Complete weird tales of.., p.1239
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1239
“They are an industrious race,” said I with fine irony, watching a happy inebriate pursuing a serpentine course toward the café opposite.
Sweetheart, who was as patriotic a little girl as ever hummed the Marseillaise, and adopted France as long as she lived in it, was up in arms in an instant.
“I have read,” she said with conviction, “that the Bretons are a brave, industrious race. They are French.”
“They speak a different language,” I said— “not a word of French in it.”
“They are French,” repeated Sweetheart, with an inflection which decided me to shun the subject until I could unpack my guide-book.
We sat a little while longer under the trees, until we both began nodding and mutually accused each other. Then Sweetheart went up to the room to take a nap, and I, scorning such weakness, lay down in a steamer chair under our window and fell fast asleep in no time.
I was aroused by a big pink rose which hit me squarely on the mouth. Sweetheart was perched in the window seat above, and as I looked up she sent a shower of blossoms down upon me.
“Jack, you lazy creature, it’s five o’clock, and I’m dressed and ready for a walk!”
“So am I,” I said, jumping up.
“But not like that. You must come up and make yourself nice for dinner.”
“Nice? What’s the matter with these tweeds? Aren’t these new stockings presentable?”
“Look at your hair!” she said evasively. “Come up this minute and brush it.”
I went, and was compelled to climb into a white collar and shirt, and trousers of an English cut. But before we had gone far along the great military road that climbed the heights above the little river, I took Sweetheart’s hand in mine and imparted to her my views and intentions upon the subject of my costume for the future.
“You see, dearest, we are here in Brittany for three reasons. The first is, that I should paint outdoors. The second is, that we should economize like the deuce. The third is, our shadows — —”
“I know,” she interrupted faintly. “Never mind, Jack, dear.”
We walked silently for a while, hand clasping hand very tightly, for we were both thinking of the third reason.
I broke the silence first, speaking cheerfully, and she looked up with a quick smile while the shadow fell from her brow.
“You see, dear, in this place, where we are going, there are no people but peasants. Your frocks are all right for a place like this; we must both wear our free-and-easy togs I for painting, and you for scrambling about after your wild flowers or fishing with me. If you get tired of seeing me in corduroys or tweeds, I’ll dress for you when you think you can’t stand it any longer.”
“Oh, Jack, I do like your knickerbockers — —”
“And you shall wear your most gorgeous gown for me — —”
“Indeed I won’t,” she laughed, adding impulsively, “indeed I will — every day, if you wish it!”
At the top of the hill stood an ancient Ursuline convent surrounded by a high wall, which also inclosed the broad acres of the wealthy sisterhood. We sat down by the roadside hedge and looked across the valley, where the hurrying river had ceased to hasten and now lingered in placid pools and long, deep reaches. The sun had set behind the forest, and the sky threw a purple light over woods and meadow. The grassy pools below were swept by flocks of whistling martins and swallows. One or two white gulls flapped slowly toward the tide water below, and a young curlew, speeding high over head, uttered a lonesome cry. The grass — the brilliant green grass of Brittany — had turned a deep metallic blue in the twilight. A pale primrose light grew and died in the sky, and the forest changed from rose to ashes. Then a dull red bar shot across the parting clouds in the west, the forest smouldered an instant, and the pools glowed crimson. Slowly the red bar melted away, the light died out among the branches, the pools turned sombre. Looking up, we saw the new moon flashing in the sky above our heads. Sweetheart sighed in perfect contentment.
“It’s beautiful!” I said, with another sigh.
“Ah, yes,” she murmured, “beautiful to you, and to me — to me, Jack, who have never before seen this land of Morbihan.”
After a while she said, “And the ocean — oh, how I long to see it! Is it near us, Jack?”
“The river runs into it twenty kilometres below. We feel the tide at Quimperlé.” I did not add, “Baedeker,”
“I wonder,” I said presently, “what are the feelings of a little American who sees this country — the real country — for the first time?”
“I suppose you mean me,” she said. “I don’t know — I don’t think I understand it yet, but I know I shall love it, and never want to go back.”
“Perhaps we never shall,” I said. “The magic second may stretch into years that end at last as all ends.”
Then our hands met in that sudden nervous clasp which seemed to help and steady us when we were thinking of the real world, so long, so long forgotten.
IX.
I was awakened next morning by a spongeful of cold water in the face, which I hate. I started up to wreak vengeance upon Sweetheart, but she fled to the toilet room and locked herself in. From this retreat she taunted me until further sleep was out of the question, and I bowed to the inevitable — indignantly, when I saw my watch pointed to five o’clock.
Sweetheart was perfectly possessed to row; so when I had bolted my coffee and sat watching her placidly sip hers, we decided to go down to the bank of the little stream and hire a boat. The boat was a wretched, shapeless affair, with two enormous oars and the remnants of rowlocks. It was the best boat in town, so we took it. I managed to get away from the bank, and, conscious of Sweetheart’s open admiration, pulled boldly down the stream. It was easy work, for the tide was ebbing. The river up to the bridge was tidal, but above the bridge it leaped and flowed, a regular salmon stream. Sweetheart was so impatient to take the oars that I relinquished them and picked up my rod. The boat swung down the stream and under the high stone viaduct, where I insisted on anchoring and whipping the promising-looking water. The water was likely enough, and the sudden splash of a leaping grilse added to its likelihood. I was in hopes a grilse might become entangled with one of the flies, but though a big one shot up out of the water within five feet of Sweetheart, causing her to utter a suppressed scream, neither grilse nor trout rose to the beautiful lures I trailed about, and I only hooked two or three enormous dace, which came up like logs and covered the bottom of the boat with their coarse scales.
Sweetheart had never seen a French trout uncooked, and scarcely shared my disappointment.
“They are splendid fish,” she repeated; “you are unreasonable.”
There was an ancient Breton squatting on the bank; from his sulky attitude I took him to be a poacher visiting his infernal set lines and snares; but I hailed him pleasantly with a bonjour, which he returned civilly enough.
“Are there trout in this stream?”
“About the bridge,” he replied cautiously.
“Have you caught any?”
“I ain’t fishing,” he said, much alarmed.
“What’s that?” I demanded, pointing to as plump a trout as ever I saw, floating on the end of a string under the bank.
“Where?” he asked, looking about him with affected concern.
“There!”
He looked around, everywhere except where I pointed. He examined the horizon, and the tree tops, as though he expected a fish on every twig. I poled the boat up to the bank and pointed out the fish.
“Ma doui!” he exclaimed, “there is a fish!”
“Yes, a trout,” I said.
“Trout?” He burst into a forced laugh. “Trout! Ha! ha! Why, monsieur, that is a dace — a poor little dace!” He hastily jerked it up with a long homemade gaff which lay — of course quite by accident — at his feet.
“A poor little dace!” he mumbled. “Of course, monsieur would not care to claim such a poor, coarse little fish; but I am only too glad to eat it — ah, yes, only too glad!”
“You see,” said Sweetheart impulsively, “that you are wrong. Give him our fish; that will make four dace for the poor fellow.”
I placed the three dace across the blade of my oar and held it out to the poacher. He took them as if he were really glad to get them. Then I said, “These are dace, and they don’t have red spots.”
He stood as if ready to bolt, but I laughed, and settled back on my oars, saying: “You’re a poacher; but I don’t care a continental, and you can poach all day in this confounded country, where there is about one trout to the kilometre. Don’t look scared. What do I care? Only don’t tell me I’m unable to distinguish a trout when I can see the tip of his nose.”
I then sailed majestically out into the stream.
Sweetheart wanted to know whether that was really a real poacher. She had read about them. Her ideal poacher was a young, stalwart, eagle-eyed giant, with a tangle of hair and a disposition toward assassination. The reality shocked her.
“Anyway,” she said, “you frightened the poor old thing. How rough men are!”
We returned to the landing place with difficulty, for the tide was still on the ebb, and we got aground more than once. My hands were in a fine condition when at last I drove that wretched scow into the mud and lifted Sweetheart out to the firm bank. The evil-eyed old man who rented us the boat glanced sardonically at my rod and blistered hands, and I was glad enough to pay him all he asked and break away for the hotel.
We had an hour to lunch in, pack, and be ready for the trap which was to bear us to our destination the distant village of Faöuet, in Morbihan.
X.
A long drive on a smooth white road, acres of gorse and broom, beech woods and oak thickets, and the “Heu! heu! Allo! Allons! en route!” of the Breton driver, these are my recollections of the ride to Faöuet. There are others, too — the hedges heavy with bloom, the perfume of the wild honeysuckle, the continual bird chorus from every grove and every bramble patch — and Sweetheart’s veil flying into my face.
We have spoken of it since together, but she has few recollections of that journey. She only remembers it as her first steps into our heritage.
And so we entered into our heritage, Sweetheart and I; and our heritage was very fair, for it lay everywhere about us. It was a world which we alone inhabited. Men said, “This land is Gloanec’s,” “This is Gurnalec’s,” “This is Kerdec’s”; they spoke of “my woods” and “his meadows” and “their pastures.” And how we laughed; for when we passed together through their lands, around us, far as the eye could reach, our heritage lay in the sunshine.
XI.
One day, when Sweetheart had been weeping — for we were thinking of the end to the magic second I spoke of our heritage which swept far as the eye could reach across the moors of Faöuet.
She said: “The past is ours, Jack; the present is ours; the future — —”
We tried to smile, but our hearts were like lead. Yet we know that the future will also be ours. I know it as I write.
XII.
The letter from St. Gildas, bringing with it a breath of salt air, lay on the table before us. Sweetheart clasped her hands and looked at me.
“I’m in favour of going at once,” I said for the third time. Over by the wall were piled my canvases, the result of three months in Faöuet.
The first was a study of Sweetheart under the trees of the ancient orchard in the convent grounds. What trouble I had had with that canvas! I remembered the morning that the old gardener came over and stood behind me as I painted; and when I had replied to his “Good-morning,” I recalled the pang his next words gave me:
“I am so sorry, monsieur, but it is forbidden to enter the convent grounds.”
My canvas was almost finished, and, as the romancers have it, “my despair was great!” A month’s work for nothing — or next to nothing!
Sweetheart rose from her pose on the low bough of the apple tree and came over to my side. “Never mind, Jack; I shall go and ask the Mother Superior about it.”
I knew that she would win over the Mother Superior; and when, that evening, she came back radiant, crying, “She is lovely! — she says you may finish the picture, and I think you ought to go and thank her,” I put on my cap, and stepping across the street, we rang at the gate.
The old gardener let us in, and in a moment I stood before the latticed windows behind which some one was moving. In a low voice the invisible nun told us that the Superior granted to us the privilege of working in the orchard, but we must be careful of the grass, because it was almost time to cut it.
“I am sure we may have confidence in you,” she said.
“We will not trample the grass, my sister, and I thank you for us both.”
The lattice trembled, was raised a little, and then fell.
“You are English,” said the hidden nun.
“I am American, my sister.”
I looked at the lattice a moment, then dropped my eyes. I may have been mistaken, but I think she sighed.
Sweetheart came closer to the lattice and murmured her thanks.
There was a pause.
Then came the voice again, sweet and gentle: “May Our Lady of Saint Gildas protect you”; and we went out by the little iron wicket.
The next picture was another study of Sweetheart in the woods; the next, another study of Sweetheart; and the others were studies of the same young lady.
The light in the room had grown dim, and I walked to the window which overlooked the convent chapel. The chapel windows were open; within, the nuns stood or knelt chanting. Three white-veiled figures were advancing to the altar, and the others, draped in black now knelt behind. I didn’t think I had any business to look at them, so I did not. After all, they were cloistered nuns, and it was only on hot nights that they opened the chapel windows. Sweetheart was speaking beside my shoulder.
“Poor things! The ones in white, they are the novices; they will never see parents or friends again. When they enter the gates they never leave — never; they are buried there.”
I said: “After all, we are much like them. We have left all; we have nothing now but each other, for the world is dead, and we are bound by vows which keep us within the narrow confines of our heritage.”
“But our heritage is everywhere — as far as we can see.”
“Ah, yes, but we can only see to the horizon. There is a world beyond.”
“I have renounced it,” said Sweetheart faintly.
XIII.
The letter from St. Gildas had been lying on our table for a week before I thought of answering it, and even then it was Sweetheart who wrote:
“DEAR MR. STUART:
“Jack is too lazy to answer your kind note, so, in pure shame for his discourtesy, I hasten to reply to your questions.
“First: Yes; we have been working very hard, and Jack’s pictures are charming, though he growls over them all day.
“Second: Yes; we intend to stay in Brittany this winter for lots of reasons — one being economy, and another, Jack’s outdoor painting.
“Third: Yes; we are coming to St. Gildas.
“Fourth: To-morrow.
“Fifth: No; we had not heard of Mr. Clifford’s affair with the policeman; and oh, I am so sorry he was locked up and fined! Jack laughs. I suspect he, too, was as wicked as you all when he was a student, alone in Paris.
“Sixth: I know you are Jack’s oldest and most intimate friend, so I allow you more liberty than I do Messieurs Clifford and Elliott; therefore I will answer your question as to whether the honeymoon is not on the wane. No! no! no! There are three answers to one question. See how generous I can be!”
Sweetheart called me to see whether or not I approved. I did, and added my answer to Stuart’s last question as follows: “No, you idiot!” Then I signed the note, and Sweetheart sealed and directed it.
So we left for St. Gildas next morning before sunrise and in the rain. This leaving at such an unearthly hour was not my doing, but Sweetheart was determined, and rose by candle light in spite of desperate opposition on my part. It was cold, and the rain beat against the windows.
It was many kilometres to St. Gildas, but before we had gone six, the rain had ceased and the eastern sky flushed to a pale rose.
“Thank goodness!” I said, “we shall have the sun.”
Then the daily repeated miracle of the coming of dawn was wrought before our eyes. The heavens glowed in rainbow tints; the shredded mist rising along the river was touched with purple and gold, and acres of meadow and pasture dripped precious stones. Shreds of the fading night-mist drifted among the tree tops, now tipped with fire, while in the forest depths faint sparkles came from some lost ray of morning light falling on wet leaves. Then of a sudden up shot the sun, and against it, black and gigantic, a peasant towered, leaning upon his spade.
XIV.
“We were fast nearing the end of our long journey. The sun blazed on us from the zenith, and the wheels creaked with the heat of the white road. The driver leaned back, saying, “We enter Finistère here by this granite post.” Presently he added, “The ocean!”
There it lay, a hasin of silver and blue. Sweetheart had started to her feet, speechless, one hand holding to my shoulder, the other clasped to her breast. And now, as the road wound through the hills and down to the coast, long stretches of white sand skirted the distant cliffs, and over the cliffs waved miles and miles of yellow gorse. A cluster of white and gray houses lay in the hollow to the left almost at the mouth of the river, and beyond, the waves were beating in the bar — beating the same rhythm which we were to hear so long there together, day and night. There was not a boat to be seen, not a creature, nor was there any sign of life save for the smoke curling from a cottage chimney below. The ocean lay sparkling beneath, and beyond its deeper blue melted into the haze on the horizon.
Suddenly, in the road below, the figure of a man appeared, and at the same moment a pointer pup came gambolling up beside us in an ecstasy of self-abnegation and apology. I sprang out of the lumbering vehicle and lifted Sweetheart to the ground, and in an instant we were shaking hands with a stalwart young fellow in knickerbockers and jersey, who said we were a pretty pair not to have come sooner, and told Sweetheart he pitied her lot — meaning me.
