TRUE TO HIS CLOTH
With the morning tide, the _Deux Frères_ entered Audierne harbour.
The rough sailors crossed themselves as they looked towards the old
wooden cross upon the headland, facing the great Atlantic. They thought
of the dead “patron” in the little cabin below, and the joyous young
wife, whose snowy head-dress they could almost distinguish upon the pier
among the waiters there.
Both Christian Vellacott and the Abbé were on deck. They had been there
the whole night. They had lain motionless side by side upon the old
sail. Day vanished, night stole on, and day came again without either
having closed his eyes or opened his lips.
They now stood near the steersman, and looked upon the land with an
interest which only comes after heavy weather at sea. To the Englishman
this little fishing-port was unknown, and he did not care to ask. The
vessel was now dropping up the river, with anchor swinging, and the
women on the pier were walking inland slowly, keeping pace and waving a
greeting from time to time in answer to a husband's shout.
“That is she, Monsieur L'Abbé,” said Hoel Grall, with a peculiar twitch
of his coarse mouth, as if from pain. “That is she with the little
child!”
René Drucquer bowed his head, saying nothing. The _Deux Frères_
slowly edged alongside the old quay in her usual berth above the sardine
boats. A board was thrown across from the rail to the quay, and the
priest stepped ashore alone. He went towards the smiling young wife
without any hesitation; she stood there surrounded by the wives of the
sailors on board the _Deux Frères_, with her snowy coiffe and
spotless apron, holding her golden-haired child by the hand. All the
women curtsied as the priest approached, for in these western provinces
the Church is still respected.
“My daughter,” said the Abbé, “I have bad news for you.”
She smiled still, misunderstanding his calmness.
“Ah, mon père,” she said, “it is the season of the great winds now. What
a long voyage it has been! And you say it is a bad one. My husband is no
doubt in despair, but another voyage is sure to be better; is it not so?
I have not seen Loic upon the deck, but then my sight is not good. I am
not from Audierne, mon père, but from inland where we cannot see so
far.”
The priest changed colour; no smile came into his face in response to
hers. He stepped nearer, and placed his hand upon her comely arm.
“It has been a very bad voyage for your poor husband,” he said. “The
Holy Virgin give you comfort.”
Slowly the colour vanished from the woman's round checks. Her soft,
short-sighted eyes filled with a terrible, hopeless dismay as she stared
at the young priest's bowed head. The women round now began to
understand, and they crossed themselves with a very human prayer of
thankfulness that their husbands and brothers had been spared.
“Loic is dead?” she said, in a rasping voice. For some moments she stood
motionless, then, in obedience to some strange and unaccountable
instinct, she began turning up the sleeves of her rough brown dress, as
if she were going to begin some kind of manual work.
“The Holy Virgin comfort you, my daughter; and you, my little one,” said
the priest, as he stooped to lay his hand upon the golden head of the
child.
“Loic is dead! Loic is dead!” spread from mouth to mouth.
“That comes from having ought to do with the priests,” muttered the
customs officer, beneath his heavy moustache. He was an old soldier, who
read the newspapers, and spoke in a loud voice on Sunday evenings in the
Café de l'Ouest.
The Abbé heard the remark, and looked at the man, but said nothing. He
remembered that no Jesuit must defend himself.
The girl-widow stepped on board the untidy vessel in a mechanical,
dreamy way. She dragged the little trotting child almost roughly after
her. Christian Vellacott stood at the low cabin door. He was in the
dress of a Probationer of the Society of Jesus, which he had assumed at
the request, hesitatingly made, of René Drucquer, and for the very
practical reason that he had nothing else to wear except a torn
dress-coat and Hoel Grall's Sunday garments.
“Bless me, mon père,” lisped the little one, stopping in front of him.
“Much good will a blessing of mine do you, little one,” he muttered in
English. Nevertheless, he lifted the child up and kissed her rosy cheek.
He kept her by his side, letting the mother go to her dead husband
alone.
When the woman came from the cabin half-an-hour later, hard-faced, and
with dry, stony eyes, she found the child sitting on Christian's knee,
prattling away in broken French. Tears came to her aching eyes at the
sight of the happy, fatherless child; the hard Breton heart was touched
at last.
The Abbé's instructions were to keep his prisoner confined under lock
and key in the cabin until nightfall, when he was to be removed inland
in a carriage under the surveillance of two lay-brethren. Christian,
however, never for a moment doubted his ability to escape when he wished
to do so, and acting upon this conviction he volunteered a promise not
to attempt evasion. Dressed as he was, in the garments of a probationer,
there was no necessity of awaiting nightfall, as there was nothing
unusual about him to attract attention. Accordingly the departure from
the _Deux Frères_ was fixed for midday. In the meantime the young
Englishman found himself the object of unremitting attention on the part
of two smooth-faced individuals who looked like domestic servants. These
two men had come on board at the same moment that the Abbé stepped
ashore, and Christian noticed that no word of greeting or recognition
passed between them and René Drucquer. This was to him a further proof
of the minuteness of organisation which has characterised the Order
since Ignatius Loyola wrote down his wonderful “Constitutions,” in which
no trifle was too small to be unworthy of attention, no petty dramatic
effect devoid of significance. Each man appeared to have received his
instructions separately, and with no regard to those of his companion.
In the meantime, however, the journalist had not been wasting his time.
Although he still looked upon the whole affair as a very good farce, he
had not forgotten the fact that his absence must necessarily have been
causing endless anxiety in England. During the long night of wakefulness
he had turned over in his mind every possible event at St. Mary Western
since his sudden disappearance. Again and again he found himself
wondering how they would all take it, and his conclusions were
remarkably near to the truth. He guessed that Mr. Bodery would, sooner
or later, be called in to give his opinion, and he sincerely hoped that
the course taken would be the waiting tactics which had actually been
proposed by the editor of the _Beacon_.
In this hope he determined to communicate with Sidney Carew, and having
possessed himself of a blank Customs Declaration Form, he proceeded to
write a letter upon the reverse side of it. In this he told his friend
to have no anxiety, and, above all, to institute no manner of search,
because he would return to England as soon as his investigations were
complete. The letter was written in guarded language, because Christian
had arrived at the conclusion that the only means he had of despatching
it was through the hands of René Drucquer. The crew of the _Deux
Frères_ were not now allowed to speak with him. He possessed no
money, and it would have been folly to attempt posting an unstamped
letter addressed to England in a little place like Audierne.
Accordingly, as they were preparing to leave the vessel (the care of
poor Loic having been handed over to the village curé), Christian boldly
tendered his request.
“No, my friend, I cannot do it,” replied the Abbé promptly.
“Read it yourself,” urged Christian. “No harm can possibly come of it.
My friend will do exactly as I tell him. In fact, it will be to your
benefit that it should go.”
Still the Jesuit shook his head. Suddenly, however, in the midst of an
argument on the part of the Englishman, he gave in and took the letter.
“Give it to me,” he said; “I will risk it.”
Christian watched him place the letter within the breast of his
“soutane,” unread. The two lay-brethren were noting every movement.
Presently the priest removed his broad-brimmed hat and passed through
the little doorway into the dimly lighted cabin where the dead sailor
lay. He left the door ajar. After glancing at the dead man's still face
he fell upon his knees by the side of the low bunk, and remained with
bowed head for some moments. At last he rose to his feet and took the
Englishman's letter from his breast. The envelope was unclosed, and with
smooth, deliberate touch he opened the letter and read it by the light
of the candle at the dead man's head, of which the rays were to
illuminate the wandering soul upon its tortuous way. The priest read
each word slowly and carefully, for his knowledge of English was
limited. Then he stood for some seconds motionless, with arms hanging
straight, staring at the flame of the candle with weary, wondering eyes.
At last he raised his hand and held the flimsy paper in the flame of the
candle till it was all burnt away. The charred remains fluttered to the
ground, and one wavering flake of carbonised paper sank gently upon the
dead man's throat, laid bare by the hand of his frenzied wife.
“He said that I was not a Jesuit,” murmured the priest, as he burnt the
envelope, and across his pale face there flitted an unearthly smile.
Scarcely had the thin smoke mingled with the incense-laden air when
Christian pushed open the door. The two men looked their last upon the
rigid face dimly illuminated by the light of the wavering candles, and
then turned to leave the ship.
The carriage was waiting for them on the quay, and Christian noticed
that the two men who had been watching him since his arrival at Audierne
were on the box. René Drucquer and himself were invited to enter the
roomy vehicle, and by the way in which the door shut he divined that it
was locked by a spring.
At the village post-office the carriage stopped, and, one of the
servants having opened the door, the priest descended and passed into
the little bureau. He said nothing about the letter addressed to Sidney
Carew, but Christian took for granted that it would be posted. Instead
of this, however, the priest wrote a telegram announcing the arrival of
the _Deux Frères_, which he addressed to “Morel et Fils, Merchants,
Quimper.”
“Hoel Grall asked me to despatch this,” he said quietly, as he handed
the paper to the old postmaster.
After this short halt the carriage made its way rapidly inland. Thus
they travelled through the fair Breton country together, these two
strangely contrasting men brought together by a chain of circumstances
of which the links were the merest coincidences. Christian Vellacott
did not appear to chafe against his confinement. He took absolutely no
notice of the two men whose duty it was to watch his every movement. The
spirit of adventure, which is not quite educated out of us Englishmen
yet, was very strong in him, and the rapid movement through an unknown
land to an unknown goal was not without its healthy fascination. He lay
back in the comfortable carriage and sleepily watched the flying
landscape. Withal he noticed by the position of the sun the direction in
which he was being taken, and despite many turns and twists he kept his
bearings fairly well. The carriage had left the high road soon after
crossing the bridge above Audierne, and was now going somewhat heavily
over inferior thoroughfares.
The sun had set before Vellacott awoke to find that they were still
lumbering on. He had, of course, lost all bearing now, but he soon found
that they had been journeying eastward since leaving the coast.
A halt was made for refreshment at a small hillside village which
appeared to be mainly inhabited by women, for the men were all sailors.
The accommodation was of the poorest, but bread was procurable, and
eggs, meat being an unknown luxury in the community.
In the lowering light they journeyed on again, sometimes on the broad
post-road, sometimes through cool and sombre forests. Many times when
Christian spoke kindly, or performed some little act of consideration,
the poor Abbé was on the point of disclosing his own treason. Before his
eyes was the vision of that little cabin. He saw again the dancing flame
of the paper in his hand, throwing its moving light upon the marble
features of that silent witness as the charred fragments fluttered past
the still face to the ground. But as the stone is worn by the dropping
water, so at last is man's better nature overcome by persistent
undermining when the work is carried out by men chosen as possessing “a
mind self-possessed and tranquil, delicate in its perceptions, sure in
its intuitions, and capable of a wide comprehension of various
subjects.” What youthful nature could be strong enough to resist the
cunning pressure of influences wielded thus? So René Drucquer carried
the secret in his heart until circumstances rendered it unimportant.
Man is, after all, only fallible, and those to whom is given the
privilege of accepting or refusing candidates for admission to the great
Society of Jesus had made a fatal error in taking René Drucquer. Never
was a man more unfitted to do his duty in that station of life in which
he was placed. His religious enthusiasm stopped short of fanaticism; his
pliability would not bend so low as duplicity. All this the young
journalist learnt as he penetrated further into the sensitive depths of
his companion's gentle temperament. The priest was of those men to whom
love and brotherly affection are as necessary as the air they breathe.
His wavering instincts were capable of being hardened into convictions;
his natural gifts (and they were many) could be raised into talents; his
life, in fact, could have been made a success by one influence--the love
of a woman--the one influence that was forbidden: the single human
acquirement that must for ever be beyond the priest's reach. This
Christian Vellacott felt in a vague, uncertain way. He did not know very
much about love and its influence upon a man's character, these
questions never having come under his journalistic field of inquiry; but
he had lately begun to wonder whether man's life was given to him to be
influenced by no other thoughts than those in his own brain--whether
there is not in our existence a completing area in the development of
character.
Looking at the matter from his own personal point of view--from whence
even the best of us look upon most things--he was of the opinion that
love stands in the path of the majority of men. This had been his view
of the matter for many years; probably it was the reflection of his
father's cynically outspoken opinion, and a well-grown idea is hard to
uproot.
Brought up, as he had been, by a pleasure-seeking and somewhat cynical
man, and passing from his care into the busy and practical journalistic
world, it was only natural that he should have acquired a certain
hardness of judgment which, though useful in the world, is not an
amiable quality. He now felt the presence of a dawning charity towards
the actions of his fellow-men. A month earlier he would have despised
René Drucquer as a weak and incapable man; now there was in his heart
only pity for the young priest.
Soon after darkness had settled over the country the carriage descended
into a deep and narrow valley through which ran a rapid river of no
great breadth. Here the driver stopped, and the two travellers descended
from the vehicle. The priest exchanged a few words in a low voice with
one of the servants who had leapt down from the box, and then turning to
Vellacott he said in a curt manner--
“Follow me, please.”
The Englishman obeyed, and leaving the road they turned along a broad
pathway running at the side of the water. Christian noticed that they
were going upstream. Presently they reached a cottage, and a woman came
from the open doorway at their approach. Without any greeting or word of
welcome she led the way down some wooden steps to the ferry-boat. As she
rowed them across, the journalist took note of everything in his quick,
keen way. The depth of the water, rapidity of current, and even the fact
that the boat woman was not paid for her services.
“Are we near our destination?” he asked in English when he saw this.
“We have five minutes more,” replied the priest in the same language.
On landing, they followed another small path for some distance,
down-stream. It was a quiet moss-grown path, with poplar trees on either
side, and appeared to be little used. Suddenly the young priest stopped.
There was the trunk of an elm tree lying on the inside of the path,
evidently cut for the purpose of making a rough seat.
“Let us sit here a few minutes,” said René.
Christian obeyed. He sat forward and stretched his long legs out.
“I am aching all over,” he said impatiently; “I wonder what it means!”
The priest ignored the remark entirely.
“My friend,” he said presently, “a few minutes more and my care of you
ceases. This journey will be over. For me it has been very eventful. In
these few days I have learnt more than I did during all the long years
of my education, and what I have learnt will never be forgotten. Without
breathing one word of religion you have taught me to respect yours;
without uttering a single complaint you have made me think with horror
and shame of the part I have played in this affair. I dare ... scarcely
hope that one day you will forgive me!”
Christian raised his hand slowly to his forehead. The gleam of the
sleek, smooth water flowing past his feet made him giddy. He wondered
vaguely if the strange, dull feeling that was creeping over his senses
was the result of extreme fatigue.
“You speak as if we were never going to meet again,” he said dreamily.
The priest did not answer for some moments. His slim hands were tightly
clasped upon his knees.
“It is probable,” he said at length, “that such will be the case. If our
friendship is discovered it is certain!”
“Then our friendship must not be discovered,” said the practical
Englishman.
“But, my friend, that would be deceit--duplicity!”
“A little duplicity, more or less, cannot matter much,” replied
Christian, in a harder voice.
The priest looked up sharply, half fearing that his own treachery in the
matter of the letter was suspected. But his companion remained silent,
and the darkness prevented the expression of his face from being seen.
“And,” continued the Englishman, after a long pause, “I am to be left
here?”
There was a peculiar ring of weary indifference in his tone, as if it
mattered little where he was left. The priest noticed it and remembered
it later.
“I know nothing, my friend. I have but to obey my orders.”
“And close your mind against thought?”
“I cannot prevent the thoughts from coming into my mind,” replied the
priest gently, “but I can keep them prisoners when they have entered.”
He rose suddenly, and led the way along the river bank. Had Christian's
manner been more encouraging he would have told him then and there about
the letter.
As they passed along the narrow footpath, the dim form of a man rose
from behind the log of wood upon which they had been sitting. It was one
of the lay brethren who had accompanied them from Audierne. Contrary to
René Drucquer's whispered instructions, he had followed them after
quitting the carriage, and had crept up behind the poplars unheard and
unsuspected. He came, however, too late. Unconsciously, Christian had
saved his companion.