For five and twenty years no man had seen in Tadoussac old Andre's face
nor heard his voice upon the river's lower course. Both long and late
within their icy caves the winters dwelt. The spring-tides, messaging
the wild emancipated water's glee, rushed down to meet the short-lived
summer joy, and autumn after autumn fled with torch of flaming leaf,
reversed, death-heralding, far up the Saguenay's dark winding
gorge--yet Andre came no more in all that time.
And now, behold them both, in Tadoussac! old Andre and his dog, Pierre,
le brave, or was it Pierre's son?--lean-ribbed, thin-haunched and
tragic-eyed, with fell of wolf, Pierre! How well they all remembered
him, le brave! The frosts were in his bones, oh, long ere this; so
Pierre's offspring, then?--as large as life! And Andre, too, old guide
and voyageur!
Of notches six times ten had Andre cut within the shaft of one great
pine that sings above that wonderful caprice of pool, and quiet river
reach, and torrent wild, men long have called the Upper Saguenay. That
very day when his boy's heart beat wild to suffocation, as upon the
bank he landed his first salmon--nom de Dieu, no sunset glow e'er
equalled in his eyes that palpitant and silver-scaled mass of vibrant
rose!--the sap from that first notch had oozed; and now they said in
Tadoussac that Andre never knew his age!
Oh, fools! What matter of a few years more or less? He counted all
his years by his heart's youth, as here he was in Tadoussac to prove.
"And whither away?"--"To see Mere Guillardeau?"--"To visit once again
in Richelieu-en-Bas?"--"Or else Trois Rivieres where long ago the
maskinonge leaped for him?" "To see the Seigniory of Lamoral where
lived his grandpere's seignior, lived and died?"--"A pilgrimage?
Sainte Anne de Beaupre, then?"--"Or Indian Lorette just by Quebec?"
The questions multiplied. "Come, tell us all." And Andre told them
all.
"'Tis true," he said, "that there upon the Upper Saguenay strange tales
are rife. From o'er the distant sea the English came to camp within
the wilds, and I was guide. I listened to their tales whene'er the
camp-fire crackled and the snow, the feather-snow that melted from the
pines, fell hissing on the glowing arch of logs."
How Andre loved that sound! How dear to him was that one time in all
the year's full round, when freeze the nights, the sap grows chill and
numb; when warms the rising sun at early dawn and that sweet ichor
runs! It kept him young; within him stirred his youthful forest hopes
and joys with that first mounting life. And loud he laughed, nor gave
the secret of his youth, his woodsman's lasting joys.
He told them how with mien impassive he had listened well, reflected
long on what the English said, till May clouds, mirrored in the
darkling pools, foreshadowed substance for those haunting dreams of
glories human eyes had never seen; for far away upon the Lake there
stood a city marvellous, the English said,--and they to Andre never yet
had lied,--and who beheld it saw with naked eye the glories of the New
Jerusalem.
And Andre, marking how the little runs were earlier loosened from their
icy chains, how soft beneath the black and sodden leaves the water
trickled free with here and there a bubble rising, proving spring had
come--old Andre, listening so, the echo caught of that far song of
storm-tossed Michigan as its wild waters, mingling with the rest,
pursued their steady seaward course and swept with undertones enticing
past the gorge of Saguenay and sang in Andre's ear:
"Viens, viens, tu trouveras
La bas, la bas,
Le royaume cher et merveilleux
Du bon Dieu."
What wonder that his simple woodsman's heart was moved to quick
response! That ere one moon had waxed and waned his dugout was
prepared for its long journey inland, west by south, along the waterway
of two great Lands! He showed it now in Tadoussac with pride: this
fruit of two Canadian winters' toil. Its ample hull was shiny black
with age. Its prow sharp-nosed and long to cleave, pike-like, the
rapids' wave, capricious, treacherous. Its stern was truncated like
tail of duck, the waters never closed but on it pressed, and sped it on
the river's lower course.
For twenty years he watched the sturdy growth of one great tree that
towered above its mates; and when the noble bole, both straight and
strong, was grown to such proportions that he deemed it fit to brave
the rapids, such its curve, he laid the monarch low, and hewed, and
shaped, and burned, and thickly overlaid with pitch, and launched it on
the Lower Saguenay--a fine, well-balanced craft, his floating camp; and
this was thirty years or more agone.
His destination now made known, upon the river bank a crowd eyed him
agape. With pride he showed to wondering Tadoussac how he had made
provision for his voyage.
Along one side was lashed a sapling pine with seamless sail,
three-cornered and close furled; 'twas fashioned from the stout flap of
a tent. Along the other stretched two pockets strong of moose skin,
hair side out to shed the rain. The topmost one he filled with ample
store of salmon smoked on his own spit of ash, and good supply of that
brown wrinkled leaf whose qualmy fragrance, issuing from the bowl of
his loved pipe, had ever proved in camp and wild the solace of his
lonely life.
Within the other pocket he had placed his comrade-breadwinner, his
trusted gun. Its shining barrel glistened cunningly from out the soft
black depths, and knowingly, for many a winged voyager of the air would
it bring low to beat the lucent wave to crimson froth before the voyage
were done. Both oars and paddles of well-seasoned ash he laid within
the dugout's ample hulk.
Then he was ready to set out, and seek that shining wonder-city by the
Lake--a "New Jerusalem", the English said, and they to Andre never yet
had lied. His old-time friends were gathered at the pier to bid him on
his quest "God Speed". They cast the painter loose.
"Adieu--adieu," a hand clasp here and there, and then again: "Adieu!"
Pierre, with forepaws stemmed against the prow, bayed musical farewell.
Old Andre turned and murmuring, "Adieu," broke forth exultantly in
joyous song:
"Je chercherai
La bas, la bas
La ville de Dieu, la merveilleuse;
Si je la trouve, quand je serai
De mon retour,
Elle chante toujours, mon ame joyeuse,--
Les gloires de Dieu, les gloires de Dieu."
So aged Andre, guide and voyageur, his parchment face alight with
inward joy, fared forth to seek that City in the West.
For you who love the sunlight on the wave, who hail with joy the
sunrise ever new; for you to whom the starlight brings a thought of
that high peace that guides the wanderer; for you who watch the coming
of the day with eyes that see the miracle of life; for you who share in
all the fair delights of sunlight, moonlight, starlight, twilight,
dawn, and feel their charm in every mood and tense of nature's
perfecting--for you alone I sing this voyage over inland seas.
By sunlight, moonlight, starlight, Andre fared along the river called
"the Queen's Highway"; and soon there frowned upon him, dark, superb,
the crested towering headland of Tourmente that signals to the Plains
of Abraham. And ever westwards, west by south, he fared until he saw
the shipping of Quebec like some huge cobweb outlined intricate in
black against the golden gleaming west.
The sunset gun resounded in mid-air as Andre anchor dropped below the
town. The man-of-war's huge bulk belched answering flame, and ere the
cannon's echoing roar had ceased, a sharp report was heard, a pigmy
sound that woke its pigmy echo from the Rock. So Andre fired salute
and quickly ran aloft his tiny Union Jack. 'Twas seen along the quays;
the sailors cheered and cheered, until Pierre bayed musical response.
Then Andre, when the moon had fully risen, stretched out along the
stern and smoked his pipe, Pierre at his feet, and watched the Rock
that, like a jewel many facetted, now held, now flashed at every point
the lights along the Terrace in the Upper Town. He heard a merry song,
a peal of bells, a strain of distant music, plash of oars--then
silence. One by one the lights went out; the moon was riding high and
full above the scarp and ramparts of the Citadel; beneath, the river
rolled its silvered flood.
Then onwards, ever onwards toward the West fared steadily this old
French voyageur, and as he passed the dreaded Raven Cape he trolled a
catch, "_Un noir corbeau_", to ward all ill and evil from his sturdy
craft. So sped unharmed, swift-paddling toward the broad and sunlit
shallows of Saint Peter's lake, and ever westwards to the Royal Isle
where Montreal's green height looks down upon its shadowy reflex in
Saint Lawrence's wave.
On, on he sped and ever to the West, land-locked at times in
prairie-bound canals; then pulling vigorously, the rapids past, along
the River's narrowing polished curve, with oar stroke, swift and
sweeping, keeping time to hit of merry raftsmen on the Sault.
Fresh-hearted Andre! All the wholesome joys to which his simple life
was consecrate were his as on he voyaged; his eventide brought joy and
calm and light-of-evening peace. But once he would have tarried--as
alights a wearied sea-mew on some lonely isle--when, paddling slow and
noiselessly he steered his craft among the leafy waterways of that
Arcadian Venice of our North: the Thousand Isles. His woodsman's heart
beat high when, gliding silently past sunny glades and darkling glens,
he heard the wavelets lap the crinkling sands and saw the water glint
against the slopes fringed deep with June's lush green.
At times he paused, the paddle braced, and leaned thereon his weight;
the while, his lungs inflate, he drew deep breaths of fragrance
balsamic that flowed in counter currents, sensate, warm, from out the
depths of cedar thickets gray, and red, and white. And then away, away
he sped past gardens gay with summer blooms, past emerald lawns set
round by sapphire waves. And here and there an islet laughed at him--a
tiny patch of verdure overhung by one white birch that glistered in the
sun.
And every night a strange enchantment wrought upon his spirit when,
beneath the stars, on some long reach that narrowed suddenly, embraced
by banks converging, forest clad, the dugout drifted 'twixt two
firmaments. Then Andre dreamed of pool and river reach and ancient
pine o'er-hanging torrents wild, far distant on the Upper Saguenay; and
summer dwellers on those Fortunate Isles were ware at midnight of a
singing voice and fragment of a song, like some last chord drawn
lingeringly across responsive strings:
"Je cherche, je cherche, la bas, la bas,
La ville de Dieu, la merveilleuse;
Si je la trouve, quand je serai
De mon retour je chante toujours
Les gloires de Dieu, les gloires de Dieu."
Ontario, Ontario, all hail thou lovely Lake that in thy breast doth
hide the many secrets of Niagara! Upon thy waves, soft thrilling
joyously with rush of thunderous waters from afar, see, like a gull,
the white three-cornered sail dip lightly to the fair breeze from the
North!
"La bas, la bas," sang Andre o'er and o'er, and e'en Pierre bayed long
into the West, awoke shrill echoes from the border farms at early dawn,
and told his nightly tale to waning summer moons till cliff and shore
gave back the sound in echoes manifold.
And what of nights within some sheltered cove when storm and darkness
claimed both sea and sky? And what of days when furious cross-winds
rose, and smote the lake that hissed and writhed and roared beneath the
scourge that welted its white breast? Then Andre crossed himself and
told his beads; Pierre crouched low adown within the hull; the dugout
rocked safe moored within the cove or, drawn up on a strip of pebbly
beach, with softly-grating keel in rhythmic beats told off the lapsing
surges till the West translucent 'neath the lifting cloud mass gleamed,
and in the sedges near the shore he heard the reed birds whistle
plaintively and low.
Three moons had waxed and waned since, far away upon the Upper
Saguenay, the pools foreshadowed substance of those haunting dreams of
glories human eye had never seen--thrice thirty days ere Andre neared
his goal. At last, emerging from the narrow strait of savage Mackinac,
he set his sail and voyaged ever southwards day by day with many a tack
cajoling every breeze. The white fish leaped within the dugout's wake;
the gulls' harsh cry was heard above the mast; at times a passing
steamer's paddles throbbed an hour and broke the dead monotony of sea
and sky on lonely Michigan.
On silent sea, neath silent skies he voyaged, till lo! one silent morn
ere rise of sun, the light mists, veiling yet disclosing, crept
slow-curling o'er the surface of the Lake to meet the brightening east,
and there dissolved in sudden glory, leaving Andre rapt, with dripping
oars suspended and with eyes intent upon a vision marvellous!--The
softened radiance of breaking day shone clear, subdued, on dome and
tower and arch, on rich facade and many-columned gate of that ethereal
Wonder-City white, the fundaments of which in amethyst and chrysopras
were seen deep down beneath the surface of the Lake that, motionless,
reflected heaven on earth and earth in heaven!
And Andre, gazing so, bared his gray head, the slow tears coursing down
his furrowed cheeks, and, folding on his breast his calloused hands,
prayed low and fingered o'er his wellworn beads.
Old Andre moored his dugout to the pier, and leaving tragic-eyed Pierre
within as sentinel, slow-blinking towards the east, he turned his steps
to that high-columned gate, the prototype of heaven on this our earth,
and passed beneath the portal as the sun rose o'er the Lake in gorgeous
crimson state.
X
I can still hear in memory the sudden hiss from a bursting air-pocket
in the forelog; it broke the silence which followed Jamie's reading.
At the sound, it seemed as if we drew a freer breath.
Was it Jamie Macleod who was sitting there with flushed cheeks, bright
eyes, dilated pupils, and eager inquiring look which asked of his
friends their approval or criticism? Or was it some changeling spirit
of genius that for the time being had taken up its abode in the frail
tenement of his body?
His mother leaned to him and laid her hand on his shoulder.
"My dear boy," was all she said, for they were rarely demonstrative
with each other; but, oh, the pride and affection in her voice! I saw
Jamie's mouth twitch before he smiled into her eyes.
"You 've made us live it, Boy," said the Doctor quietly and with deep
feeling; "but I never thought you could do it--not so, for all the
faith I 've had in you."
Jamie drew a long breath of relief; he spoke eagerly:
"It was the trial trip, Doctor, and I did hope it would stand the test
with you and Ewart."
Mr. Ewart rose and crossed the hearth to him. He held out his strong
shapely hand. Jamie's thin one closed upon it with a tense nervous
pressure, as I could see.
"I congratulate you, Macleod." The tone of his voice, the address as
man to man, expressed his pride, his love, his admiration.
Jamie smiled with as much satisfaction as if for the first time there
had been conferred upon him manhood suffrage, the freedom of the city
of London, and a batch of Oxford honors. Then, satisfied, he turned to
me. I spoke lightly to ease the emotional tension that was evident in
all the rest of us:
"You 've imposed upon me, Jamie Macleod. You 're classed henceforth
with frauds and fakirs! How could I know when you were scrapping with
me the last three weeks over such prosaic things as rag carpets, toilet
sets and skins, that you were harboring all this poetry!"
"Then you think it's poetry? You 've found me out!" Jamie said,
showing his delight. "Honestly, Marcia, you like it? I want you to,
though I say it as should n't."
"Yes, I do," I answered earnestly; "I can understand the song the
better for it."
"What song?" the Doctor asked, before Jamie could speak.
"'_O Canada, pays de mon amour_'," I quoted.
"You know that?" Mr. Ewart spoke quickly.
"Only as I have heard it through the graphophone, in the cabaret below
the steamboat landing."
"I say, Marcia, that's rough on the song!--Gordon," he exclaimed, "do
you sing it for us, do; then she 'll know how it ought to sound."
"It's the only possible epilogue for the 'Odyssey'--what a capital
title, Boy! Sing it, Ewart."
"Wait till I have a piano."
"You don't need it. You used to sing it in camp."
"But I had Andre's violin."
"I have it! Pierre will fiddle for you." Jamie jumped to his feet.
"Hark!"
We listened. Sure enough, from some room behind the kitchen offices,
probably in the summer kitchen, we could hear the faint but merry
sounds of a violin.
"They 're celebrating your home-coming, Ewart! I knew they were up to
snuff when Angelique gave me an order for a half a dozen bottles of the
'vin du pays', you remember, Marcia? They 're at it now. I might have
known it, for they have n't come in to say good night."
"Let's have them all in then," said Mr. Ewart. "They 'll stay up as
long as we do."
"Will you sing for them?" Mrs. Macleod put the question directly to
her host.
"For you and them, if you wish it," was the cordial reply. "Jamie, you
're master of ceremonies and have had something up your sleeve all this
evening; I know by your looks. Bring them in."
Jamie laughed mischievously. "Oh, I 'll bring them in," he said. I
knew then that, unknown to his mother and me, he had planned a surprise.
"Get Cale in, if you can," Mr. Ewart called after him.
"Oh, Cale 's abed before this; _he_ does n't acknowledge you as his
lord of the manor, not yet."
"That was remarkable, Gordon," said the Doctor, as soon as the door
closed on Jamie.
"Yes, he has given me a surprise. Of course you realized that whole
description was in metre?"
"I was sure of it after the first page or two, but I could scarcely
trust my ears. What the boy has done is to make of it a true Canadian
idyl. I wish Drummond might have heard it."
"I believe Jamie knows 'The Habitant' book of poems by heart. Have you
ever read it, Miss Farrell?"
"Yes, in New York; and Jamie has promised to give me a copy for a
Christmas remembrance."
"I 'll add one to it," said the Doctor, "'The Voyageur,' then you will
probe a little deeper into Ewart's love and mine for Canada."
"Oh, thank you; these two will be the beginning of my private library."
"I 'll give you an autograph copy of 'Johnnie Courteau,' if you like; I
knew Drummond," said Mr. Ewart.
To say I was pleased, would not express the pleasure those two men gave
me in just thinking of me in this way. I thanked them both, a little
stiffly, I fear, for I am not used to gifts; but my face must have
shown them how genuine was my feeling for the favors. They both saw my
slight confusion and interpreted it, for Mr. Ewart said, smiling:
"If you don't mind I will add to the unborn library Drummond's other
volume; I 'm going to try to live up to Cale's expectation of me
concerning your connection with books. They will help you to remember
this evening."
"As if I needed anything to remember it!" I exclaimed, at ease again.
"It's like---it's like--"
"Like what, Marcia?" Mrs. Macleod put this question.
"Tell us, do," the Doctor added; "don't keep me in suspense; my
temperament can't bear it." He looked at me a little puzzled and
wholly curious. I was glad to answer both Mrs. Macleod and him
truthfully:
"Like a new lease of life for me." My smile answered the Doctor's, and
I was interested to see that the same wireless message I was
transmitting again across the abyss of time, failed again of
interpretation. I turned to Mrs. Macleod.
"I think I may be needed in the kitchen." I rose to leave the room.
"Are you in the secret too?" Mr. Ewart asked.
"No, but I 've been recalling certain commissions Angelique gave
me--extra citron, pink coloring for cakes, and powdered sugar for
which, as yet, we have had no use in the house. But I want to be in
the secret, for Jamie--"
The sentence remained unfinished, for Jamie flung open the door with a
flourish, and stout Angelique, flushed with responsibility and the "vin
du pays", entered carrying a huge round platter, whereon was a cake of
noble proportions ornamented with white frosting in all sorts of
curlycues and central "_Felicitations_" in pink. Behind her came Marie
with a tin tray, laid with an immaculate napkin--one of our new
ones--filled with pressed wine-glasses and decanters of antiquated
shape. Following her was little Pete, carrying on each arm an enormous
wreath of ground pine and bittersweet. Big Pete brought up the rear,
his face glowing, his black eyes sparkling, his earrings twinkling. He
was tuning his violin.
All rose to greet them; but ignoring us, with intense seriousness, they
ranged themselves in a row near the door. They still held their
offerings. Pierre, drawing his bow across the strings, nodded his
head. Thereupon they began to sing, and sang with all their hearts and
vocal powers to the accompaniment of the violin:
"_O Canada, pays de mon amour!_"
With the first words, Mr. Ewart's voice, full, strong, vibrant with
patriotism, joined them; his fine baritone seemed to carry the melody
for all the others. The room rang to the sound of the united voices.
I saw Cale at the door, listening with bent head. Jamie stood beside
him, triumphant and happy at the success of his surprise party.
How Angelique sang! Her stout person fairly quivered with the
resonance of her alto. Marie's shrill treble rose and fell with
regular staccato emphasis. Pierre, father, roared his bass in harmony
with Pierre, son's falsetto, and beat time heavily with his right foot.
At the finish, the Doctor started the applause in which Jamie and Cale
joined. With a sigh of absolute satisfaction, Angelique presented her
cake to Mr. Ewart who, taking it from her with thanks, placed it on the
library table and paid her the compliment of asking her to cut it.
Marie passed around the tray and decanted the "vin du pays". Little
Peter, following instructions given him in the kitchen, hung a wreath
from each corner of the mantel. Compliments and congratulations on the
cake, the wine, the wreaths, the song, the master's home-coming, the
refurbished manor house, were exchanged freely, and we all talked
together in French and English. My broken French was understood
because they were kind enough to guess at my meaning--the most of it.
Then the healths were drunk, to Mr. Ewart, to the Doctor, to Jamie,
Mrs. Macleod and me; and we drank theirs. Finally, Mr. Ewart went to
Cale, whom Jamie had persuaded to step over the threshold, and gave his
health, touching glasses with him:
"To my fellow laborer in the forest." He repeated it in French for the
benefit of the French contingent.
Cale, touching glasses, swallowed his wine at one gulp and abruptly
left the room. He half stumbled over little Pierre who was sitting in
the corner by the door, supremely happy in the remains of his huge
piece of cake, which at his special request was cut that he might have
the pink letters "Felici", and in the two lumps of white sugar which
Mr. Ewart dropped into a glass of wine highly diluted with water.
Oh, it was good to see them! It was good to hear their merry chat; to
be glad in their rejoicing over the return and final settlement of Mr.
Ewart among them, their "lord of the manor", as they persisted in
calling him to his evident disgust and amusement. But their joy was
genuine, a pleasant thing to bear witness to in these our times.
And if Father Pierre in his exuberance of congratulation repeated
himself many times; if Angelique asked Mr. Ewart more than once if the
cake was exactly to his taste; if Marie grew doubly voluble with her
"Dormez-biens", and little Pierre was discovered helping himself
uninvited to another piece of cake--an act that roused Angelique to
seeming frenzy--Mr. Ewart closed an eye to it all, for, as they
trooped, still voluble, out of the room, he knew as well as we that
their measure of happiness was full, pressed down and running over.
Oh, their bonhomie! It was a revelation to me.
The embers were still bright in the fireplace but the candles were
burning low in the sconces; it was high time at half-past eleven for
the whole household to say good night.
"A home-coming to remember, Gordon," I heard Doctor Rugvie say, as I
left the room.
"I can't yet realize it; but I 've dreamed--"