Since the day Charley had brought home the paper bought at the
post-office, and water-marked Kathleen, he had, at odd times, written
down his thoughts, and promptly torn the paper up again or put it in the
fire. In the repression of the new life, in which he must live wholly
alone, so far as all past habits of mind were concerned, it was a relief
to record his passing reflections, as he had been wont to do when the
necessity for it was less. Writing them here was like the bursting of
an imprisoned stream; it was relaxing the ceaseless eye of vigilance;
freeing an imprisoned personality. This personality was not yet
merged into that which must take its place, must express itself in the
involuntary acts which tell of a habit of mind and body--no longer the
imitative and the histrionic, but the inherent and the real.
On the afternoon of the day that old Louis agreed to give him wages,
and went to smoke a pipe with the Notary, Charley scribbled down his
thoughts on this matter of personality and habit.
“Who knows,” he wrote, “which is the real self? A child comes into the
world gin-begotten, with the instinct for liquor in his brain, like the
scent of the fox in the nostrils of the hound. And that seems the real.
But the same child caught up on the hands of chance is carried into
another atmosphere, is cared for by ginhating minds and hearts: habit
fastens on him--fair, decent, and temperate habit--and he grows up like
the Cure yonder, a brother of Aaron. Which is the real? Is the instinct
for the gin killed, or covered? Is the habit of good living mere habit
and mere acting, in which the real man never lives his real life, or is
it the real life?
“Who knows! Here am I, born with a question in my mouth, with the
ever-present ‘non possumus’ in me. Here am I, to whom life was one
poor futility; to whom brain was but animal intelligence abnormally
developed; to whom speechless sensibility and intelligence was the only
reality; to whom nothing from beyond ever sent a flash of conviction,
an intimation, into my soul--not one. To me God always seemed a being of
dreams, the creation of a personal need and helplessness, the despairing
cry of the victims of futility--And here am I flung like a stone from a
sling into this field where men believe in God as a present and tangible
being; who reply to all life’s agonies and joys and exultations with the
words ‘C’est le bon Dieu.’ And what shall I become? Will habit do its
work, and shall I cease to be me? Shall I, in the permanency of habit,
become like unto this tailor here, whose life narrows into one sole
cause; whose only wish is to have the Church draw the coverlet of
forgiveness and safety over him; who has solved all questions in a blind
belief or an inherited predisposition--which? This stingy, hard, unhappy
man--how should he know what I am denied! Or does he know? Is it all
illusion? If there is a God who receives such devotion, to the exclusion
of natural demand and spiritual anxieties, why does not this tailor
‘let his light so shine before men that they may see his good works,
and glorify his Father which is in heaven?’ That is it. Therefore,
wherefore, tailor-man? Therefore, wherefore, God? Show me a sign from
Heaven, tailor-man!”
Seated on his bench in the shop, with his eyes ever and anon raised
towards the little post-office opposite, he wrote these words.
Afterwards he sat and thought till the shadows deepened, and the tailor
came in to supper. Then he took up the pieces of paper, and, going to
the fire, which was still lighted of an evening, thrust them inside.
Louis Trudel saw the paper burning, and, glancing down, he noticed that
one piece--the last--had slipped to the floor and was lying under the
table. He saw the pencil still in Charley’s hand. Forthwith his natural
suspicion leaped up, and the cunning of the monomaniac was upon him.
With all his belief in le bon Dieu and the Church, Louis Trudel trusted
no one. One eye was ever open to distrust man, while the other was ever
closed with blind belief in Heaven.
As Charley stooped to put wood in the fire, the tailor thrust a foot
forward and pushed the piece of paper further under the table.
That night the tailor crept down into the shop, felt for the paper
in the dark, found it, and carried it away to his room. All kinds of
thoughts had raged through his diseased mind. It was a letter, perhaps,
and if a letter, then he would gain some facts about the man’s life.
But if it was a letter, why did he burn it? It was said that he never
received a letter and never sent one, therefore it was little likely to
be a letter if not a letter, then what could it be? Perhaps the man
was English and a spy of the English government, for was there not
disaffection in some of the parishes? Perhaps it was a plan of robbery.
To such a state of hallucination did his weakened mind come, that he
forgot the kindly feeling he had had for this stranger who had worked
for him without pay. Suspicion, the bane of sick old age, was hot on
him. He remembered that M’sieu’ had put an arm through his when they
went upstairs, and that now increased suspicion. Why should the man have
been so friendly? To lull him into confidence, perhaps, and then to rob
and murder him in his sleep. Thank God, his ready money was well hid,
and the rest was safe in the bank far away! He crept back to his room
with the paper in his hand. It was the last sheet of what Charley had
written, and had been accidentally brushed off on the floor. It was in
French, and, holding the candle close, he slowly deciphered the crabbed,
characteristic handwriting.
His eyes dilated, his yellow cheeks took on spots of unhealthy red, his
hand trembled. Anger seized him, and he mumbled the words over and over
again to himself. Twice or thrice, as the paper lay in one hand, he
struck it with the clinched fist of the other, muttering and distraught.
“This tailor here.... This stingy, hard, unhappy man.... If there is
a God!... Therefore, wherefore, tailor-man?... Therefore, wherefore,
God?... Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!”
Hatred of himself, blasphemy, the profane and hellish humour of--of
the infidel! A Protestant heretic--he was already damned; a robber--you
could put him in jail; a spy--you could shoot him or tar and feather
him; a murderer--you could hang him. But an infide--this was a
deadly poison, a black danger, a being capable of all crimes. An
infidel--“Therefore, wherefore, tailor-man?... Therefore, wherefore,
God?... Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!”
The devil laughing--the devil incarnate come to mock a poor tailor, to
sow plague through a parish where all were at peace in the bosom of
the Church. The tailor had three ruling passions--cupidity, vanity,
and religion. Charley had now touched the three, and the whole man
was alive. His cupidity had been flattered by the unpaid service of a
capable assistant, but now he saw that he was paying the devil a wage.
His vanity was overwhelmed by a satanic ridicule. His religion and his
God had been assaulted in so shameful a way that no punishment could be
great enough for the man of hell. In religion he was a fanatic; he was a
demented fanatic now.
He thrust the paper into his pocket, then crept out into the hall and
to the door of Charley’s bedroom. He put his ear to the door. After
a moment he softly raised the latch, and opened the door and listened
again. ‘M’sieu’ was in a deep sleep.
Louis Trudel scarcely knew why he had listened, why he had opened the
door and stood looking at the figure in the bed, barely definable in the
semi-darkness of the room. If he had meant harm to the helpless man,
he had brought no weapon; if he had been curious, there the man was
peacefully sleeping!
His sick, morbid imagination was so alive, that he scarcely knew what
he did. As he stood there listening, hatred and horror in his heart, a
voice said to him: “Thou shalt do no murder.” The words kept ringing in
his ears. Yet he had not thought of murder. The fancied command itself
was his first temptation towards such a deed. He had thought of raising
the parish, of condign punishment of many sorts, but not this. As he
closed the door softly, killing entered his mind and stayed there. “Thou
shalt not” had been the first instigation to “Thou shalt.”
It haunted him as he returned to his room, undressed himself, and went
to bed. He could not sleep. “Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!”
The challenge had been to himself. He must respond to it. The duty lay
with him; he must answer this black infidel for the Church, for faith,
for God.
The more he thought of it, the more Charley’s face came before him, with
the monocle shining and hard in the eye. The monocle haunted him. That
was the infidel’s sign. “Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!” What
sign should he show?
Presently he sat up straight in bed. In another minute he was out and
dressing. Five minutes later he was on his way to the parish church.
When he reached it he took a tool from his pocket and unscrewed a small
iron cross from the front door. It was a cross which had been blessed by
the Pope, and had been brought to Chaudiere by the beloved mother of the
Cure, now dead.
“When I have done with it I will put it back,” he said, as he thrust it
inside his shirt, and hurried stealthily back to his house. As he got
into bed he gave a noiseless, mirthless laugh. All night he lay with
his yellow eyes wide open, gazing at the ceiling. He was up at dawn,
hovering about the fire in the shop.