to busy myself with my sermon for next Sunday. Last week, for another
reason, I had recourse to an old sermon; but I dislike to make a
practice of so doing, even though I strongly suspect that none of our
little Salmon River congregation would know the difference. We are a
very simple people, in this out-of-the-way Cape Breton parish, called
mostly to be fishers, like Our Lord's apostles, and recking not a
whit of the finer points of doctrine. Nevertheless, it is an hireling
shepherd who is faithless only because the flock do not ask to be fed
with the appointed manna; and I shall broach the sermon again, once I
have set down the thing that is so heavy on my heart.
For all I can think of just now is that Renny and Suse, out there on
Halibut Head, four miles away, are alone; alone for the first time in
well-nigh thirty years. The last of the brood has taken wing.
Yet it came to me this morning, as I watched Renny on the wharf saying
good-by to the boy, and bidding him wrap the tippet snug about his neck
in case the wind would be raw--it came to me that there is a triumph
about the nest when it is empty that it could never have earlier. I saw
the look of it in Renny's face--not defeat, but exultation.
"And what are you going to do now, Renny?" I asked him, as the steamer
slipped out of sight behind the lighthouse rock.
He stared at me a little contemptuously, a manner he has always had.
"_Do_, Mr. Biddles?" says he, with a queer laugh. "Why, what _would_ I
do, sor? They ain't no less fish to be catched, is they, off Halibut
Head, just because I got quit of a son or two?"
He left me, with a toss of his crisp, tawny-gray curls, jumped into his
little two-wheeled cart, and was off. And I thought, "Ah, Renny Marks,
outside you are still the same wild beast as when I had my first meeting
with you, two-and-thirty years ago; but inside--yes, I knew then it must
come; and it was not for me to order the how of it."
So as I took my way homeward, alone, toward the Rectory, I found myself
recalling, as if it were yesterday, the first words I had ever exchanged
with that tawny giant, just then in his first flush of manhood, and
with a face as ruddy and healthy-looking as one of these early New Rose
potatoes. Often, to be sure, I had seen him already in church, of a
Sunday, sitting defiant and uncomfortable on one of the rear benches,
struggling vainly to keep his eyes open; but before the last Amen was
fairly out of the people's mouth, he had always bolted for the door;
and I had never come, as you may say, face to face with him until this
afternoon when I was footing it back, by the cove road, from a visit to
an old sick woman, Nannie Odell. And here comes Renny Marks on his way
home from the boat; and over his shoulder was the mainsail and gaff and
a mackerel-seine and two great oars; and by one arm he had slung the
rudder and tackle and bait-pot; and under the other he lugged a couple
of bundles of lath for to mend his traps; and so he was pacing along
there as proud and careless as Samson bearing away the gates of Gaza on
his back (_Judges_ xvi, 3).
Now I had entertained the belief for some time that it was my duty,
should the occasion offer, to have a serious word with Renny about
matters not temporal; and this was clearly the moment. Yet even before
we had met he gave me one of those proud, distrustful, I have said
contemptuous, looks of his; and I seemed suddenly to perceive the figure
I must cut in his eyes, pattering along there so trimly in my clerical
garb, and with my book of prayers under one arm; and, do you know, I was
right tongue-tied; and so we came within hand-reach, and still never a
word.
At last, "Good-day to ye, Mister Biddles," says he, with a scant,
off-hand nod; and, as if he knew I must be admiring of his strength, "I
can fetch twice this load, sor," says he, "without so mucht as knowing
the difference."
"It's a fine thing, Renny Marks," said I, gaining my tongue again, at
his boast, "a fine thing to be the strongest man in three parishes, if
that's what ye be, as they tell me."
"It is that, sor," says he. "I never been cast yet; and I don't never
expect for to be."
"But it's still finer a thing, Renny," I went on, "to use that strength
in the honor of your Maker. Tell me, do you remember to say your prayers
every night before you go to bed?"
Never shall I forget the horse-laugh the young fellow had at those words.
"Why, sor," he exclaimed, as if I had suggested the most unconscionable
thing in the world, "saying prayers! that's for the likes of them as
wash their face every day. I say my prayers on Sunday; and that's enough
for the likes of me!"
And with that, not even affording me a chance to reply, he strode off up
the beach road; and in every movement of his great limbs I seemed to see
the pride and glory of life. Doubtless I was to blame for not pressing
home to him more urgently at that moment the claims of religion; but as
I stood there, watching him, it came to me that after all he was almost
to be pardoned for being proud. For surely there is something to warm
the heart in the sight of the young lion's strength and courage; and
even the Creator, I thought, must have taken delight in turning out such
a fine piece of mortal handiwork as that Renny Marks.
But with that thought immediately came another: "Whom the Lord loveth he
chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth" (_Hebrews_ xii,
6). And I went home sadly, for I seemed to see that Renny had bitter
things ahead of him before he should learn the great lesson of life.
Well, and this is the way it came to him. At the age of
four-and-twenty, he married this Suse Barlow from down the coast a
piece,--Green Harbor was the name of the town,--and she was a sweet
young thing, gentle and ladylike, though of plainest country stock, and
with enough education so they'd let her keep school down there. He built
a little house for her, the one they still live in, with his own hands,
at Halibut Head; and I never saw anything prettier than the way that
young giant treated his wife--like a princess! It was the first time
in his life, I dare say, he had ever given a thought to anything but
himself; and in a fashion, I suppose, 'twas still but a satisfaction of
his pride, to have her so beautiful, and so well-dressed.
I remember of how often they would come in late to church,--even as late
as the Te Deum,--and I could almost suspect him of being behindhand of
purpose, for of course every one would look around when he came creaking
down the aisle in his big shoes, with a wide smile on his ruddy face
that showed all his white teeth through his beard; and none could fail
to observe how fresh and pretty Suse was, tripping along there behind
him, and looking very demure and modest in her print frock, and oh, so
very, very sorry to be late! And during the prayers I had to remark how
his face would always be turned straight toward her, as if it were to
her he was addressing his supplications; the young heathen!
Now there is one thing I never could seem to understand, though I have
often turned it over in my mind, and that is, why it should be that a
young Samson like Renny Marks, and a fine, bouncing girl like that
Suse of his, should have children who were too weak and frail to stay
long on this earth; but such was the case. They saved only three out
of six; and the oldest of those three, Michael John, when he got to be
thirteen years of age, shipped as cabin boy on a fisherman down to the
Grand Banks, and never came back. So that left only Bessie Lou, who was
twelve, and little Martin, who was the baby.
If ever children had a good bringing up, it was those two. I never
saw either of them in a dirty frock or in bare feet; and that means
something, you must allow, when you consider the hardness of the
fisherman's life, and how often he has nothing at all to show for a
season's toil except debts! But work--I never saw any one work like
that Renny; and he made a lovely little farm out there; and Suse wasn't
ashamed to raise chickens and sell them in Salmon River; and she dyed
wool, and used to hook these rugs, with patterns of her own design,
baskets of flowers, or handsome fruit-dishes; and almost always she
could get a price for them. But, as you may believe, she couldn't keep
her sweet looks with work like that. Before she was thirty she began
to look old, as is so often true in a hard country like ours; and not
often would she be coming in to church any more, because, she said,
of the household duties; but my own belief is that she did not have
anything to wear. But Bessie Lou and little Martin, when the boy was
well enough, were there every fine Sunday, as pretty as pictures, and
able to recite the Creed, and the Lord's Prayer, and the Collects, and
the Commandments, quite like the children of gentlefolk.
Well, when Bessie Lou got to be sixteen, she took it into her head that
she must go off to Boston, where she would be earning her own living,
and see something more of the world than is possible for a girl in
Salmon River. Our girls all get that notion nowadays; they are not
content to stay at home as girls used to do; but off they go in droves
to the States, where wages are big, and there is excitement and variety.
So the old people finally said yes, and off goes Bessie Lou, like the
others; and in two years we heard she was to be married to a mechanic in
Lynn (I think that is the name of the city) somewhere outside of Boston.
She has been gone eight years now, and has three children; and she
writes occasionally. She is always wishing she could come down and visit
the old folks; but it is hard to get away, I presume, and they are plain
working people.
So after Bessie Lou's going, all they had left at home was Martin, who
was always ailing more or less. And on my word, I never saw anything
like the care they gave that boy. There wasn't anything too good for
him. All these most expensive tonics and patent medicines they would
be for trying, one after another, and telling themselves every time
that at last they had found just the right thing, because he'd seem to
be bracing up a bit, and getting more active. And then he would take
another of his bad spells, and lose ground again; and they would put
by that bottle and try something else. One day when I was out there
his ma showed me all of twenty bottles of patent medicine, some of them
scarcely touched, that Renny had got for him, one time or another.
You see, Martin couldn't run about outdoors very much because of his
asthma; and then, his eyes being bad, that made him unhappy in the
house, for he couldn't be reading or studying. His father got him an
old fiddle once, he'd picked up at an auction, and the boy took to it
something wonderful; but not having any teacher and no music he soon
grew tired of it. And whenever old Renny would be in the village, he
must always be getting some little thing to take out to Martin: a couple
of bananas, say, or a jack-knife, or one of those American magazines
with nice pictures, especially pictures of ships and other sailing
craft, of which the lad was very fond.
Well, and so last winter came, which was a very bad winter indeed, in
these parts; and the poor lamb had a pitiful hard time; and whenever
Renny got in to church, it was plain to see that he was eating his heart
out with worry. He still had his old way of always snoring during the
sermon; but oh, if you could see once the tired, anxious, supplicating
look in his face, as soon as his proud eyes shut, you never would have
had the heart to wish anything but "Sleep on now, and take your rest"
(_Mark_ xiv, 41), for you knew that perhaps, for a few minutes, he had
stopped worrying about that little lad of his.
Spring came on, at last, and Martin was out again for a while every
day in the sun; and sometimes the old man would be taking him abroad
for a drive or for a little sail in the boat, when he was going out to
his traps; and it appeared that the strain was over again for the time
being. That is why I was greatly surprised and troubled one day, about
two months ago, to see Renny come driving up toward the Rectory like
mad, all alone in his cart.
I had just been doing a turn of work myself at the hay; for it is hard
to get help with us when you need it most; and as I came from the barn,
in my shirt-sleeves, Renny turned in at the gate.
"Something has happened to the boy," was my thought; and I was all but
certain of it when I saw the man's face, sharp set as a flint stone, and
all the blood gone from his ruddy skin so that it looked right blue. He
jumped out before the mare stopped, and came up to me.
"Can I have a word with ye?" said he; and when he saw my look of
question, he added, "It ain't nothink, sor. He's all right."
I put my hand on his shoulder, and led him into my study, and we sat
down there, just as we were, I in my shirt-sleeves, and still unwashed
after the hayfield.
"What is it, Renny, man?" says I.
It seemed like he could not make his lips open for a moment, and then,
suddenly, he began talking very fast and excitedly, pecking little dents
in the arms of the chair with his big black fingernails.
"That Bessie Lou of oors up to Boston," said he, as if he were accusing
some one of an outrage, "we got a letter from 'er last night, we did,
and she sayse, says she, why wouldn't we be for a-sending o' the leetle
lad up theyr? They'd gladly look oot for him, she sayse; and the winter
ain't severe, she sayse; and he could go to one o' them fine city
eye-doctors and 'ave his eyes put right with glasses or somethink; and
prob'ly he could be for going to school again and a-getting of his
learning, which he's sadly be'indhand in, sor, becaust he's ben ailing
so much."
His eyes flashed, and the sweat poured down his forehead in streams.
I don't know why I was so slow to understand; but I read his look
wrong, there seemed so much of the old insolence and pride in it, and I
replied, I daresay a little reproachfully,--
"Well, and why wouldn't that be an excellent thing, Renny? I should
think you would feel grateful."
He stared at me for a second, as if I had struck him. Ah, we can
forget the words people say to us, even in wrath; but can we ever free
ourselves from the memory of such a look? Without knowing why, I had
the feeling of being a traitor. And then, all of a sudden, there he had
crumpled down in his chair, and put his head in his big hands, and was
sobbing.
"I cain't--I cain't let him go," he groaned. "I woon't let him go. He's
all what we got left."
I sat there for a time, helpless, looking at him. You might think that
a priest, with the daily acquaintance he has with the bitter things
of life, ought to know how to face them calmly; but so far as my own
small experience goes, I seem to know nothing more about all that than
at the beginning. It always hurts just as much; it's always just as
bewildering, just as terrible, as if you had never seen anything like
it before. And when I saw that giant of a Renny Marks just broken over
there like some big tree shattered by lightning, it seemed as if I could
not bear to face such suffering. Then I remembered that he had been
committed into my care by God, and that I must not be only an hireling
shepherd. So I said:--
"Renny, lad, it isn't for ourselves we must be thinking. It's for him."
He lifted up his head, with the shaggy, half-gray hair all rumpled on
his wet forehead, and pulled his sleeve across his eyes.
"Hark'e, Mister Biddles," he commanded harshly. "Ain't we did the best
we could for him? Who dares say we ain't did the best we could for him?
_You?_"
I made no answer, and for a minute we faced each other, while he shook
his clenched fists at me, and the creature in him that had never yet
been cast challenged all the universe.
"They're tryin' to tak my boy away from me," he roared, "and they cain't
do it--I tell you they cain't. He's all what we got left, now."
"And so you mean to keep him for yourself?" I asked.
"Ay, that I do," he cried, jumping out of his chair, and striding up and
down the room as if clean out of his wits. "I do! I do! Why _wouldn't_
I mean to, hey? Ain't he mine? Who's got a better right to him?"
Of a sudden he comes to a dead halt in front of me, with his arms
crossed. "Mister Biddles," he says, very bitterly, "you may well be
thankfu' you never wast a father yoursel'. Nobody ain't for trying to
tak nothink away from you."
"That's quite true, Renny," said I. "But remember," I said, not
intending any irreverence, but uttering such poor words as were given
to me in my extremity, "remember, Renny, it's to a Father you say your
prayers in church every Sunday; and you needn't think as that Father
doesn't know full as well as you what it is to give up an only Son for
love's sake."
"Hey?--What's that, sor?" cries Renny, with a face right like a dead
thing.
"And would He be asking of you for to let yours go, if He didn't know
there was love enough in your heart to stand the test?"
Renny broke out with a terrible groan, like the roar of anguish of a
wild beast that has got a mortal wound; and the same instant the savage
look died in his eyes, and the bigger love in him had triumphed over the
smaller love. I could see it, I knew it, even before he spoke. He caught
at my hand, blunderingly, and gave it a twist like a winch.
"He shall go, sor. He shall go for all of I. And Mr. Biddles, while I'm
for telling the old woman and the boy, would ye be so condescending as
to say over some of them there prayers, so I could have the feeling, as
you might say, that some one was keeping an eye on me? It'll all be done
in less nor a half-hour."
And with that, off he goes, and jumps into his cart, and whips up the
mare, tearing down the road like a whirlwind, just as he had come,
without so much as saying good-by. And the next day I heard them saying
in the village that Renny Marks's boy was to go up to the States to be
raised with his sister's family.
Ah, well, that's only a common sort of a story, I know. The same kind of
things happen near us every day. I can't even quite tell why I wanted to
set it down on paper like this, only that, some way, it makes me believe
in God more; even when I have to remember, and it seems to me just now
like I could never stop remembering it, that Renny and Suse are all
alone to-day out there on Halibut Head. Renny is at the fish, of course;
and Suse, I daresay, is working in her little potato patch; and Martin
is out there on the sea, being borne to a world far away, and from
which, I suppose, he will not be very anxious to return; for few of them
do come back, nowadays, to the home country.
[Illustration: FOUGÈRE'S COVE]
THEIR TRUE LOVE
THEIR TRUE LOVE
Even Zabette, with her thousand wrinkles, was young once. They say her
lips were red as wild strawberries and her hair as sleek as the wing
of a blackbird in spring. All the old people of St. Esprit remember
how she used to swing along the street on her way to mass of a Sunday,
straight, proud, agile as a goat, with her dark head flung back, and
a disdainful smile on her lips that kept young men from being unduly
forward. The country people, who must have their own name for everything
and everybody, used to call her "la belle orgueilleuse," and sometimes,
"the highstepper"; and though they had to laugh at her a little for her
lofty ways, they found it quite natural to address her as mademoiselle.
But all these things one only knows by hearsay. Zabette does not talk
much herself. So far as she is concerned, you might never guess that
she had a story at all. She lives there in the little dormer-windowed
cottage beyond the post-office with Suzanne Benoît. For thirty-three
years now the two women have lived together; and it is the earnest
prayer of both of them that when the time for going arrives, they may go
together.
These two good souls have the reputation, all over the country, of
immense industry and thrift. Suzanne keeps three cows, and her butter
is famous. Zabette--she was a Fuseau, from the Grande Anse--takes in
washing of the better class. Nobody in St. Esprit can do one of those
stiff white linen collars so well as she. Positively, it shines in the
sun like a looking-glass. If you notice the men going to church, you can
always pick out those who have their shirts and collars done by Zabette
Fuseau. By comparison, the others appear dull and very commonplace.
"But why must Zabette do collars for her living?" you are asking. "Why
has she not a man of her own to look out for her, and half a dozen grown
up children? Did she never marry, then--this belle orgueilleuse?"
No. Never. But not on account of that pride of hers; at least not
directly. If you go into the pretty little living-room of the second
cottage beyond the post-office--the one with such a show of geraniums
in the front windows--you will guess half the secret, for just above
the mantelpiece, between two vases of artificial asters, hangs the
daguerreotype portrait of a young man in mariner's slops. The lineaments
have so faded with the years that it is difficult to make them out with
any assurance. It is as if the portrait itself were seeking to escape
from life, retreating little by little, imperceptibly, into the dull
shadows of the ground, so that only as you look at it from a certain
angle can you still clearly distinguish the small dark eyes, the full
moustache, the round chin, the square stocky shoulders of the subject.
Only the two rosy spots added by the daguerreotypist to the cheeks defy
time and change, indestructible token of youth and ardor.
A little frame of immortelles encloses the portrait. And directly in
front of it, on the mantelpiece, stands a pretty shell box, with the
three words on the mother-of-pearl lid: "À ma chérie." What is in the
box--if anything--no one can tell you for a certainty, though there are
plenty of theories. "Love letters," say some; and others, with a pitying
laugh, "Old maid's tears."
Zabette and Suzanne hold their tongues. I think I know what the treasure
of the box is; for I had the story directly from a very aged woman who
knew both the "girls" when they were young; and she vouched for the
truth of it by all the beads of her rosary. This is how it went.
Zabette Fuseau was eighteen, and she lived at the Grand Anse, two miles
out of St. Esprit; and the procession of young fellows, going there
to woo, was like a pilgrimage, exactly. Among them came one from far
down the coast, a place called Rivière Bourgeoise. He was a deep sea
fisherman, from off a vessel which had put in at St. Esprit for repairs,
mid-course to the Grand Banks; and on his first shore leave Maxence
had caught sight of la belle orgueilleuse, who had come into town with
a basket of eggs; and he had followed her home, at a little distance,
sighing, but without the courage to address her so long as they were
in the village. He was a very handsome young fellow, with a brown,
ruddy skin, and the most beautiful dark curly hair and crisp moustache
imaginable.
Zabette knew he was behind her; but she would not turn; not she; only
walked a little more proudly and gracefully, with that swinging movement
of hers, like a vessel sailing in a head wind. At last, when they had
reached the Calvaire at the end of the village, he managed to get out
his first word.
"Oh!" he cried, haltingly. "Mademoiselle!"
She turned half about and fixed her dark proud eyes upon him, while her
cheeks crimsoned.
"Well, m'sieur?"
He could not speak, and the two stared at each other for a long time in
silence, while the thought came to her that this was the man for whom
she was destined.
"Had you something to say to me?" she repeated, finally, in a tone that
tried to be severe, but was really very soft.
He nodded his curly head, and licked his lips hard to moisten them.
"I cannot wait any longer," she protested, after a while. "They need me
at home."
She turned quickly again, as if to go; but her feet were glued to the
ground, and she did not take a step.
"Oh, s'il vous plaît, mam'selle!" he cried, to hold her. "You think I am
rude. But I did not mean to follow you like this. I could not help it.
You are so beautiful."
The look he gave her with those words sank deep into her heart and
rooted itself there forever. In vain, for the rest of her life, she
might try to tear it out; there was a fatality about it. Zabette, fine
highstepper that she was, had been caught at last. She knew that she
ought to send the handsome young sailor away; but her tongue would not
obey her. Instead, it uttered some very childish words of confusion and
pleasure; and before she knew it, there was her man walking along at
her side, with one hand on his heart, declaring that she was the most
angelic creature in the world, that he was desperately in love with
her, that he could not live without her, and that she must promise then
and there to be his, or he would instantly kill himself. The burning,
impassioned look in his eyes struck her with dismay.