It was Easter morning, and the good sunrise of a perfect spring made
radiant the high hill above the town. Rosy-fingered morn touched with
magic colour the masts and scattered sails of the ships upon the great
river, and spires and towers quivered with rainbow light. The city was
waking cheerfully, though the only active life was in the pealing bells
and on the deep flowing rivers. The streets were empty yet, save for
an assiduous priest or the cart of a milkman. Here and there a window
opened and a drowsy head was thrust into the eager air. These saw a
bearded countryman with his team of six dogs and his little cart
going slowly up the street. It was plain the man had come a long
distance--from the mountains in the east or south, no doubt, where
horses were few, and dogs, canoes, and oxen the means of transportation.
As the man moved slowly through the streets, his dogs still gallantly
full of life after their hard journey, he did not stare about him after
the manner of countrymen. His movements had intelligence and freedom.
He was an unusual figure for a woodsman or river-man--he did not wear
ear-rings or a waist-sash as did the river-men, and he did not turn
in his toes like a woodsman. Yet he was plainly a man from the far
mountains.
The man with the dogs did not heed the few curious looks turned his way,
but held his head down as though walking in familiar places. Now and
then he spoke to his dogs, and once he stopped before a newspaper
office, which had a placard bearing these lines:
The Coming Passion Play In the Chaudiere Valley.
He looked at it mechanically, for, though he was concerned in the
Passion Play and the Chaudiere Valley, it was an abstraction to him at
this moment. His mind was absorbed by other things.
Though he looked neither to right nor to left, he was deeply affected by
all round him.
At last he came to a certain street, where he and his dogs travelled
more quickly. It opened into a square, where bells were booming in the
steeple of a church. Shops and offices in the street were shut, but
a saloon-door was open, and over the doorway was the legend: Jean
Jolicoeur, Licensed to sell Wine, Beer, and other Spirituous and
Fermented Liquors.
Nearly opposite was a lawyer’s office, with a new-painted sign. It had
once read, in plain black letters, Charles Steele, Barrister, etc.; now
it read, in gold letters and many flourishes of the sign-painter’s art,
Rockwell and Tremblay, Barristers, Attorneys, etc.
Here the man looked up with trouble in his eyes. He could see dimly the
desk and the window beside which he had sat for so many years, and on
the wall a map of the city glowed with the incoming sun.
He moved on, passing the saloon with the open door. The landlord, in his
shirt-sleeves, was standing in the doorway. He nodded, then came out to
the edge of the board-walk.
“Come a long way, M’sieu’?” he asked.
“Four days’ journey,” answered the man gruffly through his beard,
looking the landlord in the eyes. If this landlord, who in the past had
seen him so often and so closely, did not recognise him, surely no one
else would. It was, however, a curious recurrence of habit that, as he
looked at the landlord, he instinctively felt for his eye-glass, which
he had discarded when he left Chaudiere. For an instant there was an
involuntary arrest of Jean Jolicoeur’s look, as though memory had been
roused, but this swiftly passed, and he said:
“Fine dogs, them! We never get that kind hereabouts now, M’sieu’. Ever
been to the city before?”
“I’ve never been far from home before,” answered the Forgotten Man.
“You’d better keep your eyes open, my friend, though you’ve got a sharp
pair in your head--sharp as Beauty Steele’s almost. There’s rascals in
the river-side drinking-places that don’t let the left hand know what
the right does.”
“My dogs and I never trust anybody,” said the Forgotten Man, as one of
the dogs snarled at the landlord’s touch. “So I can take care of myself,
even if I haven’t eyes as sharp as Beauty Steele’s, whoever he is.”
The landlord laughed. “Beauty’s only skin-deep, they say. Charley Steele
was a lawyer; his office was over there”--he pointed across the street.
“He went wrong. He come here too often--that wasn’t my fault. He had an
eye like a hawk, and you couldn’t read it. Now I can read your eye like
a book. There’s a bit of spring in ‘em, M’sieu’. His eyes were hard
winter-ice five feet deep and no fishing under--froze to the bed. He had
a tongue like a cross-cut saw. He’s at the bottom of the St. Lawrence,
leaving a bad job behind him.
“Have a drink--hein?” He jerked a finger backwards to the saloon door.
“It’s Sunday, but stolen waters are sweet, sure!”
The Forgotten Man shook his head. “I don’t drink, thank you.”
“It’d do you good. You’re dead beat. You’ve been travelling hard--eh?”
“I’ve come a long way, and travelled all night.”
“Going on?”
“I am going back to-morrow.”
“On business?”
Charley nodded--he glanced involuntarily at the sign across the street.
Jean Jolicoeur saw the look. “Lawyer’s business, p’r’aps?”
“A lawyer’s business--yes.”
“Ah, if Charley Steele was here!”
“I have as good a lawyer as--”
The landlord laughed scornfully. “They’re not made. He’d legislate the
devil out of the Pit. Where are you going to stay, M’sieu’?”
“Somewhere cheap--along the river,” answered the Forgotten Man.
Jolicoeur’s good-natured face became serious. “I’ll tell you a
place--it’s honest. It’s the next street, a few hundred yards down, on
the left. There’s a wooden fish over the door. It’s called The Black
Bass--that hotel. Say I sent you. Good luck to you, countryman! Ah, la;
la, there’s the second bell--I must be getting to Mass!” With a nod he
turned and went into the house.
The Forgotten Man passed slowly up the street, into the side street, and
followed it till he came to The Black Bass, and turned into the small
stable-yard. A stable-man was stirring. He at once put his dogs into
a little pen set apart for them, saw them fed from the kitchen, and,
betaking himself to a little room behind the bar of the hotel, ordered
breakfast. The place was empty, save for the servant--the household were
at Mass. He looked round the room abstractedly. He was thinking of a
crippled man in a hospital, of a girl from a village in the Chaudiere
Valley. He thought with a shiver of a white house on the hill. He
thought of himself as he had never done before in his life. Passing
along the street, he had realised that he had no moral claim upon
anything or anybody within these precincts of his past life. The place
was a tomb to him.
As he sat in the little back parlour of The Black Bass, eating his
frugal breakfast of eggs and bread and milk, the meaning of it all
slowly dawned upon him. Through his intellect he had known something of
humanity, but he had never known men. He had thought of men in the mass,
and despised them because of their multitudinous duplication, and their
typical weaknesses; but he had never known one man or one woman from the
subtler, surer divination of the heart. His intellect had made servants
and lures of his emotions and his heart, for even his every case in
court had been won by easy and selfish command of all those feelings in
mankind which make possible personal understanding.
In this little back parlour it came to him with sudden force how, long
ago, he had cut himself off from any claim upon his fellows--not only by
his conduct, but by his merciless inhuman intelligence working upon the
merciful human life about him. He never remembered to have had any real
feeling till on that day with Kathleen--the day he died. The bitter
complaint of a woman he had wronged cruelly, by having married her, had
wrung from him his own first wail of life, in the one cry “Kathleen!”
As he sat eating his simple meal his pulses were beating painfully.
Every nerve in his body seemed to pluck at the angry flesh. There
flashed across his mind in sympathetic sensation a picture. It was the
axe-factory on the river, before which he used to stand as a boy, and
watch the men naked to the waist, with huge hairy arms and streaming
faces, toiling in the red glare, the trip-hammers endlessly pounding
upon the glowing metal. In old days it had suggested pictures of gods
and demi-gods toiling in the workshops of the primeval world. So
the whole machinery of being seemed to be toiling in the light of an
awakened conscience, to the making of a man. It seemed to him that all
his life was being crowded into these hours. His past was here--its
posing, its folly, its pitiful uselessness, and its shame. Kathleen and
Billy were here, with all the problems that involved them. Rosalie was
here, with the great, the last problem.
“Nothing matters but that--but Rosalie,” he said to himself as he turned
to look out of the window at the wrangling dogs gnawing bones. “Here she
is in the midst of all I once knew, and I know that I am no more a part
of it than she is. She and Kathleen may have met face to face in
these streets--who can tell! The world is large, but there’s a sort of
whipper-in of Fate, who drives the people wearing the same livery into
one corner in the end. If they met”--he rose and walked hastily up and
down--“what then? I have a feeling that Rosalie would recognise her as
plainly as though the word Kathleen were stitched on her breast.”
There was a clock on the wall. He looked at it. “It will not be safe
to go out until evening. Then I can go to the hospital, and watch her
coming out.” He realised with satisfaction that many people coming from
Mass must pass the inn. There was a chance of his seeing Rosalie, if she
had gone to early Mass. This street lay in her way from the hospital.
“One look--ah, one look!” For this one look he had come. For this, and
to secure that which would save Rosalie from want always, if anything
should happen to him. This too had been greatly on his mind. There was a
way to give her what was his very own, which would rob no one and serve
her well indeed.
Looking at his face in the mirror over the mantel, he said to himself
“I might have had ten thousand friends, yet I have a thousand enemies,
who grin at the memory of the drunken fop down among the eels and the
cat-fish. Every chance was with me then. I come back here, and--and
Jolicoeur tells me the brutal truth. But if I had had ambition”--a wave
of the feeling of the old life passed over him--“if I had had ambition
as I was then, I should have been a monster. It was all so paltry that,
in sheer disgust, I should have kicked every ladder down that helped me
up. I should have sacrificed everything to myself.”
He stopped short and stared, for, in the mirror, he saw a girl passing
through the stable-yard towards the quarrelling dogs in the kennel. He
clapped his hand to his mouth to stop a cry. It was Rosalie.
He did not turn round but looked at her in the mirror, as though it were
the last look he might give on earth.
He could hear her voice speaking to the dogs: “Ah, my friends, ah, my
dears! I know you every one. Jo Portugais is here. I know your bark,
you, Harpy, and you, Lazybones, and you, Cloud and London! I know you
every one. I heard you as I came from Mass, beauty dears. Ah, you know
me, sweethearts? Ah, God bless you for coming! You have come to bring us
home; you have come to fetch us home--father and me.” The paws of one of
the dogs was on her shoulder, and his nose was in her hair.
Charley heard her words, for the window was open, and he listened and
watched now with an infinite relief in his look. Her face was half
turned towards him. It was pale-very pale and sad. It was Rosalie as of
old--thank God, as of old!--but more beautiful in the touching sadness,
the far-off longing, of her look.
“I must go and see your master,” she said to the dogs. “Down--down,
Lazybones!”
There was no time to lose--he must not meet her ere. He went into the
outer hall hastily. The servant was passing through. “If any one
asks for Jo Portugais,” he said, “say that I’ll be back to-morrow
morning--I’m going across the river to-day.”
“Certainly, M’sieu’,” said the girl, and smiled because of the piece of
silver he put in her hand.
As he heard the side door open he stepped through the front doorway into
the street, and disappeared round a corner.