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diff --git a/44257-h/44257-h.htm b/44257-h/44257-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..61d5aa8 --- /dev/null +++ b/44257-h/44257-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4765 @@ +<!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" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <link rel="coverpage" href="images/front_cover.jpg"/> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Cape Breton Tales, by Harry James Smith. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} +.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} +.p6 {margin-top: 6em;} + +.ph3 {margin: 2em auto; text-align:center; 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*/ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; +} /* page numbers */ + +.linenum { + position: absolute; + top: auto; + left: 4%; +} /* poetry number */ + + +.bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + +.bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + +.bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + +.br {border-right: solid 2px;} + +.bbox {border: solid 2px;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} +.smcapall {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} + +.u {text-decoration: underline;} + + +em.gesperrt +{ + font-style: normal; +} + +.caption {font-weight: bold;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.figleft { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 0; + margin-top: 0; + margin-right: 1em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +.figright { + float: right; + clear: right; + margin-left: 1em; + margin-bottom: + 1em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-right: 0; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +/* Footnotes */ +.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poem { + margin-left:10%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align: left; +} + +.poem br {display: none;} + +.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + + +span.dropcap {visibility: hidden; display: none;} +@media handheld { + div.dropcap {visibility: hidden; display: none;} + span.dropcap {visibility: visible; display: inline;} +} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:smaller; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; } + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + </style> + </head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44257 ***</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/front_cover.jpg" width="400" height="600" alt="" /> +</div> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<h1>CAPE BRETON TALES</h1> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 411px;"> +<a name="INNER_HARBOR" id="INNER_HARBOR"></a> +<img src="images/inner_harbor.jpg" width="411" height="600" alt="" /> +<div class="caption center">THE INNER HARBOR</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p class="tptitle center">CAPE BRETON TALES</p> + +<p class="center">BY</p> + +<p class="tptitle2 center">HARRY JAMES SMITH</p> + +<p class="tptitle3 center">AUTHOR OF</p> + +<p class="center"><i>Amédée's Son, Enchanted Ground, Mrs. Bumpstead Leigh, +Tailor Made Man, etc.</i></p> + +<p class="tptitle4 center">WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY</p> + +<p class="center">OLIVER M. WIARD</p> + +<div class="figcenter vspace" style="width: 106px;"> +<img src="images/title_page.png" width="106" height="80" alt="" /> +</div> + +<p class="tptitle5 center"><i>The</i> ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS</p> + +<p class="center">BOSTON</p> +<hr class="tb" /> +<p class="center">Copyright 1920</p> + +<p class="center"><i>Printed in the United States of America</i> +</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + + + + + +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</a></h2> + +<table summary="Contents"> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">On the French Shore of Cape Breton (1908)</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><span><a href="#ON_THE_FRENCH_SHORE_OF">1</a></span></td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">La Rose Witnesseth (1908)</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#LA_ROSE_WITNESSETH">17</a></td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcapall"> Of the Bucherons</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#BUCHERONS">19</a></td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcapall"> Of La Belle Mélanie</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#MELANIE">32</a></td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcapall"> Of Siméon's Son</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#SIMEON">44</a></td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">At a Breton Calvaire (1903)</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#AT_A_BRETON_CALVAIRE">57</a></td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Privilege (1910)</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#THE_PRIVILEGE">61</a></td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Their True Love (1910)</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#THEIR_TRUE_LOVE">77</a></td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Garlands for Pettipaw (1915)</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#GARLANDS_FOR_PETTIPAW">99</a></td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Fly, My Heart (1915)</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#FLY_MY_HEART">119</a></td></tr> +</table> + + + + +<hr class="chap" /> + + + + +<h2><a name="ILLUSTRATIONS" id="ILLUSTRATIONS">ILLUSTRATIONS</a></h2> + +<p class="center">By OLIVER M. WIARD</p> + +<table summary="Illustrations"> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Inner Harbor</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#INNER_HARBOR">Frontispiece</a></td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Arichat</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#ARICHAT">17</a></td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Calvaire</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#CALVAIRE">56</a></td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Fougère's Cove</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#FOUGERE">76</a></td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Fisherman's House</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#HOUSE">118</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class="chap" /> + + + + +<p><i>"On the French Shore of Cape Breton" and "The +Privilege" were first published in The Atlantic Monthly, +while "La Rose Witnesseth of La Belle Mélanie" +is reprinted from "Amédée's Son" (Chapters VIII and +IX) with the kind permission of the publishers, Houghton +Mifflin Company.</i></p> + +<p><i>"At a Breton Calvaire" was first published in The +Williams Literary Monthly during undergraduate +days, and was rewritten several times during the next +few years. The final form is the one used here, except +for the last stanza, which is a combination of the two +versions now extant.</i></p> + +<p><i>The illustrations are from sketches made during Oliver +Wiard's visits in Arichat. It is an especial pleasure +to include them, not only because of their fidelity and +beauty, but also because of my brother's enthusiastic +interest and delight in them.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> +<span class="smcap">Edith Smith.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ON_THE_FRENCH_SHORE_OF" id="ON_THE_FRENCH_SHORE_OF">ON THE FRENCH SHORE OF +CAPE BRETON</a></h2> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> + + + + +<p class="ph3">ON THE FRENCH SHORE OF +CAPE BRETON</p> + + +<div class="figleft dropcap" style="width: 79px;"> +<img src="images/i_015.png" width="79" height="81" alt="" /> +<div class="caption"></div> +</div> +<p><span class="dropcap">S</span>ummer comes late along the Cape Breton +shore; and even while it stays there is something +a little diffident and ticklish about it, +as if each clear warm day might perhaps be +the last. Though by early June the fields are in their +first emerald, there are no flowers yet. The little convent +girls who carry the banners at the head of the +Corpus Christi procession at Arichat wear wreaths of +artificial lilies of the valley and marguerites over their +white veils, and often enough their teeth chatter with +cold before the completion of the long march—out +from the church portals westward by the populous +street, then up through the steep open fields to the old +Calvary on top of the hill, then back to the church along +the grass-grown upper road, far above the roofs, in +full view of the wide bay.</p> + +<p>Despite some discomforts, the procession is a very +great event; every house along the route is decked out +with bunting or flags or a bright home-made carpet, +hung from a window. Pots of tall geraniums in scarlet +bloom have been set out on the steps; and numbers +of little evergreen trees, or birches newly in leaf, have +been brought in from the country and bound to the +fences. Along the roadside are gathered all the Acadians +from the neighboring parishes, devoutly gay,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> +enchanted with the pious spectacle. The choir, following +after the richly canopied Sacrament and swinging +censers, are chanting psalms of benediction and thanksgiving; +banners and flags and veils flutter in the wind; +the harbor, ice-bound so many months, is flecked with +dancing white-caps and purple shadows: surely summer +cannot be far off.</p> + +<p>"When once the ice has done passing <i>down there</i>," +they say—"which may happen any time now—you +will see! Perhaps all in a day the change will come. +The fog that creeps in so cold at night—it will all be +sucked up; the sky will be clear as glass down to the +very edge of the water. Ah, the fine season it will +be!"</p> + +<p>That is the way summer arrives on the Acadian +shore: everything bursting pell-mell into bloom; daisies +and buttercups and August flowers rioting in the +fields, lilacs and roses shedding their fragrance in sheltered +gardens; and over all the world a drench of +unspeakable sunlight.</p> + +<p>You could never forget your first sight of Arichat if +you entered its narrow harbor at this divine moment. +Steep, low hills, destitute of trees, set a singularly definite +sky-line just behind; and the town runs—dawdles, +rather—in a thin, wavering band for some miles sheer +on the edge of the water. Eight or ten wharves, some +of them fallen into dilapidation, jut out at intervals +from clumps of weatherbeaten storehouses; and a few +small vessels, it may be, are lying up alongside or +anchored idly off shore. Only the occasional sound of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> +a creaking block or of a wagon rattling by on the hard +roadway breaks the silence.</p> + +<p>Along the street the houses elbow one another in +neighborly groups, or straggle out in single file, separated +by bits of declivitous white-fenced yard; and to +the westward, a little distance up the hill, sits the +square church, far outvying every other edifice in size +and dignity, glistening white, with a tall bronze Virgin +on the peak of the roof—Our Lady of the Assumption, +the special patron of the Acadians.</p> + +<p>But what impresses you above all is the incredible +vividness of color in this landscape: the dazzling gold-green +of the fields, heightened here and there by luminous +patches of foam-white where the daisies are in +full carnival, or subdued to duller tones where, on uncultivated +ground, moss-hummocks and patches of rock +break through the investiture of grass. The sky has +so much room here too: the whole world seems to be +adrift in azure; the thin strip of land hangs poised +between, claimed equally by firmament and the waters +under it.</p> + +<p>In the old days, they tell us, Arichat was a very different +place from now. Famous among the seaports +of the Dominion, it saw a continual coming and going +of brigs and ships and barquentines in the South American +fish trade.</p> + +<p>"But if you had known it then!" they say. "The +wharves were as thick all the length of the harbor as +the teeth of a comb; and in winter, when the vessels +were laid up—eh, mon Dieu! you would have called it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> +a forest, for all the masts and spars you saw there. +No indeed, it was not dreamed of in those days that +Arichat would ever come to this!"</p> + +<p>So passes the world's glory! An air of tender, +almost jealous reminiscence hangs about the town; and +in its gentle decline into obscurity it has kept a sort of +dignity, a self-possession, a certain look of wisdom and +experience, which in a sense make it proof against all +arrows of outrageous Fortune.</p> + +<p>Back from the other shore of the harbor, jutting out +for some miles into Chedabucto Bay, lies the Cape. +You get a view of it if you climb to the crest of the +hill—a broad reach of barrens, fretted all day by the +sea. Out there it is what the Acadians call a bad +country. About the sluice-like coves that have been +eaten into its rocky shore are scrambling groups of +fishermen's houses; but aside from these and the lighthouse +on the spit of rocks to southward, the region is +uninhabited—a waste of rock and swamp-alder and +scrub-balsam, across which a single thread of a road +takes its circuitous way, dipping over steep low hills, +turning out for gnarls of rock and patches of gleaming +marsh, losing itself amid dense thickets of alder, then +emerging upon some bare hilltop, where the whole +measureless sweep of sea and sky fills the vision.</p> + +<p>When the dusk begins to fall of an autumn afternoon—between +dog and wolf, as the saying goes—you +could almost believe in the strange noises—the +rumblings, clankings, shrill voices—that are to be +heard above the dull roar of the sea by belated passers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> +on the barrens. Some people have seen death-fires +too, and a headless creature, much like a horse, galloping +through the darkness; and over there at Fougère's +Cove, the most remote settlement of the Cape, there +were knockings at doors through all one winter from +hands not human. The Fougères—they were mostly +of one tribe there—were driven to desperation; they +consulted a priest; they protected themselves with +blessed images, with prayers and holy water; and no +harm came to them, though poor Marcelle, who was a +<i>jeune fille</i> of marriageable age, was prostrated for a +year with the fright of it.</p> + +<p>This barren territory, where nothing grows above +the height of a man's shoulder, still goes by the name +of "the woods"—<i>les bois</i>—among the Acadians. +"Once the forest was magnificent here," they tell you—"trees +as tall as the church tower; but the great fire +swept it all away; and never has there been a good +growth since. For one thing, you see, we must get our +firewood from it somehow."</p> + +<p>This fact accounts for a curious look in the ubiquitous +stubby evergreens: their lower branches spread +flat and wide close on the ground,—that is where the +snow in winter protects them,—and above reaches a +thin, spire-like stem, trimmed close, except for new +growth at the top, of all its branches. It gives suggestion +of a harsh, misshapen, all but defeated existence; +the adverse forces are so tyrannical out here on +the Cape, the material of life so sparse.</p> + +<p>I remember once meeting a little funeral train<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> +crossing the barrens. They were bearing the body of +a young girl, Anna Béjean, to its last rest, five miles +away by the road, in the yard of the parish church +amongst the wooden crosses. The long box of pine +lay on the bottom of a country wagon, and a wreath +of artificial flowers and another of home-dyed immortelles +were fastened to the cover. A young fisherman, +sunburned and muscular, was leading the horse along +the rough road, and behind followed three or four +carts, carrying persons in black, all of middle age or +beyond, and silent.</p> + +<p>Yet in the full tide of summer the barrens have a +beauty in which this characteristic melancholy is only +a persistent undertone. Then the marshes flush rose-pink +with lovely multitudes of calopogons that cluster +like poising butterflies amongst the dark grasses; here +too the canary-yellow bladderwort flecks the black +pools, and the red, leathery pitcher-plant springs in +sturdy clumps from the moss-hummocks. And the +wealth of color over all the country!—gray rock +touched into life with sky-reflections; rusty green of +alder thickets, glistening silver-green of balsam and +juniper; and to the sky-line, wherever it can keep its +hold, the thin, variegated carpet of close-cropped +grass, where creeping berries of many kinds grow in +profusion. Flocks of sheep scamper untended over the +barrens all day, and groups of horses, turned out to +shift for themselves while the fishing season keeps their +owners occupied, look for a moment, nose in the air, +at the passer, kick up their heels, and race off.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span></p> + +<p>As you turn back again toward Arichat you catch a +glimpse of its glistening white church, miles distant in +reality, but looking curiously near, across a landscape +where none of the familiar standards of measure +exist. You lose it on the next decline; then it flashes +in sight again, and the blue, sun-burnished expanse of +water between. It occurs to you that the whole life of +of the country finds its focus there: christenings and +first communions, marriages and burials—how wonderfully +the church holds them all in her keeping; how +she sends out her comfort and her exhortation, her +reproach and her eternal hope across even this bad +country, where the circumstances of human life are so +ungracious.</p> + +<p>But it is on a Sunday morning, when, in response to +the quavering summons of the chapel bell, the whole +countryside gives up its population, that you get the +clearest notion of what religion means in the life of +the Acadians. From the doorway of our house, which +was close to the road at the upper end of the harbor, +we could see the whole church-going procession from +the outlying districts. The passing would be almost +unbroken from eight o'clock on for more than an hour +and a half: a varied, vivacious, friendly human stream. +They came in hundreds from the scattered villages and +hamlets of the parish—from Petit de Grat and Little +Anse and Pig Cove and Gros Nez and Point Rouge +and Cap au Guet, eight or nine miles often enough.</p> + +<p>First, those who went afoot and must allow plenty +of time on account of age: bent old fishermen, whose<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> +yellowed and shiny coats had been made for more +robust shoulders; old women, invariably in short black +capes, and black bonnets tied tight under the chin, and +in their hands a rosary and perhaps a thumb-worn missal. +Then troops of children, much <i>endimanché</i>,—one +would like to say "Sundayfied,"—trotting along +noisily, stopping to examine every object of interest by +the way, extracting all the excitement possible out of +the weekly pilgrimage.</p> + +<p>A little later the procession became more general: +young and old and middle-aged together. In Sunday +boots that creaked loudly passed numbers of men and +boys, sometimes five or six abreast, reaching from side +to side of the street, sometimes singly attendant upon +a conscious young person of the other sex. The wagons +are beginning to appear now, scattering the pedestrians +right and left as they rattle by, bearing whole +families packed in little space; and away across the +harbor, you see a small fleet of brown sails putting off +from the Cape for the nearer shore.</p> + +<p>Outside the church, in the open space before the +steps, is gathered a constantly growing multitude, a +dense, restless swarm of humanity, full of gossip and +prognostic, until suddenly the bell stops its clangor +overhead; then there is a surging up the steps and +through the wide doors of the sanctuary; and outside +all is quiet once more.</p> + +<p>The Acadians do not appear greatly to relish the +more solemn things of religion. They like better a +religion demurely gay, pervaded by light and color.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Elle est très chic, notre petite église, n'est-ce pas?" +was a comment made by a pious soul of my acquaintance, +eager to uphold the honor of her parish.</p> + +<p>Proper, mild-featured saints and smiling Virgins in +painted robes and gilt haloes abound in the Acadian +churches; on the altars are lavish decorations of artificial +flowers—silver lilies, paper roses, red and purple +immortelles; and the ceilings and pillars and wall-spaces +are often done in blue and pink, with gold stars; +such a style, one imagines, as might appeal to our modern +St. Valentine. The piety that expresses itself in +this inoffensive gayety of embellishment is more akin +to that which moves universal humanity to don its +finery o' Sundays,—to the greater glory of God,—than +to the sombre, death-remembering zeal of some +other communities. A kind religion this, one not without +its coquetries, gracious, tactful, irresistible, interweaving +itself throughout the very texture of the common +life.</p> + +<p>Last summer, out at Petit de Grat, three miles from +Arichat, where the people have just built a little church +of their own, they held a "Grand Picnic and Ball" for +the raising of funds with which to erect a glebe house. +The priest authorized the affair, but stipulated that +sunset should end each day's festivities, so that all +decencies might be respected. This parish picnic started +on a Monday and continued daily for the rest of the +week—that is to say, until all that there was to sell +was sold, and until all the youth of the vicinity had +danced their legs to exhaustion.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p> + +<p>An unoccupied shop was given over to the sale of +cakes, tartines, doughnuts, imported fruits, syrup +drinks (unauthorized beverages being obtainable elsewhere), +to the vending of chances on wheels of fortune, +target-shooting, dice-throwing, hooked rugs, +shawls, couvertures, knitted hoods, and the like; and +above all the hubbub and excitement twanged the ceaseless, +inevitable voice of a graphophone, reviving long-forgotten +rag-time.</p> + +<p>Outside, most conspicuous on the treeless slope of +hill, was a "pavilion" of boards, bunting-decked, on +which, from morn till eve, rained the incessant clump-clump +of happy feet. For music there was a succession +of performers and of instruments: a mouth-organ, +a fiddle, a concertina, each lending its particular quality +of gayety to the dance; the mouth-organ, shrill, +extravagant, whimsical, failing in richness; the concertina, +rich, noisy, impetuous, failing in fine shades; the +fiddle, wheedling, provocative, but a little thin. And +besides—the fiddle is not what it used to be in the +hands of old Fortune.</p> + +<p>Fortune died a year ago, and he was never appreciated +till death snatched him from us: the skinniest, +most ramshackle of mankind, tall, loose-jointed, shuffling +in gait; at all other times than those that called +his art into play, a shiftless, hang-dog sort of personage, +who would always be begging a coat of you, or +asking the gift of ten cents to buy him some tobacco. +But at a dance he was a despot unchallenged. Only to +hear him jig off the Irish Washerwoman was to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +acknowledge his preëminence. His bleary eyes and +tobacco-stained lips took on a radiance, his body rocked +to and fro, vibrated to the devil-may-care rhythm of +the thing, while his left foot emphatically rapped out +the measure.</p> + +<p>Until another genius shall be raised up amongst us, +Fortune's name will be held in cherished memory. For +that matter, it is not likely to die out, since, on the day +of his death, the old reprobate was married to the +mother of his seven children—baptized, married, +administered, and shuffled off in a day.</p> + +<p>It had never occurred to any of us, somehow, that +Fortune might be as transitory and impermanent as +his patron goddess herself. We had always accepted +him as a sort of ageless thing, a living symbol, a peripatetic +mortal, coming out of Petit de Grat, and going +about, tobacco in cheek, fiddle under arm, as irresponsible +as mirth itself among the sons of men. God rest +him! Another landmark gone.</p> + +<p>And old Maximen Forêt, too, from whom one used +to take weather-wisdom every day—his bench out +there in the sun is empty. Maximen's shop was just +across the street from our house—a long, darkish, +tunnel-like place under a steep roof. Tinware of all +descriptions hung in dully shining array from the ceiling; +barrels and a rusty stove and two broad low +counters occupied most of the floor space, and the +atmosphere was charged with a curious sharp odor in +which you could distinguish oil and tobacco and +molasses. The floor was all dented full of little holes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> +like a honeycomb, where Maximen had walked over it +with his iron-pointed crutch; for he was something of +a cripple. But you rarely had any occasion to enter +the smelly little shop, for no one ever bought much of +anything there nowadays.</p> + +<p>Instead, you sat down on the sunny bench beside the +old man—Acadian of the Acadians—and listened to +his tireless, genial babble—now French, now English, +as the humor struck him.</p> + +<p>"It go mak' a leetle weat'er, m'sieu," he would +say. "I t'ink you better not go fur in the p'tit caneau +t'is day. Dere is squall—là-bas—see, dark—may +be t'unner. Dat is not so unlike, dis mont'. Oh, w'at +a hell time for de hays!"</p> + +<p>For everybody who passed he had a greeting, even +for those who had hastened his business troubles +through never paying their accounts. To the last he +never lost his faith in their good intentions.</p> + +<p>"Dose poor devil fishermen," he would say, "however +dey mak' leeve, God know. You t'ink I mak' +'em go wid notting? It ain't lak dat wit' me here yet, +m'sieu. Dey pay some day, when le bon Dieu, he +send dem some feesh; dat's sure sure."</p> + +<p>If it happened that anybody stopped on business, old +Maximen would hobble to the door and tug violently +at a bell-rope.</p> + +<p>"Cr-r-r-line! Cr-r-r-line!" he would call.</p> + +<p>"Tout d' suite!" answered a shrill voice from some +remoter portion of the edifice; and a moment later an +old woman with straggling white hair, toothless gums,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> +and penetrating, humorous eyes, deepset under a forehead +of infinite wrinkles, would come shuffling up the +pebble walk from the basement.</p> + +<p>"Me voila!" she would ejaculate, panting. "Me +ol' man, he always know how to git me in a leetle minute, +hé?"</p> + +<p>On Sundays Caroline and Maximen would drive to +chapel in a queer, heavy, antiquated road-cart that had +been built especially for his use, hung almost as low +between the axles as a chariot.</p> + +<p>"We go mak' our respec' to the bon Dieu," he +would laugh, as he took the reins in hand and waited +for Célestine, the chunky little mare, to start—which +she did when the mood took her.</p> + +<p>The small shop is closed and beginning to fall to +pieces. Maximen has been making his respects amid +other surroundings for some four or five years, and +Caroline, at the end of a twelvemonth of lonely waiting, +followed after.</p> + +<p>"It seem lak I need t'e ol' man to look out for," she +used to say. "All t'e day I listen to hear t'at bell +again. 'Tout d' suite! I used to call, no matter what +I do—maybe over the stove or pounding my bread; +and den, 'Me voila, mon homme!' I would be at t'e +shop, ready to help."</p> + +<p>I suppose that wherever a man looks in the world, +if he but have the eyes to see, he finds as much of gayety +and pathos, of failure and courage, as in any particular +section of it; yet so much at least is true: that +in a little community like this, so removed from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> +larger, more spectacular conflicts of life, so face to +face, all the year, with the inveterate and domineering +forces of nature, one seems to discover a more poignant +relief in all the homely, familiar, universal episodes +of the human comedy.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<a name="ARICHAT" id="ARICHAT"></a> +<img src="images/arichat.jpg" width="600" height="418" alt="" /> +<div class="caption"><p class="center">ARICHAT</p></div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="LA_ROSE_WITNESSETH" id="LA_ROSE_WITNESSETH">LA ROSE WITNESSETH</a></h2> + +<p class="center"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">OF THE BUCHERONS</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">OF LA BELLE MÉLANIE</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">OF SIMÉON'S SON</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h3 title="OF THE BUCHERONS"><a name="BUCHERONS" id="BUCHERONS">LA ROSE WITNESSETH</a></h3> + +<p class="center"><i>Of How the Bucherons Were Punished for Their +Hard Hearts</i></p> + +<div class="figleft dropcap" style="width: 79px;"> +<img src="images/i_033.png" width="79" height="80" alt="" /> +<div class="caption"></div> +</div> +<p><span class="dropcap">I</span>t was a boy of ten who listened to La Rose, +and while he listened, the sun stood still in +the sky, there was an enchantment on all +the world. Whatever La Rose said you had +to believe, somehow. Oh, I assure you, no one could +be more exacting than she in the matter of proofs. +For persons who would give an ear to any absurd story +tattled abroad she had nothing but contempt.</p> + +<p>"Before you believe a thing," said La Rose, sagely, +"you must know whether it is true or not. That is +the most important part of a story."</p> + +<p>She would give a decisive nod to her small head and +shut her lips together almost defiantly. Yet always, +somewhere in the corner of her alert gray eye, there +seemed to be lurking the ghost of a twinkle. La Rose +had no age. She was both very young and very old. +For all she had never traveled more than ten miles +from the little Cape Breton town of Port l'Évêque, +you had the feeling that she had seen a good deal of +the world, and it is certain that her life had not been +easy; yet she would laugh as quickly and abundantly +as a young girl just home from the convent.</p> + +<p>These two were the best of comrades. La Rose had +been the boy's nurse when he was little, and as he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> +no mother she had kept a feeling of special affection +and responsibility for him. Thus it happened that +whenever she was making some little expedition out +across the harbor—say for blueberries on the barrens, +or white moorberries, or ginseng—she would get permission +from the captain for Michel to go with her; +and this was the happiest privilege in the boy's life. +Most of all because of the stories La Rose would tell +him.</p> + +<p>La Rose had a story to tell about every spot they visited, +about every person they passed. She had been +brought up, herself, out here on the Cape; and not an +inch of its territory but was familiar to her.</p> + +<p>"Now that is where those Bucherons lived," she observed +one day, as they were walking homeward from +Pig Cove by the Calvaire road. "They are all gone +now, and the house is almost fallen to pieces; but once +things were lively enough there—mon Dieu, oui!—quite +lively enough for comfort."</p> + +<p>She gave a sagacious nod to her head, with the look +of one who could say more, and would, if you urged +her a little.</p> + +<p>"Was it at the Bucherons' that all the chairs stood +on one leg?" asked Michel, thrilling mysteriously.</p> + +<p>"Oui, c'est ça," answered La Rose, in a voice of the +most sepulchral, "right there in that house, the chairs +stood on one leg and went rap—rap—against the +floor. And more than once a table with dishes and +other things on it fell over, and there were strange +sounds in the cupboard. Oh, it is certain those Bucherons<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> +were tormented; but for that matter they had +brought it on themselves because of their greediness +and their hard hearts. It came for a punishment; and +when they repented themselves, it went away."</p> + +<p>"I haven't ever heard all the story about the Bucherons," +said Michel—"or at least, not since I was +big. I am almost sure I would like it."</p> + +<p>"Well, I daresay," agreed La Rose. "It is an interesting +story in some ways; and the best of it is, it is not +one of those stories that are only to make you laugh, +and then you go right away and forget them. And +another thing: this story about the Bucherons really +happened. It was when my poor stepmother was a girl. +She lived at Pig Cove then, and that is only two miles +from Gros Nez. And one of those Bucherons was +once wanting to marry her; but do you think she would +have anything to do with a man like that?</p> + +<p>"'No,' she said. 'I will have nothing to do with +you. I would sooner not ever be married, me, than to +have you for my man.'</p> + +<p>"And the reason she spoke that way was because of +the cruelty they had shown toward that poor widow of +a Noémi, which everybody on the Cape knew about, +and it was a great scandal. And if you want me to tell +you about it, that is what I am going to do now."</p> + +<p>La Rose seated herself on a flat rock by the road, +and Michel found another for himself close by. Below +them lay a deep rocky cove, with shores as steep +as a sluice, and close above its inner margin stood the +shell of a small house. The chimney had fallen in, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> +windows were all gone—only vacant holes now, +through which you saw the daylight from the other +side, and the roof had begun to sag.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said La Rose, "it will soon be gone to pieces +entirely, and then there will be nothing to remind anyone +of those Bucherons and what torments they had. +You see there were four of them, an old woman and +two sons, and one of the sons was married, but there +were not any children; and all those four must have +had stones instead of hearts. They were only thinking +how they could get the better of other people, and so +become rich.</p> + +<p>"And before that there had been three sons at home; +but one of them—Benoît his name was—had married +a certain Noémi Boudrot; and she was as sweet and +beautiful as a lily, and he too was different from the +others; and so they had not lived here, but had got a +little house at Pig Cove, where they were very happy; +and the good God sent them two children, of a beauty +and gentleness indescribable; and they called them +Évangéline and little Benoît, but you do not need to +remember that, because it is not a part of the story.</p> + +<p>"So things went on that way for quite a while; and +all the time those four Bucherons were growing more +and more hard-hearted, like four serpents in a pile +together.</p> + +<p>"Well, one day in October that Benoît Bucheron +who lived in Pig Cove was going alone in a small cart +to Port l'Évêque to buy some provisions for winter—flour, +I suppose, and meal, and perhaps some clothes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> +and some tobacco; and instead of going direct by the +Gros Nez road, he came around this way by the Calvaire +so as to stop in and speak to his relatives; and to +see them welcoming him, you would never have suspected +their stone hearts. But Benoît was solemn for +all that, as if troubled by some idea. Then that sly +old mother, she said:</p> + +<p>"'Dear Benoît,' she said, 'what troubles you? Can +you not put trust in your own mother, who loves you +better than her eyes and nose?'—and she smiled at +him just like a fat wicked old spider that is waiting for +a fly to come and get tangled up in her net.</p> + +<p>"But Benoît only remembered then that she was his +mother; so he said:</p> + +<p>"'I have a fear, me, that I shall not be long for this +world, my mother. Last week I saw a little blue fire +on the barrens one night, and again one night I heard +hoofs going <i>claquin-claquant</i> down there on the beach, +much like the horse without head. And that is why I +am getting my provisions so early, and making everything +ready for the winter. See,' he said, 'here is the +thirteen dollars I have saved this year. I am going to +buy things with it in Port l'Évêque.'</p> + +<p>"Now you may depend that when he showed them +all that money, their eyes stuck out like the eyes of +crabs; but of course they did not say anything only +some words of the most comforting. And finally he +said, getting ready to go:</p> + +<p>"'If anything should happen,' he said, 'will you +promise me to be good to that poor Noémi and those<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> +two poor little innocent lambs?'—and those serpents +said, certainly, they would do all that was possible; +and with that Benoît gets into his cart, and starts down +the hill; and suddenly the horse takes a fright of something +and runs away, and the cart tips over, and Benoît +is thrown out; and when his brothers get to him he is +quite quite dead—and that shows what it means to +see one of those little blue fires at night in the woods.</p> + +<p>"Well, you can believe that Noémi was not very +happy when they brought back that poor Benoît to Pig +Cove. Her eyes were like two brooks, and for a long +time she could not say anything, and then finally, summoning +a little voice of courage:</p> + +<p>"'I am glad of one thing,' she said, 'which is that +he had saved all that money, for without it I would +never know how to live through the winter.'</p> + +<p>"And one of those brothers said, with an innocent +voice of a dove, 'what money then?'—and she said, +'He had it with him.' And so they look for it; but no, +there is not any.</p> + +<p>"'You must have deceived yourself,' said that +brother. 'I am sure he would have spoken of it if he +had had any money with him; but he said never a word +of such a thing.'</p> + +<p>"Now was not that a wicked lie for him to tell? It +is hard to understand how abominable can be some of +those men! But you may be sure they will be punished +for it in the end; and that is what happened to those +four serpents, the Bucherons.</p> + +<p>"For listen. The old mother had taken the money<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> +and had put it inside a sort of covered bowl, like a +sugar bowl, but there was no sugar in it; and then she +had set this bowl away on a shelf in the cupboard +where they kept the dishes and such things; and the +Bucherons thought it would be safe until the time when +they had something to spend it for in Port l'Évêque; +and they were telling themselves how no one would +ever know what they had done; and they were glad +that the promise they had made to Benoît had not been +heard by anyone but themselves. And so that poor +Noémi was left all alone without man or money; but +sometimes the neighbors would give her a little food; +but for all that those two lambs were often hungry, +and their mother too, when it came bedtime.</p> + +<p>"But do you think the Bucherons cared—those four +hearts of stone? They would not even give her so +much as a crust of dry, mouldy bread; and Noémi was +too proud to go and beg; and beside something seemed +to tell her that there had been a wickedness somewhere, +and that the Bucherons perhaps knew more than they +had told her about that money. So she waited to see +if anything would happen.</p> + +<p>"Now one night in December, when all those four +were in the house alone, the beginning of their punishment +arrived, and surely nothing more strange was +ever heard of in this world.</p> + +<p>"'Ah, mon Dieu!' cries out the married woman all +of a sudden—'mon Dieu, what is that!'</p> + +<p>"They all looked where she was looking, and what +do you think they saw? There was a chair standing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> +with three legs in the air, and only the little point of +one on the floor.</p> + +<p>"The old woman pushed a scream and jumped to +her feet and went over to it, and with much force set it +back on the floor, the way a chair is meant to stand; +but immediately when she let go of it, there it was +again, as before, all on one leg.</p> + +<p>"And then, there cries out the younger woman again, +with a voice shrill as a frightened horse that throws up +its head and then runs away—'Oh, mère Bucheron, +mère Bucheron,' cries she, 'the chair you were just sitting +in is three legs in air too!'</p> + +<p>"And so it was! With that all the family got up in +terror; but no sooner had they done that than at once +all the chairs behaved just like the first, which made +five chairs. These chairs did not seem to move at all, +but stood there on one leg just as if they were always +like that. Those Bucherons were almost dead with +fright, and all four of them fled out of the house as fast +as ever their legs could carry them—you would have +said sheep chased by a mad dog—and never stopped +for breath till they reached Gros Nez.</p> + +<p>"And pell-mell into old Pierre Leblanc's house all +together, and shaking like ague. Hardly able to talk, +they tell what has happened; and he will not believe +them but says, well, he will go back with them and see. +So he does, and they re-enter the house together, and +look! the chairs are all just as usual.</p> + +<p>"'You have been making some crazy dreams,' says +Pierre, rather angry, 'or else,' he says, 'you have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> +something bad in your hearts.' And with that he goes +home again; and there is nothing more to be told about +that night, though I daresay none of those wicked persons +slept very well.</p> + +<p>"But that was only the beginning of what happened +to them during that winter. Sometimes it would be +these knockings about the roof, as of someone with a +great hammer; and again it was as if they had seen a +face at the window—just an instant, all white, in the +dark—and then it would be gone. And often, often, +the chairs would be standing as before on one leg. The +table likewise, which once let fall a great crowd of +dishes, and not a few were broken. But worst of all +were these strange sounds that made themselves heard +in the cupboard, like the hand of a corpse going rap—rap, +rap—rap—rap, rap,—against the lid of its +coffin. You may well believe it was a dreadful fright +for those four infamous ones; but still they would do +nothing, because of their desire to keep all that money +and buy things with it.</p> + +<p>"Everybody on the Cape soon knew about what was +happening at the Bucherons', but some pretended it +was to laugh at, saying that such things did not happen +nowadays; and others said the Bucherons must have +gone crazy, and had better be left alone—and their +arms and legs would sometimes keep jerking a little +when they talked to anyone, as my stepmother told me +a thousand times; and they had a way of looking +behind them—so!—as if they were afraid of being +pursued. So however that might be, nobody would go +and see them.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, things went on like that for quite a while, +and finally, one day in February, through all the snow +that it made on the ground then, that poor Noémi +marched on her feet from Pig Cove to her mother-in-law's, +having left her two infants at a neighbor's; for +she had resolved herself to ask for some help, seeing +that she had had nothing but a little bite since three +days. And when they saw her coming they were taken +with a fright, and at first they were not going to let +her in; but that old snake of a mother, she said:</p> + +<p>"'If we refuse to let her in, my children, she will go +and suspect something.'</p> + +<p>"So they let her in, and when she was in, they let +her make all her story, or as much as she had breath +for, and then:</p> + +<p>"'I am sorry,' said this old snake of a mother, 'that +we cannot possibly do anything for you. Alas, my dear +little daughter, it is barely even if we can manage to +hold soul and body together ourselves, with the terrible +winter it makes these days.'</p> + +<p>"And just as she said that, what do you think happened? +A chair got on one leg and went rap—rap, +rap—against the floor.</p> + +<p>"That Noémi would often be telling about it afterwards +to my stepmother, and she said never of her life +had she seen anything so terrifying. But she did not +scream or do anything like that, because something, +she said, inside her seemed to bid her keep quiet just +then. And she used to tell how that old Bucheron +woman's face turned exactly the color of an oyster on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> +a white plate, and a trembling took her, and finally she +said, scarcely able to make the sound of the words:</p> + +<p>"'Though perhaps—I might find—a crust of +bread somewhere that—that we could spare.'</p> + +<p>"That was how she spoke, and at the same instant, +<i>rap</i> went the chair, still on its one leg; and there was a +sound of a hammering on the roof.</p> + +<p>"'Or perhaps—a little loaf of bread and some +potatoes,' said that old Bucheron, while the other +Bucherons sat there without one word, in their chairs, +as if paralyzed, except that their hands kept up a little +shaking motion all the time, like this scour-grass you +get in the marsh, which trembles always even if there +is not any wind. 'Or perhaps a loaf of bread and some +potatoes'—that is what she was saying, when listen, +there is a knock as of the hand of corpse just inside the +cupboard; and suddenly the two doors fly open—you +would have said <i>pushed</i> from the inside!</p> + +<p>"Noémi crosses herself, but does not say anything, +for she knows it is a time to keep still.</p> + +<p>"'And perhaps,' says the old woman then, in a voice +of the most piteous, as if someone were giving her a +pinch, 'and perhaps, if only I had it, a dollar or two to +help buy some medicine and a pair of shoes for that +Évangéline.... But no, I do not think we have so +much as that anywhere in the house.'</p> + +<p>"Now was not that like the old serpent, to be telling +a lie even at the last; and surely if God had struck her +dead by a ball of lightning at that moment it would +have been none too good for her. But no, he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> +going to give her a chance to repent and not to have to +go to Hell for a punishment. So what do you think +He made happen then?</p> + +<p>"Hardly had those abominable words jumped out +of her when with a great crash, down off the top shelf +comes that sugar bowl (if it was a sugar bowl), and +as it hits the floor, it breaks into a thousand pieces; +and there, in a little pile, are those thirteen dollars, +just as on the day when that poor Benoît had been carrying +them with him to Port l'Évêque.</p> + +<p>"Now just as if they are not doing it at all of their +own wish, but something makes them act that way, all +of a sudden those four Bucherons are kneeling on the +floor, saying their prayers in a strange voice like the +prayers you might hear in a tomb; and with that, the +chair goes back quietly to its four legs, and the noise +ceases on the roof, and those two cupboard doors draw +shut without human hands. As for Noémi, she grabs +up the money, and out she goes, swift as a bird that is +carrying a worm to its children, leaving her parents by +marriage still there on their knees, like so many +images; but as she opens the door she says:</p> + +<p>"'May the good God have pity on all the four of +you!'—which was a Christian thing to say, seeing +how much she had suffered at their hands.</p> + +<p>"Well, there is not much more to tell. Noémi got +through the rest of that winter without any more +trouble; and the next year she married a fisherman +from Little Anse, and went away from the Cape. As +for the Bucherons, they were not like the same people<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> +any more. You would not have known them—so +pious they were and charitable, though always, perhaps, +a little strange in their ways. But when the old +woman died, two years later, or three, all the people +of Pig Cove and Gros Nez followed the corpse in to +Port l'Évêque; and her grave is there in the cemetery.</p> + +<p>"The rest of the family are gone now too, as you +see; and soon, I suppose, there will not be many left, +even out here on the Cape, who know all about what +happened to the Bucherons, because of their hard +hearts; which is a pity, seeing that the story has such a +good lesson to it...."</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h3 title="OF LA BELLE MÉLANIE"><a name="MELANIE" id="MELANIE">LA ROSE WITNESSETH</a></h3> + +<p class="center"><a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a><i>Of the Headless Horse and of La Belle Mélanie's +Narrow Escape from the Feu Follet</i></p> + + +<div class="footnote"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> Included with permission of and by arrangements with Houghton Mifflin Company +authorized publishers.</p></div> + +<div class="figleft dropcap" style="width: 80px;"> +<img src="images/i_046.png" width="80" height="79" alt="" /> +<div class="caption"></div> +</div> +<p><span class="dropcap">O</span>ne of the privileges Michel esteemed most +highly was that of accompanying La Rose +occasionally when she went blueberrying +over on the barrens—<i>dans les bois</i>, as the +phrase still goes in Port l'Évêque, though it is all of +sixty years since there were any woods there. The +best barrens for blueberrying lay across the harbor. +They reached back to the bay four or five miles to +southward. Along the edges of several rocky coves, +narrow and steep as a sluice, clung a few weatherbeaten +fishermen's houses; but there was no other sign +of human habitation.</p> + +<p>It is what they call a bad country over there. Alder +and scrub balsam grow sparsely over the low rocky +hills, where little flocks of sheep nibble all day at the +thin herbage; and from the marshes that lie, green and +mossy, at the foot of every slope, a solitary loon may +occasionally be seen rising into the air with a great +spread of slow wings. A single thread of a road +makes its way somehow across the region, twisting in +and out among the small hills, now climbing suddenly +to a bare elevation, from which the whole sweep of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> +sea bursts upon the view, now shelving off along the +side of a knoll of rocks, quickly dipping into some +close hollow, where the world seems to reach no +farther than to the strange sky-line, wheeling sharply +against infinite space.</p> + +<p>Two miles back from the inner shore, the road +forks at the base of a little hill more conspicuously +bare than the rest, and close to the naked summit of it, +overlooking all the Cape, stands a Calvary. Nobody +knows how long it has stood there, or why it was first +erected; though tradition has it that long, long ago, a +certain man by the name of Toussaint was there set +upon by wild beasts and torn to pieces. However that +may be, the tall wooden cross, painted black, and bearing +on its center, beneath a rude penthouse, a small +iron crucifix, has been there longer than any present +memory records—an encouragement, as they say, for +those who have to cross the bad country after dark.</p> + +<p>"That makes courage for you," they say. "It is +good to know it is there on the windy nights."</p> + +<p>By daylight, however, and especially in the sunshine, +the barrens are quite without other terrors than those +of loneliness; and upon Michel this remoteness and +silence always exercised a kind of spell. He was glad +that La Rose was with him, partly because he would +have been a little afraid to be there quite by himself, +but chiefly because of the imaginative sympathy that at +this time existed so strongly between them. La Rose +could tell him all about the strange things that had +been seen here of winter nights; she herself once, ten<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>ding +a poor old sick woman at Gros Nez, out at the end +of the Cape, had heard the hoofs of the white horse +that gallops across the barrens <i>claquin-claquant</i> in the +darkness.</p> + +<p>"It was just there outside the house, pawing the +ground. Almost paralyzed for terror, I ran to the +window and looked out. It was as tall as the church +door,—that animal,—all white, and there was no +head to it.</p> + +<p>"'Oh, mère Babinot,' I whispered, scarcely able to +make the sound of the words. 'It is as tall as the +church door and all white.'</p> + +<p>"She sits up in bed and stares at me like a corpse. +'La Rose,' she says,—just like that, shrill as a whistle +of wind,—'La Rose, do you see a head to it?'</p> + +<p>"'No, not any!'</p> + +<p>"'Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu! Then it's sure! It is +the very one, the horse without head!'</p> + +<p>"And the next day she took only a little spoonful of +tea, and in two weeks she was dead, poor mère Babinot; +and that's as true as that I made my communion +last Easter. Oh, it's often seen hereabouts, that horse. +It's a sign that something will happen, and never has +it failed yet."</p> + +<p>They made their way, La Rose and Michel, slowly +over the low hills, picking the blueberries that grew +thickly in clumps of green close to the ground. La +Rose always wore a faded yellow-black dress, the skirt +caught up, to save it, over a red petticoat; and on her +small brown head she carried the old Acadian <i>mou<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>choir</i>, +black, brought up to a peak in front, and knotted +at the side.</p> + +<p>She picked rapidly, with her alert, spry movements, +her head always cocked a little to one side, almost +humorously, as she peered about among the bushes for +the best spots. And wherever he was, Michel heard +her chattering softly to herself, in an inconsequential +undertone, now humming a scrap of some pious song, +now commenting on the quality of the berry crop—never +had she seen so few and so small as these last +years. Surely there must be something to account for +it. Perhaps the birds had learned the habitude of devouring +them—now addressing some strayed sheep +that had ventured with timid bleats within range: +"Te voilà, petit méchant! Little rogue! What are +you looking about for? Did the others go off and +leave you? Eh bien, that's how it happens, mon +petit. They'll leave you. The world's like that. Eh, +là, là!"</p> + +<p>He liked to go to the other side of the hill, out of +sight of her, where he could imagine that he was lost +<i>dans les bois</i>. Then he would listen for her continual +soft garrulity; and if he could not hear it he would +wait quietly for a minute in the silence, feeling a +strange exhilaration, which was almost pain, in the +presence of the great sombre spaces, the immense +emptiness of the overhanging sky, until he could endure +it no longer.</p> + +<p>"La Rose!" he would call. "Êtes-vous toujours +là?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Mais oui, mon enfant. What do you want?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing. It is only that I was thinking."</p> + +<p>"The strange child that you are!" she would exclaim. +"You are not like the others."</p> + +<p>"La Rose," he would ask, "was it by here that La +Belle Mélanie passed on the night she saw the death +fire?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, by this very spot. She was on her way to Pig +Cove, over beyond the Calvary to the east. It is a +desolate little rat-hole, Pig Cove, nowadays; but then +it was different—as many as two dozen houses. My +stepmother lived in one of them. Now there are +scarcely six, and falling to pieces at that. La Belle +Mélanie, she was a Boudrot, sister of the Pierre Boudrot +whose son, Théobald, was brother-in-law of stepmother. +That was many years ago. They are all dead +now, or gone away from here—to Boston, I daresay."</p> + +<p>"Will you tell me about that again,—the <i>feu follet</i> +and Mélanie?"</p> + +<p>It was the story Michel liked the best, most of all +when he could sit beside La Rose, on a moss-hummock +of some rough hill on the barrens. Perhaps there +would be cloud shadows flitting like dream presences +across the shining face of the moor. In the distance, +over the backs of the hills that crouched so thickly +about them, he saw the stretch of the ocean, a motionless +floor of azure and purple, flecked, it might be, by +a leaning sail far away; and now and then a gull or +two would fly close over their heads, wheeling and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> +screaming for a few seconds, and then off again +through the blue.</p> + +<p>"S'il vous plaît, tante La Rose, see how many berries +I have picked already!"</p> + +<p>The little woman was not difficult of persuasion.</p> + +<p>"It was in November," she began. "There had not +been any snow yet; but the nights were cold and terribly +dark under a sky of clouds. That autumn, as my +stepmother often told me, many people had seen the +horse without head as it galloped <i>claquin-claquant</i> +across the barrens. At Gros Nez it was so bad that +no one dared go out after dark, unless it was to run +with all one's force to the neighbors—but not across +the woods to save their souls. Especially because of +the <i>feu follet</i>.</p> + +<p>"Now you must know that the <i>feu follet</i> is of all +objects whatever in the world the most mysterious. No +one knows what it is or when it will come. You might +walk across the barrens every night of your life and +never encounter it; and again it might come upon you +all unawares, not more than ten yards from your own +threshold. It is more like a ball of fire than any other +mortal thing, now large, now small, and always moving. +Usually it is seen first hovering over one of the +marshes, feeding on the poison vapors that rise from +them at night: it floats there, all low, and like a little +luminous cloud, so faint as scarcely to be seen by the +eye. And sometimes people can travel straight by it, +giving no attention, as if they did not know it was +there, but keeping the regard altogether ahead of them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +on the road, and the <i>feu follet</i> will let them pass without +harm.</p> + +<p>"But that does not happen often, for there are not +many who can keep their wits clear enough to manage +it. It brings a sort of dizziness, and one's legs grow +weak. And then the <i>feu follet</i> draws itself together +into a ball of fire and begins to pursue. It glides over +the hills and flies across the marshes, sometimes in +circles, sometimes bounding from rock to rock, but all +the while stealing a little closer and a little closer, no +matter how fast you run away. And finally—bff! like +that—it's upon you—and that's the end. Death for +a certainty. Not all the medicine in the four parishes +can help you.</p> + +<p>"Indeed, there are only two things in all the world +that can save you from the <i>feu follet</i> once it gets after +you. One is, if you are in a state of grace, all your +sins confessed; which does not happen often to the +inhabitants of Pig Cove, for even at this day Père Galland +reproaches them for their neglect. And the other +is, if you have a needle with you. So little a thing as a +needle is enough, incredible as it may seem; for if you +stick the needle upright—like that—in an old stump, +the <i>feu follet</i> gets all tangled up in the eye of it. Try +as it will, it cannot free itself; and meanwhile you run +away, and are safe before it reappears. That is why +all the inhabitants of the Cape used to carry a needle +stuck somewhere in their garments, to use on such an +occasion.</p> + +<p>"Well, I must tell you about La Belle Mélanie.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> +That is the name she was known by in all parts, for +she was beautiful as a lily flower, and no lily was ever +more pure and sweet than she. Mélanie lived with her +mother, who was aged almost to helplessness, and she +cared for her with all the tenderness imaginable. You +may believe that she was much sought after by the +young fellows of the Cape—yes, and of Port l'Évêque +as well, which used to hold its head in the air in those +days; but her mother would hear nothing of her +marrying.</p> + +<p>"'You are only seventeen,' she said, 'ma Mélanie. +I will hear nothing of your marrying, no, not for five +years at the least. By that time we shall see.'</p> + +<p>"And Mélanie tried to be obedient to all her +mother's commands, difficult as they often were for a +young girl, who naturally desires a little to amuse herself +sometimes. For even had her mother forbidden +her to speak alone to the young men of the neighborhood, +so fearful was she lest her daughter should think +of marriage.</p> + +<p>"Eh bien, and so that was how things went for quite +a while, and every day Mélanie grew more beautiful. +And one Saturday afternoon in November she had +been in to Port l'Évêque to make her confession, for +she was a pious girl. And when she went to meet her +companions in order to return to Pig Cove with them, +they said they were not going back that night, for there +was to be a dance at the courthouse, and they were +going to spend the night with some parents by marriage +of theirs. Poor Mélanie! she would have been glad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> +to stay, but alas, her poor mother, aged and helpless, +was expecting her, and she dared not disappoint the +poor soul.</p> + +<p>"So finally one of the young men said he would put +her across the harbor, if she did not mind traversing +the woods alone; and she said, no, why should she +mind? It was still plain daylight. And so he put her +across. And she said good-night to him and set off +along the solitary road to the Cape, little imagining +what an adventure was ahead of her.</p> + +<p>"For scarcely had she gone so much as a mile when +it had grown almost night, so suddenly at that time of +the year does the daylight extinguish itself. The sky +had grown dark, dark, and there was a look of storm +in it. La Belle Mélanie began to grow uneasy of mind. +And she thought then of the <i>feu follet</i>, and put her +hand to her bodice to assure herself of her needle. +What then! Alas! it was gone, by some accident, +whether or not she had lost it on the road or in the +church.</p> + +<p>"With that Mélanie began to feel a terror creep +over her; and this was not lessened, as you may well +believe, when, a few minutes later, she perceived a +floating thing like a luminous cloud in a marsh some +long distance from the road. The night was now all +black; scarcely could she perceive the road ahead, +always winding there among the hills.</p> + +<p>"She had the idea of running; but alas, her legs +were like lead; she could not make them march in +front of her. She saw herself already dead. The <i>feu<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> +follet</i> was beginning to move, first very slowly and all +uncertain, but then drawing itself together into a ball +of fire, and leaping as if in play from one hummock of +moss to another, just as a cat will leave a poor little +mouse half dead on the floor while it amuses itself in +another way.</p> + +<p>"What the end would have been, who would have +the courage to say, if just at this moment, all ready to +fall to the ground for terror, poor Mélanie had not +bethought herself of her rosary. It was in her pocket. +She grasped it. She crossed herself. She saluted the +crucifix. And then she commenced to say her prayers; +and with that, wonderful to say, her strength came +back to her, and she began to run. She had never ran +like that before—swift as a horse, not feeling her legs +under her, and praying with high voice all the time.</p> + +<p>"But for all that, the death fire followed, always +faster and faster, now creeping, now flying, now leaping +from rock to rock, and always drawing nearer, and +nearer, with a strange sound of a hissing not of this +world. Mélanie began to feel her forces departing. +She was almost exhausted. She would not be able to +run much more.</p> + +<p>"And suddenly, just ahead, on a bare height, there +was the tall Calvaire, and a new hope came to her. If +she could only reach it! She summoned all her strength +and struggled up. She climbs the ascent. Alas, +once more it seems she will fail! There is a fence, as +you know, built of white pales, about the cross. She +had not the power to climb it. She sinks to the ground.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> +And it was at that last minute, all flat on the ground in +fear of death, that an idea came to her, as I will +tell you.</p> + +<p>"She raises herself to her feet by clinging to the +white palings; she faces the <i>feu follet</i>, already not +more than ten yards away; she holds out the rosary, +making the holy sign in the air.</p> + +<p>"'I did not make a full confession!' she cries. 'I +omitted one thing. My mother had forbidden me to +have anything to do with a young man; and one day +when I was looking for Fanchette, our cow, who had +wandered in the woods, I met André Babinot, and he +kissed me.'</p> + +<p>"That was what saved her. The <i>feu follet</i> rushed +at her with a roar of defeat, and in the same instant it +burst apart into a thousand flames and disappeared.</p> + +<p>"As for Mélanie, she fell to the ground again, and +lay there for a while, quite unconscious. At last the +rain came on, and she revived, and set out for home, +but not very vigorously. Ah, mon Dieu! if her poor +mother was glad to see her alive again! She embraced +her most tenderly, and with encouraging voice inquired +what had happened, for Mélanie was still as white as +milk, and there was a strange smell of fire in her garments, +and still she held in her hands the little rosary; +and so finally Mélanie told her everything, not even +concealing the last confession about André, and with +that her mother burst into tears, and said:</p> + +<p>"'Mélanie,' she said, 'I have been wrong, me. A +young girl will be a young girl despite all the contrary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +intentions of her mother. To show how grateful to +God I am that you are returned to me safe and sound, +you shall marry André as soon as you like.'</p> + +<p>"So they were married the next year. And there is +a lesson to this story, too, which is that one should +always tell the truth; because if La Belle Mélanie had +told all the truth at the beginning she would not have +had all that fright.</p> + +<p>"And to show that the story is true, there were +found the marks of flames on the white fence of the +Calvaire the next day; and as often as they painted it +over with whitewash, still the darkness of the scorched +wood would show through, as I often saw for myself; +but now there is a new fence there...."</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h3 title="OF SIMÉON'S SON"><a name="SIMEON" id="SIMEON">LA ROSE WITNESSETH</a></h3> + +<p class="center"><i>Of How Old Siméon's Son Came Home Again</i></p> + + +<div class="figleft dropcap" style="width: 80px;"> +<img src="images/i_058.png" width="80" height="80" alt="" /> +<div class="caption"></div> +</div> +<p><span class="dropcap">I</span>n the old cemetery above the church some +men were at work setting up a rather ornate +monument at the head of two long-neglected +and overgrown graves. La Rose had noticed +what was going on, as she came out from early +mass, and had informed herself about it; and since +then, she said, all through the day, her thoughts had +been traveling back to things that happened many +years ago.</p> + +<p>"Is it not strange," she observed musingly, sitting +about dusk with Michel on the doorsill of the kitchen, +while Céleste finished the putting-away of the supper +dishes—"is it not strange how things go in this +world? So often they turn out sorrowfully, and you +cannot understand why that should be so. Think of +that poor Léonie Gilet, who was taken so suddenly in +the chest last winter and died all in a month, and she +one of the purest and sweetest lilies that ever existed, +and the next year she was to be married to a good man +that loved her better than both his two eyes. Ah, +mon Dieu, sometimes I think the sadness comes much +more often than the joy down here."</p> + +<p>She looked out broodingly, and with eyes that did +not see anything, across the captain's garden and the +hayfield below, dipping gently to the margin of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> +harbor. Michel was silent. La Rose's fits of melancholy +interested him even when he only dimly sensed +the burden of them.</p> + +<p>"And then," she resumed, after a moment, "sometimes +the ending to things is happy. For a while all +looks dark, dark, and there is grief, perhaps, and some +tears; and then, just at the worst moment—tiens!—there +is a change, and the happiness comes again, very +likely even greater than it was at first. It is as if this +good God up there, he could not bear any longer to see +it so heartbreaking, and so he must take things into his +own hands and set them right. And so, sometimes, +when I find myself feeling sad about things, I like to +remember what arrived to that poor Siméon Leblanc, +whose son is just having them place a fine tombstone +for him up there in the cimetière; for if ever happiness +came to any man, it came to him, and that after a +long time of griefs. Did you ever hear about this old +Siméon Leblanc?"</p> + +<p>"Never, tante La Rose," answered the boy, gravely. +"But if it has a pleasant ending, I wish you would tell +me about it, and I don't mind if it makes me cry a little +in the middle."</p> + +<p>By this, Céleste, the stout domestic, had finished her +kitchen work, and throwing an apron over her stocky +head and shoulders, she clumped out into the yard.</p> + +<p>"I am running over to Alec Samson's," she explained, +"to get a mackerel for breakfast, if he caught +any to-day."</p> + +<p>The gate clicked after her, and there was a silence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> +At last La Rose began, a little absently and as if, for +the moment at least, unaware of her auditor....</p> + +<p>"This Siméon Leblanc, he lived over there on the +other side of the harbor, just beyond the place where +the road turns off to go to the Cape. My poor stepmother +when coming in to Port l'Évêque to sell some +eggs or berries—three gallons, say, of blueberries, or +perhaps some of those large strawberries from Pig +Cove—she would often be running in there for a little +rest and a talk with his wife, Célie—who always was +glad to see any one, for that matter, the poor soul, for +this Siméon was not too gentle, and often he made her +unhappy with his harsh talk.</p> + +<p>"'Ah, mon amie,' she would say to my stepmother, +at the same time wetting her eyes with tears—'Ah, I +have such a fear, me, that he will do himself a harm, +one day, with the temper he has. He frightens me to +death sometimes—especially about that Tommy.'</p> + +<p>"Now you must understand that this Tommy was +the son they had, and in some ways he resembled to +his father, and in some ways to his mother. For it is +certain he had a pride of the most incredible, which I +daresay made him a little hard to manage; and yet in +his heart there was a softness.</p> + +<p>"'That Tommy,' said his mother, 'he wants to be +loved. That is the way to get him to do anything. +There is no use in always punishing him and treating +him hardly.'</p> + +<p>"But for all that, old Siméon must have his will, +and so he does not cease to be scolding the boy. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> +commands him now to do this thing, now that—here, +there. He forbids him to be from home at night. He +tells him he is a disgrace of a son to be so little +laborious. Oh, it was a horror the way that poor lamb +of a Tommy was treated; and finally, one day, when +he was seventeen or eighteen, there was a great quarrel, +and that Siméon called him by some cruel name, +and white as a corpse cries out Tommy:</p> + +<p>"'My father, that is not true. You shall not say +it!'—and the other, furious as an animal: 'I shall say +what I choose!' And he says the same thing again. +And Tommy: 'After that, I will not endure to stay +here another day. I am tired of being treated so. +You will not have another chance.'</p> + +<p>"And with that he places a kiss on the forehead of +his poor mother, who was letting drop some tears, and +walks out of the house without so much as turning his +head again; and he marches over to Petit Ingrat, +where there was an American fisherman which had +put in for some bait, and he says to the captain: 'Will +you give me a place?' and the captain says, 'We are +just needing another man. Yes, we will give you a +place.' So this Tommy, he got aboard, and a little +later they put out and went off to the Banks for the +fish.</p> + +<p>"Well, it was not very long before that Siméon got +over his bad wicked rage; and then he was sorry +enough for what he had done, especially because there +was no longer any son in the house, and that poor +Célie must always be grieving herself after him. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> +you may believe that Siméon got little pity from the +neighbors.</p> + +<p>"'It is good enough for him,' they would say—'a +man like that, who is not decent to his own son.'</p> + +<p>"But they were sorry for Célie, most of all when +she began to grow thinner and thinner and had a +strange look in her eyes that was not entirely of this +world. The old man said, 'She will be all right again +when that schooner comes back,' and he was always +going over to Petit Ingrat to find out if it had returned +yet; but you see, of course there would not be any need +of bait when the season was finished, and so the +schooner did not put in at all; and the autumn came, +and went by, and then followed the winter, and still no +news, but only waiting and waiting, and a little before +Easter that poor Célie went away among the angels. I +think her heart was quite broken in two, and it did not +seem to her that she needed to stay any longer in this +hustling world. And so they buried her in the old +cimetière—I saw her grave to-day, next to Siméon's, +and this fine new monument is to be for the two of +them; but for all these years there has been just a +wooden cross there, like the other graves.</p> + +<p>"But still no word came of Tommy, and the old +Siméon was all alone in the house. Oh, I can remember +him well, well, although I was only a young tiny +girl then and had not had any sorrow myself. We +would see him walking along the Petit Ingrat road, all +bent over and trailing one leg a little.</p> + +<p>"'Hst!' one of my companions would whisper,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> +'that is old Siméon, who drove his son from home; +and his poor wife is dead with grief. He is going +across there to see if a schooner will have come in yet +with any news.'</p> + +<p>"And that was true. He took this habitude of making +a promenade almost every day to Petit Ingrat during +that season of the year when the Americans are +going down to the fish—là-bas—and if there was a +schooner in the harbor, he finds the captain or one of +the crew, and he says, 'Is it, m'sieu, for example, that +you have seen a boy anywhere named Tommy Leblanc? +It is my son—you understand?—a very +pretty young boy, with black hair and fine white teeth +and a little curly mustache—so—just beginning to +sprout.' And he would go on to describe that Tommy, +but of course, for one thing they could not understand +his French very well, for the Americans, as you know, +do not speak that language among themselves; and +anyway, you may depend that none of them had ever +heard of Tommy Leblanc; and sometimes they would +have a little mockery of the old man; and sometimes, +on the contrary, they would feel pity, and would say, +well, God's name, it was a damage, but they could not +tell him anything.</p> + +<p>"And then the old man would say, 'Well, if ever you +should see him anywhere, will you please tell him that +his father is wanting him to come home, if he will be +so kind as to do it; because it is very lonesome without +him, and the mother is dead.'</p> + +<p>"Then after he had said that, he would go back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> +again along the road to the Cape, not speaking to anybody +unless they spoke to him first, and trailing one +leg after him a little, like one of these horses you see +sometimes with a weight tied to a hind foot so that it +cannot run away—or at least not very far. That is +how I remember old Siméon from the time when I was +a little girl—walking there along the road to or from +Petit Ingrat. I used to hear people say: 'Ah, my God, +how old he is grown all in these few years! He is not +the same man—so quiet and so timid'—and others: +'But can one say how it is possible for him to live there +all alone like that?'—and someone replied: 'You +could not persuade him to live anywhere else, for that +is where he has all his memories, both the good and +the bad, and what else is left for him now—that, and +the crazy idea he has that his Tommy will one day +come home again?'</p> + +<p>"You see, as the years passed, everybody took the +belief that Tommy must be dead, at sea or somewhere, +seeing that not one word was heard of him; but of +course they guarded themselves well from saying anything +like that to poor old Siméon.</p> + +<p>"Well, it was about the time when your poor father, +Amédée, was a boy of your age, or a little older, that +all this sorrow came to an end; and this is the pleasant +part of the story. I was living at Madame +Paon's then, down near the post-office wharf, and we +had the habitude of looking out of the window every +day when the packet-boat came in (which was three +times a week) to see if anybody would be landing at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> +Port l'Évêque. Well, and one afternoon whom should +we see but a fine m'sieu with black beard, carrying a +cane, dressed like an American; and next, a lovely lady +in clothes of the most fashionable and magnificent; +and then, six beautiful young children, all just as handsome +as dolls, and holding tightly one another by the +hand, with an affection the most charming in the world. +Ah, ma foi, if I shall ever forget that sight!</p> + +<p>"And Madame Paon to me: 'Rose,—La Rose,—in +God's name, who can they be! Perhaps some millionaires +from Boston—for look, the trunks that they +have!'</p> + +<p>"And that was the truth, for the trunks and bags +were piled all over the wharf; and opening the window +a little, we hear m'sieu giving directions to have them +taken to the Couronne d'Or—'and who,' he asks in +French, 'is the proprietor there now?'—and they +say: 'Gaston Lebal'—and he says: 'What! Gaston +Lebal! Is it possible!'</p> + +<p>"'He knows Port l'Évêque, it seems,' says Madame +Paon, all excitement; and just then the first two trunks +go by the windows, and she tells me, 'It is an English +name, or an American.' And then, spelling out the +letters, for she reads with a marvel of ease, she says, +'W-H-I-T-E is what the trunks say on them; but I can +make nothing out of that. I am going outside, me,' +she says, 'and perhaps I shall learn something.'</p> + +<p>"She descends into the garden, and seems to be +working a little at the flowers, and a minute later, here +comes the fine m'sieu, and he looks at her for an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> +instant—right in the face, so, and as if asking a question—and +then: 'Ah, mon Dieu, it is Suzon Boudrot!' +he cries, using the name she was born with. 'Can you +not remember me?—That Tommy Leblanc who ran +away twenty years ago?'</p> + +<p>"Madame Paon gives a scream of joy, and they +embrace; and then he presents this Mees W'ite, qui est +une belle Américaine, and then he says: 'What is there +of news about my dear mother and my father?'—and +she: 'Did you not know your poor mother was dead +the year after you went!'—and he: 'Ma mère—she +is dead?'—and the tears jump out of his eyes, and his +voice trembles as if it had a crack in it. 'Well, she is +with the blessed angels, then,' says he.</p> + +<p>"'But your poor old father,' goes on Madame +Paon, 'he is still waiting for you every day. He has +waited all these twenty years for you to come back.'</p> + +<p>"'He is still in the old place?' asks he.</p> + +<p>"'Yes, he would not leave it.'</p> + +<p>"'We shall go over there at once,' he says, opening +out his two arms—so!—'before ever we set foot in +another house. It is my duty as a son.'</p> + +<p>"So while André Gilet—the father of that dear +Léonie who was taken in the chest—while he is getting +the boat ready to cross the harbor, Tommy tells +her how he has been up there in Boston all these years—at +a place called Shee-cahgo, a big city—and has +been making money; and how he changed his name to +W'ite, which means the same as Leblanc and is more in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> +the mode; and how he married this lovely Américaine, +whose name was Finnegan, and had all these sweet +little children; but always, he said, he had desired to +make a little visit at home, only it was so far to come; +and he was afraid that his father would still be angry +at him.</p> + +<p>"'Ah,' says Madame Paon, with emotion, 'you will +not know your father. He is so different: just as mild +as a sheep. Everyone has come to love him.' ...</p> + +<p>"Now for the rest of the story, all I know is what +that André told us, for he put all this family across +to the other side in his boat. So when they reached +the shore, M'sieu Tommy, he says: 'You will all wait +here until I open the door and beckon: and then you, +Maggie, will come up; and then, a little later, we will +have the children in, all together.'</p> + +<p>"And with that he leaves them, and goes up to the +old house, and knocks, and opens the door, and walks +in—and who can say the joy and the comfort of the +meeting that happened then? And quite a long while +passed, André said; and that lovely lady sat there on +the side of the boat, all as white as milk, and never +saying a word; and those six lambs, whispering softly +among themselves—and one of them said, just a +little above its breath:</p> + +<p>"'It will be nice to have a grandpa all for ourselves, +don't you think?'—and was not that a dear sweet +little thing for it to say?...</p> + +<p>"And finally the door opens again, and see! and his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> +hand makes a sign; and that lady, swift as one of these +sea-gulls, leaps ashore. And up the hill; and through +the gate; and into the house! And the door shuts +again.</p> + +<p>"And another wait, while those six look at each +other, and say their little things. And at last they are +called too, and away they go, all together, just like one +of these flocks of curlew that fly over the Cape, making +those soft little sounds; and then into the house; +and André said he had to wipe two tears out of his +eyes to see a thing like that.</p> + +<p>"Well, this was the end of old Siméon's grief, as +you may well believe. Those W'ites stay at the Couronne +d'Or for as much as nine or ten days, and every +morning they will be going across to see their dear +dear grandfather; and finally when they went away, +they had hired that widow Bergère to keep his house +comfortable for him; and M'sieu Tommy left money +for all needs.</p> + +<p>"And every Christmas after that, so long as old +Siméon existed, there would come boxes of presents +from that place in Boston. Oh, I assure you, he did +not lack that good care. And always he must be talking +about that Tommy of his, who was so rich, and +was some great personage in the city—what they +called an alderman—and yet he had not forgotten his +poor old father, who had waited all those years to see +him.</p> + +<p>"So this story shows that sometimes things turn out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> +just as well in this life down here as they do in those +silly stories they tell you about princesses and all those +things that are not so; and that is a comfort sometimes, +when you see so much that is sad and heartbreaking +in this world...."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></a>[Pg 56]</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 416px;"> +<a name="CALVAIRE" id="CALVAIRE"></a> +<img src="images/calvaire.jpg" width="416" height="600" alt="" /> +<div class="caption center">A CALVAIRE</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></a></span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="AT_A_BRETON_CALVAIRE" id="AT_A_BRETON_CALVAIRE">AT A BRETON CALVAIRE</a></h2> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> + + + + +<p class="ph3">AT A BRETON CALVAIRE</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Upon that cape that thrusts so bare<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Its crest above the wasting sea—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Grey rocks amidst eternity—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There stands an old and frail calvaire,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Upraising like an unvoiced cry<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Its great black arms against the sky.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For storm-beat years that cross has stood:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It slants before the winter gale;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And now the Christ is marred and pale;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rain has washed away the blood<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That ran once on its brow and side,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And in its feet the seams are wide.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But when the boats put out to sea<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At earliest dawn before the day,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The fishermen, they turn and pray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their eyes upon the calvary:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"O Jesu, Son of Mary fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Our little boats are in thy care!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And when the storm beats hard and shrill<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then toil-bent women, worn with fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Pray for the lives they hold so dear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And seek the cross upon the hill:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"O Jesu, Son of Mary mild,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Be with them where the waves are wild!"<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And when the dead they carry by<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Across that melancholy land,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dead that were cast up on the strand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath a black and whirling sky,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They pause before the old calvaire;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They cross themselves and say a prayer.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O Jesu, Son of Mary fair!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O Faith, that seeks thy cross of pain!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Their voices break above the rain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wind blows hard, the heart lies bare:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Clutching through dark, their hands find Thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O Christ, that died on Calvary!<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></a></span></p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_PRIVILEGE" id="THE_PRIVILEGE">THE PRIVILEGE</a></h2> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> + + + + +<p class="ph3">THE PRIVILEGE</p> + + +<div class="figleft dropcap" style="width: 80px;"> +<img src="images/i_079.png" width="80" height="78" alt="" /> +</div> +<p><span class="dropcap">T</span>o-day I can think about only one thing. It +is in vain I have tried to busy myself with +my sermon for next Sunday. Last week, for +another reason, I had recourse to an old sermon; +but I dislike to make a practice of so doing, even +though I strongly suspect that none of our little Salmon +River congregation would know the difference. We +are a very simple people, in this out-of-the-way Cape +Breton parish, called mostly to be fishers, like Our +Lord's apostles, and recking not a whit of the finer +points of doctrine. Nevertheless, it is an hireling +shepherd who is faithless only because the flock do not +ask to be fed with the appointed manna; and I shall +broach the sermon again, once I have set down the +thing that is so heavy on my heart.</p> + +<p>For all I can think of just now is that Renny and +Suse, out there on Halibut Head, four miles away, are +alone; alone for the first time in well-nigh thirty years. +The last of the brood has taken wing.</p> + +<p>Yet it came to me this morning, as I watched Renny +on the wharf saying good-by to the boy, and bidding +him wrap the tippet snug about his neck in case the +wind would be raw—it came to me that there is a +triumph about the nest when it is empty that it could +never have earlier. I saw the look of it in Renny's +face—not defeat, but exultation.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And what are you going to do now, Renny?" I +asked him, as the steamer slipped out of sight behind +the lighthouse rock.</p> + +<p>He stared at me a little contemptuously, a manner +he has always had.</p> + +<p>"<i>Do</i>, Mr. Biddles?" says he, with a queer laugh. +"Why, what <i>would</i> I do, sor? They ain't no less fish +to be catched, is they, off Halibut Head, just because I +got quit of a son or two?"</p> + +<p>He left me, with a toss of his crisp, tawny-gray curls, +jumped into his little two-wheeled cart, and was off. +And I thought, "Ah, Renny Marks, outside you are +still the same wild beast as when I had my first meeting +with you, two-and-thirty years ago; but inside—yes, +I knew then it must come; and it was not for me to +order the how of it."</p> + +<p>So as I took my way homeward, alone, toward the +Rectory, I found myself recalling, as if it were yesterday, +the first words I had ever exchanged with that +tawny giant, just then in his first flush of manhood, +and with a face as ruddy and healthy-looking as one of +these early New Rose potatoes. Often, to be sure, I +had seen him already in church, of a Sunday, sitting +defiant and uncomfortable on one of the rear benches, +struggling vainly to keep his eyes open; but before the +last Amen was fairly out of the people's mouth, he had +always bolted for the door; and I had never come, as +you may say, face to face with him until this afternoon +when I was footing it back, by the cove road, +from a visit to an old sick woman, Nannie Odell. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> +here comes Renny Marks on his way home from the +boat; and over his shoulder was the mainsail and gaff +and a mackerel-seine and two great oars; and by one +arm he had slung the rudder and tackle and bait-pot; +and under the other he lugged a couple of bundles of +lath for to mend his traps; and so he was pacing along +there as proud and careless as Samson bearing away +the gates of Gaza on his back (<i>Judges</i> xvi, 3).</p> + +<p>Now I had entertained the belief for some time that +it was my duty, should the occasion offer, to have a +serious word with Renny about matters not temporal; +and this was clearly the moment. Yet even before we +had met he gave me one of those proud, distrustful, I +have said contemptuous, looks of his; and I seemed +suddenly to perceive the figure I must cut in his eyes, +pattering along there so trimly in my clerical garb, and +with my book of prayers under one arm; and, do you +know, I was right tongue-tied; and so we came within +hand-reach, and still never a word.</p> + +<p>At last, "Good-day to ye, Mister Biddles," says he, +with a scant, off-hand nod; and, as if he knew I must +be admiring of his strength, "I can fetch twice this +load, sor," says he, "without so mucht as knowing the +difference."</p> + +<p>"It's a fine thing, Renny Marks," said I, gaining my +tongue again, at his boast, "a fine thing to be the +strongest man in three parishes, if that's what ye be, as +they tell me."</p> + +<p>"It is that, sor," says he. "I never been cast yet; +and I don't never expect for to be."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But it's still finer a thing, Renny," I went on, "to +use that strength in the honor of your Maker. Tell +me, do you remember to say your prayers every night +before you go to bed?"</p> + +<p>Never shall I forget the horse-laugh the young fellow +had at those words.</p> + +<p>"Why, sor," he exclaimed, as if I had suggested the +most unconscionable thing in the world, "saying prayers! +that's for the likes of them as wash their face +every day. I say my prayers on Sunday; and that's +enough for the likes of me!"</p> + +<p>And with that, not even affording me a chance to +reply, he strode off up the beach road; and in every +movement of his great limbs I seemed to see the pride +and glory of life. Doubtless I was to blame for not +pressing home to him more urgently at that moment +the claims of religion; but as I stood there, watching +him, it came to me that after all he was almost to be +pardoned for being proud. For surely there is something +to warm the heart in the sight of the young lion's +strength and courage; and even the Creator, I thought, +must have taken delight in turning out such a fine piece +of mortal handiwork as that Renny Marks.</p> + +<p>But with that thought immediately came another: +"Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth +every son whom he receiveth" (<i>Hebrews</i> xii, 6). And +I went home sadly, for I seemed to see that Renny had +bitter things ahead of him before he should learn the +great lesson of life.</p> + +<p>Well, and this is the way it came to him. At the age<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> +of four-and-twenty, he married this Suse Barlow from +down the coast a piece,—Green Harbor was the name +of the town,—and she was a sweet young thing, gentle +and ladylike, though of plainest country stock, and +with enough education so they'd let her keep school +down there. He built a little house for her, the one +they still live in, with his own hands, at Halibut Head; +and I never saw anything prettier than the way that +young giant treated his wife—like a princess! It was +the first time in his life, I dare say, he had ever given +a thought to anything but himself; and in a fashion, I +suppose, 'twas still but a satisfaction of his pride, to +have her so beautiful, and so well-dressed.</p> + +<p>I remember of how often they would come in late to +church,—even as late as the Te Deum,—and I could +almost suspect him of being behindhand of purpose, +for of course every one would look around when he +came creaking down the aisle in his big shoes, with a +wide smile on his ruddy face that showed all his white +teeth through his beard; and none could fail to observe +how fresh and pretty Suse was, tripping along there +behind him, and looking very demure and modest in +her print frock, and oh, so very, very sorry to be late! +And during the prayers I had to remark how his face +would always be turned straight toward her, as if it +were to her he was addressing his supplications; the +young heathen!</p> + +<p>Now there is one thing I never could seem to understand, +though I have often turned it over in my mind, +and that is, why it should be that a young Samson like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +Renny Marks, and a fine, bouncing girl like that Suse +of his, should have children who were too weak and +frail to stay long on this earth; but such was the case. +They saved only three out of six; and the oldest of +those three, Michael John, when he got to be thirteen +years of age, shipped as cabin boy on a fisherman down +to the Grand Banks, and never came back. So that +left only Bessie Lou, who was twelve, and little Martin, +who was the baby.</p> + +<p>If ever children had a good bringing up, it was those +two. I never saw either of them in a dirty frock or in +bare feet; and that means something, you must allow, +when you consider the hardness of the fisherman's life, +and how often he has nothing at all to show for a season's +toil except debts! But work—I never saw any +one work like that Renny; and he made a lovely little +farm out there; and Suse wasn't ashamed to raise +chickens and sell them in Salmon River; and she dyed +wool, and used to hook these rugs, with patterns of her +own design, baskets of flowers, or handsome fruit-dishes; +and almost always she could get a price for +them. But, as you may believe, she couldn't keep her +sweet looks with work like that. Before she was +thirty she began to look old, as is so often true in a +hard country like ours; and not often would she be +coming in to church any more, because, she said, of the +household duties; but my own belief is that she did not +have anything to wear. But Bessie Lou and little +Martin, when the boy was well enough, were there +every fine Sunday, as pretty as pictures, and able to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> +recite the Creed, and the Lord's Prayer, and the Collects, +and the Commandments, quite like the children +of gentlefolk.</p> + +<p>Well, when Bessie Lou got to be sixteen, she took it +into her head that she must go off to Boston, where she +would be earning her own living, and see something +more of the world than is possible for a girl in Salmon +River. Our girls all get that notion nowadays; they +are not content to stay at home as girls used to do; but +off they go in droves to the States, where wages are +big, and there is excitement and variety. So the old +people finally said yes, and off goes Bessie Lou, like the +others; and in two years we heard she was to be married +to a mechanic in Lynn (I think that is the name of +the city) somewhere outside of Boston. She has been +gone eight years now, and has three children; and she +writes occasionally. She is always wishing she could +come down and visit the old folks; but it is hard to get +away, I presume, and they are plain working people.</p> + +<p>So after Bessie Lou's going, all they had left at +home was Martin, who was always ailing more or less. +And on my word, I never saw anything like the care +they gave that boy. There wasn't anything too good +for him. All these most expensive tonics and patent +medicines they would be for trying, one after another, +and telling themselves every time that at last they had +found just the right thing, because he'd seem to be +bracing up a bit, and getting more active. And then +he would take another of his bad spells, and lose +ground again; and they would put by that bottle and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> +try something else. One day when I was out there his +ma showed me all of twenty bottles of patent medicine, +some of them scarcely touched, that Renny had got for +him, one time or another.</p> + +<p>You see, Martin couldn't run about outdoors very +much because of his asthma; and then, his eyes being +bad, that made him unhappy in the house, for he +couldn't be reading or studying. His father got him +an old fiddle once, he'd picked up at an auction, and +the boy took to it something wonderful; but not having +any teacher and no music he soon grew tired of it. And +whenever old Renny would be in the village, he must +always be getting some little thing to take out to Martin: +a couple of bananas, say, or a jack-knife, or one of +those American magazines with nice pictures, especially +pictures of ships and other sailing craft, of which the +lad was very fond.</p> + +<p>Well, and so last winter came, which was a very bad +winter indeed, in these parts; and the poor lamb had a +pitiful hard time; and whenever Renny got in to +church, it was plain to see that he was eating his heart +out with worry. He still had his old way of always +snoring during the sermon; but oh, if you could see +once the tired, anxious, supplicating look in his face, +as soon as his proud eyes shut, you never would have +had the heart to wish anything but "Sleep on now, and +take your rest" (<i>Mark</i> xiv, 41), for you knew that +perhaps, for a few minutes, he had stopped worrying +about that little lad of his.</p> + +<p>Spring came on, at last, and Martin was out again<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> +for a while every day in the sun; and sometimes +the old man would be taking him abroad for a drive +or for a little sail in the boat, when he was going out +to his traps; and it appeared that the strain was over +again for the time being. That is why I was greatly +surprised and troubled one day, about two months ago, +to see Renny come driving up toward the Rectory like +mad, all alone in his cart.</p> + +<p>I had just been doing a turn of work myself at the +hay; for it is hard to get help with us when you need it +most; and as I came from the barn, in my shirt-sleeves, +Renny turned in at the gate.</p> + +<p>"Something has happened to the boy," was my +thought; and I was all but certain of it when I saw the +man's face, sharp set as a flint stone, and all the blood +gone from his ruddy skin so that it looked right blue. +He jumped out before the mare stopped, and came up +to me.</p> + +<p>"Can I have a word with ye?" said he; and when +he saw my look of question, he added, "It ain't nothink, +sor. He's all right."</p> + +<p>I put my hand on his shoulder, and led him into my +study, and we sat down there, just as we were, I in my +shirt-sleeves, and still unwashed after the hayfield.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Renny, man?" says I.</p> + +<p>It seemed like he could not make his lips open for a +moment, and then, suddenly, he began talking very fast +and excitedly, pecking little dents in the arms of the +chair with his big black fingernails.</p> + +<p>"That Bessie Lou of oors up to Boston," said he, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> +if he were accusing some one of an outrage, "we got a +letter from 'er last night, we did, and she sayse, says +she, why wouldn't we be for a-sending o' the leetle lad +up theyr? They'd gladly look oot for him, she sayse; +and the winter ain't severe, she sayse; and he could go +to one o' them fine city eye-doctors and 'ave his eyes +put right with glasses or somethink; and prob'ly he +could be for going to school again and a-getting of his +learning, which he's sadly be'indhand in, sor, becaust +he's ben ailing so much."</p> + +<p>His eyes flashed, and the sweat poured down his +forehead in streams.</p> + +<p>I don't know why I was so slow to understand; but +I read his look wrong, there seemed so much of the old +insolence and pride in it, and I replied, I daresay a +little reproachfully,—</p> + +<p>"Well, and why wouldn't that be an excellent thing, +Renny? I should think you would feel grateful."</p> + +<p>He stared at me for a second, as if I had struck him. +Ah, we can forget the words people say to us, even in +wrath; but can we ever free ourselves from the memory +of such a look? Without knowing why, I had the +feeling of being a traitor. And then, all of a sudden, +there he had crumpled down in his chair, and put his +head in his big hands, and was sobbing.</p> + +<p>"I cain't—I cain't let him go," he groaned. "I +woon't let him go. He's all what we got left."</p> + +<p>I sat there for a time, helpless, looking at him. You +might think that a priest, with the daily acquaintance +he has with the bitter things of life, ought to know how<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> +to face them calmly; but so far as my own small experience +goes, I seem to know nothing more about all +that than at the beginning. It always hurts just as +much; it's always just as bewildering, just as terrible, +as if you had never seen anything like it before. And +when I saw that giant of a Renny Marks just broken +over there like some big tree shattered by lightning, it +seemed as if I could not bear to face such suffering. +Then I remembered that he had been committed into +my care by God, and that I must not be only an hireling +shepherd. So I said:—</p> + +<p>"Renny, lad, it isn't for ourselves we must be thinking. +It's for him."</p> + +<p>He lifted up his head, with the shaggy, half-gray +hair all rumpled on his wet forehead, and pulled his +sleeve across his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Hark'e, Mister Biddles," he commanded harshly. +"Ain't we did the best we could for him? Who dares +say we ain't did the best we could for him? <i>You?</i>"</p> + +<p>I made no answer, and for a minute we faced each +other, while he shook his clenched fists at me, and the +creature in him that had never yet been cast challenged +all the universe.</p> + +<p>"They're tryin' to tak my boy away from me," he +roared, "and they cain't do it—I tell you they cain't. +He's all what we got left, now."</p> + +<p>"And so you mean to keep him for yourself?" I +asked.</p> + +<p>"Ay, that I do," he cried, jumping out of his chair, +and striding up and down the room as if clean out of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> +his wits. "I do! I do! Why <i>wouldn't</i> I mean to, hey? +Ain't he mine? Who's got a better right to him?"</p> + +<p>Of a sudden he comes to a dead halt in front of me, +with his arms crossed. "Mister Biddles," he says, +very bitterly, "you may well be thankfu' you never +wast a father yoursel'. Nobody ain't for trying to tak +nothink away from you."</p> + +<p>"That's quite true, Renny," said I. "But remember," +I said, not intending any irreverence, but uttering +such poor words as were given to me in my extremity, +"remember, Renny, it's to a Father you say your prayers +in church every Sunday; and you needn't think as +that Father doesn't know full as well as you what it is +to give up an only Son for love's sake."</p> + +<p>"Hey?—What's that, sor?" cries Renny, with a +face right like a dead thing.</p> + +<p>"And would He be asking of you for to let yours go, +if He didn't know there was love enough in your heart +to stand the test?"</p> + +<p>Renny broke out with a terrible groan, like the roar +of anguish of a wild beast that has got a mortal +wound; and the same instant the savage look died in +his eyes, and the bigger love in him had triumphed +over the smaller love. I could see it, I knew it, even +before he spoke. He caught at my hand, blunderingly, +and gave it a twist like a winch.</p> + +<p>"He shall go, sor. He shall go for all of I. And +Mr. Biddles, while I'm for telling the old woman and +the boy, would ye be so condescending as to say over +some of them there prayers, so I could have the feel<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span>ing, +as you might say, that some one was keeping an +eye on me? It'll all be done in less nor a half-hour."</p> + +<p>And with that, off he goes, and jumps into his cart, +and whips up the mare, tearing down the road like a +whirlwind, just as he had come, without so much as +saying good-by. And the next day I heard them saying +in the village that Renny Marks's boy was to go up to +the States to be raised with his sister's family.</p> + +<p>Ah, well, that's only a common sort of a story, I +know. The same kind of things happen near us every +day. I can't even quite tell why I wanted to set it down +on paper like this, only that, some way, it makes me +believe in God more; even when I have to remember, +and it seems to me just now like I could never stop +remembering it, that Renny and Suse are all alone to-day +out there on Halibut Head. Renny is at the fish, +of course; and Suse, I daresay, is working in her little +potato patch; and Martin is out there on the sea, being +borne to a world far away, and from which, I suppose, +he will not be very anxious to return; for few of them +do come back, nowadays, to the home country.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<a name="FOUGERE" id="FOUGERE"></a> +<img src="images/fougere.jpg" width="600" height="410" alt="" /> +<div class="caption center">FOUGÈRE'S COVE</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77"></a></span></p> + + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THEIR_TRUE_LOVE" id="THEIR_TRUE_LOVE">THEIR TRUE LOVE</a></h2> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> + + + + +<p class="ph3">THEIR TRUE LOVE</p> + + +<div class="figleft dropcap" style="width: 79px;"> +<img src="images/i_097.png" width="79" height="80" alt="" /> +</div> +<p><span class="dropcap">E</span>ven Zabette, with her thousand wrinkles, +was young once. They say her lips were +red as wild strawberries and her hair as +sleek as the wing of a blackbird in spring. +All the old people of St. Esprit remember how she +used to swing along the street on her way to mass of a +Sunday, straight, proud, agile as a goat, with her dark +head flung back, and a disdainful smile on her lips that +kept young men from being unduly forward. The +country people, who must have their own name for +everything and everybody, used to call her "la belle +orgueilleuse," and sometimes, "the highstepper"; and +though they had to laugh at her a little for her lofty +ways, they found it quite natural to address her as +mademoiselle.</p> + +<p>But all these things one only knows by hearsay. Zabette +does not talk much herself. So far as she is concerned, +you might never guess that she had a story at +all. She lives there in the little dormer-windowed cottage +beyond the post-office with Suzanne Benoît. For +thirty-three years now the two women have lived together; +and it is the earnest prayer of both of them +that when the time for going arrives, they may go +together.</p> + +<p>These two good souls have the reputation, all over +the country, of immense industry and thrift. Suzanne<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> +keeps three cows, and her butter is famous. Zabette—she +was a Fuseau, from the Grande Anse—takes +in washing of the better class. Nobody in St. Esprit can +do one of those stiff white linen collars so well as she. +Positively, it shines in the sun like a looking-glass. If +you notice the men going to church, you can always +pick out those who have their shirts and collars done +by Zabette Fuseau. By comparison, the others appear +dull and very commonplace.</p> + +<p>"But why must Zabette do collars for her living?" +you are asking. "Why has she not a man of her own +to look out for her, and half a dozen grown up children? +Did she never marry, then—this belle orgueilleuse?"</p> + +<p>No. Never. But not on account of that pride of +hers; at least not directly. If you go into the pretty +little living-room of the second cottage beyond the +post-office—the one with such a show of geraniums in +the front windows—you will guess half the secret, for +just above the mantelpiece, between two vases of artificial +asters, hangs the daguerreotype portrait of a +young man in mariner's slops. The lineaments have +so faded with the years that it is difficult to make them +out with any assurance. It is as if the portrait itself +were seeking to escape from life, retreating little by +little, imperceptibly, into the dull shadows of the +ground, so that only as you look at it from a certain +angle can you still clearly distinguish the small dark +eyes, the full moustache, the round chin, the square +stocky shoulders of the subject. Only the two rosy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> +spots added by the daguerreotypist to the cheeks defy +time and change, indestructible token of youth and +ardor.</p> + +<p>A little frame of immortelles encloses the portrait. +And directly in front of it, on the mantelpiece, stands +a pretty shell box, with the three words on the mother-of-pearl +lid: "À ma chérie." What is in the box—if +anything—no one can tell you for a certainty, though +there are plenty of theories. "Love letters," say +some; and others, with a pitying laugh, "Old maid's +tears."</p> + +<p>Zabette and Suzanne hold their tongues. I think I +know what the treasure of the box is; for I had the +story directly from a very aged woman who knew both +the "girls" when they were young; and she vouched +for the truth of it by all the beads of her rosary. This +is how it went.</p> + +<p>Zabette Fuseau was eighteen, and she lived at the +Grand Anse, two miles out of St. Esprit; and the procession +of young fellows, going there to woo, was like +a pilgrimage, exactly. Among them came one from +far down the coast, a place called Rivière Bourgeoise. +He was a deep sea fisherman, from off a vessel which +had put in at St. Esprit for repairs, mid-course to the +Grand Banks; and on his first shore leave Maxence +had caught sight of la belle orgueilleuse, who had come +into town with a basket of eggs; and he had followed +her home, at a little distance, sighing, but without the +courage to address her so long as they were in the village. +He was a very handsome young fellow, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> +brown, ruddy skin, and the most beautiful dark curly +hair and crisp moustache imaginable.</p> + +<p>Zabette knew he was behind her; but she would not +turn; not she; only walked a little more proudly and +gracefully, with that swinging movement of hers, like +a vessel sailing in a head wind. At last, when they had +reached the Calvaire at the end of the village, he managed +to get out his first word.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" he cried, haltingly. "Mademoiselle!"</p> + +<p>She turned half about and fixed her dark proud eyes +upon him, while her cheeks crimsoned.</p> + +<p>"Well, m'sieur?"</p> + +<p>He could not speak, and the two stared at each other +for a long time in silence, while the thought came to +her that this was the man for whom she was destined.</p> + +<p>"Had you something to say to me?" she repeated, +finally, in a tone that tried to be severe, but was really +very soft.</p> + +<p>He nodded his curly head, and licked his lips hard +to moisten them.</p> + +<p>"I cannot wait any longer," she protested, after a +while. "They need me at home."</p> + +<p>She turned quickly again, as if to go; but her feet +were glued to the ground, and she did not take a step.</p> + +<p>"Oh, s'il vous plaît, mam'selle!" he cried, to hold +her. "You think I am rude. But I did not mean to +follow you like this. I could not help it. You are so +beautiful."</p> + +<p>The look he gave her with those words sank deep +into her heart and rooted itself there forever. In vain,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> +for the rest of her life, she might try to tear it out; +there was a fatality about it. Zabette, fine highstepper +that she was, had been caught at last. She knew that +she ought to send the handsome young sailor away; +but her tongue would not obey her. Instead, it uttered +some very childish words of confusion and pleasure; +and before she knew it, there was her man walking +along at her side, with one hand on his heart, declaring +that she was the most angelic creature in the world, +that he was desperately in love with her, that he could +not live without her, and that she must promise then +and there to be his, or he would instantly kill himself. +The burning, impassioned look in his eyes struck her +with dismay.</p> + +<p>"But I cannot decide all in a moment like this," she +protested, in a weak voice. "It would be indecent. I +must think."</p> + +<p>"Think!" he retorted, bitterly. "Oh, very well. +Then you do not love me!"</p> + +<p>"Ah, but I do!" she cried, all trembling.</p> + +<p>With that he took her in his arms and kissed her, +and nothing more was heard about suicide or any such +subject.</p> + +<p>"But we must not tell any one yet," she pleaded. +"They would not understand."</p> + +<p>He agreed, with the utmost readiness. "We will +not tell a soul. It shall be exactly as you wish. But +I may come and see you?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, certainly," she responded. "Often,—that is, +every day or two,—at Grande Anse; and perhaps we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> +may happen to meet sometimes in the village, as well."</p> + +<p>"The <i>Soleil</i> will be delaying at St. Esprit for two +weeks," he explained, as they walked along, hand in +hand. "She put in for some repairs. By the end of +that time, perhaps"—</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, not so soon as that," she interrupted. +"We must let a longer while pass first."</p> + +<p>She gazed at him yearningly. "You will be returning +by here in the autumn, at the end of the season on +the Banks?"</p> + +<p>"We are taking on three men from St. Esprit," he +answered. "We shall stop here on the return to set +them ashore. That will be in October, near the end of +the month, if the season is good."</p> + +<p>She sighed, as if dreading some disaster; and they +looked at each other again, and the look ended in a +kiss. It is not by words, that new love feeds and +grows.</p> + +<p>Before they reached the Grande Anse he quitted +her; but he gave her his promise to come again that +evening. He did—that evening, and two evenings +later, and so on, every other evening for those two +weeks. Zabette's old mother took a great fancy to +him, and gave him every encouragement; but the old +père Fuseau, who had sailed many a voyage, in +younger days, round the Horn, would never speak a +good word for him—and perhaps his hostility only +increased the girl's attachment.</p> + +<p>"A little grease is all very well for the hair of a +young man," he would say. "But this scented +pomade they use nowadays—pah!"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You object then to a sailor's being a gentleman?" +demanded the girl haughtily.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I do," roared the old père Fuseau. "Have a +care, Zabette."</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, the two lovers found plenty of chances +to be alone together; and they would talk, in low +voices, of their happiness and of the future, which +looked very bright to Zabette, despite all the uncertainties +of the sea.</p> + +<p>"When we put in on the return from the Banks," +said Maxence, "you will be at the wharf to meet me; +and that very day we will announce our fiancailles. +What an astonishment for everybody!"</p> + +<p>"And then," she asked—"after that?"</p> + +<p>"After that, I will stay ashore for a while. They +can do without me on the <i>Soleil</i>. And at the end of a +month"—he told her the rest with a kiss; and surely +Zabette had never been so happy in her life.</p> + +<p>But for the time being the affair was kept very, very +secret, so that people might not get to gossiping. Even +those frequent expeditions of Maxence to the Grande +Anse were not remarked, for he always came after +dusk: and when the fortnight was over and the <i>Soleil</i> +once more was ready for sea, the two sweethearts +exchanged keepsakes, and he left her.</p> + +<p>"I will send you a letter from St. Pierre Miquelon," +he said, to cheer her, while he wiped away her tears +with a silk handkerchief.</p> + +<p>"Do you promise?" she asked.</p> + +<p>He promised. Three weeks later the letter arrived; +and it told her that his heart was breaking for his dear<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> +little Zabette. "Sois fidèle—be true," were the last +words. The letter had a perfume of pomade about +it, and she carried it all summer in her bodice, taking +it out many times a day to scan the loving words again.</p> + +<p>In St. Esprit, when the fishing fleet begins to return +from the Banks, they keep an old man on the lookout +in the church tower; and as soon as he sights a vessel +in the offing, he rings the bell.</p> + +<p>It was the fourth week in October that year before +the bell was heard; and then rapidly, two or three at a +time, the schooners came in. First the <i>Dame Blanche</i>, +which was always in the lead; then the <i>Êtoile</i>, the <i>Deux +Frères</i>, the <i>Lottie B.</i>, and the <i>Milo</i>. Every day, morning +or afternoon, the bell would ring, and poor Zabette +must find some excuse or other to be in town. +Down at the wharf there was always gathered an anxious +throng, watching for the appearance of the vessel +round the Cape. And when she was visible at last, +there would be cries of joy from some, and silence on +the part of others. Zabette was among the silent. +When she saw the happiness about her, tears would +swim unbidden in her eyes; but of course she did not +lose heart, for still there were several vessels to +arrive, and no disasters had been reported by the +earlier comers. People noticed her, standing there with +expectant mien, and they wondered what it could be +that brought her; but it was not their habit to ask questions +of the fine highstepper.</p> + +<p>There was another young girl on the wharf, too, +who had the air of looking for some one—a certain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> +Suzanne Benoît, from l'Étang, three miles inshore, a +very pretty girl, with a mild, appealing look in her +brown eyes. Zabette had seen her often here and +there; but she had no acquaintance with her. At the +present moment, strangely enough, she felt herself +powerfully drawn to this Suzanne. It came to her, +somehow, that the girl had come thither on a mission +similar to her own, she was so silent, and had not the +look of those who had waited on the wharf in previous +years. And so, one afternoon, when two vessels +had rounded the Cape and were entering the harbor, +amid a great hubbub of expectancy,—and neither of +them was the <i>Soleil</i>,—Zabette surprised a look of woe +in the face of the other which she could not resist. She +went over to her, with some diffidence, and offered a +few words of sympathy.</p> + +<p>"You are waiting for some one, too?" she asked +her.</p> + +<p>The eyes of the other filled quickly to overflowing. +"Yes," she answered. "He has not come yet."</p> + +<p>"You must not worry," said Zabette, stoutly. +"There are always delays, you know. Some are +ahead; others behind; it is so every year."</p> + +<p>The girl gave her a grateful look, and squeezed her +hand. "It is a secret," she murmured.</p> + +<p>Zabette smiled. "I have a secret too."</p> + +<p>"Then we are waiting together," said Suzanne. +"That makes it so much easier!"</p> + +<p>They walked back to the street, arm in arm, as if +they had always been bosom friends. And the next<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> +day they were both at the wharf again. The afternoon +was bleak; but as usual they were in their best +clothes.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it does not seem as if I could wait any longer," +whispered Suzanne, confidingly. "I do hope it will +be the <i>Soleil</i> this time."</p> + +<p>"The <i>Soleil</i>!" exclaimed Zabette, joyfully. "You +are waiting for the <i>Soleil</i>?"</p> + +<p>And at the other's nod, she went on. "How lovely +that we are expecting the same vessel. Oh, I am sure +it will come to-day—or certainly to-morrow."</p> + +<p>The two girls felt themselves very close together, +now that they had shared so much of their secret; and +it made the waiting less hard to bear.</p> + +<p>"Is he handsome, your man?" asked Suzanne, +timidly.</p> + +<p>"Ravishing," replied Zabette, eagerly. "And +yours?"</p> + +<p>Suzanne sighed with adoration. "Beyond words," +was her reply—and the girls exchanged another of +those pressures of the hand which mean so much where +love is concerned. "He has the most beautiful moustache +in the world."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," protested Zabette, smilingly. "Mine has +a more beautiful one yet, and such crisp curly hair, and +dark eyes."</p> + +<p>Her companion suddenly looked at her. "Large +eyes or small?" she asked in a strange voice.</p> + +<p>"Oh," replied Zabette, doubtfully. "Not too large. +I would not fancy ox eyes in a man."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p> + +<p>Suzanne freed herself and stood facing her with a +flash of hatred in her mild face which Zabette could +not understand.</p> + +<p>"And his name!" she demanded, harshly. "His +name, then!"</p> + +<p>Zabette smiled a little proudly. "That is my secret," +she replied. "But, Suzanne, what is the matter?"</p> + +<p>"It is not your secret," laughed the other, bitterly. +"It is not your secret. It is my secret."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" cried Zabette, with a sudden +feeling of terror at the girl's drawn face.</p> + +<p>"His name is Maxence!" Suzanne's laugh was like +bones rattling in a coffin.</p> + +<p>It seemed to Zabette as if a flash of lightning had +cleft her soul in two. That was the way the truth came +to her. She drew back like a viper ready to strike.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I hate you!" she cried, and turned on her heel, +white to the eyes with anger and shame.</p> + +<p>But Suzanne would not leave her. She followed to +the other side of the wharf, and as soon as she could +speak again without attracting attention, she said, +more kindly:</p> + +<p>"I am very sorry for you, Zabette. It is too bad +you were so mistaken. Why, he was engaged to me +the very second day he came ashore."</p> + +<p>Zabette stifled back a cry, and retorted, icily, "He +was engaged to me the first day. He followed me all +the way to the Grande Anse."</p> + +<p>Suzanne's eyes glittered, this time. "He followed +me all the way to l'Étang. He is mine."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></p> + +<p>Zabette brought out, through white lips, "Leave me +alone. He was mine first."</p> + +<p>"He was mine last," retaliated the other, undauntedly. +"The very morning he went away, he came to see +me. Did he come to you that day? Did he? Did he?"</p> + +<p>Zabette ignored her question. "He wrote me a letter +from St. Pierre Miquelon," she announced, crisply. +"So that settles it, first and last."</p> + +<p>The hand of Suzanne suddenly lifted to her bosom, +as if feeling for something. "My letter was written +at St. Pierre, too."</p> + +<p>For an instant they glared at each other like wild +animals fighting over prey. Neither said a word. +Neither yielded a hair. Each felt that her life's happiness +was at stake. Zabette had thought that this +chit of a girl from l'Étang was mild and timid; but +now she realized that she had met her match for courage. +And the thought came to her: "When he sees +us, let him choose."</p> + +<p>She was not conscious of having uttered the words. +Perhaps her glance, swiftly directed toward the Cape, +conveyed the thought to her rival. At all events the +answer came promptly and with complete self-assurance:</p> + +<p>"Yes, let Maxence choose."</p> + +<p>Just at that moment the first vessel appeared at +the harbor entrance, while the bell redoubled its jubilation +in the church tower on the hill.</p> + +<p>"The <i>Mercure</i>!" cried an old woman. "Thank +God!"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></p> + +<p>And a few minutes later, there was the <i>Anne-Marie</i>, +all sail set over her green hull; and then a vessel which +at first no one seemed to recognize.</p> + +<p>"Which is that?" they asked. "Oh, it must be—yes, +it is the <i>Soleil</i>, from Rivière Bourgeoise. She has +several men from here aboard."</p> + +<p>With eyes that seemed to be starting from her head, +Zabette watched the <i>Soleil</i> entering the harbor. She +could distinguish forms on deck. She saw handkerchiefs +waving. At last she could begin to make out +the faces a little. But she did not discover the one she +sought. Holding tight to a mooring post, unable to +think, unable to do anything but watch, it seemed to +her that hours passed before the schooner cast anchor +and a boat was put over. There were four persons in +it: the mate and the three men from St. Esprit. They +rowed rapidly to the wharf; and the three men threw +up their gunny sacks and climbed the ladder, one after +the other.</p> + +<p>The mate was just about to put off again when +Zabette spoke to him. She leaned over the edge of the +wharf, reaching out a detaining hand.</p> + +<p>"M'sieur!"</p> + +<p>At the same instant the word was uttered by another +voice close by. She looked up and saw Suzanne, very +white, in the same attitude.</p> + +<p>"What is it, mesdemoiselles?" asked the mate, +touching his vizor.</p> + +<p>As if by concerted arrangement came the question +from both sides.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And Maxence?"</p> + +<p>The man answered them seriously and directly, perceiving +from their manner that his reply was of great +import to these two, whatever the reason for it might be.</p> + +<p>"Maxence?—But we do not know where he is. +There was a fog. He was out in a dory, alone. We +picked up the dory the next day. Perhaps"—he +shrugged his shoulders incredulously—"perhaps he +might have been picked up by another vessel. Who +can say?"</p> + +<p>The girls gave him no answer. They reeled, and +would have fallen, save that each found support in the +other's arms. Sinking to the string piece of the +wharf, they buried their faces on each other's shoulders +and sobbed. Happy fathers and mothers and +sweethearts, gathered on the wharf, looked at them in +wonder, and left them alone, ignorant of the cause of +their grief. So a long time passed, and still they +crouched there, tight clasped, with buried heads.</p> + +<p>"He was so good, so brave!" sobbed Suzanne.</p> + +<p>"I loved him so much," repeated Zabette, over and +over.</p> + +<p>"I shall die without him," moaned Suzanne.</p> + +<p>"So shall I," responded the other. "I cannot bear +to live any longer."</p> + +<p>"If only I had a picture of him, that would be some +comfort," said the poor girl from l'Étang.</p> + +<p>"I have one," said Zabette, sitting up straight and +putting some orderly touches to her disarranged <i>mouchoir</i>. +"He gave it to me the very last night."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> + +<p>Suzanne looked at her enviously, and mopped her +red eyes. "All I have," she sighed, "is a little shell +box he brought me, with the motto, <i>À ma chérie</i>. He +gave me that the very last morning of all. It is very +beautiful, but no one but me has seen it yet."</p> + +<p>"You must show it to me sometime," said Zabette. +"I have a right to see it."</p> + +<p>"If you will let me look at the picture," consented +the other, guardedly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you may look at it," said Zabette, "so long as +you do not forget that it belongs to me."</p> + +<p>"To you!" retorted the other. "And have you a +better right to it than I, seeing that he would have been +my husband in a month's time? You are a bad, cruel +girl; you have no heart. It is a mercy he escaped the +traps you set for him—my poor Maxence!"</p> + +<p>A thousand taunting words came to Zabette's lips, +but she controlled herself, rose to her feet with a show +of dignity, and quitted the wharf. She resolved that +she would never speak to that Benoît girl again. To +do so was only to be insulted.</p> + +<p>She went back to her home on the Grande Anse and +endeavored to take up her everyday life again as +though nothing had happened. She hid her grief from +the neighbors, even from her own parents, who had +never suspected the strength of her attachment for +Maxence. By day she could keep herself busy about +the house, and the secret would only be a dull pain; +but at night, especially when the wind blew, it would +gnaw and gnaw at her heart like a hungry beast.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> + +<p>At last she could keep it to herself no longer. She +must share her misery. But there was only one person +in the world who could understand. She declared to +herself that nothing would induce her to go to +l'Étang; and yet, as if under a spell, she made ready +for the journey.</p> + +<p>"Where are you going, my Zabette?" asked her old +mother.</p> + +<p>"To l'Étang," she answered. "I hear there is a +girl there who makes a special brown dye for wool."</p> + +<p>"Well, the walk will do you good, ma fille. You +have been indoors too much lately. You are growing +right pale and ill-looking."</p> + +<p>"Oh, it is nothing, maman. I never feel very brisk, +you know, in November. 'Tis such a dreary month."</p> + +<p>She took a back road across the barrens to l'Étang. +Scarcely any one traveled it except in winter to fetch +kindling wood from the scrub fir that grew there. Consequently +Zabette was much surprised, after walking +about a mile and a half, to discover that some one was +approaching from the opposite direction—a woman, +with a red shawl across her shoulders. Gradually the +distance between them lessened; and then she saw, with +a start, that it was Suzanne Benoît. Her knees began +to tremble under her. When they met, at last, no +words would come to her lips: they only looked at each +other with questioning, hunted eyes, then embraced, +weeping, and sat down silently on a moss-hummock beside +the road. Zabette had not felt so comforted since +the disaster of October. For the first time she could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +let the tears flow without any fear of detection. At +last she said, very calmly:</p> + +<p>"I have brought the picture."</p> + +<p>She drew it out from under her coat, and held it on +her knees, where Suzanne could see it.</p> + +<p>"And here is the shell box," rejoined her companion. +"I do not know how to read, me; but there are +the words—<i>À ma chérie</i>. It's pretty—<i>hein</i>?"</p> + +<p>Each gazed at the other's treasure.</p> + +<p>"Ah," sighed Suzanne, mournfully. "How handsome +he was to look at—and so true and brave!"</p> + +<p>"I shall never love another," said Zabette, with sad +conviction—"never. Love is over for me."</p> + +<p>"And for me," said Suzanne. "But we have our +memories."</p> + +<p>"Mine," corrected Zabette. "You are forgetting."</p> + +<p>"Did he ever give you a present that said <i>À ma +chérie</i>?" demanded Suzanne, pointedly.</p> + +<p>The other explained blandly: "You cannot say anything, +my dear, on the back of a tintype.—But I have +my letter from St. Pierre."</p> + +<p>She showed it.</p> + +<p>"Even if I cannot read mine," declared the girl from +l'Étang, hotly, "I know it is fully as nice as yours. +Nicer!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, can I never see you but you must insult me!" +cried Zabette. "Keep your old box and your precious +letter from St. Pierre Miquelon. What can they matter +to me?"</p> + +<p>Without a word of good-by she sprang to her feet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> +and set out for the Grande Anse. She did not see the +Benoît girl again that winter; but she could not help +thinking about her, sometimes with sympathy, sometimes +with bitter hatred. The young men came flocking +to her home, as usual, vying with one another in +attentions to her, for not only was Zabette known as +the handsomest girl in three parishes, but also as an +excellent housekeeper—"good saver, rare spender."</p> + +<p>She would not encourage any of them, however.</p> + +<p>"If I marry," she said to herself, "it is giving Maxence +over to that l'Étang girl. She will crow about it. +She will say, 'At last he is mine altogether. She has +surrendered.' No, I could not stand that."</p> + +<p>So that winter passed, and the next summer, and +other winters and summers. Zabette did not marry; +and after a time she began hearing herself spoken of +as an old maid. The young men flocked to other +houses, not hers. At the end of twelve years both her +father and mother were dead, and she was alone in the +world, thirty, and unprovided for.</p> + +<p>It was, of course, fated, that these two women whose +lives had been so strangely entangled should drift +together again, sooner or later. So long as both were +young and could claim love for themselves, jealousy +was bound to separate them; but when they found +themselves quite alone in the world, no longer beautiful, +no longer arousing thoughts of love in the breast +of another, the memory of all that was most precious +in their lives drew them together as surely as a magnet +draws two bits of metal.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> + +<p>It was after mass, one Sunday, that Zabette sought +out her rival finally and found the courage to propose +a singular plan.</p> + +<p>"You are alone, Suzanne," she said. "So am I. +We are both poor. Come and live with me."</p> + +<p>"And you will give me Maxence?" asked Suzanne, +a little hardly.</p> + +<p>"No. But I will give you half of him. See, why +should we quarrel any more? He is dead. Let us be +reasonable. After this he shall belong to both of us."</p> + +<p>Still the <i>vieille fille</i> from l'Étang held back, though +her eyes softened.</p> + +<p>"All these years," she said, with a remnant of defiance—"all +these years he has been mine. I did not +get married, me, because that would have let him +belong to you."</p> + +<p>Zabette sighed wearily. "And all these years I have +been saying the same thing. And yet I could never forget +the shell box and your letter from St. Pierre Miquelon. +Come, don't you see how much easier it will be—how +much more natural—if we put our treasures +together: all we have of Maxence, and call him <i>ours</i>?"</p> + +<p>Suzanne was beginning to yield, but doubtfully. "If +it would be proper," she said.</p> + +<p>"Not if he were living, of course," replied the other, +with assurance. "The laws of the church forbid that. +But in the course of a lifetime a husband may have +more than one wife. I do not see why, when a husband +is dead, two wives should not have him. Do +you?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I will come," said Suzanne, softly and gratefully. +"I am so lonely."</p> + +<p>Three years later the two women moved from the +Grande Anse into the village, renting the little cottage +with the dormer windows in which they have lived ever +since. You must look far to find so devoted a pair. +They are more than sisters to each other. If their +lives have not been happy, as the world judges happiness, +they have at least been illumined by two great +and abiding loves,—which does not happen often,—that +for the dead, and that for each other.</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99"></a></span></p> + + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="GARLANDS_FOR_PETTIPAW" id="GARLANDS_FOR_PETTIPAW">GARLANDS FOR PETTIPAW</a></h2> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p> + + + + +<p class="ph3">GARLANDS FOR +PETTIPAW</p> + + +<div class="figleft dropcap" style="width: 80px;"> +<img src="images/i_119.png" width="80" height="80" alt="" /> +</div> +<p><span class="dropcap">T</span>owns, like persons, I suppose, wake up +now and then to find themselves famous; +but I doubt if any town having this experience +could be more amazed by it, more +dazed by it, than was Three Rivers, one day last +March, when we opened our newspapers from Boston +and Montreal and lo, there was our own name staring +at us from the front page! Three Rivers is in the +Province of Quebec, on the shore of the Bay de Chaleurs; +but we receive our metropolitan papers every +day, only thirty-six hours off the presses; and this +makes us feel closely in touch with the outside world. +Until the railroad from Matapedia came through, four +years ago, mail was brought by stage, every second +day. The coming of the railroad had seemed an important +event then; but it had never put Three Rivers +on the front page of the Boston <i>Herald</i>.</p> + +<p>The news-item in question was to the effect that the +S. S. <i>Maid of the North</i>, Captain Pettipaw of Three +Rivers, P. Q., had been torpedoed, forty miles off Fastnet, +while en route from Sydney, N. S., to Liverpool, +with a cargo of pig-iron. The captain and crew (said +the item) had been allowed to take to the boats; but +only one of the two boats had been heard from. That<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> +one was in command of the mate, and had been rescued +by a trawler.</p> + +<p>Captain Pettipaw of Three Rivers! <i>Our</i> Captain +Pettipaw! How well we knew him; and who among +us had ever thought of him as one likely to make Three +Rivers figure on the front page of the world's news! +Yet this had come to pass; and even amid the anxiety +we felt as to the fate of Captain Joe, we could but be +agreeably conscious of the distinction that had come to +our little community. All that afternoon poor Mrs. +Pettipaw's house was thronged with neighbors who +hurried over there, newspaper in hand, ready to congratulate +or to condole as might seem most called for.</p> + +<p>"Poor Mrs. Pettipaw" or "poor Melina" was the +way we always spoke of her, partly, I suppose, because +of her nine children, and partly because—I hesitate to +say it—she was Captain Joe's wife. But now that it +seemed so very likely she might be his widow, our +hearts went out to her the more. You see Captain Joe +was, in our local phrase, "one of those Pettipaws." +Pettipaws never seemed to get anywhere or to do anything +that mattered. Pettipaws were always behindhand. +Pettipaws were always in trouble, one way or +another. It was a family characteristic.</p> + +<p>Only five or six years ago Captain Joe's new +schooner, the <i>Melina P.</i>, had broken from her harbor +moorings under a sudden gale from the northwest and +driven square on the Fiddle Reef, where she foundered +before our eyes. Other vessels were anchored close by +the <i>Melina P.</i>; but not one of them broke loose. All +the Captain's savings for years and years had gone<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +into the new schooner, not to speak of several hundreds +borrowed from his fellow-townsmen.</p> + +<p>And the very next winter his house had burned to +the ground; and the seven children—there were only +seven then—had been parceled out amongst the neighbors +for six or seven months until, about midsummer, +the new house was roofed over and the windows set; +and then the family moved in, and there they lived for +several more months, "sort of camping-out fashion," +as poor Melina cheerfully put it, while Captain Joe +was occasionally seen putting on a row of shingles or +sawing a board. At last, after the snow had begun to +fly, the neighbors came once more to the rescue. A collection +was made for the stricken family; carpenters +finished the house; a mason built the chimney and plastered +the downstairs partitions; curtains were donated +for the windows; and the Pettipaws spent the winter in +comfort.</p> + +<p>The following spring Captain Joe got a position as +second officer on a coastwise ship out of Boston, and +the affairs of the family began to look up. From that +he was promoted to the captaincy of a little freighter +plying between Montreal and the Labrador; and the +next we knew, he was in command of a large collier +sailing out of Sydney, Nova Scotia. Poor Melina +appeared in a really handsome new traveling suit, +ordered from the big mail order house in Montreal; +and the young ones could all go to church the same +Sunday, and often did.</p> + +<p>For the last year or two we had ceased to make frequent +inquiries after Captain Joe; he had dropped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> +pretty completely out of our life; and the thought that +he might be holding a commission of special dangerousness +had never so much as entered our minds. But +poor Melina's calmness in the face of the news-item +surprised everyone. It was like a reproach to her +neighbors for not having acknowledged before the +worth of the man she had married. It had not +required a German torpedo to teach her that. And as +for his safety, that apparently caused her no anxiety +whatever.</p> + +<p>"You couldn't kill the Captain," she repeated, with +a quiet, untroubled smile, which was as much as to say +that anything else might happen to a Pettipaw, but not +that.</p> + +<p>The rest of us admired her faith without being able +to share it. Poor Melina rarely had leisure to read a +newspaper, and she did not know much about the disasters +of the war zone. And so, instinctively, everyone +began to say the eulogistic things about Captain +Joe that had never been said—though now we realized +they ought to have been said—while he was +with us.</p> + +<p>"He was such a good man," said Mrs. Thibault, the +barrister's wife. "So devoted to his home. I remember +of how he would sit there on the doorstep for +hours, watching his little ones at their play. Poor +babies! Poor little babies!"</p> + +<p>"Such a brave man, too; and so witty!" said John +Boutin, our tailor. "The stories he would tell, my! +my! Many a day in the shop he'd be telling stories<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +from dinner till dark, without once stopping for breath +as you might say. It passed the time so nice!"</p> + +<p>"And devout!" added Mrs. Fougère, the postmistress. +"A Christian. He loved to listen to the church-bells. +I remember like it was yesterday his saying to +me, 'The man,' he said, 'who can hear a church-bell +without thinking of religion, is as good as lost, to my +thinking.'"</p> + +<p>"Not that he went to church very often," said +Boutin.</p> + +<p>"His knee troubled him," explained Mrs. Fougère.</p> + +<p>Early in the evening came the cable message that +justified poor Melina's confidence. Eugénie White—the +Whites used to be Le Blancs, but since Eugénie +came back from Boston, they have taken the more up-to-date +name—Eugénie came flying up the street from +the railroad station, waving the yellow envelope and +spreading the news as she flew. The message consisted +of only one word: "Safe"; but it was dated Queenstown, +and it bore the signature we were henceforth to +be so proud of: Joseph Pettipaw.</p> + +<p>Two days later the <i>Herald</i> contained a notice of the +rescue by a Norwegian freighter of the Captain of the +<i>Maid of the North</i>; but we had to wait ten days for +the full story, which occupied two columns in one of +the Queenstown journals and almost as much in the +Dublin <i>Post</i>, with a very lifelike photograph of Captain +Joe. It was a wonderful story, as you may very +likely remember, for the American papers gave it +plenty of attention a little later.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span></p> + +<p>It had been a calm, warm day, but with an immense +sea running. Before entering the war zone Captain +Joe had made due preparation for emergencies. The +ship's boats were ready to be swung, and in each was +a barrel of water and a supply of biscuit and other +rations. The submarine was not sighted until it was +too late to think of escaping; the engines were reversed; +and when the German commander called out through +his megaphone that ten minutes would be allowed for +the escape of the crew, all hands hurried to the lee side +and began piling into the boats. The mate's was lowered +away first and cleared safely.</p> + +<p>The Captain was about to give the order for the +lowering of his own boat, when the only woman in the +party cried out that her husband was being left behind. +It was the cook, who was indulging in an untimely nap, +his noonday labors in the galley being over. In her +first excitement Martha Figman had failed to notice +his absence, but had made for the boat as fast as she +could, carrying her three-year-old child.</p> + +<p>"Be quick!" called out the commander of the submarine. +"Your time is up!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Captain, Captain, don't leave him," implored +the desperate woman. "He's all I have!"</p> + +<p>Then Captain Joe did the thing that will go down +in history. He seized the little girl and held her aloft +in his arms and called out to the Germans:</p> + +<p>"In the name of this little child, grant me three +more minutes."</p> + +<p>"Two!" replied the commander.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> + +<p>Captain Joe leaped to the deck and rushed aft, burst +open the cook's cabin, and hauled Danny Figman, quite +sound asleep, out of his berth. The poor rascal was +only partly dressed, but there was no time to make him +presentable. A blanket and a sou'wester had to suffice. +Still bewildered, he was dragged on deck and ordered +to run for his life.</p> + +<p>A few seconds later the boat lowered away with its +full quota of passengers; the men took the oars, +cleared a hundred yards safely; and then there was a +snort, a white furrow through the waves, an explosion; +the <i>Maid of the North</i> listed, settled, and disappeared. +The submarine steamed quickly out of sight; and the +two boats were all that was left as witness of what had +happened.</p> + +<p>On account of the terrible seas that were running, +the boats soon became separated; and for sixty-two +hours Captain Joe bent his every energy to keeping his +boat afloat, for she was in momentary danger of being +swamped, until on the third morning the Norwegian +was sighted, came to the rescue, and carried the +exhausted occupants into Queenstown.</p> + +<p>Three Rivers, you may depend, had this story by +heart, and backward and forward, long before Captain +Joe returned to us; for not only did it appear in +those Irish journals, but also on the occasion of the +Captain's arrival in New York in several metropolitan +papers, written up with great detail, and with a picture +of little Tina Figman in the Captain's arms.</p> + +<p>"This is the Captain," ran the print under the picture,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> +"who risked his life that a baby might not be +fatherless."</p> + +<p>You can imagine how anxious we were by this time +in Three Rivers to welcome that Captain home again; +not one of us but wanted to make ample amends for +the injustice we had done him in the past. But we had +to wait several weeks, for even after the owners had +brought Captain Joe and his crew back to New York +on the St. Louis, still he had to go to Montreal for a +ten days' stay, to depose his evidence officially and to +wind up the affairs of the torpedoed ship. But at last +he was positively returning to us; and extensive preparations +were undertaken for his reception.</p> + +<p>As he was coming by the St. Lawrence steamer, +<i>Lady of Gaspé</i>, the principal decorations were massed +in the vicinity of the government wharf. If I tell you +that well nigh three hundred dollars had been collected +for this purpose from the good people of Three +Rivers, you can form some idea of the magnitude of +the effort. A double row of saplings had been set up +along the wharf and led thence to the Palace of Justice; +and the full distance, an eighth of a mile, was +hung with red and tricolor bunting. Then there were +three triumphal arches, one at the head of the wharf, +one at the turn into the street, and one in front of the +post-office. These arches were very cleverly built, with +little turrets at the corners, the timber-work completely +covered with spruce-branches; and each arch displayed +a motto. Mrs. Fougère and Eugénie White had devised +the mottoes, little John Boutin had traced the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> +letters on cotton, and Mrs. Boutin had painted them. +The first read: "Honor to Our Hero." The second +was in French, for the reason that half our population +still use that language by preference, and it read: +"Honneur à notre Héro"; and the third arch bore the +one word, ornately inscribed: "Welcome."</p> + +<p>All the houses along the way were decorated with +geraniums and flags; and as the grass was already very +green (it was June) and the willows and silver-oaks +beginning to leave out, it may fairly be said that Three +Rivers was a beauty spot.</p> + +<p>Seeing that no one can tell beforehand when a +steamer is going to arrive, the whole town was in its +best clothes and ready at an early hour of the morning. +The neighbors trooped in at poor Melina's, offering +their services in case any of the children still needed +combing, curling, or buttoning; and all through the +forenoon the young people were climbing to the top of +St. Anne's hill to see if there was any sign of the <i>Lady +of Gaspé</i>; but it was not till three in the afternoon that +the church-bell, madly ringing, announced that the +long-expected moment was about to arrive.</p> + +<p>I wish I could quote for you in full the account of +that day's doings which appeared in our local sheet, +the Bonaventure <i>Record</i>, for it was beautifully written +and described every feature as it deserved, reproducing +<i>verbatim</i> the Mayor's address of welcome, Father +Quinnan's speech in the Palace, and the Resolutions +drawn up by ten representative citizens and presented +to Captain Pettipaw on a handsomely illuminated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> +scroll, which you may see to-day hanging in the place +of honor in his parlor.</p> + +<p>But let my readers imagine for themselves the +arrival of the steamer, the cheer upon cheer as Captain +Joe came gravely down the gang-plank; the affecting +meeting between him and poor Melina and the nine +little Pettipaws, the littlest of whom he had never seen, +and several of whom had grown so in these last four +years that he had the names wrong, which caused +happy laughter and happy tears on all sides. Then the +procession to the Palace! There was an orchestra of +four pieces from Cape Cove; and a troop of little +girls, in white, scattered tissue-paper flowers along the +line of march.</p> + +<p>The Mayor began his speech by saying that an +honor had come to our little town which would be +rehearsed from father to son for generations. Father +Quinnan took for his theme the three words: "Father, +Husband, Hero"; and he showed us how each of those +words, in its highest and best sense, necessarily comprised +the other two. And the exercises closed with a +very enjoyable piano duet which you doubtless know: +"Wandering Dreams," by some foreign composer.</p> + +<p>People watched Captain Joe very closely. It would +have been only natural if, returning to us in this way, +he should have remembered a time, not so long before, +when the attitude of his fellow-citizens had been extremely +cool. But if he remembered it, he gave no +sign; and he smiled at everyone in a grave, thoughtful +manner that made one's heart beat high.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He has aged," whispered Mrs. Fougère. "But +his face is noble. It reminds me of Napoleon, +somehow."</p> + +<p>"To me he looks more like that American we see so +often in the papers—Bryan. So much dignity!" This +from Mrs. Boutin.</p> + +<p>We appreciated the Captain's freedom from condescension +the more when we heard from his own lips, +that same evening, a recital of the honors that had +been showered upon him during the past weeks. The +Mayor of Queenstown had had him to dinner; Lady +Derntwood, known as the most beautiful woman in +Ireland, had entertained him for three days at Derntwood +Park, and sent an Indian shawl as a present to +his wife. On the <i>St. Louis</i> he had sat at the Captain's +right hand; in New York he had been interviewed and +royally fêted by the newspaper-men; and at Montreal +the owners had presented him with a gold watch and a +purse of $250. Also, they had offered him another +ship immediately.</p> + +<p>"Oh, you're going again!" we exclaimed; and the +words were repeated from one to another in admiration—"He's +going again!" But Captain Joe smiled +thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"I told them I didn't mind being torpedoed," he +said ('Oh, no! Certainly not! Mind being torpedoed; +you! Captain Joe!') "but—"</p> + +<p>"But what, Captain?"</p> + +<p>"But I said as I couldn't bear for to see a little child +exposed again in an open boat for sixty-four hours."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But Captain, wouldn't they give you a ship without +a child?"</p> + +<p>"They <i>said</i> they would," he replied, doubtfully, +shaking his head.</p> + +<p>"Then what will you be doing next?" we asked, +mentally reviewing the various fields in which he might +add laurels to laurels.</p> + +<p>He meditated a little while and then replied: +"Home'll suit me pretty good for a spell."</p> + +<p>Well, that could be understood, certainly. Indeed, +it was to his credit. We remembered Father Quinnan's +speech. The husband, the father, had their claim. +A little stay at home, in the bosom of loved ones, yes, +to be sure, it seemed fitting and right, after the perils +of the sea.</p> + +<p>And yet, why was it, as we took down the one-eighth-mile +of bunting that night, there was a faint but perceptible +dampening of our enthusiasm. Perhaps it was +the reaction from the strain and excitement of the day, +for it had been, there was no denying it, a day of days +for Three Rivers; a day, which, as Father Quinnan +had said, would be writ in letters of gold in Memory's +fair album. This day was ended now, and night came +down upon a very proud and very tired little +community.</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>If this were a fancy story instead of a record of +things that came to pass last year on the Gaspé Coast, +my pen should stop here; but as it is, I feel under a +plain obligation to pursue the narrative.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> + +<p>I've no doubt that many other towns in the history +of the world have faced precisely the same problem +that Three Rivers faced in the months following: +namely, what to do with a hero when you have one. +Oh, if you could only set them up on a pedestal in +front of the Town Hall or the post-office and <i>keep</i> +them there! A statue is so practicable. Once in so +often, say on anniversaries, you can freshen it up, hang +it with garlands and bunting, and polish the inscription; +and then the school-children can come, and somebody +can explain to them about the statue, and why we +should venerate it, and what were the splendid qualities +of the hero which we are to try to imitate in our +own lives. I hope that all cities with statues realize +their happy condition.</p> + +<p>For two or three weeks after the Great Day Three +Rivers still kept its air of festivity. The triumphal +arches could be appreciated even from the train, and +many travelers, we heard, passing through, leaned out +of the windows and asked questions of the station +agent.</p> + +<p>Wherever Captain Joe went, there followed a little +knot of children, listening open-mouthed for any +word that might fall from his lips; and you could +hear them explaining to one another how it was that a +man could be torpedoed and escape undamaged. At +first no one of lesser importance than the Mayor or +the Bank Manager presumed to walk with him on the +street; and he was usually to be seen proceeding in +solitary dignity to or from the post-office, head a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> +bowed, one hand in the opening of his coat, his step +slow and thoughtful, while the children pattered along +behind.</p> + +<p>But the barrier between the Captain and his fellow-townsmen +was entirely of their own creation, it transpired, +for he was naturally a sociable man, and now +more than ever he craved society, being sure of a deferential +hearing. Once established again in Boutin's +tailor-shop and pool-parlor, he seemed disposed never +to budge from it; and as often as you might pass, day +or night, you could hear him holding forth to whatever +company happened to be present. It was impossible +not to gather many scraps of his discourse, for +his voice was as loud as an orator's.</p> + +<p>"And Lady Derntwood—no, it was Lady Genevieve, +Lady Derntwood's dairter by her first husband +and fully as beautiful as her mother, she said to me, +'Captain,' she said, 'when I read that about the little +girl—For the sake of this little child, grant me three +minutes!—the tears filled my eyes, and I said to my +maid, who had brought me my <i>Times</i> on the breakfast +tray, "Lucienne," I said, "that is a man I should be +proud to know!"'—and that's a fact sir, as true as +I'm settin' here, for Lucienne herself told me the same +thing. A little beauty, that Lucienne: black hair; +medium height. We used to talk French together."</p> + +<p>Or another time you would hear: "And they said to +me, 'Captain,' they says, 'and are you satisfied with +the gold watch and chain and with the little purse we +have made up for you here, not pretending, of course,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> +for one minute,' they says, 'that 'tis any measure of +the services you have rendered to us or to your country. +We ask you,' they says, 'are you satisfied?' And +I said, 'I am,' and the fact is, I was, for the watch I'd +lost was an Ingersoll, and my clothes put together +wouldn't have brought a hundred dollars."</p> + +<p>So the weeks went by; and the triumphal arches, on +which the mottoes had run a good deal, were taken +down and broken up for kindling; and still Captain Joe +sat and talked all day long and all night long, too, if +only anybody would listen to him. But listeners were +growing scarce. His story had been heard too often; +and any child in town was able to correct him when he +slipped up, which often happened. The two hundred +and fifty dollars was spent long since, and now the +local merchants were forced to insist once more on +strictly cash purchases, and many a day the Pettipaw +family must have "done meagre," as the French say. +Unless all signs failed, they would be soon living again +at the charge of the community. Close your eyes if +you like, sooner or later certain grim truths will be +borne home to you. A leopard cannot change his +spots, nor a Pettipaw his skin. Before our very eyes +the honor and glory of Three Rivers, the thing that +was to be passed from generation to generation, was +vanishing: worse than that, we were becoming ridiculous +in our own eyes, which is harder to bear, even, +than being ridiculous in the eyes of others.</p> + +<p>There was one remedy and only one. It was plain +to anybody who considered the situation thoughtfully.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> +Captain Joe must be got away. So long as your hero +is alive, he can only be viewed advantageously at a distance. +At all events, if he is a Pettipaw.</p> + +<p>It was proposed that we should elect him our local +member to the provincial Parliament. It might be +managed. We suggested it to him, dwelling upon the +opportunities it would afford for the exercise of his +special talents which, we said, were being thrown away +in a little town like Three Rivers. He conceded that +we spoke the truth; "but," he said, after a moment of +thoughtful silence, "I am a sailor born and bred, and +my health would never stand the confinement. Never!"</p> + +<p>Next it was found that we could secure for him the +position of purser on the S. S. <i>Lady of the Gaspé</i>. But +this offer he refused even more emphatically.</p> + +<p>"Purser!—Me!" There was evidently nothing +more to be said.</p> + +<p>Writing to Montreal, Father Quinnan learned that +if he so wished Captain Pettipaw might have again the +command of the little freighter that ran to the Labrador; +and the proposition was laid before him with sanguine +expectations. Again he declined.</p> + +<p>"The Labrador! Thank you! They wouldn't even +know who I was!"</p> + +<p>"You could tell them, Captain."</p> + +<p>"What good would that do?"</p> + +<p>No answer being forthcoming to this demand, still +another scheme had to be sought. It was the Mayor +who finally saved the day for Three Rivers. He instigated +a Patriotic Fund, to which every man, woman<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> +and child contributed what he could, and with the proceeds +a three-masted schooner of two hundred tons +burden was acquired (she had been knocked down for +a song at a sheriff's sale at Campbellton); she was +handsomely refitted, rechristened, and presented, late +in October, to Captain Joe, as a tribute of esteem from +his native town.</p> + +<p>It is not for me to say just how grateful the Captain +was, at heart; but he accepted the gift with becoming +dignity; and before the winter ice closed the Gulf (so +expeditiously had our plans been carried out) the +<i>Gloria</i> was ready to sail with a cargo of dry fish for +the Barbadoes.</p> + +<p>The evening previous to her departure there was a +big farewell meeting in the Palace of Justice, with +speeches by the Mayor and Father Quinnan, a piano +duet, and an original poem by Eugénie White, +beginning:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Sail forth, sail far,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>O Captain bold!</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It was remarkable to see how all the enthusiasm and +fervor of an earlier celebration in that same hall +sprang to life again; yes, and with a solemnity added, +for this time our hero was going from us. He sat +there on the platform by the Mayor, handsome, +square-shouldered, his head a little bowed, a thoughtful +smile on his lips under the grizzled moustache: he +was every inch the noble figure that had stood unflinching +before the gates of death; and we realized as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> +never before what a debt of gratitude we owed him. +At last our hero was our hero again.</p> + +<p>There is but little more to tell. The next morning, +bright and early, everybody was at the wharf to watch +the <i>Gloria</i> hoist her sails, weigh anchor, and tack out +into the bay. There were tears in many, many eyes +besides those of poor Mrs. Pettipaw. The sea had a +dark look, off there, and one thought of the dangers +that awaited any man who sailed out on it at this time +of the year.</p> + +<p>"Heaven send him good passage!" said Mrs. Thibault, +wiping her eyes vigorously.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, and bring him safe home again, the brave +man!" added Mrs. Boutin, earnestly; and all those +who heard her breathed a sincere amen to that prayer.</p> + +<p>It was sincere. We had wanted Captain Joe to go +away; we had actually forced him to go away; yet no +sooner was he gone than we prayed he might be +brought safe home again. Yes, for when all is said +and done, a town that has a hero must love him and +cherish him and wish him well. Because we have ours, +Three Rivers will always be a better place to live in +and to bring up children in: a more inspiring place.</p> + +<p>Only, perhaps, if Mrs. Boutin had spoken less impulsively, +she would have added one or two qualifying +clauses to her petition. For instance, she might have +added: "Only not too soon, and not for too long at +once!" But for my part, I believe that will be understood +by the good angel who puts these matters on +record, up there.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<a name="HOUSE" id="HOUSE"></a> +<img src="images/house.jpg" width="600" height="430" alt="" /> +<div class="caption center">A FISHERMAN'S HOUSE</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap" /> + + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="FLY_MY_HEART" id="FLY_MY_HEART">FLY, MY HEART!</a></h2> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p> + + + + +<p class="ph3">FLY, MY HEART!</p> + + +<div class="figleft dropcap" style="width: 80px;"> +<img src="images/i_141.png" width="80" height="78" alt="" /> +</div> +<p><span class="dropcap">T</span>hey called her Sabine Bob—"S'been Bob"—because +her real name was Sabine Anne +Boudrot; and being a Boudrot in Petit Espoir +is like being a Smith or a Brown in our +part of the world, only ten times more so, for in that +little fishing-port of Cape Breton, down in the Maritime +Provinces, practically everybody belongs to the +abounding tribe. Boudrot, therefore, having ceased to +possess more than a modicum of specificity (to borrow +a term from the logicians), the custom has arisen +of tagging the various generations and households of +Boudrots with the familiar name of the father that +begat them.</p> + +<p>And thus Sabine Anne Boudrot, "old girl" of fifty, +was known only as Sabine Bob, and Mary Boudrot, +her friend, to whom she was dictating a love-letter on +a certain August evening, was known only as Mary +Willee—with the accent so strongly on the final syllable +that it sounded like Marywil-Lee. Sabine Bob +was in service; always had been. Mary kept house +for an invalid father. But there was no social distinction +between the two.</p> + +<p>Mary Willee bent close over the sheet of ruled note-paper +and laboriously traced out the words, dipping +her pen every few seconds with professional punctiliousness +and screwing up her homely face into all sorts<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +of homely expressions: tongue now tight-bitten between +her teeth, now working restlessly in one cheek, +now hard pressed against bulging lips. There was +agony for both of them in this business of producing a +love-letter: agony for Mary Willee because she had +never fully mastered the art of writing, and the shaping +just-so of the letters and above all the spelling +brought out beads of sweat on her forehead; agony +for Sabine Bob because her heart was so burstingly +full and words were so powerless to ease that bursting.</p> + +<p>Besides, how could she be sure, really, positively +<i>sure</i>, that Mary Willee was recording there on that +paper the very words, just those very words and none +others, which she was confiding to her! Writing was +a tricky affair. Tricky, like the English language +which Sabine Bob was using, against her will, for the +reason that Mary Willee had never learned to write +French. French was natural. In French one could +say what one thought: it felt homelike. In English +one had to be stiff.</p> + +<p>"Read me what I have said so far," directed Sabine +Bob, and she held to the seat of her chair with her +bony hands and listened.</p> + +<p>Mary Willee began, compliantly. "'My dearling +Thomas'"—</p> + +<p>Sabine Bob interrupted. "The number of the day +comes first. Always! I brought you the calendar with +the day marked on it."</p> + +<p>"I wrote it here," said Mary Willee. "You need +not be so anxious. I have done letters before this."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, but everything is so important!" ejaculated +Sabine, with tragedy in her voice. "Now begin again."</p> + +<p>"'My dearling Thomas. It is bad times here. So +much fogg all ways. i was houghing potatoes since 2 +days and they looks fine and i am nitting yous some +socks for when yous come back. i hope you is getting +lots of them poggiz.'"</p> + +<p>Mary Willee hesitated. "I ain't just sure how to +spell that word," she confessed.</p> + +<p>"Pogeys?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You ought to be. What for did they send you to +the convent all those four years?"</p> + +<p>"It was only three. And the nuns never taught us +no such things as about pogey-fishing. But no matter. +Thomas Ned will know what you mean, because that's +what he's gone fishing after."</p> + +<p>And she continued: "'I miss yous awful some days. +when you comes back in octobre we's git married +sure.'"</p> + +<p>She looked up. "That's all you told me so far."</p> + +<p>Sabine's face was drawn into furrows of intense +thought. "How many more lines is there to fill?"</p> + +<p>"Seven."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, tell him I was looking at the little +house what his auntie Sophie John left him and thinking +how nice it would be when there was some front +steps and the shimney was fix' and there were curtains +to the windows in front and some geraniums and I t'ink +I will raise some hens because they are such good com<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>pany +running in and out all day when he will be away +pogey-fishing but perhaps when we're married he won't +have to go off any more because his healt' is put to +danger by it and how would it do, say, if he got a little +horse and truck with the hundred and fifty dollars I +got saved up and did work by the day for people +ashore and then"—she paused for breath.</p> + +<p>"Is that too much to write?" she remarked with +sudden anxiety.</p> + +<p>"It is," replied Mary Willee, firmly. "You can +say two things, and then good-by."</p> + +<p>Two things! Sabine Bob stared at the little yellow +circle of light on the smoky ceiling over the lamp; then +out of the window into the darkness. Two things +more; and there were so many thousand things to say! +Her mind was a blank.</p> + +<p>"I am waiting," Mary reminded her, poising her +pen pitilessly.</p> + +<p>"Tell him," gasped out Sabine, "tell him—I t'ink +I raise some hens."</p> + +<p>Letter by letter the pregnant sentence was inscribed, +while Sabine stared at the pen with paralyzed attention, +as if her doom were being written in the Book +of Judgment; and now the time had come for the second +thing! Tears of helplessness stood in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Ask him," she blurted out, "would the hundred +and fifty dollars what I got buy a nice little horse and +truck."</p> + +<p>Mary Willee paused. She seemed embarrassed.</p> + +<p>"Write it," commanded the other.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mary Willee looked almost frightened. "Must you +say that about the money?" she asked, weakly.</p> + +<p>"Write the words I told you," insisted Sabine. +"This is my letter, not yours."</p> + +<p>Reluctantly the younger woman set down the sentence; +then added the requisite and necessary "Good-by, +from Sabine."</p> + +<p>"Is there room for a few kisses?" asked the fiancée.</p> + +<p>"One row."</p> + +<p>Sabine seized the pen greedily and holding it between +clenched fingers added a line of significant little +lop-sided symbols. Then while her secretary prepared +the letter for mailing, she wiped her forehead with a +large blue handkerchief which she refolded and returned +to the skirt-pocket that contained her rosary +and her purse. She put on her little old yellow-black +hat again and made ready to go.</p> + +<p>"Now to the post-office," she said. "How glad +Thomas Ned will be when he gets it!"</p> + +<p>"I am sure he will," said Mary; and if there was +any doubt in her tone, it was not perceived by her +friend, who suddenly flung her arms about her in a +gush of happy emotion.</p> + +<p>"Dieu, que c'est beau, l'amour!" she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>The sentiment was not a new one in the world; but +it was still a new one, and very wonderful, to Sabine +Bob: Sabine Bob who had never been pretty, even in +youthful days, who had never had any nice clothes +or gone to parties, but had just scrubbed and washed +and swept, saved what she could, gone to church on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> +Sundays, bought a new pair of shoes every other year.</p> + +<p>Not that she had ever thought of pitying herself. +She was too practical for that; and besides, there had +always been plenty to be happy about. The music in +church, for instance, which thrilled and dissolved and +comforted her; and the pictures there, which she loved +to gaze at, especially the one of Our Lady above the +altar.</p> + +<p>And then there were children! No one need be very +unhappy, it seemed to Sabine Bob, in a world where +there were children. She never went out without first +putting a few little hard, colored candies in her pocket +to dispense along the street, over gates and on front +steps. The tinier the children were the more she loved +them. Every spring in Petit Espoir there was a fresh +crop of the very tiniest of all; and towards these—little +pink bundles of softness and helplessness—she felt +something of the adoration which those old Wise Men +felt who had followed the star. If she had had spices +and frankincense, Sabine Bob would have offered it, on +her knees. But in lieu of that, she brought little knitted +sacques and blankets and hoods.</p> + +<p>Such had been Sabine Bob's past; and that a day +was to come in her life when a handsome young man +should say sweet, loving things to her, present her with +perfumery, bottle on bottle, ask her to be his wife, +bless you, she would have been the first to scout the +ridiculous idea—till six months ago! Thomas Ned +was a small man, about forty, squarely built, with pink +cheeks, long lashes, luxuriant moustache; a pretty man;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> +a man who cut quite a figure amongst the girls and +(many declared) could have had his pick of them. +Why, why, had he chosen Sabine Bob? When she +considered the question thoughtfully, she found +answers enough, for she was not a girl who underestimated +her own worth.</p> + +<p>"Thomas is sensible," she explained to Mary Willee. +"He knows better than to take up with one of +those weak, sickly young things that have nothing but +a pretty face and stylish clothes to recommend them. +I can work; I can save; I can make his life easy. He +knows he will be well looked out for."</p> + +<p>If Mary Willee could have revised this explanation, +she refrained from doing so. It would have taken +courage to do so at that moment, for Sabine Bob was +so happy! It was almost comical for any one to be so +happy as that! Sabine realized it and laughed at herself +and was happier still. Morning, noon, and night, +during those first mad, marvelous days after she had +promised to become Madame Thomas Ned, she was +singing a bit of gay nonsense she had known from +childhood:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Vive la Canadienne,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Vole, vole, vole, mon coeur!</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Fly, fly, oh fly, my heart," trolled Sabine Bob; and +every evening, until the time came when he must depart +for the pogey-fishing, in May, he had come and +sat with her in the kitchen; he would smoke; she would +knit away at a pair of mittens for him (oh, such small<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> +hands as that Thomas had!), and about ten o'clock +she would fetch a glass of blueberry wine and some +currant cookies. How nice it was to be doing such +things for some one—of one's own!</p> + +<p>She hovered over him like a ministering spirit, +beaming and tender. This was what she had starved +for all her life without knowing it: to serve some one +of her own! Not for wages now; for love! She flung +herself on the altar of Thomas and burned there with +a clear ecstatic flame.</p> + +<p>And now that he had been away four months, pogey-fishing, +she would sometimes console herself by getting +out the five picture-postcards he had sent her and muse +upon the scenes of affection depicted there and pick out, +word by word, the brief messages he had written. With +Mary Willee's assistance she had memorized them; +and they were words of sempiternal devotion; and +there were little round love-knows-what's in plenty; +and on one card he called her his little wife; and that +was the one she prized the most. Wife! Sabine Bob!</p> + +<p>That no card arrived in answer to her August letter +did not surprise her, for the pogeymen often did not +put into port for weeks at a time; and anyhow the day +was not far away, now, when the season would be over +and those who had gone up from Petit Espoir would +come down again.</p> + +<p>So the weeks slipped by. October came. The +pogey-fishermen returned.</p> + +<p>She waited for Thomas Ned in the kitchen that first +evening, palpitating with expectancy; and he did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> +come. During the sleepless night that followed she +conjured up excuses for him. He had had one of his +attacks of rheumatism. His mother had been ill and +had required his presence at home. The next evening +he would come, oh certainly, and explain everything. +Attired in her best, she sat and waited a second evening; +then a third. There was no sign of him.</p> + +<p>From Mary Willie she learned that Thomas had +arrived with the others; that he appeared in perfect +health, never handsomer; also that his mother was well.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it cannot be that anything has happened," +cried Sabine, with choking tears. "Surely it will all be +explained soon!" But there was a tightening about +her heart, a black premonition of ill to come.</p> + +<p>She continued to wait. She was on the watch for +him day and night. At least he would pass on the +street, and she could waylay him! Every time she +heard footsteps or voices she flew to the kitchen door. +When her work was done, she would hurry out to the +barn, where there was a little window commanding a +good view of the harbor-front; and there she would +sit, muffled in a shawl, for hours, hunger gnawing at +her heart, her eyes dry and staring, until her teeth +began to chatter with cold and nervousness.</p> + +<p>He never passed. Some one met him taking the +back road into the village. He was purposely avoiding +her.</p> + +<p>When Sabine Bob realized that she was deserted by +the man she loved, thrown aside without a word, she +suffered unspeakably; but her native good sense saved<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> +her from making any exhibition of her grief. She knew +better than to make a fool of herself. If there was +one thing she dreaded worse than death it was being +laughed at. She was a self-respecting girl; she had +her pride. And no one witnessed the spasms, the +cyclones, which sometimes seized her in the seclusion +of her little attic bedroom. These were not the picturesque, +grandiose sufferings of high tragedy; there was +small resemblance between Sabine Bob and Carthaginian +Dido; Sabine's agonies were stark and cruel and +ugly, unsoftened by poetry. But she kept them to +herself.</p> + +<p>She did her work as before. But she did not sing; +and perhaps she nicked more dishes than usual, for her +hands trembled a good deal. But she kept her lips +tight shut. And she never went out on the street if +she could help it.</p> + +<p>So a month passed. Two months. And then one +evening Mary Willee came running in breathless with +news for her: news that made her skin prickle and her +blood, after one dizzy, faint moment, drum hotly in +her temples.</p> + +<p>Thomas Ned was paying attentions to Tina Lejeune, +that blonde young girl from the Ponds. He had +taken her to a dance. He had bought a scarf for her +and a bottle of perfumery. He had taken her to drive. +They had been seen walking together several times in +the dark on the upper street.</p> + +<p>"Does he say he is going to marry her?" asked +Sabine Bob, with dry lips.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I do not know that. <i>She</i> says so. She says they +are to be married soon."</p> + +<p>"Does she know about—about me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but she says—" Mary Willee stopped short +in embarrassment.</p> + +<p>"Says what! Tell me! Tell me at once!" commanded +Sabine, fiercely. "What does she say!"</p> + +<p>"She says Thomas thought you had a lot of money. +He was deceived, he said."</p> + +<p>Sabine broke out in a passion of indignation. "I +never deceived him: never, never! I never once said +anything about money. He never asked me anything. +It's a lie. I tell you, it's a lie!"</p> + +<p>Mary quailed visibly, unable to disguise a tell-tale +look of guilt.</p> + +<p>"What is the matter with you, Mary Willee!" cried +Sabine. "You are hiding something. You know something +you have not told me!"</p> + +<p>Mary replied, in a very frightened voice: "Once he +asked me if you had any money. I did not think he +was really in earnest, so I told him you had saved a +thousand dollars. Oh, I didn't mean any harm. I only +said it to be agreeable. And later I was afraid to tell +the truth, for it was only two or three days later he +asked you to marry him, and you were so happy."</p> + +<p>Mary Willee hid her face in her hands and waited +for the storm to break upon her; but it did not break. +The room was very quiet. At last she heard Sabine +moving about, and she looked up again. Sabine was +putting on her hat and coat.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Sabine! Sabine!" she gasped. "What are you +doing!"</p> + +<p>Sabine Bob turned quietly and stood for a moment +gazing at her without a word. Then she said:</p> + +<p>"Mary Willee, you are a bad girl and I can never +forgive you; but if Tina Lejeune thinks she is going to +marry Thomas Ned, she will find out that she is mistaken. +That is a thing that will not happen."</p> + +<p>Mary recoiled, terrified, at the pitiless, menacing +smile on the other woman's face; but before she could +say anything Sabine Bob had stalked out of the house +into the darkness.</p> + +<p>She climbed the hill to the back road, stumbling +often, blinded more by her own fierce emotions than by +the winter night; she fought her way westward against +the bitter wind that was rising; then turned off by the +Old French Road, as it was called, toward the Ponds.</p> + +<p>It was ten o'clock at night; stars, but no moon. She +saw a shadow approaching in the darkness from the +opposite direction: it was a man, short and squarely-built. +With a sickening weakness she sank down +against the wattle fence at the side of the road. He +passed her, so close that she could have reached out +and touched him. But he had not seen. She got up +and hurried on.</p> + +<p>By and by she saw ahead of her the little black bulk +of a house from the tiny window of which issued a yellow +glow. The house stood directly on the road. She +went quietly to the window and looked in. A young<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> +girl was sitting by a bare table, her head supported by +the palms of her hands. Sabine knew the weak white +face and hated it. She made her way to the door and +knocked. There was a smothered, startled exclamation; +then the rustle of some one moving.</p> + +<p>"Who is it?" inquired a timid voice.</p> + +<p>"Let me in and I will tell you," responded the +woman outside, in a voice the more menacing because +of its control.</p> + +<p>"My mother is not at home to-night. She is over +at the widow Babinot's. If you go over there you will +find her."</p> + +<p>"It is you I wish to see. Open the door!"</p> + +<p>There was no answer. Sabine turned the knob and +entered. At the sight of her the blonde girl gave a +cry of dismay and retreated behind the table, +trembling.</p> + +<p>"What do you want?" she gasped.</p> + +<p>"We have an account to settle together, you and +me," said Sabine, with something like a laugh.</p> + +<p>"Account?" said the other, bracing herself, but +scarcely able to articulate. "What account? I have +not done you any harm. Before God I have not done +you any harm."</p> + +<p>Sabine laughed mockingly. "So you think there is +no harm in taking away from me the man I was going +to marry?"</p> + +<p>"I did not take him away," said Tina, faintly.</p> + +<p>"You did! You did take him away!" cried Sabine,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> +fiercely. "He was mine; it was last March he promised +to marry me; any one can tell you that. I have +witnesses. I have letters. Everything I tell you can +be proved. He belongs to me just as much as if we +had been before a priest already; and if you think you +can take him away from me, you will find out you are +wrong!"</p> + +<p>For a few seconds the paralyzed girl before her +could not utter a word; then she stammered out:</p> + +<p>"He told me you had deceived him about money."</p> + +<p>Sabine gave an inarticulate cry of rage, like a wild +beast at bay. "It's a lie! A lie! I never deceived +him. It's he who deceived me; but let me tell you this: +when a woman like me promises to marry a man, she +keeps her word. Do you understand? She keeps her +word! I am going to marry Thomas Ned. He cannot +escape me. I will go to the priest. I will go to the +lawyer. There are plenty of ways."</p> + +<p>The blonde girl sank trembling into a chair.</p> + +<p>"He cannot marry you," she gasped. "He cannot. +He cannot."</p> + +<p>"No?" cried Sabine, with ringing mockery. "And +why not?"</p> + +<p>Tina's lips moved inaudibly. She moistened them +with her tongue and made a second attempt.</p> + +<p>"Because—" she breathed.</p> + +<p>"Yes? Yes?"</p> + +<p>"Because—he must marry me." She buried her +head in her hands and sobbed.</p> + +<p>Sabine Bob strode to the cringing girl, seized her by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> +the shoulders, forcing her up roughly against the back +of the chair, and broke out with a ruthless laugh:</p> + +<p>"Must! Must! You don't say so! And why, tell +me, must he marry you?"</p> + +<p>The white girl raised her eyes for one instant to the +other's face; and there was a look in them of mute +pleading and confession, a look that was like a death-cry +for pity. The look shot through Sabine's turgid +consciousness like a white-hot dagger. She staggered +back as if mortally stricken, supporting herself against +a tall cupboard, staring at the girl, whose head had +now sunk to the table again and whose body was shaking +with spasmodic sobs. It was one of the moments +when destinies are written.</p> + +<p>At such moments we act from something deeper, +more elemental, than will. The best or the worst in +us leaps out—or perhaps neither one nor the other +but merely that thing in us that is most essentially +ourselves.</p> + +<p>Sabine stared at the poor girl whose terrifying, wonderful +secret had just been revealed to her, and she felt +through all her being a sense of shattering and disintegration; +and suddenly she was there, beside Tina, on +the arm of her chair; and she brought the girl's head +over against her bosom and held her very tight in her +eager old arms, patting her shoulders and stroking her +soft hair, while the tears rained down her cheeks and +she murmured, soothingly:</p> + +<p>"Pauvre petite!" and again and again, "Pauvre +petite! Ma pauvre petite!"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></p> + +<p>Tina abandoned herself utterly to the other's impassioned +tenderness; and for a long time the two sat +there, tightly clasped, silent, understanding.</p> + +<p>Sabine Bob had no word of blame for the unhappy +girl. Vaguely she knew that she ought to blame her; +very vaguely she remembered that girls like this were +bad girls; but that did not seem to make any difference. +Instead of indignation she felt something very like +humility and reverence.</p> + +<p>"Yes, he must marry you," she said at last, very +simply and gently.</p> + +<p>"Oh, if he only would!" sobbed Tina.</p> + +<p>"What!" cried Sabine, in amazement.</p> + +<p>"He says such cruel things to me," confessed the +girl. "He knows, oh, he does know I never loved any +man but himself; never, never any other man, nor ever +will!"</p> + +<p>Sabine's eyes opened upon new vistas of man's perfidiousness. +And yet, in spite of everything, how one +could love them! She felt an immense compassion +toward this poor girl who had loved not wisely but so +all-givingly.</p> + +<p>"I will go to him," she said, resolutely. "I will tell +him he must marry you; and I will say that if he does +not, I will tell every person in Petit Espoir what a +wicked thing he has done."</p> + +<p>Tina leaped to her feet in terror. "Oh, no, no!" +she pleaded. "No one must know."</p> + +<p>Sabine understood. Not the present only, but the +future must be thought of.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And if he was forced like that to marry me, he +would hate me," pursued the girl, who saw things with +the pitiless clear foresight that desperation gives. "He +must marry me from his own choice. Oh, if I could +only make him choose; but to-night he said NO! and +went away, very angry. I'm afraid he will never come +back again."</p> + +<p>"Yes, he will," said Sabine Bob. There was a grim +smile on her lips; and she squared her shoulders as if +to give herself courage for some dreaded ordeal. +"There is a way."</p> + +<p>But to the startled, eager question in the other's eyes, +she vouchsafed no answer. She came to her and put +her hands firmly on her shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Tina, will you promise not to believe anything you +hear them say about me? Will you promise to keep +on loving me just the same?"</p> + +<p>The girl clung to her. "Oh, yes, yes," she promised. +"Always!" and then, in a shy whisper, she +added: "And some day—I will not be the only one +to love you."</p> + +<p>Sabine Bob gave her a quick, almost violent kiss, and +went out, not stopping for even a word of good-night. +And the next day she put her plan into execution. +There was a perfectly relentless logic about Sabine +Bob. She saw a thing to do; and she went and did it.</p> + +<p>As soon as her dinner dishes were washed and put +away, she donned her old brown coat and the little +yellow-black hat that had served her winter and summer +from time immemorial, and proceeded to make a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> +dozen calls on her friends, up and down the street. +Wherever she went she talked, volubly, feverishly. She +railed; she threatened; she vociferated; and the object +of her vociferations was Thomas Ned. He had promised +to marry her; and he had deserted her; and she +would have the law on him! Marry her he must, now, +whether he would or no.</p> + +<p>"See that word?" she demanded, displaying her +sheaf of compromising post-cards. "That word is +<i>wife</i>; and the man who calls me wife must stick to it. +I am not a woman to be made a fool of!"</p> + +<p>So she stormed away, from house to house. Her +friends tried to pacify her; but the more they tried, the +more venom she put into her threats. And soon the +news spread through the whole town. Nothing else +was talked of.</p> + +<p>"She's crazy," people said. "But she can make +trouble for him, if she wants to, no doubt about it."</p> + +<p>Sabine laughed grimly to herself. She was going to +succeed. The scheme would work. She knew the kind +of man Thomas Ned was: full of shifts. He had +proved that already. He would never face a thing +squarely. He would look for a way out.</p> + +<p>She was right. It was only ten days later, at high +mass, that the success of her strategy was tangibly +proved. At the usual point in the service for such announcements, +just before the sermon, Father Beauclerc, +standing in the pulpit, called the banns for +Thomas Boudrot, of Petit Espoir, North, and Tina +Mélanie Brigitte Lejeune, of the Ponds.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p> + +<p>The announcement caused a sensation. An audible +murmur of amazement, not to say consternation, went +up from all quarters of the edifice, floor and galleries; +even the altar boys exchanged whispers with one another; +and there was a great stretching of necks in the +direction of Sabine Bob, who sat there in her uncushioned +pew, very straight and very red, with set lips, +while her rough old fingers played nervously with the +rosary in her lap.</p> + +<p>This was her victory! She had never felt the ugliness +of her fifty years so cruelly before. A bony, ridiculous +old maid, making a fool of herself in public! +That was the sum of it! And all her life she had been +so careful, so jealously careful, not to do anything +that might cause her to be laughed at!</p> + +<p>She could hear some of the whispers that were being +exchanged in neighboring pews. "Poor old thing!" +people were saying. "But how could she expect anybody +would want to marry her at her age!"</p> + +<p>A trembling like ague seized her, and she felt suddenly +very cold and very very weak. She shut her eyes, +for things were beginning to flicker and whirl; and +when she opened them again, they were caught and +held by the picture above the high altar.</p> + +<p>It was the Mother. The Mother and the Little +One. He lay in her arms and smiled.</p> + +<p>The tears gushed up in Sabine Bob's eyes, and a +smile of wonderful tenderness and peace broke over +the harsh lines of her face and transfigured it, just for +one instant. It was a victory; it <i>was</i> a victory;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> +though nobody knew it but herself; just herself, and +one other, and—perhaps—</p> + +<p>Sabine still gazed at the picture, poor old Sabine +Bob in her brown coat and faded little yellow-black +hat: and the Eternal Mother returned the gaze of the +Eternal Mother, smiling; and it didn't matter very +much after that—how could it?—what people might +think or say in Petit Espoir.</p> + +<p>Once more, that afternoon, as she slashed the suds +over the dishes, Sabine Bob was singing. You could +hear her way down there on the street, so buoyant and +so merry was her voice:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Long live the Canadian maid;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Fly, fly, oh fly, my heart!</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="figcenter vspace" style="width: 125px;"> +<img src="images/end.png" width="125" height="125" alt="" /> +</div> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44257 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |