a sin to confess—a sin of the most + grievous, of the most unpardonable.” + </p> + <p> + The listener soothed him with gracious words; spoke of the mercy that + waits for all the penitent; urged him to open his heart without delay. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, mon pere, it is this that makes me fear to die. Long since, + in Canada, before I came to this place, I have killed a man. It was—” + </p> + <p> + The voice stopped. The little round clock on the window-sill ticked very + distinctly and rapidly, as if it were in a hurry. + </p> + <p> + “I will speak as short as I can. It was in the camp of ‘Poleon Gautier, on + the river St. Maurice. The big Baptiste Lacombe, that crazy boy who wants + always to fight, he mocks me when I play, he snatches my violin, he goes + to break him on the stove. There is a knife in my belt. I spring to + Baptiste. I see no more what it is that I do. I cut him in the neck—once, + twice. The blood flies out. He falls down. He cries, ‘I die.’ I grab my + violin from the floor, quick; then I run to the woods. No one can catch + me. A blanket, the axe, some food, I get from a hiding-place down the + river. Then I travel, travel, travel through the woods, how many days I + know not, till I come here. No one knows me. I give myself the name + Tremblay. I make the music for them. With my violin I live. I am happy. I + forget. But it all returns to me—now—at the last. I have + murdered. Is there a forgiveness for me, mon pere?” + </p> + <p> + The priest’s face had changed very swiftly at the mention of the camp on + the St. Maurice. As the story went on, he grew strangely excited. His lips + twitched. His hands trembled. At the end he sank on his knees, close by + the bed, and looked into the countenance of the sick man, searching it as + a forester searches in the undergrowth for a lost trail. Then his eyes + lighted up as he found it. + </p> + <p> + “My son,” said he, clasping the old fiddler’s hand in his own, “you are + Jacques Dellaire. And I—do you know me now?—I am Baptiste + Lacombe. See those two scars upon my neck. But it was not death. You have + not murdered. You have given the stroke that changed my heart. Your sin is + forgiven—AND MINE ALSO—by the mercy of God!” + </p> + <p> + The round clock ticked louder and louder. A level ray from the setting sun—red + gold—came in through the dusty window, and lay across the clasped + hands on the bed. A white-throated sparrow, the first of the season, on + his way to the woods beyond the St. Lawrence, whistled so clearly and + tenderly that it seemed as if he were repeating to these two gray-haired + exiles the name of their homeland. “Sweet—sweet—Canada, + Canada, Canada!” But there was a sweeter sound than that in the quiet + room. + </p> + <p> + It was the sound of the prayer which begins, in every language spoken by + men, with the name of that Unseen One who rules over life’s chances, and + pities its discords, and tunes it back again into harmony. Yes, this + prayer of the little children who are only learning how to play the first + notes of life’s music, turns to the great Master musician who knows it all + and who loves to bring a melody out of every instrument that He has made; + and it seems to lay the soul in His hands to play upon as He will, while + it calls Him, OUR FATHER! + </p> + <p> + Some day, perhaps, you will go to the busy place where Bytown used to be; + and if you do, you must take the street by the river to the white wooden + church of St. Jacques. It stands on the very spot where there was once a + cabin with a curved roof. There is a gilt cross on the top of the church. + The door is usually open, and the interior is quite gay with vases of + china and brass, and paper flowers of many colours; but if you go through + to the sacristy at the rear, you will see a brown violin hanging on the + wall. + </p> + <p> + Pere Baptiste, if he is there, will take it down and show it to you. He + calls it a remarkable instrument—one of the best, of the most sweet. + </p> + <p> + But he will not let any one play upon it. He says it is a relic. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. THE REWARD OF VIRTUE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + When the good priest of St. Gerome christened Patrick Mullarkey, he lent + himself unconsciously to an innocent deception. To look at the name, you + would think, of course, it belonged to an Irishman; the very appearance of + it was equal to a certificate of membership in a Fenian society. + </p> + <p> + But in effect, from the turned-up toes of his bottes sauvages to the ends + of his black mustache, the proprietor of this name was a Frenchman—Canadian + French, you understand, and therefore even more proud and tenacious of his + race than if he had been born in Normandy. Somewhere in his family tree + there must have been a graft from the Green Isle. A wandering lumberman + from County Kerry had drifted up the Saguenay into the Lake St. John + region, and married the daughter of a habitant, and settled down to forget + his own country and his father’s house. But every visible trace of this + infusion of new blood had vanished long ago, except the name; and the name + itself was transformed on the lips of the St. Geromians. If you had heard + them speak it in their pleasant droning accent,—“Patrique + Moullarque,”—you would have supposed that it was made in France. To + have a guide with such a name as that was as good as being abroad. + </p> + <p> + Even when they cut it short and called him “Patte,” as they usually did, + it had a very foreign sound. Everything about him was in harmony with it; + he spoke and laughed and sang and thought and felt in French—the + French of two hundred years ago, the language of Samuel de Champlain and + the Sieur de Monts, touched with a strong woodland flavour. In short, my + guide, philosopher, and friend, Pat, did not have a drop of Irish in him, + unless, perhaps, it was a certain—well, you shall judge for + yourself, when you have heard this story of his virtue, and the way it was + rewarded. + </p> + <p> + It was on the shore of the Lac a la Belle Riviere, fifteen miles back from + St. Gerome, that I came into the story, and found myself, as commonly + happens in the real stories which life is always bringing out in + periodical form, somewhere about the middle of the plot. But Patrick + readily made me acquainted with what had gone before. Indeed, it is one of + life’s greatest charms as a story-teller that there is never any trouble + about getting a brief resume of the argument, and even a listener who + arrives late is soon put into touch with the course of the narrative. + </p> + <p> + We had hauled our canoes and camp-stuff over the terrible road that leads + to the lake, with much creaking and groaning of wagons, and complaining of + men, who declared that the mud grew deeper and the hills steeper every + year, and vowed their customary vow never to come that way again. At last + our tents were pitched in a green copse of balsam trees, close beside the + water. The delightful sense of peace and freedom descended upon our souls. + Prosper and Ovide were cutting wood for the camp-fire; Francois was + getting ready a brace of partridges for supper; Patrick and I were + unpacking the provisions, arranging them conveniently for present use and + future transportation. + </p> + <p> + “Here, Pat,” said I, as my hand fell on a large square parcel—“here + is some superfine tobacco that I got in Quebec for you and the other men + on this trip. Not like the damp stuff you had last year—a little bad + smoke and too many bad words. This is tobacco to burn—something + quite particular, you understand. How does that please you?” + </p> + <p> + He had been rolling up a piece of salt pork in a cloth as I spoke, and + courteously wiped his fingers on the outside of the bundle before he + stretched out his hand to take the package of tobacco. Then he answered, + with his unfailing politeness, but more solemnly than usual: + </p> + <p> + “A thousand thanks to m’sieu’. But this year I shall not have need of the + good tobacco. It shall be for the others.” + </p> + <p> + The reply was so unexpected that it almost took my breath away. For Pat, + the steady smoker, whose pipes were as invariable as the precession of the + equinoxes, to refuse his regular rations of the soothing weed was a thing + unheard of. Could he be growing proud in his old age? Had he some secret + supply of cigars concealed in his kit, which made him scorn the golden + Virginia leaf? I demanded an explanation. + </p> + <p> + “But no, m’sieu’,” he replied; “it is not that, most assuredly. It is + something entirely different—something very serious. It is a + reformation that I commence. Does m’sieu’ permit that I should inform him + of it?” + </p> + <p> + Of course I permitted, or rather, warmly encouraged, the fullest possible + unfolding of the tale; and while we sat among the bags and boxes, and the + sun settled gently down behind the sharp-pointed firs across the lake, and + the evening sky and the waveless lake glowed with a thousand tints of + deepening rose and amber, Patrick put me in possession of the facts which + had led to a moral revolution in his life. + </p> + <p> + “It was the Ma’m’selle Meelair, that young lady,—not very young, but + active like the youngest,—the one that I conducted down the Grande + Decharge to Chicoutimi last year, after you had gone away. She said that + she knew m’sieu’ intimately. No doubt you have a good remembrance of her?” + </p> + <p> + I admitted an acquaintance with the lady. She was the president of several + societies for ethical agitation—a long woman, with short hair and + eyeglasses and a great thirst for tea; not very good in a canoe, but + always wanting to run the rapids and go into the dangerous places, and + talking all the time. Yes; that must have been the one. She was not a + bosom friend of mine, to speak accurately, but I remembered her well. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, m’sieu’,” continued Patrick, “it was this demoiselle who + changed my mind about the smoking. But not in a moment, you understand; it + was a work of four days, and she spoke much. + </p> + <p> + “The first day it was at the Island House; we were trolling for + ouananiche, and she was not pleased, for she lost many of the fish. I was + smoking at the stern of the canoe, and she said that the tobacco was a + filthy weed, that it grew in the devil’s garden, and that it smelled bad, + terribly bad, and that it made the air sick, and that even the pig would + not eat it.” + </p> + <p> + I could imagine Patrick’s dismay as he listened to this dissertation; for + in his way he was as sensitive as a woman, and he would rather have been + upset in his canoe than have exposed himself to the reproach of offending + any one of his patrons by unpleasant or unseemly conduct. + </p> + <p> + “What did you do then, Pat?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly I put out the pipe—what could I do otherwise? But I + thought that what the demoiselle Meelair has said was very strange, and + not true—exactly; for I have often seen the tobacco grow, and it + springs up out of the ground like the wheat or the beans, and it has + beautiful leaves, broad and green, with sometimes a red flower at the top. + Does the good God cause the filthy weeds to grow like that? Are they not + all clean that He has made? The potato—it is not filthy. And the + onion? It has a strong smell; but the demoiselle Meelair she ate much of + the onion—when we were not at the Island House, but in the camp. + </p> + <p> + “And the smell of the tobacco—this is an affair of the taste. For + me, I love it much; it is like a spice. When I come home at night to the + camp-fire, where the boys are smoking, the smell of the pipes runs far out + into the woods to salute me. It says, ‘Here we are, Patrique; come in near + to the fire.’ The smell of the tobacco is more sweet than the smell of the + fish. The pig loves it not, assuredly; but what then? I am not a pig. To + me it is good, good, good. Don’t you find it like that, m’sieu’?” + </p> + <p> + I had to confess that in the affair of taste I sided with Patrick rather + than with the pig. “Continue,” I said—“continue, my boy. Miss Miller + must have said more than that to reform you.” + </p> + <p> + “Truly,” replied Pat. “On the second day we were making the lunch at + midday on the island below the first rapids. I smoked the pipe on a rock + apart, after the collation. Mees Meelair comes to me, and says: ‘Patrique, + my man, do you comprehend that the tobacco is a poison? You are committing + the murder of yourself.’ Then she tells me many things—about the + nicoline, I think she calls him; how he goes into the blood and into the + bones and into the hair, and how quickly he will kill the cat. And she + says, very strong, ‘The men who smoke the tobacco shall die!’” + </p> + <p> + “That must have frightened you well, Pat. I suppose you threw away your + pipe at once.” + </p> + <p> + “But no, m’sieu’; this time I continue to smoke, for now it is Mees + Meelair who comes near the pipe voluntarily, and it is not my offence. And + I remember, while she is talking, the old bonhomme Michaud St. Gerome. He + is a capable man; when he was young he could carry a barrel of flour a + mile without rest, and now that he has seventy-three years he yet keeps + his force. And he smokes—it is astonishing how that old man smokes! + All the day, except when he sleeps. If the tobacco is a poison, it is a + poison of the slowest—like the tea or the coffee. For the cat it is + quick—yes; but for the man it is long; and I am still young—only + thirty-one. + </p> + <p> + “But the third day, m’sieu’—the third day was the worst. It was a + day of sadness, a day of the bad chance. The demoiselle Meelair was not + content but that we should leap the Rapide des Cedres in canoe. It was + rough, rough—all feather-white, and the big rock at the corner + boiling like a kettle. But it is the ignorant who have the most of + boldness. The demoiselle Meelair she was not solid in the canoe. She made + a jump and a loud scream. I did my possible, but the sea was too high. We + took in of the water about five buckets. We were very wet. After that we + make the camp; and while I sit by the fire to dry my clothes I smoke for + comfort. + </p> + <p> + “Mees Meelair she comes to me once more. ‘Patrique,’ she says with a sad + voice, ‘I am sorry that a nice man, so good, so brave, is married to a + thing so bad, so sinful!’ At first I am mad when I hear this, because I + think she means Angelique, my wife; but immediately she goes on: ‘You are + married to the smoking. That is sinful; it is a wicked thing. Christians + do not smoke. There is none of the tobacco in heaven. The men who use it + cannot go there. Ah, Patrique, do you wish to go to the hell with your + pipe?’” + </p> + <p> + “That was a close question,” I commented; “your Miss Miller is a plain + speaker. But what did you say when she asked you that?” + </p> + <p> + “I said, m’sieu’,” replied Patrick, lifting his hand to his forehead, + “that I must go where the good God pleased to send me, and that I would + have much joy to go to the same place with our cure, the Pere Morel, who + is a great smoker. I am sure that the pipe of comfort is no sin to that + holy man when he returns, some cold night, from the visiting of the sick—it + is not sin, not more than the soft chair and the warm fire. It harms no + one, and it makes quietness of mind. For me, when I see m’sieu’ the cure + sitting at the door of the presbytere, in the evening coolness, smoking + the tobacco, very peaceful, and when he says to me, ‘Good day, Patrique; + will you have a pipeful?’ I cannot think that is wicked—no!” + </p> + <p> + There was a warmth of sincerity in the honest fellow’s utterance that + spoke well for the character of the cure of St. Gerome. The good word of a + plain fisherman or hunter is worth more than a degree of doctor of + divinity from a learned university. + </p> + <p> + I too had grateful memories of good men, faithful, charitable, wise, + devout,—men before whose virtues my heart stood uncovered and + reverent, men whose lives were sweet with self-sacrifice, and whose words + were like stars of guidance to many souls,—and I had often seen + these men solacing their toils and inviting pleasant, kindly thoughts with + the pipe of peace. I wondered whether Miss Miller ever had the good + fortune to meet any of these men. They were not members of the societies + for ethical agitation, but they were profitable men to know. Their very + presence was medicinal. It breathed patience and fidelity to duty, and a + large, quiet friendliness. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” I asked, “what did she say finally to turn you? What was her + last argument? Come, Pat, you must make it a little shorter than she did.” + </p> + <p> + “In five words, m’sieu’, it was this: ‘The tobacco causes the poverty.’ + The fourth day—you remind yourself of the long dead-water below the + Rapide Gervais? It was there. All the day she spoke to me of the money + that goes to the smoke. Two piastres the month. Twenty-four the year. + Three hundred—yes, with the interest, more than three hundred in ten + years! Two thousand piastres in the life of the man! But she comprehends + well the arithmetic, that demoiselle Meelair; it was enormous! The big + farmer Tremblay has not more money at the bank than that. Then she asks me + if I have been at Quebec? No. If I would love to go? Of course, yes. For + two years of the smoking we could go, the goodwife and me, to Quebec, and + see the grand city, and the shops, and the many people, and the cathedral, + and perhaps the theatre. And at the asylum of the orphans we could seek + one of the little found children to bring home with us, to be our own; for + m’sieu knows it is the sadness of our house that we have no child. But it + was not Mees Meelair who said that—no, she would not understand that + thought.” + </p> + <p> + Patrick paused for a moment, and rubbed his chin reflectively. Then he + continued: + </p> + <p> + “And perhaps it seems strange to you also, m’sieu’, that a poor man should + be so hungry for children. It is not so everywhere: not in America, I + hear. But it is so with us in Canada. I know not a man so poor that he + would not feel richer for a child. I know not a man so happy that he would + not feel happier with a child in the house. It is the best thing that the + good God gives to us; something to work for; something to play with. It + makes a man more gentle and more strong. And a woman,—her heart is + like an empty nest, if she has not a child. It was the darkest day that + ever came to Angelique and me when our little baby flew away, four years + ago. But perhaps if we have not one of our own, there is another + somewhere, a little child of nobody, that belongs to us, for the sake of + the love of children. Jean Boucher, my wife’s cousin, at St. Joseph + d’Alma, has taken two from the asylum. Two, m’sieu’, I assure you for as + soon as one was twelve years old, he said he wanted a baby, and so he went + back again and got another. That is what I should like to do.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Pat,” said I, “it is an expensive business, this raising of + children. You should think twice about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon, m’sieu’,” answered Patrick; “I think a hundred times and always + the same way. It costs little more for three, or four, or five, in the + house than for two. The only thing is the money for the journey to the + city, the choice, the arrangement with the nuns. For that one must save. + And so I have thrown away the pipe. I smoke no more. The money of the + tobacco is for Quebec and for the little found child. I have already + eighteen piastres and twenty sous in the old box of cigars on the + chimney-piece at the house. This year will bring more. The winter after + the next, if we have the good chance, we go to the city, the goodwife and + me, and we come home with the little boy—or maybe the little girl. + Does m’sieu’ approve?” + </p> + <p> + “You are a man of virtue, Pat,” said I; “and since you will not take your + share of the tobacco on this trip, it shall go to the other men; but you + shall have the money instead, to put into your box on the mantel-piece.” + </p> + <p> + After supper that evening I watched him with some curiosity to see what he + would do without his pipe. He seemed restless and uneasy. The other men + sat around the fire, smoking; but Patrick was down at the landing, fussing + over one of the canoes, which had been somewhat roughly handled on the + road coming in. Then he began to tighten the tent-ropes, and hauled at + them so vigorously that he loosened two of the stakes. Then he whittled + the blade of his paddle for a while, and cut it an inch too short. Then he + went into the men’s tent, and in a few minutes the sound of snoring told + that he had sought refuge in sleep at eight o’clock, without telling a + single caribou story, or making any plans for the next day’s sport. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + For several days we lingered on the Lake of the Beautiful River, trying + the fishing. We explored all the favourite meeting-places of the trout, at + the mouths of the streams and in the cool spring-holes, but we did not + have remarkable success. I am bound to say that Patrick was not at his + best that year as a fisherman. He was as ready to work, as interested, as + eager, as ever; but he lacked steadiness, persistence, patience. Some + tranquillizing influence seemed to have departed from him. That placid + confidence in the ultimate certainty of catching fish, which is one of the + chief elements of good luck, was wanting. He did not appear to be able to + sit still in the canoe. The mosquitoes troubled him terribly. He was just + as anxious as a man could be to have me take plenty of the largest trout, + but he was too much in a hurry. He even went so far as to say that he did + not think I cast the fly as well as I did formerly, and that I was too + slow in striking when the fish rose. He was distinctly a weaker man + without his pipe, but his virtuous resolve held firm. + </p> + <p> + There was one place in particular that required very cautious angling. It + was a spring-hole at the mouth of the Riviere du Milieu—an open + space, about a hundred feet long and fifteen feet wide, in the midst of + the lily-pads, and surrounded on every side by clear, shallow water. Here + the great trout assembled at certain hours of the day; but it was not easy + to get them. You must come up delicately in the canoe, and make fast to a + stake at the side of the pool, and wait a long time for the place to get + quiet and the fish to recover from their fright and come out from under + the lily-pads. It had been our custom to calm and soothe this expectant + interval with incense of the Indian weed, friendly to meditation and a foe + of “Raw haste, half-sister to delay.” But this year Patrick could not + endure the waiting. After five minutes he would say: + </p> + <p> + “BUT the fishing is bad this season! There are none of the big ones here + at all. Let us try another place. It will go better at the Riviere du + Cheval, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + There was only one thing that would really keep him quiet, and that was a + conversation about Quebec. The glories of that wonderful city entranced + his thoughts. He was already floating, in imagination, with the vast + throngs of people that filled its splendid streets, looking up at the + stately houses and churches with their glittering roofs of tin, and + staring his fill at the magnificent shop-windows, where all the luxuries + of the world were displayed. He had heard that there were more than a + hundred shops—separate shops for all kinds of separate things: some + for groceries, and some for shoes, and some for clothes, and some for + knives and axes, and some for guns, and many shops where they sold only + jewels—gold rings, and diamonds, and forks of pure silver. Was it + not so? + </p> + <p> + He pictured himself, side by side with his goodwife, in the salle a manger + of the Hotel Richelieu, ordering their dinner from a printed bill of fare. + Side by side they were walking on the Dufferin Terrace, listening to the + music of the military band. Side by side they were watching the wonders of + the play at the Theatre de l’Etoile du Nord. Side by side they were + kneeling before the gorgeous altar in the cathedral. And then they were + standing silent, side by side, in the asylum of the orphans, looking at + brown eyes and blue, at black hair and yellow curls, at fat legs and rosy + cheeks and laughing mouths, while the Mother Superior showed off the + little boys and girls for them to choose. This affair of the choice was + always a delightful difficulty, and here his fancy loved to hang in + suspense, vibrating between rival joys. + </p> + <p> + Once, at the Riviere du Milieu, after considerable discourse upon Quebec, + there was an interval of silence, during which I succeeded in hooking and + playing a larger trout than usual. As the fish came up to the side of the + canoe, Patrick netted him deftly, exclaiming with an abstracted air, “It + is a boy, after all. I like that best.” + </p> + <p> + Our camp was shifted, the second week, to the Grand Lac des Cedres; and + there we had extraordinary fortune with the trout: partly, I conjecture, + because there was only one place to fish, and so Patrick’s uneasy zeal + could find no excuse for keeping me in constant motion all around the + lake. But in the matter of weather we were not so happy. There is always a + conflict in the angler’s mind about the weather—a struggle between + his desires as a man and his desires as a fisherman. This time our prayers + for a good fishing season were granted at the expense of our suffering + human nature. There was a conjunction in the zodiac of the signs of + Aquarius and Pisces. It rained as easily, as suddenly, as penetratingly, + as Miss Miller talked; but in between the showers the trout were very + hungry. + </p> + <p> + One day, when we were paddling home to our tents among the birch trees, + one of these unexpected storms came up; and Patrick, thoughtful of my + comfort as ever, insisted on giving me his coat to put around my dripping + shoulders. The paddling would serve instead of a coat for him, he said; it + would keep him warm to his bones. As I slipped the garment over my back, + something hard fell from one of the pockets into the bottom of the canoe. + It was a brier-wood pipe. + </p> + <p> + “Aha! Pat,” I cried; “what is this? You said you had thrown all your pipes + away. How does this come in your pocket?” + </p> + <p> + “But, m’sieu’,” he answered, “this is different. This is not the pipe pure + and simple. It is a souvenir. It is the one you gave me two years ago on + the Metabetchouan, when we got the big caribou. I could not reject this. I + keep it always for the remembrance.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment my hand fell upon a small, square object in the other + pocket of the coat. I pulled it out. It was a cake of Virginia leaf. + Without a word, I held it up, and looked at Patrick. He began to explain + eagerly: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, certainly, it is the tobacco, m’sieu’; but it is not for the smoke, + as you suppose. It is for the virtue, for the self-victory. I call this my + little piece of temptation. See; the edges are not cut. I smell it only; + and when I think how it is good, then I speak to myself, ‘But the little + found child will be better!’ It will last a long time, this little piece + of temptation; perhaps until we have the boy at our house—or maybe + the girl.” + </p> + <p> + The conflict between the cake of Virginia leaf and Patrick’s virtue must + have been severe during the last ten days of our expedition; for we went + down the Riviere des Ecorces, and that is a tough trip, and full of + occasions when consolation is needed. After a long, hard day’s work + cutting out an abandoned portage through the woods, or tramping miles over + the incredibly shaggy hills to some outlying pond for a caribou, and + lugging the saddle and hind quarters back to the camp, the evening pipe, + after supper, seemed to comfort the men unspeakably. If their tempers had + grown a little short under stress of fatigue and hunger, now they became + cheerful and good-natured again. They sat on logs before the camp-fire, + their stockinged feet stretched out to the blaze, and the puffs of smoke + rose from their lips like tiny salutes to the comfortable flame, or like + incense burned upon the altar of gratitude and contentment. + </p> + <p> + Patrick, I noticed about this time, liked to get on the leeward side of as + many pipes as possible, and as near as he could to the smokers. He said + that this kept away the mosquitoes. There he would sit, with the smoke + drifting full in his face, both hands in his pockets, talking about + Quebec, and debating the comparative merits of a boy or a girl as an + addition to his household. + </p> + <p> + But the great trial of his virtue was yet to come. The main object of our + trip down the River of Barks—the terminus ad quem of the expedition, + so to speak—was a bear. Now the bear as an object of the chase, at + least in Canada, is one of the most illusory of phantoms. The manner of + hunting is simple. It consists in walking about through the woods, or + paddling along a stream, until you meet a bear; then you try to shoot him. + This would seem to be, as the Rev. Mr. Leslie called his book against the + deists of the eighteenth century, “A Short and Easie Method.” But in point + of fact there are two principal difficulties. The first is that you never + find the bear when and where you are looking for him. The second is that + the bear sometimes finds you when—but you shall see how it happened + to us. + </p> + <p> + We had hunted the whole length of the River of Barks with the utmost pains + and caution, never going out, even to pick blueberries, without having the + rifle at hand, loaded for the expected encounter. Not one bear had we met. + It seemed as if the whole ursine tribe must have emigrated to Labrador. + </p> + <p> + At last we came to the mouth of the river, where it empties into Lake + Kenogami, in a comparatively civilized country, with several farm-houses + in full view on the opposite bank. It was not a promising place for the + chase; but the river ran down with a little fall and a lively, cheerful + rapid into the lake, and it was a capital spot for fishing. So we left the + rifle in the case, and took a canoe and a rod, and went down, on the last + afternoon, to stand on the point of rocks at the foot of the rapid, and + cast the fly. + </p> + <p> + We caught half a dozen good trout; but the sun was still hot, and we + concluded to wait awhile for the evening fishing. So we turned the canoe + bottom up among the bushes on the shore, stored the trout away in the + shade beneath it, and sat down in a convenient place among the stones to + have another chat about Quebec. We had just passed the jewelry shops, and + were preparing to go to the asylum of the orphans, when Patrick put his + hand on my shoulder with a convulsive grip, and pointed up the stream. + </p> + <p> + There was a huge bear, like a very big, wicked, black sheep with a pointed + nose, making his way down the shore. He shambled along lazily and + unconcernedly, as if his bones were loosely tied together in a bag of fur. + It was the most indifferent and disconnected gait that I ever saw. Nearer + and nearer he sauntered, while we sat as still as if we had been + paralyzed. And the gun was in its case at the tent! + </p> + <p> + How the bear knew this I cannot tell; but know it he certainly did, for he + kept on until he reached the canoe, sniffed at it suspiciously, thrust his + sharp nose under it, and turned it over with a crash that knocked two + holes in the bottom, ate the fish, licked his chops, stared at us for a + few moments without the slightest appearance of gratitude, made up his + mind that he did not like our personal appearance, and then loped + leisurely up the mountain-side. We could hear him cracking the underbrush + long after he was lost to sight. + </p> + <p> + Patrick looked at me and sighed. I said nothing. The French language, as + far as I knew it, seemed trifling and inadequate. It was a moment when + nothing could do any good except the consolations of philosophy, or a + pipe. Patrick pulled the brier-wood from his pocket; then he took out the + cake of Virginia leaf, looked at it, smelled it, shook his head, and put + it back again. His face was as long as his arm. He stuck the cold pipe + into his mouth, and pulled away at it for a while in silence. Then his + countenance began to clear, his mouth relaxed, he broke into a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Sacred bear!” he cried, slapping his knee; “sacred beast of the world! + What a day of the good chance for her, HE! But she was glad, I suppose. + Perhaps she has some cubs, HE? BAJETTE!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + This was the end of our hunting and fishing for that year. We spent the + next two days in voyaging through a half-dozen small lakes and streams, in + a farming country, on our way home. I observed that Patrick kept his + souvenir pipe between his lips a good deal of the time, and puffed at + vacancy. It seemed to soothe him. In his conversation he dwelt with + peculiar satisfaction on the thought of the money in the cigar-box on the + mantel-piece at St. Gerome. Eighteen piastres and twenty sous already! And + with the addition to be made from the tobacco not smoked during the past + month, it would amount to more than twenty-three piastres; and all as safe + in the cigar-box as if it were in the bank at Chicoutimi! That reflection + seemed to fill the empty pipe with fragrance. It was a Barmecide smoke; + but the fumes of it were potent, and their invisible wreaths framed the + most enchanting visions of tall towers, gray walls, glittering windows, + crowds of people, regiments of soldiers, and the laughing eyes of a little + boy—or was it a little girl? + </p> + <p> + When we came out of the mouth of La Belle Riviere, the broad blue expanse + of Lake St. John spread before us, calm and bright in the radiance of the + sinking sun. In a curve on the left, eight miles away, sparkled the + slender steeple of the church of St. Gerome. A thick column of smoke rose + from somewhere in its neighbourhood. “It is on the beach,” said the men; + “the boys of the village accustom themselves to burn the rubbish there for + a bonfire.” But as our canoes danced lightly forward over the waves and + came nearer to the place, it was evident that the smoke came from the + village itself. It was a conflagration, but not a general one; the houses + were too scattered and the day too still for a fire to spread. What could + it be? Perhaps the blacksmith shop, perhaps the bakery, perhaps the old + tumble-down barn of the little Tremblay? It was not a large fire, that was + certain. But where was it precisely? + </p> + <p> + The question, becoming more and more anxious, was answered when we arrived + at the beach. A handful of boys, eager to be the bearers of news, had + spied us far off, and ran down to the shore to meet us. + </p> + <p> + “Patrique! Patrique!” they shouted in English, to make their importance as + great as possible in my eyes. “Come ‘ome kveek; yo’ ‘ouse ees hall burn’!” + </p> + <p> + “W’at!” cried Patrick. “MONJEE!” And he drove the canoe ashore, leaped + out, and ran up the bank toward the village as if he were mad. The other + men followed him, leaving me with the boys to unload the canoes and pull + them up on the sand, where the waves would not chafe them. + </p> + <p> + This took some time, and the boys helped me willingly. “Eet ees not need + to ‘urry, m’sieu’,” they assured me; “dat ‘ouse to Patrique Moullarque ees + hall burn’ seence t’ree hour. Not’ing lef’ bot de hash.” + </p> + <p> + As soon as possible, however, I piled up the stuff, covered it with one of + the tents, and leaving it in charge of the steadiest of the boys, took the + road to the village and the site of the Maison Mullarkey. + </p> + <p> + It had vanished completely: the walls of squared logs were gone; the low, + curved roof had fallen; the door-step with the morning-glory vines + climbing up beside it had sunken out of sight; nothing remained but the + dome of the clay oven at the back of the house, and a heap of smouldering + embers. + </p> + <p> + Patrick sat beside his wife on a flat stone that had formerly supported + the corner of the porch. His shoulder was close to Angelique’s—so + close that it looked almost as if he must have had his arm around her a + moment before I came up. His passion and grief had calmed themselves down + now, and he was quite tranquil. In his left hand he held the cake of + Virginia leaf, in his right a knife. He was cutting off delicate slivers + of the tobacco, which he rolled together with a circular motion between + his palms. Then he pulled his pipe from his pocket and filled the bowl + with great deliberation. + </p> + <p> + “What a misfortune!” I cried. “The pretty house is gone. I am so sorry, + Patrick. And the box of money on the mantel-piece, that is gone, too, I + fear—all your savings. What a terrible misfortune! How did it + happen?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell,” he answered rather slowly. “It is the good God. And he + has left me my Angelique. Also, m’sieu’, you see”—here he went over + to the pile of ashes, and pulled out a fragment of charred wood with a + live coal at the end—“you see”—puff, puff—“he has given + me”—puff, puff—“a light for my pipe again”—puff, puff, + puff! + </p> + <p> + The fragrant, friendly smoke was pouring out now in full volume. It + enwreathed his head like drifts of cloud around the rugged top of a + mountain at sunrise. I could see that his face was spreading into a smile + of ineffable contentment. + </p> + <p> + “My faith!” said I, “how can you be so cheerful? Your house is in ashes; + your money is burned up; the voyage to Quebec, the visit to the asylum, + the little orphan—how can you give it all up so easily?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he replied, taking the pipe from his mouth, with fingers curling + around the bowl, as if they loved to feel that it was warm once more—“well, + then, it would be more hard, I suppose, to give it up not easily. And + then, for the house, we shall build a new one this fall; the neighbours + will help. And for the voyage to Quebec—without that we may be + happy. And as regards the little orphan, I will tell you frankly”—here + he went back to his seat upon the flat stone, and settled himself with an + air of great comfort beside his partner—“I tell you, in confidence, + Angelique demands that I prepare a particular furniture at the new house. + Yes, it is a cradle; but it is not for an orphan.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + It was late in the following summer when I came back again to St. Gerome. + The golden-rods and the asters were all in bloom along the village street; + and as I walked down it the broad golden sunlight of the short afternoon + seemed to glorify the open road and the plain square houses with a + careless, homely rapture of peace. The air was softly fragrant with the + odour of balm of Gilead. A yellow warbler sang from a little clump of + elder-bushes, tinkling out his contented song like a chime of tiny bells, + “Sweet—sweet—sweet—sweeter—sweeter—sweetest!” + </p> + <p> + There was the new house, a little farther back from the road than the old + one; and in the place where the heap of ashes had lain, a primitive + garden, with marigolds and lupines and zinnias all abloom. And there was + Patrick, sitting on the door-step, smoking his pipe in the cool of the + day. Yes; and there, on a many-coloured counterpane spread beside him, an + infant joy of the house of Mullarkey was sucking her thumb, while her + father was humming the words of an old slumber-song: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sainte Marguerite, + Veillez ma petite! + Endormez ma p’tite enfant + Jusqu’a l’age de quinze ans! + Quand elle aura quinze ans passe + Il faudra la marier + Avec un p’tit bonhomme + Que viendra de Rome. +</pre> + <p> + “Hola! Patrick,” I cried; “good luck to you! Is it a girl or a boy?” + </p> + <p> + “SALUT! m’sieu’,” he answered, jumping up and waving his pipe. “It is a + girl AND a boy!” + </p> + <p> + Sure enough, as I entered the door, I beheld Angelique rocking the other + half of the reward of virtue in the new cradle. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III. A BRAVE HEART + </h2> + <p> + “That was truly his name, m’sieu’—Raoul Vaillantcoeur—a name + of the fine sound, is it not? You like that word,—a valiant heart,—it + pleases you, eh! The man who calls himself by such a name as that ought to + be a brave fellow, a veritable hero? Well, perhaps. But I know an Indian + who is called Le Blanc; that means white. And a white man who is called + Lenoir; that means black. It is very droll, this affair of the names. It + is like the lottery.” + </p> + <p> + Silence for a few moments, broken only by the ripple of water under the + bow of the canoe, the persistent patter of the rain all around us, and the + SLISH, SLISH of the paddle with which Ferdinand, my Canadian voyageur, was + pushing the birch-bark down the lonely length of Lac Moise. I knew that + there was one of his stories on the way. But I must keep still to get it. + A single ill-advised comment, a word that would raise a question of morals + or social philosophy, might switch the narrative off the track into a + swamp of abstract discourse in which Ferdinand would lose himself. + Presently the voice behind me began again. + </p> + <p> + “But that word VAILLANT, m’sieu’; with us in Canada it does not mean + always the same as with you. Sometimes we use it for something that sounds + big, but does little; a gun that goes off with a terrible crack, but + shoots not straight nor far. When a man is like that he is FANFARON, he + shows off well, but—well, you shall judge for yourself, when you + hear what happened between this man Vaillantcoeur and his friend Prosper + Leclere at the building of the stone tower of the church at Abbeville. You + remind yourself of that grand church with the tall tower—yes? With + permission I am going to tell you what passed when that was made. And you + shall decide whether there was truly a brave heart in the story, or not; + and if it went with the name.” + </p> + <p> + Thus the tale began, in the vast solitude of the northern forest, among + the granite peaks of the ancient Laurentian Mountains, on a lake that knew + no human habitation save the Indian’s wigwam or the fisherman’s tent. + </p> + <p> + How it rained that day! The dark clouds had collapsed upon the hills in + shapeless folds. The waves of the lake were beaten flat by the lashing + strokes of the storm. Quivering sheets of watery gray were driven before + the wind; and broad curves of silver bullets danced before them as they + swept over the surface. All around the homeless shores the evergreen trees + seemed to hunch their backs and crowd closer together in patient misery. + Not a bird had the heart to sing; only the loon—storm-lover—laughed + his crazy challenge to the elements, and mocked us with his long-drawn + maniac scream. + </p> + <p> + It seemed as if we were a thousand miles from everywhere and everybody. + Cities, factories, libraries, colleges, law-courts, theatres, palaces,—what + had we dreamed of these things? They were far off, in another world. We + had slipped back into a primitive life. Ferdinand was telling me the naked + story of human love and human hate, even as it has been told from the + beginning. + </p> + <p> + I cannot tell it just as he did. There was a charm in his speech too quick + for the pen: a woodland savour not to be found in any ink for sale in the + shops. I must tell it in my way, as he told it in his. + </p> + <p> + But at all events, nothing that makes any difference shall go into the + translation unless it was in the original. This is Ferdinand’s story. If + you care for the real thing, here it is. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + There were two young men in Abbeville who were easily the cocks of the + woodland walk. Their standing rested on the fact that they were the + strongest men in the parish. Strength is the thing that counts, when + people live on the edge of the wilderness. These two were well known all + through the country between Lake St. John and Chicoutimi as men of great + capacity. Either of them could shoulder a barrel of flour and walk off + with it as lightly as a common man would carry a side of bacon. There was + not a half-pound of difference between them in ability. But there was a + great difference in their looks and in their way of doing things. + </p> + <p> + Raoul Vaillantcoeur was the biggest and the handsomest man in the village; + nearly six feet tall, straight as a fir tree, and black as a bull-moose in + December. He had natural force enough and to spare. Whatever he did was + done by sheer power of back and arm. He could send a canoe up against the + heaviest water, provided he did not get mad and break his paddle—which + he often did. He had more muscle than he knew how to use. + </p> + <p> + Prosper Leclere did not have so much, but he knew better how to handle it. + He never broke his paddle—unless it happened to be a bad one, and + then he generally had another all ready in the canoe. He was at least four + inches shorter than Vaillantcoeur; broad shoulders, long arms, light hair, + gray eyes; not a handsome fellow, but pleasant-looking and very quiet. + What he did was done more than half with his head. + </p> + <p> + He was the kind of a man that never needs more than one match to light a + fire. + </p> + <p> + But Vaillantcoeur—well, if the wood was wet he might use a dozen, + and when the blaze was kindled, as like as not he would throw in the rest + of the box. + </p> + <p> + Now, these two men had been friends and were changed into rivals. At least + that was the way that one of them looked at it. And most of the people in + the parish seemed to think that was the right view. It was a strange + thing, and not altogether satisfactory to the public mind, to have two + strongest men in the village. The question of comparative standing in the + community ought to be raised and settled in the usual way. Raoul was + perfectly willing, and at times (commonly on Saturday nights) very eager. + But Prosper was not. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, one March night, when he was boiling maple-sap in the + sugar-bush with little Ovide Rossignol (who had a lyric passion for + holding the coat while another man was fighting)—“no, for what shall + I fight with Raoul? As boys we have played together. Once, in the rapids + of the Belle Riviere, when I have fallen in the water, I think he has + saved my life. He was stronger, then, than me. I am always a friend to + him. If I beat him now, am I stronger? No, but weaker. And if he beats me, + what is the sense of that? Certainly I shall not like it. What is to + gain?” + </p> + <p> + Down in the store of old Girard, that night, Vaillantcoeur was holding + forth after a different fashion. He stood among the cracker-boxes and + flour-barrels, with a background of shelves laden with bright-coloured + calicoes, and a line of tin pails hanging overhead, and stated his view of + the case with vigour. He even pulled off his coat and rolled up his + shirt-sleeve to show the knotty arguments with which he proposed to clinch + his opinion. + </p> + <p> + “That Leclere,” said he, “that little Prosper Leclere! He thinks himself + one of the strongest—a fine fellow! But I tell you he is a coward. + If he is clever? Yes. But he is a poltroon. He knows well that I can + flatten him out like a crepe in the frying-pan. But he is afraid. He has + not as much courage as the musk-rat. You stamp on the bank. He dives. He + swims away. Bah!” + </p> + <p> + “How about that time he cut loose the jam of logs in the Rapide des + Cedres?” said old Girard from his corner. + </p> + <p> + Vaillantcoeur’s black eyes sparkled and he twirled his mustache fiercely. + “SAPRIE!” he cried, “that was nothing! Any man with an axe can cut a log. + But to fight—that is another affair. That demands the brave heart. + The strong man who will not fight is a coward. Some day I will put him + through the mill—you shall see what that small Leclere is made of. + SACREDAM!” + </p> + <p> + Of course, affairs had not come to this pass all at once. It was a long + history, beginning with the time when the two boys had played together, + and Raoul was twice as strong as the other, and was very proud of it. + Prosper did not care; it was all right so long as they had a good time. + But then Prosper began to do things better and better. Raoul did not + understand it; he was jealous. Why should he not always be the leader? He + had more force. Why should Prosper get ahead? Why should he have better + luck at the fishing and the hunting and the farming? It was by some trick. + There was no justice in it. + </p> + <p> + Raoul was not afraid of anything but death; and whatever he wanted, he + thought he had a right to have. But he did not know very well how to get + it. He would start to chop a log just at the spot where there was a big + knot. + </p> + <p> + He was the kind of a man that sets hare-snares on a caribou-trail, and + then curses his luck because he catches nothing. + </p> + <p> + Besides, whatever he did, he was always thinking most about beating + somebody else. But Prosper eared most for doing the thing as well as he + could. If any one else could beat him—well, what difference did it + make? He would do better the next time. + </p> + <p> + If he had a log to chop, he looked it all over for a clear place before he + began. What he wanted was, not to make the chips fly, but to get the wood + split. + </p> + <p> + You are not to suppose that the one man was a saint and a hero, and the + other a fool and a ruffian. No; that sort of thing happens only in books. + People in Abbeville were not made on that plan. They were both plain men. + But there was a difference in their hearts; and out of that difference + grew all the trouble. + </p> + <p> + It was hard on Vaillantcoeur, of course, to see Leclere going ahead, + getting rich, clearing off the mortgage on his farm, laying up money with + the notary Bergeron, who acted as banker for the parish—it was hard + to look on at this, while he himself stood still, or even slipped back a + little, got into debt, had to sell a bit of the land that his father left + him. There must be some cheating about it. + </p> + <p> + But this was not the hardest morsel to swallow. The great thing that stuck + in his crop was the idea that the little Prosper, whom he could have + whipped so easily, and whom he had protected so loftily, when they were + boys, now stood just as high as he did as a capable man—perhaps even + higher. Why was it that when the Price Brothers, down at Chicoutimi, had a + good lumber-job up in the woods on the Belle Riviere, they made Leclere + the boss, instead of Vaillantcoeur? Why did the cure Villeneuve choose + Prosper, and not Raoul, to steady the strain of the biggest pole when they + were setting up the derrick for the building of the new church? + </p> + <p> + It was rough, rough! The more Raoul thought of it, the rougher it seemed. + The fact that it was a man who had once been his protege, and still + insisted on being his best friend, did not make it any smoother. Would you + have liked it any better on that account? I am not telling you how it + ought to have been, I am telling you how it was. This isn’t + Vaillantcoeur’s account-book; it’s his story. You must strike your + balances as you go along. + </p> + <p> + And all the time, you see, he felt sure that he was a stronger man and a + braver man than Prosper. He was hungry to prove it in the only way that he + could understand. The sense of rivalry grew into a passion of hatred, and + the hatred shaped itself into a blind, headstrong desire to fight. + Everything that Prosper did well, seemed like a challenge; every success + that he had was as hard to bear as an insult. All the more, because + Prosper seemed unconscious of it. He refused to take offence, went about + his work quietly and cheerfully, turned off hard words with a joke, went + out of his way to show himself friendly and good-natured. In reality, of + course, he knew well enough how matters stood. But he was resolved not to + show that he knew, if he could help it; and in any event, not to be one of + the two that are needed to make a quarrel. + </p> + <p> + He felt very strangely about it. There was a presentiment in his heart + that he did not dare to shake off. It seemed as if this conflict were one + that would threaten the happiness of his whole life. He still kept his old + feeling of attraction to Raoul, the memory of the many happy days they had + spent together; and though the friendship, of course, could never again be + what it had been, there was something of it left, at least on Prosper’s + side. To struggle with this man, strike at his face, try to maim and + disfigure him, roll over and over on the ground with him, like two dogs + tearing each other,—the thought was hateful. His gorge rose at it. + He would never do it, unless to save his life. Then? Well, then, God must + be his judge. + </p> + <p> + So it was that these two men stood against each other in Abbeville. Just + as strongly as Raoul was set to get into a fight, just so strongly was + Prosper set to keep out of one. It was a trial of strength between two + passions,—the passion of friendship and the passion of fighting. + </p> + <p> + Two or three things happened to put an edge on Raoul’s hunger for an + out-and-out fight. + </p> + <p> + The first was the affair at the shanty on Lac des Caps. The wood-choppers, + like sailors, have a way of putting a new man through a few tricks to + initiate him into the camp. Leclere was bossing the job, with a gang of + ten men from St. Raymond under him. Vaillantcoeur had just driven a team + in over the snow with a load of provisions, and was lounging around the + camp as if it belonged to him. It was Sunday afternoon, the regular time + for fun, but no one dared to take hold of him. He looked too big. He + expressed his opinion of the camp. + </p> + <p> + “No fun in this shanty, HE? I suppose that little Leclere he makes you + others work, and say your prayers, and then, for the rest, you can sleep. + HE! Well, I am going to make a little fun for you, my boys. Come, Prosper, + get your hat, if you are able to climb a tree.” + </p> + <p> + He snatched the hat from the table by the stove and ran out into the snow. + In front of the shanty a good-sized birch, tall, smooth, very straight, + was still standing. He went up the trunk like a bear. + </p> + <p> + But there was a dead balsam that had fallen against the birch and lodged + on the lower branches. It was barely strong enough to bear the weight of a + light man. Up this slanting ladder Prosper ran quickly in his moccasined + feet, snatched the hat from Raoul’s teeth as he swarmed up the trunk, and + ran down again. As he neared the ground, the balsam, shaken from its + lodgement, cracked and fell. Raoul was left up the tree, perched among the + branches, out of breath. Luck had set the scene for the lumberman’s + favourite trick. + </p> + <p> + “Chop him down! chop him down” was the cry; and a trio of axes were + twanging against the birch tree, while the other men shouted and laughed + and pelted the tree with ice to keep the prisoner from climbing down. + </p> + <p> + Prosper neither shouted nor chopped, but he grinned a little as he watched + the tree quiver and shake, and heard the rain of “SACRES!” and “MAUDITS!” + that came out of the swaying top. He grinned—until he saw that a + half-dozen more blows would fell the birch right on the roof of the + shanty. + </p> + <p> + “Are you crazy?” he cried, as he picked up an axe; “you know nothing how + to chop. You kill a man. You smash the cabane. Let go!” He shoved one of + the boys away and sent a few mighty cuts into the side of the birch that + was farthest from the cabin; then two short cuts on the other side; the + tree shivered, staggered, cracked, and swept in a great arc toward the + deep snow-drift by the brook. As the top swung earthward, Raoul jumped + clear of the crashing branches and landed safely in the feather-bed of + snow, buried up to his neck. Nothing was to be seen of him but his head, + like some new kind of fire-work—sputtering bad words. + </p> + <p> + Well, this was the first thing that put an edge on Vaillantcoeur’s hunger + to fight. No man likes to be chopped down by his friend, even if the + friend does it for the sake of saving him from being killed by a fall on + the shanty-roof. It is easy to forget that part of it. What you remember + is the grin. + </p> + <p> + The second thing that made it worse was the bad chance that both of these + men had to fall in love with the same girl. Of course there were other + girls in the village beside Marie Antoinette Girard—plenty of them, + and good girls, too. But somehow or other, when they were beside her, + neither Raoul nor Prosper cared to look at any of them, but only at + ‘Toinette. Her eyes were so much darker and her cheeks so much more red—bright + as the berries of the mountain-ash in September. Her hair hung down to her + waist on Sunday in two long braids, brown and shiny like a ripe hazelnut; + and her voice when she laughed made the sound of water tumbling over + little stones. + </p> + <p> + No one knew which of the two lovers she liked best. At school it was + certainly Raoul, because he was bigger and bolder. When she came back from + her year in the convent at Roberval it was certainly Prosper, because he + could talk better and had read more books. He had a volume of songs full + of love and romance, and knew most of them by heart. But this did not last + forever. ‘Toinette’s manners had been polished at the convent, but her + ideas were still those of her own people. She never thought that knowledge + of books could take the place of strength, in the real battle of life. She + was a brave girl, and she felt sure in her heart that the man of the most + courage must be the best man after all. + </p> + <p> + For a while she appeared to persuade herself that it was Prosper, beyond a + doubt, and always took his part when the other girls laughed at him. But + this was not altogether a good sign. When a girl really loves, she does + not talk, she acts. The current of opinion and gossip in the village was + too strong for her. By the time of the affair of the “chopping-down” at + Lac des Caps, her heart was swinging to and fro like a pendulum. One week + she would walk home from mass with Raoul. The next week she would loiter + in the front yard on a Saturday evening and talk over the gate with + Prosper, until her father called her into the shop to wait on customers. + </p> + <p> + It was in one of these talks that the pendulum seemed to make its last + swing and settle down to its resting-place. Prosper was telling her of the + good crops of sugar that he had made from his maple grove. + </p> + <p> + “The profit will be large—more than sixty piastres—and with + that I shall buy at Chicoutimi a new four-wheeler, of the finest, a + veritable wedding carriage—if you—if I—‘Toinette? Shall + we ride together?” + </p> + <p> + His left hand clasped hers as it lay on the gate. His right arm stole over + the low picket fence and went around the shoulder that leaned against the + gate-post. The road was quite empty, the night already dark. He could feel + her warm breath on his neck as she laughed. + </p> + <p> + “If you! If I! If what? Why so many ifs in this fine speech? Of whom is + the wedding for which this new carriage is to be bought? Do you know what + Raoul Vaillantcoeur has said? ‘No more wedding in this parish till I have + thrown the little Prosper over my shoulder!’” + </p> + <p> + As she said this, laughing, she turned closer to the fence and looked up, + so that a curl on her forehead brushed against his cheek. + </p> + <p> + “BATECHE! Who told you he said that?” + </p> + <p> + “I heard him, myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “In the store, two nights ago. But it was not for the first time. He said + it when we came from the church together, it will be four weeks + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you say to him?” + </p> + <p> + “I told him perhaps he was mistaken. The next wedding might be after the + little Prosper had measured the road with the back of the longest man in + Abbeville.” + </p> + <p> + The laugh had gone out of her voice now. She was speaking eagerly, and her + bosom rose and fell with quick breaths. But Prosper’s right arm had + dropped from her shoulder, and his hand gripped the fence as he + straightened up. + </p> + <p> + “‘Toinette!” he cried, “that was bravely said. And I could do it. Yes, I + know I could do it. But, MON DIEU, what shall I say? Three years now, he + has pushed me, every one has pushed me, to fight. And you—but I + cannot. I am not capable of it.” + </p> + <p> + The girl’s hand lay in his as cold and still as a stone. She was silent + for a moment, and then asked, coldly, “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? Because of the old friendship. Because he pulled me out of the + river long ago. Because I am still his friend. Because now he hates me too + much. Because it would be a black fight. Because shame and evil would come + of it, whoever won. That is what I fear, ‘Toinette!” + </p> + <p> + Her hand slipped suddenly away from his. She stepped back from the gate. + </p> + <p> + “TIENS! You have fear, Monsieur Leclere! Truly I had not thought of that. + It is strange. For so strong a man it is a little stupid to be afraid. + Good-night. I hear my father calling me. Perhaps some one in the store who + wants to be served. You must tell me again what you are going to do with + the new carriage. Good-night!” + </p> + <p> + She was laughing again. But it was a different laughter. Prosper, at the + gate, did not think it sounded like the running of a brook over the + stones. No, it was more the noise of the dry branches that knock together + in the wind. He did not hear the sigh that came as she shut the door of + the house, nor see how slowly she walked through the passage into the + store. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + There seemed to be a great many rainy Saturdays that spring; and in the + early summer the trade in Girard’s store was so brisk that it appeared to + need all the force of the establishment to attend to it. The gate of the + front yard had no more strain put upon its hinges. It fell into a stiff + propriety of opening and shutting, at the touch of people who understood + that a gate was made merely to pass through, not to lean upon. + </p> + <p> + That summer Vaillantcoeur had a new hat—a black and shiny beaver—and + a new red-silk cravat. They looked fine on Corpus Christi day, when he and + ‘Toinette walked together as fiancee’s. + </p> + <p> + You would have thought he would have been content with that. Proud, he + certainly was. He stepped like the cure’s big rooster with the topknot—almost + as far up in the air as he did along the ground; and he held his chin + high, as if he liked to look at things over his nose. + </p> + <p> + But he was not satisfied all the way through. He thought more of beating + Prosper than of getting ‘Toinette. And he was not quite sure that he had + beaten him yet. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the girl still liked Prosper a little. Perhaps she still thought + of his romances, and his chansons, and his fine, smooth words, and missed + them. Perhaps she was too silent and dull sometimes, when she walked with + Raoul; and sometimes she laughed too loud when he talked, more at him than + with him. Perhaps those St. Raymond fellows still remembered the way his + head stuck out of that cursed snow-drift, and joked about it, and said how + clever and quick the little Prosper was. Perhaps—ah, MAUDIT! a + thousand times perhaps! And only one way to settle them, the old way, the + sure way, and all the better now because ‘Toinette must be on his side. + She must understand for sure that the bravest man in the parish had chosen + her. + </p> + <p> + That was the summer of the building of the grand stone tower of the + church. The men of Abbeville did it themselves, with their own hands, for + the glory of God. They were keen about that, and the cure was the keenest + of them all. No sharing of that glory with workmen from Quebec, if you + please! Abbeville was only forty years old, but they already understood + the glory of God quite as well there as at Quebec, without doubt. They + could build their own tower, perfectly, and they would. Besides, it would + cost less. + </p> + <p> + Vaillantcoeur was the chief carpenter. He attended to the affair of beams + and timbers. Leclere was the chief mason. He directed the affair of + dressing the stones and laying them. That required a very careful head, + you understand, for the tower must be straight. In the floor a little + crookedness did not matter; but in the wall—that might be serious. + People have been killed by a falling tower. Of course, if they were going + into church, they would be sure of heaven. But then think—what a + disgrace for Abbeville! + </p> + <p> + Every one was glad that Leclere bossed the raising of the tower. They + admitted that he might not be brave, but he was assuredly careful. + Vaillantcoeur alone grumbled, and said the work went too slowly, and even + swore that the sockets for the beams were too shallow, or else too deep, + it made no difference which. That BETE Prosper made trouble always by his + poor work. But the friction never came to a blaze; for the cure was + pottering about the tower every day and all day long, and a few words from + him would make a quarrel go off in smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Softly, my boys!” he would say; “work smooth and you work fast. The logs + in the river run well when they run all the same way. But when two logs + cross each other, on the same rock—psst! a jam! The whole drive is + hung up! Do not run crossways, my children.” + </p> + <p> + The walls rose steadily, straight as a steamboat pipe—ten, twenty, + thirty, forty feet; it was time to put in the two cross-girders, lay the + floor of the belfry, finish off the stonework, and begin the pointed + wooden spire. The cure had gone to Quebec that very day to buy the shining + plates of tin for the roof, and a beautiful cross of gilt for the + pinnacle. + </p> + <p> + Leclere was in front of the tower putting on his overalls. Vaillantcoeur + came up, swearing mad. Three or four other workmen were standing about. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, you Leclere,” said he, “I tried one of the cross-girders + yesterday afternoon and it wouldn’t go. The templet on the north is + crooked—crooked as your teeth. We had to let the girder down again. + I suppose we must trim it off some way, to get a level bearing, and make + the tower weak, just to match your sacre bad work, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Prosper, pleasant and quiet enough, “I’m sorry for that, + Raoul. Perhaps I could put that templet straight, or perhaps the girder + might be a little warped and twisted, eh? What? Suppose we measure it.” + </p> + <p> + Sure enough, they found the long timber was not half seasoned and had + corkscrewed itself out of shape at least three inches. Vaillantcoeur sat + on the sill of the doorway and did not even look at them while they were + measuring. When they called out to him what they had found, he strode over + to them. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a dam’ lie,” he said, sullenly. “Prosper Leclere, you slipped the + string. None of your sacre cheating! I have enough of it already. Will you + fight, you cursed sneak?” + </p> + <p> + Prosper’s face went gray, like the mortar in the trough. His fists + clenched and the cords on his neck stood out as if they were ropes. He + breathed hard. But he only said three words: + </p> + <p> + “No! Not here.” + </p> + <p> + “Not here? Why not? There is room. The cure is away. Why not here?” + </p> + <p> + “It is the house of LE BON DIEU. Can we build it in hate?” + </p> + <p> + “POLISSON! You make an excuse. Then come to Girard’s, and fight there.” + </p> + <p> + Again Prosper held in for a moment, and spoke three words: + </p> + <p> + “No! Not now.” + </p> + <p> + “Not now? But when, you heart of a hare? Will you sneak out of it until + you turn gray and die? When will you fight, little musk-rat?” + </p> + <p> + “When I have forgotten. When I am no more your friend.” + </p> + <p> + Prosper picked up his trowel and went into the tower. Raoul bad-worded him + and every stone of his building from foundation to cornice, and then went + down the road to get a bottle of cognac. + </p> + <p> + An hour later he came back breathing out threatenings and slaughter, + strongly flavoured with raw spirits. Prosper was working quietly on the + top of the tower, at the side away from the road. He saw nothing until + Raoul, climbing up by the ladders on the inside, leaped on the platform + and rushed at him like a crazy lynx. + </p> + <p> + “Now!” he cried, “no hole to hide in here, rat! I’ll squeeze the lies out + of you.” + </p> + <p> + He gripped Prosper by the head, thrusting one thumb into his eye, and + pushing him backward on the scaffolding. + </p> + <p> + Blinded, half maddened by the pain, Prosper thought of nothing but to get + free. He swung his long arm upward and landed a heavy blow on Raoul’s face + that dislocated the jaw; then twisting himself downward and sideways, he + fell in toward the wall. Raoul plunged forward, stumbled, let go his hold, + and pitched out from the tower, arms spread, clutching the air. + </p> + <p> + Forty feet straight down! A moment—or was it an eternity?—of + horrible silence. Then the body struck the rough stones at the foot of the + tower with a thick, soft dunt, and lay crumpled up among them, without a + groan, without a movement. + </p> + <p> + When the other men, who had hurried up the ladders in terror, found + Leclere, he was peering over the edge of the scaffold, wiping the blood + from his eyes, trying to see down. + </p> + <p> + “I have killed him,” he muttered, “my friend! He is smashed to death. I am + a murderer. Let me go. I must throw myself down!” + </p> + <p> + They had hard work to hold him back. As they forced him down the ladders + he trembled like a poplar. + </p> + <p> + But Vaillantcoeur was not dead. No; it was incredible—to fall forty + feet and not be killed—they talk of it yet all through the valley of + the Lake St. John—it was a miracle! But Vaillantcoeur had broken + only a nose, a collar-bone, and two ribs—for one like him that was + but a bagatelle. A good doctor from Chicoutimi, a few months of nursing, + and he would be on his feet again, almost as good a man as he had ever + been. + </p> + <p> + It was Leclere who put himself in charge of this. + </p> + <p> + “It is my affair,” he said—“my fault! It was not a fair place to + fight. Why did I strike? I must attend to this bad work.” + </p> + <p> + “MAIS, SACRE BLEU!” they answered, “how could you help it? He forced you. + You did not want to be killed. That would be a little too much.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he persisted, “this is my affair. Girard, you know my money is with + the notary. There is plenty. Raoul has not enough, perhaps not any. But he + shall want nothing—you understand—nothing! It is my affair, + all that he needs—but you shall not tell him—no! That is all.” + </p> + <p> + Prosper had his way. But he did not see Vaillantcoeur after he was carried + home and put to bed in his cabin. Even if he had tried to do so, it would + have been impossible. He could not see anybody. One of his eyes was + entirely destroyed. The inflammation spread to the other, and all through + the autumn he lay in his house, drifting along the edge of blindness, + while Raoul lay in his house slowly getting well. + </p> + <p> + The cure went from one house to the other, but he did not carry any + messages between them. If any were sent one way they were not received. + And the other way, none were sent. Raoul did not speak of Prosper; and if + one mentioned his name, Raoul shut his mouth and made no answer. + </p> + <p> + To the cure, of course, it was a distress and a misery. To have a hatred + like this unhealed, was a blot on the parish; it was a shame, as well as a + sin. At last—it was already winter, the day before Christmas—the + cure made up his mind that he would put forth one more great effort. + </p> + <p> + “Look you, my son,” he said to Prosper, “I am going this afternoon to + Raoul Vaillantcoeur to make the reconciliation. You shall give me a word + to carry to him. He shall hear it this time, I promise you. Shall I tell + him what you have done for him, how you have cared for him?” + </p> + <p> + “No, never,” said Prosper; “you shall not take that word from me. It is + nothing. It will make worse trouble. I will never send it.” + </p> + <p> + “What then?” said the priest. “Shall I tell him that you forgive him?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not that,” answered Prosper, “that would be a foolish word. What + would that mean? It is not I who can forgive. I was the one who struck + hardest. It was he that fell from the tower.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, choose the word for yourself. What shall it be? Come, I + promise you that he shall hear it. I will take with me the notary, and the + good man Girard, and the little Marie Antoinette. You shall hear an + answer. What message?” + </p> + <p> + “Mon pere,” said Prosper, slowly, “you shall tell him just this. I, + Prosper Leclere, ask Raoul Vaillantcoeur that he will forgive me for not + fighting with him on the ground when he demanded it.” + </p> + <p> + Yes, the message was given in precisely those words. Marie Antoinette + stood within the door, Bergeron and Girard at the foot of the bed, and the + cure spoke very clearly and firmly. Vaillantcoeur rolled on his pillow and + turned his face away. Then he sat up in bed, grunting a little with the + pain in his shoulder, which was badly set. His black eyes snapped like the + eyes of a wolverine in a corner. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive?” he said, “no, never. He is a coward. I will never forgive!” + </p> + <p> + A little later in the afternoon, when the rose of sunset lay on the snowy + hills, some one knocked at the door of Leclere’s house. + </p> + <p> + “ENTREZ!” he cried. “Who is there? I see not very well by this light. Who + is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It is me,” said ‘Toinette, her cheeks rosier than the snow outside, + “nobody but me. I have come to ask you to tell me the rest about that new + carriage—do you remember?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + The voice in the canoe behind me ceased. The rain let up. The SLISH, SLISH + of the paddle stopped. The canoe swung sideways to the breeze. I heard the + RAP, RAP, RAP of a pipe on the gunwale, and the quick scratch of a match + on the under side of the thwart. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing, Ferdinand?” + </p> + <p> + “I go to light the pipe, m’sieu’.” + </p> + <p> + “Is the story finished?” + </p> + <p> + “But yes—but no—I know not, m’sieu’. As you will.” + </p> + <p> + “But what did old Girard say when his daughter broke her engagement and + married a man whose eyes were spoiled?” + </p> + <p> + “He said that Leclere could see well enough to work with him in the + store.” + </p> + <p> + “And what did Vaillantcoeur say when he lost his girl?” + </p> + <p> + “He said it was a cursed shame that one could not fight a blind man.” + </p> + <p> + “And what did ‘Toinette say?” + </p> + <p> + “She said she had chosen the bravest heart in Abbeville.” + </p> + <p> + “And Prosper—what did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’, I know not. He said it only to ‘Toinette.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV. THE GENTLE LIFE + </h2> + <p> + Do you remember that fair little wood of silver birches on the West Branch + of the Neversink, somewhat below the place where the Biscuit Brook runs + in? There is a mossy terrace raised a couple of feet above the water of a + long, still pool; and a very pleasant spot for a friendship-fire on the + shingly beach below you; and a plenty of painted trilliums and yellow + violets and white foam-flowers to adorn your woodland banquet, if it be + spread in the month of May, when Mistress Nature is given over to + embroidery. + </p> + <p> + It was there, at Contentment Corner, that Ned Mason had promised to meet + me on a certain day for the noontide lunch and smoke and talk, he fishing + down Biscuit Brook, and I down the West Branch, until we came together at + the rendezvous. But he was late that day—good old Ned! He was + occasionally behind time on a trout stream. For he went about his fishing + very seriously; and if it was fine, the sport was a natural occasion of + delay. But if it was poor, he made it an occasion to sit down to meditate + upon the cause of his failure, and tried to overcome it with many subtly + reasoned changes of the fly—which is a vain thing to do, but well + adapted to make one forgetful of the flight of time. + </p> + <p> + So I waited for him near an hour, and then ate my half of the sandwiches + and boiled eggs, smoked a solitary pipe, and fell into a light sleep at + the foot of the biggest birch tree, an old and trusty friend of mine. It + seemed like a very slight sound that roused me: the snapping of a dry twig + in the thicket, or a gentle splash in the water, differing in some + indefinable way from the steady murmur of the stream; something it was, I + knew not what, that made me aware of some one coming down the brook. I + raised myself quietly on one elbow and looked up through the trees to the + head of the pool. “Ned will think that I have gone down long ago,” I said + to myself; “I will just lie here and watch him fish through this pool, and + see how he manages to spend so much time about it.” + </p> + <p> + But it was not Ned’s rod that I saw poking out through the bushes at the + bend in the brook. It was such an affair as I had never seen before upon a + trout stream: a majestic weapon at least sixteen feet long, made in two + pieces, neatly spliced together in the middle, and all painted a smooth, + glistening, hopeful green. The line that hung from the tip of it was also + green, but of a paler, more transparent colour, quite thick and stiff + where it left the rod, but tapering down towards the end, as if it were + twisted of strands of horse-hair, reduced in number, until, at the hook, + there were but two hairs. And the hook—there was no disguise about + that—it was an unabashed bait-hook, and well baited, too. Gently the + line swayed to and fro above the foaming water at the head of the pool; + quietly the bait settled down in the foam and ran with the current around + the edge of the deep eddy under the opposite bank; suddenly the line + straightened and tautened; sharply the tip of the long green rod sprang + upward, and the fisherman stepped out from the bushes to play his fish. + </p> + <p> + Where had I seen such a figure before? The dress was strange and quaint—broad, + low shoes, gray woollen stockings, short brown breeches tied at the knee + with ribbons, a loose brown coat belted at the waist like a Norfolk + jacket; a wide, rolling collar with a bit of lace at the edge, and a soft + felt hat with a shady brim. It was a costume that, with all its oddity, + seemed wonderfully fit and familiar. And the face? Certainly it was the + face of an old friend. Never had I seen a countenance of more quietness + and kindliness and twinkling good humour. + </p> + <p> + “Well met, sir, and a pleasant day to you,” cried the angler, as his eyes + lighted on me. “Look you, I have hold of a good fish; I pray you put that + net under him, and touch not my line, for if you do, then we break all. + Well done, sir; I thank you. Now we have him safely landed. Truly this is + a lovely one; the best that I have taken in these waters. See how the + belly shines, here as yellow as a marsh-marigold, and there as white as a + foam-flower. Is not the hand of Divine Wisdom as skilful in the colouring + of a fish as in the painting of the manifold blossoms that sweeten these + wild forests?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed it is,” said I, “and this is the biggest trout that I have seen + caught in the upper waters of the Neversink. It is certainly eighteen + inches long, and should weigh close upon two pounds and a half.” + </p> + <p> + “More than that,” he answered, “if I mistake not. But I observe that you + call it a trout. To my mind, it seems more like a char, as do all the fish + that I have caught in your stream. Look here upon these curious + water-markings that run through the dark green of the back, and these + enamellings of blue and gold upon the side. Note, moreover, how bright and + how many are the red spots, and how each one of them is encircled with a + ring of purple. Truly it is a fish of rare beauty, and of high esteem with + persons of note. I would gladly know if it he as good to the taste as I + have heard it reputed.” + </p> + <p> + “It is even better,” I replied; “as you shall find, if you will but try + it.” + </p> + <p> + Then a curious impulse came to me, to which I yielded with as little + hesitation or misgiving, at the time, as if it were the most natural thing + in the world. + </p> + <p> + “You seem a stranger in this part of the country, sir,” said I; “but + unless I am mistaken you are no stranger to me. Did you not use to go + a-fishing in the New River, with honest Nat. and R. Roe, many years ago? + And did they not call you Izaak Walton?” + </p> + <p> + His eyes smiled pleasantly at me and a little curve of merriment played + around his lips. “It is a secret which I thought not to have been + discovered here,” he said; “but since you have lit upon it, I will not + deny it.” + </p> + <p> + Now how it came to pass that I was not astonished nor dismayed at this, I + cannot explain. But so it was; and the only feeling of which I was + conscious was a strong desire to detain this visitor as long as possible, + and have some talk with him. So I grasped at the only expedient that + flashed into my mind. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, sir,” I said, “you are most heartily welcome, and I trust you + will not despise the only hospitality I have to offer. If you will sit + down here among these birch trees in Contentment Corner, I will give you + half of a fisherman’s luncheon, and will cook your char for you on a board + before an open wood-fire, if you are not in a hurry. Though I belong to a + nation which is reported to be curious, I will promise to trouble you with + no inquisitive questions; and if you will but talk to me at your will, you + shall find me a ready listener.” + </p> + <p> + So we made ourselves comfortable on the shady bank, and while I busied + myself in splitting the fish and pinning it open on a bit of board that I + had found in a pile of driftwood, and setting it up before the fire to + broil, my new companion entertained me with the sweetest and friendliest + talk that I had ever heard. + </p> + <p> + “To speak without offence, sir,” he began, “there was a word in your + discourse a moment ago that seemed strange to me. You spoke of being ‘in a + hurry’; and that is an expression which is unfamiliar to my ears; but if + it mean the same as being in haste, then I must tell you that this is a + thing which, in my judgment, honest anglers should learn to forget, and + have no dealings with it. To be in haste is to be in anxiety and distress + of mind; it is to mistrust Providence, and to doubt that the issue of all + events is in wiser hands than ours; it is to disturb the course of nature, + and put overmuch confidence in the importance of our own endeavours. + </p> + <p> + “For how much of the evil that is in the world cometh from this plaguy + habit of being in haste! The haste to get riches, the haste to climb upon + some pinnacle of worldly renown, the haste to resolve mysteries—from + these various kinds of haste are begotten no small part of the miseries + and afflictions whereby the children of men are tormented: such as + quarrels and strifes among those who would over-reach one another in + business; envyings and jealousies among those who would outshine one + another in rich apparel and costly equipage; bloody rebellions and cruel + wars among those who would obtain power over their fellow-men; cloudy + disputations and bitter controversies among those who would fain leave no + room for modest ignorance and lowly faith among the secrets of religion; + and by all these miseries of haste the heart grows weary, and is made weak + and dull, or else hard and angry, while it dwelleth in the midst of them. + </p> + <p> + “But let me tell you that an angler’s occupation is a good cure for these + evils, if for no other reason, because it gently dissuadeth us from haste + and leadeth us away from feverish anxieties into those ways which are + pleasantness and those paths which are peace. For an angler cannot force + his fortune by eagerness, nor better it by discontent. He must wait upon + the weather, and the height of the water, and the hunger of the fish, and + many other accidents of which he has no control. If he would angle well, + he must not be in haste. And if he be in haste, he will do well to unlearn + it by angling, for I think there is no surer method. + </p> + <p> + “This fair tree that shadows us from the sun hath grown many years in its + place without more unhappiness than the loss of its leaves in winter, + which the succeeding season doth generously repair; and shall we be less + contented in the place where God hath planted us? or shall there go less + time to the making of a man than to the growth of a tree? This stream + floweth wimpling and laughing down to the great sea which it knoweth not; + yet it doth not fret because the future is hidden; and doubtless it were + wise in us to accept the mysteries of life as cheerfully and go forward + with a merry heart, considering that we know enough to make us happy and + keep us honest for to-day. A man should be well content if he can see so + far ahead of him as the next bend in the stream. What lies beyond, let him + trust in the hand of God. + </p> + <p> + “But as concerning riches, wherein should you and I be happier, this + pleasant afternoon of May, had we all the gold in Croesus his coffers? + Would the sun shine for us more bravely, or the flowers give forth a + sweeter breath, or yonder warbling vireo, hidden in her leafy choir, send + down more pure and musical descants, sweetly attuned by natural magic to + woo and win our thoughts from vanity and hot desires into a harmony with + the tranquil thoughts of God? And as for fame and power, trust me, sir, I + have seen too many men in my time that lived very unhappily though their + names were upon all lips, and died very sadly though their power was felt + in many lands; too many of these great ones have I seen that spent their + days in disquietude and ended them in sorrow, to make me envy their + conditions or hasten to rival them. Nor do I think that, by all their + perturbations and fightings and runnings to and fro, the world hath been + much bettered, or even greatly changed. The colour and complexion of + mortal life, in all things that are essential, remain the same under + Cromwell or under Charles. The goodness and mercy of God are still over + all His works, whether Presbytery or Episcopacy be set up as His + interpreter. Very quietly and peacefully have I lived under several + polities, civil and ecclesiastical, and under all there was room enough to + do my duty and love my friends and go a-fishing. And let me tell you, sir, + that in the state wherein I now find myself, though there are many things + of which I may not speak to you, yet one thing is clear: if I had made + haste in my mortal concerns, I should not have saved time, but lost it; + for all our affairs are under one sure dominion which moveth them forward + to their concordant end: wherefore ‘HE THAT BELIEVETH SHALL NOT MAKE + HASTE,’ and, above all, not when he goeth a-angling. + </p> + <p> + “But tell me, I pray you, is not this char cooked yet? Methinks the time + is somewhat overlong for the roasting. The fragrant smell of the cookery + gives me an eagerness to taste this new dish. Not that I am in haste, but— + </p> + <p> + “Well, it is done; and well done, too! Marry, the flesh of this fish is as + red as rose-leaves, and as sweet as if he had fed on nothing else. The + flavour of smoke from the fire is but slight, and it takes nothing from + the perfection of the dish, but rather adds to it, being clean and + delicate. I like not these French cooks who make all dishes in disguise, + and set them forth with strange foreign savours, like a masquerade. Give + me my food in its native dress, even though it be a little dry. If we had + but a cup of sack, now, or a glass of good ale, and a pipeful of tobacco? + </p> + <p> + “What! you have an abundance of the fragrant weed in your pouch? Sir, I + thank you very heartily! You entertain me like a prince. Not like King + James, be it understood, who despised tobacco and called it a ‘lively + image and pattern of hell’; nor like the Czar of Russia who commanded that + all who used it should have their noses cut off; but like good Queen Bess + of glorious memory, who disdained not the incense of the pipe, and some + say she used one herself; though for my part I think the custom of smoking + one that is more fitting for men, whose frailty and need of comfort are + well known, than for that fairer sex whose innocent and virgin spirits + stand less in want of creature consolations. + </p> + <p> + “But come, let us not trouble our enjoyment with careful discrimination of + others’ scruples. Your tobacco is rarely good; I’ll warrant it comes from + that province of Virginia which was named for the Virgin Queen; and while + we smoke together, let me call you, for this hour, my Scholar; and so I + will give you four choice rules for the attainment of that unhastened + quietude of mind whereof we did lately discourse. + </p> + <p> + “First: you shall learn to desire nothing in the world so much but that + you can be happy without it. + </p> + <p> + “Second: you shall seek that which you desire only by such means as are + fair and lawful, and this will leave you without bitterness towards men or + shame before God. + </p> + <p> + “Third: you shall take pleasure in the time while you are seeking, even + though you obtain not immediately that which you seek; for the purpose of + a journey is not only to arrive at the goal, but also to find enjoyment by + the way. + </p> + <p> + “Fourth: when you attain that which you have desired, you shall think more + of the kindness of your fortune than of the greatness of your skill. This + will make you grateful, and ready to share with others that which + Providence hath bestowed upon you; and truly this is both reasonable and + profitable, for it is but little that any of us would catch in this world + were not our luck better than our deserts. + </p> + <p> + “And to these Four Rules I will add yet another—Fifth: when you + smoke your pipe with a good conscience, trouble not yourself because there + are men in the world who will find fault with you for so doing. If you + wait for a pleasure at which no sour-complexioned soul hath ever girded, + you will wait long, and go through life with a sad and anxious mind. But I + think that God is best pleased with us when we give little heed to + scoffers, and enjoy His gifts with thankfulness and an easy heart. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Scholar, I have almost tired myself, and, I fear, more than almost + tired you. But this pipe is nearly burned out, and the few short whiffs + that are left in it shall put a period to my too long discourse. Let me + tell you, then, that there be some men in the world who hold not with + these my opinions. They profess that a life of contention and noise and + public turmoil, is far higher than a life of quiet work and meditation. + And so far as they follow their own choice honestly and with a pure mind, + I doubt not that it is as good for them as mine is for me, and I am well + pleased that every man do enjoy his own opinion. But so far as they have + spoken ill of me and my opinions, I do hold it a thing of little + consequence, except that I am sorry that they have thereby embittered + their own hearts. + </p> + <p> + “For this is the punishment of men who malign and revile those that differ + from them in religion, or prefer another way of living; their revilings, + by so much as they spend their wit and labour to make them shrewd and + bitter, do draw all the sweet and wholesome sap out of their lives and + turn it into poison; and so they become vessels of mockery and wrath, + remembered chiefly for the evil things that they have said with + cleverness. + </p> + <p> + “For be sure of this, Scholar, the more a man giveth himself to hatred in + this world, the more will he find to hate. But let us rather give + ourselves to charity, and if we have enemies (and what honest man hath + them not?) let them be ours, since they must, but let us not be theirs, + since we know better. + </p> + <p> + “There was one Franck, a trooper of Cromwell’s, who wrote ill of me, + saying that I neither understood the subjects whereof I discoursed nor + believed the things that I said, being both silly and pretentious. It + would have been a pity if it had been true. There was also one Leigh Hunt, + a maker of many books, who used one day a bottle of ink whereof the gall + was transfused into his blood, so that he wrote many hard words of me, + setting forth selfishness and cruelty and hypocrisy as if they were + qualities of my disposition. God knew, even then, whether these things + were true of me; and if they were not true, it would have been a pity to + have answered them; but it would have been still more a pity to be angered + by them. But since that time Master Hunt and I have met each other; yes, + and Master Franck, too; and we have come very happily to a better + understanding. + </p> + <p> + “Trust me, Scholar, it is the part of wisdom to spend little of your time + upon the things that vex and anger you, and much of your time upon the + things that bring you quietness and confidence and good cheer. A friend + made is better than an enemy punished. There is more of God in the + peaceable beauty of this little wood-violet than in all the angry + disputations of the sects. We are nearer heaven when we listen to the + birds than when we quarrel with our fellow-men. I am sure that none can + enter into the spirit of Christ, his evangel, save those who willingly + follow his invitation when he says, ‘COME YE YOURSELVES APART INTO A + LONELY PLACE, AND REST A WHILE.’ For since his blessed kingdom was first + established in the green fields, by the lakeside, with humble fishermen + for its subjects, the easiest way into it hath ever been through the + wicket-gate of a lowly and grateful fellowship with nature. He that feels + not the beauty and blessedness and peace of the woods and meadows that God + hath bedecked with flowers for him even while he is yet a sinner, how + shall he learn to enjoy the unfading bloom of the celestial country if he + ever become a saint? + </p> + <p> + “No, no, sir, he that departeth out of this world without perceiving that + it is fair and full of innocent sweetness hath done little honour to the + every-day miracles of divine beneficence; and though by mercy he may + obtain an entrance to heaven, it will be a strange place to him; and + though he have studied all that is written in men’s books of divinity, yet + because he hath left the book of Nature unturned, he will have much to + learn and much to forget. Do you think that to be blind to the beauties of + earth prepareth the heart to behold the glories of heaven? Nay, Scholar, I + know that you are not of that opinion. But I can tell you another thing + which perhaps you knew not. The heart that is blest with the glories of + heaven ceaseth not to remember and to love the beauties of this world. And + of this love I am certain, because I feel it, and glad because it is a + great blessing. + </p> + <p> + “There are two sorts of seeds sown in our remembrance by what we call the + hand of fortune, the fruits of which do not wither, but grow sweeter + forever and ever. The first is the seed of innocent pleasures, received in + gratitude and enjoyed with good companions, of which pleasures we never + grow weary of thinking, because they have enriched our hearts. The second + is the seed of pure and gentle sorrows, borne in submission and with + faithful love, and these also we never forget, but we come to cherish them + with gladness instead of grief, because we see them changed into + everlasting joys. And how this may be I cannot tell you now, for you would + not understand me. But that it is so, believe me: for if you believe, you + shall one day see it yourself. + </p> + <p> + “But come, now, our friendly pipes are long since burned out. Hark, how + sweetly the tawny thrush in yonder thicket touches her silver harp for the + evening hymn! I will follow the stream downward, but do you tarry here + until the friend comes for whom you were waiting. I think we shall all + three meet one another, somewhere, after sunset.” + </p> + <p> + I watched the gray hat and the old brown coat and long green rod disappear + among the trees around the curve of the stream. Then Ned’s voice sounded + in my ears, and I saw him standing above me laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo, old man,” he said, “you’re a sound sleeper! I hope you’ve had good + luck, and pleasant dreams.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V. A FRIEND OF JUSTICE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + It was the black patch over his left eye that made all the trouble. In + reality he was of a disposition most peaceful and propitiating, a friend + of justice and fair dealing, strongly inclined to a domestic life, and + capable of extreme devotion. He had a vivid sense of righteousness, it is + true, and any violation of it was apt to heat his indignation to the + boiling-point. When this occurred he was strong in the back, stiff in the + neck, and fearless of consequences. But he was always open to friendly + overtures and ready to make peace with honour. + </p> + <p> + Singularly responsive to every touch of kindness, desirous of affection, + secretly hungry for caresses, he had a heart framed for love and + tranquillity. But nature saw fit to put a black patch over his left eye; + wherefore his days were passed in the midst of conflict and he lived the + strenuous life. + </p> + <p> + How this sinister mark came to him, he never knew. Indeed it is not likely + that he had any idea of the part that it played in his career. The + attitude that the world took toward him from the beginning, an attitude of + aggressive mistrust,—the role that he was expected and practically + forced to assume in the drama of existence, the role of a hero of + interminable strife,—must have seemed to him altogether mysterious + and somewhat absurd. But his part was fixed by the black patch. It gave + him an aspect so truculent and forbidding that all the elements of warfare + gathered around him as hornets around a sugar barrel, and his appearance + in public was like the raising of a flag for battle. + </p> + <p> + “You see that Pichou,” said MacIntosh, the Hudson’s Bay agent at Mingan, + “you see yon big black-eye deevil? The savages call him Pichou because + he’s ugly as a lynx—‘LAID COMME UN PICHOU.’ Best sledge-dog and the + gurliest tyke on the North Shore. Only two years old and he can lead a + team already. But, man, he’s just daft for the fighting. Fought his mother + when he was a pup and lamed her for life. Fought two of his brothers and + nigh killed ‘em both. Every dog in the place has a grudge at him, and + hell’s loose as oft as he takes a walk. I’m loath to part with him, but + I’ll be selling him gladly for fifty dollars to any man that wants a good + sledge-dog, eh?—and a bit collie-shangie every week.” + </p> + <p> + Pichou had heard his name, and came trotting up to the corner of the store + where MacIntosh was talking with old Grant the chief factor, who was on a + tour of inspection along the North Shore, and Dan Scott, the agent from + Seven Islands, who had brought the chief down in his chaloupe. Pichou did + not understand what his master had been saying about him: but he thought + he was called, and he had a sense of duty; and besides, he was wishful to + show proper courtesy to well-dressed and respectable strangers. He was a + great dog, thirty inches high at the shoulder; broad-chested, with + straight, sinewy legs; and covered with thick, wavy, cream-coloured hair + from the tips of his short ears to the end of his bushy tail—all + except the left side of his face. That was black from ear to nose—coal-black; + and in the centre of this storm-cloud his eye gleamed like fire. + </p> + <p> + What did Pichou know about that ominous sign? No one had ever told him. He + had no looking-glass. He ran up to the porch where the men were sitting, + as innocent as a Sunday-school scholar coming to the superintendent’s desk + to receive a prize. But when old Grant, who had grown pursy and nervous + from long living on the fat of the land at Ottawa, saw the black patch and + the gleaming eye, he anticipated evil; so he hitched one foot up on the + porch, crying “Get out!” and with the other foot he planted a kick on the + side of the dog’s head. + </p> + <p> + Pichou’s nerve-centres had not been shaken by high living. They acted with + absolute precision and without a tremor. His sense of justice was + automatic, and his teeth were fixed through the leg of the chief factor’s + boot, just below the calf. + </p> + <p> + For two minutes there was a small chaos in the post of the Honourable + Hudson’s Bay Company at Mingan. Grant howled bloody murder; MacIntosh + swore in three languages and yelled for his dog-whip; three Indians and + two French-Canadians wielded sticks and fence-pickets. But order did not + arrive until Dan Scott knocked the burning embers from his big pipe on the + end of the dog’s nose. Pichou gasped, let go his grip, shook his head, and + loped back to his quarters behind the barn, bruised, blistered, and + intolerably perplexed by the mystery of life. + </p> + <p> + As he lay on the sand, licking his wounds, he remembered many strange + things. First of all, there was the trouble with his mother. + </p> + <p> + She was a Labrador Husky, dirty yellowish gray, with bristling neck, sharp + fangs, and green eyes, like a wolf. Her name was Babette. She had a + fiendish temper, but no courage. His father was supposed to be a huge + black and white Newfoundland that came over in a schooner from Miquelon. + Perhaps it was from him that the black patch was inherited. And perhaps + there were other things in the inheritance, too, which came from this + nobler strain of blood Pichon’s unwillingness to howl with the other dogs + when they made night hideous; his silent, dignified ways; his sense of + fair play; his love of the water; his longing for human society and + friendship. + </p> + <p> + But all this was beyond Pichou’s horizon, though it was within his nature. + He remembered only that Babette had taken a hate for him, almost from the + first, and had always treated him worse than his all-yellow brothers. She + would have starved him if she could. Once when he was half grown, she fell + upon him for some small offence and tried to throttle him. The rest of the + pack looked on snarling and slavering. He caught Babette by the fore-leg + and broke the bone. She hobbled away, shrieking. What else could he do? + Must a dog let himself be killed by his mother? + </p> + <p> + As for his brothers—was it fair that two of them should fall foul of + him about the rabbit which he had tracked and caught and killed? He would + have shared it with them, if they had asked him, for they ran behind him + on the trail. But when they both set their teeth in his neck, there was + nothing to do but to lay them both out: which he did. Afterward he was + willing enough to make friends, but they bristled and cursed whenever he + came near them. + </p> + <p> + It was the same with everybody. If he went out for a walk on the beach, + Vigneau’s dogs or Simard’s dogs regarded it as an insult, and there was a + fight. Men picked up sticks, or showed him the butt-end of their + dog-whips, when he made friendly approaches. With the children it was + different; they seemed to like him a little; but never did he follow one + of them that a mother did not call from the house-door: “Pierre! Marie! + come away quick! That bad dog will bite you!” Once when he ran down to the + shore to watch the boat coming in from the mail-steamer, the purser had + refused to let the boat go to land, and called out, “M’sieu’ MacIntosh, + you git no malle dis trip, eef you not call avay dat dam’ dog.” + </p> + <p> + True, the Minganites seemed to take a certain kind of pride in his + reputation. They had brought Chouart’s big brown dog, Gripette, down from + the Sheldrake to meet him; and after the meeting was over and Gripette had + been revived with a bucket of water, everybody, except Chouart, appeared + to be in good humour. The purser of the steamer had gone to the trouble of + introducing a famous BOULE-DOGGE from Quebec, on the trip after that on + which he had given such a hostile opinion of Pichon. The bulldog’s + intentions were unmistakable; he expressed them the moment he touched the + beach; and when they carried him back to the boat on a fish-barrow many + flattering words were spoken about Pichou. He was not insensible to them. + But these tributes to his prowess were not what he really wanted. His + secret desire was for tokens of affection. His position was honourable, + but it was intolerably lonely and full of trouble. He sought peace and he + found fights. + </p> + <p> + While he meditated dimly on these things, patiently trying to get the + ashes of Dan Scott’s pipe out of his nose, his heart was cast down and his + spirit was disquieted within him. Was ever a decent dog so mishandled + before? Kicked for nothing by a fat stranger, and then beaten by his own + master! + </p> + <p> + In the dining-room of the Post, Grant was slowly and reluctantly allowing + himself to be convinced that his injuries were not fatal. During this + process considerable Scotch whiskey was consumed and there was much + conversation about the viciousness of dogs. Grant insisted that Pichou was + mad and had a devil. MacIntosh admitted the devil, but firmly denied the + madness. The question was, whether the dog should be killed or not; and + over this point there was like to be more bloodshed, until Dan Scott made + his contribution to the argument: “If you shoot him, how can you tell + whether he is mad or not? I’ll give thirty dollars for him and take him + home.” + </p> + <p> + “If you do,” said Grant, “you’ll sail alone, and I’ll wait for the + steamer. Never a step will I go in the boat with the crazy brute that bit + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Suit yourself,” said Dan Scott. “You kicked before he bit.” + </p> + <p> + At daybreak he whistled the dog down to the chaloupe, hoisted sail, and + bore away for Seven Islands. There was a secret bond of sympathy between + the two companions on that hundred-mile voyage in an open boat. Neither of + them realized what it was, but still it was there. + </p> + <p> + Dan Scott knew what it meant to stand alone, to face a small hostile + world, to have a surfeit of fighting. The station of Seven Islands was the + hardest in all the district of the ancient POSTES DU ROI. The Indians were + surly and crafty. They knew all the tricks of the fur-trade. They killed + out of season, and understood how to make a rusty pelt look black. The + former agent had accommodated himself to his customers. He had no + objection to shutting one of his eyes, so long as the other could see a + chance of doing a stroke of business for himself. He also had a convenient + weakness in the sense of smell, when there was an old stock of pork to + work off on the savages. But all of Dan Scott’s senses were strong, + especially his sense of justice, and he came into the Post resolved to + play a straight game with both hands, toward the Indians and toward the + Honourable H. B. Company. The immediate results were reproofs from Ottawa + and revilings from Seven Islands. Furthermore the free traders were + against him because he objected to their selling rum to the savages. + </p> + <p> + It must be confessed that Dan Scott had a way with him that looked + pugnacious. He was quick in his motions and carried his shoulders well + thrown back. His voice was heavy. He used short words and few of them. His + eyebrow’s were thick and they met over his nose. Then there was a broad + white scar at one corner of his mouth. His appearance was not + prepossessing, but at heart he was a philanthropist and a sentimentalist. + He thirsted for gratitude and affection on a just basis. He had studied + for eighteen months in the medical school at Montreal, and his chief + delight was to practise gratuitously among the sick and wounded of the + neighbourhood. His ambition for Seven Islands was to make it a northern + suburb of Paradise, and for himself to become a full-fledged physician. Up + to this time it seemed as if he would have to break more bones than he + could set; and the closest connection of Seven Islands appeared to be with + Purgatory. + </p> + <p> + First, there had been a question of suzerainty between Dan Scott and the + local representative of the Astor family, a big half-breed descendant of a + fur-trader, who was the virtual chief of the Indians hunting on the Ste. + Marguerite: settled by knock-down arguments. Then there was a controversy + with Napoleon Bouchard about the right to put a fish-house on a certain + part of the beach: settled with a stick, after Napoleon had drawn a knife. + Then there was a running warfare with Virgile and Ovide Boulianne, the + free traders, who were his rivals in dealing with the Indians for their + peltry: still unsettled. After this fashion the record of his relations + with his fellow-citizens at Seven Islands was made up. He had their + respect, but not their affection. He was the only Protestant, the only + English-speaker, the most intelligent man, as well as the hardest hitter + in the place, and he was very lonely. Perhaps it was this that made him + take a fancy to Pichou. Their positions in the world were not unlike. He + was not the first man who has wanted sympathy and found it in a dog. + </p> + <p> + Alone together, in the same boat, they made friends with each other + easily. At first the remembrance of the hot pipe left a little suspicion + in Pichou’s mind; but this was removed by a handsome apology in the shape + of a chunk of bread and a slice of meat from Dan Scott’s lunch. After this + they got on together finely. It was the first time in his life that Pichou + had ever spent twenty-four hours away from other dogs; it was also the + first time he had ever been treated like a gentleman. All that was best in + him responded to the treatment. He could not have been more quiet and + steady in the boat if he had been brought up to a seafaring life. When Dan + Scott called him and patted him on the head, the dog looked up in the + man’s face as if he had found his God. And the man, looking down into the + eye that was not disfigured by the black patch, saw something that he had + been seeking for a long time. + </p> + <p> + All day the wind was fair and strong from the southeast. The chaloupe ran + swiftly along the coast past the broad mouth of the River Saint-Jean, with + its cluster of white cottages past the hill-encircled bay of the River + Magpie, with its big fish-houses past the fire-swept cliffs of + Riviere-au-Tonnerre, and the turbulent, rocky shores of the Sheldrake: + past the silver cascade of the Riviere-aux-Graines, and the mist of the + hidden fall of the Riviere Manitou: past the long, desolate ridges of Cap + Cormorant, where, at sunset, the wind began to droop away, and the tide + was contrary So the chaloupe felt its way cautiously toward the corner of + the coast where the little Riviere-a-la-Truite comes tumbling in among the + brown rocks, and found a haven for the night in the mouth of the river. + </p> + <p> + There was only one human dwelling-place in sight As far as the eye could + sweep, range after range of uninhabitable hills covered with the skeletons + of dead forests; ledge after ledge of ice-worn granite thrust out like + fangs into the foaming waves of the gulf. Nature, with her teeth bare and + her lips scarred: this was the landscape. And in the midst of it, on a low + hill above the murmuring river, surrounded by the blanched trunks of + fallen trees, and the blackened debris of wood and moss, a small, square, + weather-beaten palisade of rough-hewn spruce, and a patch of the bright + green leaves and white flowers of the dwarf cornel lavishing their beauty + on a lonely grave. This was the only habitation in sight—the last + home of the Englishman, Jack Chisholm, whose story has yet to be told. + </p> + <p> + In the shelter of this hill Dan Scott cooked his supper and shared it with + Pichou. When night was dark he rolled himself in his blanket, and slept in + the stern of the boat, with the dog at his side. Their friendship was + sealed. + </p> + <p> + The next morning the weather was squally and full of sudden anger. They + crept out with difficulty through the long rollers that barred the tiny + harbour, and beat their way along the coast. At Moisie they must run far + out into the gulf to avoid the treacherous shoals, and to pass beyond the + furious race of white-capped billows that poured from the great river for + miles into the sea. Then they turned and made for the group of + half-submerged mountains and scattered rocks that Nature, in some freak of + fury, had thrown into the throat of Seven Islands Bay. That was a + difficult passage. The black shores were swept by headlong tides. Tusks of + granite tore the waves. Baffled and perplexed, the wind flapped and + whirled among the cliffs. Through all this the little boat buffeted + bravely on till she reached the point of the Gran Boule. Then a strange + thing happened. + </p> + <p> + The water was lumpy; the evening was growing thick; a swirl of the tide + and a shift of the wind caught the chaloupe and swung her suddenly around. + The mainsail jibed, and before he knew how it happened Dan Scott was + overboard. He could swim but clumsily. The water blinded him, choked him, + dragged him down. Then he felt Pichou gripping him by the shoulder, + buoying him up, swimming mightily toward the chaloupe which hung trembling + in the wind a few yards away. At last they reached it and the man climbed + over the stern and pulled the dog after him. Dan Scott lay in the bottom + of the boat, shivering, dazed, until he felt the dog’s cold nose and warm + breath against his cheek. He flung his arm around Pichon’s neck. + </p> + <p> + “They said you were mad! God, if more men were mad like you!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + Pichou’s work at Seven Islands was cut out for him on a generous scale. It + is true that at first he had no regular canine labour to perform, for it + was summer. Seven months of the year, on the North Shore, a sledge-dog’s + occupation is gone. He is the idlest creature in the universe. + </p> + <p> + But Pichou, being a new-comer, had to win his footing in the community; + and that was no light task. With the humans it was comparatively easy. At + the outset they mistrusted him on account of his looks. Virgile Boulianne + asked: “Why did you buy such an ugly dog?” Ovide, who was the wit of the + family, said: “I suppose M’sieu’ Scott got a present for taking him.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a good dog,” said Dan Scott. “Treat him well and he’ll treat you + well. Kick him and I kick you.” + </p> + <p> + Then he told what had happened off the point of Gran’ Boule. The village + decided to accept Pichou at his master’s valuation. Moderate friendliness, + with precautions, was shown toward him by everybody, except Napoleon + Bouchard, whose distrust was permanent and took the form of a stick. He + was a fat, fussy man; fat people seemed to have no affinity for Pichou. + </p> + <p> + But while the relations with the humans of Seven Islands were soon + established on a fair footing, with the canines Pichou had a very + different affair. They were not willing to accept any recommendations as + to character. They judged for themselves; and they judged by appearances; + and their judgment was utterly hostile to Pichou. + </p> + <p> + They decided that he was a proud dog, a fierce dog, a bad dog, a fighter. + He must do one of two things: stay at home in the yard of the Honourable + H. B. Company, which is a thing that no self-respecting dog would do in + the summer-time, when cod-fish heads are strewn along the beach; or fight + his way from one end of the village to the other, which Pichou promptly + did, leaving enemies behind every fence. Huskies never forget a grudge. + They are malignant to the core. Hatred is the wine of cowardly hearts. + This is as true of dogs as it is of men. + </p> + <p> + Then Pichou, having settled his foreign relations, turned his attention to + matters at home. There were four other dogs in Dan Scott’s team. They did + not want Pichou for a leader, and he knew it. They were bitter with + jealousy. The black patch was loathsome to them. They treated him + disrespectfully, insultingly, grossly. Affairs came to a head when Pecan, + a rusty gray dog who had great ambitions and little sense, disputed + Pichou’s tenure of a certain ham-bone. Dan Scott looked on placidly while + the dispute was terminated. Then he washed the blood and sand from the + gashes on Pecan’s shoulder, and patted Pichou on the head. + </p> + <p> + “Good dog,” he said. “You’re the boss.” + </p> + <p> + There was no further question about Pichou’s leadership of the team. But + the obedience of his followers was unwilling and sullen. There was no love + in it. Imagine an English captain, with a Boer company, campaigning in the + Ashantee country, and you will have a fair idea of Pichou’s position at + Seven Islands. + </p> + <p> + He did not shrink from its responsibilities. There were certain reforms in + the community which seemed to him of vital importance, and he put them + through. + </p> + <p> + First of all, he made up his mind that there ought to be peace and order + on the village street. In the yards of the houses that were strung along + it there should be home rule, and every dog should deal with trespassers + as he saw fit. Also on the beach, and around the fish-shanties, and under + the racks where the cod were drying, the right of the strong jaw should + prevail, and differences of opinion should be adjusted in the + old-fashioned way. But on the sandy road, bordered with a broken + board-walk, which ran between the houses and the beach, courtesy and + propriety must be observed. Visitors walked there. Children played there. + It was the general promenade. It must be kept peaceful and decent. This + was the First Law of the Dogs of Seven Islands. If two dogs quarrel on the + street they must go elsewhere to settle it. It was highly unpopular, but + Pichou enforced it with his teeth. + </p> + <p> + The Second Law was equally unpopular: No stealing from the Honourable H. + B. Company. If a man bought bacon or corned-beef or any other delicacy, + and stored it an insecure place, or if he left fish on the beach over + night, his dogs might act according to their inclination. Though Pichou + did not understand how honest dogs could steal from their own master, he + was willing to admit that this was their affair. His affair was that + nobody should steal anything from the Post. It cost him many night + watches, and some large battles to carry it out, but he did it. In the + course of time it came to pass that the other dogs kept away from the Post + altogether, to avoid temptations; and his own team spent most of their + free time wandering about to escape discipline. + </p> + <p> + The Third Law was this. Strange dogs must be decently treated as long as + they behave decently. This was contrary to all tradition, but Pichou + insisted upon it. If a strange dog wanted to fight he should be + accommodated with an antagonist of his own size. If he did not want to + fight he should be politely smelled and allowed to pass through. + </p> + <p> + This Law originated on a day when a miserable, long-legged, black cur, a + cross between a greyhound and a water-spaniel, strayed into Seven Islands + from heaven knows where—weary, desolate, and bedraggled. All the + dogs in the place attacked the homeless beggar. There was a howling fracas + on the beach; and when Pichou arrived, the trembling cur was standing up + to the neck in the water, facing a semicircle of snarling, snapping + bullies who dared not venture out any farther. Pichou had no fear of the + water. He swam out to the stranger, paid the smelling salute as well as + possible under the circumstances, encouraged the poor creature to come + ashore, warned off the other dogs, and trotted by the wanderer’s side for + miles down the beach until they disappeared around the point. What reward + Pichou got for this polite escort, I do not know. But I saw him do the + gallant deed; and I suppose this was the origin of the well-known and + much-resisted Law of Strangers’ Rights in Seven Islands. + </p> + <p> + The most recalcitrant subjects with whom Pichou had to deal in all these + matters were the team of Ovide Boulianne. There were five of them, and up + to this time they had been the best team in the village. They had one + virtue: under the whip they could whirl a sledge over the snow farther and + faster than a horse could trot in a day. But they had innumerable vices. + Their leader, Carcajou, had a fleece like a merino ram. But under this + coat of innocence he carried a heart so black that he would bite while he + was wagging his tail. This smooth devil, and his four followers like unto + himself, had sworn relentless hatred to Pichou, and they made his life + difficult. + </p> + <p> + But his great and sufficient consolation for all toils and troubles was + the friendship with his master. In the long summer evenings, when Dan + Scott was making up his accounts in the store, or studying his pocket + cyclopaedia of medicine in the living-room of the Post, with its low beams + and mysterious green-painted cupboards, Pichou would lie contentedly at + his feet. In the frosty autumnal mornings, when the brant were flocking in + the marshes at the head of the bay, they would go out hunting together in + a skiff. And who could lie so still as Pichou when the game was + approaching? Or who could spring so quickly and joyously to retrieve a + wounded bird? But best of all were the long walks on Sunday afternoons, on + the yellow beach that stretched away toward the Moisie, or through the + fir-forest behind the Pointe des Chasseurs. Then master and dog had + fellowship together in silence. To the dumb companion it was like walking + with his God in the garden in the cool of the day. + </p> + <p> + When winter came, and snow fell, and waters froze, Pichou’s serious duties + began. The long, slim COMETIQUE, with its curving prow, and its runners of + whalebone, was put in order. The harness of caribou-hide was repaired and + strengthened. The dogs, even the most vicious of them, rejoiced at the + prospect of doing the one thing that they could do best. Each one strained + at his trace as if he would drag the sledge alone. Then the long tandem + was straightened out, Dan Scott took his place on the low seat, cracked + his whip, shouted “POUITTE! POUITTE!” and the equipage darted along the + snowy track like a fifty-foot arrow. + </p> + <p> + Pichou was in the lead, and he showed his metal from the start. No need of + the terrible FOUET to lash him forward or to guide his course. A word was + enough. “Hoc! Hoc! Hoc!” and he swung to the right, avoiding an air-hole. + “Re-re! Re-re!” and he veered to the left, dodging a heap of broken ice. + Past the mouth of the Ste. Marguerite, twelve miles; past Les Jambons, + twelve miles more; past the River of Rocks and La Pentecote, fifteen miles + more; into the little hamlet of Dead Men’s Point, behind the Isle of the + Wise Virgin, whither the amateur doctor had been summoned by telegraph to + attend a patient with a broken arm—forty-three miles for the first + day’s run! Not bad. Then the dogs got their food for the day, one dried + fish apiece; and at noon the next day, reckless of bleeding feet, they + flew back over the same track, and broke their fast at Seven Islands + before eight o’clock. The ration was the same, a single fish; always the + same, except when it was varied by a cube of ancient, evil-smelling, + potent whale’s flesh, which a dog can swallow at a single gulp. Yet the + dogs of the North Shore are never so full of vigour, courage, and joy of + life as when the sledges are running. It is in summer, when food is plenty + and work slack, that they sicken and die. + </p> + <p> + Pichou’s leadership of his team became famous. Under his discipline the + other dogs developed speed and steadiness. One day they made the distance + to the Godbout in a single journey, a wonderful run of over eighty miles. + But they loved their leader no better, though they followed him faster. + And as for the other teams, especially Carcajou’s, they were still firm in + their deadly hatred for the dog with the black patch. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + It was in the second winter after Pichou’s coming to Seven Islands that + the great trial of his courage arrived. Late in February an Indian runner + on snowshoes staggered into the village. He brought news from the + hunting-parties that were wintering far up on the Ste. Marguerite—good + news and bad. First, they had already made a good hunting: for the + pelletrie, that is to say. They had killed many otter, some fisher and + beaver, and four silver foxes—a marvel of fortune. But then, for the + food, the chase was bad, very bad—no caribou, no hare, no ptarmigan, + nothing for many days. Provisions were very low. There were six families + together. Then la grippe had taken hold of them. They were sick, starving. + They would probably die, at least most of the women and children. It was a + bad job. + </p> + <p> + Dan Scott had peculiar ideas of his duty toward the savages. He was not + romantic, but he liked to do the square thing. Besides, he had been + reading up on la grippe, and he had some new medicine for it, capsules + from Montreal, very powerful—quinine, phenacetine, and morphine. He + was as eager to try this new medicine as a boy is to fire off a new gun. + He loaded the Cometique with provisions and the medicine-chest with + capsules, harnessed his team, and started up the river. Thermometer thirty + degrees below zero; air like crystal; snow six feet deep on the level. + </p> + <p> + The first day’s journey was slow, for the going was soft, and the track, + at places, had to be broken out with snow-shoes. Camp was made at the foot + of the big fall—a hole in snow, a bed of boughs, a hot fire and a + blanket stretched on a couple of sticks to reflect the heat, the dogs on + the other side of the fire, and Pichou close to his master. + </p> + <p> + In the morning there was the steep hill beside the fall to climb, + alternately soft and slippery, now a slope of glass and now a treacherous + drift of yielding feathers; it was a road set on end. But Pichou flattened + his back and strained his loins and dug his toes into the snow and would + not give back an inch. When the rest of the team balked the long whip + slashed across their backs and recalled them to their duty. At last their + leader topped the ridge, and the others struggled after him. Before them + stretched the great dead-water of the river, a straight white path to + No-man’s-land. The snow was smooth and level, and the crust was hard + enough to bear. Pichou settled down to his work at a glorious pace. He + seemed to know that he must do his best, and that something important + depended on the quickness of his legs. On through the glittering solitude, + on through the death-like silence, sped the COMETIQUE, between the + interminable walls of the forest, past the mouths of nameless rivers, + under the shadow of grim mountains. At noon Dan Scott boiled the kettle, + and ate his bread and bacon. But there was nothing for the dogs, not even + for Pichou; for discipline is discipline, and the best of sledge-dogs will + not run well after he has been fed. + </p> + <p> + Then forward again, along the lifeless road, slowly over rapids, where the + ice was rough and broken, swiftly over still waters, where the way was + level, until they came to the foot of the last lake, and camped for the + night. The Indians were but a few miles away, at the head of the lake, and + it would be easy to reach them in the morning. + </p> + <p> + But there was another camp on the Ste. Marguerite that night, and it was + nearer to Dan Scott than the Indians were. Ovide Boulianne had followed + him up the river, close on his track, which made the going easier. + </p> + <p> + “Does that sacre bourgeois suppose that I allow him all that pelletrie to + himself and the Compagnie? Four silver fox, besides otter and beaver? NON, + MERCI! I take some provision, and some whiskey. I go to make trade also.” + Thus spoke the shrewd Ovide, proving that commerce is no less daring, no + less resolute, than philanthropy. The only difference is in the motive, + and that is not always visible. Ovide camped the second night at a bend of + the river, a mile below the foot of the lake. Between him and Dan Scott + there was a hill covered with a dense thicket of spruce. + </p> + <p> + By what magic did Carcajou know that Pichou, his old enemy, was so near + him in that vast wilderness of white death? By what mysterious language + did he communicate his knowledge to his companions and stir the sleeping + hatred in their hearts and mature the conspiracy of revenge? + </p> + <p> + Pichou, sleeping by the fire, was awakened by the fall of a lump of snow + from the branch of a shaken evergreen. That was nothing. But there were + other sounds in the forest, faint, stealthy, inaudible to an ear less keen + than his. He crept out of the shelter and looked into the wood. He could + see shadowy forms, stealing among the trees, gliding down the hill. Five + of them. Wolves, doubtless! He must guard the provisions. By this time the + rest of his team were awake. Their eyes glittered. They stirred uneasily. + But they did not move from the dying fire. It was no concern of theirs + what their leader chose to do out of hours. In the traces they would + follow him, but there was no loyalty in their hearts. Pichou stood alone + by the sledge, waiting for the wolves. + </p> + <p> + But these were no wolves. They were assassins. Like a company of soldiers, + they lined up together and rushed silently down the slope. Like lightning + they leaped upon the solitary dog and struck him down. In an instant, + before Dan Scott could throw off his blanket and seize the loaded butt of + his whip, Pichou’s throat and breast were torn to rags, his life-blood + poured upon the snow, and his murderers were slinking away, slavering and + muttering through the forest. + </p> + <p> + Dan Scott knelt beside his best friend. At a glance he saw that the injury + was fatal. “Well done, Pichou!” he murmured, “you fought a good fight.” + </p> + <p> + And the dog, by a brave effort, lifted the head with the black patch on + it, for the last time, licked his master’, hand, and then dropped back + upon the snow—contented, happy, dead. + </p> + <p> + There is but one drawback to a dog’s friendship. It does not last long + enough. + </p> + <p> + End of the story? Well, if you care for the other people in it, you shall + hear what became of them. Dan Scott went on to the head of the lake and + found the Indians, and fed them and gave them his medicine, and all of + them got well except two, and they continued to hunt along the Ste. + Marguerite every winter and trade with the Honourable H. B. Company. Not + with Dan Scott, however, for before that year was ended he resigned his + post, and went to Montreal to finish his course in medicine; and now he is + a respected physician in Ontario. Married; three children; useful; + prosperous. But before he left Seven Islands he went up the Ste. + Marguerite in the summer, by canoe, and made a grave for Pichou’s bones, + under a blossoming ash tree, among the ferns and wild flowers. He put a + cross over it. + </p> + <p> + “Being French,” said he, “I suppose he was a Catholic. But I’ll swear he + was a Christian.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI. THE WHITE BLOT + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + The real location of a city house depends upon the pictures which hang + upon its walls. They are its neighbourhood and its outlook. They confer + upon it that touch of life and character, that power to beget love and + bind friendship, which a country house receives from its surrounding + landscape, the garden that embraces it, the stream that runs near it, and + the shaded paths that lead to and from its door. + </p> + <p> + By this magic of pictures my narrow, upright slice of living-space in one + of the brown-stone strata on the eastward slope of Manhattan Island is + transferred to an open and agreeable site. It has windows that look toward + the woods and the sunset, watergates by which a little boat is always + waiting, and secret passageways leading into fair places that are + frequented by persons of distinction and charm. No darkness of night + obscures these outlets; no neighbour’s house shuts off the view; no + drifted snow of winter makes them impassable. They are always free, and + through them I go out and in upon my adventures. + </p> + <p> + One of these picture-wanderings has always appeared to me so singular that + I would like, if it were possible, to put it into words. + </p> + <p> + It was Pierrepont who first introduced me to the picture—Pierrepont + the good-natured: of whom one of his friends said that he was like + Mahomet’s Bridge of Paradise, because he was so hard to cross: to which + another added that there was also a resemblance in the fact that he led to + a region of beautiful illusions which he never entered. He is one of those + enthusiastic souls who are always discovering a new writer, a new painter, + a new view from some old wharf by the river, a new place to obtain + picturesque dinners at a grotesque price. He swung out of his office, with + his long-legged, easy stride, and nearly ran me down, as I was plodding + up-town through the languor of a late spring afternoon, on one of those + duty-walks which conscience offers as a sacrifice to digestion. + </p> + <p> + “Why, what is the matter with you?” he cried as he linked his arm through + mine, “you look outdone, tired all the way through to your backbone. Have + you been reading the ‘Anatomy of Melancholy,’ or something by one of the + new British female novelists? You will have la grippe in your mind if you + don’t look out. But I know what you need. Come with me, and I will do you + good.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, he drew me out of clanging Broadway into one of the side + streets that run toward the placid region of Washington Square. “No, no,” + I answered, feeling, even in the act of resistance, the pleasure of his + cheerful guidance, “you are altogether wrong. I don’t need a dinner at + your new-found Bulgarian table-d’hote—seven courses for seventy-five + cents, and the wine thrown out; nor some of those wonderful Mexican + cheroots warranted to eradicate the tobacco-habit; nor a draught of your + South American melon sherbet that cures all pains, except these which it + causes. None of these things will help me. The doctor suggests that they + do not suit my temperament. Let us go home together and have a shower-bath + and a dinner of herbs, with just a reminiscence of the stalled ox—and + a bout at backgammon to wind up the evening. That will be the most + comfortable prescription.” + </p> + <p> + “But you mistake me,” said he; “I am not thinking of any creature comforts + for you. I am prescribing for your mind. There is a picture that I want + you to see; not a coloured photograph, nor an exercise in anatomical + drawing; but a real picture that will rest the eyes of your heart. Come + away with me to Morgenstern’s gallery, and be healed.” + </p> + <p> + As we turned into the lower end of Fifth Avenue, it seemed as if I were + being gently floated along between the modest apartment-houses and + old-fashioned dwellings, and prim, respectable churches, on the smooth + current of Pierrepont’s talk about his new-found picture. How often a man + has cause to return thanks for the enthusiasms of his friends! They are + the little fountains that run down from the hills to refresh the mental + desert of the despondent. + </p> + <p> + “You remember Falconer,” continued Pierrepont, “Temple Falconer, that + modest, quiet, proud fellow who came out of the South a couple of years + ago and carried off the landscape prize at the Academy last year, and then + disappeared? He had no intimate friends here, and no one knew what had + become of him. But now this picture appears, to show what he has been + doing. It is an evening scene, a revelation of the beauty of sadness, an + idea expressed in colours—or rather, a real impression of Nature + that awakens an ideal feeling in the heart. It does not define everything + and say nothing, like so many paintings. It tells no story, but I know it + fits into one. There is not a figure in it, and yet it is alive with + sentiment; it suggests thoughts which cannot be put into words. Don’t you + love the pictures that have that power of suggestion—quiet and + strong, like Homer Martin’s ‘Light-house’ up at the Century, with its + sheltered bay heaving softly under the pallid greenish sky of evening, and + the calm, steadfast glow of the lantern brightening into readiness for all + the perils of night and coming storm? How much more powerful that is than + all the conventional pictures of light-houses on inaccessible cliffs, with + white foam streaming from them like the ends of a schoolboy’s comforter in + a gale of wind! I tell you the real painters are the fellows who love pure + nature because it is so human. They don’t need to exaggerate, and they + don’t dare to be affected. They are not afraid of the reality, and they + are not ashamed of the sentiment. They don’t paint everything that they + see, but they see everything that they paint. And this picture makes me + sure that Falconer is one of them.” + </p> + <p> + By this time we had arrived at the door of the house where Morgenstern + lives and moves and makes his profits, and were admitted to the shrine of + the Commercial Apollo and the Muses in Trade. + </p> + <p> + It has often seemed to me as if that little house were a silent epitome of + modern art criticism, an automatic indicator, or perhaps regulator, of the + aesthetic taste of New York. On the first floor, surrounded by all the + newest fashions in antiquities and BRIC-A-BRAC, you will see the art of + to-day—the works of painters who are precisely in the focus of + advertisement, and whose names call out an instant round of applause in + the auction-room. On the floors above, in degrees of obscurity deepening + toward the attic, you will find the art of yesterday—the pictures + which have passed out of the glare of popularity without yet arriving at + the mellow radiance of old masters. In the basement, concealed in huge + packing-cases, and marked “PARIS—FRAGILE,”—you will find the + art of to-morrow; the paintings of the men in regard to whose names, + styles, and personal traits, the foreign correspondents and prophetic + critics in the newspapers, are now diffusing in the public mind that + twilight of familiarity and ignorance which precedes the sunrise of + marketable fame. + </p> + <p> + The affable and sagacious Morgenstern was already well acquainted with the + waywardness of Pierrepont’s admiration, and with my own persistent + disregard of current quotations in the valuation of works of art. He + regarded us, I suppose, very much as Robin Hood would have looked upon a + pair of plain yeomen who had strayed into his lair. The knights of + capital, and coal barons, and rich merchants were his natural prey, but + toward this poor but honest couple it would be worthy only of a Gentile + robber to show anything but courteous and fair dealing. + </p> + <p> + He expressed no surprise when he heard what we wanted to see, but smiled + tolerantly and led the way, not into the well-defined realm of the past, + the present, or the future, but into a region of uncertain fortunes, a + limbo of acknowledged but unrewarded merits, a large back room devoted to + the works of American painters. Here we found Falconer’s picture; and the + dealer, with that instinctive tact which is the best part of his business + capital, left us alone to look at it. + </p> + <p> + It showed the mouth of a little river: a secluded lagoon, where the + shallow tides rose and fell with vague lassitude, following the impulse of + prevailing winds more than the strong attraction of the moon. But now the + unsailed harbour was quite still, in the pause of the evening; and the + smooth undulations were caressed by a hundred opalescent hues, growing + deeper toward the west, where the river came in. Converging lines of trees + stood dark against the sky; a cleft in the woods marked the course of the + stream, above which the reluctant splendours of an autumnal day were dying + in ashes of roses, while three tiny clouds, poised high in air, burned red + with the last glimpse of the departed sun. + </p> + <p> + On the right was a reedy point running out into the bay, and behind it, on + a slight rise of ground, an antique house with tall white pillars. It was + but dimly outlined in the gathering shadows; yet one could imagine its + stately, formal aspect, its precise garden with beds of old-fashioned + flowers and straight paths bordered with box, and a little arbour + overgrown with honeysuckle. I know not by what subtlety of delicate and + indescribable touches—a slight inclination in one of the pillars, a + broken line which might indicate an unhinged gate, a drooping resignation + in the foliage of the yellowing trees, a tone of sadness in the blending + of subdued colours—the painter had suggested that the place was + deserted. But the truth was unmistakable. An air of loneliness and pensive + sorrow breathed from the picture; a sigh of longing and regret. It was + haunted by sad, sweet memories of some untold story of human life. + </p> + <p> + In the corner Falconer had put his signature, T. F., “LARMONE,” 189-, and + on the border of the picture he had faintly traced some words, which we + made out at last— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A spirit haunts the year’s last hours.” + </pre> + <p> + Pierrepont took up the quotation and completed it— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A spirit haunts the year’s last hours, + Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: + To himself he talks; + For at eventide, listening earnestly, + At his work you may hear him sob and sigh, + In the walks; + Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks + Of the mouldering flowers: + Heavily hangs the broad sunflower + Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly; + Heavily hangs the hollyhock, + Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.” + </pre> + <p> + “That is very pretty poetry, gentlemen,” said Morgenstern, who had come in + behind us, “but is it not a little vague? You like it, but you cannot tell + exactly what it means. I find the same fault in the picture from my point + of view. There is nothing in it to make a paragraph about, no anecdote, no + experiment in technique. It is impossible to persuade the public to admire + a picture unless you can tell them precisely the points on which they must + fix their admiration. And that is why, although the painting is a good + one, I should be willing to sell it at a low price.” + </p> + <p> + He named a sum of money in three figures, so small that Pierrepont, who + often buys pictures by proxy, could not conceal his surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly I should consider that a good bargain, simply for investment,” + said he. “Falconer’s name alone ought to be worth more than that, ten + years from now. He is a rising man.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Mr. Pierrepont,” replied the dealer, “the picture is worth what I ask + for it, for I would not commit the impertinence of offering a present to + you or your friend; but it is worth no more. Falconer’s name will not + increase in value. The catalogue of his works is too short for fame to + take much notice of it; and this is the last. Did you not hear of his + death last fall? I do not wonder, for it happened at some place down on + Long Island—a name that I never saw before, and have forgotten now. + There was not even an obituary in the newspapers.” + </p> + <p> + “And besides,” he continued, after a pause, “I must not conceal from you + that the painting has a blemish. It is not always visible, since you have + failed to detect it; but it is more noticeable in some lights than in + others; and, do what I will, I cannot remove it. This alone would prevent + the painting from being a good investment. Its market value will never + rise.” + </p> + <p> + He turned the canvas sideways to the light, and the defect became + apparent. + </p> + <p> + It was a dim, oblong, white blot in the middle distance; a nebulous blur + in the painting, as if there had been some chemical impurity in the + pigment causing it to fade, or rather as if a long drop of some acid, or + perhaps a splash of salt water, had fallen upon the canvas while it was + wet, and bleached it. I knew little of the possible causes of such a blot, + but enough to see that it could not be erased without painting over it, + perhaps not even then. And yet it seemed rather to enhance than to weaken + the attraction which the picture had for me. + </p> + <p> + “Your candour does you credit, Mr. Morgenstern,” said I, “but you know me + well enough to be sure that what you have said will hardly discourage me. + For I have never been an admirer of ‘cabinet finish’ in works of art. Nor + have I been in the habit of buying them, as a Circassian father trains his + daughters, with an eye to the market. They come into my house for my own + pleasure, and when the time arrives that I can see them no longer, it will + not matter much to me what price they bring in the auction-room. This + landscape pleases me so thoroughly that, if you will let us take it with + us this evening, I will send you a check for the amount in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + So we carried off the painting in a cab; and all the way home I was in the + pleasant excitement of a man who is about to make an addition to his + house; while Pierrepont was conscious of the glow of virtue which comes of + having done a favour to a friend and justified your own critical judgment + at one stroke. + </p> + <p> + After dinner we hung the painting over the chimney-piece in the room + called the study (because it was consecrated to idleness), and sat there + far into the night, talking of the few times we had met Falconer at the + club, and of his reticent manner, which was broken by curious flashes of + impersonal confidence when he spoke not of himself but of his art. From + this we drifted into memories of good comrades who had walked beside us + but a few days in the path of life, and then disappeared, yet left us + feeling as if we cared more for them than for the men whom we see every + day; and of young geniuses who had never reached the goal; and of many + other glimpses of “the light that failed,” until the lamp was low and it + was time to say good-night. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + For several months I continued to advance in intimacy with my picture. It + grew more familiar, more suggestive; the truth and beauty of it came home + to me constantly. Yet there was something in it not quite apprehended; a + sense of strangeness; a reserve which I had not yet penetrated. + </p> + <p> + One night in August I found myself practically alone, so far as human + intercourse was concerned, in the populous, weary city. A couple of hours + of writing had produced nothing that would bear the test of sunlight, so I + anticipated judgment by tearing up the spoiled sheets of paper, and threw + myself upon the couch before the empty fireplace. It was a dense, sultry + night, with electricity thickening the air, and a trouble of distant + thunder rolling far away on the rim of the cloudy sky—one of those + nights of restless dulness, when you wait and long for something to + happen, and yet feel despondently that nothing ever will happen again. I + passed through a region of aimless thoughts into one of migratory and + unfinished dreams, and dropped from that into an empty gulf of sleep. + </p> + <p> + How late it was when I drifted back toward the shore of consciousness, I + cannot tell. But the student-lamp on the table had burned out, and the + light of the gibbous moon was creeping in through the open windows. Slowly + the pale illumination crept up the eastern wall, like a tide rising as the + moon declined. Now it reached the mantel-shelf and overflowed the bronze + heads of Homer and the Indian Bacchus and the Egyptian image of Isis with + the infant Horus. Now it touched the frame of the picture and lapped over + the edge. Now it rose to the shadowy house and the dim garden, in the + midst of which I saw the white blot more distinctly than ever before. + </p> + <p> + It seemed now to have taken a new shape, like the slender form of a woman, + robed in flowing white. And as I watched it through half-closed eyes, the + figure appeared to move and tremble and wave to and fro, as if it were a + ghost. + </p> + <p> + A haunted picture! Why should it not be so? A haunted ruin, a haunted + forest, a haunted ship,—all these have been seen, or imagined, and + reported, and there are learned societies for investigating such things. + Why should not a picture have a ghost in it? + </p> + <p> + My mind, in that curiously vivid state which lies between waking and + sleeping, went through the form of careful reasoning over the question. If + there may be some subtle connection between a house and the spirits of the + people who have once lived in it,—and wise men have believed this,—why + should there be any impassable gulf between a picture and the vanished + lives out of which it has grown? All the human thought and feeling which + have passed into it through the patient toil of art, remain forever + embodied there. A picture is the most living and personal thing that a man + can leave behind him. When we look at it we see what he saw, hour after + hour, day after day, and we see it through his mood and impression, + coloured by his emotion, tinged with his personality. Surely, if the + spirits of the dead are not extinguished, but only veiled and hidden, and + if it were possible by any means that their presence could flash for a + moment through the veil, it would be most natural that they should come + back again to hover around the work into which their experience and + passion had been woven. Here, if anywhere, they would “Revisit the pale + glimpses of the moon.” Here, if anywhere, we might catch fleeting sight, + as in a glass darkly, of the visions that passed before them while they + worked. + </p> + <p> + This much of my train of reasoning along the edge of the dark, I remember + sharply. But after this, all was confused and misty. The shore of + consciousness receded. I floated out again on the ocean of forgotten + dreams. When I woke, it was with a quick start, as if my ship had been + made fast, silently and suddenly, at the wharf of reality, and the bell + rang for me to step ashore. + </p> + <p> + But the vision of the white blot remained clear and distinct. And the + question that it had brought to me, the chain of thoughts that had linked + themselves to it, lingered through the morning, and made me feel sure that + there was an untold secret in Falconer’s life and that the clew to it must + be sought in the history of his last picture. + </p> + <p> + But how to trace the connection? Every one who had known Falconer, however + slightly, was out of town. There was no clew to follow. Even the name + “Larmone” gave me no help; for I could not find it on any map of Long + Island. It was probably the fanciful title of some old country-place, + familiar only to the people who had lived there. + </p> + <p> + But the very remoteness of the problem, its lack of contact with the + practical world, fascinated me. It was like something that had drifted + away in the fog, on a sea of unknown and fluctuating currents. The only + possible way to find it was to commit yourself to the same wandering tides + and drift after it, trusting to a propitious fortune that you might be + carried in the same direction; and after a long, blind, unhurrying chase, + one day you might feel a faint touch, a jar, a thrill along the side of + your boat, and, peering through the fog, lay your hand at last, without + surprise, upon the very object of your quest. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + As it happened, the means for such a quest were at my disposal. I was part + owner of a boat which had been built for hunting and fishing cruises on + the shallow waters of the Great South Bay. It was a deliberate, but not + inconvenient, craft, well named the Patience; and my turn for using it had + come. Black Zekiel, the captain, crew, and cook, was the very man that I + would have chosen for such an expedition. He combined the indolent + good-humour of the negro with the taciturnity of the Indian, and knew + every shoal and channel of the tortuous waters. He asked nothing better + than to set out on a voyage without a port; sailing aimlessly eastward day + after day, through the long chain of landlocked bays, with the sea + plunging behind the sand-dunes on our right, and the shores of Long Island + sleeping on our left; anchoring every evening in some little cove or + estuary, where Zekiel could sit on the cabin roof, smoking his corn-cob + pipe, and meditating on the vanity and comfort of life, while I pushed off + through the mellow dusk to explore every creek and bend of the shore, in + my light canoe. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing to hasten our voyage. The three weeks’ vacation was all + but gone, when the Patience groped her way through a narrow, crooked + channel in a wide salt-meadow, and entered the last of the series of bays. + A few houses straggled down a point of land; the village of Quantock lay a + little farther back. Beyond that was a belt of woods reaching to the + water; and from these the south-country road emerged to cross the upper + end of the bay on a low causeway with a narrow bridge of planks at the + central point. Here was our Ultima Thule. Not even the Patience could + thread the eye of this needle, or float through the shallow marsh-canal + farther to the east. + </p> + <p> + We anchored just in front of the bridge, and as I pushed the canoe beneath + it, after supper, I felt the indefinable sensation of having passed that + way before. I knew beforehand what the little boat would drift into. The + broad saffron light of evening fading over a still lagoon; two converging + lines of pine trees running back into the sunset; a grassy point upon the + right; and behind that a neglected garden, a tangled bower of honeysuckle, + a straight path bordered with box, leading to a deserted house with a + high, white-pillared porch—yes, it was Larmone. + </p> + <p> + In the morning I went up to the village to see if I could find trace of my + artist’s visit to the place. There was no difficulty in the search, for he + had been there often. The people had plenty of recollections of him, but + no real memory, for it seemed as if none of them had really known him. + </p> + <p> + “Queer kinder fellow,” said a wrinkled old bayman with whom I walked up + the sandy road, “I seen him a good deal round here, but ‘twan’t like + havin’ any ‘quaintance with him. He allus kep’ himself to himself, pooty + much. Used ter stay round ‘Squire Ladoo’s place most o’ the time—keepin’ + comp’ny with the gal I guess. Larmone? Yaas, that’s what THEY called it, + but we don’t go much on fancy names down here. No, the painter didn’ + ‘zactly live there, but it ‘mounted to the same thing. Las’ summer they + was all away, house shet up, painter hangin’ round all the time, ‘s if he + looked fur ‘em to come back any minnit. Purfessed to be paintin’, but I + don’ see’s he did much. Lived up to Mort Halsey’s; died there too; year + ago this fall. Guess Mis’ Halsey can tell ye most of any one ‘bout him.” + </p> + <p> + At the boarding-house (with wide, low verandas, now forsaken by the summer + boarders), which did duty for a village inn, I found Mrs. Halsey; a + notable housewife, with a strong taste for ancestry, and an uncultivated + world of romance still brightening her soft brown eyes. She knew all the + threads in the story that I was following; and the interest with which she + spoke made it evident that she had often woven them together in the winter + evenings on patterns of her own. + </p> + <p> + Judge Ledoux had come to Quantock from the South during the war, and built + a house there like the one he used to live in. There were three things he + hated: slavery and war and society. But he always loved the South more + than the North, and lived like a foreigner, polite enough, but very + retired. His wife died after a few years, and left him alone with a little + girl. Claire grew up as pretty as a picture, but very shy and delicate. + About two years ago Mr. Falconer had come down from the city; he stayed at + Larmone first, and then he came to the boarding-house, but he was over at + the Ledoux’ house almost all the time. He was a Southerner too, and a + relative of the family; a real gentleman, and very proud though he was + poor. It seemed strange that he should not live with them, but perhaps he + felt more free over here. Every one thought he must be engaged to Claire, + but he was not the kind of a man that you could ask questions about + himself. A year ago last winter he had gone up to the city and taken all + his things with him. He had never stayed away so long before. In the + spring the Ledoux had gone to Europe; Claire seemed to be falling into a + decline; her sight seemed to be failing, and her father said she must see + a famous doctor and have a change of air. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Falconer came back in May,” continued the good lady, “as if he + expected to find them. But the house was shut up and nobody knew just + where they were. He seemed to be all taken aback; it was queer if he + didn’t know about it, intimate as he had been; but he never said anything, + and made no inquiries; just seemed to be waiting, as if there was nothing + else for him to do. We would have told him in a minute, if we had anything + to tell. But all we could do was to guess there must have been some kind + of a quarrel between him and the Judge, and if there was, he must know + best about it himself. + </p> + <p> + “All summer long he kept going over to the house and wandering around in + the garden. In the fall he began to paint a picture, but it was very slow + painting; he would go over in the afternoon and come back long after dark, + damp with the dew and fog. He kept growing paler and weaker and more + silent. Some days he did not speak more than a dozen words, but always + kind and pleasant. He was just dwindling away; and when the picture was + almost done a fever took hold of him. The doctor said it was malaria, but + it seemed to me more like a trouble in the throat, a kind of dumb misery. + And one night, in the third quarter of the moon, just after the tide + turned to run out, he raised up in the bed and tried to speak, but he was + gone. + </p> + <p> + “We tried to find out his relations, but there didn’t seem to be any, + except the Ledoux, and they were out of reach. So we sent the picture up + to our cousin in Brooklyn, and it sold for about enough to pay Mr. + Falconer’s summer’s board and the cost of his funeral. There was nothing + else that he left of any value, except a few books; perhaps you would like + to look at them, if you were his friend? + </p> + <p> + “I never saw any one that I seemed to know so little and like so well. It + was a disappointment in love, of course, and they all said that he died of + a broken heart; but I think it was because his heart was too full, and + wouldn’t break. + </p> + <p> + “And oh!—I forgot to tell you; a week after he was gone there was a + notice in the paper that Claire Ledoux had died suddenly, on the last of + August, at some place in Switzerland. Her father is still away travelling. + And so the whole story is broken off and will never be finished. Will you + look at the books?” + </p> + <p> + Nothing is more pathetic, to my mind, than to take up the books of one who + is dead. Here is his name, with perhaps a note of the place where the + volume was bought or read, and the marks on the pages that he liked best. + Here are the passages that gave him pleasure, and the thoughts that + entered into his life and formed it; they became part of him, but where + has he carried them now? + </p> + <p> + Falconer’s little library was an unstudied choice, and gave a hint of his + character. There was a New Testament in French, with his name written in a + slender, woman’s hand; three or four volumes of stories, Cable’s “Old + Creole Days,” Allen’s “Kentucky Cardinal,” Page’s “In Old Virginia,” and + the like; “Henry Esmond” and Amiel’s “Journal” and Lamartine’s “Raphael”; + and a few volumes of poetry, among them one of Sidney Lanier’s, and one of + Tennyson’s earlier poems. + </p> + <p> + There was also a little morocco-bound book of manuscript notes. This I + begged permission to carry away with me, hoping to find in it something + which would throw light upon my picture, perhaps even some message to be + carried, some hint or suggestion of something which the writer would fain + have had done for him, and which I promised myself faithfully to perform, + as a test of an imagined friendship—imagined not in the future, but + in the impossible past. + </p> + <p> + I read the book in this spirit, searching its pages carefully, through the + long afternoon, in the solitary cabin of my boat. There was nothing at + first but an ordinary diary; a record of the work and self-denials of a + poor student of art. Then came the date of his first visit to Larmone, and + an expression of the pleasure of being with his own people again after a + lonely life, and some chronicle of his occupations there, studies for + pictures, and idle days that were summed up in a phrase: “On the bay,” or + “In the woods.” + </p> + <p> + After this the regular succession of dates was broken, and there followed + a few scraps of verse, irregular and unfinished, bound together by the + thread of a name—“Claire among her Roses,” “A Ride through the Pines + with Claire,” “An Old Song of Claire’s” “The Blue Flower in Claire’s + Eyes.” It was not poetry, but such an unconscious tribute to the power and + beauty of poetry as unfolds itself almost inevitably from youthful love, + as naturally as the blossoms unfold from the apple trees in May. If you + pick them they are worthless. They charm only in their own time and place. + </p> + <p> + A date told of his change from Larmone to the village, and this was + written below it: “Too heavy a sense of obligation destroys freedom, and + only a free man can dare to love.” + </p> + <p> + Then came a number of fragments indicating trouble of mind and hesitation; + the sensitiveness of the artist, the delicate, self-tormenting scruples of + the lonely idealist, the morbid pride of the young poor man, contending + with an impetuous passion and forcing it to surrender, or at least to + compromise. + </p> + <p> + “What right has a man to demand everything and offer nothing in return + except an ambition and a hope? Love must come as a giver, not as a + beggar.” + </p> + <p> + “A knight should not ask to wear his lady’s colours until he has won his + spurs.” + </p> + <p> + “King Cophetua and the beggar-maid—very fine! but the other way—humiliating!” + </p> + <p> + “A woman may take everything from a man, wealth and fame and position. But + there is only one thing that a man may accept from a woman—something + that she alone can give—happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “Self-respect is less than love, but it is the trellis that holds love up + from the ground; break it down, and all the flowers are in the dust, the + fruit is spoiled.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet”—so the man’s thought shone through everywhere—“I + think she must know that I love her, and why I cannot speak.” + </p> + <p> + One entry was written in a clearer, stronger hand: “An end of hesitation. + The longest way is the shortest. I am going to the city to work for the + Academy prize, to think of nothing else until I win it, and then come back + with it to Claire, to tell her that I have a future, and that it is hers. + If I spoke of it now it would be like claiming the reward before I had + done the work. I have told her only that I am going to prove myself an + artist, AND TO LIVE FOR WHAT I LOVE BEST. She understood, I am sure, for + she would not lift her eyes to me, but her hand trembled as she gave me + the blue flower from her belt.” + </p> + <p> + The date of his return to Larmone was marked, but the page was blank, as + the day had been. + </p> + <p> + Some pages of dull self-reproach and questioning and bewildered regret + followed. + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible that she has gone away, without a word, without a sign, + after what has passed between us? It is not fair. Surely I had some + claim.” + </p> + <p> + “But what claim, after all? I asked for nothing. And was it not pride that + kept me silent, taking it for granted that if I asked, she would give?” + </p> + <p> + “It was a mistake; she did not understand, nor care.” + </p> + <p> + “It was my fault; I might at least have told her that I loved her, though + she could not have answered me.” + </p> + <p> + “It is too late now. To-night, while I was finishing the picture, I saw + her in the garden. Her spirit, all in white, with a blue flower in her + belt. I knew she was dead across the sea. I tried to call to her, but my + voice made no sound. She seemed not to see me. She moved like one in a + dream, straight on, and vanished. Is there no one who can tell her? Must + she never know that I loved her?” + </p> + <p> + The last thing in the book was a printed scrap of paper that lay between + the leaves: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IRREVOCABLE + + “Would the gods might give + Another field for human strife; + Man must live one life + Ere he learns to live. + Ah, friend, in thy deep grave, + What now can change; what now can save?” + </pre> + <p> + So there was a message after all, but it could never be carried; a task + for a friend, but it was impossible. What better thing could I do with the + poor little book than bury it in the garden in the shadow of Larmone? The + story of a silent fault, hidden in silence. How many of life’s deepest + tragedies are only that: no great transgression, no shock of conflict, no + sudden catastrophe with its answering thrill of courage and resistance: + only a mistake made in the darkness, and under the guidance of what seemed + a true and noble motive; a failure to see the right path at the right + moment, and a long wandering beyond it; a word left unspoken until the + ears that should have heard it are sealed, and the tongue that should have + spoken it is dumb. + </p> + <p> + The soft sea-fog clothed the night with clinging darkness; the faded + leaves hung slack and motionless from the trees, waiting for their fall; + the tense notes of the surf beyond the sand-dunes vibrated through the + damp air like chords from some mighty VIOLONO; large, warm drops wept from + the arbour while I sat in the garden, holding the poor little book, and + thinking of the white blot in the record of a life that was too proud to + bend to the happiness that was meant for it. + </p> + <p> + There are men like that: not many perhaps, but a few; and they are the + ones who suffer most keenly in this world of half-understanding and + clouded knowledge. There is a pride, honourable and sensitive, that + imperils the realization of love, puts it under a spell of silence and + reserve, makes it sterile of blossoms and impotent of fruits. For what is + it, after all, but a subtle, spiritual worship of self? And what was + Falconer’s resolve not to tell this girl that he loved her until he had + won fame and position, but a secret, unconscious setting of himself above + her? For surely, if love is supreme, it does not need to wait for anything + else to lend it worth and dignity. The very sweetness and power of it lie + in the confession of one life as dependent upon another for its + fulfilment. It is made strong in its very weakness. It is the only thing, + after all, that can break the prison bars and set the heart free from + itself. The pride that hinders it, enslaves it. Love’s first duty is to be + true to itself, in word and deed. Then, having spoken truth and acted + verity, it may call on honour to keep it pure and steadfast. + </p> + <p> + If Falconer had trusted Claire, and showed her his heart without reserve, + would she not have understood him and helped him? It was the pride of + independence, the passion of self-reliance that drew him away from her and + divided his heart from hers in a dumb isolation. But Claire,—was not + she also in fault? Might she not have known, should not she have taken for + granted, the truth which must have been so easy to read in Falconer’s + face, though he never put it into words? And yet with her there was + something very different from the pride that kept him silent. The virgin + reserve of a young girl’s heart is more sacred than any pride of self. It + is the maiden instinct which makes the woman always the shrine, and never + the pilgrim. She is not the seeker, but the one sought. She dares not take + anything for granted. She has the right to wait for the voice, the word, + the avowal. Then, and not till then, if the pilgrim be the chosen one, the + shrine may open to receive him. + </p> + <p> + Not all women believe this; but those who do are the ones best worth + seeking and winning. And Claire was one of them. It seemed to me, as I + mused, half dreaming, on the unfinished story of these two lives that had + missed each other in the darkness, that I could see her figure moving + through the garden, beyond where the pallid bloom of the tall + cosmos-flower bent to the fitful breeze. Her robe was like the waving of + the mist. Her face was fair, and very fair, for all its sadness: a blue + flower, faint as a shadow on the snow, trembled at her waist, as she paced + to and fro along the path. + </p> + <p> + I murmured to myself, “Yet he loved her: and she loved him. Can pride be + stronger than love?” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, after all, the lingering and belated confession which Falconer + had written in his diary might in some way come to her. Perhaps if it were + left here in the bower of honeysuckles where they had so often sat + together, it might be a sign and omen of the meeting of these two souls + that had lost each other in the dark of the world. Perhaps,—ah, who + can tell that it is not so?—for those who truly love, with all their + errors, with all their faults, there is no “irrevocable”—there is + “another field.” + </p> + <p> + As I turned from the garden, the tense note of the surf vibrated through + the night. The pattering drops of dew rustled as they fell from the leaves + of the honeysuckle. But underneath these sounds it seemed as if I heard a + deep voice saying “Claire!” and a woman’s lips whispering “Temple!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII. A YEAR OF NOBILITY + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <h3> + ENTER THE MARQUIS + </h3> + <p> + The Marquis sat by the camp-fire peeling potatoes. + </p> + <p> + To look at him, you never would have taken him for a marquis. His costume + was a pair of corduroy trousers; a blue flannel shirt, patched at elbows + with gray; lumberman’s boots, flat-footed, shapeless, with loose leather + legs strapped just below the knee, and wrinkled like the hide of an + ancient rhinoceros; and a soft brown hat with several holes in the crown, + as if it had done duty, at some time in its history, as an impromptu + target in a shooting-match. A red woollen scarf twisted about his loins + gave a touch of colour and picturesqueness. + </p> + <p> + It was not exactly a court dress, but it sat well on the powerful sinewy + figure of the man. He never gave a thought to his looks, but peeled his + potatoes with a dexterity which betrayed a past-master of the humble art, + and threw the skins into the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Look you, m’sieu’,” he said to young Winthrop Alden, who sat on a fallen + tree near him, mending the fly-rod which he had broken in the morning’s + fishing, “look you, it is an affair of the most strange, yet of the most + certain. We have known always that ours was a good family. The name tells + it. The Lamottes are of la haute classe in France. But here, in Canada, we + are poor. Yet the good blood dies not with the poverty. It is buried, + hidden, but it remains the same. It is like these pataques. You plant good + ones for seed: you get a good crop. You plant bad ones: you get a bad + crop. But we did not know about the title in our family. No. We thought + ours was a side-branch, an off-shoot. It was a great surprise to us. But + it is certain,—beyond a doubt.” + </p> + <p> + Jean Lamotte’s deep voice was quiet and steady. It had the tone of assured + conviction. His bright blue eyes above his ruddy mustache and bronzed + cheeks, were clear and tranquil as those of a child. + </p> + <p> + Alden was immensely interested and amused. He was a member of the Boston + branch of the Society for Ancestral Culture, and he recognized the + favourite tenet of his sect,—the doctrine that “blood will tell.” He + was also a Harvard man, knowing almost everything and believing hardly + anything. Heredity was one of the few unquestioned articles of his creed. + But the form in which this familiar confession of faith came to him, on + the banks of the Grande Decharge, from the lips of a somewhat ragged and + distinctly illiterate Canadian guide, was grotesque enough to satisfy the + most modern taste for new sensations. He listened with an air of gravity, + and a delighted sense of the humour of the situation. + </p> + <p> + “How did you find it out?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” continued Jean, “I will tell you how the news came to me. It + was at St. Gedeon, one Sunday last March. The snow was good and hard, and + I drove in, ten miles on the lake, from our house opposite Grosse Ile. + After mass, a man, evidently of the city, comes to me in the stable while + I feed the horse, and salutes me. + </p> + <p> + “‘Is this Jean Lamotte?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘At your service, m’sieu’.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Son of Francois Louis Lamotte?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Of no other. But he is dead, God give him repose.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I been looking for you all through Charlevoix and Chicoutimi.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Here you find me then, and good-day to you,’ says I, a little short, for + I was beginning to be shy of him. + </p> + <p> + “‘Chut, chut,’ says he, very friendly. ‘I suppose you have time to talk a + bit. How would you like to be a marquis and have a castle in France with a + hundred thousand dollars?’ + </p> + <p> + “For a moment I think I will lick him; then I laugh. ‘Very well indeed,’ + says I, ‘and also a handful of stars for buckshot, and the new moon for a + canoe.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘But no,’ answers the man. ‘I am earnest, Monsieur Lamotte. I want to + talk a long talk with you. Do you permit that I accompany you to your + residence?’ + </p> + <p> + “Residence! You know that little farm-house of logs where my mother lives,—you + saw it last summer. But of course it is a pretty good house. It is clean. + It is warm. So I bring the man home in the sleigh. All that evening he + tells the story. How our name Lamotte is really De la Motte de la Luciere. + How there belongs to that name an estate and a title in France, now thirty + years with no one to claim it. How he, being an AVOCAT, has remarked the + likeness of the names. How he has tracked the family through Montmorency + and Quebec, in all the parish books. How he finds my great-grandfather’s + great-grandfather, Etienne de La Motte who came to Canada two hundred + years ago, a younger son of the Marquis de la Luciere. How he has the + papers, many of them, with red seals on them. I saw them. ‘Of course,’ + says he, ‘there are others of the family here to share the property. It + must be divided. But it is large—enormous—millions of francs. + And the largest share is yours, and the title, and a castle—a castle + larger than Price’s saw-mill at Chicoutimi; with carpets, and electric + lights, and coloured pictures on the wall, like the hotel at Roberval.’ + </p> + <p> + “When my mother heard about that she was pleased. But me—when I + heard that I was a marquis, I knew it was true.” + </p> + <p> + Jean’s blue eyes were wide open now, and sparkling brightly. He had put + down the pan of potatoes. He was holding his head up and talking eagerly. + </p> + <p> + Alden turned away his face to light his pipe, and hide a smile. “Did he + get—any money—out of you?”—came slowly between the puffs + of smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Money!” answered Jean, “of course there must be money to carry on an + affair of this kind. There was seventy dollars that I had cleaned up on + the lumber-job last winter, and the mother had forty dollars from the cow + she sold in the fall. A hundred and ten dollars,—we gave him that. + He has gone to France to make the claim for us. Next spring he comes back, + and I give him a hundred dollars more; when I get my property five + thousand dollars more. It is little enough. A marquis must not be mean.” + </p> + <p> + Alden swore softly in English, under his breath. A rustic comedy, a joke + on human nature, always pleased him; but beneath his cynical varnish he + had a very honest heart, and he hated cruelty and injustice. He knew what + a little money meant in the backwoods; what hard and bitter toil it cost + to rake it together; what sacrifices and privations must follow its loss. + If the smooth prospector of unclaimed estates in France had arrived at the + camp on the Grande Decharge at that moment, Alden would have introduced + him to the most unhappy hour of his life. + </p> + <p> + But with Jean Lamotte it was by no means so easy to deal. Alden perceived + at once that ridicule would be worse than useless. The man was far too + much in earnest. A jest about a marquis with holes in his hat! Yes, Jean + would laugh at that very merrily; for he was a true VOYAGEUR. But a jest + about the reality of the marquis! That struck him as almost profane. It + was a fixed idea with him. Argument could not shake it. He had seen the + papers. He knew it was true. All the strength of his vigorous and healthy + manhood seemed to have gone into it suddenly, as if this was the news for + which he had been waiting, unconsciously, since he was born. + </p> + <p> + It was not in the least morbid, visionary, abstract. It was concrete, + actual, and so far as Alden could see, wholesome. It did not make Jean + despise his present life. On the contrary, it appeared to lend a zest to + it, as an interesting episode in the career of a nobleman. He was not + restless; he was not discontented. His whole nature was at once elated and + calmed. He was not at all feverish to get away from his familiar + existence, from the woods and the waters he knew so well, from the large + liberty of the unpeopled forest, the joyous rush of the great river, the + splendid breadth of the open sky. Unconsciously these things had gone into + his blood. Dimly he felt the premonitions of homesickness for them all. + But he was lifted up to remember that the blood into which these things + had entered was blue blood, and that though he lived in the wilderness he + really belonged to la haute classe. A breath of romance, a spirit of + chivalry from the days when the high-spirited courtiers of Louis XIV + sought their fortune in the New World, seemed to pass into him. He spoke + of it all with a kind of proud simplicity. + </p> + <p> + “It appears curious to m’sieu’, no doubt, but it has been so in Canada + from the beginning. There were many nobles here in the old time. + Frontenac,—he was a duke or a prince. Denonville,—he was a + grand seigneur. La Salle, Vaudreuil,—these are all noble, counts or + barons. I know not the difference, but the cure has told me the names. And + the old Jacques Cartier, the father of all, when he went home to France, I + have heard that the King made him a lord and gave him a castle. Why not? + He was a capable man, a brave man; he could sail a big ship, he could run + the rapids of the great river in his canoe. He could hunt the bear, the + lynx, the carcajou. I suppose all these men,—marquises and counts + and barons,—I suppose they all lived hard, and slept on the ground, + and used the axe and the paddle when they came to the woods. It is not the + fine coat that makes the noble. It is the good blood, the adventure, the + brave heart.” + </p> + <p> + “Magnificent!” thought Alden. “It is the real thing, a bit of the + seventeenth century lost in the forest for two hundred years. It is like + finding an old rapier beside an Indian trail. I suppose the fellow may be + the descendant of some gay young lieutenant of the regiment + Carignan-Salieres, who came out with De Tracy, or Courcelles. An amour + with the daughter of a habitant,—a name taken at random,—who + can unravel the skein? But here’s the old thread of chivalry running + through all the tangles, tarnished but unbroken.” + </p> + <p> + This was what he said to himself. What he said to Jean was, “Well, Jean, + you and I have been together in the woods for two summers now, and marquis + or no marquis, I hope this is not going to make any difference between + us.” + </p> + <p> + “But certainly NOT!” answered Jean. “I am well content with m’sieu’, as I + hope m’sieu’ is content with me. While I am AU BOIS, I ask no better than + to be your guide. Besides, I must earn those other hundred dollars, for + the payment in the spring.” + </p> + <p> + Alden tried to make him promise to give nothing more to the lawyer until + he had something sure to show for his money. But Jean was politely + non-committal on that point. It was evident that he felt the impossibility + of meanness in a marquis. Why should he be sparing or cautious? That was + for the merchant, not for the noble. A hundred, two hundred, three hundred + dollars: What was that to an estate and a title? Nothing risk, nothing + gain! He must live up to his role. Meantime he was ready to prove that he + was the best guide on the Grande Decharge. + </p> + <p> + And so he was. There was not a man in all the Lake St. John country who + knew the woods and waters as well as he did. Far up the great rivers + Peribonca and Misstassini he had pushed his birch canoe, exploring the + network of lakes and streams along the desolate Height of Land. He knew + the Grand Brule, where the bears roam in September on the fire-scarred + hills among the wide, unharvested fields of blueberries. He knew the + hidden ponds and slow-creeping little rivers where the beavers build their + dams, and raise their silent water-cities, like Venice lost in the woods. + He knew the vast barrens, covered with stiff silvery moss, where the + caribou fed in the winter. On the Decharge itself,—that tumultuous + flood, never failing, never freezing, by which the great lake pours all + its gathered waters in foam and fury down to the deep, still gorge of the + Saguenay,—there Jean was at home. There was not a curl or eddy in + the wild course of the river that he did not understand. The quiet little + channels by which one could drop down behind the islands while the main + stream made an impassable fall; the precise height of the water at which + it was safe to run the Rapide Gervais; the point of rock on the brink of + the Grande Chute where the canoe must whirl swiftly in to the shore if you + did not wish to go over the cataract; the exact force of the tourniquet + that sucked downward at one edge of the rapid, and of the bouillon that + boiled upward at the other edge, as if the bottom of the river were + heaving, and the narrow line of the FILET D’EAU along which the birch-bark + might shoot in safety; the treachery of the smooth, oily curves where the + brown water swept past the edge of the cliff, silent, gloomy, menacing; + the hidden pathway through the foam where the canoe could run out securely + and reach a favourite haunt of the ouananiche, the fish that loves the + wildest water,—all these secrets were known to Jean. He read the + river like a book. He loved it. He also respected it. He knew it too well + to take liberties with it. + </p> + <p> + The camp, that June, was beside the Rapide des Cedres. A great ledge + stretched across the river; the water came down in three leaps, brown + above, golden at the edge, white where it fell. Below, on the left bank, + there was a little cove behind a high point of rocks, a curving beach of + white sand, a gentle slope of ground, a tent half hidden among the birches + and balsams. Down the river, the main channel narrowed and deepened. High + banks hemmed it in on the left, iron-coasted islands on the right. It was + a sullen, powerful, dangerous stream. Beyond that, in mid-river, the Ile + Maligne reared its wicked head, scarred, bristling with skeletons of dead + trees. On either side of it, the river broke away into a long fury of + rapids and falls in which no boat could live. + </p> + <p> + It was there, on the point of the island, that the most famous fishing in + the river was found; and there Alden was determined to cast his fly before + he went home. Ten days they had waited at the Cedars for the water to fall + enough to make the passage to the island safe. At last Alden grew + impatient. It was a superb morning,—sky like an immense blue + gentian, air full of fragrance from a million bells of pink Linnaea, + sunshine flattering the great river,—a morning when danger and death + seemed incredible. + </p> + <p> + “To-day we are going to the island, Jean; the water must be low enough + now.” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet, m’sieu’, I am sorry, but it is not yet.” + </p> + <p> + Alden laughed rather unpleasantly. “I believe you are afraid. I thought + you were a good canoeman—” + </p> + <p> + “I am that,” said Jean, quietly, “and therefore,—well, it is the bad + canoeman who is never afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “But last September you took your monsieur to the island and gave him fine + fishing. Why won’t you do it for me? I believe you want to keep me away + from this place and save it for him.” + </p> + <p> + Jean’s face flushed. “M’sieu’ has no reason to say that of me. I beg that + he will not repeat it.” + </p> + <p> + Alden laughed again. He was somewhat irritated at Jean for taking the + thing so seriously, for being so obstinate. On such a morning it was + absurd. At least it would do no harm to make an effort to reach the + island. If it proved impossible they could give it up. “All right, Jean,” + he said, “I’ll take it back. You are only timid, that’s all. Francois here + will go down with me. We can manage the canoe together. Jean can stay at + home and keep the camp. Eh, Francois?” + </p> + <p> + Francois, the second guide, was a mush of vanity and good nature, with + just sense enough to obey Jean’s orders, and just jealousy enough to make + him jump at a chance to show his independence. He would like very well to + be first man for a day,—perhaps for the next trip, if he had good + luck. He grinned and nodded his head—“All ready, m’sieu’; I guess we + can do it.” + </p> + <p> + But while he was holding the canoe steady for Alden to step out to his + place in the bow, Jean came down and pushed him aside. “Go to bed, dam’ + fool,” he muttered, shoved the canoe out into the river, and jumped + lightly to his own place in the stern. + </p> + <p> + Alden smiled to himself and said nothing for a while. When they were a + mile or two down the river he remarked, “So I see you changed your mind, + Jean. Do you think better of the river now?” + </p> + <p> + “No, m’sieu’, I think the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I must share the luck with you whether it is good or bad. It is + no shame to have fear. The shame is not to face it. But one thing I ask of + you—” + </p> + <p> + “And that is?” + </p> + <p> + “Kneel as low in the canoe as you can, paddle steady, and do not dodge + when a wave comes.” + </p> + <p> + Alden was half inclined to turn back, and give it up. But pride made it + difficult to say the word. Besides the fishing was sure to be superb; not + a line had been wet there since last year. It was worth a little risk. The + danger could not be so very great after all. How fair the river ran,—a + current of living topaz between banks of emerald! What but good luck could + come on such a day? + </p> + <p> + The canoe was gliding down the last smooth stretch. Alden lifted his head, + as they turned the corner, and for the first time saw the passage close + before him. His face went white, and he set his teeth. + </p> + <p> + The left-hand branch of the river, cleft by the rocky point of the island, + dropped at once into a tumult of yellow foam and raved downward along the + northern shore. The right-hand branch swerved away to the east, running + with swift, silent fury. On the lower edge of this desperate race of brown + billows, a huge whirlpool formed and dissolved every two or three minutes, + now eddying round in a wide backwater into a rocky bay on the end of the + island, now swept away by the rush of waves into the white rage of the + rapids below. + </p> + <p> + There was the secret pathway. The trick was, to dart across the right-hand + current at the proper moment, catch the rim of the whirlpool as it swung + backward, and let it sweep you around to the end of the island. It was + easy enough at low water. But now? + </p> + <p> + The smooth waves went crowding and shouldering down the slope as if they + were running to a fight. The river rose and swelled with quick, uneven + passion. The whirlpool was in its place one minute; the next, it was + blotted out; everything rushed madly downward—and below was hell. + </p> + <p> + Jean checked the boat for a moment, quivering in the strong current, + waiting for the TOURNIQUET to form again. Five seconds—ten seconds—“Now!” + he cried. + </p> + <p> + The canoe shot obliquely into the stream, driven by strong, quick strokes + of the paddles. It seemed almost to leap from wave to wave. All was going + well. The edge of the whirlpool was near. Then came the crest of a larger + wave,—slap—into the boat. Alden shrank involuntarily from the + cold water, and missed his stroke. An eddy caught the bow and shoved it + out. The whirlpool receded, dissolved. The whole river rushed down upon + the canoe and carried it away like a leaf. + </p> + <p> + Who says that thought is swift and clear in a moment like that? Who talks + about the whole of a man’s life passing before him in a flash of light? A + flash of darkness! Thought is paralyzed, dumb. “What a fool!” “Good-bye!” + “If—” That is about all it can say. And if the moment is prolonged, + it says the same thing over again, stunned, bewildered, impotent. Then?—The + rocking waves; the sinking boat; the roar of the fall; the swift overturn; + the icy, blinding, strangling water—God! + </p> + <p> + Jean was flung shoreward. Instinctively he struck out, with the current + and half across it, toward a point of rock. His foot touched bottom. He + drew himself up and looked back. The canoe was sweeping past, bottom + upward, Alden underneath it. + </p> + <p> + Jean thrust himself out into the stream again, still going with the + current, but now away from shore. He gripped the canoe, flinging his arm + over the stern. Then he got hold of the thwart and tried to turn it over. + Too heavy! Groping underneath he caught Alden by the shoulder and pulled + him out. They would have gone down together but for the boat. + </p> + <p> + “Hold on tight,” gasped Jean, “put your arm over the canoe—the other + side!” + </p> + <p> + Alden, half dazed, obeyed him. The torrent carried the dancing, slippery + bark past another point. Just below it, there was a little eddy. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” cried Jean; “the back-water—strike for the land!” + </p> + <p> + They touched the black, gliddery rocks. They staggered out of the water; + waist-deep, knee-deep, ankle-deep; falling and rising again. They crawled + up on the warm moss.... + </p> + <p> + The first thing that Alden noticed was the line of bright red spots on the + wing of a cedar-bird fluttering silently through the branches of the tree + above him. He lay still and watched it, wondering that he had never before + observed those brilliant sparks of colour on the little brown bird. Then + he wondered what made his legs ache so. Then he saw Jean, dripping wet, + sitting on a stone and looking down the river. + </p> + <p> + He got up painfully and went over to him. He put his hand on the man’s + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Jean, you saved my life—I thank you, Marquis!” + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’,” said Jean, springing up, “I beg you not to mention it. It was + nothing. A narrow shave,—but LA BONNE CHANCE! And after all, you + were right,—we got to the island! But now how to get off?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <h3> + AN ALLIANCE OF RIVALS + </h3> + <p> + Yes, of course they got off—the next day. At the foot of the island, + two miles below, there is a place where the water runs quieter, and a + BATEAU can cross from the main shore. Francois was frightened when the + others did not come back in the evening. He made his way around to St. + Joseph d’Alma, and got a boat to come up and look for their bodies. He + found them on the shore, alive and very hungry. But all that has nothing + to do with the story. + </p> + <p> + Nor does it make any difference how Alden spent the rest of his summer in + the woods, what kind of fishing he had, or what moved him to leave five + hundred dollars with Jean when he went away. That is all padding: leave it + out. The first point of interest is what Jean did with the money. A suit + of clothes, a new stove, and a set of kitchen utensils for the log house + opposite Grosse Ile, a trip to Quebec, a little game of “Blof Americain” + in the back room of the Hotel du Nord,—that was the end of the + money. + </p> + <p> + This is not a Sunday-school story. Jean was no saint. Even as a hero he + had his weak points. But after his own fashion he was a pretty good kind + of a marquis. He took his headache the next morning as a matter of course, + and his empty pocket as a trick of fortune. With the nobility, he knew + very well, such things often happen; but the nobility do not complain + about it. They go ahead, as if it was a bagatelle. + </p> + <p> + Before the week was out Jean was on his way to a lumber-shanty on the St. + Maurice River, to cook for a crew of thirty men all winter. + </p> + <p> + The cook’s position in camp is curious,—half menial, half superior. + It is no place for a feeble man. But a cook who is strong in the back and + quick with his fists can make his office much respected. Wages, forty + dollars a month; duties, to keep the pea-soup kettle always hot and the + bread-pan always full, to stand the jokes of the camp up to a certain + point, and after that to whip two or three of the most active humourists. + </p> + <p> + Jean performed all his duties to perfect satisfaction. Naturally most of + the jokes turned upon his great expectations. With two of the principal + jokers he had exchanged the usual and conclusive form of repartee,—flattened + them out literally. The ordinary BADINAGE he did not mind in the least; it + rather pleased him. + </p> + <p> + But about the first of January a new hand came into the camp,—a big, + black-haired fellow from Three Rivers, Pierre Lamotte DIT Theophile. With + him it was different. There seemed to be something serious in his jests + about “the marquis.” It was not fun; it was mockery; always on the edge of + anger. He acted as if he would be glad to make Jean ridiculous in any way. + </p> + <p> + Finally the matter came to a head. Something happened to the soup one + Sunday morning—tobacco probably. Certainly it was very bad, only fit + to throw away; and the whole camp was mad. It was not really Pierre who + played the trick; but it was he who sneered that the camp would be better + off if the cook knew less about castles and more about cooking. Jean + answered that what the camp needed was to get rid of a badreux who thought + it was a joke to poison the soup. Pierre took this as a personal allusion + and requested him to discuss the question outside. But before the + discussion began he made some general remarks about the character and + pretensions of Jean. + </p> + <p> + “A marquis!” said he. “This bagoulard gives himself out for a marquis! He + is nothing of the kind,—a rank humbug. There is a title in the + family, an estate in France, it is true. But it is mine. I have seen the + papers. I have paid money to the lawyer. I am waiting now for him to + arrange the matter. This man knows nothing about it. He is a fraud. I will + fight him now and settle the matter.” + </p> + <p> + If a bucket of ice-water had been thrown over Jean he could not have + cooled off more suddenly. He was dazed. Another marquis? This was a + complication he had never dreamed of. It overwhelmed him like an + avalanche. He must have time to dig himself out of this difficulty. + </p> + <p> + “But stop,” he cried; “you go too fast. This is more serious than a pot of + soup. I must hear about this. Let us talk first, Pierre, and afterwards—” + </p> + <p> + The camp was delighted. It was a fine comedy,—two fools instead of + one. The men pricked up their ears and clamoured for a full explanation, a + debate in open court. + </p> + <p> + But that was not Jean’s way. He had made no secret of his expectations, + but he did not care to confide all the details of his family history to a + crowd of fellows who would probably not understand and would certainly + laugh. Pierre was wrong of course, but at least he was in earnest. That + was something. + </p> + <p> + “This affair is between Pierre and me,” said Jean. “We shall speak of it + by ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + In the snow-muffled forest, that afternoon, where the great tree-trunks + rose like pillars of black granite from a marble floor, and the branches + of spruce and fir wove a dark green roof above their heads, these two + stray shoots of a noble stock tried to untangle their family history. It + was little that they knew about it. They could get back to their + grandfathers, but beyond that the trail was rather blind. Where they + crossed neither Jean nor Pierre could tell. In fact, both of their minds + had been empty vessels for the plausible lawyer to fill, and he had filled + them with various and windy stuff. There were discrepancies and + contradictions, denials and disputes, flashes of anger and clouds of + suspicion. + </p> + <p> + But through all the voluble talk, somehow or other, the two men were + drawing closer together. Pierre felt Jean’s force of character, his air of + natural leadership, his bonhommie. He thought, “It was a shame for that + lawyer to trick such a fine fellow with the story that he was the heir of + the family.” Jean, for his part, was impressed by Pierre’s simplicity and + firmness of conviction. He thought, “What a mean thing for that lawyer to + fool such an innocent as this into supposing himself the inheritor of the + title.” What never occurred to either of them was the idea that the lawyer + had deceived them both. That was not to be dreamed of. To admit such a + thought would have seemed to them like throwing away something of great + value which they had just found. The family name, the papers, the links of + the genealogy which had been so convincingly set forth,—all this had + made an impression on their imagination, stronger than any logical + argument. But which was the marquis? That was the question. + </p> + <p> + “Look here,” said Jean at last, “of what value is it that we fight? We are + cousins. You think I am wrong. I think you are wrong. But one of us must + be right. Who can tell? There will certainly be something for both of us. + Blood is stronger than currant juice. Let us work together and help each + other. You come home with me when this job is done. The lawyer returns to + St. Gedeon in the spring. He will know. We can see him together. If he has + fooled you, you can do what you like to him. When—PARDON, I mean if—I + get the title, I will do the fair thing by you. You shall do the same by + me. Is it a bargain?” + </p> + <p> + On this basis the compact was made. The camp was much amazed, not to say + disgusted, because there was no fight. Well-meaning efforts were made at + intervals through the winter to bring on a crisis. But nothing came of it. + The rival claimants had pooled their stock. They acknowledged the tie of + blood, and ignored the clash of interests. Together they faced the fire of + jokes and stood off the crowd; Pierre frowning and belligerent, Jean + smiling and scornful. Practically, they bossed the camp. They were the + only men who always shaved on Sunday morning. This was regarded as + foppish. + </p> + <p> + The popular disappointment deepened into a general sense of injury. In + March, when the cut of timber was finished and the logs were all hauled to + the edge of the river, to lie there until the ice should break and the + “drive” begin, the time arrived for the camp to close. The last night, + under the inspiration drawn from sundry bottles which had been smuggled in + to celebrate the occasion, a plan was concocted in the stables to humble + “the nobility” with a grand display of humour. Jean was to be crowned as + marquis with a bridle and blinders: + </p> + <p> + Pierre was to be anointed as count, with a dipperful of harness-oil; after + that the fun would be impromptu. + </p> + <p> + The impromptu part of the programme began earlier than it was advertised. + Some whisper of the plan had leaked through the chinks of the wall between + the shanty and the stable. When the crowd came shambling into the cabin, + snickering and nudging one another, Jean and Pierre were standing by the + stove at the upper end of the long table. + </p> + <p> + “Down with the canaille!” shouted Jean. + </p> + <p> + “Clean out the gang!” responded Pierre. + </p> + <p> + Brandishing long-handled frying-pans, they charged down the sides of the + table. The mob wavered, turned, and were lost! Helter-skelter they fled, + tumbling over one another in their haste to escape. The lamp was smashed. + The benches were upset. In the smoky hall a furious din arose,—as if + Sir Galahad and Sir Percivale were once more hewing their way through the + castle of Carteloise. Fear fell upon the multitude, and they cried aloud + grievously in their dismay. The blows of the weapons echoed mightily in + the darkness, and the two knights laid about them grimly and with great + joy. The door was too narrow for the flight. Some of the men crept under + the lowest berths; others hid beneath the table. Two, endeavouring to + escape by the windows, stuck fast, exposing a broad and undefended mark to + the pursuers. Here the last strokes of the conflict were delivered. + </p> + <p> + “One for the marquis!” cried Jean, bringing down his weapon with a + sounding whack. + </p> + <p> + “Two for the count!” cried Pierre, making his pan crack like the blow of a + beaver’s tail when he dives. + </p> + <p> + Then they went out into the snowy night, and sat down together on the sill + of the stable-door, and laughed until the tears ran down their cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “My faith!” said Jean. “That was like the ancient time. It is from the + good wood that strong paddles are made,—eh, cousin?” And after that + there was a friendship between the two men that could not have been cut + with the sharpest axe in Quebec. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <h3> + A HAPPY ENDING WHICH IS ALSO A BEGINNING + </h3> + <p> + The plan of going back to St. Gedeon, to wait for the return of the + lawyer, was not carried out. Several of the little gods that use their own + indiscretion in arranging the pieces on the puzzle-map of life, interfered + with it. + </p> + <p> + The first to meddle was that highly irresponsible deity with the bow and + arrows, who has no respect for rank or age, but reserves all his attention + for sex. + </p> + <p> + When the camp on the St. Maurice dissolved, Jean went down with Pierre to + Three Rivers for a short visit. There was a snug house on a high bank + above the river, a couple of miles from the town. A wife and an armful of + children gave assurance that the race of La Motte de la Luciere should not + die out on this side of the ocean. + </p> + <p> + There was also a little sister-in-law, Alma Grenou. If you had seen her + you would not have wondered at what happened. Eyes like a deer, face like + a mayflower, voice like the “D” string in a ‘cello,—she was the + picture of Drummond’s girl in “The Habitant”: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “She’s nicer girl on whole Comte, an’ jus’ got eighteen year— + Black eye, black hair, and cheek rosee dat’s lak wan Fameuse + on de fall; + But don’t spik much,—not of dat kin’,—I can’t say she love + me at all.” + </pre> + <p> + With her Jean plunged into love. It was not a gradual approach, like + gliding down a smooth stream. It was not a swift descent, like running a + lively rapid. It was a veritable plunge, like going over a chute. He did + not know precisely what had happened to him at first; but he knew very + soon what to do about it. + </p> + <p> + The return to Lake St. John was postponed till a more convenient season: + after the snow had melted and the ice had broken up—probably the + lawyer would not make his visit before that. If he arrived sooner, he + would come back again; he wanted his money, that was certain. Besides, + what was more likely than that he should come also to see Pierre? He had + promised to do so. At all events, they would wait at Three Rivers for a + while. + </p> + <p> + The first week Jean told Alma that she was the prettiest girl he had ever + seen. She tossed her head and expressed a conviction that he was joking. + She suggested that he was in the habit of saying the same thing to every + girl. + </p> + <p> + The second week he made a long stride in his wooing. He took her out + sleighing on the last remnant of the snow,—very thin and bumpy,—and + utilized the occasion to put his arm around her waist. She cried + “Laisse-moi tranquille, Jean!” boxed his ears, and said she thought he + must be out of his mind. + </p> + <p> + The following Saturday afternoon he craftily came behind her in the stable + as she was milking the cow, and bent her head back and kissed her on the + face. She began to cry, and said he had taken an unfair advantage, while + her hands were busy. She hated him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” said he, still holding her warm shoulders, “if you hate me, + I am going home tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + The sobs calmed down quickly. She bent herself forward so that he could + see the rosy nape of her neck with the curling tendrils of brown hair + around it. + </p> + <p> + “But,” she said, “but, Jean,—do you love me for sure?” + </p> + <p> + After that the path was level, easy, and very quickly travelled. On Sunday + afternoon the priest was notified that his services would be needed for a + wedding, the first week in May. Pierre’s consent was genial and hilarious. + The marriage suited him exactly. It was a family alliance. It made + everything move smooth and certain. The property would be kept together. + </p> + <p> + But the other little interfering gods had not yet been heard from. One of + them, who had special charge of what remained of the soul of the dealer in + unclaimed estates, put it into his head to go to Three Rivers first, + instead of to St. Gedeon. + </p> + <p> + He had a good many clients in different parts of the country,—temporary + clients, of course,—and it occurred to him that he might as well + extract another fifty dollars from Pierre Lamotte DIT Theophile, before + going on a longer journey. On his way down from Montreal he stopped in + several small towns and slept in beds of various quality. + </p> + <p> + Another of the little deities (the one that presides over unclean + villages; decidedly a false god, but sufficiently powerful) arranged a + surprise for the travelling lawyer. It came out at Three Rivers. + </p> + <p> + He arrived about nightfall, and slept at the hotel, feeling curiously + depressed. The next morning he was worse; but he was a resolute and + industrious dog, after his own fashion. So he hired a buggy and drove out + through the mud to Pierre’s place. They heard the wagon stop at the gate, + and went out to see who it was. + </p> + <p> + The man was hardly recognizable: face pale, lips blue, eyes dull, teeth + chattering. + </p> + <p> + “Get me out of this,” he muttered. “I am dying. God’s sake, be quick!” + </p> + <p> + They helped him to the house, and he immediately went into a convulsion. + From this he passed into a raging fever. Pierre took the buggy and drove + posthaste to town for a doctor. + </p> + <p> + The doctor’s opinion was evidently serious, but his remarks were + non-committal. + </p> + <p> + “Keep him in this room. Give him ten drops of this in water every hour. + One of these powders if he becomes violent. One of you must stay with him + all the time. Only one, you understand. The rest keep away. I will come + back in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + In the morning the doctor’s face was yet more grave. He examined the + patient carefully. Then he turned to Jean, who had acted as nurse. + </p> + <p> + “I thought so,” said he; “you must all be vaccinated immediately. There is + still time, I hope. But what to do with this gentleman, God knows. We + can’t send him back to the town. He has the small-pox.” + </p> + <p> + That was a pretty prelude to a wedding festival. They were all at their + wit’s end. While the doctor scratched their arms, they discussed the + situation, excitedly and with desperation. Jean was the first to stop + chattering and begin to think. + </p> + <p> + “There is that old cabane of Poulin’s up the road. It is empty these three + years. But there is a good spring of water. One could patch the roof at + one end and put up a stove.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” said the doctor. “But some one to take care of him? It will be a + long job, and a bad one.” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to do that,” said Jean; “it is my place. This gentleman cannot + be left to die in the road. Le bon Dieu did not send him here for that. + The head of the family”—here he stopped a moment and looked at + Pierre, who was silent—“must take the heavy end of the job, and I am + ready for it.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” said the doctor again. But Alma was crying in the corner of the + room. + </p> + <p> + Four weeks, five weeks, six weeks the vigil in the cabane lasted. The last + patches of snow disappeared from the fields one night, as if winter had + picked up its rags and vanished. The willows along the brook turned + yellow; the grass greened around the spring. Scarlet buds flamed on the + swamp maples. A tender mist of foliage spread over the woodlands. The + chokecherries burst into a glory of white blossoms. The bluebirds came + back, fluting love-songs; and the robins, carolling ballads of joy; and + the blackbirds, creaking merrily. + </p> + <p> + The priest came once and saw the sick man, but everything was going well. + It was not necessary to run any extra risks. Every week after that he came + and leaned on the fence, talking with Jean in the doorway. When he went + away he always lifted three fingers—so—you know the sign? It + is a very pleasant one, and it did Jean’s heart good. + </p> + <p> + Pierre kept the cabane well supplied with provisions, leaving them just + inside of the gate. But with the milk it was necessary to be a little + careful; so the can was kept in a place by itself, under the out-of-door + oven, in the shade. And beside this can Jean would find, every day, + something particular,—a blossom of the red geranium that bloomed in + the farmhouse window, a piece of cake with plums in it, a bunch of + trailing arbutus,—once it was a little bit of blue ribbon, tied in a + certain square knot—so—perhaps you know that sign too? That + did Jean’s heart good also. + </p> + <p> + But what kind of conversation was there in the cabane when the sick man’s + delirium had passed and he knew what had happened to him? Not much at + first, for the man was too weak. After he began to get stronger, he was + thinking a great deal, fighting with himself. In the end he came out + pretty well—for a lawyer of his kind. Perhaps he was desirous to + leave the man whom he had deceived, and who had nursed him back from + death, some fragment, as much as possible, of the dream that brightened + his life. Perhaps he was only anxious to save as much as he could of his + own reputation. At all events, this is what he did. + </p> + <p> + He told Jean a long story, part truth, part lie, about his investigations. + The estate and the title were in the family; that was certain. Jean was + the probable heir, if there was any heir; that was almost sure. The part + about Pierre had been a—well, a mistake. But the trouble with the + whole affair was this. A law made in the days of Napoleon limited the time + for which an estate could remain unclaimed. A certain number of years, and + then the government took everything. That number of years had just passed. + By the old law Jean was probably a marquis with a castle. By the new law?—Frankly, + he could not advise a client to incur any more expense. In fact, he + intended to return the amount already paid. A hundred and ten dollars, was + it not? Yes, and fifty dollars for the six weeks of nursing. VOILA, a + draft on Montreal, a hundred and sixty dollars,—as good as gold! And + beside that, there was the incalculable debt for this great kindness to a + sick man, for which he would always be M. de la Motte’s grateful debtor! + </p> + <p> + The lawyer’s pock-marked face—the scars still red and angry—lit + up with a curious mixed light of shrewdness and gratitude. Jean was + somewhat moved. His castle was in ruins. But he remained noble—by + the old law; that was something! + </p> + <p> + A few days later the doctor pronounced it safe to move the patient. He + came with a carriage to fetch him. Jean, well fumigated and dressed in a + new suit of clothes, walked down the road beside them to the farm-house + gate. There Alma met him with both hands. His eyes embraced her. The air + of June was radiant about them. The fragrance of the woods breathed itself + over the broad valley. A song sparrow poured his heart out from a + blossoming lilac. The world was large, and free, and very good. And + between the lovers there was nothing but a little gate. + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” said the doctor, smiling, as he tightened up the reins, “I + understand that there is a title in your family, M. de la Motte, in effect + that you are a marquis?” + </p> + <p> + “It is true,” said Jean, turning his head, “at least so I think.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I,” said the doctor “But you had better go in, MONSIEUR LE MARQUIS—you + keep MADAME LA MARQUISE waiting.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII. THE KEEPER OF THE LIGHT + </h2> + <p> + At long distance, looking over the blue waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence + in clear weather, you might think that you saw a lonely sea-gull, + snow-white, perching motionless on a cobble of gray rock. Then, as your + boat drifted in, following the languid tide and the soft southern breeze, + you would perceive that the cobble of rock was a rugged hill with a few + bushes and stunted trees growing in the crevices, and that the gleaming + speck near the summit must be some kind of a building—if you were on + the coast of Italy or Spain you would say a villa or a farm-house. Then, + as you floated still farther north and drew nearer to the coast, the + desolate hill would detach itself from the mainland and become a little + mountain-isle, with a flock of smaller islets clustering around it as a + brood of wild ducks keep close to their mother, and with deep water, + nearly two miles wide, flowing between it and the shore; while the shining + speck on the seaward side stood out clearly as a low, whitewashed dwelling + with a sturdy round tower at one end, crowned with a big eight-sided + lantern—a solitary lighthouse. + </p> + <p> + That is the Isle of the Wise Virgin. Behind it the long blue Laurentian + Mountains, clothed with unbroken forest, rise in sombre ranges toward the + Height of Land. In front of it the waters of the gulf heave and sparkle + far away to where the dim peaks of St. Anne des Monts are traced along the + southern horizon. Sheltered a little, but not completely, by the island + breakwater of granite, lies the rocky beach of Dead Men’s Point, where an + English navy was wrecked in a night of storm a hundred years ago. + </p> + <p> + There are a score of wooden houses, a tiny, weather-beaten chapel, a + Hudson Bay Company’s store, a row of platforms for drying fish, and a + varied assortment of boats and nets, strung along the beach now. Dead + Men’s Point has developed into a centre of industry, with a life, a + tradition, a social character of its own. And in one of those houses, as + you sit at the door in the lingering June twilight, looking out across the + deep channel to where the lantern of the tower is just beginning to glow + with orange radiance above the shadow of the island—in that far-away + place, in that mystical hour, you should hear the story of the light and + its keeper. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + When the lighthouse was built, many years ago, the island had another + name. It was called the Isle of Birds. Thousands of sea-fowl nested there. + The handful of people who lived on the shore robbed the nests and + slaughtered the birds, with considerable profit. It was perceived in + advance that the building of the lighthouse would interfere with this, and + with other things. Hence it was not altogether a popular improvement. + Marcel Thibault, the oldest inhabitant, was the leader of the opposition. + </p> + <p> + “That lighthouse!” said he, “what good will it be for us? We know the way + in and out when it makes clear weather, by day or by night. But when the + sky gets swampy, when it makes fog, then we stay with ourselves at home, + or we run into La Trinite, or Pentecote. We know the way. What? The + stranger boats? B’EN! the stranger boats need not to come here, if they + know not the way. The more fish, the more seals, the more everything will + there be left for us. Just because of the stranger boats, to build + something that makes all the birds wild and spoils the hunting—that + is a fool’s work. The good God made no stupid light on the Isle of Birds. + He saw no necessity of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Besides,” continued Thibault, puffing slowly at his pipe, “besides—those + stranger boats, sometimes they are lost, they come ashore. It is sad! But + who gets the things that are saved, all sorts of things, good to put into + our houses, good to eat, good to sell, sometimes a boat that can be + patched up almost like new—who gets these things, eh? Doubtless + those for whom the good God intended them. But who shall get them when + this sacre lighthouse is built, eh? Tell me that, you Baptiste Fortin.” + </p> + <p> + Fortin represented the party of progress in the little parliament of the + beach. He had come down from Quebec some years ago bringing with him a + wife and two little daughters, and a good many new notions about life. He + had good luck at the cod-fishing, and built a house with windows at the + side as well as in front. When his third girl, Nataline, was born, he went + so far as to paint the house red, and put on a kitchen, and enclose a bit + of ground for a yard. This marked him as a radical, an innovator. It was + expected that he would defend the building of the lighthouse. And he did. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Thibault,” he said, “you talk well, but you talk too late. It is + of a past age, your talk. A new time comes to the Cote Nord. We begin to + civilize ourselves. To hold back against the light would be our shame. + Tell me this, Marcel Thibault, what men are they that love darkness?” + </p> + <p> + “TORRIEUX!” growled Thibault, “that is a little strong. You say my deeds + are evil?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” answered Fortin; “I say not that, my friend, but I say this + lighthouse means good: good for us, and good for all who come to this + coast. It will bring more trade to us. It will bring a boat with the mail, + with newspapers, perhaps once, perhaps twice a month, all through the + summer. It will bring us into the great world. To lose that for the sake + of a few birds—CA SERA B’EN DE VALEUR! Besides, it is impossible. + The lighthouse is coming, certain.” + </p> + <p> + Fortin was right, of course. But Thibault’s position was not altogether + unnatural, nor unfamiliar. All over the world, for the past hundred years, + people have been kicking against the sharpness of the pricks that drove + them forward out of the old life, the wild life, the free life, grown dear + to them because it was so easy. There has been a terrible interference + with bird-nesting and other things. All over the world the great Something + that bridges rivers, and tunnels mountains, and fells forests, and + populates deserts, and opens up the hidden corners of the earth, has been + pushing steadily on; and the people who like things to remain as they are + have had to give up a great deal. There was no exception made in favour of + Dead Men’s Point. The Isle of Birds lay in the line of progress. The + lighthouse arrived. + </p> + <p> + It was a very good house for that day. The keeper’s dwelling had three + rooms and was solidly built. The tower was thirty feet high. The lantern + held a revolving light, with a four-wick Fresnel lamp, burning sperm oil. + There was one of Stevenson’s new cages of dioptric prisms around the + flame, and once every minute it was turned by clockwork, flashing a broad + belt of radiance fifteen miles across the sea. All night long that big + bright eye was opening and shutting. “BAGUETTE!” said Thibault, “it winks + like a one-eyed Windigo.” + </p> + <p> + The Department of Marine and Fisheries sent down an expert from Quebec to + keep the light in order and run it for the first summer. He took Fortin as + his assistant. By the end of August he reported to headquarters that the + light was all right, and that Fortin was qualified to be appointed keeper. + Before October was out the certificate of appointment came back, and the + expert packed his bag to go up the river. + </p> + <p> + “Now look here, Fortin,” said he, “this is no fishing trip. Do you think + you are up to this job?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said Fortin. + </p> + <p> + “Well now, do you remember all this business about the machinery that + turns the lenses? That ‘s the main thing. The bearings must be kept well + oiled, and the weight must never get out of order. The clock-face will + tell you when it is running right. If anything gets hitched up here’s the + crank to keep it going until you can straighten the machine again. It’s + easy enough to turn it. But you must never let it stop between dark and + daylight. The regular turn once a minute—that’s the mark of this + light. If it shines steady it might as well be out. Yes, better! Any + vessel coming along here in a dirty night and seeing a fixed light would + take it for the Cap Loup-Marin and run ashore. This particular light has + got to revolve once a minute every night from April first to December + tenth, certain. Can you do it?” + </p> + <p> + “Certain,” said Fortin. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the way I like to hear a man talk! Now, you’ve got oil enough to + last you through till the tenth of December, when you close the light, and + to run on for a month in the spring after you open again. The ice may be + late in going out and perhaps the supply-boat can’t get down before the + middle of April, or thereabouts. But she’ll bring plenty of oil when she + comes, so you’ll be all right.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Fortin. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’ve said it all, I guess. You understand what you’ve got to do? + Good-by and good luck. You’re the keeper of the light now.” + </p> + <p> + “Good luck,” said Fortin, “I am going to keep it.” The same day he shut up + the red house on the beach and moved to the white house on the island with + Marie-Anne, his wife, and the three girls, Alma, aged seventeen, Azilda, + aged fifteen, and Nataline, aged thirteen. He was the captain, and + Marie-Anne was the mate, and the three girls were the crew. They were all + as full of happy pride as if they had come into possession of a great + fortune. + </p> + <p> + It was the thirty-first day of October. A snow-shower had silvered the + island. The afternoon was clear and beautiful. As the sun sloped toward + the rose-coloured hills of the mainland the whole family stood out in + front of the lighthouse looking up at the tower. + </p> + <p> + “Regard him well, my children,” said Baptiste; “God has given him to us to + keep, and to keep us. Thibault says he is a Windigo. B’EN! We shall see + that he is a friendly Windigo. Every minute all the night he shall wink, + just for kindness and good luck to all the world, till the daylight.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + On the ninth of November, at three o’clock in the afternoon, Baptiste went + into the tower to see that the clockwork was in order for the night. He + set the dial on the machine, put a few drops of oil on the bearings of the + cylinder, and started to wind up the weight. + </p> + <p> + It rose a few inches, gave a dull click, and then stopped dead. He tugged + a little harder, but it would not move. Then he tried to let it down. He + pushed at the lever that set the clockwork in motion. + </p> + <p> + He might as well have tried to make the island turn around by pushing at + one of the little spruce trees that clung to the rock. + </p> + <p> + Then it dawned fearfully upon him that something must be wrong. Trembling + with anxiety, he climbed up and peered in among the wheels. + </p> + <p> + The escapement wheel was cracked clean through, as if some one had struck + it with the head of an axe, and one of the pallets of the spindle was + stuck fast in the crack. He could knock it out easily enough, but when the + crack came around again, the pallet would catch and the clock would stop + once more. It was a fatal injury. + </p> + <p> + Baptiste turned white, then red, gripped his head in his hands, and ran + down the steps, out of the door, straight toward his canoe, which was + pulled up on the western side of the island. + </p> + <p> + “DAME!” he cried, “who has done this? Let me catch him! If that old + Thibault—” + </p> + <p> + As he leaped down the rocky slope the setting sun gleamed straight in his + eyes. It was poised like a ball of fire on the very edge of the mountains. + Five minutes more and it would be gone. Fifteen minutes more and darkness + would close in. Then the giant’s eye must begin to glow, and to wink + precisely once a minute all night long. If not, what became of the + keeper’s word, his faith, his honour? + </p> + <p> + No matter how the injury to the clockwork was done. No matter who was to + be blamed or punished for it. That could wait. The question now was + whether the light would fail or not. And it must be answered within a + quarter of an hour. + </p> + <p> + That red ray of the vanishing sun was like a blow in the face to Baptiste. + It stopped him short, dazed and bewildered. Then he came to himself, + wheeled, and ran up the rocks faster than he had come down. + </p> + <p> + “Marie-Anne! Alma!” he shouted, as he dashed past the door of the house, + “all of you! To me, in the tower!” + </p> + <p> + He was up in the lantern when they came running in, full of curiosity, + excited, asking twenty questions at once. Nataline climbed up the ladder + and put her head through the trap-door. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” she panted. “What has hap—” + </p> + <p> + “Go down,” answered her father, “go down all at once. Wait for me. I am + coming. I will explain.” + </p> + <p> + The explanation was not altogether lucid and scientific. There were some + bad words mixed up with it. + </p> + <p> + Baptiste was still hot with anger and the unsatisfied desire to whip + somebody, he did not know whom, for something, he did not know what. But + angry as he was, he was still sane enough to hold his mind hard and close + to the main point. The crank must be adjusted; the machine must be ready + to turn before dark. While he worked he hastily made the situation clear + to his listeners. + </p> + <p> + That crank must be turned by hand, round and round all night, not too + slow, not too fast. The dial on the machine must mark time with the clock + on the wall. The light must flash once every minute until daybreak. He + would do as much of the labour as he could, but the wife and the two older + girls must help him. Nataline could go to bed. + </p> + <p> + At this Nataline’s short upper lip trembled. She rubbed her eyes with the + sleeve of her dress, and began to weep silently. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter with you?” said her mother, “bad child, have you fear + to sleep alone? A big girl like you!” + </p> + <p> + “No,” she sobbed, “I have no fear, but I want some of the fun.” + </p> + <p> + “Fun!” growled her father. “What fun? NOM D’UN CHIEN! She calls this fun!” + He looked at her for a moment, as she stood there, half defiant, half + despondent, with her red mouth quivering and her big brown eyes sparkling + fire; then he burst into a hearty laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Come here, my little wild-cat,” he said, drawing her to him and kissing + her; “you are a good girl after all. I suppose you think this light is + part yours, eh?” + </p> + <p> + The girl nodded. + </p> + <p> + “B’EN! You shall have your share, fun and all. You shall make the tea for + us and bring us something to eat. Perhaps when Alma and ‘Zilda fatigue + themselves they will permit a few turns of the crank to you. Are you + content? Run now and boil the kettle.” + </p> + <p> + It was a very long night. No matter how easily a handle turns, after a + certain number of revolutions there is a stiffness about it. The stiffness + is not in the handle, but in the hand that pushes it. + </p> + <p> + Round and round, evenly, steadily, minute after minute, hour after hour, + shoving out, drawing in, circle after circle, no swerving, no stopping, no + varying the motion, turn after turn—fifty-five, fifty-six, + fifty-seven—what’s the use of counting? Watch the dial; go to sleep—no! + for God’s sake, no sleep! But how hard it is to keep awake! How heavy the + arm grows, how stiffly the muscles move, how the will creaks and groans. + BATISCAN! It is not easy for a human being to become part of a machine. + </p> + <p> + Fortin himself took the longest spell at the crank, of course. He went at + his work with a rigid courage. His red-hot anger had cooled down into a + shape that was like a bar of forged steel. He meant to make that light + revolve if it killed him to do it. He was the captain of a company that + had run into an ambuscade. He was going to fight his way through if he had + to fight alone. + </p> + <p> + The wife and the two older girls followed him blindly and bravely, in the + habit of sheer obedience. They did not quite understand the meaning of the + task, the honour of victory, the shame of defeat. But Fortin said it must + be done, and he knew best. So they took their places in turn, as he grew + weary, and kept the light flashing. + </p> + <p> + And Nataline—well, there is no way of describing what Nataline did, + except to say that she played the fife. + </p> + <p> + She felt the contest just as her father did, not as deeply, perhaps, but + in the same spirit. She went into the fight with darkness like a little + soldier. And she played the fife. + </p> + <p> + When she came up from the kitchen with the smoking pail of tea, she rapped + on the door and called out to know whether the Windigo was at home + to-night. + </p> + <p> + She ran in and out of the place like a squirrel. She looked up at the + light and laughed. Then she ran in and reported. “He winks,” she said, + “old one-eye winks beautifully. Keep him going. My turn now!” + </p> + <p> + She refused to be put off with a shorter spell than the other girls. “No,” + she cried, “I can do it as well as you. You think you are so much older. + Well, what of that? The light is part mine; father said so. Let me turn, + va-t-en.” + </p> + <p> + When the first glimmer of the little day came shivering along the eastern + horizon, Nataline was at the crank. The mother and the two older girls + were half asleep. Baptiste stepped out to look at the sky. “Come,” he + cried, returning. “We can stop now, it is growing gray in the east, almost + morning.” + </p> + <p> + “But not yet,” said Nataline; “we must wait for the first red. A few more + turns. Let’s finish it up with a song.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head and piped up the refrain of the old Canadian chanson: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “En roulant ma boule-le roulant + En roulant ma bou-le.” + </pre> + <p> + And to that cheerful music the first night’s battle was carried through to + victory. + </p> + <p> + The next day Fortin spent two hours in trying to repair the clockwork. It + was of no use. The broken part was indispensable and could not be + replaced. + </p> + <p> + At noon he went over to the mainland to tell of the disaster, and perhaps + to find out if any hostile hand was responsible for it. He found out + nothing. Every one denied all knowledge of the accident. Perhaps there was + a flaw in the wheel; perhaps it had broken itself. That was possible. + Fortin could not deny it; but the thing that hurt him most was that he got + so little sympathy. Nobody seemed to care whether the light was kept + burning or not. When he told them how the machine had been turned all + night by hand, they were astonished. “CRE-IE!” they cried, “you must have + had a great misery to do that.” But that he proposed to go on doing it for + a month longer, until December tenth, and to begin again on April first, + and go on turning the light by hand for three or four weeks more until the + supply-boat came down and brought the necessary tools to repair the + machine—such an idea as this went beyond their horizon. + </p> + <p> + “But you are crazy, Baptiste,” they said, “you can never do it; you are + not capable.” + </p> + <p> + “I would be crazy,” he answered, “if I did not see what I must do. That + light is my charge. In all the world there is nothing else so great as + that for me and for my family—you understand? For us it is the chief + thing. It is my Ten Commandments. I shall keep it or be damned.” + </p> + <p> + There was a silence after this remark. They were not very particular about + the use of language at Dead Men’s Point, but this shocked them a little. + They thought that Fortin was swearing a shade too hard. In reality he was + never more reverent, never more soberly in earnest. + </p> + <p> + After a while he continued, “I want some one to help me with the work on + the island. We must be up all the nights now. By day we must get some + sleep. I want another man or a strong boy. Is there any who will come? The + Government will pay. Or if not, I will pay, moi-meme.” + </p> + <p> + There was no response. All the men hung back. The lighthouse was still + unpopular, or at least it was on trial. Fortin’s pluck and resolution had + undoubtedly impressed them a little. But they still hesitated to commit + themselves to his side. + </p> + <p> + “B’en,” he said, “there is no one. Then we shall manage the affair en + famille. Bon soir, messieurs!” + </p> + <p> + He walked down to the beach with his head in the air, without looking + back. But before he had his canoe in the water he heard some one running + down behind him. It was Thibault’s youngest son, Marcel, a well-grown boy + of sixteen, very much out of breath with running and shyness. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Fortin,” he stammered, “will you—do you think—am I + big enough?” + </p> + <p> + Baptiste looked him in the face for a moment. Then his eyes twinkled. + </p> + <p> + “Certain,” he answered, “you are bigger than your father. But what will he + say to this?” + </p> + <p> + “He says,” blurted out Marcel—“well, he says that he will say + nothing if I do not ask him.” + </p> + <p> + So the little Marcel was enlisted in the crew on the island. For thirty + nights those six people—a man, and a boy, and four women (Nataline + was not going to submit to any distinctions on the score of age, you may + be sure)—for a full month they turned their flashing lantern by hand + from dusk to day-break. + </p> + <p> + The fog, the frost, the hail, the snow beleaguered their tower. Hunger and + cold, sleeplessness and weariness, pain and discouragement, held + rendezvous in that dismal, cramped little room. Many a night Nataline’s + fife of fun played a feeble, wheezy note. But it played. And the crank + went round. And every bit of glass in the lantern was as clear as polished + crystal. And the big lamp was full of oil. And the great eye of the + friendly giant winked without ceasing, through fierce storm and placid + moonlight. + </p> + <p> + When the tenth of December came, the light went to sleep for the winter, + and the keepers took their way across the ice to the mainland. They had + won the battle, not only on the island, fighting against the elements, but + also at Dead Men’s Point, against public opinion. The inhabitants began to + understand that the lighthouse meant something—a law, an order, a + principle. + </p> + <p> + Men cannot help feeling respect for a thing when they see others willing + to fight or to suffer for it. + </p> + <p> + When the time arrived to kindle the light again in the spring, Fortin + could have had any one that he wanted to help him. But no; he chose the + little Marcel again; the boy wanted to go, and he had earned the right. + Besides, he and Nataline had struck up a close friendship on the island, + cemented during the winter by various hunting excursions after hares and + ptarmigan. Marcel was a skilful setter of snares. But Nataline was not + content until she had won consent to borrow her father’s CARABINE. They + hunted in partnership. One day they had shot a fox. That is, Nataline had + shot it, though Marcel had seen it first and tracked it. Now they wanted + to try for a seal on the point of the island when the ice went out. It was + quite essential that Marcel should go. + </p> + <p> + “Besides,” said Baptiste to his wife, confidentially, “a boy costs less + than a man. Why should we waste money? Marcel is best.” + </p> + <p> + A peasant-hero is seldom averse to economy in small things, like money. + </p> + <p> + But there was not much play in the spring session with the light on the + island. It was a bitter job. December had been lamb-like compared with + April. First, the southeast wind kept the ice driving in along the shore. + Then the northwest wind came hurtling down from the Arctic wilderness like + a pack of wolves. There was a snow-storm of four days and nights that made + the whole world—earth and sky and sea—look like a crazy white + chaos. And through it all, that weary, dogged crank must be kept turning—turning + from dark to daylight. + </p> + <p> + It seemed as if the supply-boat would never come. At last they saw it, one + fair afternoon, April the twenty-ninth, creeping slowly down the coast. + They were just getting ready for another night’s work. + </p> + <p> + Fortin ran out of the tower, took off his hat, and began to say his + prayers. The wife and the two elder girls stood in the kitchen door, + crossing themselves, with tears in their eyes. Marcel and Nataline were + coming up from the point of the island, where they had been watching for + their seal. She was singing + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Mon pere n’avait fille que moi, + Encore sur la mer il m’envoi-e-eh!” + </pre> + <p> + When she saw the boat she stopped short for a minute. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said, “they find us awake, n’est-c’pas? And if they don’t come + faster than that we’ll have another chance to show them how we make the + light wink, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Then she went on with her song— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sautez, mignonne, Cecilia. + Ah, ah, ah, ah, Cecilia!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <h3> + You did not suppose that was the end of the story, did you? + </h3> + <p> + No, an out-of-doors story does not end like that, broken off in the + middle, with a bit of a song. It goes on to something definite, like a + wedding or a funeral. + </p> + <p> + You have not heard, yet, how near the light came to failing, and how the + keeper saved it and something else too. Nataline’s story is not told; it + is only begun. This first part is only the introduction, just to let you + see what kind of a girl she was, and how her life was made. If you want to + hear the conclusion, we must hurry along a little faster or we shall never + get to it. + </p> + <p> + Nataline grew up like a young birch tree—stately and strong, good to + look at. She was beautiful in her place; she fitted it exactly. Her + bronzed face with an under-tinge of red; her low, black eyebrows; her + clear eyes like the brown waters of a woodland stream; her dark, curly + hair with little tendrils always blowing loose around the pillar of her + neck; her broad breast and sloping shoulders; her firm, fearless step; her + voice, rich and vibrant; her straight, steady looks—but there, who + can describe a thing like that? I tell you she was a girl to love + out-of-doors. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing that she could not do. She could cook; she could swing + an axe; she could paddle a canoe; she could fish; she could shoot; and, + best of all, she could run the lighthouse. Her father’s devotion to it had + gone into her blood. It was the centre of her life, her law of God. There + was nothing about it that she did not understand and love. From the first + of April to the tenth of December the flashing of that light was like the + beating of her heart—steady, even, unfaltering. She kept time to it + as unconsciously as the tides follow the moon. She lived by it and for it. + </p> + <p> + There were no more accidents to the clockwork after the first one was + repaired. It ran on regularly, year after year. + </p> + <p> + Alma and Azilda were married and went away to live, one on the South + Shore, the other at Quebec. Nataline was her father’s right-hand man. As + the rheumatism took hold of him and lamed his shoulders and wrists, more + and more of the work fell upon her. She was proud of it. + </p> + <p> + At last it came to pass, one day in January, that Baptiste died. He was + not gathered to his fathers, for they were buried far away beside the + Montmorenci, and on the rocky coast of Brittany. But the men dug through + the snow behind the tiny chapel at Dead Men’s Point, and made a grave for + Baptiste Fortin, and the young priest of the mission read the funeral + service over it. + </p> + <p> + It went without saying that Nataline was to be the keeper of the light, at + least until the supply-boat came down again in the spring and orders + arrived from the Government in Quebec. Why not? She was a woman, it is + true. But if a woman can do a thing as well as a man, why should she not + do it? Besides, Nataline could do this particular thing much better than + any man on the Point. Everybody approved of her as the heir of her father, + especially young Marcel Thibault. + </p> + <p> + What? + </p> + <p> + Yes, of course. You could not help guessing it. He was Nataline’s lover. + They were to be married the next summer. They sat together in the best + room, while the old mother was rocking to and fro and knitting beside the + kitchen stove, and talked of what they were going to do. Once in a while, + when Nataline grieved for her father, she would let Marcel put his arm + around her and comfort her in the way that lovers know. But their talk was + mainly of the future, because they were young, and of the light, because + Nataline’s life belonged to it. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the Government would remember that year when it was kept going by + hand for two months, and give it to her to keep as long as she lived. That + would be only fair. Certainly, it was hers for the present. No one had as + good a right to it. She took possession without a doubt. At all events, + while she was the keeper the light should not fail. + </p> + <p> + But that winter was a bad one on the North Shore, and particularly at Dead + Men’s Point. It was terribly bad. The summer before, the fishing had been + almost a dead failure. In June a wild storm had smashed all the salmon + nets and swept most of them away. In July they could find no caplin for + bait for the cod-fishing, and in August and September they could find no + cod. The few bushels of potatoes that some of the inhabitants had planted, + rotted in the ground. The people at the Point went into the winter short + of money and very short of food. + </p> + <p> + There were some supplies at the store, pork and flour and molasses, and + they could run through the year on credit and pay their debts the + following summer if the fish came back. But this resource also failed + them. In the last week of January the store caught fire and burned up. + Nothing was saved. The only hope now was the seal-hunting in February and + March and April. That at least would bring them meat and oil enough to + keep them from starvation. + </p> + <p> + But this hope failed, too. The winds blew strong from the north and west, + driving the ice far out into the gulf. The chase was long and perilous. + The seals were few and wild. Less than a dozen were killed in all. By the + last week in March Dead Men’s Point stood face to face with famine. + </p> + <p> + Then it was that old Thibault had an idea. + </p> + <p> + “There is sperm oil on the Island of Birds,” said he, “in the lighthouse, + plenty of it, gallons of it. It is not very good to taste, perhaps, but + what of that? It will keep life in the body. The Esquimaux drink it in the + north, often. We must take the oil of the lighthouse to keep us from + starving until the supply-boat comes down.” + </p> + <p> + “But how shall we get it?” asked the others. “It is locked up. Nataline + Fortin has the key. Will she give it?” + </p> + <p> + “Give it?” growled Thibault. “Name of a name! of course she will give it. + She must. Is not a life, the life of all of us, more than a light?” + </p> + <p> + A self-appointed committee of three, with Thibault at the head, waited + upon Nataline without delay, told her their plan, and asked for the key. + She thought it over silently for a few minutes, and then refused + point-blank. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said, “I will not give the key. That oil is for the lamp. If you + take it, the lamp will not be lighted on the first of April; it will not + be burning when the supply-boat comes. For me, that would be shame, + disgrace, worse than death. I am the keeper of the light. You shall not + have the oil.” + </p> + <p> + They argued with her, pleaded with her, tried to browbeat her. She was a + rock. Her round under-jaw was set like a steel trap. Her lips straightened + into a white line. Her eyebrows drew together, and her eyes grew black. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she cried, “I tell you no, no, a thousand times no. All in this + house I will share with you. But not one drop of what belongs to the + light! Never.” + </p> + <p> + Later in the afternoon the priest came to see her; a thin, pale young man, + bent with the hardships of his life, and with sad dreams in his sunken + eyes. He talked with her very gently and kindly. + </p> + <p> + “Think well, my daughter; think seriously what you do. Is it not our first + duty to save human life? Surely that must be according to the will of God. + Will you refuse to obey it?” + </p> + <p> + Nataline was trembling a little now. Her brows were unlocked. The tears + stood in her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She was twisting her hands + together. + </p> + <p> + “My father,” she answered, “I desire to do the will of God. But how shall + I know it? Is it not His first command that we should love and serve Him + faithfully in the duty which He has given us? He gave me this light to + keep. My father kept it. He is dead. If I am unfaithful what will he say + to me? Besides, the supply-boat is coming soon—I have thought of + this—when it comes it will bring food. But if the light is out, the + boat may be lost. That would be the punishment for my sin. No, MON PERE, + we must trust God. He will keep the people. I will keep the light.”’ + </p> + <p> + The priest looked at her long and steadily. A glow came into his face. He + put his hand on her shoulder. “You shall follow your conscience,” he said + quietly. “Peace be with you, Nataline.” + </p> + <p> + That evening just at dark Marcel came. She let him take her in his arms + and kiss her. She felt like a little child, tired and weak. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he whispered, “you have done bravely, sweetheart. You were right + not to give the key. That would have been a shame to you. But it is all + settled now. They will have the oil without your fault. To-night they are + going out to the lighthouse to break in and take what they want. You need + not know. There will be no blame—” + </p> + <p> + She straightened in his arms as if an electric shock had passed through + her. She sprang back, blazing with anger. + </p> + <p> + “What?” she cried, “me a thief by round-about,—with my hand behind + my back and my eyes shut? Never. Do you think I care only for the blame? I + tell you that is nothing. My light shall not be robbed, never, never!” + </p> + <p> + She came close to him and took him by the shoulders. Their eyes were on a + level. He was a strong man, but she was the stronger then. + </p> + <p> + “Marcel Thibault,” she said, “do you love me?” + </p> + <p> + “My faith,” he gasped, “I do. You know I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Then listen,” she continued; “this is what you are going to do. You are + going down to the shore at once to make ready the big canoe. I am going to + get food enough to last us for the month. It will be a hard pinch, but it + will do. Then we are going out to the island to-night, in less than an + hour. Day after to-morrow is the first of April. Then we shall light the + lantern, and it shall burn every night until the boat comes down. You + hear? Now go: and be quick and bring your gun.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + They pushed off in the black darkness, among the fragments of ice that lay + along the shore. They crossed the strait in silence, and hid their canoe + among the rocks on the island. They carried their stuff up to the house + and locked it in the kitchen. Then they unlocked the tower, and went in, + Marcel with his shot-gun, and Nataline with her father’s old carabine. + They fastened the door again, and bolted it, and sat down in the dark to + wait. + </p> + <p> + Presently they heard the grating of the prow of the barge on the stones + below, the steps of men stumbling up the steep path, and voices mingled in + confused talk. The glimmer of a couple of lanterns went bobbing in and out + among the rocks and bushes. There was a little crowd of eight or ten men, + and they came on carelessly, chattering and laughing. Three of them + carried axes, and three others a heavy log of wood which they had picked + up on their way. + </p> + <p> + “The log is better than the axes,” said one; “take it in your hands this + way, two of you on one side, another on the opposite side in the middle. + Then swing it back and forwards and let it go. The door will come down, I + tell you, like a sheet of paper. But wait till I give the word, then swing + hard. One—two—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” cried Nataline, throwing open the little window. “If you dare to + touch that door, I shoot.” + </p> + <p> + She thrust out the barrel of the rifle, and Marcel’s shot-gun appeared + beside it. The old rifle was not loaded, but who knew that? Besides, both + barrels of the shot-gun were full. + </p> + <p> + There was amazement in the crowd outside the tower, and consternation, and + then anger. + </p> + <p> + “Marcel,” they shouted, “you there? MAUDIT POLISSON! Come out of that. Let + us in. You told us—” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” answered Marcel, “but I was mistaken, that is all. I stand by + Mademoiselle Fortin. What she says is right. If any man tries to break in + here, we kill him. No more talk!” + </p> + <p> + The gang muttered; cursed; threatened; looked at the guns; and went off to + their boat. + </p> + <p> + “It is murder that you will do,” one of them called out, “you are a + murderess, you Mademoiselle Fortin! you cause the people to die of + hunger!” + </p> + <p> + “Not I,” she answered; “that is as the good God pleases. No matter. The + light shall burn.” + </p> + <p> + They heard the babble of the men as they stumbled down the hill; the + grinding of the boat on the rocks as they shoved off; the rattle of the + oars in the rowlocks. After that the island was as still as a graveyard. + </p> + <p> + Then Nataline sat down on the floor in the dark, and put her face in her + hands, and cried. Marcel tried to comfort her. She took his hand and + pushed it gently away from her waist. + </p> + <p> + “No, Marcel,” she said, “not now! Not that, please, Marcel! Come into the + house. I want to talk with you.” + </p> + <p> + They went into the cold, dark kitchen, lit a candle and kindled a fire in + the stove. Nataline busied herself with a score of things. She put away + the poor little store of provisions, sent Marcel for a pail of water, made + some tea, spread the table, and sat down opposite to him. For a time she + kept her eyes turned away from him, while she talked about all sorts of + things. Then she fell silent for a little, still not looking at him. She + got up and moved about the room, arranged two or three packages on the + shelves, shut the damper of the stove, glancing at Marcel’s back out of + the corners of her eyes. Then she came back to her chair, pushed her cup + aside, rested both elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, and + looked Marcel square in the face with her clear brown eyes. + </p> + <p> + “My friend,” she said, “are you an honest man, un brave garcon?” + </p> + <p> + For an instant he could say nothing. He was so puzzled. “Why yes, + Nataline,” he answered, “yes, surely—I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “Then let me speak to you without fear,” she continued. “You do not + suppose that I am ignorant of what I have done this night. I am not a + baby. You are a man. I am a girl. We are shut up alone in this house for + two weeks, a month, God knows how long. You know what that means, what + people will say. I have risked all that a girl has most precious. I have + put my good name in your hands.” + </p> + <p> + Marcel tried to speak, but she stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “Let me finish. It is not easy to say. I know you are honourable. I trust + you waking and sleeping. But I am a woman. There must be no love-making. + We have other work to do. The light must not fail. You will not touch me, + you will not embrace me—not once—till after the boat has come. + Then”—she smiled at him like a sunburned angel—“well, is it a + bargain?” + </p> + <p> + She put out one hand across the table. Marcel took it in both of his own. + He did not kiss it. He lifted it up in front of his face. + </p> + <p> + “I swear to you, Nataline, you shall be to me as the Blessed Virgin + herself.” + </p> + <p> + The next day they put the light in order, and the following night they + kindled it. They still feared another attack from the mainland, and + thought it needful that one of them should be on guard all the time, + though the machine itself was working beautifully and needed little + watching. Nataline took the night duty; it was her own choice; she loved + the charge of the lamp. Marcel was on duty through the day. They were + together for three or four hours in the morning and in the evening. + </p> + <p> + It was not a desperate vigil like that affair with the broken clockwork + eight years before. There was no weary turning of the crank. There was + just enough work to do about the house and the tower to keep them busy. + The weather was fair. The worst thing was the short supply of food. But + though they were hungry, they were not starving. And Nataline still played + the fife. She jested, she sang, she told long fairy stories while they sat + in the kitchen. Marcel admitted that it was not at all a bad arrangement. + </p> + <p> + But his thoughts turned very often to the arrival of the supply-boat. He + hoped it would not be late. The ice was well broken up already and driven + far out into the gulf. The boat ought to be able to run down the shore in + good time. + </p> + <p> + One evening as Nataline came down from her sleep she saw Marcel coming up + the rocks dragging a young seal behind him. + </p> + <p> + “Hurra!” he shouted, “here is plenty of meat. I shot it out at the end of + the island, about an hour ago.” + </p> + <p> + But Nataline said that they did not need the seal. There was still food + enough in the larder. On shore there must be greater need. Marcel must + take the seal over to the mainland that night and leave it on the beach + near the priest’s house. He grumbled a little, but he did it. + </p> + <p> + That was on the twenty-third of April. The clear sky held for three days + longer, calm, bright, halcyon weather. On the afternoon of the + twenty-seventh the clouds came down from the north, not a long furious + tempest, but a brief, sharp storm, with considerable wind and a whirling, + blinding fall of April snow. It was a bad night for boats at sea, + confusing, bewildering, a night when the lighthouse had to do its best. + Nataline was in the tower all night, tending the lamp, watching the + clockwork. Once it seemed to her that the lantern was so covered with snow + that light could not shine through. She got her long brush and scraped the + snow away. It was cold work, but she gloried in it. The bright eye of the + tower, winking, winking steadily through the storm seemed to be the sign + of her power in the world. It was hers. She kept it shining. + </p> + <p> + When morning came the wind was still blowing fitfully off shore, but the + snow had almost ceased. Nataline stopped the clockwork, and was just + climbing up into the lantern to put out the lamp, when Marcel’s voice + hailed her. + </p> + <p> + “Come down, Nataline, come down quick. Make haste!” + </p> + <p> + She turned and hurried out, not knowing what was to come; perhaps a + message of trouble from the mainland, perhaps a new assault on the + lighthouse. + </p> + <p> + As she came out of the tower, her brown eyes heavy from the night-watch, + her dark face pale from the cold, she saw Marcel standing on the rocky + knoll beside the house and pointing shoreward. + </p> + <p> + She ran up beside him and looked. There, in the deep water between the + island and the point, lay the supply-boat, rocking quietly on the waves. + </p> + <p> + It flashed upon her in a moment what it meant—the end of her fight, + relief for the village, victory! And the light that had guided the little + ship safe through the stormy night into the harbour was hers. + </p> + <p> + She turned and looked up at the lamp, still burning. + </p> + <p> + “I kept you!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + Then she turned to Marcel; the colour rose quickly in her cheeks, the + light sparkled in her eyes; she smiled, and held out both her hands, + whispering, “Now you shall keep me!” + </p> + <p> + There was a fine wedding on the last day of April, and from that time the + island took its new name,—the Isle of the Wise Virgin. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1048 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |