IMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-3) 
 
 1.0 
 
 I.I 
 
 1.25 
 
 ■IS 
 
 1^ m 
 
 ^= 1^ 1^ 
 
 It im 
 
 1.8 
 
 U 111.6 
 
 % 
 
 <P 
 
 /2 
 
 % 
 
 -> 
 
 
 /A 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sdences 
 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 
 
 (716) 873-4503 
 
 ^' 
 
 V 
 
 ^ 
 
 ,v 
 
 \\ 
 
 <h 
 
 V 
 
 
 ^^>o^ 
 
 O^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 

 
 sr Mi 
 
 
 i- 
 
 '4 
 
 
 CIHM/ICMH 
 
 Microfiche 
 
 Series. 
 
 CIHIVI/ICIVIH 
 Collection de 
 microfiches. 
 
 Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques 
 
Technical and Bibliographic Notea/Notet tachniquaa at bibliographlquea 
 
 The 
 tot 
 
 The Inatitute haa attempted to obtain the beat 
 original copy available for filming. Featurea of thia 
 copy which may be bibiiographlcally unique, 
 which may alter any of the imagea in the 
 reproduction, or which may aignificantly change 
 the uauai method of filming, are checked below. 
 
 D 
 D 
 D 
 D 
 D 
 D 
 D 
 D 
 D 
 
 D 
 
 D 
 
 Coloured covera/ 
 Couverture de couleur 
 
 Covera damaged/ 
 Couverture endommag^e 
 
 Covera reatored and/or laminated/ 
 Couverture reataurAe et/ou peiliculAe 
 
 Co^er title miaaing/ 
 
 Le titre de couverture manque 
 
 Coloured mapa/ 
 
 Cartaa gAographiquaa en couleur 
 
 Coloured ink (i.e. other than blue or black)/ 
 Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire) 
 
 Coloured platea and/or iliuatrationa/ 
 Pianchea et/ou iliuatrationa en couleur 
 
 Bound with other material/ 
 ReliA avec d'autrea documents 
 
 Tight binding may causa shadows or distortion 
 along interior margin/ 
 
 La reliura serr6e peut causer de I'ombre ou de la 
 diatortion le long de la marge intiriaure 
 
 Blank leaves added during reatoratlon may 
 appear within the text. Whenever possible, these 
 have been omitted from filming/ 
 II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajout6es 
 lors d'une restauration apparaissent dans le texte. 
 mais, lorsque cela 6tait possible, ces pagea n'ont 
 pas 6tA film6es. 
 
 Additional comments:/ 
 Commentaires supplAmentaires; 
 
 L'Inatitut a microfilm* le meilleur exemplaire 
 qu'il lui a 6tA poaaible de ae procurer. Lea ditaiia 
 de cet exemplaire qui sent peut-Atre uniques du 
 point de vue bIbliogrBphique, qui peuvent modifier 
 une Image reproduitci, ou qui peuvent exiger une 
 modification dana la m6thode normale de filmage 
 aont indiquAa ci-deaaoua. 
 
 □ Coloured pages/ 
 Pagea de couleur 
 
 □ 
 
 • 
 
 □ 
 
 
 D 
 
 This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/ 
 
 Ce document est film* au taux de reduction indiqu4 ci-dessous. 
 
 Pages damaged/ 
 Pagea endommagiea 
 
 Pages reatored and/or laminated/ 
 Pages restaurAea et/ou pelliculAes 
 
 Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/ 
 Pagea dAcolortes, tachetiea ou piqudea 
 
 Pages detached/ 
 Pages ditachies 
 
 Showthrough/ 
 Tranaparence 
 
 The 
 pos 
 oft 
 film 
 
 Ori] 
 beg 
 the 
 sior 
 othi 
 firsi 
 sior 
 or 11 
 
 n Quality of print variaa/ 
 Quality inigale da I'lmprassion 
 
 n Includes supplementary material/ 
 Comprend du materiel supplAmentaire 
 
 I — I Only edition available/ 
 
 The 
 she 
 TIN 
 whi 
 
 Mai 
 diff 
 enti 
 beg 
 righ 
 reqi 
 met 
 
 Seule Mition disponlble 
 
 Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata 
 slips, tissues, etc., have been refilmed to 
 enaure the beat poaaible image/ 
 Lea pages totalement ou partiellement 
 obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure, 
 etc., ont M filmAes A nouveau de fa9on A 
 obtenir la meilleure image possible. 
 
 10X 
 
 
 
 
 14X 
 
 
 
 
 18X 
 
 
 
 
 22X 
 
 
 
 
 28X 
 
 
 
 
 30X 
 
 
 
 t 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 v/ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 12X 
 
 
 
 
 16X 
 
 
 
 
 20X 
 
 
 
 - - 
 
 24X 
 
 
 
 
 28X 
 
 
 
 
 32X 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
lire 
 
 details 
 jes du 
 modifier 
 ger une 
 fiimage 
 
 The copy filmed here has been reproduced thanlts 
 to the generosity of: 
 
 National Library of Canada 
 
 The images appearing here are the best quality 
 possible considering the condition and legibility 
 of the original copy and in keeping with the 
 filming contract specifications. 
 
 L'exemplaire filmd fut reproduit grAce A la 
 g6n6rosit6 de: 
 
 Bibliothdque nationale du Canada 
 
 Les images suivantes ont 6t6 reproduites avec le 
 plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et 
 de la nettetd de l'exemplaire film6. et en 
 conformity avec les conditions du contrat de 
 fiimage. 
 
 Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed 
 beginning with the front cover and ending on 
 the last page with a printed or illustrated impres- 
 sion, or the bacit cover when appropriate. All 
 other original copies are filmed beginning on the 
 first page with a printed or illustrated impres- 
 sion, and ending on the last page with a printed 
 or illustrated impression. 
 
 6es 
 
 Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en 
 papier est imprimie sent film6s en commenfant 
 par le premier plat et en terminant soit par la 
 dernidre page qui comporte une empreinte 
 d'impression ou d'illustration, soit par le second 
 plat, selon le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires 
 originaux sont f ilmds en commen9ant par la 
 premidre page qui comporte uno empreinte 
 d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par 
 la dernidre page qui comporte une telle 
 empreinte. 
 
 The last recorded frame on each microfiche 
 shall contain the symbol -^ (meaning "CON- 
 TINUED "). or the symbol V (meaning "END "), 
 whichever applies. 
 
 Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la 
 dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le 
 cas: le symbole —^ signifie "A SUIVRE ", le 
 symbole V signifie "FIN". 
 
 re 
 
 Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at 
 different reduction ratios. Those too large to be 
 entirely included in one exposure are filmed 
 beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to 
 right and top to bottom, as many frames as 
 required. The following diagrams illustrate *he 
 method: 
 
 Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre 
 film6s d des taux de reduction diff6rents. 
 Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre 
 reproduit en un seul clich6, il est film6 A partir 
 de I'angle sup6rieur gauche, de gauche d droite, 
 et de haut en has, en prenant le nombre 
 d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants 
 illustrent la mdthode. 
 
 y errata 
 Id to 
 
 nt 
 
 le pelure, 
 
 i9on A 
 
 n 
 
 1 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 32X 
 
 1 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 4 
 
 5 
 
 6 
 
v,Vs. 
 
 
 i 
 
 THE LANE THAT 
 HAD NO TURNING 
 
 AND OTHER TALES CONCERNING 
 THE PEOPLE OF PONTIAC; TO- 
 GETHER WITH CERTAIN "PAR- 
 ABLES OF PROVINCES.'* 
 
 / 
 
 \ 
 
 ^- r 
 
PS SLf^l 
 
 ' > 1 
 
 17^904 
 
 ) ^ OO b 
 
 Copyright, 1899, 1900, by 
 GILBERT PARKER 
 
 Press of J. J. Little & Co. 
 New York, U.S. A. 
 
 V 
 
To > 
 
 The Right Hon. Sy- Wilfrid Laurier, G.C.M.G. 
 
 Dear Sir Wilfrid Laurier: 
 
 Since I first began to write these tales in 1892, I 
 have had it in my mind to dedicate to you the 
 •* bundle of life " when it should be complete. It 
 seemed to me — and it seems so still — that to put 
 your name upon the covering of my parcel — as one 
 should say, In care ^/— when it went forth, was to 
 secure its safe and considerate delivery to that public 
 of the Empire which is so much in yojar debt. 
 
 But with other feelings also, do I dedicate this vol- 
 ume to yourself. For many years your name has 
 stood for a high and noble compromise between the 
 temperaments and the intellectual and social habits of 
 two races, and I am not singular in thinking that you 
 have' done rrore than most other men to make the 
 English ana French of the .Dominion understand 
 each other better. There are somewhat awkward 
 limits to. true understanding as yet, but that sym- 
 pathetic service which you render to both peoples, 
 with a conscientious striving for impartiality, tempers 
 even the wind of party warfare to the shorn lamb of 
 political opposition. • 
 
 In a sincere sympathy with French life and char- 
 acter, as exhibited in the democratic yet monarchial 
 province of Quebec (or Lower Canada, as, historically, 
 I still love to think of it), moved by friendly observa- 
 tion, and seeking to be truthful and impartial, I have 
 
 i- 
 
 F 
 
 T 
 
 ■ * fc-t^* 
 
vl 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 made this book and others deah'ng with the life of 
 the proud province, which a century and a half of 
 English governance has not Anglicised. This series 
 of more or less connected stories, however, has been 
 the most cherished of all my labours, covering, as it 
 has done, so many years, and being the accepted of 
 my anxious judgment ojt of a much larger gather- 
 ing, so many numbers of which are retired to the 
 seclusion of copyright, while reserved from publica- 
 tion. In pas'Jng, I need hardly say that the " Pon- 
 tiac " of this book is an imaginary place and has no 
 association with the real Pontiac of the Province. 
 
 I had meant to call the volume, Born with a Golden 
 Spoo7ij a title stolen from the old phrase, " Born with 
 a golden spoon in the mouth " ; but at the last mo- 
 ment ^ have given the book the name of the tale 
 whi< ., chronologically, the climax of the series, and 
 the end of my narratives of French Canadian life and 
 character. I had chosen the former title because of 
 an inherent meaning in its relation to my subject. A 
 man born in the purple — in comfort, wealth, and 
 secure estate — is said to have the golden spoon in his 
 mouth. In the eyes of the world, however, the 
 phrase has a somewhat ironical suggestiveness, and 
 to have luxury, wealth, and place as a birthright is 
 not thought to be the most fortunate incident of 
 mortality. My application of the phrase is, there- 
 fore, different. 
 
 I have, as you know, travelled far and wide during 
 the past seventeen years, and though I have seen peo- 
 ple as frugal and industrious as the French Canadians, 
 I have never seen frugality and industry associated 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 Vll 
 
 with so much domestic virtue, so much education 
 and inteUigence, and so deep and simple a religious 
 life; nor have I ever seen a priesthood at once so 
 devoted and high-minded in all that concerns the 
 home life of- their people, as in French Canada. A 
 land without poverty and yet without riches, French 
 Canada stands alone, too well educated to have a 
 peasantry, too poor to have an aristocracy ; as though 
 in her the ancient prayer had been answered : " Give 
 me neither poverty nor riches, but feed me with food 
 convenient for me." And it is of the habitant of 
 Quebec, before all men else, I should say, "Born 
 with the golden spoon in his mouth." 
 
 To you, sir, I come with this book, which contains 
 the first things I ever wrote out of the life of the 
 province so dear to you, and the last things also that 
 I shall ever write about it. I beg you to receive it as 
 the loving recreation of one who sympathises with the 
 people of whom you come, and honours their virtues, 
 and who has no fear for the unity, and no doubt as 
 to the splendid future, of the nation, whose fibre is 
 got of the two great civilizing races of Europe. 
 
 Lastly, you will know with what admiration and 
 regard I place your name on the fore page of my 
 book, and greet in you the statesman, the litt&ateury 
 and the personal friend. 
 Believe me, 
 
 Dear Sir Wilfrid Laurier, 
 
 Yours very sincerely, ■ 
 
 Gilbert Parker. 
 
 20 Carlton House Terrace, 
 London, S. W. 
 14th August, 1900. 
 
 s 
 
 \ 
 
1 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PACB 
 
 The Lane that had No Turning . . . . i 
 
 The Absurd Romance of P'tite Louison ... 89 
 
 The Little Bell of Honour 99 
 
 A Son of the Wilderness laj 
 
 A Worker in Stone 135 
 
 The Tragic Comedy of Annette 149 
 
 The Marriage of the Miller 155 
 
 MaTHURIN j(ij 
 
 The Story of the Lime-Burner 171 
 
 The Woodsman's Story of the Great White Chief . i8i 
 
 Uncle Jim ,87 
 
 The House with the Tall Porch igg 
 
 Parpon the Dwarf 205 
 
 Times were Hard in Pontiac 231 
 
 Medallion's Whim 239 
 
 The Prisoner 255 
 
 An Upset Price 263 
 
 A Fragment of Lives 275 
 
 The Man that Died at Alma 283 
 
 The Baron of Beaugard 297 
 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Parables of a Province 
 The Golden Pipes . 
 The Guardian of the Fire 
 Ky that Place called Peradventure 
 The Singing of the Bees . 
 There was a Little City . 
 The Forge in the Valley 
 
 PACK 
 
 313 
 315 
 
 320 
 
 325 
 330 
 
 333 
 351 
 
TACK 
 
 320 
 
 325 
 330 
 
 333 
 351 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO 
 TURNING 
 
 I 
 
€ 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO 
 
 TURNING 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO 
 TURNING 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE RETURN OF MADELINETTE 
 
 HIS Excellency the Governor — the English Gov- 
 ernor of French Canada — was come to Pon- 
 tiac, accompanied by a goodly retinue; by private 
 secretary, military secretary, aide-de-camp, cabinet 
 minister, and all that. He was making a tour of the 
 Province, but it was obvious that he had gone out of 
 his way to visit Pontiac, for there were disquieting 
 rumours in the air concerning the loyalty of the dis- 
 trict. Indeed, the Governor had arrived but twenty- 
 four hours after a meeting had been held under the 
 presidency of the Seigneur, at which resolutions were 
 presented easily translatable into sedition. The Cure 
 and the Avocat, arriving in the nick of time, had both 
 spoken against these resolutions; with the result that 
 the new-born ardour in the minds of the simple habi- 
 tants had died down, and the Seigneur had parted from 
 the Cure and the Avocat in anger. 
 
 Once before Pontiac had been involved in an illegal 
 
 .5- 
 
 i 
 f 
 
 ¥ 
 
2 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 demonstration. Valmond, the bizarre but popular 
 Napoleonic pretender, had raised his standard there, 
 the stones before the parish church had been stained 
 with his blood, and he lay in the churchyard of St. 
 Saviour's forgiven and unforgotten. How was it pos- 
 sible for Pontiac to forget him? Had he not left his 
 little fortune to the parish? and had he not also left 
 twenty thousand francs for the musical education of 
 Madelinette Lajeunesse, the daughter of the village 
 forgeron, to learn singing of the best masters in Paris? 
 Pontiac's wrong-doings had brought it more profit 
 than penalty, more praise than punishment: for, after 
 five years in France in the care of the Little Chemist's 
 widow, Madelinette Lajeunesse had become the great- 
 est singer of her day. But what had put the severest 
 strain upon the modesty of Pontiac was the fact that, 
 on the morrow of Madelinette's first triumph in Paris, 
 she had married M. Louis Racine, the new Seigneur 
 of Pontiac. 
 
 What more could Pontiac wish? It had been re- 
 warded for its mistakes ; it had not even been chastened, 
 save that it was marked " Suspicious," as to its loyalty, 
 at the headquarters of the English Government in 
 Quebec. It should have worn a crown of thorns, but 
 it flaunted a crown of roses. A most unreasonable 
 good fortune seemed to pursue it. It had been led to 
 expect that its new Seigneur would be an Englishman, 
 one George Fournel, to whom, as the late Seigneur had 
 more than once declared, the property had been left by 
 will; but at his death no will had been found, and Louis 
 Racine, the direct heir in blood, had succeeded to the 
 property and the title. 
 
 Brilliant, enthusiastic, fanatically French, the new 
 Seigneur had set himself to revive certain old tradi- 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 3 
 
 tions, customs, and privileges of the seigneurial posi- 
 tion. He was reactionary, seductive, generous, and at 
 first he captivated the hearts of Pontiac. He did more 
 than that. He captivated MadeHnette Lajeunesse. In 
 spite of her years in Paris — severe, studious years, 
 which shut out the social world and the temptations of 
 Bohemian life — Madelinette retained a strange sim- 
 plicity of heart and mind, a desperate love for her old 
 home which would not be gainsaid, a passionate loyalty 
 to her past, which was an illusory attempt to arrest the 
 inevitable changes that come with growth ; and, with a 
 sudden impulse, she had sealed herself to her past at 
 the very outset of her great career by marriage with 
 Louis Racine. 
 
 On the very day of their marriage Louis Racine had 
 made a painful discovery. A heritage of his fathers, 
 which had skipped two generations, suddenly appeared 
 in himself: he was becoming a hunchback! 
 
 Terror, despair, gloom, anxiety had settled upon 
 him. Three months later Madelinette had gone to 
 Paris alone. The Seigneur had invented excuses for 
 not accompanying her, so she went instead in the care 
 of the Little Chemist's widow as of old. Louis had 
 promised to follow within another three months, but 
 he had not done so. The surgical operation performed 
 upon him was unsuccessful — the strange growth in- 
 creased. Sensitive, fearful and morose, he would not 
 go to Europe to be known as the hunchback husband 
 of Lajeunesse the great singer. He dreaded the "hour 
 when Madelinette and he should meet again. A thoiJ- 
 sand times he pictured her as turning from him in 
 loathing and contempt. He had married her because 
 he loved her, but he knew well enough that ten thou- 
 sand other men could love her just as well, and be 
 
4 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 something more than a deformed seigneur of an ob- 
 scure manor in Quebec. 
 
 As his gloomy imagination pictured the future, when 
 Madelinette should return and see him as he was and 
 cease to love him — to build up his Seigneurial honour 
 to an undue importance, to give his position a fictitious 
 splendour, became a mania with him. No ruler of a 
 Grand Duchy ever cherished his honour dearer or ex- 
 acted homage more persistently than did Louis Racine 
 in the Seigneury of Pontiac. Coincident with the 
 increase of these futile extravagances was the increase 
 of his fanatical patriotism, which at last found vent in 
 seditious writings, agitations, the purchase of rifles, in- 
 citement to rebellion, and the formation of an armed, 
 liveried troop of dependents at the Manor. On the 
 very eve of the Governor's coming, despite the Cure's 
 and the Avocat's warnings, he had held a patriotic 
 meeting intended to foster a stubborn, if silent, disre- 
 gard of the Governor's presence amongst them. 
 
 The speech of the Cure, who had given guarantee 
 for the good behaviour of his people to the Govern- 
 ment, had been so tinged with sorrowful appeal, had 
 recalled to them so acutely the foolish demonstration 
 which had ended in the death of Valmond, that the 
 people had turned from the exasperated Seigneur with 
 the fire of monomania in his eyes, and had left him 
 alone in the hall, passionately protesting that the souls 
 of Frenchmen were not in them. 
 
 Next day upon the church, upon the Louis Quinze 
 Hotel, and elsewhere the Union Jack flew, the British 
 colours flaunted it in Pontiac with welcome to the 
 Governor. But upon the Seigneury was another flag 
 — it of the golden lilies. Within the Manor House 
 M. Racine sat in the great seigneurial chair, returned 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 5 
 
 from the gates of death. As he had come home from 
 the futile pubHc meeting, galloping through the streets 
 and out upon the Seigneury road in the dusk, his 
 horse had shied upon a bridge where mischievous lads 
 waylaid travellers with ghostly heads made of lighted 
 candles in hollowed pumpkins, and horse and man had 
 been plunged into the stream beneath. His faithful 
 servant Havel had seen the accident, and dragged his 
 insensible master from the water. 
 
 Now the Seigneur sat in the great arm-chair glower- 
 ing out upon the cheerful day. As he brooded, shaken 
 and weak and bitter — all his thoughts were bitter now 
 — a flash of scarlet, a glint of white plumes crossed his 
 line of vision, disappeared, then again came into view, 
 and horses' hoofs rang out on the hard road below. 
 He started to his feet, but fell back again, so feeble was 
 he, then rang the bell at his side with nervous insist- 
 ence. A door opened quickly behind him, and his 
 voice said imperiously: 
 
 " Quick, Havel — to the door! The Governor and his 
 suite have come. Call Tardif, and have wine and cake 
 brought at once. When the Governor enters, let Tar- 
 dif stand at the door and you beside my chair. Have 
 the men-at-arms get into livery and make a guard of 
 honour for the Governor when he leaves. Their new 
 rifles, too, and let old Fashode wear his medal! See 
 that Lucre is not filthy — ha! ha! very good, I must let 
 the Governor hear that. Quick — quick, Havel ! They 
 are entering the grounds. Let the manor bell be rung 
 and every one mustered. He shall see that to be a 
 Seigneur is not an empty honour. I am something in 
 the state, something in my own right! " His lips moved 
 restlessly; he frowned; his hands nervously clasped the 
 arms of the chair. " Madelinette, too, shall see that I 
 
6 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 am to be reckoned with, that I am not a nobody. By 
 God, then, but she shall see it! " he added, bringing his 
 clasped hand down hard upon the wood. 
 
 There was a stir outside, a clanking of chains, a 
 champing of bits, the murmurs of the crowd who were 
 gathering fast in the grounds. Presently the door was 
 thrown open, and Havel announced the Governor. 
 Louis Racine got to his feet, but the Governor hast- 
 ened forward, and, taking both his hands, forced him 
 gently back into the chair. 
 
 " No, no, my dear Seigneur. You must not rise. 
 This is no state visit, but a friendly call to offer congra- 
 tulations on your happy escape, and to inquire how you 
 
 >» 
 
 are. 
 
 The Governor said his sentences easily, but he sud- 
 denly flushed and was embarrassed, for Louis Racine's 
 deformity, of which he had not known — Pontiac kept 
 its troubles to itself — stared him in the face, and he 
 felt the Seigneur's eyes fastened on him with strange 
 intensity. 
 
 " I have to thank your Excellency," the Seigneur 
 said in a hasty nervous voice. " I fell on my shoulders 
 — that saved me. If I had fallen on my head, I should 
 have been killed no doubt. My shoulders saved me! " 
 he added, with a petulaoit insistence in his voice, a mor- 
 bid anxiety in his face. 
 
 " Most providential," responded the Governor. " It 
 "grieves me that it should have happened on the occa- 
 sion of my visit. I missed the Seigneur's loyal public 
 welcome. But I am happy," he continued with smooth 
 deliberation, " to have it here in this old Manor House, 
 where other loyal French subjects of England have 
 done honour to their sovereign's representative." 
 
 **Tlrs place is sacred to hospitality — and patriotism, 
 
[NG 
 
 Jy. By 
 ging his 
 
 hains, a 
 ho were 
 loor was 
 overnor. 
 ior hast- 
 ced him 
 
 not rise. 
 • congra- 
 how you 
 
 t he sud- 
 Racine's 
 tiac kept 
 , and he 
 I strange 
 
 Seigneur 
 jhoulders 
 
 I should 
 red me! " 
 
 e, a mor- 
 
 lor. "It 
 the occa- 
 al pubUc 
 1 smooth 
 )r House, 
 md have 
 
 re." 
 atriotism, 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 7 
 
 your Excellency," said Louis Racine, nervousness 
 passing from his voice and a curious, hard look com- 
 ing into his face. ! 
 
 The Governor was determined not to see the double- 
 meaning. *' It is a privilege to hear you say so. I 
 shall recall the fact to Her Majesty's Government in 
 the report I shall make upon my tour of the province. 
 I have a feeling that the Queen's pleasure in the devo- 
 tion of her distinguished French subjects may take 
 some concrete forms." 
 
 The Governor's suite looked at each other signifi- 
 cantly, for never before in his journeys had His Excel- 
 lency hinted so strongly that a^n honour might be con- 
 ferred. Veiled as it was, it was still patent as the sun. 
 Spots of colour shot into the Seigneur's cheeks. An 
 honour from the young English Queen ! — That would 
 mate with Madelinette's fame. After all, it was only 
 his due. He suddenly found it hard to be consistent. 
 His mind was in a whirl. The Governor continued — 
 
 " It must have given you great pleasure to know 
 that at Windsor Her Majesty has given tokens of 
 honour to the famous singer, the wife of a notable 
 French subject, who, while passionately eager to keep 
 alive French sentiment, has, as we believe, a deep 
 loyalty to England." ' 
 
 The Governor had said too much. He had thought 
 to give the Seigneur an opportunity to recede from his 
 seditious position there and then, and to win his future 
 loyalty. M. Racine's situation had peril; and the Gov- 
 ernor had here shown him the way of escape. But he 
 had said one thing that drove Louis Racine mad. He 
 had given him unknown information about his own 
 wife. Louis did not know that Madelinette had been 
 received by the Queen, or that she had received "tokens 
 
8 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 of honour." Wild with resentment, he saw in the Gov- 
 ernor's words a consideration for himself based only 
 on the fact that he was the husband of the great singer. 
 He trembled to his feet. 
 
 At that moment there was a cheering outside — great 
 cheering — but he did not heed it, he was scarcely aware 
 of it. If it touched his understanding at all, it only 
 meant to him a demonstration in honour of the 
 Governor. 
 
 " Loyalty to the flag of England, your Excellency ! " 
 he said, in a hoarse, acrid voice. " You speak of loy- 
 alty to us whose lives for two centuries ! " He 
 
 paused, for he heard a voice calling his name. 
 
 "Louis! Louis! Louis!" 
 . The fierce words he had been about to utter died on 
 his lips, his eyes stared at the open window, bewildered 
 and even frightened. 
 
 "Louis! Louis!" 
 
 Now the voice was inside the house. He stood 
 trembling, both hands grasping the arms of the chair. 
 Every eye in the room was now turned towards the 
 door. As it opened, the Seigneur sank back in the 
 chair, a look of helpless misery touched by a fierce 
 pride covering his face. 
 
 "Louis!" 
 
 It was Madelinette, who, disregarding the assembled 
 company, ran forward to him and caught both his 
 hands in hers. 
 
 " O, Louis, I have heard of your accident, and " 
 
 she stopped suddenly short. The Governor turned 
 away his head. Every person in the room did the 
 same. For, as she bent over him — she saw! Saw for 
 the first time; for the first time, Knew! 
 
 A look of horrified amazement, of shrinking anguish, 
 
ING 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 9 
 
 he Gov- 
 ;cd only 
 t singer. 
 
 e— great 
 :ly aware 
 , it only 
 : of the 
 
 sllency! " 
 ik of loy- 
 -! " He 
 
 ;r died on 
 lewildered 
 
 He stood 
 the chair, 
 wards the 
 Lck in the 
 ly a fierce 
 
 assembled 
 both his 
 
 and " 
 
 lor turned 
 m did the 
 ! Saw for 
 
 ig anguish, 
 
 crossed over her face. He felt the lightning-like si- 
 lence, he knew that she had seen; he struggled to his 
 feet, staring fiercely at her. 
 
 That one torturing instant had taken all the colour 
 from her face, but there was a strange brightness in her 
 eyes, a new power in her bearing. She gently forced 
 him into the seat again. 
 
 '* You are not strong enough, Louis. You must be 
 tranquil." 
 
 She turned now to the Governor. He made a sign 
 to his suite, who, bowing, slowly left the room. 
 
 " Permit me to welcome you to your native land 
 again, madame," he said. " You have won for it a dis- 
 tinction it could never have earned, and the world gives 
 you many honours." 
 
 She was smiling and still, and with one hand clasping 
 her husband's, she said: 
 
 " The honour I value most, my native land has given 
 me. I am lady of the Manor here, and wife of the 
 Seigneur Racine ! " 
 
 Agitated triumph came upon Louis Racine's face, a 
 weird, painful vanity entered into him. He stood up 
 beside his wife, as she turned and looked at him, show- 
 ing not a sign that what she saw disturbed her. 
 
 " It is no mushroom honour to be Seigneur of Pon- 
 tiac, your Excellency," he said, in a tone that jarred. 
 " The barony is two hundred years old. By rights 
 granted frdi|^ the crown of France, I am Baron of Pon- 
 tiac." 
 
 " I think England has not yet recognised the title! " 
 said the Governor suggestively, for he was here to 
 make peace, and in the presence of this man, whose 
 mental torture was extreme, he would not allow him- 
 self to be irritated. 
 
 k' 
 
10 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 " Our baronies have never been recognised ! " said 
 the Seigneur harshly. " And yet we are asked to love 
 the flag of England and " 
 
 " And to show that we are too proud to ask for a 
 right that none can take away," interposed Madeli- 
 nette, graciously and eagerly, as though to prevent 
 Louis from saying what he intended. All at once she 
 had had to order her life anew, to replace old thoughts 
 by new ones. " We honour and obey the rulers of our 
 land, and fly the English flag, and welcome the English 
 Governor gladly when he comes to us — will your Ex- 
 cellency have some refreshment? " she added quickly, 
 for she saw the cloud on the Seigneur's brow. 
 " Louis! " she continued, " will you " 
 
 " I have ordered refreshment," said the Seigneur ex- 
 citedly, the storm passing from his face, however. 
 " Havel, Tardif — where are you, fellows ! " He stamped 
 his foot imperiously. 
 
 Havel entered with a tray of wine and glasses, fol- 
 lowed by Tardif loaded with cakes and comfits, and set 
 them on the table. 
 
 •I|i 
 
 Ten minutes later the Governor took his leave. At 
 the front door he stopped surprised, for a guard of 
 honour of twenty men were drawn up. He turned to 
 the Seigneur. 
 
 " What soldiers are these? " he asked. 
 
 "The Seigneury company, your Excellency," replied 
 Louis. 
 
 " What uniform is it they wear? " he asked in an even 
 tone, but a black look in his eye, which did not escape 
 Madelinette. 
 
 " The livery of the Barony of Pontiac," answered tha 
 Seigneur. 
 
 w^i! 
 
 •wte- 
 
ING 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING ii 
 
 1!" said 
 1 to love 
 
 Lsk for a 
 Madeli- 
 prevent 
 once she 
 thoughts 
 jrs of our 
 e English 
 your Ex- 
 1 quickly, 
 r's brow. 
 
 gneur ex- 
 
 however. 
 
 e stamped 
 
 asses, fol- 
 ts, and set 
 
 leave. At 
 guard of 
 turned to 
 
 y," replied 
 
 in an even 
 not escape 
 
 swered tha 
 
 The Governor looked at them a moment without 
 speaking. " It is French uniform of the time of Louis 
 Quinze," he said. '* Picturesque, but informal," he 
 added. 
 
 He went over, and taking a carbine from one of the 
 men, examined it. " Your carbines arc not so uncon- 
 ventional and antique," he said meaningly, and with 
 a frosty smile. " The compromise of the centuries — 
 hcint " he added to the Cure, who, with the Avocat, 
 was now looking on with some trepidation. ** I am 
 wondering if it is quite legal. It is charming to 
 have such a guard of honour, but I am wondering — 
 wondering — eh, monsieur I'avocat, is it legal?" 
 
 The Avocat made no reply, but the Cure's face was 
 greatly troubled. The Seigneur's momentary placid- 
 ity passed. 
 
 " I answer for their legality, your Excellency," he 
 said, in a high, assertive voice. 
 
 " Of course, of course, you will answer for it," said 
 the Governor, smiling enigmatically. He came sud- 
 denly forward and held out his hand to Madelinette. 
 
 " Madame, I shall remember your kindness, and I 
 appreciate the simple honours done me here. Your 
 arrival at the moment of my visit is a happy circum- 
 stance." 
 
 There was a meaning in his eye — not in his voice— 
 which went straight to Madelinette's understanding. 
 She murmured something in reply, and a moment 
 afterwards the Governor, his suite, and the crowd were 
 gone, and the men-at-arms — the fantastic body of men 
 in tneir antique livery, armed with the latest modern 
 weapons, had gone back to civic life again. 
 
 Inside the house once more, Madelinette laid her 
 hand upon Louis' arm with a smile that wholly de- 
 
 I 
 
12 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 Jii i 
 
 ceived him for a moment. He thought now that slie 
 must have known of his deformity before she came — 
 the world was so full of tale-bearers! and had long 
 since maybe reconciled herself to the painful fact. 
 She had shown no surprise, no shrinking. There had 
 been only the one lightning instant in which he had 
 felt a kind of suspension of her breath and being, but 
 when he had looked her in the face, she was com- 
 posed and smiling. After fell his frightened anticipa- 
 tion, the great moment had come and gone without 
 tragedy. With satisfaction he looked in the mirror in 
 the hall as they passed inside the house. He saw no 
 reason to quarrel with his face. Was it possible that 
 the deformity did not matter, after all ? 
 
 He felt Madelinette's hand on his arm. He turned 
 and clasped her to his breast. 
 
 He did not notice that she kept her hands under her 
 chin as he drew her to him, that she did not, as had been 
 her wont, put them on his shoulders. He did not feel 
 her shrink, and no one, seeing, could have said that she 
 shrank from him in ever so little. 
 
 " How beautiful you are! " he said, as he looked into 
 her face. 
 
 " How glad I am to be here again, and how tired I 
 am, Louis ! " she said. " I've driven thirty miles since 
 daylight." She disengaged herself. " I am going to 
 sleep now," she added. " I am going to turn the key 
 in my door till evening. Please tell Madame Marie so, 
 Louis!" 
 
 Inside her room alone, she flung herself on her bed 
 in agony and despair. 
 
 " Louis — O, my God! " she cri*?d, and sobbed and 
 sobbed her strength away. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 WHEN THE RED-COATS CAME 
 
 A MONTH later there was a sale of the household 
 effects, the horses, and general possessions of 
 Medallion the auctioneer, who, though a Protestant 
 and an Englishman, had, by his wits and goodness of 
 heart, endeared himself to the parish. Therefore, the 
 notables among the habitants had gathered in his 
 empty house for a last drink of good-fellowship — Mu- 
 roe the charcoalman, Duclosse the mealman, Benoit 
 tHe ne'er-do-weel, Gingras the one-eyed shoemaker, 
 and a few others. They had drunk the health of Me- 
 dallion, they had drunk the health of the Cure, and now 
 Duclosse the mealman raised his glass. " Here's 
 to !" 
 
 " Wait a minute, porridge-pot," cried Muroc. " The 
 best man here should raise the glass first and say the 
 votre santd. 'Tis M'sieu' Medallion should speak and 
 sip now! '* 
 
 Medallion was half-sitting on the window-sill, ab- 
 stractedly listening. He had been thinking that his 
 ships were burned behind him and that in middle age he 
 was starting out to make another camp for himself in 
 the world, all because of the new Seigneur of Pontiac. 
 Time was when he had been successful here, but Louis 
 Racine had changed all that. His hand was against 
 the English, and he had brought a French auctioneer 
 to Pontiac. Medallion might have divided the parish 
 
1 1 
 
 14 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 as to patronage, but he had other views. So he was 
 going. Madelinette had urged him to stay, bat he 
 had replied that it was too late. The harm was not to 
 be undone. 
 
 As Muroc spoke, every one turned toward Medal- 
 lion. He came over and filled a glass at the table and 
 raised it. 
 
 " " I drink to Madelinette, daughter of that fifle old 
 pufiing forgeron, Lajeunesse," he added, as the big 
 blacksmith now entered the room. Lajeunesse grinned 
 and ducked his head. " I knew Madelinette as did you 
 all when I could take her on my knee and tell her Eng- 
 lish stories and listen to her sing French chansons — the 
 best in the world. She has gone on, we stay where we 
 are. But she proves her love to us, by taking her hus- 
 band from Pontiac and coming back to us. May she 
 never find a spot so good to come to and so hard to 
 leave as Pontiac ! " 
 
 He drank, and they all did the same. Draining his 
 glass. Medallion let it fall on the stone floor. It broke 
 into a hundred pieces. 
 
 Pie came and shook hands with Lajeunesse. " Give 
 her my love," he said. " Tell her the highest bidder 
 on earth could not buy one of the kisses she gave me 
 when she was five and I was thirty ! " 
 
 Then he shook hands with them all and went into the 
 next room. 
 
 " Why did he drop his glass?" asked Gingras the 
 shoemaker. 
 
 " That's the way of the aristocrats when it's the 
 damnedest toast that ever was ! " said Duclosse the 
 mealman. " Eh, Lajeunesse, that's so, isn't it? " 
 
 " What the devil do I know about aristocrats ! " said 
 Lajeunesse. 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 15 
 
 " You're among the best of the land, now that Llade- 
 linette's married to the Seigneur. You ought to wear 
 a paper collar every day! " 
 
 "Bah!" answered the blacksmith. "I'm only old 
 Lajeunesse the blacksmith, though she's my girl, my 
 lads, I was Joe Lajeunesse yesterday, and*I'll be Joe 
 Lajeunesse to-morrow, and I'll die Joe Lajeunesse the 
 forgeron — bagosh! So you take me as you find me. 
 M'sieu' Racine doesn't marry me. And Madelinette 
 doesn't take me to Paris, and lead me round the stage 
 and say, * This is M'sieu' Lajeunesse, my father.' No. 
 I'm myself, and a damn good blacksmith, and nothing 
 else am I." 
 
 " Tut, tut, old leather-belly," said Gingras the shoe- 
 maker, whose liquor had mounted high, " you'll not 
 need to work now. Madelinette's got double fortune. 
 She gets thousands for a song, and she's lady of the 
 Manor here. What's too good for you, tell me that, 
 my forgeron! " 
 
 " Not working between meals — that's too good for 
 me, Gingras. I'm here to earn my bread with the 
 hands I was born with, and to eat what they earn, and 
 live by it. Let a man live according to his gifts — ba- 
 gosh! Till I'm sent for, 'hat's what I'll do; and when 
 time's up I'll take my hand oflf the bellows, and my 
 leather apron can go to you, Gingras, for boots for a 
 bigger fool than me." 
 
 " There's only one," said Benoit the ne'er-do-weel, 
 who had been to college as a boy. 
 
 " Who's that? " said Muroc. 
 
 " You wouldn't know his name. He's trying to find 
 eggs in last year's nest," answered Benoit with a leer. 
 
 " He means the Seigneur," said Muroc. " Look to 
 your son-in-law, Lajeunesse. He's kicking up a dust 
 
 
i6 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 that'll choke Pontiac yet. It's as if there was an imp 
 in him, driving him on." 
 
 " We've had enough of the devil's dust here," said 
 Lajeunesse. " Has he been talking to you, Muroc? " 
 
 Muroc nodded. " Treason, or thereabouts. Once, 
 with him that's dead in the graveyard yonder, it was 
 France we were to save, and bring back the Napoleons 
 — I have my sword yet! Now it's save Quebec. It's 
 stand alone and have our own flag, and shout, and 
 light, maybe, to be free of England. Independence, 
 that's it. One by one the English have had to go from 
 Pontiac. Now it's M'sieu' Medallion." 
 
 " There's Shandon the Irishman gone too. M'sieu* 
 sold him up and shipped him off," said Gingras the 
 shoemaker. 
 
 " Ticns! The Seigneur gave him fifty dollars when 
 he left, to help him along-— he smacks and then kisses, 
 does M'sieu' Racine! " 
 
 " We've to pay tribute to the Seigneur every year, as 
 they did in the days of Vaudreuil and Louis the Saint," 
 said Duclosse. " I've got my notice — a bag of meal 
 under the big tree at the Manor door." 
 
 " I've to bring a pullet and a bag of charcoal," said 
 Muroc. " 'Tis the rights of the Seigneur as of old." 
 
 " Ticns! It is my mind," said Benoit, ** that a man 
 that nature twists in back, or leg, or body anywhere, 
 gets a twist in's brain too. There's Parpon the dwarf 
 — God knows, Parpon is a nut to crack! " 
 
 " But Parpon isn't married to the greatest singer in 
 the world, though she's only the daughter of old 
 leather-belly there!" said Gingras. 
 
 " Something doesn't come of nothing, snub-nose! " 
 said Lajeunesse. " Mark you, I was born a man of 
 fame, walking bloody paths to glory, but by the grace 
 
 !|i 
 
 i\ I 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 17 
 
 of Heaven and my baptism I became a forgeron. Let 
 others ride to glory, I'll shoe their horses for the gal- 
 lop." 
 
 " You'll be in Parliament yet, Lajeunesse," said Du- 
 closse the mealman, who had been dozing on a pile of 
 untired cart-wheels. 
 
 " I'll be hanged first, comrade! " 
 
 " One in the family at a time," said Muroc. " There's 
 the Seigneur. He's going into Parliament! " 
 
 " He's a magistrate — that's enough! " said Duclossc. 
 " He's started the court under the big tree, as the Sei- 
 gneurs did two hundred years ago. He'll want a gibbet 
 and a gallows next." 
 
 " I should think he'd stay at home and not take more 
 on his shoulders! " said the one-eyed shoemaker. 
 
 Without a word Lajeunesse threw a dish of water in 
 Gingras' face. This reference to the Seigneur's de- 
 formity was unpalatable. 
 
 Gingras had not recovered from his discomfiture 
 when all were startled by the distant blare of a bugle. 
 They rushed to the door, and were met by Parpon the 
 dwarf, who announced that a regiment of soldiers was 
 marching on the village. 
 
 " 'Tis what I expected after that meeting, and the 
 Governor's visit, and the lily-flag of France on the 
 Manor, and the bodyguard and the carbines," said 
 Muroc, nervously. 
 
 " We're all in trouble again — sure," said Benoit, 
 and drained his glass to the lasc drop. " Some of us 
 will go to gaol." 
 
 The coming of the militia had been wholly unex- 
 pected by the people of Pontiac, but the cause was not 
 far to seek. Ever since the Governor's visit there had 
 been sinister rumours abroad concerning Louis Racine, 
 
 I 
 
i8 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 which the Cure and the Avocat and others had taken 
 pains to contradict. It was known that the Seigneur 
 had been requested to disband his so-called company 
 of soldiers with their ancient livery and their modern 
 arms, and to give them up. He had disbanded the 
 corps, but he had not given up the arms, and, for rea- 
 sons unknown, the Government had not pressed the 
 point, so far as the world knew. But it had decided to 
 hold a district drill in this far-off portion of the pro- 
 vince; and this summer morning two thousand men 
 marched upon the town and through it, horse, foot, 
 and commissariat, and Pontiac was roused out of the 
 last-century romance the Seigneur had sought to con- 
 tinue, to face the actual presence of modern force 
 and the machinery of war. Twice before had British 
 soldiers marched into the town, the last time but a few 
 years agone, when blood had been shed on the stones 
 in front of the parish church. But here were large 
 numbers of well-armed men from the Eastern parishes, 
 English and French, with four hundred regulars to 
 leaven the mass. Lajeunesse knew only too well what 
 this demonstration meant. 
 
 Before the last soldier had passed through the street, 
 he was on his way to the Seigneury. 
 
 He found Madelinette alone in the great dining- 
 room, mending a rent in the British flag, which she was 
 preparing for a flag-staff. When she saw him, she 
 dropped the flag, as if startled, came quickly to him, 
 took both his hands in hers, and kissed his cheek. 
 
 " Wonder of wonders! " she said. 
 
 " It's these soldiers! " he replied shortly. 
 
 " What of them? " she asked brightly. 
 
 " Do you mean to say you don't know what their 
 coming here means? " he asked. 
 
 .:i 
 
[NG 
 
 I taken 
 ngneur 
 impany 
 nodern 
 led the 
 for rea- 
 sed the 
 cided to 
 :he pro- 
 nd men 
 se, foot, 
 It of the 
 ; to con- 
 rn force 
 1 British 
 )ut a few 
 le stones 
 ire large 
 parishes, 
 rulars to 
 veil what 
 
 he street, 
 
 dining- 
 
 she was 
 
 |him, she 
 
 to him, 
 
 ;ek. 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 19 
 
 " They must drill somewhere, and they are honour- 
 ing Pontiac," she replied gaily, but her face flushed as 
 she bent over the flag again. 
 
 He came and stood in front of her. " I don't know 
 what's in your mind, I don't know what you mean to 
 do, but I do know that M'sieu' Racine is making 
 trouble here, and out of it you'll come more hurt than 
 anybody." 
 
 " What has Louis done? " 
 
 " What has he done! He's been stirring up feeling 
 against the British. What has he done ! — Look at the 
 silly customs he's got out of old coffins, to make us 
 believe they're alive! Why did he ever try to marry 
 you? Why did you ever marry him? You are the 
 great singer of the world. He's a mad hunchback 
 habitant Seigneur! " 
 
 She stamped her foot indignantly, but presently she 
 ruled herself to composure and said quietly: " He is my 
 husband. He is a brave man, with foolish dreams." 
 Then with a sudden burst of tender feeling: " Oh, 
 father, father, can't you see I loved him — that is why 
 I married him. You ask me what am I going to do? I 
 am going to give the rest of my life to him. I am going 
 to stay with him, and be to him all that he may never 
 have in this world, never — never. I am going to be 
 to him what my mother was to you, a slave to the end 
 — a slave who loved you, and who gave you a daughter 
 who will do the same for her husband " 
 
 • f 
 
 " No matter what he does or is — eh? " 
 " No matter what he is! " 
 
 hat their 
 
 Lajeunesse gasped. " You will give up singing! 
 Not sing again before kings and Courts, and not earn 
 ten thousand dollars a month — more than I've earned 
 in twenty years! You don't mean that, Mad'linette! " 
 
 ..il^ 
 
V 
 
 / 
 
 ri 
 
 
 .1 
 
 Vitt 
 
 / < 
 
 20 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 He was hoarse with feeling, and held out his hand 
 pleadingly. To him it seemed that his daughter was 
 mad; that she was throwing her life away. 
 
 " I mean that, father," she answered quietly. 
 *' There are things worth more than money." 
 
 " You don't mean to say that you can love him as 
 he is. It isn't natural. But no, it isn't! " 
 
 " What would you have said if anyone had asked 
 you if you loved my mother that last year of her life, 
 when she was a cripple, and we wheeled her about in 
 a chair you made for her! " 
 
 " Don't say any more," he said slowly, and took up 
 his hat, and kept turning it round in his hand. " But 
 you'll prevent him getting into trouble with the Gover'- 
 ment? " he urged at last. 
 
 " I have done what I could," she answered. Then 
 with a little gasp : " They came to arrest him a fortnight 
 ago, but I said they should not enter the house. Havel 
 and I prevented them — refused to let them enter. The 
 men did not know what to do, and so they went 
 back. And now this — ! " she pointed to where the 
 soldiers were pitching their tents in the valley below. 
 " Since then Louis has done nothing to give trou- 
 ble. He only writes and dreams. If he would but 
 
 dream and no more ! " she added half under her 
 
 breath. 
 
 " We've dreamt too much in Pontiac already," said 
 Lajeunesse, shaking his head. 
 
 Madelinette reached up her hand and laid it on his 
 shaggy black hair. " You are a good little father, big 
 smithy-man! " she said lovingly. " You make me think 
 of the strong men in the Niebelungen legends. It 
 must be a big horse that will take you to Walhalla with 
 the heroes," she added. 
 
 H( 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 21 
 
 "Such notions — there in your head!" he laughed. 
 " Try to frighten me with your big names — hcinf " 
 
 There was a new look in the face of father and of 
 daughter. No mist or cloud was between them. The 
 things they had long wished to say were uttered at last. 
 A new faith was established between them. 
 
 Since her return they had laughed and talked as of 
 old when they had met, though her own heart was ach- 
 ing, and he was bitter against the Seigneur. She had 
 kept him and the whole parish in good humour by her 
 unconventional ways, as though people were not begin- 
 ning to make pilgrimages to Pontiac to see her — people 
 who stared at the name over the blacksmith's door, and 
 eyed her curiously, or lay in wait about the Scigneury, 
 that they might get a glimpse of Madame and her de- 
 formed husband. Out in the world where she was now 
 so important the newspapers told strange romantic 
 tales of the great singer, wove wild and wonderful le- 
 gends of her life. To her it did not matter. If she 
 knew, she did not heed. If she heeded it — even in her 
 heart — she shov/ed nothing of it before the world. She 
 knew that soon there would be wilder tales still, when it 
 was announced that she was bidding farewell to the 
 great working world, and would live on in retirement. 
 She had made up her mind quite how the announce- 
 ment should read, and, once it was given out, nothing 
 would induce her to change her mind. Her life was 
 now the life of the Seigneur. 
 
 A struggle in her heart went on, but she fought it 
 down. The lure of a great temptation from that far- 
 off outside world was before her, but she had resolved 
 her heart against it. In his rough but tender way her 
 father now understood, and that was a comfort to her. 
 He felt what he could not reason upon or put in ade- 
 
Fr 
 
 22 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 quate words. But the confidence made him happy and 
 his eyes said so to her now. 
 
 " See, big smithy-man! " she said gaily, " soon will 
 be the fete of St. Jean Baptiste, and we shall all be 
 happy then. Louis has promised me to make a speech 
 that will not be against the English, but only words 
 which will tell how dear the old land is to us." 
 
 " Ten to one against it! " said Lajeunesse anxiously. 
 Then he brightened as he saw a shadow cross her face. 
 " But you can make him do anything — as you always 
 made me," he added, shaking his tousled head and 
 taking with a droll eagerness the glass of wine she 
 offered him. 
 
 
 iiii 
 
 i! I 
 
 
 1 
 
 '1 , ■] 
 
 ^'1 ! ; 
 
 
 ; 
 1 t 
 
 ; 
 
 ■ ' i 
 
 
 ! 
 
 \. ; 
 
 1 
 
 jijii 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 ^^ 
 
ING 
 tppy and 
 
 oon will 
 .11 all be 
 a speech 
 ly words 
 
 nxiously. 
 her face. 
 lU always 
 lead and 
 wine she 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 MAN TO MAN AND STEEL TO STEEL 
 
 ONE evening a fortnight later Louis Racine and 
 George Fournel the Englishman stood face to 
 face in the library of the Manor House. There was 
 antagonism and animosity in the attitude of both. 
 Apart from the fact that Louis had succeeded to the 
 Seigneury promised to Fournel, and sealed to him by 
 a reputed will which had never been found, there was 
 cause for hatred on the Englishman's part. Fournel 
 had been an incredibly successful man. Things had 
 come his way — wealth, and the power that wealth 
 brings. He had but two set-backs, and the man 
 before him in the Manor House of Pontiac was the 
 cause of both. The last rebuff had been the succession 
 to the Seigneury, which, curious as it might seem, had 
 bee. the cherished dream of the rich man's retirement. 
 It had been his fancy to play the Seigneur, the lord 
 magnificent and bountiful, and he had determined to 
 use wealth and all manner of influence to have the title 
 of Baron Pontiac revived — it had been obsolete for a 
 hundred years. He leaned towards the grace of an 
 hereditary dignity, as other retired millionaires cul- 
 tivate art and letters, vainly imagining that they can 
 wheedle civilisation and the humanities into giving 
 them what they do not possess by nature, and fool the 
 world at the same time. 
 The loss of the Seigneury had therefore cut deep, but 
 
 I 
 
24 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 III 
 II 
 
 m <> 
 
 there had been a more hateful affront still. Four years 
 before, Louis Racine, when spasmodically practising 
 law in Quebec, had been approached by two poor 
 Frenchmen who laid claim to thousands of acres of land 
 which a Land Company, whereof George Fournel was 
 president, was publicly exploiting for the woods and 
 valuable minerals discovered on it. The Land Com- 
 pany had been composed of Englishmen only. Louis 
 Racine, reactionary and imaginative, brilliant and free 
 from sordidness, and openly hating the English, had 
 taken up the case, and for two years fought it tooth and 
 nail without pay or reward. The matter had become a 
 cause ct'/i'dre, the Land Company engaging the greatest 
 lawyers in both the English and French provinces. In 
 the Supreme Court the case was lost to Louis' clients. 
 He took it over to the Privy Council in London and 
 carried it through triumphantly and alone, proving his 
 clients' title. His two poor Frenchmen regained their 
 land. In payment he would accept nothing save the 
 ordinary fees, as though it were some petty case in a 
 county court. He had, however, made a reputation, 
 which he had seemed not to value, save as a means of 
 showing hostility to the governing race, and the 
 Seigneury of Pontiac, when it fell to him, had more 
 charms for him than any celebrity to be won at the bar. 
 His love of the history of his country was a mania with 
 him, and he looked forward, on arriving at Pontiac, to 
 being the apostle of French independence on the Con- 
 tinent. Madelinette had crossed his path in his most 
 enthusiastic moment, when his brilliant tongue and 
 great dreams surrounded him with a kind of glamour. 
 He had caught her to himself out of the girl's first tri- 
 umph, when her nature, tried by the strain of her firs'- 
 challenge to the judgment of the world, cried out for 
 
:ng 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 25 
 
 ir years 
 ictising 
 o poor 
 of land 
 ncl was 
 Dds and 
 d Com- 
 Louis 
 and free 
 ish, had 
 )oth and 
 ecome a 
 greatest 
 ices. In 
 i' clients, 
 idon and 
 )ving his 
 ned their 
 save the 
 case in a 
 putation, 
 means of 
 and the 
 lad more 
 .t the bar. 
 ania with 
 ontiac, to 
 the Con- 
 his most 
 igue and 
 glamour. 
 s first tri- 
 f her firs*- 
 d out for 
 
 I 
 
 rest, for Pontiac and home, and all that was of the old 
 life among her people. 
 
 Fourncl's antipathy had only been increased by the 
 fact that Louis Racine had married the now famous 
 Madelinette, and his animosity extended to her. 
 
 It was not in him to understand the nature of the 
 Frenchman, volatile, moody, chivalrous, unreasonable, 
 the slave of ideas, the victim of sentiment. Not under- 
 standing, when he began to see that he could not attain 
 the object of hf*^ visit, which was to secure some relics 
 of the late Seigneur's household, he chose to be dis- 
 dainful. 
 
 " You are bound to give me these things I ask for, as 
 a m.atter of justice — if you know what justice means," 
 he said at last. 
 
 " You should be aware of that," answered the Sei- 
 gneur with a kindling look. He felt every glance of 
 Fournel's eye a contemptuous comment upon his de- 
 formity, now so egregious and humiliating. " I taught 
 you justice once." 
 
 Fournel was not to be moved from his phlegm. He 
 knew he could torture the man before him, and he was 
 determined to do so, if he did not get his way upon the 
 matter of his visit. 
 
 " You can teach me justice tw::e and be thanked 
 once," he answered. " These things I ask for were 
 much prized by my friend the late Seigneur. I was led 
 to expect that this Seigneury and all in it and on it 
 should be mine. I know it was intended so. The law 
 gives it you instead. Your technical claim has over- 
 ridden my rights — you have a gift for making success- 
 tul technical claims. But these old personal relics, of 
 no monetary value — you can waive your avaricious and 
 indelicate claim to them." He added the last words 
 
26 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 I; , 1 
 
 ! U 
 
 V 
 
 i 1 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 \ ; 
 
 
 L, 
 
 1 
 
 with a malicious smile, for the hardening look in Ra- 
 cine's face told him his request was hopeless, and he 
 could not resist the temptation to put the matter with 
 cutting force. Racine rose to the bait with a jump. 
 
 " Not one single thing — not one single solitary 
 thing ! " 
 
 " The sentiment is strong, if the grammar is bad," 
 interrupted Fournel, meaning to wound wherever he 
 found an opportunity, for the Seigneur's deformity ex- 
 cited in him no pity; it rather incensed him against the 
 man, as an affront to decency and to his own just claims 
 to the honours the Frenchman enjoyed. It was a petty 
 resentment, but George Fournel had set his heart upon 
 playing the grand-seigneur over the Frenchmen of 
 Pontiac, and of ultimately leaving his fortune to the 
 parish, if they all fell down and worshipped him and his 
 " golden calf." 
 
 " The grammar is suitable to the case," retorted the 
 Seigneur, his voice rising. " Everything is mine by 
 law, and everything I will keep. If you think different, 
 produce a will! produce a will! " 
 
 Truth was, Louis Racine would rather have ^ ; -ted 
 with the Seigneury itself than with these relicy asked 
 for. They were reminiscent of the time when France 
 and her golden lilies brooded over his land, of the days 
 when Louis Quatorze was king. He cherished every- 
 thing that had association with the days of the old 
 r/gime, as a miser hugs his gold, or a woman her 
 jewels. The request to give them up to this unsympa- 
 thetic Englishman, who valued them because they had 
 belonged to his friend the late Seigneur, only exas- 
 perated him. 
 
 " I am ready to pay the highest possible price for 
 them, as I have said," urged the Englishman, realising 
 
IING 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 27 
 
 : in Ra- 
 
 and he 
 ter with 
 jump. 
 
 soHtary 
 
 is bad," 
 rever he 
 mity ex- 
 ainst the 
 St claims 
 IS a petty 
 ;art upon 
 hmen of 
 le to the 
 n and his 
 
 orted the 
 mine by 
 different, 
 
 Ive ^;-ted 
 icy asked 
 n France 
 [ the days 
 ed every- 
 f the old 
 Dman her 
 unsympa- 
 they had 
 inly exas- 
 
 price for 
 , realising 
 
 as he spoke that it was futile to urge the sale upon that 
 basis. 
 
 ** Money cannot buy the things that Frenchmen love. 
 We are not a race of hucksters! " retorted the Seigneur. 
 
 " That accounts for your envious dispositions, then. 
 You can't buy what you want — you love such curious 
 things, I assume! So you play the dog in the manger 
 and won't let other decent folk buy what they want." 
 He wilfully distorted the other's meaning, and was de- 
 lighted to see the Seigneur's fingers twitch with fury. 
 " But since you can't buy the things you love — and you 
 seem to think you should — how do you get them? Do 
 you come by them honestly, or do you work miracles? 
 When a spider makes love to his lady he dances before 
 her to infatuate her, and then in a moment of her de- 
 lighted aberration snatches at her affections. It is the 
 way of the spider, then? " 
 
 With a snarl as of a wild beast, Louis Racine sprang 
 forward and struck Fournel in the face with his 
 clenched fist. Then, as Fournel, blinded, staggered 
 back upon the book-shelves, he snatched two antique 
 swords from the wall. Throwing one on the floor in 
 front of the Englishman, he ran to the door and locked 
 it, and 'urned round, the sword grasped firmly in his 
 hand, and white with rage. 
 
 " Spider ! Spider ! By Heaven, you shall have the 
 spider dance before you! " he said hoarsely. He had 
 mistaken Fournel 's meaning. He had put the most 
 horrible construction upon it. He thought that Four- 
 nel referred to his deformity, and had ruthlessly 
 dragged in Madelinette as well. 
 
 He was like a being distraught. His long brown 
 hair was tossed over his blanched forehead and piercing 
 black eyes. His head was thrown forward even more 
 
28 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 ,1* ' 
 11,1 
 
 than his deformity compelled, his white teeth showed 
 in a grimace of hatred; he was half-crouched, like an 
 animal ready to spring. 
 
 " Take up the sword, or I'll run you through the 
 heart where you stand!" he continued, in a hoarse 
 whisper. " I will give you till I Can count three. Then, 
 by the God in Heaven ! " 
 
 Fournel felt that he had to deal with a man de- 
 mented. The blow he had received had laid open the 
 flesh on his cheek-bone and blood was flowing from the 
 wound. Never in his life before had he been so humiil- 
 ated. And by a Frenchman! it roused every instinct 
 of race-hatred in him. Yet he wanted not co go at 
 him with a sword, but with his two honest hands and 
 beat him into a whining submission. But the man was 
 deformed, he had none of his own robust strength — 
 he was not to be struck, but to be tossed out of the way 
 like an offending child. 
 
 He stanched the blood from hh face, and made a 
 step forward without a word, determined not to fight, 
 but to take the weapon from the other's hands. 
 
 " Coward ! " said the Seigneur. " You dare not fight 
 with the sword. With the sword we are even. I am 
 as strong as you there — stronger, and I will have your 
 blood. Coward! Coward! Coward! I will give you 
 till I count three. One! . . . Two! . . ." 
 
 Fournel did not stir. He could not make up his 
 mind what to do. Cry out? No one could come in 
 timt, to prevent the onslaught — and onslaught there 
 would be, he knew. There was a merciless hatred in 
 the Seigneur's face, a deadly purpose in his eyes; the 
 wild determination of a man who did not care whether 
 he lived or died, ready to throw himself upon a hun- 
 dred in his hungry rage. It seemed so wild, so mon- 
 
NG 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 29 
 
 ,howed 
 like an 
 
 lan de- 
 pen the 
 rom the 
 hnmiii- 
 instinct 
 D go at 
 nds and 
 nan was 
 ength — 
 the way 
 
 made a 
 to fight, 
 s. 
 
 lot fight 
 I am 
 ive your 
 jive you 
 
 t Up his 
 come in 
 
 It there 
 latred in 
 ;yes; the 
 
 whether 
 1 a hun- 
 
 80 mon- 
 
 strous that the beautiful summer day, through which 
 came the sharp whetting of the scythe, the song of the 
 birds, and the smell of ripening fruit and grain, should 
 be invaded by this tragic absurdity, this human fury 
 which must spend itself in blood. 
 
 Fournel's mind was conscious of this feeling, this 
 sense of futile, foolish waste and disfigurement, even as 
 the Seigneur said " Three! " and, rushing forward, 
 thrust. 
 
 As Fournel saw the blade spring at him, he dropped 
 on one knee, caught it with his left hand as it came, and 
 wrenched it aside. The blade lacerated his fingers and 
 his palm, but he did not let go till he had seized the 
 sword at his feet with his right hand. Then, springing 
 up with it, he stepped back quickly and grasped his 
 weapon fiercely enough now. 
 
 Yet, enraged as he was, he had no wish to fight; to 
 involve himself in a fracas which might end in tragedy 
 and the courts of the land. It was a high price to pay 
 for any satisfaction he might have in this affair. If 
 the Seigneur were killed in the encounter — he must 
 defend himself now — what a miserable notoriety and 
 possible legal penalty and public punishment! For 
 who could vouch for the truth of his story? Even if he 
 wounded Racine only, what a wretched story to go 
 abroad; that he had fought with a hunchback — a 
 hunchback who knew the use of the sword, which he 
 did not, but still a hunchback! 
 
 " Stop this nonsense! " he said, as Louis Racine pre- 
 pared to attack again. " Don't be a fooL The game 
 isn't worth the candle." 
 
 " One of us does not leave this room alive! " said the 
 Seigneur. " You care for life. You love it, and you 
 can't buy what yon love from me. I don't care for life, 
 
 t 
 
30 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 
 and I would gladly die to see your blood flow. Look, 
 it's flowing down your face; it's dripping from your 
 h?nd, and there shall be more dripping soon! On 
 guard! " 
 
 He suddenly attacked with a fierce energy, forcing 
 Fournel back upon the wall. He was not a first-class 
 swordsman, but he had far more knowledge of the 
 weapon than his opponent, and he had no scruple about 
 using his knowledge. Fournel fought with desperate 
 alertness, yet awkwardly, and he could not attack; it 
 was all that he could do, all that he knew how to do, 
 to defend himself. Twice again did the Seigneur's 
 weapon draw blood, once from the shoulder and once 
 from the leg of his opponent, and the blood was flow- 
 ing from each wound. After the second injury they 
 stood panting for a moment. Now the outside world 
 was shut out from Fournel's senses, as it was from 
 Louis Racine's. The only world they knew was this 
 cool room, whose oak floors were browned by the slow 
 searching stains of Time, and darkened by the footsteps 
 of six generations that had come and gone through the 
 old house. The books along the walls seemed to cry 
 out against the unseemly and unholy strife. But now 
 both men were in that atmosphere of supreme egoism 
 where only their two selves moved, and where the only 
 thing that mattered on earth was the issue of this strife. 
 Fournel could only think of how to save his life, and to 
 do that he must become the aggressor, for his wmnds 
 were bleeding hard, and he must have more wounds, 
 if the fight went on without harm to the Seigneur. 
 
 " You know now what it is to insult a Frenchman. 
 On guard! " again cried the Seigneur in a shriller voice, 
 for everything in him was pitched to the highest note. 
 
 He again attacked, and the sound of the large swords 
 
 quK 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 31 
 
 meeting clashed on the soft air. As they struggled, a 
 voice came ringing through the passages, singing a bar 
 from an opera- - 
 
 " Oh eager golden day, Oh happy evening hour! 
 
 Behold my lover cometh from fields of wrath and hate! 
 Sheathed is his sword; he cometh to my bower; 
 In war he findeth honour, and love within the gate." 
 
 The voice came nearer and nearer. It pierced the 
 tragic separateness of the scene of blood. It reached 
 the ears of the Seigneur, and a look of pain shot across 
 his face. Fournel was only dimly aware of the voice, 
 for he was hard pressed, and it seemed to come from 
 infinite distances. Presently the voice stopped, and 
 some one tried the door of the room. 
 
 It was Madelinette. Astonished at finding it locked, 
 she stood still a moment uncertain what to do. Then 
 the sounds of the struggle within came to her ears. She 
 shook the door, leaned her shoulders against it, and 
 called "Louis! Louis!" Suddenly she darted away, 
 found Havel the faithful servant in the passage, and 
 brought him swiftly to the door. The man sprang upon 
 it, striking with his shoulder. The lock gave, the door 
 fiew open, and Madelinette stepped swiftly into the 
 room, in time to see George Fournel sway and fall, his 
 sword rattling on the hard oak floor. 
 
 " Oh, what have you done, Louis! " she cried, then 
 added hurriedly to Havel, " Draw the blind there, shut 
 the door, and tell Madame Marie to bring some water 
 quickly! " 
 
 The silent servant vanished, and she dropped on her 
 knees beside the bleeding and insensible man, and lifted 
 his head. 
 
I 
 
 ■V ili 
 
 32 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 " He insulted you and me, and I've killed him, 
 Madclinette," said Louis hoarsely. 
 
 A horrified look came to her face and she hurriedly 
 and tremblingly opened Fournel's waistcoat and shirt, 
 and felt his heart. 
 
 She was freshly startled by a struggle behind her, and, 
 turning quickly, she saw Madame Marie holding the 
 Seigneur's arm to prevent him from ending his own life. 
 
 She sprang up and laid her hand upon her husband's 
 arm. " He is not dead — you need not do it, Louis," 
 she said quietly. There was no alarm, no undue excite- 
 ment in her face now. She was acting with good pres- 
 ence of mind. A new sense was working in her. 
 Something had gone from her suddenly where her hus- 
 band was concerned, and something else had taken its 
 place. An infinite pity, a bitter sorrow, and a gentle 
 command were in her eyes all at once — new vistas of 
 life opened before her, all in an instant. 
 
 " He is not dead, and there is no need to kill yourself, 
 Louis," she repeated, and her voice had a command iu 
 it that was not to be gainsaid. " Since you have vindi- 
 cated your honour, you will now help me to set this 
 business right." 
 
 Madame Marie was on her knees beside the insen- 
 sible man. " No, he is not dead, thank God ! " she 
 murmured, and while Havel stripped the arm and leg, 
 she poured some water between Fournel's lips. Her 
 long experience as the Little Chemist's wife served 
 her well now. 
 
 Now that the excitement was over, Louis collapsed. 
 He swayed and would have fallen, but Madelinette 
 caught him, helped him to the sofa, and, forcing him 
 gently down on his side, adjusted a pillow for him, and 
 turned to the wounded man again. 
 
 \ 
 
NG 
 
 d him, 
 
 irriedly 
 d shirt, 
 
 ier,and, 
 ing the 
 )wn Hfe. 
 isband's 
 Louis," 
 i excite- 
 od pres- 
 in her. 
 her hus- 
 :aken its 
 a gentle 
 vistas of 
 
 yourself, 
 
 mand in 
 
 ve vindi- 
 
 set this 
 
 le insen- 
 d!" she 
 and leg, 
 IDS. Her 
 served 
 
 ollapsed. 
 delinette 
 cing him 
 him, and 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 33 
 
 An hour went busily by in the closely-curtained 
 room, and at last George Fournel, conscious, and with 
 wounds well bandaged, sat in a big arm-chair, glower- 
 ing round him. At his first coming-to, Louis Racine, 
 at his wife's insistence, had come and oflered his hand, 
 and made apology for assaulting him in his own house. 
 
 Fournel's reply had been that he wanted to hear no 
 more fool's talk and to have no more fool's doings, and 
 that one day he hoped to take his pay for the day's busi- 
 ness in a satisfactory way. 
 
 Madelinette made no apology, said nothing, save that 
 she hoped he would remain for a few days till he was 
 recovered enough to be moved. He replied that he 
 would leave as soon as his horses were ready, and re- 
 fused to take food or drink from their hands. His ser- 
 vant was brought from the Louis Quinze Hotel, and 
 through him he got what wasTti'feeded for refreshment, 
 and requested that no one of^he^household should 
 come near him. At night, in the darkness, he took his 
 departure, no servant of the household in attendance. 
 But as he got into the carriage, Madelinette came 
 quickly to him, and said: 
 
 " I would give ten years of my life to undo to-day's 
 work!" 
 
 "I have no quarrel with you, Madame!" he said 
 gloomily, raised his hat, and was driven away. 
 
 3 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 MADELINETTE MAKES A DISCOVERY 
 
 ! 1 
 
 THE national fete of the summer was over. The 
 day had been successful, more successful indeed 
 than any within the memory of the inhabitants ; for the 
 English and French soldiers joined in the festivities 
 without any intrusion of racial spirit, but in the very 
 essence and soul of good-fellowship. The General had 
 called at the Manor, had paid his respects to the Sei- 
 gneur, who received him abstractedly if not coolly, but 
 Madelinette had captured his imagination and his sym- 
 pathies. He was fond of music for an Englishman, 
 and with a ravishing charm she sang for him a berge- 
 rette of the eighteenth century and then a ballad of 
 Shakespeare's set to her own music. She was so 
 anxious that the great holiday should pass off with- 
 out one untoward incident, that she would have 
 resorted to any fair device to attain the desired end. 
 The General could help her by his influence and in- 
 structions, and if the soldiers — regulars and militia — ■ 
 joined in the celebrations harmoniously and with good- 
 will, a long step would be made towards undoing the 
 harm that Louis had done and maybe influencing him 
 towards a saner, wiser view of things. He had changed 
 much since the fateful day when he had forced George 
 Fournel "^o fight him; had grov/n more silent, and had 
 turned grey. His eyes had become by turns watchful 
 and suspicious, gloomy and abstracted; and his speech 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 35 
 
 :r. The 
 1 indeed 
 ; for the 
 ^stivities 
 the very 
 leral had 
 the Sei- 
 lolly, but 
 his sym- 
 fUshman, 
 I a berge- 
 Dallad of 
 
 was so 
 ofif with- 
 ild have 
 ired end. 
 ; and in- 
 
 miUtia — • 
 ith good- 
 
 oing the 
 |cing him 
 
 changed 
 George 
 
 and had 
 
 watchful 
 
 is speech 
 
 knew the same variations; now bitter and cynical, 
 now sad and distant, and all the time his eyes seemed 
 to grow darker and his face paler. But however moody 
 and variable and irascible he might be with others, how- 
 ever unappeasable, with Madelinette he struggled to be 
 gentle, and his petulance gave way under the intan- 
 gible persuasiveness of her words and will, which had 
 the effect of command. Under this influence he had 
 prepared the words which he was to deliver at the 
 fete. They were full of veneration for past traditions, 
 but were not at variance with a proper loyalty to the 
 flag under which they lived, and if the English soldiery 
 met the speech with genial appreciation the day might 
 end in a blessing— and surely blessings were overdue 
 in Madelinette's life in Pontiac! 
 
 It had been as she worked for and desired, thanks to 
 herself and the English General's sympathetic help. 
 Perhaps his love of music made him better understand 
 what she wanted, made him even forgiving of the Sei- 
 gneur's strained manner; but certain it is that the day, 
 begun with uneasiness on the part of the people of 
 Pontiac, who felt themselves under surveillance, ended 
 in great good-feeling and harmless revelry; and it was 
 also certain that the Seigneur's speech gained him an 
 applause that surprised him and momentarily appeased 
 his vanity. The General gave him a guard of honour 
 of the French militia in keeping with his position as 
 Seigneur, and this, with Madelinette's presence at his 
 elbow, restrained him in his speech when he would have 
 broken from the limits of propriety in the intoxica- 
 tion of his eager eloquence. But he spoke with mode- 
 ration, standing under the British Flag on the plat- 
 form, and at the last he said : 
 
 " A flag not our own floats over us now; guarantees 
 
36 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 us against the malice oi the world and assures us in our 
 laws and religion; but there is another flag which in our 
 tearful memories is as dear to us now as it was at Caril- 
 lon and Levis. It is the flag of memory — of language, 
 and of race, the emblem of our past upon our hearth- 
 stones; and the great country that rules us does not 
 deny us reverence to it. Seeing it, we see the history 
 of our race from Charlemagne to this day, and we have 
 a pride in that history which England does not rebuke, 
 a pride which is just and right. It is fitting that we 
 should have a day of commemoration. Far off in 
 France burns the light our fathers saw, and were glad 
 of. And we in Pontiac have a link that binds us to the 
 old home. We have ever given her proud remem- 
 brance — we now give her art and song! " 
 
 With these words, and turning to his wife, he ended, 
 and cries of " Madame Madelinette! Madame Made- 
 linette! " were heard everywhere. Even the English 
 soldiers cheered, and Madelinette sang h la Claire Fon- 
 taine, three verses in French and one in English, and 
 the whole valley rang with the refrain sung at the 
 topmost pitch by five thousand voices : 
 
 ?! i 
 
 " Fya longtemps que je t'aime, 
 Jamais jc ne t'oublierai." 
 
 The day of pleasure done and dusk settled on Pon- 
 tiac and on the encampment of soldiers in the valley, a 
 light still burned in the library at the Manor House 
 long after midnight. Madelinette had gone to bed, but, 
 excited by the events of the day, she could -not sleep, 
 and she went down to the library to read. But her 
 mind wandered still, and she sat mechanically looking 
 before her at a picture of the father of the late Seigneur, 
 
NG 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 37 
 
 incur 
 in our 
 : Caril- 
 guage, 
 hearth- 
 3es not 
 history 
 ve have 
 rebuke, 
 that we 
 off in 
 ive glad 
 IS to the 
 remem- 
 
 e ended, 
 2 Made- 
 English 
 lire Fon- 
 lish, and 
 at the 
 
 which was let into the moulding of the oak wall. As 
 she looked abstractedly and yet with the intensity of 
 the preoccupied mind, her eye became aware of a little 
 piece of wood let into the moulding of the frame. The 
 light of the hanging lamp was full on it. 
 
 This irregularity began to perplex her eye. Pres- 
 ently it intruded on her reverie. Still busy with her 
 thoughts, she knelt upon the table beneath the picture 
 and pressed the irregular piece of wood. A spring 
 gave, the picture came slowly away from the frame and 
 disclosed a small cupboard behind. 
 
 In this cupboard were a few books, an old silver- 
 handled pistol, and a packet. Madelinette's reverie 
 was broken now. She was face to face with discovery 
 and mystery. Her heart stood still with fear. After 
 an instant of suspense, she took out the packet and held 
 it to the light. She gave a smothered cry. 
 
 It was the will of the late Seigneur. 
 
 on Pon- 
 valley, a 
 r House 
 bed, but, 
 lot sleep. 
 But her 
 looking 
 Seigneur, 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 WHAT WILL SHE DO WITH IT? 
 
 GEORGE FOURNEL was the heir to the Sei- 
 gneury of Pontiac, not Louis Racine. There it 
 was in the will of M. de la Riviere, duly signed and at- 
 tested. 
 
 Madelinette's heart stood still. Louis was no longer 
 — indeed, never had been — Seigneur of Pontiac, and 
 they had no right there, had never had any right there. 
 They must leave this place which was to Louis the fe- 
 tish of his soul, the small compensation fate had made 
 him for the trouble nature had cynically laid upon him. 
 He had clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. 
 To him it was the charter from which he could appe ^1 
 to the world as the husband of Madelinette Lajeunesse. 
 To him it was the name, the dignity, and the fortune he 
 brought her. It was the one thing that saved him 
 from a dire humiliation; it was the vantage ground 
 from which he appealed to her respect, the flaming tes- 
 timony of his own self-esteem. Every hour since his 
 trouble had come upon him, since Madelinette's great 
 fame had come to her, he had protested to himself that 
 it was honour for honour; and every day he had la- 
 boured, sometimes how fantastically, how futilely! to 
 dignify his position, to enhance his importance in her 
 eyes. She had understood it all, had read him to the 
 last letter in the alphabet of his mind and heart. She 
 had realised the consternation of the people, and she 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 39 
 
 appe A 
 eunesse. 
 3rtune he 
 Lved him 
 ground 
 ming tes- 
 since his 
 te's great 
 nself that 
 had la- 
 itilely! to 
 ce in her 
 im to the 
 lart. She 
 and she 
 
 knew that, for her sake, and because the Cure had com- 
 manded, all the obsolete claims he had made were re- 
 sponded to by the people. Certainly he had affected 
 them by his eloquence and his hcry kindness, but at the 
 same time they had shrewdly smelt the treason under- 
 neath his ardour, there was a definite limit to their loy- 
 alty to him; and, deprived of the Seigneur)-, he would 
 count for nothing. 
 
 A hundred thoughts like these went through her 
 mind as she stood by the table under the hanging lamp, 
 her face white as the loose robe she wore, her eyes hot 
 and staring, her figure rigid as stone. 
 
 To-morrow — how could she face to-morrow, and 
 Louis! How could she tell him this! How could she 
 say to him, " Louis, you are no longer Seigneur. The 
 man you hate, he who is your inveterate enemy, who 
 has every reason to exact from you the last tribute of 
 humiliation, is Seigneur here! " How could she face 
 the despair of the man whose life was one inward fever, 
 one long illusion, which was yet only half an illusion, 
 since he was forever tortured by suspicion; whose body 
 was wearing itself out, and whose spirit was destroying 
 itself in the struggle of a vexed imagination! 
 
 She knew that Louis' years were numbered. She 
 knew that this blow would break him body and soul. 
 He could never survive the humiliation. His sensiti^^e- 
 ness was a disease, his pride was the only thing that 
 kept him going; his love of her, strong as it was, would 
 be drowned in an imagined shame! 
 
 It was midnight. She was alone with this secret. She 
 held the paper in her hand, which was at once Louis' 
 sentence or his charter of liberty. A candle was at her 
 hand, the doors were shut, the blinds drawn, the house 
 a frozen silence — how cold she was, though it was the 
 
40 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 deep of summer! She shivered from licad to foot, and 
 yet all day the harvest sun had drenched the room in its 
 heat. 
 
 Yet her hlood mip^ht run warm again, her cold cheeks 
 might regain their colour, her heart beat (juietly if this 
 paper were no more! The thought made her shrink 
 away from herself, as it were, yet she caught up the 
 candle and lighted it. 
 
 f'or Louis. For Louis, though she would rather 
 have died than do it for herself. To save to Louis what 
 was, to his imagination, the one claim he had upon her 
 respect and the world's. After all, how little was it in 
 value or in dignity! How little she cared for it! One 
 year of her voice could earn two such Seigneuries as 
 this. And the honour — save that it was Pontiac — it was 
 naught to her. In all her life she had never done or 
 said a dishonourable thing. She had never lied, she 
 had never deceived, she had never done aught that 
 might not have been written down and published to 
 all the world. Yet here, all at once, she was faced 
 with a vast temptation, to do a deed, the penalty of 
 which was an indelible shame. 
 
 What injury would it do to George Fournel! He 
 was used now to his disappointment; he was rich; he 
 had no claims upon Pontiac; there was no one but him- 
 self to whom it mattered, this little Seigneury. What 
 he did not know did not exist, so far as himself was 
 concerned. How easily could it all be made right 
 some day! She felt as though she were suffocating, 
 and she opened the window a little very softly. Then 
 she lit the candle tremblingly, watched the flame 
 gather strength, and opened out the will. As she did 
 so, however, the smell of a buckwheat field, which 
 is as honey, came stealing through the room, and all 
 
 ) 
 
 I ! 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 41 
 
 foot, and 
 Dom in its 
 
 )lcl cheeks 
 :tly if this 
 icr shrink 
 ht up the 
 
 M rather 
 ^ouis what 
 
 1 upon her 
 
 2 was it in 
 r it! One 
 neurios as 
 iac — it was 
 2r done or 
 r lied, she 
 aught that 
 iblished to 
 
 was faced 
 penalty of 
 
 irnel! He 
 
 IS rich; he 
 
 e but him- 
 
 ry. What 
 
 mself was 
 
 lade right 
 
 ufifocating, 
 
 tly. Then 
 
 the flame 
 
 A.S she did 
 
 eld, which 
 
 m, and all 
 
 •i 
 
 at once a strange association of ideas flashed into her 
 brain. 
 
 She recalled one summer day long ago, when, in the 
 Church of St. Saviour's, the smell of the buckwheat 
 fields came through the open door and windows, and 
 licr mind had kept repeating mechanically, till she fell 
 asleep, the text of the Cure's sermon — " As ye sow, so 
 also shall ye reap." 
 
 That placid hour which had no problems, no cares, 
 no fears, no penalties in view, which was filled with the 
 richness of a blessed harvest and the plenitude of inno- 
 cent youth, came back on her now in the moment of her 
 fierce temptation. 
 
 She folded up the paper slowly, a sob came in her 
 throat, she blew out the candle, and put th< will back in 
 the cupboard. The faint click of the spring as she 
 closed the panel seemed terribly loud to her. She 
 started and looked timorously round. The blood came 
 back to her face — she flushed crimson with guilt. Then 
 she turned out the lighted lamp and crept away up the 
 stairs to her room. 
 
 She paused beside Louis' bed. He was moving rest- 
 lessly in his sleep; he was murmuring her name. With 
 a breaking sigh she crept into bed slowly and lay like 
 one who had been beaten, bruised, and shamed. 
 
 At last, before the dawn, she fell asleep. She dreamed 
 that she was in prison and that George Fournel was 
 her gaoler. 
 
 She waked to find Louis at her bedside. 
 
 " I am holding my seigneurial court to-day," he said. 
 
'i II 
 
 .ii 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE ONE WHO SAW 
 
 ALL day and ^very day Madelinette's mind kept 
 fastening itself upon one theme, kept turning to 
 one spot. In her dreams she saw the hanging lamp, 
 the moving panel, the little cupboard, the fatal paper. 
 Waking and restlessly busy, she sometimes forgot it 
 for a moment, hvt remembrance would come back with 
 painful force, and her will must govern her hurt spirit 
 into quiet resolution. She had such a sense of humili- 
 ation as though some one dear to her had committed a 
 crime against herself. Two personr were in her — 
 Madelinette Lajeunesse the daughter of the village 
 blacksmith, brought up in the peaceful discipline of 
 her religion, shunning falsehood and dishonour with 
 a simple proud self-respect, and Madame Racine the 
 great singer Who haa touched at last the heart of 
 things; and with the knowledge, had thrown aside past 
 principles and convictions to save her stricken husband 
 from miseiy and humiliation — to save his health, his 
 mind, his life maybe. 
 
 The struggle of conscience and expediency, of prin- 
 ciple and womanliness, wore upon her, taking away the 
 colour from her cheeks, but spiritualising her face, giv- 
 ing the large black eyes an expression of rare intensity, 
 so that the Avocat in his admiration called her Ma- 
 donna, and the Cure came oftener to the Manor House 
 with a fear in his heart that all was not well. Yet he 
 
.r 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 43 
 
 was met by her cheerful smile, by her quiet sense of 
 humour, by the touching yet not demonstrative devo- 
 tion of the wife to the husband, and a varying and im- 
 pulsive adoration of the wife by the husband. One 
 day when the Cure was with the Seigneur, Madelinette 
 entered upon them. Her face was pale though com- 
 posed, yet her eyes had a look of abstraction or detach- 
 ment. The Cure's face biightened at her approach. 
 She wore a simple white gown with a bunch of roses 
 at the belt, and a broad hat lined with red that shaded 
 her face and gave it a warmth it did not possess. 
 
 " Dear Madame! " said the Cure, rising to his feet 
 and coming towards her. 
 
 " I have told you before that I will have nothing but 
 ' Madeimette,' dear Cure," she replied with a smile, and 
 gave him her hand. She turned to Louis, who had 
 risen also, and putting a hand on his arm pressed him 
 gently into his chair, then, with a swift, almost casual, 
 caress of his hair, placed on the table the basket of flow- 
 ers she was carrying, and began to arrange them. 
 
 " Dear Louis," she said presently, and as though en 
 passant, " I have dismissed Tardif to-day — I hope you 
 won't mind these domestic details, dear Cure," she 
 added. 
 
 The Cure nodded and turned his head towards the 
 window musingly. He was thinking that she had done 
 a wise thing in dismissing Tardif, for the man had evil 
 qualities, and he was hoping that he would leave the 
 parish now. 
 
 The Seigneur nodded. " Then he will go. I have 
 dismissed him — I have a temper — many times, but he 
 never went. It is foolish to dismiss a man in a temper. 
 He thinks you do not mean it. But our Madelinette 
 there " — he turned towards the Cure now — " she is 
 
44 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 • 1" 
 
 never in a temper, and every one always knows she 
 means what she says, and she says it as even as a 
 clock." Then the egoist in him added: " I have power 
 and imagination and the faculty for great things; but 
 Madelinette has serene judgment — a tribute to you, 
 Cure, who taught her in the old days." 
 
 " In any case, Tardif is going," she repeated quietly. 
 
 " What did he do? " said the Seigneur. " What was 
 your grievance, beautiful Madame?" 
 
 He was looking at her with unfeigned admiration 
 — with just sudi a look as was in his face the first day 
 they met in the Avocat's house on his arrival in Pon- 
 tiac. She turned and saw it, and remembered. The 
 scene flashed before her m.ind. The thought of herself 
 then, with the flush of a sunrise love suddenly rising in 
 her heart, roused a torrent of feeling now, and it re- 
 quired every bit of strength she had to prevent her 
 bursting into a passion of tears. In imagination she 
 saw him there, a straight, slim, handsome <igure with 
 the very vanity of proud health upon him, and ambition 
 and passionate purpose in every line of his figure, every 
 glance of his eyes. Now — there he was, bent, frail, and 
 thin, with restless eyes and deep discontent in voice 
 and manner; the curved shoulder and the head grown 
 suddenly old; the only thing, speaking of the past, the 
 graceful hand, filled with the illusory courage of a 
 declining vitality. But for the nervous force in him, 
 the latent vitality which renewed with stubborn persis- 
 tence the failing forces, he was dead. The brain 
 kept commanding the body back to life and man- 
 hood daily. 
 
 ** What did Tardif do?" the Seigneur again ques- 
 tioned, holding out a hand to her. 
 
 She did not dare to take his hand lest her feelings 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 45 
 
 should overcome her; so with an assumed gaiety she 
 put in it a rose from her basket and said: 
 
 " He has been pilfering. Also he was insolent. I 
 suppose he could iiot help remembering that I lived 
 at the smithy once — the dear smithy! " she added 
 softly. 
 
 " I will go at once and pay the scoundrel his wages," 
 said the Seigneur, rising, and with a nod to the Cure 
 and his wife opened the door. 
 
 " Do not see him yourself, Louis," said Madelinette. 
 
 " Not L Havel shall pay him and he shall take him- 
 self off to-morrow morning." 
 
 The door closed, and Madelinette was left alone 
 with the Cure. She came to him and s?>id with a quiv- 
 ering in her voice: 
 
 " He mocked Louis! " 
 
 " It is well that he should go. He is a bad man and 
 a bad servant. I know him too well." 
 
 " You see, he keeps saying " — she spoke very slowly 
 — " that he witnessed a will the Seigneur made in fa- 
 vour of Monsieur Fournel. He thinks us interlopers, 
 I suppose." 
 
 The Cure put a hand on hers gently. *' There was 
 a time when I felt that Monsieur Fournel was the legal 
 heir to the Seigncury, for Monsieur de la Riviere had 
 told me there was such a will; but since then I have 
 changed my mind. Your husband is the natn-al heir, 
 and it is only just that the Seigneury should go on in 
 the direct line. It is best." 
 
 " Even with all Louis' mistakes? " 
 
 " Even with them. You have 
 and you will keep him within the 
 dom and prudence. You are his 
 Madelinette." 
 
 set them right, 
 bounds of wis- 
 guardian angel, 
 
46 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 '!' I 
 
 She looked up at him with a pensive smile and a 
 glance of gratitude. 
 
 " But suppose that will — if there is one — exists, see 
 how false our position! " 
 
 " Do you think it is mere accident that the will has 
 never been found — if it was not destroyed by the Sei- 
 gneur himself before he died? No, there is purpose be- 
 hind it, with which neither you nor I nor Louis have 
 anything to do. Ah, it is good to have you here in this 
 Seigneury, my child! What you give us will return 
 to you a thousandfold. Do not regret the world and 
 your work there. You will go back all too soon." 
 
 She was about to reply when the Seigneur again 
 entered the room. 
 
 " I made up my mind that he should go at once, and 
 so I've sent him word — the rat! " 
 
 " I will leave you two to be drowned in the depths of 
 your own intelligence," said Madelinette; and taking 
 her empty basket left the room. 
 
 A strange compelling feeling drove her to the library 
 where the fateful panel was. With a strange sense 
 that her wrong-doing was modified by the fact, she h^d 
 left the will where she had found it. She had a super- 
 stition that fate would deal less harshly with her, if she 
 did. It was not her way to temporize. She had con- 
 cealed the discovery of the will with an unswerving 
 determination. It was for Louis, it was for his peace, 
 for the ease of his fading life, and she had no repent- 
 ance. Yet there it was, that curious, useless con- 
 cession to old prejudices, the little touch of hypoc- 
 risy — she left the will where she had found it. She 
 had never looked at it since, no matter how great the 
 temptation, and sometimes this was overpowering. 
 
 To-day it overpowered her. The house was very 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 47 
 
 still and tlie blinds were drawn to shut out the heat, 
 but the soft din of the locusts came through the win- 
 dows. Her household were all engaged elsewhere. 
 She shut the doors of the little room, and kneeling on 
 the table touched the spring. The panel came back 
 and disclosed the cupboard. There lay the will. She 
 took it up and opened it. Her eyes went dim on the 
 instant, and she leaned her forehead against the wall, 
 sick at heart. 
 
 As she did so a sudden gust of wind drove in the 
 blind of the window. She started, but saw what it was, 
 and, hastily putting the will back, closed the panel, 
 and with a fast-beating heart, left the room. 
 
 Late that evening she found a letter on the library 
 table addressed to herself. It ran: 
 
 " You've shipped me off like dirt. You'll be shipped off, 
 Madame, double-quick. I've got what'll bring the right owner 
 here. You'll soon hear from 
 
 " Tardif." 
 
 In terror she hastened to the library and sprung the 
 panel. The will was gone. 
 Tardif was on his way with it to George Fournel. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE PURSUIT 
 
 THERE was but one thing to do. She must go 
 straight to George Fournel at Quebec. She 
 knew only too well that Tardif was speeding thither as 
 fast as horses could carry him. He had had several 
 hours' start, but there was still a chance of overtaking 
 him. And suppose she overtook him? She could 
 not decide definitely what she should do, but she would 
 do anything, sacrifice anything, to secure again that 
 fatal document which, in George Fournel's hands, must 
 bring a collapse worse than death. A dozen plans 
 flashed before her, and now that her mind was set upon 
 the thing, compunction would not stay her. She had 
 gone so far, she was prepared to go farther to save this 
 Seigneury to Louis. She put in her pocket the silver- 
 handled pistol from the fatal cupboard. 
 
 In an hour from the time she found the note, the horses 
 and coach were at the door, and the faithful Havel, 
 cloaked and armed, was ready for the journey. A note 
 to Louis, with the excuse of a sudden and important 
 call to Quebec, which he was to construe into business 
 concerning her profession ; hurried yet careful arrange- 
 ments for his comfort during 'her absence; a letter to 
 the Cure begging of him a daily visit to the Manor 
 House; and then, with the flurried Madame Marie, she 
 entered the coach with Havel on the box, and they 
 were off. 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 49 
 
 The coach rattled through the village and stopped 
 for a moment at the smithy. A few words of cheerful 
 good-bye to her father — she carried the spring in her 
 face and the summer of gaiety in her voice however 
 sore her heart was — and they were once more upon 
 the road. 
 
 Their first stage was twenty-five miles, and it led 
 through the ravine where Parpon and his comrades 
 had once sought to frighten George Fournel. As 
 they passed the place Madelinette shuddered., and she 
 remembered Fournel's cynical face as he left the 
 house three months ago. She felt that it would not 
 easily soften to mercy nor look upon her trouble wit a 
 a human eye, if once the will were in his hands. It 
 was a silent journey, but Aladame Marie asked no 
 questions, and there was comfort in her unspoken 
 sympathy. 
 
 Five hours, and at midnight they arrived at the end 
 of the first stage of their journey, at the village tavern 
 of St. Stanislaus. Here Madame Marie urged Made- 
 linette to stay and sleep, but this she refused to do if 
 horses could be got to go forward. The sight of two 
 gold pieces made the thing possible in the landlord's 
 eyes, and Madame Marie urged no more, but found 
 some refreshment, of which she gently insisted that 
 Madelinette should partake. In another hour from 
 their arrival they were on the road again, with the 
 knowledge that Tardif had changed horses and gone 
 forward four hours before, boasting as he went that 
 when the bombshell he was carrying should burst the 
 country would stay awake o' nights for a year. 
 
 Madelinette herself had made the inquiries of the 
 landlord, whose easily bought obsequiousness now 
 knew no bounds, and he gave a letter to Havel to hand 
 
 4 
 
 <? 
 
so THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 to his cousin the landlord at the next change, which, he 
 said, would be sure to secure them the best of accom- 
 modation and good horses. 
 
 As the night grew to morning, Madelinette drooped 
 a little, and Madame Marie, who had, to her own anger 
 and disgust, slept three hours or more, quietly drew 
 Madelinette towards her. With a little sob the girl — 
 for what was she but a girl! — let her head drop on 
 the old A^oman's shoulder, and she fell into a troubled 
 sleep, which lasted til!, in the flush of "uiirise, they drew 
 up at ihe solitary inn on the outskirts of the village of 
 Beaugard. They Lad come fifty miles since the even- 
 ing before. 
 
 Here Madelinette took Havel into her confidence, in 
 so far as to tell him that Tardif had stolen a valuable 
 paper from her, the loss of which might bring most 
 serious consequences. 
 
 Whatever Havel had suspectea, he was the last man 
 in the world to show or tell. But before leaving the 
 Manor ^louse of Pontiac he had armed himself with 
 pistols, in the grim hope that he might be required to 
 use them. Havel had been used hard in the world, 
 Madelinette had been kind to him, and he was ready to 
 show his gratitude; and he little recked what form It 
 might take. When he found that they were following 
 Tardif, and for what purpose, an evil joy filled his heart, 
 and he determined on revenge — so long delayed — on 
 the scoundrel who had once tried to turn the whole 
 parish against him by evil means. He saw that his 
 pistols were duly primed, he learned that Tardif had 
 passed but two hours before, boasting again that Eu- 
 rope would have gossip for a year, once he reached 
 Quebec. Tardif, too, had paid libcally for his refresh- 
 ment and his horses, for here he had taken a carriage 
 
 .V" • :r- 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 51 
 
 and had swaggered like a trooper in a conquered 
 country. 
 
 Havel had every hope of overtaking Tardif, and so 
 he told Madelinette, adding that he would secure the 
 paper for her at any cost. She did not quite know 
 what Havel meant, but she read purpose in his eye, and 
 when Havel said: "I won't say 'Stop thief many 
 times," she turned away without speaking — she was 
 choked with anxiety. Yet in her own pocket was a 
 little silver-handled pistol! 
 
 It was true that Tardif was a thief, but she knew that 
 his theft would be counted a virtue before the world. 
 This she could not tell Havel, but when the critical 
 moment came — if it did come — she would then act 
 upon the moment's inspiration. If Tardif was a thief, 
 what was she? But this she could not tell Havel or 
 the world. Even as she thought it for this thousandth 
 time, her face flushed deeply, and a mist came before 
 her eyes. But she hardened her heart and gave orders 
 to proceed as soon as the horses were ready. After a 
 hasty breakfast they were again on their way, and 
 reached the third stage of their journey by eleven 
 o'clock. Tardif had passed two hours before. 
 
 So for two days they travelled, with no sleep save 
 what they could catch as the coach rolled on. They 
 were delayed three hours at one inn because of the 
 trouble in getting horses, since it appeared that Tardif 
 had taken the only available pair in the place ; but a few 
 gold pieces brought another pair galloping from a farm 
 two miles away, and they were again on the road. Fifty 
 miles to go, and Tardif with three hours start of them! 
 Unless he had an accident there was faint chance of 
 overtaking him, for at this stage he had taken to the 
 saddle again. As time had gone on, and the distance 
 
52 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 between them and Quebec had decreased, Madelinette 
 had grown paler and stiller. Yet she was considerate 
 of Madame Marie more than once, insisted on Havel 
 lying down for a couple of hours, and herself made him 
 a strengthening bowl of soup at the kitchen fire of the 
 inn. Meanwhile she inquired whether it might be pos- 
 sible to get four bourses at the next change, and she 
 ofifcred five gold pieces to a man who would ride on 
 ahead of them and secure the team. 
 
 Some magic seemed to bring her the accomplish- 
 ment of the impossible, for even as she made the offer, 
 and the downcast looks of the landlord were assuring 
 her that her request was futile, there was the rattle of 
 hoofs without, and a petty Government official rode up. 
 He had come a journey of three miles only, and his 
 horse was fresh. Agitated, yet ruling herself to com- 
 posure, Madelinette approached him and made her pro- 
 posal to him. He was suspicious, as became a petty 
 Government official, and replied sullenly. She offered 
 him money — before the landlord unhappily — and his 
 refusal was now unnecessarily bitter. She turned away 
 sadly, but Madame Marie had been roused by the offi- 
 cials churlishness, and for once the placid little body 
 spoke in that vulgar tongue which needs no interpr ta- 
 tion. She asked the fellow if he knew to whom he had 
 been impolite, to whom he had refused a kindly act. 
 
 " You — you a habitant road-watcher, a pound- 
 keeper, a village tax-collector, or something less! " she 
 said. " You to refuse the great singer, Madeimette 
 Lajeunesse, the wife of the Seigneur of Pontiac, the 
 greatest patriot in the land, to refuse her whom princes 
 are glad to serve — " She stopped and gasped h^r in- 
 dignation. 
 
 A hundred speeches and a himdred pounds could not 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 53 
 
 have clone so much. Tlie habitant official stared in 
 blank amazement, the landlord took a rflass of brandy 
 to steady himself. 
 
 " The Lajeunesse — the Lajeunesse, the singer of all 
 the world — ah, why did she not say so then! " said the 
 churl. " What would I not do for her! Money — no, 
 it is nothing, but the Lajeunesse, I myself would give 
 my horse to hear her sing." 
 
 " Tell her she can have m'sieu's horse," said the 
 landlord, excitedly interposing. 
 
 '* Ticns, who the devil! — the horse is mine. If Ma- 
 dame — if she will but let me ofTer it to her myself! " 
 said the agitated official. " I sing myself. I know 
 what singing is. I have sung in an opera — a sentinel 
 in armour 1 was. Ah, but bring me to her, and you 
 shall see what I will do, by grace of heaven! I will 
 marry you, if you haven't a husband," he added with 
 ardour to the dumfounded Madame Marie, who hur- 
 ried to the adjoining room. 
 
 An instant afterwards the official wa^ mplcing an 
 oration in tangled sentences which brought him a 
 grateful smile and a hand-clasp from Madelinette. She 
 could not prevent him from kissing her hand, she could 
 not refrain from laughing when outside the room he 
 tried to kiss Madame Marie. She was astounded, how- 
 ever, an hour later to see him still at the inn door, 
 marching up and down, a whip in his hand. She looked 
 at him reproachfully, indignantly. 
 
 " Why are you not on the way? " she asked. 
 
 " Your man, that M'sieu' Havel, has rode on ; I am to 
 drive," he said. " Ah, yes, Madame, it is my everlast- 
 ing honour that I am to drive you. Havel has a good 
 horse, the horse has a good rider, you have a good 
 servant in me. I, Madame, have a good mistress in 
 
54 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 you — I am content. I am overjoyed, I am proud, I 
 am ready, I, Pierre Lapierre! " 
 
 The churlish official had gone back to the natural 
 state of an excitable habitant, ready to give away his 
 heart or lose his head at an instant's notice, the tempta- 
 ticjn being sufficient. Madclinette was frightened. 
 She knew well why Havel had ridden on ahead without 
 her permission, and shaking hands with the landlord 
 and getting into the coach, she said hastily to her new 
 coachman: ** Lose not an instant. Drive hard." 
 
 They reached the next change by noon, and here 
 they found four horses awaiting them. Tardif and 
 Havel also had come and gone. An hour's rest, and 
 they were away again upon the last stage of the jour- 
 ney. They should reach Quebec soon after dusk, all 
 being well. At first Lapierre the official had been in- 
 clined to babble, but at last he relieved his mind by 
 interjections only. He kept shaking his head wisely, 
 as though debating on great problems, and he drove his 
 horses with a master hand — he had once been a coach- 
 driver on that long river road which in summer makes 
 a narrow ribbon of white, mile for mile with the St. 
 Lawrence, from east to west. This was the proudest 
 moment of his life. He knew great things we ^ at 
 stake, and they had to do with the famous singer La- 
 jeunesse; and what tales Tor his grandchildren in years 
 to come! 
 
 The flushed and comfortable Madame Marie sat up- 
 right in the coach, holding the hand of her mistress, 
 and Madelinette grew paler as the miles diminished be- 
 tween her and Quebec. Yet she was quiet and un- 
 moving, now and then saying an encouraging word to 
 Lapierre, who smacked his lips for miles afterwards, 
 and took out of his horses their strength and paces by 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 55 
 
 masterly degrees. So that when, at last, on the hill, 
 they saw, far off, the spires of (Juebec, the team was 
 swinging as steadily on as though they had not come 
 twtMity-five miles already. This was a moment of 
 pride for Lapierre, but of apprehension for Madelinette. 
 At the last two inns on the road she had got news of 
 both Tardif and Havel. Tardif had had the final start 
 of half an hour. A half-hour's start, and fifteen miles 
 to go! But one thing was sure, Havel — the wiry 
 Havel — was the better man, with sounder nerve and a 
 fostered strength. 
 
 Yet, as they descended the hill and plunged into the 
 wild wooded valley, untenanted and uncivilised, where 
 the road wound and curved among giant boulders and 
 twisted through ravines and gorges, her heart fell 
 within her. Evening was at hand, and in the thick 
 forest the shadows were heavy and night was settling 
 upon them before its time. 
 
 They had not gone a mile, however, when, as tliey 
 swung creaking round a great boulder, Lapierre pulled 
 up his horses with a loud exclamation, for almost under 
 his horses' feet lay a man apparently dead, his horse 
 dead beside him. 
 
 It was Havel. In an instant Madelinette and Ma- 
 dame Marie were bending over him. The widow of 
 the Little Chemist had skill and presence of mind. 
 
 " He is not dead, dear mine," said she, in a low voice, 
 fooling Havel's heart. 
 
 "Thank God! " was all that Madelinette could say. 
 " Let us lift him into the coach." Now Lapierre was 
 standing beside them, the reins in his hand. 
 
 " Leave that to me! " he said, and passed the reins 
 into Madame Marie's hands, then with muttered im- 
 precations on persons unmentioned he lifted up the 
 
56 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 slight form of Havel and carried him to the coach. 
 Meanwhile Madelinette had stooped to a little stream 
 at the side of the road and filled her silver drinking- 
 cup with water. 
 
 As she bent over Havel and sprinkled his face, La- 
 pierre examined the insensible man. 
 
 ** He is but stunned," he said. " He will come to in 
 a moment." 
 
 Then he went to the spot where Havel had lain, 
 and found a pistol lying at the side of the road. Exam- 
 ining it, he found it had been discharged — both barrels. 
 Bustling with importance he brought it to Madelinette, 
 nodding and looking wise, yet half timorous too in 
 sharing in so remarkable a business. Madelinette 
 glanced at the pistol, her lips tightened, and she shud- 
 dered. Havel had evidently failed, and she must face 
 the worst. Yet now that it had come, she was none 
 the less determined to fight on. 
 
 Havel opened his eyes and looked round in a startled 
 way. He saw Madelinette. 
 
 " Ah, Madame, Madame, pardon! He got away. I 
 fired twice and winged him, but he shot my horse nnd 
 I fell on my head. He has got away. What time is 
 it, Madame?" he suddenly asked. She told him. "Ah, 
 it is too late," he added. " It happened over half an 
 hour ago. Unless he is badly hurt and has fallen by 
 the way, he is now in the city. Ah, Madame, I have 
 failed you — pardon, madame ! " 
 
 She helped him to sit up, and made a cushion of her 
 cloak for his head in a corner of the coach. " There is 
 nothing to ask pardon for, Havel," she said; *" you did 
 your best. It was to be — that's all! Drink the brandy 
 now." 
 
 A moment afterwards Lapierre was on the box. Ma- 
 
 
away. I 
 lorse nnd 
 Lt time is 
 11. "Ah, 
 r half an 
 fallen by 
 e, I have 
 
 on of her 
 ' There is 
 '• you did 
 le brandy 
 
 ^ THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 57 
 
 dame Marie was inside, and Madelinette said to the 
 coachman: 
 
 " Drive hard— the White Calvary by the Church of 
 St. Mary Magdalene!" 
 
 In another hour the coach drew up by the White 
 Calvary, where a soft light burned in memory of Lome 
 departed soul. 
 
 The three alighted. Madelinette whispered to 
 Havel, he got up on the box beside Lapierre, and the 
 coach rattled away to a tavern, as the two women dis- 
 appeared swiftly into the darkness. 
 
 box, Ma- 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 FACE TO FACE 
 
 AS the two approached the mansion where 
 George Fournel lived, they saw the door open 
 and a man come hurriedly out into the street. He wore 
 his wrist in a sling. 
 
 Madelinette caught Madame Marie's arm. She did 
 not speak, but her heart sank within her. The man 
 was Tardif. 
 
 He saw them and shuffled over. " Ha, Madame! " 
 he said, " he has the will, and I've not done with you yet 
 — you'll see!" Then, shaking a fist in Madelihette's 
 face, he clattered off into the darkness. 
 
 They crossed the street, and Madame Marie knocked 
 at Fournel's door. It was at once opened, and Made- 
 linette announced herself. The servant stared stonily 
 at first, then as she mentioned her name and he saw 
 her face, he suddenly became servile, and asked them 
 into a small waiting-room. Monsieur Fournel was at 
 home and should be informed at once of Madame's 
 arrival. 
 
 A few moments later, the servant, somewhat graver 
 •but as courteous still, came to say that Monsieur would 
 receive her in his library. Madelinette turned towards 
 Madame Marie. The servant understood. 
 
 " I shall see that the lady has refreshment," he said. 
 *' Will Madame perhaps care for refreshment — and a 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 59 
 
 mirror, before Monsieur has the honour? Madame 
 has travelled far." 
 
 In spite of the anxiety of the moment and the great 
 maiters at stake, Madelinette could not but smile. 
 
 " Thank you," she said, " I hope I am not so unpre- 
 sentable! " 
 
 " A little dust here and there perhaps, Madame," he 
 said with humble courtesy. 
 
 Madelinette was not so heroical as to undervalue the 
 suggestion. Lives perhaps were in the balance, but 
 she was a woman, and who could tell what slight influ- 
 ences might turn the scale! 
 
 The servant saw her hesitation. " If Aladame will 
 but remain here, I will bring what is necessary," he 
 said, and was gone. In a moment he appeared again 
 with a silver basin, a mirror, and a few necessaries of 
 the toilet. 
 
 " I suppose, Madame," said the servant, with ilut- 
 tered anxiety to show that he knew who she was, " I 
 suppose you have had sometimes to make rough shifts, 
 even in palaces." 
 
 She gave him a gold piece. It cheered her in the 
 moment to think that in this forbidding house, on a 
 forbidding mission to a forbidding man, she had one 
 friend. She made a hasty toilet, and but for the great 
 paleness of her cheeks, no traces remained of the three 
 days' trax'^el with their hardship and anxiety. Pres- 
 ently, as the servant ushered her into the presence of 
 George Fournel, even the paleness was warmed a little 
 by the excitement of the moment. 
 
 Fournel was standing with his back to the door, 
 looking out into the moonlit night. As she entered he 
 quickly drew the curtains of the windows and turned 
 towards his visitor, a curious, hard, disdainful look in 
 
Co THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 his face. In his hands he held a paper which she knew 
 only too well. 
 
 " Madame! " he said, and bowed. Then he mo- 
 tioned her to a chair. He took one himself and sat 
 down beside the great oak writing desk, and waited for 
 her to speak — waited with a look which sent the blood 
 from her heart to colour her cheeks and forehead. 
 
 She did not speak, however, but looked at him fear- 
 lessly. It was impossible for her to humble herself be- 
 fore the latent insolence of his look. It seemed to de- 
 grade her out of all consideration. He felt the courage 
 of her defiance, and it moved him. Yet he could but 
 speak in cynical suggestion. 
 
 " You had a long, hard, and adventurous journey,'* 
 he said. He rose suddenly and drew a tray towards 
 him. " Will you not have some refreshment? " he 
 added in an even voice. " I fear you have not had time 
 to seek it at an inn. Your messenger has but just 
 gone." 
 
 It was impossible for him to do justice to himself, or 
 to let his hospitality rest upon its basis of natural cour- 
 tesy. It was clear that he was moved with accumu- 
 lated malice, and he could not hide it. 
 
 " Your servant has been hospitable," she said, her 
 voice trembling a little. She plunged at once into the 
 business of her visit. 
 
 " Monsieur, that paper you hold — " She stopped 
 for an instant, able to go no further. 
 
 " Ah, this — this document you have sent me," he 
 said, opening it with an assumed carelessness. " Your 
 servant had an accident — I suppose we may call it that 
 privately — as he came. He was fired at, was wcunded. 
 You will share with me the hope that the highwayman 
 who stopped him may be brought to justice, though 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 6i 
 
 indeed your fellow Tardif left him behind in the dust. 
 I'crhaps you came upon him, Madame — licinf " 
 
 She steeled herself. Too much was at stake; she 
 could not resent his hateful implications now. 
 
 " Tardif was not my messenger, Monsieur, as you 
 know. Tardif was the thief of that document in your 
 hands." 
 
 " Ah, this — will ! " he said musingly, an evil glitter 
 in his eyes. " Its delivery has been long delayed. 
 Posts and messengers are slow from Pontiac." 
 
 " Monsieur will hear what I have to say? You 
 have the will, your rights are in your hands. Is not 
 that enough? " 
 
 " It is rot enough," he answered in a grating voice. 
 " Let us be plain then, Madame, and as simple as you 
 please. You concealed this will. Not Tardif, but your- 
 self, is open to the law." 
 
 She shrank under the brutality of his manner, but 
 she ruled herself to outward composure. She was 
 about to reply, when he added with a sneer: " Avarice 
 is a debasing vice. Thou shalt not covet thy neigh- 
 bour's house! Thou shalt not steal! " 
 
 " Monsieur," she said calmly, " it would have been 
 easy to destroy the will. Plave you not thought of 
 that?" 
 
 For a moment he was taken aback, but he said 
 harshly: " If crime were always intelligent it would 
 have fewer penalties." 
 
 She shrank again under the roughness of his words. 
 But she was fighting for an end that was dear to her 
 soul, and she answered : 
 
 " It was not lack of intelligence, but a sense of hon- 
 our — yes, a sense of honour! " she insisted, as he threw 
 back his head and laughed. " What do you think 
 
 1 
 
liMMWHHMMM 
 
 62 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 might be my reason for concealing the will — if I did 
 conceal it? " 
 
 " The answer seems obvious. Why does the wild 
 ass forage with a strange herd, or the pig put his feet 
 in the trough? Not for his neighbour's gain, Madame, 
 not in a thousand years! " 
 
 " Monsieur, I have never been spoken to so coarsely. 
 I am a blacksmith's daughter, and I have heard rough 
 men talk in my day; but I have never heard a man — of 
 my own race at least — so rude to a woman. But I am 
 here, not for my own sake, and I will not go till I have 
 said and done all I have come to say and do. Will you 
 listen to me, Monsieur? " 
 
 " I have made my charges: answer them. Disprove 
 this theft " — he held up the will — " of concealment, and 
 enjoyment of property not your own, and then ask of 
 me that politeness which makes so beautiful stable and 
 forge at Pontiac." 
 
 " Monsieur, you cannot think that the will was con- 
 cealed for profit, for the value of the Seigneury of Pon- 
 tiac! I can earn two such seigneuries in one year, 
 Monsieur." 
 * " Nevertheless you do not." 
 
 " For the same reason that I did not bring or send 
 that will to you when I found it. Monsieur. Ari for 
 that same reason I have come to ask you not to take 
 advantage of that will." 
 
 He was about to interpose angrily, but she con- 
 tinued: " Whatever the rental may be that you in jus* 
 tice feel should be put upon the Seigneury I will pay — 
 from the hour my husband entered on the property, its 
 heir, as he believed. Put such rental on the property, 
 do not disturb Monsieur Racine in his position as it is, 
 and I will double that rental." 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 63 
 
 ** Do not think, Madame, that I am as avaricious as 
 you." 
 
 " Is it avaricious to oflFer double the worth of the 
 rental?" 
 
 " There is the title and distinction. You married a 
 mad nobody; you wish to retain an honour that belongs 
 to me." 
 
 " I am asking it for my husband's sake, not my own, 
 believe me, Monsieur." 
 
 " And what do you expect me to do for his sake, 
 Madame? " 
 
 " What humanity would suggest. Ah, I know what 
 
 you would say: he tried to kill you; he made you fight 
 
 him. But, Monsieur, he has repented of that. He is 
 
 ill, he is — crippled; he cherishes the Seigneury beyond 
 
 'its worth a thousand times." 
 
 " He cherishes it at my expense. So, you must 
 not disturb the man who robs you of house and land 
 and trills to murder you, lest he should be disturbed 
 and not sleep o' nights. Come, Madame, that is too 
 thin ! '' 
 
 " F.e might kill you, but he would not rob you. Mon- 
 sieur Do you think that if he knew that will existed 
 he would be now at the Seigneury, or I here? I know 
 ,you hate Louis Racine." 
 - " With ample reason." 
 
 " You hate him more because he defeated you than 
 because he once tried to kill you. Oh, I do not know 
 the rights or wrongs of that great case at law; I only 
 know that Louis Racine was not the judge or jury, but 
 the advocate only, whose duty it was to do as he did. 
 That he did it the more gladly because he was a 
 Frenchman and you an Englishman is not his fault, or 
 yours either. Louis Racine's people came here two 
 
C4 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 hundred years ago, yours not sixty years ago. You, 
 the great business man, have had praciical power v/hich 
 gave you riches. You have sacrificed all for power. 
 Louis Racine has only genius, and no practical 
 power " 
 
 " A dangerous fanatic and dreamer," he interjected. 
 
 " A dreamer if you will, '"th ': pr' ctical power, for 
 he ntver thought .f niniseij, and practical power is 
 usually all self. He dre me- -he i.^ave his heart and 
 soul up for ideas. Englishmen ao ne nderstand that. 
 Do you not know — you do know — that, had he chosen, 
 he might have been rich too, for his brains would have 
 been of great use to men of practical power like vour- 
 self." 
 
 She paused. Fournel did not answer, but sat as 
 though reading the will intendy. 
 
 " Was it strange that he should dream of a French 
 sovereign state here, where his people came and first 
 possessed the land? Can you won ^t that this 
 dreamer, when the Seigneury of Pontiac ^ame to him, 
 felt as if a new life were opened up to him, and saw a 
 way to some of his ambitions? They were sad, mis- 
 taken anibitions, doomed to failure, but they were also 
 his very heart, which he would empty out gladly for an 
 idea. The Seigneury of Pontiac came to him, a">d I 
 married him." 
 
 " Evidently bent upon wrecking the chances of a 
 great career," interrupted Fournel over the paper. 
 
 " Ah, no. I also cared more for ideas than for the 
 sordid things of life. It is in our blood, you see " — she 
 was talking with less restraint now, for she saw he was 
 listening, despite assumed indifference — " and Pontiac 
 was dearer to me than all else in the world. Louis 
 Racine belonged there. You — what sort of place 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 65 
 
 would you a Englishman, have occupied at the Sei- 
 gneury of i ntiac! Whaf kind " 
 
 He got suddenly t'» his feet. He wp a man of 
 strange wlr ns ai i vanities, and his resentment at his 
 exclusion lom the Seigneury of Pontiac had become 
 a tixed idea. H*- had iiugged the thought of its pos- 
 session before M. de la Riviere died, as a man humbly 
 born prides himself on the distinguished lineage of his 
 wife. His great schemes were completed, he was a 
 rich man, and he had pictured himself retiring to this 
 Seigneury, a peaceful and practical figure living out his 
 days in a refined repose which his earlier life had never 
 known. She had touched the raw nerves of his secret 
 vanity. 
 
 " What kind of Seigneur would I make, eh? What 
 sort of figure would I cut in Pontiac! " He laughed 
 loudly. " By heaven, Madame, you shall seel I did 
 not move against his outrage and assault, but I will 
 move to purpose now. For you and he shall leave 
 there in disgrace before another week goes round. I 
 have you both in my ' practical power,' and I will 
 squeeze satisfaction out of you. He is a ruffianly inter- 
 loper, and you, Madame, the law would call by another 
 name! " 
 
 She got quickly to her feet and came a step nearer 
 to him. Leaning a hand on the table, she bent towards 
 him slightly. Something seemed to possess her that 
 transfigured her face and gave it a sense of power and 
 confidence. Her e3'es fixed themselves steadily on him. 
 
 " Monsieur," she said, " you may call me what you 
 will, and I will bear it, for you have been sorely injured. 
 You are angry because I seemed to think an English- 
 man was not fitted to be Seigneur of Pontiac. We 
 French are a people of sentiments and ideas ; we make 
 
(^ THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 idols of trifles, and we die for fancies. We dream, we 
 have shrines for memories. These things you despise. 
 You would give us justice and make us rich by what 
 you call ' progress.* Ah, Monsieur, that is not enough. 
 We are not born to appreciate you. Our hearts are 
 higher than our heads, and, under a flag that conquered 
 us, they cling together. Was it strange that 1 should 
 think Louis Racine better suited to be Seigneur at 
 Pontiac?" 
 
 She paused, as though expecting him to answer, but 
 he only looked inquiringly at her, and she continued: 
 
 ** My husband used you ill, but he is no interloper. 
 He took what the law gave him, what has been in his 
 family for over two hundred years. Monsieur, it has 
 meant more to him than a hundred times greater hon- 
 our could to you. When his trouble came; when" — 
 she paused as though it was difficult to speak — " when 
 the other — legacy — of his family descended on . him, 
 that Seigneury became to him the one compensation of 
 his life. By right of it only could he look the world in 
 the face — or me." 
 
 She stopped suddenly, for her voice choked her. 
 
 " Will you please continue? " said Fournel, opening 
 and shutting the will in his hand, and looking ^t her 
 with a curious new consideration. 
 
 " Fame came to me as his trouble came to him. It 
 was hard for him to go among men, but, ah, can you 
 think how he dreaded the day when I should return to 
 Pontiac! . . . I will tell you the whole truth. Mon- 
 sieur." She drew herself up proudly. " I loved — 
 Louis. He came into my heart with its first great 
 dream, and before life — the business of life — really be- 
 gan. He was one with the best part of me, the girl- 
 hood in me which is dead! " 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 67 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 Fournel rose, and in a low voice said: " Will you not 
 sit down? " He motioned to a chair. 
 
 She shook her head. ** Ah, no, please. Let me say 
 all quickly and while I have the courage. I loved him, 
 and he loved and loves me. I love that love in which 
 I married him, and I love his love for me. It is inde- 
 structible, because it is in the fibre of my life. It has 
 nothing to do with ugliness or beauty, or fortune or 
 misfortune, or shame o; happiness, or sin or holiness. 
 When it becomes part cf us, it must go on in one form 
 or another, but it canuDt die. It lives in breath, and 
 song, and thought, and work, and words. That is the 
 wonder of it, the pity of ii,and the joy of it. Because it is 
 so, because love would shield the beloved from itself if 
 need be, and from all the tenors of th? world at any 
 cost, I have done what I have done. I did it at cost 
 of my honour, but it was for his sak°, at the price of my 
 peace, but to spare him. Ah, Monsieur, the days of 
 life are not many for him, his shame and his futile aims 
 are killing him. The clouds will soon close over, and 
 his vexed brain and body will be still. To spare him 
 the last turn of the wheel of torture, to give him the 
 one bare honour left him yet a little while, I have given 
 up my work of life to comfort him; I concealed — I 
 vStole, if you will — the document you hold. And, God 
 help me! I would do it again and yet again, if I lost my 
 soul forever, Monsieur. Oh, Monsieur, I know that 
 in his madness he would have killed you, but it was his 
 suffering, not a bad heart, that made him do it. Do 
 a sorrowful woman a great kindness and spare him, 
 Monsieur I " 
 
 She had held the man motionless and staring. When 
 she ended, he got to his feet, and came near to her. 
 
 There was a curious look in his face — half struggle, 
 
68 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 half mysterious purpose. " The way is easy to a hun- 
 dred times as much! " he said, in a low, meaning voice, 
 and his eyes boldly held hers. '* You are doing a 
 chivalrous sort of thing that only a woman would do 
 — for duty; do something for another reason — for 
 what a woman would do — for the blood of youth that 
 is in her." He reached out a hand to lay it on her arm. 
 " Ask of me what you will, if you but put your hand in 
 
 mine and " 
 
 " Monsieur! " she said, pale and gasping, " do you 
 think so ill of me, then? Do I seem to you like " 
 
 s'he turned away, her eyes dry and burning, her body 
 trembling with shame. 
 
 " You are here alone with me at night! " he per- 
 sisted. " It would not be easy to " 
 
 " Death would be easy. Monsieur," she said, calmly 
 and coldly. " My husband tried to kill you. You 
 would do — ah, but let me pass! " she said with a. sudden 
 fury. "You! If you were a million times richer, if 
 you could ruin me forever, do you think " 
 
 " Hush, Madame! " he said, with a sudden change 
 of voice and a manner all reverence. " I do not think. 
 I spoke only to hear you speak in reply — only to know 
 to the uttermost what you were. Madame," h'^ added, 
 in a shaking voice, " I did not know that such a woman 
 lived. Madame, I could have sworn there was none in 
 the world." Then in a quicker, huskier note he added: 
 " Eighteen years ago a woman nearly spoiled my life. 
 She was as beautiful as you, but her heart was tainted. 
 Since then I have never believed in any woman — never 
 till now. I have said that all were purchasable — at a 
 price. I unsay that now. I have not believed in any 
 one " 
 
 " Oh, Monsieur! " she said, with a quick, impulsive 
 
G 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 69 
 
 hun- 
 
 ing a 
 [Id do 
 I — for 
 li that 
 r arm. 
 and in 
 
 gesture towards liini, and her face hghting with sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 " I was struck too hard " 
 
 She touched his arm and said gently: " Some are 
 hurt in one wav and some in another; all are hurt some- 
 time, but " 
 
 " You shall have your way," he interrupted, and 
 moved apart. 
 
 " Ah, Monsieur, Monsieur, it is a noble act," she 
 hurriedly rejoined, then with a sudden cry rushed to- 
 wards him, for he was lighting the will at the flame of 
 a candle near him. 
 
 " Ah, but no, no, no, you shall not do it! " she cried, 
 " I only asked it for while he lives — ah! " 
 
 She collapsed with a cry of despair, for he had held 
 the flaming paper above her reach, and its ashes were 
 now scattering on the floor. 
 
 " You will let mc give you some wine? " he said 
 quietly and poured out a glassful. 
 
 change 
 t think. 
 |o know 
 
 added, 
 woman 
 none in 
 
 added : 
 [my life, 
 tainted. 
 I — never 
 
 e — at a 
 in any 
 
 ipulsive 
 
a 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE BITER BITTEN 
 
 n 
 
 MADELINETTE was faint, and, sitting down, she 
 drank the wine feebly, then leaned her head 
 against the back of the cha'r, her face turned from 
 Fournel. 
 
 " Forgive me, if you can,'* he said. " You have this 
 to comfort you, that if friendship is a boon in this world 
 you have an honest friend in George I'ournel." 
 
 She made a gesture of assent with her hand, but she 
 did not speak. Tears were stealing cuietly down her 
 cold face. For a moment so, in silence, and then she 
 rose to her feet and pulled down over her face the veil 
 she wore. She was about to hold out her hand to him 
 to say good-bye, when there was a noise without, a 
 knocking at the door, then it was flung open, and Tar- 
 dif, intoxicated, entered, followed by two constables, 
 and Fournel's servant vainly protesting. 
 
 " Here she is! " Tardif said to the officers of the law, 
 pointing to Madelinette. " It was her set the fellow 
 on to shoot me. I had the will she stole from him! " 
 he added, pointing to Fournel. 
 
 Distressed as Madelinette was, she was composed 
 and ready, 
 
 " The man was dismissed my employ — " she began, 
 but Fournel interposed. 
 
 "What is this I hear about shooting and a will?" 
 he said sternly. 
 
 ^ -.1^ / 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 71 
 
 vn, she 
 r head 
 1 from 
 
 ive this 
 s world 
 
 but she 
 )vvn her 
 hen she 
 the veil 
 to him 
 lout, a 
 nd Tar- 
 istables, 
 
 he law, 
 
 e fellow 
 
 him! 
 
 Dmposed 
 
 e began, 
 
 will?" 
 
 "What will!" cried Tardif. "The will I brought 
 you from Pontiac, and Madame there followed and her 
 servant shot me. The will I brought you, Monsieur. 
 The will leaving the-iManor of Pontiac to you! " 
 
 Fournel turned as though with sudden anger to the 
 officers. " You come here — you enter my house to 
 interfere with a guest of mine on the charge of a 
 drunken scoundrel like this! What is this talk of wills! 
 The vapourings of his foul brain. The Seigneury of 
 Pontiac belongs to Monsieur Racine, and but three 
 days since Madame here dismissed this fellow for pil- 
 fering and other misdemeanours. As for shooting — - 
 the man is a liar and " 
 
 " Ah, do you deny that I came to you — " began 
 Tardif. 
 
 " Constables," said Fournel, " I give this fellow in 
 charge. Take him to gaol, and I will appear at court 
 against him when called upon." 
 
 Tardif's rage choked him. He tried to speak once 
 or twice, then began to shriek an imprecation at Four- 
 nel, but the constables clapped hands on his mouth 
 and dragged him out of the room and out of the 
 house. 
 
 Fournel saw him safely out, then returned to Made- 
 linette. " Do not fear for the fellow. A little gaol 
 will do him good. I will see to it that he gives no 
 trouble, Madame," he said. " You may trust me." 
 
 " I do trust you. Monsieur," Madelinette answered 
 quiedy. " I pray that you may be right, and that " 
 
 " It will all come out right, Madame," he firmly in- 
 sisted. 
 
 " Will you ask for Madame Marie? " she said. Then, 
 with a^smile, " We will go happier than we came." 
 
 As she and Madame Marie passed from the house, 
 
u 
 
 72 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 Fournel shook Madelinette's hand warmly and said: 
 " * All's well that ends well' " 
 
 " ' That ends well! ' " answered Madelinette, with a 
 sorrowful questioning in her voice. 
 
 " We will make it so," he rejoined, and then they 
 parted. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE DOOR THAT WOULD NOT OPE!^ 
 
 THE old Manor House of Pontiac was alive with 
 light and merriment. It was the early autumn; 
 not cool enough for the doors and windows to be shut, 
 but cool enough to make dancing a pleasure, and to 
 give spirit to the gaiety that filled the old house. The 
 occasion was a notable one for Pontiac. An address 
 of congratulation and appreciation and a splendid gift 
 of silver had been brought to the manor from the capi- 
 tal by certain high officials of the Government and the 
 army, representing the people of the province. At first 
 Aladelinette had shrunk from the honour to be done 
 her, and had so written to certain quarters whence the 
 movement had proceeded, but a letter had come to her 
 which had changed her mind. This letter v/as signed 
 George Fourucl. Fournel had a right to ask a favour 
 of her; and one that was to do her honour seemed tne 
 least that she might grant. Kc had suffered much at 
 Louis' hands; he had forborne much; and by an act 
 of noble forgiveness and generosity had left Louis un- 
 disturbed in an honour which was not his and the en- 
 joyment of an estate to which he had no claim. He 
 had given much, suffered much, and had had nothing in 
 return save her measureless and voiceless gratitude. 
 Friendship she could give him; but it was a silent 
 friendship, an incompanionable friendship, founded 
 upon a secret and chivalrous act. He was in Quebec 
 
74 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 and she in Pontine, and since that day when he had 
 burnt the will before her eyes she had not seen him. 
 She had heard from him but twice; once to tell her that 
 she need have no fear of Tardif, and again when he 
 urged her to accept the testimonial and the gift to be 
 offered by her grateful fellow-citizens in token of their 
 admiration. 
 
 The deputation — distinguished and important — had 
 1 een received by the people of Pontiac with the flaunt- 
 ing of flags, playing of bands, and every demonstration 
 of delight. The honour done to Madelinette was an 
 honoui done to Pontiac; and Pontiac had never felt 
 itself so important. It realised that this kind of demon- 
 stration was less expensive and less dangerous than 
 sedition, privy-conspiracy, and rebellion. The vanity 
 of the habitants could be better exercised in applauding 
 Madelinette, and in show of welcome to the great men 
 of the land, than in cultivating a dangerous patriotism 
 under the leadership of Louis Racine. Temptations 
 to conspiracy had been few since the day George Four- 
 nel, wounded and morose, left the Manor House 
 secretly one night, and carried back to Qu'^bec his re- 
 sentment and his injuries. Treasonable gossip filtered 
 no longer from doorway to doorway; carbines were 
 not to be had for a song; no more nightly drills and 
 weekly meetings gave a spice of great expectations to 
 their life. Their Seigneur, silent and pale and stooped, 
 lived a life apart. If he walked through the town, it 
 was with bitter, abstracted eyes that took little heed of 
 their presence. If he drove, his horses travelled like 
 the wiau. At Mass he looked at no one, saw no one, 
 and, as it v.'^v'ld scjm, heard no one. 
 
 B'lt Madeiia^ttc — she was 'he Madelinette of old; 
 simple, r'^vcious, kirivl, with a smile here and a kind 
 
NG 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 75 
 
 he had 
 ;n him. 
 ler that 
 hen he 
 t to be 
 of their 
 
 It— had 
 flaunt- 
 stration 
 was an 
 ver felt 
 demon- 
 US than 
 : vanity 
 lauding 
 eat men 
 triotism 
 ptations 
 e Four- 
 House 
 : his re- 
 filtered 
 |es were 
 ills and 
 tions to 
 stooped, 
 town, it 
 heed of 
 led like 
 no one, 
 
 of old; 
 a kind 
 
 word t>cre: a little child to be caressed or an old 
 woman to be comforted, the sick to be fed and doc- 
 tored, the poor to be helped, the idle to be rebuked with 
 a persuasive smile, the angry to be coaxed by a humor- 
 ous word, the evil to be reproved by a fearless friendli- 
 ness, the spiteful to be hushed by a still, commanding 
 presence. She never seemed to remember that she was 
 the daughter of old Joe Lajeunesse the blacksmith, yet 
 she never seemed to forget it. She v;as the wife of the 
 Seigneur, and she was the daughter of the smithy-man 
 too. She sat in the smithy-man's doorway with her 
 hand in his, and she sat at the manor table with its 
 silver glitter, and its antique garnishings, with as real 
 an unconsciousness. 
 
 Her influence seemed to pierce far and wide. The 
 Cure and the Avocat adored her, and the proudest, hap- 
 piest moments of their lives was when they sat at the 
 manor table or, in the sombre drawing-room, watched 
 her give it light and grace and charm and fill their 
 hearts with the piercing delight of her song. So her life 
 had gone on; to the outward world serene and happy, 
 full of simplicity, charity, and good works. What it 
 was in reality no one could know, not even herself. 
 Since the day when Louis had tried to kill George 
 Fournel, life had been a different thing for them both. 
 On her part she had been deeply hurt; wounded beyond 
 repair. He had failed her from every vital stand-point; 
 he had not fulfilled one hope sht had ever had of him. 
 But she laid the blame not at his door; she rather 
 shrank with inner bitterness from the cynical cruelty of 
 nature, which, in deforming the body, with a merciless 
 cruelty had deformed a noble mind. These things were 
 between her and her inmost soul. 
 
 To Louis she was ever the same — affectionate, 
 
76 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 gentle, and unselfish — but her stronger soul ruled him 
 without his knowledge; commanded his perturbed 
 spirit into the abstracted quiet and bitter silence where- 
 in he lived, and which she sought to cheer by a thou- 
 sand happy devices. She did not let him think that 
 she was giving up anything for him; no word or act of 
 hers could have suggested to him the sacrifices she had 
 made. He knew them, still he did not know them in 
 their fulness; he was grateful, but his gratitude did not 
 compass the splendid self-effacing devotion with which 
 she denied herself the glorious career that had lain be- 
 fore her. Morbid and self-centred, he could not under- 
 stand. Since her return from Quebec she had sought 
 to give a little touch of gaiety to their life, and she had 
 not the heart to interfere with his constant insistence 
 on the little dignities of the position of Seigneur, iron- 
 ical as they all were in her eyes. She had sacrificed 
 everything, and since another also had sacrificed him- 
 self to give her husband the honours and estate he pos- 
 sessed the game should be delicately played to the 
 unseen end. 
 
 So it had gone on until 'he coming of the deputa- 
 tion with the testimonial and the gift. She had pro- 
 posed the gaieties of the occasion to Louis with so 
 simple a cheerfulness that he had no idea of the torture 
 i. meant to her; no realisation of how she would be 
 brought face to face with the life that she had given up 
 for his sake. But neither he nor she was aware of one 
 thing, that the beautiful embossed address contained 
 an appeal to her to return to the world of song which 
 she had renounced; to go forth once more and con- 
 tribute to the happiness of humanity. 
 
 When, therefore, in the drawing-room of the manor, 
 the address was read to her, and this appeal rang upon 
 
 lights 
 
MMH 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 77 
 
 her ears, she felt herself turn dizzy and faint; her whole 
 life seemed to reel backwards to all she had lost, and 
 the tyranny of the present bore down upon her with a 
 cruel weight. It needed all her courage and all her 
 innate strength to rule herself to composure. For an 
 instant the people in the room were a confused mass, 
 iloating away into a blind distance. She heard, how- 
 ever, the quick breathing of the Seigneur beside her, 
 and it called her back to an active and necessary con- 
 fidence. 
 
 With a smile she received the address, and, turning, 
 handed it to Louis, smiling at him too with a winning 
 duplicity, for which she might never have to ask for- 
 giveness in this world or the next. Then she turned 
 and spoke. Eloquently, simply, she gave out her 
 thanks for the gift of silver and the greater gift of kind 
 words, and said that in her quiet life, apart from that 
 active world of the stage, where sorrow and sordid ex- 
 perience went hand in hand with song, where the de- 
 lights of home were sacrificed to the applause of the 
 world, she would cherish their gift as a reward that 
 she might have earned had she chosen the public in- 
 stead of the private way of life. They had told her of 
 the paths of glory; but she was walking the homeward 
 way. 
 
 Thus deftly and without strain, and with an air of 
 happiness even, did she set aside the words and the 
 appeal which had created a storm in her soul. A few 
 moments afterwards, as the old house rang to the 
 laughter of old and young, with dancing well begun, 
 no one would liave thought that the Manor of Pontiac 
 was not the home of peace and joy. Even Louis him- 
 self, who had had his moments of torture and suspicion 
 when the appeal was read, was now m a kind of happy 
 
 I 
 
;8 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 ,'! a 
 
 reaction. He moved about among the guests with less 
 abstraction and more cheerfulness than he had shown 
 in months. He carried in his hand the address which 
 Madelinette had handed him. Again and again lie 
 showed it to eager guests. 
 
 Suddenly, as he was about to fold it up for the last 
 time, and carry it to the library, he saw the name of 
 George J'uurnel among the signatures. Stunned, 
 dumfounded, he left the room. George Fournel, 
 whom he had tried to kill, had signed this address of 
 congratulation to his wife! Was it Fournel's intention 
 thus to show that he had forgiven and forgotten? It 
 was not like the man to either forgive or forget. What 
 did it mean? He left the house, buried in morbid specu- 
 lation, and involuntarily made his way to a little hut of 
 two ruums which he had built in the Seigneury 
 grounds. Here it was he read and wrote, here he had 
 spent moody hours alone, day after day, for months 
 past. Pie was not aware that some one left the crowd 
 about the house ai '; followed him. Arrived at the hut, 
 he entered and shut the door; lighted candles and 
 spread the embossed parchment out before him upon 
 the table. As he stood looking at it, he heard the door 
 open behind him. Tardif stood before him. 
 
 The face of Tardif had an evil, hunted look. Before 
 the astonished and suspicious Seigneur had chance to 
 challenge him, he said in a low, insolent tone: 
 
 " Good evening, M'sieu' ! Fine doings at the manor 
 —eh?" 
 
 " What are you doing at the manor, and what are 
 you doing here?" asked the Seigneur, scanning the 
 face of the man closely, for thee was a look in it he 
 did not understand. 
 
 " I have as much right to be Ik e as you, M'sieu'." 
 
 ^. 
 
TG 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 79 
 
 ;h less 
 ;ho\vn 
 which 
 tin lie 
 
 le last 
 .me of 
 .inned, 
 )urnel, 
 ress of 
 ;ention 
 n? It 
 
 What 
 specu- 
 
 hut of 
 gneury 
 he had 
 months 
 
 crowd 
 he hut, 
 es and 
 n upon 
 le door 
 
 Before 
 ance to 
 
 manor 
 
 hat are 
 ing the 
 m it he 
 
 leu'." 
 
 " You have no right at all to be here. You were dis- 
 missed your place by the mistress of this manor." 
 
 " There is no mistress of this manor." 
 
 " Madame Racine dismissed you." 
 
 " And I dismissed Madame Racine," answered the 
 man, with a sneer. 
 
 " You arc training for the horsewhip. You forget 
 that, as Seigneur, I have power to give you summary 
 punishment." 
 
 " You haven't power to do anything at all, M'sieu'! " 
 
 The Seigneur started. He thought the remark had 
 reference to his physical disability. His fingers itched 
 to take the creature by the throat and choke the tongue 
 from his mouth. Before he could speak the man con- 
 tinued with a half-drunken grimace : 
 
 " You with your tributes, and your courts, and your 
 body-guards! Bah! You'd have a gibbet if you 
 could, wouldn't you? You with your rebellion and 
 your tin-pot honours! A puling baby could conspire 
 as well as you. And all the world laughing at you — 
 v'la! " 
 
 " Get out of this room and take your feet from my 
 manor, Tardif," said the Seigneur with a deadly quiet- 
 ness, " or it will be the worse for you." 
 
 " Your manor — pish! " The man laughed a hateful 
 laugh. "Your manor! You haven't any manor. You 
 haven't anythiig but what you carry on your back! " 
 
 A flush passed swiftly over the Seigneur's face, then 
 left it cold and white, and the eyes shone fiery in his 
 head. He felt some shameful meaning in the man's 
 words beyond this gross reference to his deformity. 
 
 " I am Seigneur of this manor, and you have taken 
 wages from me and eaten my bread, slept under my 
 roof, and " 
 
8o THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 [\ : ii 
 
 " I've no more eaten your bread and sle[)t under your 
 roof than you have. Pish! You were hving then on 
 another man's fortune, now you're living on what your 
 wife earns! " 
 
 The Seig-ncur did not understand yet. But there 
 was a strange light of suspicion in his eyes, a nervous 
 rage knotting his forehead. 
 
 '* My land and my earnings are my own, and I have 
 never lived on another man's fortune. If you mean 
 that Lhe late Seigneur made a will — that canard " 
 
 " It was no canard." Tardif laughed hatefully. 
 " There was a will, right enough! " 
 
 " Where is it? I've heard that fool's gossip before! " 
 
 " Where is it? Ask your wife. She knows. Ask 
 your loving Tardif — he knows! " 
 
 " Where is the will, Tardif? " asked the Seigneur v.l 
 a voice that, in his own ears, seemed to come from m 
 infinite distance. To Tardif's ears it was merely ture- 
 less and harsh. 
 
 "In M'sieu' Fournci's pocket — or Madame's! 
 What's the difiference? The price is the same; and yoi' 
 keep your eyes shut and play the Seigneur and eat and 
 drink what they give you just the same! " 
 
 Now the Seigneur understood. His eyes went blind 
 for a moment, and his hands twitched convulsively on 
 the embossed address he had been rolling and ur.roll- 
 ing. A terror, a shame, a dreadful cruelty entered 
 into him, but he was still and numb, and his tongue 
 was thick. He spoke heavily. 
 
 " Tell me all ! " he said. " You shall be well paid." 
 
 " I don't want your money. I want to see you 
 squirm. I want to see her put where she deserves. 
 Bah! Do 3'ou think Fournel forgave you for putting 
 your feet in his shoes and for that case at law for noth- 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 8i 
 
 I " 
 
 id." 
 
 you 
 erves. 
 itttng 
 noth- 
 
 ing? Why should he? Hu hated you, and you hated 
 liim. His name's on that paper in your hand among 
 all the rest. Do you think he eats luunblc pie and 
 crawls to Madame and lets vou stay here — for noth- 
 ing?" 
 
 The Seigneur was painfully r|uict and intent, yet his 
 brain was like some great lens refracting and magnify- 
 ing things to monstrous proportions. 
 
 " A will was found? " he asked. 
 
 " By "Maciame, in the library. She left it where she 
 found it — behind the picture over the Louis Seize table. 
 I found it too, on the day you dismissed mc. I found 
 it, and started away with it to M'sieu' Fournel. She 
 followed. You remember when she went — eh? On 
 business — and such business — she and Havel and the 
 old slut, Marie. You remember, eh, Louis? " he added 
 with unnamable insolence. The Seigneur inclined his 
 head. "P^/a! they followed me, overtook me, and 
 Havel shot me in the wrist — see there! " He held out 
 his wrist. The Seigneur nodded. ** But I got to Four- 
 ncl's first. I put the will into his hands. I told him 
 Madame Madelinette was following. Then I went to 
 bring the constables to his house to arrest her when he 
 had finished with her." He laughed a brutal laugh, 
 which deepened the strange, glittering look in Louis' 
 eyes. " When I came an hour later she was there. 
 But — now you shall see what stuff they are both made 
 of! He laughed at me. Said I had lied; that there was 
 no will, that I was a thief, and had me locked up in gaol. 
 For a month I was in gaol without trial. Then one 
 :lay I was let out — without trial. His servant met me 
 and brought me to his house. He gave me money and 
 told me to leave the country. If I didn't I would be 
 arrested again — for trying to shoot Havel, and for 
 6 
 
^, 
 
 "^o. 
 
 
 IMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-3) 
 
 1.0 
 
 I.I 
 
 1.25 
 
 1^ mil 2.2 
 
 
 ^ h^ M 
 
 1.8 
 
 U ill 1.6 
 
 V] 
 
 ^/^' 
 
 o 
 
 / 
 
 :^ ^> 
 
 
 / 
 
 >^ 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, NY. 14580 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
 
l*v 
 
82 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 blackmail. They could all swear me off my feet and 
 into prison — what was I to do? I took the money and 
 went. But I came back to have my revenge. I could 
 cut their hearts out and eat them." 
 
 " You are drunk ! " said the Seigneur quietly. " You 
 don't know what you're saying." 
 
 " I'm not drunk. I'm always trying to get drunk 
 now. I couldn't have come here if I hadn't been drink- 
 ing. I couldn't have told you the truth if I hadn't 
 been drinking. But I'm sober enough to know that 
 I've done for him and for her ! And I'm even with you 
 too — bah! Did you think she cared a fig for you? 
 She's only waiting till you die. Then she'll go to her 
 lover. He's a man of life and limb. You — pish! a 
 hunchback that all the world laughs at, a worm — " 
 he turned towards the door, laughing hideously, his 
 evil face gloating. " You've not got a slick or stone. 
 She " — jerking a finger towards the house — " she earns 
 what you eat, she " 
 
 It was the last word he ever spoke, for, with a low, 
 terrible cry, the Seigneur snatched up a knife from the 
 table and sprang upon him, catching him by the throat. 
 Once, twice, thric^ the knife went home, and tiie ruffian 
 collapsed under it with one loud cry. Not letting go 
 his grasp of the dying man's collar, the Seigneur 
 dragged him across the floor, and, opening the door of 
 the small inner room, pulled him inside. For a mo- 
 ment he stood beside the body panting, then he went to 
 the other room, and bringing a candle looked at the 
 dead thing in silence. Presently he stooped, held the 
 candle to the wide-staring eyes, then felt the heart. 
 
 " He is gone," he said in an even voice. Stooping for 
 the knife he had dropped on the floor, he laid it on the 
 body. He looked at his hands. There was one ^pot 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 83 
 
 of blood on his fingers. He wiped it off with his hand- 
 kerchief, then, blowing out the light, he calmly opened 
 the door of the hut, locked it, went out, and moved on 
 slowly towards the house. 
 
 He was conscious that as he left the hut some one 
 was moving under the trees by the window, but his 
 mind was not concerned with things outside himself 
 and the one other thing left for him to do. 
 
 He entered the house and went in search of Made- 
 linette. When he reached the drawing-room, sur- 
 rounded by eager listeners, she was beginning to sing. 
 Her bearing was eager and almost tremulous, for, with 
 this crowd round her and in the flush of this gaiety and 
 excitement, there was something of that exhilarating 
 air that greets the singer upon the stage. Her eyes 
 were shining with a look half sorrowful, lialf triumph- 
 ant. Within the past half-hour she had overcome her- 
 self, she had fought down the blind wild rebellion that, 
 for one moment, rs it were, had surged up in her heart. 
 She was proud and glad, and piteous and triumphant, 
 and deeply womanly all at once. 
 
 Going to the piano, she had looked round for Louis, 
 but he was not visible. She smiled to herself, however, 
 for she knew that her singing would bring him — he 
 worshipped it. Her heart was warm towards him, be- 
 cause of that moment when she rebelled and was hard 
 at soul. She played her own accompaniment, and he 
 was hidden from her by the piano as she sang — sang 
 more touchingly and more humanly, if not more artis- 
 tically, than she had ever done in her life. The old art 
 was not so perfect perhaps, but there was in the voice 
 all that she had learned and loved and suffered and 
 hoped. When she rose from the piano to a storm of 
 applause, and saw the shining faces and tearful eyes 
 
 
 1-4 
 
84 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 round her, her own eyes filled with tears. These people 
 — most of them — had known and loved her since she 
 was a child, and loved her still without envy or any 
 taint. Her father was standing near, and with smiling 
 face she caught the handkerchief with which he was 
 mopping his eyes from his hand, and kissed him, 
 saying: 
 
 " I learned that from the tunes you played on your 
 anvil, dear smithy-man! " 
 
 Then she turned again to look for Louis. Near the 
 door she saw him, and with so strange a face, so wild 
 a look, that, unheeding eager requests to sing again, 
 she responded to the gesture he made, made her way 
 through the crowd to the hall-way, and followed him 
 up the stairs, and to the little boudoir beside her bed- 
 room. As she entered and shut the door, a low sound 
 like a moan broke from him. She went quickly to him 
 to lay a hand upon his arm, but he waved her back. 
 
 " What is it, Louis? " she asked, in a bewildered 
 voice. 
 
 " Where is the will? " he said. 
 
 " Where is the will, Louis! " she repeated after him 
 mechanically, staring at his face, ghostly in the moon- 
 light. 
 
 " The will you found behind the picture in the 
 library." 
 
 " Oh, Louis ! " she cried, and made a gesture of de- 
 spair. " Oh, Louis! " 
 
 " You found it, and Tardif stole it and took it to 
 Quebec." 
 
 " Yes, Louis, but Louis — ah, what is the matter, 
 dear? I cannot bear that look in your face. What is 
 the matter, Louis?" 
 
 " Tardif took it to Fournel, and you followed. And 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 85 
 
 I have been living in another man's house, on another's 
 bread " 
 
 " Oh, Louis, no— no — no! Our money has paid for 
 all." 
 
 " Your money, Madelinette! " His voice rose. 
 
 " Ah, don't speak like that. See, Louis. It can 
 make no diflference. How you have found out I do not; 
 know, but it can make no difference. I did not want 
 you to know — you loved the Seigneury so! I con- 
 cealed the will. Tardif found it, as you say. But, 
 Louis, dear, it is all right. Monsieur Fournel would 
 not take the place, and — and I have bought it." 
 
 She told her falsehood fearlessly. This man's trou- 
 ble, this man's peace, if she might but win it, was the 
 purpose of her life. 
 
 " Tardif said that. He said that you — that you and 
 Fournel " 
 
 She read his meaning in his tone and shrank back in 
 terror, then, with a flush, straightened herself, and took 
 a step towards him. 
 
 " It was natural that you should not care for a hunch- 
 back like me," he continued, " but " 
 
 " Louis ! " she cried in a voice of anguish and 
 reproach. 
 
 " But I did not doubt you. I believed in you when 
 he said it, as I believe in you now when you stand there 
 like that. I know what you have done for me " 
 
 " I pleaded with Monsieur Fournel, knowing how 
 you loved the Seigneury — pleaded and offered to pay 
 three times the price " 
 
 " Yourself would have been a hundred million times 
 the price! Ah, I know you, Madelinette — I know you 
 now. I have been selfish, but I see all now. Now 
 when all is over " — he seemed listening to noises with- 
 
 1?; 
 
 M 
 
86 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 out — " I see what you have clone for me. I know how 
 you have sacrificed all for me — all but honour — all 
 but honour ! " he added, a wild fire in his eyes, a trem- 
 bling seizing him. ** Your honour is yours forever. 
 I say so. I say so, and I have proved it. Kiss me, 
 IVIadelinette, kiss me once ! " he added in a quick 
 whisper. 
 
 " My poor, poor Louis! " she said, laid a soothing 
 hand upon his arm, and leaned towards him. He 
 snatched her to his breast and kissed her twice in a 
 very agony of joy, then let her go. He listened for an 
 instant to the growing noise without, then said in a 
 hoarse voice : 
 
 " Now I will tell you, Madelinette. They are com- 
 ing for me — don't you hear them? They are coming 
 to take me, but they shall not have me. They shall not 
 have me." He glanced to a little door that led into a 
 bathroom at his right. 
 
 " Louis! Louis!" she said, in a sudden fright, for, 
 though his words seemed mad, a strange, quiet sanity 
 was in all he did. " What have you done? Who are 
 coming? " she asked in agony, and caught him by the 
 arm. 
 
 " I killed Tardif. He is there in the hut in the gar- 
 den — dead! I was seen, I know, and they are coming 
 to take me." 
 
 With a cry she ran to the door that led into the hall 
 and locked it. She listened, then turned her face to 
 Louis. 
 
 " You killed him! " she gasped. " Louis! Louis! " 
 Her face was like ashes. 
 
 " I stabbed him to death. It was all I could do, and 
 I did it. He slandered you. I went mad, and did it. 
 Now " 
 
THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 87 
 
 There was a knocking at the door, and a voice calling 
 — a peremptory voice. 
 
 " There is only one way! " he said. " They shall not 
 take me. I will not he dragged to gaol for crowds to 
 jeer at. I will not be dragged to the scaffold to your 
 shame." 
 
 He ran to the door of the bathroom and flung it 
 open. " If my life is to pay the price, then " 
 
 She came blindly towards him, stretching out her 
 hands. 
 
 " Louis 1 Louis! " was all that she could say. 
 
 He caught her hands and kissed them, then stepped 
 swiftly back into the little bathroom, and locked the 
 door, as the door of the room she was in burst open, 
 and two constables and a half dozen men crowded into 
 the room. 
 
 She stood with her back to the bathroom door, 
 panting, and white, and anguished, and her ears 
 strained to the terrible thing inside the place behind 
 her. 
 
 The men understood, and came towards her. 
 ** Stanu back! " she said. " You shall not have him. 
 You shall not have him. Ah, don't you hear! He is 
 dying! Oh, God! oh, God!" she cried, with tearless 
 eyes and upturned face. " Ah, let it be soon! Ah, let 
 him die soon ! " 
 
 The men stood abashed before her agony. Behind 
 the little door where she stood there was a muffled 
 groaning. She trembled, but her arms were spread 
 out before the door as though on a cross, and her lips 
 kept murmuring: " Oh, God, let him die! Let him 
 die! Oh, spare him agony! " 
 
 Suddenly she stood still and listened — listened with 
 staring eyes that saw nothing. In the room men 
 
88 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 shrank back, for they knew that death was behind the 
 little door, and that they were in the presence of a sor- 
 row greater than death. 
 
 Suddenly she turned upon them with a gesture of 
 piteous triumph, and said: 
 
 " You cannot have him now." 
 
 Then she swayed and fell forward to the floor as the 
 Abbe aid George Fournel entered the room. The 
 Abbe hastened to her side and lifted up her head. 
 
 George Fournel pushed the men back who would 
 have entered the bathroom, and himself, bursting the 
 door open, entered. Louis lay dead upon the floor. 
 He turned to the constables. 
 
 " As she said, you cannot have him now. You have 
 no right here. Go. I had a warning from the man 
 he killed. I knew there would be trouble. But I have 
 come too late! " he added bitterly. 
 
 An hour later the house was as still as the grave. 
 Madame Marie sat with the doctor beside the bed of 
 her dear mistress, and in another room George Four- 
 nel, with the Avocat, kept watch beside the body of the 
 Seigneur of Pontiac. The face of the dead man was 
 as peaceful as that of a little child. 
 
 At ninety years of age, the present Seigneur of Pon- 
 tiac, one Baron Fournel, lives in the Manor House left 
 him by Madelinette Lajeunesse the great singer, when 
 she died, a quarter of a century ago. For thirty years 
 he followed her from capital to capital of Europe and 
 America to hear her sing, and to this day he talks of 
 her in language more French than English in its ar- 
 dour. Perhaps that is because his heart beats in sym- 
 pathy with the Frenchmen he once disdained. 
 
THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF 
 FTITE LOUISON 
 
1 
 
 tliei 
 
 a s 
 
 to 1 
 
 stri( 
 
 the 
 
 The 
 
 a bi 
 
 rece 
 
 an e 
 
 stat( 
 
 by t 
 
 and 
 
 nail; 
 
 clud 
 
 to s< 
 
 eyes 
 
 H 
 
 had 
 
 gest 
 
 man 
 
 and 
 
 on a 
 
 eldes 
 
 Chri 
 
THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P'TITE 
 
 LOUISON 
 
 THE five brothers lived with Louison, three miles 
 from Pontiac, and Medallion came to know 
 them first through having sold them, at an auction, 
 a slice of an adjoining farm. He had been invited 
 to their home, intimacy had grown, and afterwaids, 
 stricken with a severe illness, he had been taken into 
 the household and kept there till he was well again. 
 The night of his arrival, Louison, the sister, stood with 
 a brother on either hand — Octave and Florian — and 
 received him with a courtesy more stately than usual, 
 an expression of the reserve and modesty of her single 
 state. This maidenly dignity was at all times shielded 
 by the five brothers, who treated her with a constant 
 and reverential courtesy. There was something sig- 
 nally suggestive in their homage, and Medallion con- 
 cluded at last that it was paid not only to the sister but 
 to something that gave her great importance in their 
 eyes. 
 
 He puzzled long, and finally decided that Louison 
 had a romance. There was something which sug- 
 gested it in the way they said " P'tite Louison " ; in the 
 manner they avoided all gossip regarding marriages 
 and marriage-feasting ; in the way they deferred to her 
 on a question of etiquette (as, for instance, Should the 
 eldest child be given the family name of the wife or a 
 Christian name from her husband's family?). And 
 
92 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING. ^ 
 
 P'tite Louison's opinion was accented instantly as final, 
 with satisfied nods on the part of all the brothers, and 
 with whispers of " How clever ! how adorable 1 such 
 beauty ! " 
 
 P'tite Louison affected never to hear these remarks, 
 but looked complacently straight before her, stirring 
 the spoon in her cup, or benignly passing the bread and 
 butter. She was quite aware of the homage paid to 
 her, and she gracefully accepted the fact that she was 
 an object of interest. 
 
 Medallion had not the heart to laugh at the adoration 
 of the brothers, nor at the outlandish sister, for, though 
 she was angular and sallow and thin, and her hands 
 were large and red, there was a something deep in her 
 eyes, a curious quality in her carriage, commanding 
 respect. She had ruled these brothers, had been wor- 
 shipped by them, for near half a century, and the 
 romance they had kept alive had produced a gro- 
 tesque sort of truth and beauty in the admiring " P'tite 
 Louison " — an affectionate name for her greatness, like 
 " The Little Corporal " for Napoleon. She was not 
 little, either, but above the middle height, and her hair 
 was well streaked with gray. 
 
 Her manner toward Medallion was not marked by 
 any affectation. She was friendly in a kind, imper- 
 sonal way, much as a nurse cares for a patient, and she 
 never relaxed a sort of old-fashioned courtesy, which 
 might have been trying in such close quarters, were it 
 not for the real simplicity of the life and the spirit and 
 lightness of their race. One night Florian — there were 
 Florian and Octave and Felix and Isidore and Emile — 
 the eldest, drew Medallion aside from the others, and 
 they walked together by the river. Florian's air sug- 
 gested confidence and mystery, and soon, with a voice 
 
THE ROMANCE OF PTITE LOUISON 93 
 
 of hushed suggestion, he told Medallion the romance of 
 P'titc Louison. And each of the brothers at different 
 times during the next fortnight did the same, differ- 
 ing scarcely at all in details or choice of phrase or 
 meaning, and not at all in general facts and essentials. 
 But each, as he ended, made a different exclamation. 
 
 " Voilh! so sad, so wonderful ! She keeps the ring — 
 dear P'tite Louison! " said Florian, the eldest. 
 
 " Alors! she gives him a legacy in her will! Sweet 
 P'tite Louison," said Octave. 
 
 " Mais! the governor and the archbishop admire 
 her — P'tite Louison ! " said Felix, nodding confidently 
 at Medallion. 
 
 " Bien! you should see the linen and the petticoats! ** 
 said Isidore, the humorous one of the family. " He 
 was great — she was an angel — P'tite Louison! " 
 
 "Attends! what love! what history! what passion! — 
 the perfect P'tite Louison! " cried Emile, the youngest, 
 the most sentimental. "Ah, Moliere!" he added, as 
 if calling on the master to rise and sing the glories of 
 this daughter of romance. 
 
 Isidore's tale was after this fashion : 
 
 " I ver' well remember the first of it; and the last of 
 it — who can tell? He was an actor — oh, so droll, that! 
 Tall, ver' smart, and he play in theatre at Montreal. It 
 is in the winter. P'tite Louison visit Montreal. She 
 walk past the theatre and, as she go by, she slip on the 
 snow and fall. Out from a door with a jomp come 
 M'sieu* Hadrian, and pick her up. And when he see 
 the purty face of P'tite Louison, his eyes go all afire 
 and he clasp her hand to his breast. 
 
 " * Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! * he say, ' we must 
 meet again! ' 
 
 " She thank him, and hurry away quick. Next day 
 
94 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 ' H, -it 
 
 U '1 
 
 ■■*.; 
 
 we are on the river and P'tite Louison try to do the 
 Dance of the Blue Fox on the ice. While she do it, 
 some one come up swift and catch her hand, and say, 
 * Ma'm'selle, let's do it together '—like that ! It take 
 her breath away. It is M'sieu' Hadrian. He not seem 
 like the other men she know, but he have a sharp look, 
 he is smooth in the face, and he smile kind like a 
 woman. P'tite Louison, she give him her hand, and 
 they run away, and every one stop to look. It is a 
 gran' sight! M'sieu' Hadrian laugh and his teeth 
 shine, and the ladies say things of him, and he tell 
 P'tite Louison that she look ver' fine and walk like a 
 queen. I am there that day, and I see all and I th'nk 
 it dam good. I say : * That P'tite Louison, she beut 
 them all * — I am only twelve year old then. When 
 M'sieu' Hadrian leave he give her two seats for the 
 theatre, and we go. Bagosh ! that is grand thing, that 
 play, and M'sieu' Hadrian, he is a prince; and when 
 he say to his minister, * But, no, my lord, I will rnarry 
 out of my star, and where my heart go, not as the 
 State wills,' he look down at P'tite Louison, and she 
 go all red, and some of the women look at her, and 
 there is a whisper all roun'. 
 
 " Nex' day he come to the house where we stay, but 
 the Cure come also pretty soon and tell her she must 
 go home — he say an actor is not good company. 
 Never mind. And so we come out home. Well, what 
 you think? Nex' day M'sieu' Hadrian come, too, 
 and we have dam good time — Florian, Octave, Felix, 
 Emile, they all sit and say bully good to him all the 
 time. Holy, what fine stories he tell! And he talk 
 about P'tite Louison, and his eyes get wet, and Emile 
 he say his prayers to him — bagosh! yes, I think. Well, 
 at last, what you guess? M'sieu' he come and come. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF PTITE LOUISON 95 
 
 and at last one day, he say that he leave Montreal and 
 go to New York, where he get a good place in a big 
 theatre — his time in Montreal is finish. So he speak 
 to Florian and say he want to marry P'tite Louison, 
 and he say, of course, that he is not marry and he have 
 money. But he is a Protestan', and the Cure at first 
 ver' mad, bagosh ! 
 
 " But at last when he give a hunder' dollars to the 
 Church, the Cure say yes. All happy that way for 
 while. P'tite Louison, she get ready quick — saprt 
 what fine things had she! and it is all to be done in a 
 week, while the theatre in New York wait for M'sieu'. 
 He sit there with us, and play on the fiddle, and sing 
 songs, and act plays, and help Florian in the barn, and 
 Octave to mend the fence, and the Cure to fix the 
 grapevines on his wall. He show me and Emile how 
 to play sword-sticks; and he pick flowers and fetch 
 them to P'tite Louison, and teach her how to make an 
 omelette and a salad like the chef of the Louis Quinze 
 Hotel, so he say. Bagosh, what a good time we have! 
 But first one, then another, he get a choke-throat when 
 he think that P'tite Louison go to leave us, and the 
 more we try, the more we are bagosh fools. And 
 that P'tite Louison, she kiss us hevery one, and say to 
 M'sieu* Hadrian, * Charles, I love you, but I cannot 
 go! ' He laugh at her, and say: ^Voilh! we will take 
 them all with us,' and P'tite Louison she laugh. That 
 night a thing happen. The Cure come, and he look 
 ver' mad, and he frown and he say to M'sieu' Hadrian 
 before us all, * M'sieu', you are married ! ' 
 
 " Sapr^.f that P'tite Louison get pale like snow, and 
 we all Stan' roun' her close and say to her quick, 
 'Courage, P'tite Louison!' M'sieu' Hadrian then 
 look at the priest and say: * No, M'sieu', I was married 
 
1-:'^ 
 
 ^:,;i;;'' 
 
 96 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 ten years ago; my wife drink and go wrong, and I get 
 divorce. I am free like the wind.' 
 
 " * You are not free/ the Cure say quick. * Once 
 married, married till death. The Church cannot 
 marry you again, and I command Louison to give you 
 up.* 
 
 " P'tite Louison stand like stone. M'sieu' turn to 
 her. 'What shall it be, Louison?' he say. * You 
 will come with me? ' 
 
 " * Kiss me, Charles,' she say, * and tell me good-by 
 till — till you are free.' 
 
 " He look like a madman. * Kiss me once, Charles,' 
 she say, * and let me go.* 
 
 " And he come to her and kiss her on the lips once, 
 and he say: ' Louison, come with me. I will never 
 give you up.' 
 
 " She draw back to Florian. ' Good-by, Charles I ' 
 she say. * I will wait as long as you will. Mother of 
 God! how hard it is to do right! ' she say, and then she 
 turn and leave the room. 
 
 " M'sieu' Hadrian, he give a long sigh. * It was my 
 one chance,' he say. * Now the devil take it all ! * 
 Then he nod and say to the Cure : * We'll thrash this 
 out at Judgment Day, M'sieu'. I'll meet you there — 
 you and that other woman that spoiled me.* 
 
 " He turn to Floria** and the rest of us, and shake 
 hands, and say: ' Take care of Louison. Thank you. 
 Good-by ! ' Then he start toward the door, but 
 stumble, for he look sick. * Give me a drink,' he say, 
 and begin to cough a little — a queer sort of rattle. 
 Florian give him big drink, and he toss it oflf— whiflf! 
 * Thank you,' he say, and start again, and we see him 
 walk away over the hill ver' slow — an' he never come 
 back ! But every year there come from New York a 
 
 : I 
 
THE ROMANCE OF PTITE LOUISON 97 
 
 box of flowers, and every year P'tite Louison send 
 him a, * Merct, Charles^ mille fois. Dieu te garde.' It 
 is so every year for twenty-five year." 
 
 " Where is he now? " asked Medallion. 
 
 Isidore shook his head, then lifted his eyes relig- 
 iously. " Waiting for Judgment Day and P'tite 
 Louison," he answered. 
 
 " Dead! " cried Medallion. " How long? " 
 
 " Twenty year." 
 
 " But the flowers — the flowers? " 
 
 " He left word for them to be sent just the same, and 
 the money for it." 
 
 Medallion turned and took off his hat reverently as 
 if a soul were passing from the world, but it was only 
 P'tite Louison going out into the garden. 
 
 " She thinks him living? " he asked gently as he 
 watched Louison. 
 
 " Yes ; we have no heart to tell her. And then he 
 wish it so. And the flowers kep' coming." 
 
 "Why did he wish it so?" 
 
 Isidore mused a while. 
 
 "Who can tell? Perhaps a whim. He was a great 
 actor — ah, yes, sublime! " he said. 
 
 Medallion did not reply, but walked slowly down to 
 where P'tite Louison was picking berries. His hat 
 was still off. 
 
 " Let me help you, Mademoiselle," he said softly. 
 And henceforth he was as foolish as her brothers. 
 
 7 
 
TI- 
 
THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR 
 
Che 
 
 the 
 the( 
 
 wife, 
 
 dure 
 
 Tl 
 
 were 
 
 that 
 
 bled, 
 
 ediy, 
 
 offer 
 
 Al 
 
 abov 
 
 a hoi 
 
 Men 
 
 been 
 
 ward 
 
 Fc 
 
 drew 
 
 stooc 
 
 with 
 
 brow 
 
 snarl 
 
THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR 
 
 " QiACRi bapt 
 O " What 
 
 What did 
 
 he say?" asked the Little 
 Chemist, stepping from his doorway. 
 
 " He cursed his baptism," answered tall Medallion, 
 the English auctioneer, pushing his way farther into 
 the crowd. 
 
 " Ah, the pitiful vattrien! " said the Little Chemist's 
 wife, shudderingly ; for that was an oath not to be en- 
 dured by any one who called the Church mother. 
 
 The crowd that had gathered at the Four Corners 
 were greatly disturbed, for they also felt the repulsion 
 that possessed the Little Chemist's wife. They bab- 
 bled, shook their heads, and waved their hands excit- 
 edly, and swayed and craned their necks to see the 
 offender. 
 
 All at once his voice, mad with rage, was heard 
 above the rest, shouting frenziedly a curse which was 
 a horribly grotesque blasphemy upon the name of God. 
 Men who had used that oath in their insane anger had 
 been known to commit suicide out of remorse after- 
 ward. 
 
 For a moment there was a painful hush. The crowd 
 drew back involuntarily and left a clear space, in which 
 stood the blasphemer, a middle-sized, athletic fellow, 
 with black beard, thick, waving hair, and flashing 
 brown eyes. His white teeth were showing now in a 
 snarl like a dog's, his cap was on the ground, his hair 
 
Vi 
 
 I02 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 was tumbled, his hands were twitching with passion, 
 his foot was stamping with fury, and every time it 
 struck the ground a Httle silver bell rang at his knee, 
 a pretty sylvan sound, in no keeping with the scene. 
 It heightened the distress of the fellow's blasphemy and 
 ungovernable anger. For a man to curse his baptism 
 was a wicked thing ; but the other oath was not fit for 
 human ears, and horror held the crowd moveless for a 
 moment. 
 
 Then, as suddenly as the stillness came, a low, 
 threatening mumble of voices rose, and a movement 
 to close in on the man was made ; but a figure pushed 
 through the crowd, and, standing in front of the man, 
 waved the people back. It was the Cure, the beloved 
 M. Fabre, whose life had been spent among them, 
 whom they obeyed as well as they could, for they were 
 but frail humanity, after all — crude, simple folk, 
 touched with imagination. 
 
 *' Luc Pomfrettc, why have you done this? What 
 provocation had you ? " 
 
 The Cure's voice was stern and cold, his usually 
 gentle face had become severe, his soft eyes were pierc- 
 ing and determined. 
 
 The foot of the man still beat the ground angrily, 
 and the little bell kept tinkling. He was gasping with 
 passion, and he did not answer yet. 
 
 " Luc Pomfrette, what have you to say ? " asked the 
 Cure again. He motioned back Lacasse, the con- 
 stable of the parish, who had suddenly appeared with 
 a rusty rifle and a more rusty pair of handcuffs. 
 
 Still the voyageur did not answer. 
 
 The Cure glanced at Lajeunesse the blacksmith, who 
 stood near. 
 
 "There was no cause — no," said Lajeunesse, sagely 
 
THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR 103 
 
 shaking his head. " j lere stand we at the door of the 
 Louis Quinze in very good humour. Up come the 
 voyageurs, all laughing, and ahead of them is Luc 
 Pomfrette, with the little bell at his knee. Luc, he 
 laugh the same as the rest, and they stand in the door, 
 and the £!'arf on bring out the brandy — just a little, but 
 just enough too. I am talking to Henri Bcauvin. I 
 am telling him Junie Gauloir .lave run away with 
 Dicey the Protestant, when all very quick Luc push 
 between me and Henri, jump into the street, and speak 
 like that I" 
 
 Lajeunesse looked around, as if for corroboration; 
 Henri and others nodded, and some one said : 
 
 " That's true ; that's true. There was no cause." 
 
 " Maybe it was the drink," said a little hunchbacked 
 man, pushing his way in beside the Cure. " It must 
 have been the drink ; there was nothing else — no." 
 
 The speaker was Parpon the dwarf, the oddest, in 
 some ways the most foolish, in others the wisest man 
 in Pontiac. 
 
 " That is no excuse," said the Cure. 
 
 " It is the only one he has, eh ? " answered Parpon. 
 His eyes were fixed meaningly on those of Pom- 
 frette. 
 
 " It is no excuse," repeated the Cure, sternly. " The 
 blasphemy is horrible, a shame and stigma upon Pon- 
 tiac forever." He looked Pomfrette in the face. 
 " Foul-mouthed and wicked man, it is two years since 
 you took the Blessed Sacrament. Last Easter Day you 
 were in a drunken sleep while high mass was being 
 said; after the funeral of your own father you were 
 drunk again. When you went away to the woods 
 you never left a penny for candles, nor for masses to be 
 said for your father's soul ; yet you sold his horse and 
 
I04 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 his little house, and spent the money in drink. Not a 
 cent for a candle, but " 
 
 " It's a lie ! " cried Ponifrette, shaking with rage 
 from head to foot. 
 
 A long horror-stricken " Ah I " broke from the 
 crowd. 
 
 The Cure's face became graver and colder. 
 
 " You have a bad heart," he answered, " and you 
 give Pontiac an evil name. I command you to come 
 to mass next Sunday, to repent and to hear your pen- 
 ance given from the altar. For until " 
 
 " I'll go to no mass till I'm carried to it," was the 
 sullen, malevolent interruption. 
 
 The Cure turned upon the people. 
 
 " This is a blasphemer, an evil-hearted, shameless 
 man," he said. " Until he repents humbly, and bows 
 his vicious spirit to holy Church, and his heart to the 
 mercy of God, I command you to avoid him as you 
 would a plague. I command that no door be opened 
 to him ; that no one offer him comfort or friendship ; 
 that not even a toujour or a bonsoir pass between 
 you. He has blasphemed against our Father in 
 heaven; to the Church he is a leper." He turned to 
 Pomfrette. " I pray God that you have no peace in 
 mind or body till your evil life is changed, and your 
 black heart is broken by sorrow and repentance." 
 
 Then to the people he said again : " I have com- 
 manded you for your souls' sake ; see that you obey. 
 Go to your homes. Let us leave the leper — alone." 
 He waved the awed crowd back. 
 
 " Shall we take off the little bell ? " asked Lajeunesse 
 of the Cure. 
 
 Pomfrette heard, and he drew himself together, his 
 jaws shutting with ferocity, and his hand flying to the 
 
THE LITTLF: bell OF HONOUR 105 
 
 belt where his voyageur's case-knife hung. The Cure 
 (lid not sec this. Without turning his head toward 
 Tomfrctte, he said : 
 
 *' I have commanded you, my children. Leave the 
 leper alone." 
 
 Again he waved the crowd to be gone, and they scat- 
 tered, whispering to each other ; for nothing like this 
 had ever occurred in Pontiac before, nor had they ever 
 seen the Cure with this granite look in his face, nor 
 heard his voice so bitterly hard. 
 
 He did not move until he had seen them all started 
 homewards from the Four Corners. One person re- 
 mained beside him — Parpon the dwarf. 
 
 " I will not obey you, M'sieu* le Cure," said he. 
 " ni forgive him before he repents." 
 
 " You will share his sin," answered the Cure, sternly. 
 
 " No ; his punishment, m'sieu'," said the dwarf ; and 
 turning on his heel, he trotted to where Pomfrette 
 stood alone in the middle of the road, a dark, morose 
 figure, hatred and a wild trouble in his face. 
 
 Already banishment, isolation, seemed to possess 
 Pomfrette, to surround him with loneliness. The very 
 effort he made to be defiant of his fate appeared to 
 make him still more solitary. All at once he thrust a 
 hand inside his red shirt, and, giving a jerk which 
 broke a string tied round his neck, he drew forth a little 
 pad, a flat bag of silk, called an Agnus Dei, worn as a 
 protection and a blessing by the pious, and threw it on 
 the ground. Another little parcel he drew from his 
 belt, and ground it into the dirt with his heel. It 
 contained a woman's hair. Then, muttering, his hands 
 still twitching with savage feeling, he picked up his 
 cap, covered with dirt, put it on, and passed away down 
 the road toward the river, the little bell tinkling as he 
 
 1 t 
 
io6 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 1 1 
 
 went. Those who heard it had a strange feeUng, for 
 already to them the man v/as as if he had some baleful 
 disease, and this little bell told of the passing of a leper. 
 
 Yet some one man had worn just such a bell every 
 year in Pontiac. It was the mark of honour conferred 
 upon a voyageur by his fellows, the token of his 
 prowess and his skill. This year Luc Pomfrette had 
 won it, and that very day it had been buckled round 
 his leg with songs and toasts. 
 
 For hours Pomfrette walked incessantly up and 
 down the river-bank, muttering and gesticulating, but 
 at last came quietly to the cottage which he shared 
 with Henri Beauvin. Henri had removed himself and 
 his belongings : already the ostracizing had begun. He 
 went to the bedroom of old Mme. Burgoyne, his cou- 
 sin ; she also was gone. He went to a little outhouse 
 and called. 
 
 For reply there was a scratching at the door. He 
 opened it, and a dog leaped out and upon him. With 
 a fierce fondness he snatched at the dog's collar, and 
 drew the shaggy head to his knee; then as suddenly 
 shoved him away with a smothered oath, and going 
 into the house, shut the door. He sat down in a chair 
 in the middle of the room, and scarcely stirred for half 
 an hour. At last, with a passionate jerk of the head, 
 he got to his feet, looking about the room in a half- 
 distracted way. Outside, the dog kept running round 
 and round the house, silent, watchful, waiting for the 
 door to open. 
 
 As time went by, Luc became quieter, but the look 
 of his face was more desolate. At last he almost ran 
 to the door, threw it open, and called. The dog sprang 
 into the room, went straight to the fireplace, lay 
 down, and with tongue lolling and body panting 
 
THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR 107 
 
 looked at Pomfrette with blinking, uncomprehending 
 eyes. 
 
 Pomfrette went to a cupboard, brought back a bone 
 well covered with meat, and gave it to the dog, which 
 snatched it and began gnawing it, now and again stop- 
 ping to look up at his master, as one might look at a 
 mountain moving, be aware of something singular, yet 
 not grasp the significance of the phenomenon. At last, 
 worn out, Pomfrette threw himself on his bed, and fell 
 into a sound sleep. When he awoke it was far into the 
 morning. He lighted a fire in the kitchen, got a 
 " spider," fried himself a piece of pork, and made some 
 tea. There was no milk in the cupboard, so he took 
 a pitcher and walked down the road a few rods to the 
 next house, where lived the village milkman. He 
 knocked, and the door was opened by the milkman's 
 wife. A frightened look came upon her when she saw 
 who it was. 
 
 " Non, non," she said, and shut the door in his face. 
 
 He stared blankly at the door for a moment, then 
 turned round and stood looking down into the road, 
 with the pitcher in his hand. The milkman's little 
 boy, Maxime, came running round the corner of the 
 house. 
 
 " Maxime! " he said involuntarily and half eagerly, 
 for he and the lad had been great friends. 
 
 Maxime's face brightened, then became clouded ; he 
 stood still an instant, and presently, turning round and 
 looking at Pomfrette askance, ran away behind the 
 house, saying, " Non, non! " 
 
 Pomfrette drew his rough knuckles across his fore- 
 head in a dazed way; then, as the significance of the 
 thing came home to him, he broke out with a fierce 
 oath, and strode away down the yard and i^ .0 the road. 
 
 I ^ 
 
I08 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 On the way to his house he met Duclosse the mealman 
 and Garotte the Hme-bumer. He wondered what they 
 would do. He could see the fat, wheezy Duclosse hesi- 
 tate, but the arid, alert Garotte had determination in 
 every motion and look. They came nearer ; they were 
 about to pass ; there was no sign. 
 
 Pomfrette stopped short. " Good day, lime-burner ; 
 good day, Duclosse," he said, looking straight at them. 
 
 Garotte made no reply, but walked straight on. 
 Pomfrette stepped swiftly in front of the mealman. 
 There was fury in his face — fury and danger ; his hair 
 was disordered, his eyes afire. 
 
 " Good-day, mealman," he said, and waited. 
 
 " Duclosse," called Garotte, warningly, " remem- 
 ber ! " 
 
 Duclosse's knees shook, and his face became mottled 
 like a piece of soap ; he pushed his fingers into his shirt 
 and touched the Agnus Dei that he carried there. That 
 and Garotte's words gave him courage. He scarcely 
 knew what he said, but it had meaning. 
 
 " Good-by — leper," he answered. 
 
 Pomfrette's arm flew out to throw the pitcher at the 
 mealman's head, but Duclosse, with a grunt of terror, 
 flung up in front of his face the small bag of meal that 
 he carried, the contents pouring over his waistcoat 
 from a loose corner. The picture was so ludicrous that 
 Pomfrette laughed with a devilish humour, and flinging 
 the pitcher at the bag, he walked away toward his own 
 house. Duclosse, pale and frightened, stepped from 
 among the fragments of crockery, and with backward 
 glances toward Pomfrette joined his comrade. 
 
 " Lime-burner," he said, sitting down on the bag of 
 meal, and mechanically twisting tight the loose, leak- 
 ing corner, " the devil's in that leper." 
 
THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR 109 
 
 " He was a good enough fellow once," answered 
 Garotte, watching Pomfrette. 
 
 " I drank with him at five o'clock yesterday," said 
 Duclosse, philosophically. " He was fit for any com- 
 pany then ; now he's fit for none." 
 
 Garotte looked wise. " Mealman," said he, " it 
 takes years to make folks love you ; you can make 
 them hate you in an hour. La! La! it's easier to hate 
 than to love. Come along, M'sieu' dusty-belly." 
 
 Pomfrette's life in Pontiac went on as it began that 
 day. Not once a day, and sometimes not once in 
 twenty days, did any human being speak to him. The 
 village baker would not sell him bread ; his groceries 
 he had to buy from the neighbouring parishes, for the 
 grocer's flighty wife called for the constable when he 
 entered the bake-shop of Pontiac. He had to bake 
 his own bread, and do his own cooking, washing, 
 cleaning, and gardening. Plis hair grew long and his 
 clothes became shabbier. At last, when he needed a 
 new suit, — so torn had his others become at wood- 
 chopping and many kinds of work — he went to the 
 village tailor, and was promptly told that nothing but 
 Luc Pomfrette's grave-clothes would be cut and made 
 in that house. 
 
 When he walked down to the Four Corners the 
 street emptied at once, and the lonely man with the 
 tinkling bell of honour at his knee felt the whole world 
 falling away from sight and touch and sound of him. 
 Once when he went into the Louis Quinze every mar. 
 present stole away in silence, and the landlord himself, 
 without a word, turned and left the bar. At *hat, with 
 a hoarse laugh, Pomfrette poured out a glass of brandy, 
 drank it off, and left a shilling on the counter. The 
 next morning he found the shilling, wrapped in a piece 
 
 . i 
 
no THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 of paper, just inside his door; it had been pushed 
 underneath. On the paper was written, " It is cursed." 
 Presently his dog died, and the day afterward he sud- 
 denly disappeared from Pontiac, and wandered on to 
 Ste. Gabrielle, Ribeaux, and Ville Bambord. But his 
 shame had gone before him, and people shunned him 
 everywhere, even the roughest. No one who knew 
 him would shelter him. He slept in barns and in the 
 woods until the winter came and snow lay thick upon 
 the ground. Thin and haggard, and with nothing left 
 of his old self but his deep brown eyes and curling hair, 
 and his unhappy name and fame, he turned back again 
 to Pontiac. His spirit was sullen and hard, his heart 
 closed against repentance. Had not the Church and 
 Pontiac and the world punished him beyond his deserts 
 for a moment's madness brought on by a great shock ! 
 
 II 
 
 One bright, sunshiny day of early winter, he trudged 
 through the snow-banked street of Pontiac back to his 
 home. Men he once knew well, and had worked with, 
 passed him in a sled on their way to the great shanty 
 in the backwoods. They halted in their singing for a 
 moment when they saw him ; then, turning their heads 
 from him, dashed oflf, carolling lustily : 
 
 " Ah, ah, Babette, 
 
 We go away ; 
 But we will come 
 
 Again, Babette,— 
 Again back home, 
 
 On Easter Day, — 
 Back home to play 
 
 On Easter Day, 
 Babette! Babette!" 
 
THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR iii 
 
 " Babette ! Babette ! " The words followed him, 
 ringing in his ears long after the men had become a 
 mere fading point in the white horizon behind him. 
 This was not the same world that he had known, not 
 the same Pontiac. Suddenly he stopped short in the 
 road. 
 
 " Curse them ! Curse them ! Curse them all ! " he 
 cried in a cracked, strange voice. A woman hurrying 
 across the street heard him, and went the faster, shut- 
 ting her ears. A little boy stood still and looked at 
 him in wonder. Everything he saw maddened him. 
 He turned sharp around and hurried to the Louis 
 Quinze. Throwing open the door, he stepped inside. 
 Half a dozen men were there with the landlord. When 
 they saw him, they started, confused and dismayed. 
 He stood still for a moment, looking at them with 
 glowering brows. 
 
 " Good day ! " he said. " How are you ? " 
 
 No one answered. A little apart from the others sat 
 Medallion the auctioneer. He was a Protestant, and 
 the curse on his baptism uttered by Pomfrette was not 
 so heinous in his sight. For the other oath, it was 
 another matter. Still, he was sorry for the man. In 
 any case, it was not his cue to interfere, and Luc was 
 being punished according to his bringing up and to the 
 standards familiar to him. Medallion had never re- 
 fused to speak to him, but he had done nothing more. 
 There was no reason why he should provoke the en- 
 mity of the parish unnecessarily ; and up to this point 
 Pomfrette had shifted for himself after a fashion, if a 
 hard fashion. 
 
 With a bitter laugh, Pomfrette turned to the little 
 bar. 
 
 " Brandy ! " he said ; " brandy, my Bourienne ! " 
 
112 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 The landlord shrugged his shoulder, and looked the 
 other way. 
 
 " Brandy ! " he repeated. Still there was no sign. 
 
 There was a wicked look in his face, from which the 
 landlord shrank back — shrank so far that he carried 
 himself among the others, and stood there, half fright- 
 ened, half dumfounded. 
 
 Pomfrette pulled out a greasy dollar bill from his 
 pocket — the last he owned in the world — and threw it 
 on the counter. Then he reached over, caught up a 
 brandy-bottle from the shelf, knocked of¥ the neck with 
 a knife, and, pouring a tumblerful, drank it off at a 
 gasp. 
 
 His head came up, his shoulders straightened out, his 
 eyes snapped fire. He laughed aloud, a sardonic, wild, 
 coarse laugh, and he shivered once or twice violently, 
 in spite of the brandy he had drunk. 
 
 " You won't speak to me, eh ? Won't you ? Curse 
 you ! Pass me on the other side — so ! Look at me. 
 I am the worst man in the world, eh ? Judas is noth- 
 ing — no ! Ack ! What are you, to turn your back on 
 me? Listen to me! You, there, Muroc, with your 
 charcoal face, who was it walk thirty miles in the dead 
 of winter to bring a doctor to your wife, eh ? She die, 
 but that is no matter. Who was it ? It was Luc Pom- 
 frette. You, Alphonse Durien, who was it drag you 
 out of the bog at the Cote Chaudiere? It was Luc 
 Pomfrette. You, Jacques Baby, who was it that lied 
 for you to the Protestant girl at Faribeau? Just Luc 
 Pomfrette. You two, Jean and Nicolas Mariban, who 
 was it lent you a hundred dollars when you lost all 
 your money at cards ? Ha, ha, ha ! Only that beast 
 Luc Pomfrette ! Mother of heaven ! such a beast is 
 he — eh, Limon Rouge ? — such a beast that used to give 
 
THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR 113 
 
 your Victorine little silver things, and feed her with 
 bread and sugar and buttermilk pop. Ah, my dear 
 Limon Rouge, how is it all different now ! " 
 
 He raised the bottle and drank long from the ragged 
 neck. When he took it away from his mouth not 
 much more than half remained in the quart bottle. 
 Blood was dripping upon his beard from a cut on his 
 lip, and from there to the ground. 
 
 " And you, M'sieu' Bourienne ! " he cried hoarsely. 
 " Do I not remember that dear M'sieu' Bourienne, 
 when he beg me to leave Pontiac for a little while that 
 I do not give evidence in court against him ? Eh bicn! 
 you all walk by me now, as if I was the father of small- 
 pox, and not Luc Pomfrette — only Luc Pomfrette, 
 who spits at every one of you for a pack of cowards and 
 hypocrites." 
 
 He thrust the bottle inside his coat, went to the door, 
 flung it open with a bang, and strode out into the 
 street, muttering as he went. As the landlord came to 
 close the door Medallion said : 
 
 " The leper has a memory, my friends." Then he 
 also walked out, and went to his office depressed, for 
 the face of the man haunted him. 
 
 Pomfrette reached his deserted, cheerless house. 
 There was not a stick of fire-wood in the shed, not a 
 thing to eat or drink in cellar or cupboard. The door 
 of the shed at the back was open, and the dog-chains 
 lay covered with frost and half embedded in mud. 
 With a shiver of misery Pomfrette raised the brandy to 
 his mouth, drank every drop, and threw the bottle on 
 the floor. Then he went to the front door, opened it, 
 and stepped outside. His foot slipped, and he tumbled 
 head forward into the snow. Once or twice he half 
 
114 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 i I 
 
 raised himself, but fell back again, and presently lay- 
 still. The frost caught his ears and iced them ; it be- 
 gan to creep over his cheeks ; it made his fingers white, 
 like a leper's. 
 
 He would soon have stiffened forever had not Par- 
 pon the dwarf, passing along the road, seen the open 
 door and the sprawling body, and come and drawn 
 Pomfrette inside the house. He rubbed the face and 
 hands and ears of the unconscious man with snow till 
 the whiteness disappeared, and taking off the boots, 
 did the same with the toes; after which he drew the 
 body to a piece of rag carpet beside the stove, threw 
 some blankets over it, and, hurrying out, cut up some 
 fence rails, and soon had a fire going in the stove. 
 
 Then he trotted out of the house and away to the 
 Little Chemist, who came passively with him. All that 
 day, and for many days, they fought to save Pom- 
 frette's life. The Cure came also, but Pomfrette was 
 in fever and delirium. Yet the good M. Fabre's pres- 
 ence, as it ever did, gave an air of calm and comfort to 
 the place. Parpon's hands alone cared for the house ; 
 he did all that was to be done ; no woman had entered 
 the place since Pomfrette's cousin, old Mme. Bur- 
 goyne, left it on the day of his shame. 
 
 When at last Pomfrette opened his. eyes, and saw the 
 Cure standing beside him, he turned his face to the 
 wall, and to the exhortation addressed to him he an- 
 swered nothing. At last the Cure left him, and came 
 no more, and he bade Parpon do the same as soon as 
 Pomfrette was able to leave his bed. 
 
 But Parpon did as he willed. He had been in Pon- 
 tiac only a few days since the painful business in front 
 of the Louis Quinze. Where he had been and what 
 doing no one asked, for he was mysterious in his move- 
 
 t,< 
 
THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR 115 
 
 ments, and always uncommunicative, and people did 
 not care to tempt his inhospitable tongue. When Pom- 
 frette was so far recovered that he might be left alone, 
 Parpon said to him one evening : 
 
 " Pomfrette, you must go to mass next Sunday/' 
 
 " I said I wouldn't go till I was carried there, and I 
 mean it — that's so," was the morose reply. 
 
 " What made you curse like that — so damnable ? " 
 asked Parpon, furtively. 
 
 " That's my own business. It doesn't matter to any- 
 body but me." 
 
 " And you said the Cure lied — the good M'sieu' 
 Fabre — him like a saint." 
 
 " I said he lied, and I'd say it again, and tell the 
 truth." 
 
 " But if you went to mass, and took your penance, 
 and •" 
 
 " Yes, I know ; they'd forgive me, and I'd get absolu- 
 tion, and they'd all speak to me again, and it would be, 
 ' Good day, Luc,' and * Very good, Luc,' and ' What a 
 gay heart has Luc, the good fellow!' Ah, I know. 
 They curse in the heart when the whole world go 
 wrong for them ; no one hears. I curse out loud. I'm 
 not a hypocrite, and no one thinks me fit to live. Ack ! 
 what is the good ? " 
 
 Parpon did not respond at once. At last, dropping 
 his chin in his hand and his elbow on his knee, as he 
 squatted on the table, he .-aid : 
 
 " But if the girl got sorry " 
 
 For a time there was no sound save the whirring of 
 the fire in the stove and the hard breathing of the sick 
 man. His eyes were staring hard at Parpon. At last 
 he said slowly and fiercely : 
 
 "What do you know?" 
 
ii6 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 ** What others might l<novv if they had eyes and 
 sense ; hut they haven't. What would you do if that 
 Junie come hack ? " 
 
 " I would kill her ! " His look was murderous. 
 
 " l^ih ! you would kiss her first, just the same." 
 
 " What of that ? I would kiss her hecause — hccause 
 llicre is no face like hers in the world ; and I'd kill her 
 for her had heart, and hecause 1 hate her bad heart." 
 
 "Wliatdidshedo?" 
 
 Pomfrette's hands clinched. 
 
 " What is in my own noddle, and not for any one 
 else," he answered sulkily. 
 
 '* Ticns! ticns! what a close mouth ! What did she do? 
 Who knows ? What you tJn)ik she do, it's this. You 
 think she j>retcnds to love you, and you leave all your 
 money with her. She is to buy masses for your father's 
 soul ; she is to pay money to the Cure for the good of 
 the Cluirch ; she is to buy a little here, a little there, for 
 the house you and she are going to live in, the wedding 
 and the dancing over. Very well. Ah, my Pomfrettc, 
 what is the end you think ? She run away with Dicey 
 the Protestant, and take your money with her. Eh, is 
 that so ? " 
 
 For answer there came a sob, and then a terrible 
 burst of weeping and anger and passionate denuncia- 
 tions — against Junie Gauloir, against Pontiac, against 
 the world. 
 
 Parpon held his peace. 
 
 The days, weeks, and months went by, and the 
 months stretched to three years. 
 
 In all that time Pomfrette came and went through 
 Pontiac, shunned and unrepentant. His silent, gloomy 
 endurance w^as almost an aflfront to Pontiac ; and if the 
 wiser ones, the Cure, the Avocat, the Little Chemist, 
 
THE LTTTLE BELL OF HONOUR 117 
 
 nnd Medallion, were more sorry than offended, they 
 stood aloof till the man should in some manner redeem 
 himself, and repent of his horrid blasphemy. But one 
 person persistently defied church and people, Cure 
 and voyageur. Tarpon openly and boldly walked with 
 Pomfrctte, talked with him, and occasionally visited 
 his house. 
 
 Luc made hard shifts to live. He grew everything 
 that he ate, vegetables and grains. I'arpon showed 
 him how to make his own flour in primitive fashion, 
 for no miller in any parish near would sell him flour, nor 
 had he money to buy it, nor would any one who knew 
 him give him work. And after his return to Pontiac 
 he never asked for it. His mood was defiant, morbid, 
 stern. His wood he chopped from the common 
 known as No-Man's-Land. His clothes he made him- 
 self out of the skins of deer that he shot ; when his pow- 
 der and shot gave out he killed the deer with bow and 
 arrow. 
 
 HI 
 
 The end came at last. Luc was taken ill. For four 
 days, all alone, he lay burning with fever and inflamma- 
 tion, and when Parpon found him he was almost dead. 
 Then began a fight for life again, in which Parpon was 
 the only physician ; for Pomfrctte would not allow the 
 Little Chemist or a doctor near him. Parpon at last 
 gave up hope ; but one night, when he came back from 
 the village, he saw, to his joy, old Mme. Degardy 
 (" Crazy Joan " she was called) sitting by Pomfrette's 
 bedside. He did not disturb her, for she had no love 
 for him, and he waited till she had gone. When he 
 came into the room again he found Pomfrctte in a 
 
 I'ti 
 
,^ _. 
 
 ii8 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 sweet sleep, and a jittr of tincture, with a little tin cup, 
 placed by the bed. Time and again he had sent for 
 Mnie. Dcgardy, but she would not come. She had 
 answered that the dear Luc could go to the devil for all 
 of her; he'd find better company there than in Pontiac. 
 
 But for a whim, perhaps, she had come at last with- 
 out asking, and as a consequence Luc returned to the 
 world a mere bundle of hones. 
 
 It was still while he was only a bundle of bones that 
 one Sunday morning Parpon, without a word, lifted 
 him up in his arms and carried him out of the house. 
 Pomfrctte did not speak at first : it seemed scarcely 
 worth while ; he was so weak he did not care. 
 
 "Where are you going?" he said at last, as they 
 came well into the village. The bell in St. Saviour's 
 had stopped ringing for mass, and the streets were 
 almost empty. 
 
 " I'm taking you to mass," said Parpon, puffing 
 under his load, for Pomfrettc made an ungainly bur- 
 den 
 
 " Hand of a little devil, no ! " cried Pomfrette, 
 startled. " I said I'd never go to mass again, and I 
 never will." 
 
 *' You said you'd never go to mass till you were car- 
 ried ; so it's all right." 
 
 Once or twice Pomfrette struggled, but Parpon held 
 him tight, saying : 
 
 " It's no use ; you must come ; we've had enough. 
 Besides " 
 
 " Besides what ? " asked Pomfrette, faintly. 
 
 " Never mind," answered Parpon. 
 
 At a word from Parpon the shrivelled old sexton 
 cleared a way through the aisle, making a stir, through 
 which the silver bell at Pomfrette's knee tinkled, in 
 
THE LITTLE BELL OE HONOUR 119 
 
 answer, as it were, to the tinkling of the acolyte's bell 
 in tlie sanctuary. People turned at the sound, women 
 stopped telling their heads, some of the choir forgot 
 their chanting. A strange feeling passed through the 
 church, and reached and startled the Cure as he re- 
 cited the mass. He turner round and saw Parpon 
 laying Pomfrctte down at the chancel steps. His 
 voice shook a little as he intoned the sacred ritual, and 
 as he raised the sacred elements tears rolled down his 
 cheeks. 
 
 , as they 
 Saviour's 
 2ets were 
 
 1, puffing 
 linly bur- 
 
 omfrette, 
 .in, and I 
 
 were car- 
 
 rpon held 
 
 enough. 
 
 Id sexton 
 •, through 
 inkieu, in 
 
 From a distant corner of the gallery a deeply veiled 
 woman also looked down at Pomfrctte, and her hand 
 trembled on the desk before her. 
 
 At last the Cure came forward to the chancel steps. 
 
 " What is it, Parpon ? " he asked gravely. 
 
 " It is Luc Pomfrctte, m'sicu' le Cure." Pomfrette's 
 eyes were closed. 
 
 " He swore that he would never come to mass 
 again," answered the good priest. 
 
 " Till he was carried, m'sieu' le Cure — and Eve car- 
 ried him." 
 
 " Did you come of your own free will, and with a 
 repentant heart, Luc Pomfrctte? " asked the Cure. 
 
 " I did not know I was coming — no." Pomfrette's 
 brown eyes met the priest's unflinchingly. 
 
 " You have defied God, and yet he has spared your 
 life." 
 
 " Ed rather have died," answered the sick man, 
 simply. 
 
 " Died, and been cast to perdition ! " 
 
 " Em used to that ; Eve had a bad time here in 
 Pontiac." 
 
 His thin hands moved restlessly. His leg moved, 
 
 , i 
 
-~K~- 
 
 120 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 and the little bell tinkled — the bell that had been like 
 the bell of a leper these years past. 
 
 " But you live, and you have years yet before you, 
 in the providence of God. Luc Pomfrette, you blas- 
 phemed against your baptism, and horribly against 
 God himself. Luc " — his voice got softer — " I knew 
 your mother, and she was almost too weak to hold 
 you when you were baptized, for you made a great 
 to-do about coming into the world. She had a face 
 like a saint — so sweet, so patient. You were her only 
 child, and your baptism was more to her than her 
 marriage even, or any other thing in this world. The 
 day after your baptism she died. What do you think 
 were her last words ? " 
 
 There was a hectic flush on Pomfrette's face, and his 
 eyes were intense and burning as they looked up 
 fixedly at the Cure. 
 
 " I can't think any more," answered Pomfrette, 
 slowly. " I've no head." 
 
 " What she said is for your heart, not for your head, 
 Luc," rejoined the Cure, gently. " She wandered in 
 her mind, and at the last she raised herself up in her 
 bed, and lifting her finger like this " — he made the 
 gesture of benediction — " she st^'^x, ' Luc Micliee, I 
 baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, 
 and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.' Then she whis- 
 pered softly : * God bless my dear Luc Michee ! Holy 
 Mother, pray for him ! ' These were her last words, 
 and I took you from her arms. What have you to 
 say, Luc Michee ? " 
 
 The woman in the gallery was weeping . 'lently be- 
 hind her thick veil, and her worn hand clu.ched the 
 desk in front of her convulsively. Presently she arose 
 and made her way down the stair, almost unnoticed. 
 
«* 
 
 THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR 121 
 
 Two or three times Luc tried to speak, but could not. 
 
 " Lift me up ! " he said brokenly, at last. 
 
 Parpon and the Little Chemist raised him to his 
 feet, and held him, his shaking hands resting on their 
 shoulders, his lank body tottering above and between 
 them. 
 
 Looking at the congregation, he said slowly: " I'll 
 suffer till I die for cursing my baptism, and God will 
 twist my neck in purgatory for " 
 
 " Luc," the Cure interrupted, " say that you repent." 
 
 " I'm sorry, and I ask you all to forgive me, and I'll 
 
 confess to the Cure, and take my penance, and " 
 
 he paused, for breathing hurt him. 
 
 At that moment the woman in black who had been 
 in the gallery came quickly forward. Parpon saw 
 her, frowned, and waved her back ; but she came on. 
 At the chancel steps she raised her veil, and a mur- 
 mur of recognition and wonder ran through the 
 church. Pomfrette's £ace was pitiful to see — drawn, 
 staring. 
 
 " Junie Gauloir ! " he said hoarsely. 
 
 Her eyes were red with weeping, her face was very 
 pale. 
 
 " M'sieu' le Cure," she said, " you must listen to 
 me " — the Cure's face had become forbidding — 
 " sinner thougji I am. You want to be just, don't you ? 
 Ah, listen ! I was to be married to Luc Pomfrette, but 
 I did not love him — then. He had loved me for years, 
 and his father and my father wished it — as you know, 
 m'sieu' le Cure. So after a while I said I would; but 
 I begged him that he wouldn't say anything about it 
 till he come back from his next journey on the river. 
 I did not love him enough — then. He left all his 
 money with me : some to pay for Masses for his father's 
 
 « 
 
 ;i I 
 
122 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 VH 
 
 !i' 
 
 soul, some to buy things for — for our home, and the 
 rest to keep till he came back." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Pomfrette, his eyes fixed painfully 
 on her face ; " yes, yes ! " 
 
 " The day after Luc went away John Dicey the 
 Protestant come to me. Pd always liked him ; he could 
 talk as Luc couldn't, and it sounded nice. I listened 
 and listened. He knew about Luc and about the 
 money and all. Then he talked to me. I was all wild 
 in the head, and things went round and round, and oh, 
 how I hated to marry Luc — then ! So after he had 
 talked a long while I said yes, I would go with him and 
 marry him — a Protestant; for I loved him. I don't 
 know why or how." 
 
 Pomfrette trembled so that Parpon and the Little 
 Chemist made him sit down, and he leaned against 
 their shoulders, while Junie went on. 
 
 " I gave him Luc's money to go and give to Parpon 
 here, for I was too ashamed to go myself. And I wrote 
 a little note to Luc, and sent it with the money. I be- 
 lieved in John Dicey, of course. He came back, and 
 said that he had seen Parpon and had done it all right ; 
 then we went away to Montreal and got married. The 
 very first day at Montreal I found out that he had Luc's 
 money. It was awful ; I went mad, and he got angry 
 and left me alone, and didn't come back. A week after- 
 wards he was killed, and I didn't knew it for a long 
 time. But I began to work, for I wanted to pay back 
 Luc's money. It was very slow, and I worked hard. 
 Will it never be finished? I say. At last Parpon find 
 me, and I tell him all — all except that John Dicey was 
 dead, and I did not know that. I made him promise 
 to tell nobody, but he knows all about my life since 
 then. Then I find out one day that John Dicey is dead, 
 
THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR 123 
 
 )icey the 
 he could 
 [ listened 
 bout the 
 LS all wild 
 1, and oh, 
 ;r he had 
 1 him and 
 I don't 
 
 the Little 
 ;d against 
 
 to Parpon 
 id I wrote 
 ey. I be- 
 back, and 
 all right ; 
 bed. The 
 had Luc's 
 got angry 
 ^^eek after- 
 for a long 
 3 pay back 
 rked hard, 
 arpon find 
 Dicey was 
 m promise 
 yr life since 
 ;ey is dead, 
 
 and I get from tht gover'ment a hundred dollars of the 
 money he stole. It was found on him when he was 
 killed. I work for six months longer, and now I come 
 back — with Luc's money." 
 
 She drew from her pocket a packet of notes, and put 
 it in Luc's hands. He took it dazedly, then dropped it, 
 and the Little Chemist picked it up; he had no pre- 
 scription like that in his pharmacopoeia. 
 
 " That's how I've lived," she said, and she handed a 
 letter to the Cure. 
 
 It was from a priest in Montreal, setting forth the 
 history of her career in that city, her repentance for 
 her elopement and the sin of marrying a Protestant, 
 and her good life. She had wished to do her penance in 
 Pontiac, and it remained to m'sieu' le Cure to set it. 
 The Cure's face relaxed, and a rare gentleness came 
 into it. 
 
 He read the letter aloud. Luc once more struggled 
 to his feet, eagerly listening. 
 
 " You did not love Luc "^ " the Cure asked Junie, 
 meaningly. 
 
 " I did not love Luc — then," she answered, a flush 
 going over her face. 
 
 '' You loved Junie ? " the Cure said to Pomfrette. 
 
 " I could have killed her, but I've always loved 
 her," answered Luc. Then he raised his voice ex- 
 citedly. " I love her, love her, love her— but what's 
 the good ! She'd never 've been happy with me. Look 
 what my love drove her to! What's the good, at 
 all ! " 
 
 " She said she did not love you then, Luc Michee," 
 said Parpon, interrupting. " Luc Michee, you're a 
 fool as well as a sinner. Speak up, Junie." 
 
 used to tell him that I didn't love him ; I only 
 
 " T 
 
124 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 liked him. I was honest. Well, I am honest still. I 
 love him now." 
 
 A sound of joy broke from Luc's lips, and he 
 stretched out his arms to her, but the Cure stopped 
 that. 
 
 " Not here," he said. " Your sins must first be con- 
 sidered. For penance — " He paused, looking at the 
 two sad yet happy beings before him. The deep knowl- 
 edge of life that was in him impelled him to continue 
 gently : 
 
 " For penance you shall bear the remembrance of 
 each other's sins. And now to God the Father " 
 
 He turned toward the altar, and raised his hands in 
 the ascription. 
 
 As he knelt to pray before he entered the pulpit, he 
 heard the tinkling of the little bell of honour at the 
 knee of Luc, as Junie and Parpon helped him from 
 the church. 
 
A SON OF THE WILDERNESS 
 
i.!:, - \ 
 
 I 
 
 be< 
 tor 
 
 thr 
 
 ad 
 
 the 
 
 ap 
 
 anc 
 
 'B; 
 
 it t 
 
 'B 
 
 the 
 
 thr 
 
 kin 
 
 wil 
 
 anc 
 
 my 
 
 the 
 ma: 
 goi 
 eye 
 
A SON OF THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 RACHETTE told the story to Medallion and the 
 Little Chemist's wife on Sunday after Mass, and 
 because he was vain of his English he forsook his own 
 tongue and paid tribute to the Anglo-Saxon. 
 
 " Ah, she was so purty, that Norinne, when she drive 
 through the parishes all twelve days, after the wedding, 
 a dance every night, and her eyes and cheeks on fire all 
 the time. And Bargon, bagosli ! that Bargon, he have 
 a pair of shoulders like a wall, and five hunder' dollars 
 and a horse and wagon. Bagosh ! I say that time, 
 
 * Bargon he have put a belt round the world and buckle 
 it tight to him — all right, ver' good.' I say to him: 
 
 * Bargon, what you do when you get ver' rich out on 
 the Souris River in the prairie west ? * He laugh and 
 throw up his hands, for he have not many words any 
 kind. And the damn little dwarf Parpon, he say : * He 
 will have flowers on the table and ice on the butter, 
 and a wheel in his head.' 
 
 " And Bargon laugh and say : * I will have plenty for 
 my friends to eat and drink and a ver' fine time.* 
 
 " ' Good ! ' we all say—' Bagosh ! ' 
 
 " So they make the trip through twelve parish, and 
 the fiddles go all the time, and I am what you say best 
 man with Bargon. I go all the time, and Lucette Dar- 
 gois, she go with me and her brother — holy! what an 
 eye had she in her head, that Lucette ! As we go we 
 
**«ll 
 
 128 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 sing a song all right, and there is no one sing so better 
 as Norinne : 
 
 '* ' C'est la belle Frangoise, 
 
 Allons gai ! 
 C'est la belle Fran9oise, 
 Qui veut se marier, 
 
 Ma luron lurette ! 
 Qui veut se marier, 
 
 Ma luron lure ! * 
 
 " Vcr' good, bagosh ! Norinne and Bargon they go 
 out to the Souris, and Bargon have a hunder' acre, and 
 he put up a house and a shed not ver' big, and he carry 
 his head high and his shoulders like a wall ; yes, yes. 
 First year it is pretty good time, and Norinne's cheeks 
 — ah, like an apple they. Bimeby a baby laugh up at 
 Bargon from Norinne's lap. I am on the Souris at a 
 sawmill then, and on Sunday sometime I go up to see 
 Bargon and Norinne. I t'ink that baby is so damn 
 funny ; I laugh and pinch his nose ; his name is Marie, 
 and I say I "marry him pretty quick some day. We have 
 plenty hot cake, and beans and pork, and a little how- 
 you-are from a jar behin' the door. 
 
 " Next year it is not so good. There is a bad crop 
 and hard times, and Bargon he owe two hunJer' dollar, 
 and he pay int'rest. Norinne, she do all the work, and 
 that little Marie, there is damn funny in him, and No- 
 rinne, she keep go, go, all the time, early and late, and 
 she get ver' thin and quiet. So I go up from the mill 
 more times, and I bring fol-lols for that Marie, for you 
 know I said I go to marry him some day. And when I 
 see how Bargon shoulders stoop and his eye get dull, 
 and there is nothing in the jar behin' the door, I fetch 
 a horn with me, and my fiddle, and, bagosh ! there is 
 happy sit-you-down. I make Bargon sing * La Belle 
 
 M 
 
A SON OF THE WILDERNESS 129 
 
 Frangoise,' and then just before I go I make them 
 laugh, for I stand by the cradle and I sing to that 
 Marie : 
 
 " ' Adieu, belle Fran9oise ; 
 
 AUons gai ! 
 Adieu, belle Frangoise ' 
 Moi, je te marierai, 
 
 Ma luron lurette 
 Moi, je te marierai, 
 
 Ma luron lure ! ' 
 
 " So ; and another year it go along, and Bargon he 
 know that if there come bad crop it is good-bye-my- 
 lovcr with himse'ves. He owe two hunder' and fifty 
 dollar. It is the spring at Easter, and I go up to him 
 and Norinne, for there is no Mass, and Pontiac is too 
 far away off. We stan' at the door and look out, and 
 all the prairie is green, and the sun stan* up high like a 
 light on a pole, and the birds fly by ver' busy looking 
 for the summer and the prairie-flower. 
 
 " ' Bargon,' I say — and I give him a horn of old rye 
 — * here's to le bon Dieu ! ' 
 
 " * Le bon Dieu, and a good harvest ! ' he say. 
 
 " I hear some one give a long breath behin', and I 
 look round ; but, no ! it is Norinne with a smile — for 
 she never grumble — bagosh ! What purty eyes she 
 have in her head ! She have that Marie in her arms, 
 and I say to Bargon it is like the Madonna in the Notre 
 Dame at Montreal. He nod his head. * C'est le bon 
 Dieu — it is the good God,' he say. 
 
 " Before I go I take a piece of palm — it come from 
 the Notre Dame ; it is all bless by the Pope — and I nail 
 it to the door of the house. * For luck,' I say. Then I 
 laugh, and I speak out to the prairie : * Come along, 
 good summer ; come along, good crop ; come two hun- 
 
 9 
 
I30 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 clcr' and fifty dollars for Gal Bargon.* Ver' quiet I 
 give lorinnc twenty dollar, but she will not take him. 
 * For Marie,' then I say ; ' I go to marry him, bimeby.' 
 But she say, * Keep it and give it to Marie yourself 
 some day.* 
 
 " She smile at me, then she have a little tear in her 
 eye, and she nod to where Bargon stan' houtside, and 
 she say : ' If this summer go wrong, it will kill him. 
 He work and work and fret and worry for me and 
 Marie, and sometimes he just sit and look at me and 
 say not a word.' 
 
 " I say to her that there will be good crop, and next 
 year we will be ver' happy. So, the time go on, and I 
 send up a leetla snack of pork and molass' and tabac, 
 and sugar and tea, and I get a letter from Bargon bime- 
 by, and he say that heverything go right, he t'ink, this 
 summer. He say I must come up. It is not damn 
 easy to go in the summer, when the mill run night and 
 day, but I say I will go. 
 
 " When I get up to Bargon's I laugh, for all the hun- 
 der' acre is ver' fine, and Bargon stan' hin the door, 
 and stretch out his hand, and say : * Rachette, there is 
 six hunder' dollar for me.' I nod my head, and fetch 
 out a horn, and he have one, his eyes all bright like a 
 lime-kiln. He is thin and square, and his beard grow 
 ver' thick and rough and long, and his hands are like 
 planks. Norinne, she is ver' happy, too, and Marie 
 bite on my finger, and I give him sugar-stick to suck. 
 
 " Bimeby Norinne say to me, ver' soft : ' If a hail- 
 storm or a hot wind come, that is the end of it all, and 
 of my poor Gal.' 
 
 " What I do ? I laugh and ketch Marie under the 
 arms, and I sit down, and I put him on my foot, and I 
 sing that damn funny English song — ' Here We Go 
 
A SON OF THE WILDERNESS 131 
 
 to Banbury Cross.' An' I say : ' It will be all as happy 
 as Marie pretty quick. Bargon he will have six hun- 
 dcr' dollar, and you a new dress and a hired girl to help 
 you.' 
 
 " But all the time that day I think about a hailstorm 
 or a hot wind whenever I look out on that hunder' 
 acre farm. It is so beautibul, as you can guess — the 
 wheat, the barley, the corn, the potatoes, the turnip, all 
 green like sea water, and pigeons and wild ducks flying 
 up and down, and the horse and the ox standing in a 
 field ver' comfer'ble. 
 
 " We have good time that day, and go to bed all 
 happy that night. I get up at five o'clock, an' I go 
 hout. Bargon stan' there looking out on his field with 
 the horse bridle in his hand. * The air not feel right,' 
 he say to me, I t'ink the same, but I say to him : 
 * Your head not feel right — him too sof'.' He shake 
 his head and go down to the field for his horse and ox, 
 and hitch them up together, and go to work making a 
 road. 
 
 " It is about ten o'clock when the damn thing come. 
 Piff ! go a hot splash of air in my face, and then I know 
 that it is all up with Gal Bargon. A month after it is 
 no matter, for the grain is ripe then, but now, when it 
 is green, it is sure death to it all. I turn sick in my 
 stomich, and I turn round and see Norinne stan' hin 
 the door, all white, and she make her hand go as that, 
 like she push back that hot wind. 
 
 "'Where is Gal?' she say. 'I must go to him.' 
 ' No,' I say, * I will fetch him. You stay with Marie.' 
 Then I go ver' quick for Gal, and I find him, his hands 
 all shut like that ! and he shake them at the sky, and he 
 say not a word, but his face, it go wild, and his eyes 
 spin round in his head. I put my hand on his arm 
 
132 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 i I 
 
 and say : * Come home, Gal. Come home, and speak 
 kind to Norinne and Marie.' 
 
 " I can see that hot wind lean down and twist the 
 grain about — a damn devil thing from the Arzone des- 
 ert down South. I take Gal back home, and we sit 
 there all day, and all the nex' day, and a leetla more, 
 and when we have look enough, there is no grain on 
 that hunder' acre fa. m — only a dry-up prairie, all gray 
 and limp. My skin is bake and rough, but when I look 
 at Gal Bargon I know that his heart is dry like a bone, 
 and, as Parpon say that back time, he have a wheel in 
 his head. Norinne she is quiet, and she sit with her 
 hand on his shoulder, and give him Marie to hold. 
 
 ** But it is no good ; it is all over. So I say : * Let us 
 go back to Pontiac. What is the good for to be rich ? 
 Let us be poor and happy once more.' 
 
 " And Norinne she look glad, and go up and say : 
 
 * Yes, let us go back.' But all at once she sit down 
 with Marie in her arms, and cry — bagosh ! I never see 
 a woman cry like that. 
 
 " So we start back for Pontiac with the horse and the 
 ox and some pork and bread and molass'. But Gal 
 Bargon never hold up his head, but go silent, silent, 
 and he not sleep at night. One night he walk away 
 on the prairie, and when he come back he have a great 
 pain. So he lie down, and we sit by him, an' he die. 
 But once he whisper to me, and Norinne not hear: 
 
 * You say you will marry him, Rachette ? ' and I say, * I 
 will.' 
 
 " * C'est le bon Dieu ! ' he say at the last, but he say it 
 with a little laugh. I think he have a wheel in his 
 head. But bimeby, yiste'day, Norinne and Marie and 
 I come to Pontiac." 
 
 The Little Chemist's wife dried her eyes, and Medal- 
 
A SON OF THE WILDERNESS 133 
 
 Hon said in Ficnch: *' Poor Norinne! Poor Norinne! 
 And so, Racliettc, you are poinfj to marry Marie, by 
 and by? " There was a quizzical look in Medallion's 
 eyes. 
 
 Rachette threw up his chin a little. " Pm going to 
 marry Norinne on New Year's Day," he said. 
 
 '* Bagosh ! poor Norinne," said Medallion, in a queer 
 sort of tone. '' It is the way of the world," he added. 
 " I'll wait for Marie myself." 
 
 It looks as if he meant .o, for she has no better friend. 
 He talks to her much of Gal Bargon; of which her 
 mother is glad, for there is but one great love in a 
 woman's life. All others have different names and 
 meanings. 
 
 
 : 1 
 
14 
 
 I 1 
 
 
 I 
 
A WORKER IN STONE 
 
 

A WORKER IN STONE 
 
 AT the beginning he was only a tombstone-cutter. 
 His name was Frangois Lagarre. He was but 
 twenty years old when he stepped into the shop where 
 the old tombstone-cutter had worked for forty years. 
 Picking up the hammer and chisel which the old man 
 had dropped when he fell dead at the end of a long hot 
 day's labour, he finished the half-carved tombstone, 
 and gave the price of it to the widow. Then, going to 
 the Seigneur and Cure, he asked them to buy the shop 
 and tools for him, and let him pay rent until he could 
 take the place off their hands. 
 
 They did as he asked, and in two years he had 
 bought and paid for the place, and had a few dollars to 
 the good. During one of the two years a smallpox 
 epidemic passed over Pontiac, and he was busy night 
 and day. It was during this tiine that some good 
 Catholics came to him with an heretical Protestant 
 suggestion to carve a couplet or verse of poetry on the 
 tombstones they ordered. They themselves, in most 
 cases, knew none, and they asked Francois to supply 
 .!iem — as though he kept them in stock like marble 
 and sandpaper. He had no collection of suitable epi- 
 taphs, and, besides, he did not know whether it was 
 right to use them. Like all his race in New France 
 he was jealous of any inroads of Protestantism, or what 
 the Little Chemist called " Englishness." The good 
 M. Fabre, the Cure, saw no harm in it, but said he 
 
133 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 could not speak for any one's grief. What the be- 
 reaved folk felt they themselves must put in words 
 upon the stone. But still Francjois might bring all the 
 epitaphs to him before they were carved, and he would 
 approve or disapprove, correct or reject, as the case 
 might be. 
 
 At first he rejected many, for they were mostly ste- 
 reotyped verses, taken unknowingly from Protestant 
 sources by mourning Catholics. But presently all 
 that was changed, and the Cure one day had laid before 
 him three epitaphs, each of which left his hand unre- 
 vised and untouched ; and when he passed them back to 
 Frangois his eyes were moist, for he was a man truly 
 after God's own heart, and full of humanity. 
 
 ** Will you read them to me, Francois? " he said, as 
 the worker in stone was about to put the paper back in 
 his pocket. " Give the names of the dead at the same 
 time." 
 
 So Fran<;ois read : 
 
 " Gustave Narrois, aged seventy-two years " 
 
 " Yes, yes," interrupted the Cure, " the unhappy yet 
 happy Gustave, hung by the English, and cut down 
 just in time to save him — an innocent man. For thirty 
 years my sexton. God rest his soul ! Well now, the 
 epitaph." 
 
 Francois read it : 
 
 " Poor as .1 sparrow was I, 
 Yet I was saved like a king; ; 
 I heard the death-bells ring, 
 Yet I saw a light in the sky : 
 And now to my Father I wing." 
 
 The Cure nodded his head. " Go on ; the next," he 
 said. 
 
A WORKER IN STONE 
 
 139 
 
 at the be- 
 in words 
 ing all the 
 1 he would 
 LS the case 
 
 mostly ste- 
 Protestant 
 •esently all 
 laid before 
 hand unre- 
 lem back to 
 L man truly 
 
 he said, as 
 Lper back in 
 at the same 
 
 irs- 
 
 »» 
 
 mhappy yet 
 cut down 
 For thirty 
 
 ell now, the 
 
 le next," he 
 
 H 
 
 " Annette John, aged twenty years " 
 
 " So. The daughter of Chief John. When Queen 
 Anne of England was on the ihrone she sent Chief 
 John's grandfather a gold cup and a hundred pounds. 
 The girl loved, but would not marry, that she might 
 keep Chief John from drinking. A saint, Francois! 
 What have they said of her ? " 
 Francois smoothed out the paper and read : 
 
 " A little while I saw the world go by — 
 A little doorway that I called my own, 
 A loaf, a cup of water, and a bed had I, 
 
 A shrine of Jesus, where I knelt alone : 
 And now alone I bid the world good-bye." 
 
 The Cure turned his head away. " Go on," he said 
 sadly. " Chief John has lost his right hand. Go on." 
 
 " Henri Rouget " 
 
 " Aged thirty years," again interrupted the Cure. 
 " Henri Rouget, idiot ; as young as the morning. For 
 man grows old only by what he suffers, and what he 
 forgives, and what he sins. What have you to say for 
 Henri Rouget, my Francois ? " 
 
 And Francois read : 
 
 " I was a fool ; nothing had I to know 
 Of men, and naught to men had I to give. 
 God gave me nothing ; n*. 'v to God I go, 
 Now ask for pain, for bread. 
 Life for my brain : dead. 
 By God's love I shall then begin to live." 
 
 The priest rose to his feet and put a hand on the 
 young man's shoulder. 
 
 " Do you know, FranQois," he said, half sadly, " do 
 you know, you have the true thing in you. Come often 
 
140 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 to me, my son, and bring all these things — all you 
 write." 
 
 While the Cure troubled himself about his future, 
 Francois began to work upon a monument for the 
 grave of a dozen soldiers of Pontiac who were killed in 
 the War of the Patriots. They had died for a mistaken 
 cause, and had been buried on the field of battle. Long 
 ago something would have been done to commemorate 
 them but that three of them were Protestants, and dif- 
 ficulties had been raised by the bigoted. But Francois 
 thought only of the young men in their common grave 
 at St. Eustache. He remembered when they went 
 away one bright morning, full of the joy of an erring 
 patriotism, of the ardor of a weak but fascinating 
 cause : race against race, the conquered against the 
 conquerors, the usurped against the usurpers. 
 
 In the space before the parish church it stands — a 
 broken shaft, with an unwound wreath straying down 
 its sides; a monument of fine proportions, a white 
 figure of beaten valour and erring ardour of youth 
 and beautiful bad ambition. One Saturday night it 
 was not there, and when next morning the people came 
 to mass it was there. All night had Frangois and his 
 men worked, and the first rays of the morning sun fell 
 on the tall shivered shaft set firmly in its place. Fran- 
 <^ois was a happy man. All else that he had done had 
 been wholly after a crude, staring convention, after rule 
 and measure — an artisan's, a tombstone cutter's 
 labour. This was the work of a man with the heart 
 and mind of an artist. When the people came to 
 mass they gazed and gazed, and now and then the 
 weeping of a woman was heard, for among them were 
 those whose sons and brothers were made memorable 
 by this stone. 
 
'"V- 
 
 NING 
 —all you 
 
 is future, 
 t for the 
 I killed in 
 mistaken 
 ie. Long 
 nemorate 
 , and dif- 
 Franqois 
 ion grave 
 hey went 
 an erring 
 iscinating 
 
 stands — a 
 ring down 
 a white 
 of youth 
 J night it 
 ople came 
 is and his 
 g sun fell 
 Fran- 
 done had 
 after rule 
 cutter's 
 the heart 
 came to 
 then the 
 lem were 
 lemorable 
 
 A WORKER IN STONE 
 
 141 
 
 That day at the close of his sermon the Cure spoke 
 of it, and said at the last : *' That white sha^t, dear 
 brethren, is for us a sign of remembrance and a warn- 
 ing to our souls. In the name of race and for their love 
 they sinned. But yet they sinned ; and this monument, 
 the gift and work of one young like them, ardent and 
 desiring like them, is for ever in our eyes the cruci- 
 fixion of our wrong ambitions and our selfish aims. 
 Nay, let us be wise and let us be good. They who rule 
 us speak with foreign tongue, but their hearts desire our 
 peace and a mutual regard. Pray that this be. And 
 pray for the young and the daring and the foolish. 
 And pray also that he who has given us here a good 
 gift may find his thanks in our better-ordered lives, 
 and that he may consecrate his parts and talents to 
 the redeeming actions of this world." 
 
 And so began the awakening of Francois Lagarre; 
 and so began his ambition and his peril. 
 
 For, as he passed from the church, the Seigneur 
 tou'^hed him on the shoulder and introduced him to 
 his English grandniece, come on a visit for the sum- 
 mer, the daughter of a London knight bachellor. She 
 had but just arrived, and she was feeling that first 
 home-sickness which succeeds transplanting. The 
 face of the young worker in stone interested her ; the 
 idea of it all was romantic; the possibilities of the 
 young man's life opened out before her. Why should 
 not she give him his real start, win his g ratitude, help 
 him to his fame, and then, when it was won, hi pointed 
 out as a discoverer and a patron ? 
 
 All these things flashed through her mind as they 
 were introduced. The young man did not read the 
 look in her eyes, but there was one other person in the 
 crowd about the church steps who did read it, whose 
 
142 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 heart beat furiously, whose foot tapped the ground 
 angrily — a black-haired, brown-eyed farmer's daugli- 
 ter, who instantly hated the yellow hair and rosy and 
 golden face of the blue-eyed London lady ; who could, 
 that instant, have torn the silk gown from her graceful 
 figure. 
 
 She was not disturbed without reason. And for the 
 moment, even when she heard impertinent and in- 
 credulous fellows pooh-poohing the monument, and 
 sharpening their rather dull wits upon its corners, she 
 did not open her lips, when otherwise she would have 
 spoken her mind with a vengeance; for Jeanne Mar- 
 chand had a reputation for spirit and temper, and she 
 spared no one when her blood was up. She had a 
 touch of the vixen, an impetuous, loving, forceful 
 mademoiselle, in marked contrast to the rather ascetic 
 Francois, whose ways were more refined than his 
 origin might seem to warrant. 
 
 " Sapr/.f " said Duclosse the mealman of the monu- 
 ment ; " it's like a timber of cheese stuck up. What's 
 that to make a fuss about ? " 
 
 " Fig of Eden," muttered Jules Marmotte, with one 
 eye on Jeanne, " any fool could saw a better-looking 
 thing out of ice ! " 
 
 " Pish," said fat Caroche the butcher, " that Fran- 
 ■ Qois has a rattle in his capote. He'd spend his time bet- 
 ter chipping bones on my meat-block ! " 
 
 But Jeanne could not bear this — the greasy whop- 
 ping butcher-man ! 
 
 " What ! what ! the messy stupid Caroche, who can't 
 write his name," she said in a fury, " the sausage-potted 
 Caroche, who doesn't remember that Fran<;ois La- 
 garre made his brother's tombstone, and charged him 
 nothing for the verses he wrote for it, nor for the Agnus 
 
A WORKER IN STONE 
 
 143 
 
 Dei he carved on it ! No, Caroche does not remember 
 his brother Baptiste the fighter, as brave as Caroche is 
 a coward ! He doesn't remember the verse on Bap- 
 tiste's tombstone, does he?" 
 
 Franqois heard this speech, and his eyes lighted ten- 
 derly as he looked at Jeanne: he loved this fury of 
 defence and championship. Some one in the crowd 
 turned to him and asked him to say the verses. At first 
 he would not ; but when Caroche said that it was only 
 his fun, that he meant nothing against Francois, the 
 young man recited the words slowly — an epitaj h on 
 one who was little better than a prize-fij;hter, a splendid 
 bully. 
 
 Leaning a hand against the white shaft of the Pa- 
 triots' memory, he said : 
 
 " Blows I have struck, and blows a-many taken, 
 Wrestling I've fallen, and I've rose up again ; 
 
 Mostly I've stood — 
 
 I've had good bone and blood ; 
 Others went down though fighting might and main. 
 
 Now death steps in — 
 
 Death the price of sin. 
 The fall it will be nis ; and though I strive and strain, 
 One blow will close my eyes, and I shall never waken." 
 
 " Good enough for Baptiste ! " said Duclosse the 
 mealman. 
 
 The wave of feeling was now altogether with Fran- 
 cois, and presently he walked away with Jeanne 
 Marchand and her mother, and the crowd dispersed. 
 Jeanne was very happy for a few hours, but in the even- 
 ing she was unhappy, for she saw Frangois going to- 
 wards the house of the Seigneur; and during many 
 weeks she was still more unhappy, for every three or 
 four days she saw the same thing. 
 
 IJ 
 
144 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 Meanwhile Francois worked as he had never before 
 worked in his hfe. Night and day he was shut in his 
 shop, and for two months he came with no epitaphs 
 for the Cure, and no new tombstones were set up in the 
 graveyard. The influence of the lady at the Seigneury 
 was upon him, and he himself believed it was for his 
 salvation. She had told him of great pieces of sculp- 
 ture she had seen, had sent and got from Ov'^bec City, 
 where he had never been, pictures of some of the 
 V orld's masterpieces in sculpture, and he had lost him- 
 self in the study of them and in the depths of the girl's 
 eyes. She meant no harm ; the man interested her 
 beyond what was reasonable in one of his station in 
 life. That- was all, and all there ever was. 
 
 Presently people began to gossip, and a story crept 
 round that, in a new shed which he had built behind 
 his shop, Frangois was chiselling out of stone the nude 
 figure of a woman. There were one or two who pro- 
 fessed they had seen it. The wildest gossip said that 
 the figure was that of the young lady at the Seigneury. 
 
 Francois saw no more of Jeanne Marchand ; he 
 thought of her sometimes, but that was all. A fever of 
 work was on him. Twice she came to the shed where 
 he laboured, and knocked at the door. The first time, 
 he asked who was there. When phe told him he 
 opened the door just a little way, smiled at her, caught 
 her hand and pressed it, and, w!'en she woula have 
 entered, said, "No, no, another day, Jeanne!" and 
 shut the door in her face. 
 
 She almost hated him because he had looked so 
 happy. Still another day she came knocking. She 
 called to him, and this time he opened the door and 
 admitted her. That very hour she had heard again 
 the story cf the nude stone woman in the shed, and her 
 
A WORKER IN STONE 
 
 145 
 
 lieart was full of jealousy, fury, and suspicion. He 
 was very quiet, he seemed tired. She did not notice 
 that. Her heart had throbbed wildly as she stepped 
 inside the shed. She looked round, all delirious eager- 
 ness for the nude figure. 
 
 There it was, covered up with a great canvas ! Yes, 
 there were the outlines of the figure. How shapely it 
 seemed, even inside the canvas ! 
 
 She stepped forward without a word, and snatched 
 at the covering. He swiftly interposed and stopped 
 her hand. 
 
 *' I will see it," she said. 
 
 " Not to-day," he answered. 
 
 " I tell you I will ! " She wrenched her hand free 
 and caught at the canvas. A naked foot and ankle 
 showed. He pinioned her wrists with one hand and 
 drew her towards the door, determination and anger in 
 his face. 
 
 " You beast, you liar ! " she said. " You beast ! 
 beast ! beast ! " 
 
 Then, with a burst of angry laughter, she opened the 
 door herself. " You ain't fit to know," she said ; " they 
 told the truth about you ! Now you can take the can- 
 vas off her. Good-bye ! " With that she was gone. 
 
 The following day was Sunday. Franqois did not 
 attend mass, and such strange scandalous reports had 
 reached the Cure that he was both disturbed and indig- 
 nant. That afternoon, after vespers (which Francois 
 did not attend), the Cure made his way to the sculp- 
 tor's workshop, followed by a* number of parishioners. 
 
 The crowd increased, and when the Cure knocked at 
 the door it seemed as if half the viUage was there. 
 
 The chief witness against Francois had been Jeanne 
 Marchand. That very afternoon she had told the Cure, 
 10 
 
146 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 f 
 
 with indignation and bitterness, that there was no 
 doubt about it ; all that had been said was true. 
 
 Francois, with wonder and some confusion, ad- 
 mitted the Cure. When M. Fabre demanded that he 
 be taken to the new workshop, Franqois led the way. 
 The crowd pushed after, and presently the place was 
 full. A hundred eyes were fastened upon the canvas- 
 covered statue, which had been the means of the young 
 man's undoing. 
 
 Terrible things had been said — terrible things of 
 Franqois, and of the girl at the Seigneury. They 
 knew the girl for a Protestant and an Englishwoman, 
 and that in itself was a sort of sin. And now every ear 
 was alert to hear what the Cure should say, what de- 
 nunciation should come from his lips when the cover- 
 ing was removed. For that it should be removed was 
 the determination of every man present. Virtue was 
 at its supreme height in Pontiac that day. Lajeunesse 
 the blacksmith, Muroc the charcoal-man, and twenty 
 others were as intent upon preserving a high standard 
 of m^-ality, by force of arms, as if another Tarquin 
 were harbouring shame and crime in this cedar 
 shed. 
 
 The whole thing came home to Franqois with a 
 choking smothering force. Art, now in its very birth 
 in his heart and life, was to be garrotted. He had 
 been unconscious of all the wicked things said about 
 him : now he knew all ! 
 
 " Remove the canvas from the figure," said the Cure 
 sternly. Stubbornness and resetitment filled Franqois* 
 breast. He did not stir. 
 
 " Do you oppose the command of the Church ? " 
 said the Ct!re, still more severely ; " remove the can- 
 vas ! " 
 
A WORKER IN STONE 
 
 147 
 
 e was no 
 
 " It is my work — my own : my idea, my stone, and 
 the labour of my hands," said Franqois doggedly. 
 
 The Cure turned to Lajeunesse and made a motion 
 towards the statue. Lajeunesse, with a burning right- 
 eous joy, snatched off the canvas. There was one in- 
 stant of confusion in the faces of all — of absolute 
 silence. Then the crowd gasped. The Cure's hat 
 came off, and every other hat followed. The Cure 
 made the sign of the cross upon his breast and fore- 
 head, and every other man, woman, and child present 
 did the same. Tlien all knelt, savo Francois and the 
 Cure himself. 
 
 What they saw was a statue of Christ, a beautiful be- 
 nign figure ; barefooted, with a girdle about his waist : 
 the very truth and semblance of a man. The type was 
 strong and yet delicate ; vigorous and yet refined ; 
 crude and yet noble ; a leader of men — the God-Man, 
 not the Man-God. 
 
 After a moment's silence the Cure spoke. " Fran- 
 cois, my son," said he, * wc have erred. All we like 
 sheep have gone astray; we have followed each 
 after his own way, but God hath laid on Him " — 
 he looked towards the statue — " the iniquity of us 
 all." 
 
 Francois stood still a moment gazing at the Cure, 
 doggedly, bitterly; then he turned and looked scorn- 
 fully at the crowd, now risen to their feet again. 
 Among them was a girl crying as if her heart would 
 break. It was Jeanne Marchand. He regarded her 
 coldly. 
 
 " You were so ready to suspect," he said. 
 
 Then he turned once more to the Cure. " I meant 
 it is my gift to the Church, monsieur le Cure — to Pon- 
 tiac, where I was born again. I waked up here to 
 
148 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 what I might do in sculpture, and you — you all were 
 so ready to suspect ! Take it, it is my last gift." 
 
 He went to the statue, touched the hands of it lov- 
 ingly, and stooped and kissed the feet. Then, without 
 more words, he turned and left the shed and the house. 
 
 Pouring out into the street, the people watched him 
 cross the bridge that led into another parish — and into 
 another world : for from that hour Franqois Lagarrc 
 was never seen in Pontiac. 
 
 The statue that he made stands upon a little hill 
 above the valley where the beaters of flax come in the 
 autumn, through which the woodsmen pass in winter 
 and in spring. But Francois Lagarre, under another 
 name, works in another land. 
 
 While the Cure lived he heard of him and of his 
 fame now and then, and to the day of his death he 
 always prayed for him. He was wont to say to the 
 little Avocat whenever Francois' name was mentioned : 
 
 " The spirit of a man will support him, but a 
 wounded spirit who can bear f " 
 
JRNING 
 
 oil all were 
 
 rift." 
 
 :1s of it lov- 
 en, without 
 1 the house. 
 'Etched hiiii 
 :i — and into 
 Dis Lagarrc 
 
 a little hill 
 :ome in the 
 )S in winter 
 der another 
 
 and of his 
 is death he 
 
 say to the 
 mentioned : 
 «'w, but a 
 
 THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF 
 ANNETTE 
 
 ' .. 1 
 
% 
 
 $ 
 
THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE 
 
 THE chest of drawers, the bed, the bedding, the 
 pieces of linen and the pile of yarn had been ready 
 for many months. Annette had made inventory of them 
 every day since the dot was complete — at first with a 
 great deal of pride, after a time more shyly and wist- 
 fully : Benoit did not come. He had said he would be 
 down with the first drive of logs In the summer, and at 
 the little church of St. Saviour they would settle every- 
 thing and get the Cure's blessinL;. Almost anybody 
 would have believed in Benoit. He had the brightest 
 scarf, the merriest laugh, the quickest eyes, and the 
 blackest head in Pontiac; and no one among the river 
 drivers could sing like him. That was, he said gaily, 
 because his earrings were gold, and not brass like those 
 of his comrades. Thus Benoit was a little vain, and 
 something more; but old ladies such as the Little 
 Chemist's wife said he was galant. Probably only 
 Medallion, the auctioneer, and the Cure did not lose 
 themselves in the general adm.iration; they thought he 
 was to Annette like a gas-jet to a holy candle. 
 
 Annette was the youngest of twelve, and one of a 
 family of thirty — for some of her married brothers and 
 sisters and their children lived in her father's long 
 white house by the river. When Benoit failed to come 
 in the spring, they showed their pity for her by abusing 
 him ; and when she pleaded for him they said things 
 which had an edge. They ended by offering to marry 
 
152 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 her to Farette, the old miller, to whom they owed 
 money for flour. They brought Farette to the house 
 at last, and she v/as patient while he ogled her, and 
 smoked his strong tabac, and tried to sing. She was 
 kind to him, and said nothing until, one day, urged by 
 her brother Solime, he mumbled the childish chanson 
 Benoit sang the day he left, as he passed their house 
 going up the river — 
 
 " High in a nest of the tam'rac tree, 
 
 Swing under, so free, and swing over ; 
 Swing under the sun and swing over the world, 
 My snow-bird, my gay little lover — 
 
 My gay little lover, (/ofiy don / . . . don, don ! 
 
 ■..-*'^ 
 
 ■ 1 
 
 " When the winter is done I will come back home, 
 To the nest swinging under and over. 
 Swinging under and over and waiting for me. 
 Your rover, my snow-bird, your rover — 
 
 Your lover and rover, don, don! . . . don, don!" 
 
 It was all very well in the mouth of the sprightly, 
 sentimental Benoit; it was hateful foolishness in 
 Farette. Annette now came to her feet suddenly, her 
 pale face showing defiance, and her big brown eyes 
 flicking anger. She walked up to the miller and said: 
 " You are old and ugly and a fool ! But I do not hate 
 you ; I hate Solime, my brother, for bringing you here, 
 There is the bill for the flour ? Well, I will pay it my- 
 self — and you can go as soon as you like ! " 
 
 Then she put on her coat and capote and mittens, 
 and went to the door. " Where are you going, Ma'm'- 
 selle ? " cried Solime, iii high rage. 
 
 " I am going to M'sieu' Medallion," she said. 
 
 Hard profane words followed her, but she ran, and 
 
 f 
 
 I 
 
 aloi 
 
 dm 
 
 gre 
 
 a ni 
 
 asic 
 
 sol 
 
 f.)r 
 
 The 
 
 ■4\ t| • 
 
/ 
 
 THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE 153 
 
 never stopped till she came to Medallion's house. He 
 was not there. She found him at the Little Chen'ist's. 
 
 That night a pony and cart took away from the house 
 of Annette's father the chest of drawers, the bed, the 
 bedding, the pieces of linen, and the pile of yarn which 
 had been made ready so long against Benoit's coming. 
 Medallion had said he could sell them at once, and he 
 gave her the money that night; but this was after he 
 had had a talk with the Cure, to whom Annette had 
 told all. Medallion said he had been able to sell the 
 things at once, but he did not tell her that they were 
 stored in a loft of th'^ Little Chemist's house, and that 
 the Little Chemist's wife had wept over them and car- 
 ried the case to the shrine of the Blessed Virgin. 
 
 It did not matter that the father and brothers 
 stormed. Annette w^as firm ; the t^ot was hers, and she 
 would do as she M'ished. She carried the money to 
 the miller. He took it grimly, and gave her a receipt, 
 grossly mis-spelled, and, as she was about to go, 
 brought his fist heavily down on his leg and said: "Mow 
 Dieu! It is brave — it is grand — it is an angel." Then 
 he chuckled: " So, so! It was true! I am old, ugly, 
 and a fool. Eh, well! I have my money." Then he 
 took to counting it over in his hand, forgetting her, 
 and she left him growling gleefully over it. 
 
 She had not a happy life, but her people left her 
 alone, for the Cure had said stern things to them. All 
 during the winter she went out fishing every day at a 
 great hole in the ice — bitter cold work, and fit only fcr 
 a man ; but she caught many fish, and little by little laid 
 aside pennies to bliy things to replace what she had 
 sold. It had been a hard trial to her to sell them. But 
 ft-)r the kind-hearted Cure she would have repined. 
 The worst thing happened, however, when the ring 
 
154 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 Benoit had given her dropped from her thin finger into 
 the water where she was fishing. Then a shadow 
 descended on her, and she grew almost unearthly in 
 the anxious patience of her face. The Little Chemist's 
 wife declared that the look was death. Perhaps it 
 would have been if Medallion had not sent a lad down 
 to the bottom of the river and got the ring. He gave it 
 to the Cure, who put it on her finger one day after con- 
 fession. Then she brightened, and waited on and on 
 patiently. 
 
 She waited for seven years. Then the deceitful 
 Benoit came pensively back to her, a cripple from a 
 timber accident. She believed what he told her : and 
 that was where her comedy ended and her tragedy 
 began. 
 
 
JRNING 
 
 1 finger into 
 1 a shadow 
 inearthly in 
 le Chemist's 
 
 Perhaps it 
 ; a lad down 
 
 He gave it 
 ly after con- 
 1 on and on 
 
 he deceitful 
 pple from a 
 )ld her: and 
 her tragedy 
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF THE 
 MILLER 
 
>\\- 
 
 ]V 
 
 o; 
 
 fc 
 
 al 
 
 w 
 
 th 
 
 T 
 
 m 
 
 pi 
 
 hi 
 
 H 
 
 tn 
 
 ca 
 
 se 
 
 se; 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER 
 
 MEDALLION put it into his head on the day that 
 Benoit and Annette were married. " See," 
 said Medallion, " Annette wouldn't have you — and 
 quite right — and she took what was left of that Benoit, 
 who'll laugh at you over his mush-and-milk." 
 
 " Benoit will want flour some day, with no money." 
 The old man chuckled and rubbed his hands. 
 
 " That's nothing ; he has the girl — an angel ! " 
 
 " Good enough ! That is what I said of her — an 
 angel ! " 
 
 " Get married yourself, Farette." 
 
 For reply Farette thrust a bag of native tabac into 
 Medallion's hands. Then they went over the names 
 of the girls in the village. Medallion objected to those 
 for whom he wished a better future, but they decided 
 at last on Julie Lachance, who. Medallion thought, 
 would in time profoundly increase Farette's respect for 
 the memory of his first wife ; for Julie was not an angel. 
 Then the details were ponderously thought out by the 
 miller, and ponderously acted upon, with the dry ap- 
 proval of Medallion, who dared not tell the Cure of 
 his complicity, though he was without compunction. 
 He lad a sense of humour, and knew there could be no 
 tragedy in the thing — for Julie. But the miller was a 
 careful man and original in his methods. He still pos- 
 sessed the wardrobe of the first wife, carefully pre- 
 served by his sister, even to the wonderful grey 
 
158 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 watered-poplin which had been her wedding-dress. 
 These he had taken out, shaken free of cayenne, cam- 
 phor, and lavender, and sent upon the back of Parpon, 
 the dwarf, to the house where Julie lodged (sne was an 
 orphan), following himself with a statement on brown 
 paper, showing the extent of his wealth, and a parcel of 
 very ^ne flo ir ^rom the new stones in his ,iu:i. All 
 WIS "^j r<*ad Jtt, : nd then he made a speech, describing 
 his virfi'f -, H'jd condoning his one offence of age by 
 assuring ,.r t-^i; every tooth in his head was sound. 
 This was merely ihe concession of politeness, for he 
 thought his offer handsome. 
 
 Julie slyly eyed the wardrobe and as slyly smiled, and 
 then, imitating Parette's manner — though Farette 
 could not see it, and Parpon spluttered with laughter- 
 said: 
 
 " M'sieu', you are a great man. The grey poplin is 
 noble, also the flour, and the writing on the brown 
 paper. M'sieu', v'-.u go to mass, and all your teeth 
 are sound ; you ha : a dog-churn, also three feather- 
 beds, and five rag carpets ; you have sat on the grand 
 jury. M'sieu', I have a dot; I accept you. M'sieu', I 
 will keep the brown paper, and the grey poplin, and the 
 flour." Then with a grave elaborate bow, " M'sieu' ! " 
 
 That was the beginning and end of the courtship. 
 For though Farette came every Sunday evening and 
 smoked by the fire, and looked at Julie as she arranged 
 the details of her dowry, he only chucklec', and now 
 and again struck his thigh and said ■ 
 
 " Mon Dieii, the ankle, the eye, the good child, Julie, 
 there!" 
 
 Then he would fall to thinking and chuckling again. 
 One day he asked her to make him some potato-cakes 
 of the flour he had given her. Her answer was a 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER 159 
 
 igh Farette 
 
 rey poplin is 
 1 the brown 
 1 your teeth 
 iree feather- 
 )n the grand 
 . M'sieu', I 
 plin, and the 
 " M'sieu' ! " 
 le courtship, 
 evening and 
 she arranged 
 ec' and now 
 
 child, Julie, 
 
 :kling again, 
 potato-cakes |:i 
 iswer was a 
 
 catastrophe. She rould not cook ; she was even igno- 
 rant of butternnlk-puddinj^. He went away over- 
 vvlielmed, bat came back some days afterwards and 
 made aiiother speech. Hj had laid his plans before 
 Medallion, who approved of them. He prefaced the 
 speech bv placing the blank marriage certificate on the 
 table. Then he said that his first wife was such a cook 
 tha*" when she died he paid for an extra mass and 
 twelve very fine candles. He called upon Parpon to 
 endorse liis words, and Parpon nodded to all he said, 
 but, catching Julie's eye, went of¥ into gurgl « *" 
 laugliter, which he pretended were tears, by sn: ^die 
 ir.g his face in his capote. " Ma'rn'selle," s<. u the 
 miller, " I have thought. Some men go to the A'<^' at 
 or the Cure with great things ; but I have bc^n a pil- 
 grimage, I have sat on the grand jury. There, 
 Ma'rn'selle ! " His chest vSwelled, he blew out his 
 checks, he pulled Parpon's ear as Napoleon pulled 
 Murat's. " Ma'rn'selle, allons! Babette, the sister of 
 my first wife — ah ! she is a great cook also — well, she 
 was pouring into my plate the soup — there is nothing 
 like pea-soup v.'ith a fine lump of pork, and thick mo- 
 lasses for the buckwheat cakes. Ma'rn'selle, allons! 
 Just then I thought. It is very good : you shall see ; 
 you shall learn how to cook. Babette will teach you. 
 Babette said many things. I got mad and spilt the 
 soup. Ma'm'selle — eh, holy! what a turn has your 
 waist ! " 
 
 At length he made it clear to her what his plans 
 were, and to each and all she consented ; but when he 
 had gone she sat and laughed till she cried, and for the 
 hundredth time took out the brown paper and studied 
 the list of Farette's worldly possessions. 
 
 The v/edding-day came. Julie performed her last real 
 
i6o THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 act of renunciation when, in spite of the protests of her 
 friends, she wore the grey vvatcred-popHn, made mod- 
 ern by her own hands. The wedding-day was the an- 
 niversary of Farette's first marriage, and the Cure 
 faltered in the exhortation when he saw that Farettc 
 was dressed in complete mourning, even to the crape 
 hat-streamers, as he said, out of respect for the memory 
 of his first wife, and as a kind of tribute to his second. 
 At the wedding-breakfast, where Medallion and 
 Parpon were in high glee, Farette announced that he 
 would take the honeymoon himself, and leave his wife 
 to learn cooking from old Babette. 
 
 So he went away alone cheerfully, with hymeneal rice 
 falling in showers on his mourning garments; and his 
 new wife was as cheerful as he, and threw rice also. 
 
 She learned how to cook, and in time Farette learned 
 that he had his one true inspiration when he wore 
 mourning at his second marriage. 
 
URNING 
 
 •otcsts of her 
 , made mod- 
 ' was the an- 
 id the Cure 
 that Farcttc 
 to the crape 
 the memory 
 D his second, 
 dallion and 
 need that he 
 :^ave his wife 
 
 ymeneal rice 
 ints ; and his 
 rice also, 
 rette learned 
 len he wore 
 
 MATHURIN 
 
 .'li 
 
 I ' 
 
■,i*..A 
 
MATHURIN 
 
 T^IIE tale was told to me in the little valley beneath 
 Dalgrothe Mountain one September morning. 
 I'^ar and near one could see the swinging of the flail, 
 and the laughter of a ripe summer was upon the land. 
 There was a little Calvary down by the river-side, 
 where the flax-beaters used to say their prayers in the 
 intervals of their work ; and it was just at the foot of 
 tliis that Angele Rouvier, having finished her prayer, 
 put her rosary in her pocket, wiped her eyes with the 
 hem of her petticoat, and said to me : 
 
 " Ah, dat poor Mathurin ! I wipe my tears for 
 him!" 
 
 *' Tell me all about him, won't you, Madame Angele? 
 I v/ant to hear you tell it," I added hastily, for I saw 
 that she would despise me if I showed ignorance of 
 Mathurin's story. Her sympathy with Mathurin's 
 memory was real, but her pleasure at the compliment 
 I paid her was also real. 
 
 " Ah ! It was ver' long time ago — yes. My gran'- 
 mudder she remember dat Mathurin ver' well. He is 
 not ver' big man. He has a face — oh ! not ver' 
 handsome, ' it so more handsome as yours — non! His 
 clothes, dey lang on him all loose; his hair, it is all 
 some grey, and it blow about him head. He is clean 
 to de face, no beard — no, nosing like dat. But his eye ; 
 la! M'sieu', his eye! It is like a coal which you blow 
 in your hand, whew ! — all bright. My gran'mudder, 
 
mmm 
 
 \4 
 
 \ :■'• 
 
 if. 
 
 164 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 sHe say, Vot/a, you can light your pipe with de eyes 
 of dat Mathuriu! She know. She say dat M'sieu 
 Mathurin's eyes dey shine in de dark. My gran'- 
 fadder he say he not need any Hghts on his carriole 
 when Mathurin ride with him in de dark. 
 
 '* Ah, sure ! it is ver' true what I tell you all de time. 
 If you cut off Mathurin at de chin, all de way up, 
 you will say de top of him it is a priest. All de way 
 down from his neck, oh, he is just no better as yoursel' 
 or my Jean — non! He is a ver' good man. Only one 
 bad ting he do. Dat is why I pray for him ; dat is why 
 everybody pray for him — only one bad ting. Saprisfi! 
 If I have only one ting to say God-have-mercy for, I 
 tink dat ver' good, I do my penance happy. Well, dat 
 Mathurin him use to teach de school. De Cure he 
 ver' fond of him. All de leetla children, boys and 
 girls, dey all say, * C'est bon MafJmrin! ' He is not 
 ver' cross — 7W7i! Hq have no wife, no child; jcs live 
 by himself all alone. But he is ver' good friends with 
 everybody in Pontiac. When he go 'long de street, 
 everybody say, ' Ah, derc go de good Mathurin ! " 
 He laugh, he tell story, he smoke leetla tabac, he take 
 leetla white wine behin' de door ; dat is nosing — non! 
 
 " He have in de parish five, ten, twenty children all 
 call Mathurin ; he is godfadder with dem — yes. So 
 he go about with plenty of sugar and sticks of candy 
 in his pocket. He never forget once de age of every 
 leetla child dat call him godfadder. He have a brain 
 dat work like a clock. My gran'fadder he say dat 
 Mathurin have a machine in his head. It make de 
 words. Make de thoughts, make de fine speech like 
 de Cure, make de gran* poetry — oh, yes ! 
 
 " When de King of Englan' go to sit on de throne, 
 Mathurin write ver' nice verse to him. And bv-and-by 
 
 I 
 
JRNING 
 
 MATHURIN 
 
 165 
 
 dth de eyes 
 
 clat M'sieu 
 
 My gran'- 
 
 his carriole 
 
 all de time, 
 de way up, 
 All de way 
 r as yoursel' 
 . Only one 
 1 ; dat is why 
 g". Sapristi! 
 mercy for, I 
 '. Well, dat 
 De Cure he 
 n, boys and 
 He is not 
 liild ; jes live 
 friends with 
 \g de street, 
 Mathurin ! " 
 bac, he take 
 )sing — non! 
 children all 
 11 — yes. So 
 ks of candy 
 ige of every 
 lave a brain 
 he say dat 
 It make de 
 speech like 
 
 n de throne, 
 id bv-and-by 
 
 m 
 
 i 
 
 dcre come to Mathurin a letter — vot/^, dat is a letter ! 
 It have one, two, three, twenty seals ; and de King he 
 say to Mathurin, * Mrrci millc fois, M'sicu\ You are 
 ver' polite. I tank you. I will keep your verses to 
 tell me dat my French subjects are all loyal like M. 
 Mathurin.' Dat is ver' nice, but Mathurin is not 
 proud — non! He write six verses for my gran'mudder 
 
 licin! Dat is someting. He write two verses for de 
 
 King of Englan' and he write six verses for my gran'- 
 mudder — you see ! He go on so, dis week, dat week, 
 dis year, dat year, all de time. 
 
 " Well, by-and-by dere is trouble in Pontiac. It is 
 ver' great trouble. You see dere is a fight 'gainst de 
 King of Englan', and dat is too bad. It is not his 
 fault ; he is ver' nice man ; it is de bad men who make 
 de laws for de King in Quebec, Well, one day all over 
 de country everybody take him gun, and de leetla 
 bullets, and say, I will fight de soldier of de King of 
 Englan' — like dat ! Ver' well, dere was twenty men in 
 Pontiac, ver' nice men — you will find de names cut in 
 a stone on de church ; and den, tree times as big, you 
 will find Mathurin's name. Aii, dat is de ting ! You 
 see, dat rebellion you English call it, we call it de 
 War of de Patriot — de first War of de Patriot, not de 
 second — well, call it what you like, quelle difference? 
 The King of Englan' smash him Patriot War all to 
 pieces. Den dere is ten men of de twenty come back 
 to Pontiac ver' sorry. Dey are not happy, nobody are 
 happy! All de wives, dey cry ; all de children, u*^y are 
 afraid ! Some people say, What fools you are ; others 
 say, You are no good ; but everybody in him heart is 
 ver' sorrv all de time. 
 
 '* Ver' well, by-and-by dere come to Pontiac what 
 you call a colonel with a dozen men — what for, you 
 
i66 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 tink ? To try cle patriots. He will stan' dem against 
 de wall and shoot dem to death — kill dem dead! 
 When dey come, de Cure he is not in Pontiac — non, not 
 dat day ; he is gone to anudder village. The English 
 soldier he has de ten men drew up before de church. 
 All de children and all de wives dey cry and cry, and 
 dey feel so bad. Certainlee, it is a pity. But de 
 English soldier he say he will march dem ofif to Que- 
 bec, and everybody know dat is de end of de patriots. 
 
 " All at once de colonel's horse it grow ver' wild, 
 it rise up high and dance on him hind feet, and— 
 voila! he topple him over backwards, and de horse 
 fall on de colonel and smaish him — smaish him till he 
 go to die. Ver' well ; de colonel, what does he do? 
 Dey lay him on de steps of de church. Den he say, 
 * Bring me a priest, quick, for I go to die ! ' Nobody 
 answer. De colonel he say, * I have a hundred sins 
 all on my mind ; dey are on my heart like a hill. Britio; 
 to me de priest ! ' — he groan like dat. Nobody speak 
 at first ; den somebody say de priest is not here. ' Find 
 me a priest,' say de colonel ; ' find me a priest.' For 
 he tink de priest will not come, becos he go to kill de 
 patriots. * Bring me a priest,' he say again, ' and all 
 de ten shall go free ! ' He say it over and over. He 
 is smaish to pieces, but h.'s head it is all right. All at 
 once de doors of de church open behin' him — what 
 you tink? Everybody's her.rt it stan' still, for dere is 
 Mathurin dress as de priest, with a leetla boy to swinij 
 de censer. Everybody say to himself, What is dis? 
 Mathurin is dress as de priest — ah ! dat is a sin. It is 
 what you call blaspeme. 
 
 " The English soldier he look \vp at Mathurin ami 
 sav, * Ah, a priest at last! ah, m'sieu' le Cure, comfort 
 me!' 
 
 
 A 
 
URNING 
 
 MATHURIN 
 
 167 
 
 dem against 
 dem dead ! 
 iac — non, not 
 The English 
 e de church. 
 and cry, and 
 ity. But de 
 1 off to Que- 
 if de patriots. 
 DW ver' wild, 
 1 feet, and— 
 ind de horse 
 sh him till he 
 does he do? 
 Den he say, 
 e ! ' Nobody 
 hundred sins 
 a hill. Bring 
 ^Jobody speak 
 t here. * Find 
 priest.' For 
 go to kill dc 
 gain, ' and all 
 .nd over. He 
 right. All at 
 n' him — what 
 ill, for dere is 
 boy to swin.c; 
 Wiiat is dis^ 
 is a sin. It is 
 
 " Mathurin look down on him and say, * M'sieu', it 
 is for you to confess your sins, and to have de office 
 of de Church. But first, as you have promise just now, 
 you must give up dese poor men, who have fight for 
 what dey tink is right. You will let dem go free dis 
 niomcn' ! ' 
 
 " ' Yes, yes,' say de English colonel ; ' dey shall go 
 free. Only give me de help of de Church at my last ! ' 
 
 " Mathurin turn to de other soldiers and say, * Un- 
 loose de men.' 
 
 " De colonel nod his head and say, * Unloose de 
 men.' Den de men are unloose, and dey all go away, 
 for Mathurin tell dem to go quick. 
 
 " Everybody is ver' 'fraid becos' of what Ma*^hurin 
 do. Mathurin he say to de soldiers, ' Lift him up and 
 bring him in de church.' Dey bring him up to de 
 steps of de altar. Mathurin look at de man for a while, 
 and it seem as if he cannot speak to him ; but de colonel 
 say, ' I have give you my word. Give me comfort of 
 de Church before I die.' He is in ver' great pain, so 
 Mathurin he turn roun' to everybody dat stan' by, and 
 tell dem to say de prayers for de sick. Everybody get 
 him down on iiis knees and say de prayer. Everybody 
 say: 'Lord have mercy. Spare hiiUy O Lord; de- 
 liver him. O Lord, from Thy wrath ! ' And Mathurin 
 he pray all de same as a priest, ver' soft and gentle. 
 He pray on and on, and de face of de English soldier 
 it get ver' quiet and still, and de tear drop down his 
 cheek. And just as Mathurin say at de last his sins 
 dey are forgive, he die. Den ]\Tathurin, as he go 
 away to take off his robes, he sav to himself, * Miserere 
 met Dens ! miserere met Dens ! ' 
 
 " So dat is de ting dat Mathurin do to save de 
 patriots from de bullets. Ver' well, dc men dey go 
 
i68 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 ■'I , I 
 
 free, and when de Governor at Quebec he hear de 
 truth, he say it is all right. Also de English soldier 
 die in peace and happy, becos' he tink his sins are for- 
 give. But den — dcre is Mathurin and his sin to pre- 
 tend he is a priest ! The Cure he come back, and dcre 
 is a great trouble. 
 
 ' Mathurin he is ver' quiet and still. Nobody come 
 near him in him house ; nobody go near to de school. 
 But he sit alone all day in de school, and he work 
 on de blackboar' and he write on de slate ; but dcre 
 is no child come, becos' de Cure has forbid any one to 
 speak to Mathurin. Not till de next Sunday, den dc 
 Cure send for Mathurin to come to de church. 
 Mathurin come to de steps of de altar ; den de Cure say 
 to him : 
 
 " ' Mathurin, you have sin a great sin. If it was two 
 hunderd years ago you would be put to death for dat.' 
 
 " Mathurin he say ver' soft, ' Dat is no matter, I 
 am ready to die now. I did it to save de fadders of de 
 children and de husbands of de wives. I did it to 
 make a poor sinner happy as he go from de world. 
 De sin is mine ! ' 
 
 " Den de Cure he say, ' De men are free, dat is 
 good ; de wives have dere husbands and de children 
 dere fathers. Also de man who confess his sins — de 
 English soldier — to whom you say de words of a priest 
 of God, he is forgive. De Spirit of God it was upon 
 him when he die, becos' you speak in de name of de 
 Church. But for ^ou, blasphemer, who take upon you 
 de holy ting, you shall suffer ! For penance, all your 
 life you shall teach a chile no more ! ' 
 
 " Ah, m'sieu' le Cure he know dat is de greatest 
 penance f)r de poor Mathurin! Den he set him 
 other tiags to do; and every month for a whole year 
 
 .V 
 
MATHURIN 
 
 169 
 
 [f it was two 
 ;ath for dat.' 
 10 matter, I 
 adders of de 
 I did it to 
 n de world. 
 
 free, dat is 
 de children 
 his sins — de 
 Is of a priest 
 it was upon 
 name of de 
 ke upon you 
 nee, all your 
 
 de greatest 
 
 he set him 
 
 I whole year 
 
 Mathurin come on his knees all de way to de church, 
 but de Cure say, * Not yet are you forgive.' At de end 
 of de year Alathurin he look so thin, so white, you can 
 blow through him. Every day he go to him school 
 and write on de blackboar', and mark on de slate, and 
 call de roll of de school. But dere is no answer, for 
 dcre is no chile. But all de time de wives of de men 
 dat he have save, and de chil'ren, dey pray for him. 
 And by-and-by all de village pray for him, so sorry. 
 
 " It is so for two years ; and den dey say dat 
 Mathurin he go to die. He cannot come on his knees 
 to de church ; and de men whose life he save, dey come 
 to de Cure and ask him to take de penance from 
 Mathurin. De Cure say, ' Wait till nex' Sunday.' So 
 nex' Sunday Mathurin is carry to de church — he is 
 too weak to walk on his knees. De Cure he stan' at 
 de altar, and he read a letter from de Pope, which say 
 dat Mathurin his penance is over, and he is forgive; 
 dat de Pope himself pray for Mathurin, to save his 
 soul ! So. 
 
 " Mathurin all at once he stan' up, and his face it 
 smile and smile, and he stretch out his arms as if dey 
 are on a cross, and he say, * Lord, I am ready t go,' 
 and he fall down. But de Cure catch him as fall, 
 and Mathurin say, ' De chil'ren — let dem com* o me 
 dat I teach dem before I die!' An' all de al'ren 
 in de church dey come close to him, and he sit .p and 
 smile at dem, and he say : 
 
 " ' It is de class in 'rithmetic. How muc. is three 
 times four? ' And dem all answer, * Three times four 
 is twelve.' And he say, * May de Twelve Apostles 
 pray for me ! ' Den he ask, * Class in geography — 
 how far is it roun' de \\ orld ? ' And dey answer, 
 * Twenty-four thousand miks.' He say, * Goc .' ; it is 
 
^:'\\Y' 
 
 I 70 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 not so far to God ! De school is over all de time,' he 
 say. And dat ib only everyting of poor Alathurin. He 
 is dead. 
 
 " When de Cure lay him down, after he make de Sign 
 upon him, he kiss his face and say : ' Mathurin, now 
 you are a priest unto God ! ' " 
 
 That was Angele Rouvier's story of Mathurin, the 
 Master of the School, for whom the women and the 
 children pray in the parish of Pontiac, though the 
 school has been dismissed these hundred years and 
 nior«. 
 
RNING 
 
 e time,' he 
 hurin. He 
 
 ike de Sign 
 liurin, now 
 
 ithurin, the 
 
 en and the 
 
 though the 
 
 years and 
 
 THE STORY OF THE LIME- 
 BURNER 
 
THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER 
 
 FOR a man in whose life there had been tragedy he 
 was cheerful. He had a habit of humming 
 vague notes in the silence of conversation, as if to put 
 you at your ease. His body and face were lean and 
 arid, his eyes oblique and small, his hair straight and 
 dry and straw-coloured ; and it flew out crackling with 
 electricity, to meet his cap as he put it on. He lived 
 alone in a little hut near his lime-kiln by the river, with 
 no near neighbours, and few companions save his four 
 dogs ; and these he fed sometimes at expense of his 
 own stomach. He had just enough crude poetry in 
 his nature to enjoy his surroundings. For he was well 
 placed. Behind the lime-kiln rose knoll on knoll, and 
 beyond these, the verdant hills, all converging to Dal- 
 grothe Mountain. In front of it was the river with its 
 banks dropping forty feet, and below, the rapids, al- 
 ways troubled and sportive. On the farther side of the 
 river lay peaceful areas of meadow and corn land, and 
 low-roofed, hovering farm-houses, with one larger 
 than the rest, having a windm.ill and a flagstaff. This 
 building was almost large enough for a manor, and in- 
 deed it was said that it had been built for one just be- 
 fore the conquest in 1759, but the war had destroyed 
 the ambitious owner, and it had become a farm-house. 
 Paradis always knew the time of the day by the way 
 the light fell on the windmill. He had owned this 
 farm once, he and his brother Fabian, and he had loved 
 
 ;;^vit^TY Gr , 
 
 / H 
 
 > k"V '-. 
 
 t S C A R :i v' 
 
 / 
 
174 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 it as he loved Fabian, and he loved it now as he loved 
 Fabian's memory. In spite of all, they were cheerful 
 memories, both of brother and house. 
 
 At twenty-three they had become orphans, with two 
 liundred acres of land, some cash, horses and cattle, 
 and plenty of credit in the parish, or in the county, for 
 that matter. Both were of hearty dispositions, but 
 Fabian had a taste for liquor, and Henri for pretty 
 faces and shapely ankles. Yet no one thought the 
 worse of them for that, especially at first. An old 
 servant kept house for them and cared for them in 
 her honest way, both physically and morally. Sh': 
 lectured them when at first there was little to lecture 
 about. It is no wonder that when there came a vast 
 deal to reprove, the bonne desisted altogether, over- 
 whelmed by the weight of it. 
 
 Henri got a shock the day before their father died 
 when he saw Fabian lift the brandy used to mix with 
 the milk of the dying man, and pouring out the third 
 of a tumbler, drink it off, smacking his lips as he did 
 so, as though it were a cordial. That gave him a cue 
 to his future and to Fabian's. After their father died 
 Fabian gave way to the vice. He drank in the taverns, 
 he was at once the despair and the joy of the parish; 
 for, wild as he was, he had a gay te iiper, a humorous 
 mind, a strong arm, and was the uni\ ersal lover. The 
 Cure, who did not, of course, know t>ne-fourth of his 
 wildness, had a warm spot lor h'.m in his heart. But 
 there was a vicious strain in him somewhere, and it 
 came out one day in a perilous fashion. 
 
 There was in the hotel of the Lcuis OuIlzc an En?- 
 lish servant from the west called Nei! Barra vay. She 
 had been in a hotel in Montreal, and it was there 
 Fabian had seen her as she waited at tabic. She was 
 
 A 
 
 hi ' 
 
THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER 175 
 
 a splcnditl-lookingf creature — all life and energy, tall, 
 fair-haired, and with a charm above her kind. Slic 
 was also an excellent servant, could do as much as any 
 two women in any house, and was capable of more airy 
 diablerie than any ten of her sex in Pontiac. When 
 I'\ibian had said to her in Montreal that he would come 
 to see her again, he told her where he lived. She came 
 to see him instead, for she wrote to the landlord of the 
 Louis Quinze, enclosed fine testimonials, and was at 
 once engaged. Fabian was stunned when he entered 
 the Louis Quinze and saw her waiting at table, alert, 
 busy, good to behold. She nodded at him with a tiuick 
 smile as lie stood bewildered just inside the door, then 
 said in English : " This way, m'sieu'." 
 
 As he sat down he said in English also, with a laugh 
 and with snapping eyes : " Good Lord, what brings 
 you here, ladybird?" 
 
 As she pushed a chair under him she whispered 
 through his hair, " You ! " and then was gone away to 
 fetch pea-soup for six hungry men. 
 
 The Louis Quinze did more business now in three 
 mon*:hs than it had done before in six. But it became 
 known among a few in Pontiac that Nell was noto- 
 rious. How it had crept up from Montreal no one 
 guessed, and, when it did come, her name was very in- 
 timately associated with Fabian's. No one could say 
 that she was not the most perfect of servants, and also 
 no one could say that her life in Pontiac had not been 
 exemplary. Yet wise people had made up their minds 
 that she was determined to marry Fabian, and the 
 wisest declared that she would do so in spite of every- 
 thing — religion (she was a Protestant), character, race. 
 She was clever, as the young Seigneur found, as the 
 little Avocat was forced to admit, as the Cure allowed 
 
IMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-3) 
 
 1.0 
 
 I.I 
 
 IM 
 
 ■ 50 
 
 ■2.5 
 
 iU |3A li 
 
 2.2 
 
 
 1.8 
 
 1.25 il.4 
 
 - 6" 
 
 V 
 
 v) 
 
 :^ '5 
 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14S80 
 
 (/16) 872-4503 
 
k 
 
 176 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 with a sigh, and she had no airs of badness at all and 
 very little of usual coquetry. Fabian was enamoured, 
 and it was clear that he intended to bring the woman 
 to the Manor one way or another. 
 
 Henri admitted the fascination of the woman, felt it, 
 despaired, went to Montreal, got proof of her career, 
 came back, and made his final and only effort to turn 
 his brother from the girl. 
 
 He had waited an hour outside the hotel for his 
 brother, and when Fabian got in, he drove on without 
 a word. After a while, Fabian, who was in high spirits, 
 said: 
 
 " Open your mouth, Henri. Come along, sleepy- 
 head." 
 
 Straightway he began to sing a rollicking song, and 
 Henri joined in with him heartily, for the spirit of 
 Fabian'3 humour was contagious : 
 
 " There was a little man, 
 The foolish Guilleri 
 Carabi. 
 
 He went unto the chase, 
 Of partridges the chase, 
 Carabi. 
 Titi Carabi, 
 Toto Carabo, 
 
 You're going to break your neck, 
 My lovely Guilleri." 
 
 He was about to begin another verse when Henri 
 stopped him, saying : 
 
 " You're going to break your neck, Fabian." 
 
 " What's up, Henri ? " was the reply. 
 
 " You're drinking hard, and you don't keep good 
 company." 
 
 J. \,' 
 
THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER 177 
 
 Fabian laughed. " Can't get the company I want, 
 so what I can get I have, Henri, my lad." 
 
 " Don't drink." Henri laid his free hand on Fa- 
 bian's knee. 
 
 " Whiskey-wine is meat and drink to me — I was 
 born on New Year's Day, old coffin-face. Whiskey- 
 wine day, they ought to call it. Holy ! the empty jars 
 that day." 
 
 Henri sighed. " That's the drink, Fabian," he said 
 patiently. " Give up the company, Fll be better 
 company for you than that girl, Fabian." 
 
 "Girl? Wliat the devil do you mean!" 
 
 " She, Nell Barraway was the company I meant, 
 Fabian." 
 
 "Nell Barraway — you mean her? Bosh! Fm 
 going to marry her, Henri." 
 
 " You mustn't, Fabian," said Henri, eagerly clutch- 
 ing Fabian's sleeve. 
 
 " But I must, my Henri. She's the best-looking, 
 wittiest girl I ever saw — splendid. Never lonely with 
 her." 
 
 " Looks and brains isn't everything, Fabian." 
 
 " Isn't it, though ! Isn't it? Tiens! You try it." 
 
 " Not without goodness." Henri's voice weakened. 
 
 " That's bosh. Of course it is, Henri, my dear. If 
 you love a woman, if she gets hold of you, gets into 
 your blood, loves you so that the touch of her fingers 
 sets your pulses going pom-pom, you don't care a sou 
 whether she is good or not." 
 
 " You mean whether she teas good or not? " 
 
 " No, I don't. I mean is good or not. For if she 
 loves you she'll travel straight for your sake. Pshaw ! 
 You don't know anything about it." 
 
 " I know all about it." 
 
 12 
 
 
178 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 € 
 
 ',* III »■»»■• 
 
 .^•r 
 
 " Know all about it ! 
 " Yes." 
 
 You're in love — you ? " 
 
 Fabian sat open-mouthed for a minute. " Go- 
 dam ! " he said. It was his one English oath. 
 
 " Is she good company ? " he asked after a minute. 
 
 " She's the same as you keep — the same. Voila!" 
 
 " You mean Nell — Nell ? " asked Fabian, in a dry, 
 choking voice. 
 
 " Yes, Nell. From the first time I saw her. But I'd 
 cut my hand off first. I'd think of you; of our peo- 
 ple that have been here for two hundred years; 
 of the rooms in the old house where mother used to 
 be." 
 
 Fabian laughed nervously. " Holy heaven, and 
 you've got her in your blood, too ! " 
 
 " Yes, but I'd never marry her. Fabian, at Mon- 
 treal I found out all about her. She was as bad " 
 
 " That's nothing to me, Henri," said Fabian, " but 
 something else is. Here you are now. I'll make a 
 bargain." His face showed pale in the moonlight. 
 " If: you'll drink with me, do as I do, go where I go, 
 play the devil when I play it, and never squeal, never 
 hang back, I'll give her up. But I've got to have you 
 — got to have you all the time, everywhere, hunting, 
 drinking, or letting alone. You'll see me out, for 
 you're stronger, had less of it. I'm for the little low 
 house in the grass, bientot. Stop the horses." 
 
 Henri stopped them and they got out. They were 
 just opposite the lime-kiln, and they had to go a few 
 hundred yards before they came to the bridge to cross 
 the river to their home. The light of the fire shone in 
 their faces as Fabian handed the flask to Henri, and 
 said : " Let's drink to it, Henri, You half, and me 
 half." He was deadly pale. 
 
THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER 179 
 
 Henri drank to the finger-mark set, and then Fabian 
 lifted the flask to his Hps. 
 
 " Good-bye, Nell ! " he said. '' Here's to the good 
 times we've had ! " He emptied the flask, and threw 
 it over the bank into the burning lime, and Garotte, the 
 old lime-burner, being half asleep, did not see or hear. 
 
 The next day the two went on a long hunting ex- 
 pedition, and the following month Nell Barraway left 
 for Montreal. 
 
 Henri kept to his compscl, drink for drink, sport for 
 sport. One year the crops were sold before they were 
 reaped, horses and cattle went little by little, then came 
 mortgage, and still Henri never wavered, never weak- 
 ened, in spite of the Cure anr' all others. The brothers 
 were always together, and never from first to last did 
 Henri lose his temper, or openly lament that ruin was 
 coming surely on them. What money Fabian wanted 
 he got. The Cure's admonitions availed nothing, for 
 Fabian would go his gait. The end came on the very 
 spot where the compact had been made; for, passing 
 the lime-kiln one dark night, as the two rode home to- 
 gether, Fabian's horse shied, the bank of the river gave 
 way, and with a startled " Ah, Henri! " the profligate 
 and his horse were gone into the river below. 
 
 Next month the farm and all were sold, Henri Para- 
 dis succeeded the old lime-burner at his post, drank no 
 more ever, and lived his life in sight of the old home. 
 
THE WOODSMAN'S STORY OF 
 THE GREAT WHITE CHIEF 
 
TI 
 
 1 
 
 the 
 to] 
 as 
 kni 
 "H 
 on 
 
 ther 
 one 
 
 fath 
 He 
 the 
 off I 
 spea 
 
 pany 
 Ikn 
 Hon'i 
 ways 
 their 
 neck 
 go w 
 chief, 
 
THE WOODSMAN'S STORY OF THE GREAT 
 
 WHITE CHIEF 
 
 THE old woodsman shifted the knife with which he 
 was mending his fishing-rod from one hand to 
 the other, and looked at it musingly, before he replied 
 to Medallion. " Yes, m'sieu', I knew the White Chief, 
 as they called him : this was his " — holding up the 
 knife ; ** and this " — taking a watch from his pocket. 
 " He gave them to me ; I was with him in the Circle 
 on the great journey." 
 
 " Tell us about him, then," Medallion urged ; " for 
 there are many tales, and who knows which is the right 
 one?" 
 
 " The right one is mine. Holy, he was to me like a 
 father then ! I know more of the truth than any one." 
 He paused a moment, looking out on the river where 
 the hot sun was playing with all its might, then took 
 off his cap with deliberation, laid it beside him, and 
 speaking as it were into the distance, began : 
 
 " He once was a trader of the Hudson's Ba> Com- 
 pany. Of his birth some said one thing, some another ; 
 I know he was beaucoiip gentil, and his heart, it was a 
 lion's ! Once, when there was trouble with the Chipp'- 
 ways, he went alone to their camp, and say he will fight 
 their strongest man, to stop the trouble. He twist the 
 neck of the great fighting man of the tribe, so that it 
 go with a snap, and that ends it, and he was made a 
 chief, for, you see, in their hearts they all hated their. 
 
i84 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 i,i„ ' 
 
 strong man. Well, one winter there come down to 
 I'^ort o' God two Esquimaux, and they say that thrt-t' 
 wliitc men arc wintering by the Coppermine River; 
 tliey had travel down fruiii the frozen seas wlien 
 tiieir ship was lock in tli: ice, but can get no farther. 
 Tiiey were sick with the evil skin, and starving. The 
 White Chief say to me : ' Galloir, will you go to rescue 
 them ? ' I would have gone with him to the ends of 
 the world — and this was near otie end." 
 
 The old man laughed to himself, tossed his jet-black 
 hair from his wrinkled face, and, after a moment, went 
 on : " There never was such a winter as that. The air 
 was so still by times that you can hear the rustle of 
 the stars and the shifting of the northern lights; but 
 the cold at night caught you by the heart and clamp 
 it — Mon Dicu! how it clamp! We crawl under the 
 snow and lay in our bags of fur and wool, and the dogs 
 hug close to us. We were sorry for the dogs ; and one 
 died, and then another, and there is nothing so dreadful 
 as to hear the dogs howl in the long night — it is like 
 ghosts crying in an empty world. The circle of the 
 sun get smaller and smaller, till he only tramp along 
 the high edge of the northwest. We got to the river 
 at last, and found the camp. There is one man dead — 
 only one ; but there were bones — ah, m'sieu', you not 
 guess what a thing it is to look upon the bones of men, 
 and know that ! " 
 
 Medallion put his hand on the old man's arm. 
 " Wait a minute," he said. Then he poured out cofTee 
 for both, and they drank before the rest was told. 
 
 " It's a creepy story," said Medallion, " but go on." 
 
 "Well, the White Chief look at the dead man as 
 he sit there in the snow, with a book and a piece of 
 paper beside him, and the pencil in the book. The face 
 
ING 
 
 THE WOODSMAN'S STORY 
 
 185 
 
 own to 
 it three 
 
 River ; 
 s wlien 
 
 lartbcr. 
 g. The 
 
 rescue 
 ends of 
 
 jet-black 
 :nt, went 
 The air 
 rnstle of 
 ^hts; but 
 nd clamp 
 inder the 
 
 1 the dops 
 1 ; and one 
 3 dreadful 
 -it is like 
 cle of the 
 rnp along 
 
 the river 
 .n dead — ■ 
 I', you not 
 IS of men, 
 
 is bent forward to the knees. The White Chief pick 
 up tile book and pencil, and then kneel down and gaze 
 up in the dead man's f:ice, all hard like stone and 
 crusted with frost. I thought he would never stir 
 again, he look so 'ong. 1 think he was puzzle. Then 
 he turn and say to me : * So quiet, so awful, Galloir ! ' 
 :ind got up. Well, but it was cold then, and my head 
 seemed big and running about like a ball of air. But I 
 light a spirit-lamp, and make some cofTee, and he oj^en 
 the dead man's book — it is what they call a diary — and 
 be^jin to read. All at once I hear a cry, and I see hitn 
 ihoj) the book on the ground, and go to tiie dead man, 
 and jerk his fist as if to strike him in the face. But he 
 did not strike." 
 
 Galloir stopped, and lighted his pipe, and was so long 
 silent that Medallion had to jog him into speaking. 
 He pufTcd the smoke so that his face was in the cloud, 
 and he said through it : " No, he did not strike. He get 
 to his feet and spoke : ' God forgive her ! ' like that, 
 and come and take up the book again, and read. He 
 eat and drunk, and read the book again, and I know by 
 his face that something more than cold was clamp his 
 heart. 
 
 " ' Shall we bury him in the snow? ' I say. * No,' 
 he spoke, * let him sit there till the Judgmen'. This 
 is a wonderful book, Galloir,' he went on. * He was a 
 brave man, but the rest ! — the rest ! ' — then under his 
 breath almost : * She was so young — but a child.' I 
 not understand that. We start away soon, leaving the 
 thing there. For four days, and then I see that the 
 White Chief will never get back to Fort Pentecost; 
 but he read the dead man's book much. . . ." 
 
 " I cannot forget that one day. He lay looking at 
 the world — nothing but the waves of snow, shining 
 
186 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 blue and white, on and on. The sun Hft an eye of 
 blood in the north, winking like a devil as I try to drive 
 Death away by calling in his ear. He wake all at 
 once; but his eyes seem asleep. He tell me to take 
 the book to a great man in Montreal — he give me the 
 name. Then he take out his watch — it is stop — and 
 this knife, and put them into my hands, and then he 
 pat my shoulder. He motion to have the bag drawn 
 over his head. I do it. . . . Of course that was 
 the end 1 " 
 
 " But what about the book ? " Medallion asked. 
 
 " That book ? It was strange. I took it to the man 
 in Montreal — Tonncrre, what a fine house and good 
 wine had he ! — and told him all. He whip out a scarf, 
 and blow his nose loud, and say very angry : * So, she's 
 lost both now! What a scoundrel he was! . . .' 
 "Which one did he mean? I not understand ever 
 
 smce. 
 
 II 
 
NING 
 
 n eye of 
 r to drive 
 ke all at 
 J to take 
 e me the 
 top — and 
 I then he 
 \g drawn 
 that was 
 
 iked. 
 
 ) the man 
 
 md good 
 
 It a scarf, 
 
 So, she's 
 
 I . . ; 
 
 and ever 
 
 UNCLE JIM 
 
 1 ■ 
 
 l;i 
 
h 
 
 J 
 
 a h 
 
 saw 
 
 spli 
 
 liar 
 
 lum 
 
 war 
 
 and 
 
 beer 
 
 and 
 
 whic 
 
 of m 
 
 Add 
 
 spea 
 
 he c( 
 
 cut, 1 
 
 was, 
 
 Labc 
 
 ing-b 
 
 pail, i 
 
 he en 
 
 till th 
 
 stepp 
 
 Wint( 
 
 fire a 
 
UNCLE JIM 
 
 HE was no uncle of mine, but it pleased me that he 
 let me call him Uncle Jim. 
 It seems only yesterday that, for the first time, on 
 a farm " over the border," from the French province, I 
 saw him standing by a log outside the wood-house door, 
 splitting maple knots. He was all bent by years and 
 hard work, with muscles of iron, hands gnarled and 
 lumpy, but clinching like a vice ; grey head thrust for- 
 ward on shoulders which had carried forkfuls of hay 
 and grain, and leaned to the cradle and the scythe, and 
 been heaped with cordwood till they were like hide 
 and metal ; white straggling beard and red watery eyes, 
 which, to me, were always hung with an intangible veil 
 of mystery — though that, maybe, was my boyish fancy. 
 Added to all this he was so very deaf that you had to 
 speak clear and loud into his ear; and many people 
 he could not hear at all, if their words were not sharp- 
 cut, no matter how loud. A silent, withdrawn man he 
 was, living close to Mother Earth, twin-brother of 
 Labour, to whom Morning and Daytime were sound- 
 ing-boards for his axe, scythe, saw, flail, and milking- 
 pail, and Night a round hollow of darkness into which 
 he crept, shutting the doors called Silence behind him, 
 till the impish page of Toil came tapping again, and he 
 stepped awkwardly into the working world once more. 
 Winter and summer saw him putting the kettle on the 
 fire a few minutes after four o'clock, in winter issuing 
 
190 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 with lantern from the kitchen door to the stable and 
 barn to feed the stock; in summer sniffing: the prev 
 dawn and looking out on his fields of rye and barley, 
 before he went to gather the cows for milking and take 
 the horses to water. 
 
 For forty years he and his worn-faced wife bowed 
 themselves beneath the yoke, first to pay for the hun- 
 dred-acre farm, and then to bring up and educate their 
 seven children. Something noble in them gave them 
 ambitions for their boys and girls which they had never 
 had for themselves ; but when had gone the forty years, 
 in v/hich the little farm had twice been mortgaged to 
 put the eldest son through college as a doctor, they 
 faced the bitter fact that the farm had passed from 
 them to Rodney, the second son, who had come at last 
 to keep a hotel in a town fifty miles away. Generous- 
 hearted people would think that these grown-up sons 
 and daughters should have returned the old people's 
 long toil and care by buying up the farm and handing 
 it back to them, their rightful refuge in the decline of 
 life. But it was not so. They were tenants where 
 they had been owners, dependents where they had been 
 givers, slaves where once ihey were masters. The old 
 mother toiled without a servant, the old man without 
 a helper, save in harvest time. 
 
 But the great blow came when Rodney married the 
 designing milliner who flaunted her wares opposite his 
 bar-room; and, somehow, from the date of that mar- 
 riage, Rodney's good fortune and the hotel declined. 
 When he and his wife first visited the little farm after 
 their marriage the old mother shrank away from the 
 young woman's painted face, and ever afterwards an 
 added sadness showed in her bearing and in her pa- 
 tient smile. But she took Rodney's wife through the 
 
UNCLE JIM 
 
 19T 
 
 house, showing her all there was to show, though that 
 was not much. There was the little parlour with its 
 hair-cloth chairs, rag carpet, centre table, and iron 
 stove with black pipes, all gaily varnished. There was 
 the parlour bedroom oiT it, with the one feather-bed of 
 the house bountifully piled up with coarse home-made 
 blankets, topped by a silk patchwork quilt, the artistic 
 labour of the old wife's evening hours while Uncle Jim 
 peeled apples and strung them to dry from the rafters. 
 There was a room, dining-room in summer, and 
 kitchen dining-room in winter, as clean as aged hands 
 could scrub and dust it, hung about with stray pictures 
 from illustrated papers, and a good old clock in the 
 corner ticking life, and youth, and hope away. There 
 was the buttery off that, with its meagre china and 
 crockery, its window looking out on the field of rye, 
 the little orchard of winter apples, and the hedge of 
 cranberry bushes. Upstairs were rooms with no ceil- 
 ings, where, lying on a corn-husk bed, you reached up 
 and touched the sloping roof, with windows at the end 
 only, facing the buckwheat field, and looking down two 
 miles toward the main road — for the farm was on a 
 concession or side-road, dusty in summer, and in win- 
 ter sometimes impassable for weeks together. It was 
 not much of a home, as any one with the mind's eye can 
 see, but four stalwart men and three fine women had 
 been born, raised, and quartered there, until, with good 
 clothes, and speaking decent English and tolerable 
 French, and with money in their pockets, hardly got 
 by the old people, one by one they issued forth into the 
 world. 
 
 The old mother showed Rodney's wife what there 
 was for eyes to see, not forgetting the three hives of 
 bees on the south side, beneath the parlor window. 
 
192 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 i \ 
 
 She showed it with a kind of pride, for it all seemed 
 good to her, and every dish, and every chair, and every 
 corner in the little house had to her a glory of its own, 
 because of those who had come and gone — the first- 
 lings of her flock, the roses of her little garden of love, 
 blooming now in a rougher air than ranged over the 
 little house on the hill. She had looked out upon 
 the pine woods to the east and the meadow-land to the 
 north, the sweet valley between the rye-field and the 
 orchard, and the good honest air that had blown there 
 for forty years, bracing her heart and body for the 
 battle of love and life, and she had said through all, 
 Behold it is very good. 
 
 But the pert milliner saw nothing of all this; she did 
 not stand abashed in the sacred precincts of a home 
 where seven times the Angel of Death had hovered 
 over a birth-bed. She looked into the face which 
 Time's finger had anointed, and motherhood had 
 etched with trouble, and said : 
 
 " 'Tisn't much, is it? Only a clap-board house, and 
 no ceilings upstairs, and rag carpets — pshaw! " 
 
 And when she came to wash her hands for dinner, 
 she threw aside the unscented, common bar-soap, and, 
 shrugging her narrow shoulders at the coarse towel, 
 wiped her fingers on her cambric handkerchief. Any 
 other kind of a woman, when she saw the old mother 
 going about with her twisted wrist — a doctor's bad 
 work with a fracture — would have tucked up her dress, 
 and tied on an apron to help. But no, she sat and 
 preened herself with the tissue-paper sort of pride of a 
 vain milliner, or nervously shifted about, lifting up this 
 and that, curiously supercilious, her tongue rattling 
 on to her husband and to his mother in a shallow, fool- 
 ish way. She couldn't say, however, that anything 
 
NG 
 
 eemed 
 [ every 
 s own, 
 e first- 
 )f love, 
 ^er the 
 t upon 
 i to the 
 md the 
 n there 
 for the 
 ugh all, 
 
 she did 
 a home 
 hovered 
 e which 
 >od had 
 
 use, and 
 
 dinner, 
 ap, and, 
 towel. 
 Any 
 mother 
 )r's bad 
 er dress, 
 sat and 
 •ide of a 
 up this 
 rattling 
 )w, fool- 
 [nything 
 
 UNCLE JIM 
 
 193 
 
 I. 
 
 was out of order or ill-kept about the place. The old 
 woman's rheumatic fingers made corners clean, and 
 wood as white as snow, the stove was polished, the tins 
 were bright, and her own dress, no matter what her 
 work, neat as a girl's, although the old graceful poise 
 of the body had twisted out of drawing. 
 
 But the real crisis came when Rodney, having stood 
 at the wood-house door and blown the dinner-horn as 
 he used to do when a boy, the sound floating and cry- 
 ing away across the rye-field, the old man came — for, 
 strange to say, that was the one sound he could hear 
 easily, though, as he said to himself, it seemed as small 
 as a pin, coming from ever so far away. He came 
 heavily up from the barn-yard, mopping his red face 
 and forehead, and now and again raising his hand to 
 shade his eyes, concerned to see the unknown visitors, 
 whose horse and buggy were in the stable-yard. He 
 and Rodney greeted outside warmly enough, but there 
 was some trepidation too in Uncle Jim's face — he felt 
 trouble brewing ; and there is no trouble like that which 
 comes between parent and child. Silent as he was, 
 however, he had a large and cheerful heart, and nod- 
 ding his head he laughed the deep, quaint laugh which 
 Rodney himself of all his sons had — and he was fonder 
 of Rodney than any. He washed his hands in the little 
 basin outside the wood-house door, combed out his 
 white beard, rubbed his red, watery eyes, tied a clean 
 handkerchief round his neck, put on a rusty but clean 
 old coat, and a minute afterwards was shaking hands 
 for the first time with Rodney's wife. He had lived 
 much apart from his kind, but he had a mind that fast- 
 ened upon a thought and worked it down until it was 
 an axiom. He felt how shallow was this thin, flaunt- 
 ing woman of flounces and cheap rouge; he saw her 
 
 13 
 
I ! 
 
 i 4 
 
 194 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 sniff at the brown sugar — she had always had white at 
 the hotel ; and he noted that she let Rodney's mother 
 clear away and wash the dinner things herself. He felt 
 the little crack of doom before it came. 
 
 It came about three o'clock. He did not return to 
 the rye-field after dinner, but stayed and waited to hear 
 what Rodney had to say. Rodney did not tell his little 
 story well, for he foresaw trouble in the old home; 
 but he had to face this and all coming dilemmas as best 
 he might. With a kind of shame-facedness, yet with 
 an attempt to carry the thing off lightly, he told Uncle 
 Jim, while, inside, his wife told the old mother, that the 
 business of the hotel had gone to pot (he did not say 
 who was the cause of that), and they were selling out 
 to his partner and coming to live on the farm. 
 
 " I'm tired anyway of the hotel job," said Rodney. 
 " Farming's a better life. Don't you think so, dad? " 
 
 " It's better for me. Rod," answered Uncle Jim, " it's 
 better for me." 
 
 Rodney was a little uneasy. " But won't it be better 
 for me? " he asked. 
 
 " Mebbe," was the slow answer, " mebbe, mebbe so." 
 
 " And then there's mo^^her, she's getting too old for 
 the work, ain't she? " 
 
 " She's done it straight along," answered the old 
 man, " straight along till now." 
 
 " But Millie can help her, and we'll have a hired 
 girl, eh ? " 
 
 " I dunno, I dunno," was the brooding answer; " the 
 place ain't going to stand it." 
 
 " Oh, we'll get more out of it," answered Rodney. 
 *' I'll stock it up, I'll put more under barley. All the 
 thing wants is working, dad. Put more in, get more 
 out. Now ain't that right ? " 
 
UNCLE JIM 
 
 195 
 
 The other was looking off towards the rye-field, 
 where, for forty years, up and down the hill-side, he 
 had travelled with the cradle and the scythe, putting 
 all there was in him into it, and he answered, blinking 
 along the avenue of the past : 
 
 " Mebbe, mebbe ! " 
 
 Rodney fretted under the old man's vague replies, 
 and said, " But darn it all, can't you tell us what you 
 think?" 
 
 His father did not take his eyes off the rye-field. 
 "I'm thinking," he answered, in the same old-fashioned 
 way, " that I've been working here since you were 
 born. Rod. I've blundered along somehow, just 
 boggling my way through. I ain't got anything more 
 to say. The farm ain't mine any more, but I'll keep 
 my scythe sharp and my axe ground just as I always 
 did, and I'm for workin' as I've always worked as long 
 as I'm let to stay." 
 
 " Good Lord, dad, don't talk that way. Things 
 ain't going to be any different for you and mother 
 than they are now. Only, of course " He paused. 
 
 The old man pieced out the sentence: " Only, of 
 course, there can't be two women rulin' one house, 
 Rod, and you know it as well as I do." 
 
 Exactly how Rodney's wife told the old mother of 
 the great change Rodney never knew; but when he 
 went back to the house the grey look in his mother's 
 face told him more than her words ever told. Before 
 they left that night the pink milliner had already 
 planned the changes which were to celebrate her com- 
 ing and her ruling. 
 
 So Rodney and his wife came, all the old man prophe- 
 sied in a few brief sentences to his wife proving true. 
 There was no great struggle on the mother's part; she 
 
196 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 stepped aside from governing, and became as like a 
 servant as could be. An insolent servant girl came, and 
 she and Rodney's wife started a little drama of incom- 
 petency, which should end as the hotel-keeping ended. 
 Wastefulness, cheap luxury, tawdry living, took the 
 place of the old, frugal, simple life. But the mother 
 went about with that unchanging sweetness of face, 
 and a body withering about a fretted soul. She had 
 no bitterness, only a miserable distress. Bat every 
 slight that was put upon her, every change, every new- 
 fangled idea, from the white sugar to the scented soap 
 and the yellow buggy, rankled in the old man's heart. 
 He had resentment both for the old wife and himself, 
 and he hated the pink milliner for the humiliation that 
 she heaped upon them both. Rodney did not see one- 
 fifth of it, and what he did see lost its force, because, 
 strangely enough, he loved the gaudy wife who wore 
 gloves on her bloodless hands as she did the house- 
 work and spent numberless afternoons in trimming 
 her own bonnets. Her peevishness grew apace as 
 the newness of the experience wore off. Uncle Jim 
 seldom spoke to her, as he seldom spoke to any- 
 body, but she had an inkling of the rancour in his 
 heart, and many a time she put blame upon his shoul- 
 ders to her husband, when some unavoidable friction 
 came. 
 
 A year, two years, passed, which were as ten upon 
 the shoulders of the old people, and then, in the dead 
 of winter, an important thing happened. About the 
 month of March Rodney's first child was expected. 
 At the end of January Rodney had to go away, expect- 
 ing to return in less than a month. But, in the middle 
 of February, the woman's sacred trouble came before 
 its time. And on that day there fell such a storm as 
 
UNCLE JIM 
 
 197 
 
 had not been seen for many a year. The concession 
 road was blocked before day had well set in ; no horse 
 could go ten yards in it. The nearest doctor was 
 miles away at Pontiac, and for any man to face the 
 journey was to connive with death. The old mother 
 came to Uncle Jim, and, as she looked out of a little 
 unfrusLed spot on the window at the blinding storm, 
 lold him that the pink milliner would die. There 
 seemed no other end to it, for the chances were a hun- 
 dred to one against the strongest man making a jour- 
 ney for the doctor, and another hundred to one against 
 the doctor's coming. 
 
 No one knows whether Uncle Jim could hear the 
 cries from the torture-chamber, but, after standing for 
 a time mumbling to himself, he wrapped himself in a 
 heavy coat, tied a muffler about his face, and went out. 
 If they missed him they must have thought him gone 
 to the barn, or in the drive-shed sharpening his axe. 
 But the day went on and the old mother forgot all the 
 wrongs that she had suffered, and yearned over the 
 trivial woman who was hurrying out into the Great 
 Space. Her hours seemed numbered at noon, her 
 moments measured as it came towards sundown, but 
 with the passing of the sun the storm stopped, and a 
 beautiful white peace fell on the world of snow, and 
 suddenly out of that peace came six men ; and the first 
 that opened the door was the doctor. After him came 
 Uncle Jim, supported between two others. 
 
 Uncle Jim had made the terrible journey, falling at 
 last in the streets of the country town with frozen 
 hands and feet, not a dozen rods from the doctor's 
 door. They brought him to, he told his story, and, 
 with the abating of the storm, the doctor and the vil- 
 lagers drove down to the concession road, and then 
 
 o 
 
198 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 made their way slowly up across the fields, carrying 
 the old man with them, for he would not be left be- 
 hind. 
 
 An hour after the doctor entered the parlour bed- 
 room the old mother came out to where the old man 
 sat, bundled up beside the fire with bandaged hands 
 and feet. 
 
 " She's safe, Jim, and the child too," she said softly. 
 
 The old man twisted in his chair, and blinked into 
 the fire. " Dang my soul! " he said. 
 
 The old woman stooped and kissed his grey tangled 
 hair. She did not speak, and she did not ask him what 
 he meant; but there and then they took up their lives 
 again and lived them out. 
 
THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL 
 
 PORCH 
 
I 
 
 da 
 pe 
 Se 
 vo 
 he 
 g-a) 
 Ian 
 
 the 
 in^ 
 on 
 ten 
 
 dro 
 she 
 furt 
 
 a tj 
 line 
 whi 
 pen 
 ful 
 in H 
 the 
 and 
 hanc 
 
THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH 
 
 NO one ever visited t'le House except the Little 
 Chemist, the Avocat, and Medallion ; and Me- 
 dallion, though merely an auctioneer, was the only 
 person on terms of intimacy with its owner, the old 
 Seigneur, who for many years had never stirred be- 
 yond the limits of his little garden. At rare intervals 
 he might be seen sitting in the large stone porch which 
 gave overweighted dignity to the house, itself not very 
 large. 
 
 An air of mystery surrounded the place : in summer 
 the grass was rank, the trees seemed huddled together 
 in gloom about the houses, the vines appeared to ooze 
 on the walls, and at one end, where the window-shut- 
 ters were always closed and barred, a great willow 
 drooped and shivered ; in winter the stone walls 
 showed naked and grim among the gaunt trees and 
 furtive shrubs. 
 
 None who ever saw the Seigneur could forget him — 
 a tall figure with stooping shoulders ; a pale, deeply 
 lined, clean-shaven face; and a forehead painfully 
 white, with blue veins showing; the eyes handsome, 
 penetrative, brooding, and made indescribably sorrow- 
 ful by the dark skin around them. There were those 
 in Pontiac, such as the Cure, who remembered when 
 the Seigneur was constantly to be seen in the village ; 
 and then another person was with him always, a tall, 
 handsome youth, his son. They were fond and proud 
 
 v.. 
 
202 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 of each other, and were religious and good citizens in 
 a high-bred, punctiHous way. 
 
 At that time the Seigneur was all health and stalwart 
 strength. But one day a rumour went abroad that he 
 had quarrelled with his son because of the wife of 
 Farette the miller. No one outside knew if the thing 
 was true, but Julie, the miller's wife, seemed rather to 
 plume herself that she had made a stir in her little 
 world. Yet the curious habitants came to know that 
 the young man had gone, and after a few years his 
 having once lived there had become a mere mem- 
 ory. But whenever the Little Chemist set foot inside 
 the tall porch he remembered ; the Avocat was kept 
 in mind by papers which he was called upon to read and 
 alter from time to time ; the Cure never forgot, because 
 w^hen the young man went he lost not one of his fiock, 
 but two ; and Medallion, knowing something of the 
 story, had wormed a deal of truth out of the miller's 
 wife. Medallion knew that the closed, barred rooms 
 were the young man's • and he knew also that the old 
 man was waiting, waiting, in a hope which he never 
 even named to himself. 
 
 One day the silent old housekeeper came i:^pping at 
 [Medallion's door, and simply said to him, " Come — the 
 Seigneur ! " 
 
 Medallion went, and for hours sat beside the Sei- 
 gneur's chair, while the Little Chemist watched and 
 sighed softly in a corner, now and again rising to feel 
 the sick man's pulse or to prepare a cordial. The 
 housekeeper hovered behind the high-backed chair, 
 and when the Seigneur dropped his handkerchief — 
 now, as always, of the exquisite fashion of a past cen- 
 tury — she put it gently in his hand. 
 
 Once when the Little Chemist touched his wrist, his 
 
ING 
 
 zens in 
 
 stalwart 
 
 that he 
 
 wife of 
 he thing 
 rather to 
 her little 
 now that 
 years his 
 -re mem- 
 oot inside 
 
 was kept 
 read and 
 )t, because 
 i his flock, 
 ing of the 
 ;he miller's 
 rred rooms 
 ;hat the old 
 ;h he never 
 
 .-ppingat 
 Come— the 
 
 ide the Sei- 
 /atched and 
 |-ising to feel 
 jrdial. The 
 lacked chair, 
 lidkerchief— 
 If a past cen- 
 
 his wrist, his 
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH 203 
 
 dark eyes rested on him with inquiry, and he said: 
 " Soon ? " 
 
 It was useless trying to shirk the persistency of that 
 look. " Eight hours, perhaps, sir," the Little Chemist 
 answered, with painful shyness. 
 
 The Seigneur seemed to draw himself up a little, 
 and his hand grasped his handkerchief tightly for an 
 instant ; then he said : " Soon. Thank you." 
 
 After a little, his eyes turned to Medallion and he 
 seemed about to speak, but still kept silent. His chin 
 dropped on his breast, and for a time he was motion- 
 less and shrunken ; but still there was a strange little 
 curl of pride — or disdain — on his lips. At last he drew 
 up his head, his shoulders came erect, heavily, to the 
 carved back of the chair, where, strange to say, the 
 Stations of the Cross were figured, and he said, in 
 a cold, ironical voice : " The Angel of Patience has 
 lied ! " 
 
 The evening wore on, and there was no sound, save 
 the ticking of the clock, the beat of rain upon the 
 windows, and the deep breathing of the Seigneur. 
 Presently he started, his eyes opened wide, and his 
 whole body seemed to listen. 
 
 " I heard a voice," he said. 
 
 " No one spoke, my master," said the housekeeper. 
 
 " It was a voice without," he said. 
 
 " Monsieur," said the Little Chemist, " it was the 
 wind in the eaves." 
 
 His face was almost painfully eager and sensitively 
 alert. " Hush ! " he said ; " I hear a voice in the tall 
 porch ! " 
 
 " Sir," said Medallion, laying a hand respectfully on 
 his arm, " it is nothing." 
 
 With a light on his face and a proud, trembling 
 
204 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 energy, he got to his feet. " It is the voice of my son,'* 
 he said. " Go — go, and bring him in." 
 
 No one moved. But he was not to be disobeyed. 
 His ears had been growing keener as he neared the 
 subtle atmosphere of that Brink where man strips him- 
 self to the soul for a lonely voyaging, and he waved the 
 woman to the door. 
 
 " Wait," he said, as her hand fluttered at the handle. 
 ** Take him to another room. Prepare a supper such 
 as we used to have. When it is ready I will come. 
 But, listen, and obey. Tell him not that I have but 
 four hours of life. Go, good woman, and bring him 
 
 m 
 
 >> 
 
 It was as he said. They found the son weak and 
 fainting, fallen within the porch — a worn, bearded 
 man, returned from failure and suffering and the husks 
 of evil. They clothed him and cared for him, and 
 strengthened him with wine, while the woman wept 
 over him, and at last set him at the loaded, well-lighted 
 table. Then the Seigneur came in, leaning his arm very 
 lightly on that of Medallion with a kind of kingly air; 
 and, greeting his son before them all, as if they had 
 parted yesterday, sat down. For an hour they sat 
 there, and the Seigneur talked gaily with a colour to 
 his face, and his great eyes glowing. At last he rose, 
 lifted his glass, and said : " The Angel of Patience is 
 wise. I drink to my son ! " 
 
 He v/as about to say something more, but a sudden 
 whiteness passed over his face. He drank off the wine, 
 and as he put the glass down shivered, and fell back in 
 his chair. 
 
 " Two hours short, Chemist ! " he said, and smiled, 
 and was Still. 
 
\ 
 
 \^ 
 
 SlING 
 
 my son," 
 
 isobeyed. 
 iared the 
 rips liim- 
 vaved the 
 
 le handle, 
 pper such 
 m\\ come, 
 have but 
 brmg him 
 
 weak and 
 n, bearded 
 i the husks 
 - him, and 
 oman wept 
 Arell-lighted 
 lis arm very 
 
 kingly air; 
 if they had 
 ur they sat 
 
 a colour to 
 last he rose, 
 t Patience is 
 
 DUt a sudden 
 
 off the wine, 
 
 d fell back in 
 
 i, and smiled, 
 
 Ik 
 
 PARPOiN THE DWARF 
 
m 
 
 ] 
 
 ki 
 dv 
 H 
 §t: 
 
 wi] 
 
 SOI 
 
 soil 
 I 
 
 Jul 
 hei 
 Sh( 
 la 
 
 witl 
 froi 
 
 fess 
 v/erl 
 hadf 
 the 
 
 hop! 
 
 ponf 
 
 coc] 
 
 the 
 
* 
 
 PARPON THE DWARF 
 
 PARPON perched in a room at the top of the mill. 
 He could see every house in the village, and he 
 knew people a long distance off. He was a droll 
 dwarf, and, in his way, had good times i^. the world. 
 He turned the misery of the world into a game, and 
 grinned at it from his high little eyrie with the dormer 
 window. He had lived with Farette, the miller, for 
 some years, serving him with a kind of humble in- 
 solence. 
 
 It was not a joyful day for Farette when he married 
 Julie. She led him a pretty travel. He had started as 
 her master; he ended by being her slave and victim. 
 She was a wilful wife. She had made the Seigneur de 
 la Riviere, of the House with the Tall Porch, to quarrel 
 with his son Armand, so that Armand disappeared 
 from Pontiac for years. 
 
 When that happened she had already stopped con- 
 fessing to the good Cure ; so it may be guessed there 
 v/ere things she did not care to tell, and for which she 
 had no repentance. But Parpon knew, and Medallion 
 the auctioneer guessed ; and the Little Chemist's wife 
 hoped that it was not so. When Julie looked at Par- 
 pon, as he perched on a chest of drawers, with his head 
 cocked and his eyes blinking, she knew that he read 
 the truth. But she did not know all that was in his 
 
 ••■?>• 
 
208 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 head; so she said sharp things to him, as she did to 
 everybody, for she had a very poor opinion of the 
 world, and thought all as flippant as herself. She took 
 nothing seriously; she was too vain. Except that she 
 was sorry Armand was gone, she rather plumed herself 
 on having separated the Seigneur and his son — it was 
 something to have been the pivot in a tragedy. There 
 came others to the village, as, for instance, a series of 
 clerks to the Avocat ; but she would not decline from 
 Armand upon them. She merely made them miser- 
 able. 
 
 But she did not grow prettier as time went on. 
 Even Annette, the sad wife of the drunken Benoit, 
 kept her line looks ; but then, Annette's life was a thing 
 for a book, and she had a beautiful child. You can- 
 not keep this from the face of a woman. Nor can 
 you keep the other: when the heart rusts the rust 
 shows. 
 
 After a good many years, Armand de la Riviere came 
 back in time to see his father die. Then Julie picked 
 out her smartest ribbons, capered at the mirror, and 
 dusted her face with oatmeal, because she thought that 
 he would ask her to meet him at the Bois Noir, as he 
 had done long ago. The days passed, and he did not 
 come. When she saw Armand at the funeral — a tall 
 man with a dark beard and a grave face, not like the 
 Armand she had known, he seemed a great distance 
 from her, though she could almost have touched him 
 once as he turned from the grave. She would have 
 liked to throw herself into his arms, and cry before 
 them all, " Mon Armand ! " and go away with him to 
 the House with the Tall Porch. She did not care 
 about Farette, the mumbling old man who hungered 
 for money, having ceased to hunger for anything else 
 
ING 
 
 PARPON THE DWARF 
 
 209 
 
 did to 
 
 of the 
 he took 
 tb-jt she 
 1 herself 
 — it was 
 There 
 series of 
 ine from 
 m miser- 
 went on. 
 1 Benoit, 
 as a thing 
 You can- 
 
 Nor can 
 J the rust 
 
 vierecame 
 lUe picked 
 lirror, and 
 ought that 
 Sloir, as he 
 he did not 
 iral— a tall 
 lot like the 
 at distance 
 )iiched him 
 would have 
 
 cry before 
 tfvith him to 
 id not care 
 
 o hungered 
 
 lythin 
 
 g else 
 
 — even for Julie, who laughed and shut her door in 
 his face, and cowed him. 
 
 After the funeral Julie had a strange feeling. She 
 had not much brains, but she had some shrewdness, 
 and she felt her romance askew. She stood before the 
 mirror, rubbing her face with oatmeal and frowning 
 hard. Presently a voice behind her said : " Madame 
 Julie, shall I bring another bag of meal ? " 
 
 She turned quickly, and saw Parpon on a table in 
 the corner, his legs drawn up to his chin, his black 
 eyes twinkling. 
 
 " Idiot ! " she cried, and threw the meal at him. He 
 had a very long, quick arm. He caught the basin as 
 it came, but the meal covered him. He blew it from 
 his beard, laughing softly, and twirled the basin on a 
 finger-point. 
 
 ** Like that, there will need two bags ! " he said. 
 
 " Imbecile ! " she cried, standing angry in the centre 
 of the room. 
 
 " Ho, ho ! what a big word ! See what it is to have 
 the tongue of fashion ! " 
 
 She looked helplessly round the room. 
 
 " I will kill you ! " 
 
 " Let us die together," answered Parpon ; " we are 
 both sad." 
 
 She snatched the poker from the fire, and ran at him. 
 He caught her wrists with his great hands, big enough 
 for tall Medallion, and held her. 
 
 " I said * together,' " he chuckled ; " not one before 
 the other. We might jump into the flume at the mill, 
 or go over the dam at the Bois Noir; or, there is 
 Farette's musket which he is cleaning — gracious ! but 
 it will kick when it fires, it is so old ! " 
 
 She sank to the floor. " Why does he clean the 
 
 14 .;* 
 
2IO THE L'ANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 musket? " she asked ; fear, and something wicked too, 
 in her eye. Her fingers ran forgetfully through the 
 hair on her forehead, pushing it back, and the marks 
 of smallpox showed. The contrast with her smooth 
 cheeks gave her a weird look. Parpon got quickly on 
 the table again and sat like a Turk, with a furtive eye 
 on her. 
 
 '' Who can tell ! " he said at last. " That musket 
 has not been fired for years. It would not kill a bird ; 
 the shot would scatter : but it might kill a man — a man 
 is bigger." 
 
 " Kill a man ! " She showed her white teeth witli 
 a savage little smile. 
 
 " Of course it is all guess. I asked Farette what he 
 would shoot, and he said, * Nothing good to eat.' I 
 said I would eat what he killed. Then he got pretty 
 mad, and said I couldn't eat my own head. Holy! 
 that was funny for Farette. Then I told him there 
 was no good going to the Bois Noir, for there would 
 be nothing to shoot. Well, did I speak true, Madame 
 Julie ? " 
 
 She was conscious of something new in Parpon. 
 She could not define it. Presently she got to her 
 feet and said : " I don't believe you — you're a 
 monkey ! " 
 
 " A monkey can climb a tree quick ; a man has to 
 take the shot as it comes." He stretched up his power- 
 ful arms, with a swift motion as of climbing, laughed, 
 and added : " Madame Julie, Farette has poor eyes ; he 
 could not see a hole in a ladder. But he has a kink 
 in his head about the Bois Noir. People have 
 talked " 
 
 " Pshaw ! " Julie said, crumpling her apron and' 
 throwing it out ; " he is a child and a coward. He 
 
ING 
 
 PARPON THE DWARF 
 
 211 
 
 :ed too, 
 jigh the 
 z marks 
 smooth 
 lickly on 
 rtive eye 
 
 t musket 
 ill a bird ; 
 n — a man 
 
 teeth with 
 
 te what he 
 to eat.' 1 
 got pretty 
 ad. Holy I 
 , him there 
 :here would 
 le, Madame 
 
 in Parpon. 
 
 got to her 
 
 ^--you're a 
 
 [man has to 
 3 his power- 
 _ig, laughed, 
 [oor eyes ; he 
 ; has a kink 
 'eople have 
 
 apron and 
 •oward. He 
 
 should not play with a gun; it might go off and hit 
 him." 
 
 Parpon hopped down and trotted to the door. Then 
 he turned and said, with a sly gurgle : ** Farette keeps 
 at that gun. What is the good ! There will be no- 
 body at the Bois Noir any more. I will go and tell 
 him." 
 
 She rushed at him with fury, but seeing Annette 
 Benoit in the road, she stood still and beat her foot 
 angrily on the doorstep. She was ripe for a quarrel, 
 and she would say something hateful to Annette ; for 
 she never forgot that Farette had asked Annette to be 
 his wife before herself was considered. She smoothed 
 out her wrinkled apron, and waited. 
 
 " Good day, Annette," she said loftily. 
 
 " Good day, Julie," was the quiet reply. 
 
 "Will you come in?" 
 
 " I am going to the mill for flax-seed. Benoit has 
 rheumatism." 
 
 " Poor Benoit ! " said Julie, with a meaning toss of 
 her head. 
 
 " Poor Benoit ! " responded Annette gently. Her 
 voice was always sweet. One would never have known 
 that Benoit was a drunken idler. 
 
 " Come in. I will give you the meal from my own. 
 Then it will cost you nothing," said Julie, with an 
 air. 
 
 " Thank you, Julie, but I would rather pay." 
 
 " I do not sell my meal," answered Julie. " What's 
 a few pounds of meal to the wife of Farette ? I will get 
 it for you. Come in, Annette." 
 
 She turned towards the door, then stopped all at 
 once. There was the oatmeal which she had thrown 
 at Parpon, the basin, and the poker. She wished she 
 
212 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 ( * 
 
 had not asked Annette in. But in some things she had 
 a cjuick wit, and she iuirrictl to say: "It was that 
 yellow cat of Tarpon's. It spilt the meal, and 1 went 
 at it with the poker." 
 
 Perhaps Annette believed her. She did not think 
 about it one way or the other ; her mind was with the 
 sick Benoit. She nodded and said nothing, hoping 
 that the flax-seed would be got at once. But when 
 she saw that Julie expected an answer, she said, " Ce- 
 cilia, my little girl, has a black cat — so handsome. It 
 came from the house of the poor Seigneur de la Ri- 
 viere a year ago. We took it back, but it would not 
 stay." 
 
 Annette spoke simply and frankly, but her words 
 cut like a knife. 
 
 Julie responded, with a click of malice : " Look out 
 that the black cat doesn't kill the dear Cecilia." 
 
 Annette started, but she did not believe that cats 
 sucked the life from children's lungs, and she replied 
 calmly : " I am not afraid ; the good God keeps my 
 child." She then got up and came to Julie, and said : 
 " It is a pity, Julie, that you have not a child. A child 
 makes all right." 
 
 Julie was wild to say a fierce thing, for it seemed 
 that Annette w^as setting ofif Benoit against Farette; 
 but the next moment she grew hot, her eyes smarted, 
 and there was a hint of trouble at her throat. She had 
 lived very fast in the last few hours, and it was telling 
 on her. She could not rule herself — she could not play 
 a part so well as she wished. She had not before felt 
 the thing that gave a new pulse to her body and a joy- 
 ful pain at her breasts. Her eyes got thickly blurred 
 so that £'he could not see Annette, and, without a word, 
 she hurried to get the meal. She was silent when she 
 
ING 
 
 PARPON THE DWARF 
 
 213 
 
 ihc had 
 
 as th^t 
 1 went 
 
 3t think 
 with the 
 , hoping 
 ,ut when 
 lid, " Ce- 
 lome. It 
 cle la Ri- 
 ATOuld not 
 
 lier words 
 
 ' Look out 
 
 »> 
 la. 
 
 e that cats 
 |shc rephcd 
 keeps tny 
 , and said : 
 A child 
 
 , it seemed 
 1st Farette ; 
 ies smarted, 
 L She had 
 \ was teUin^ 
 [uld not play 
 It before felt 
 [y and a joy- 
 [ckly blurred 
 Ihout a word, 
 Tut when she 
 
 came back. She put the meal into Annette's hands. 
 She felt that siie would like to talk of Armand. She 
 knew now there was no evil thought in Annette. She 
 did not like her more for that, but she felt she must 
 talk, and Annette was safe. So she took her arm. 
 '• Sit down, Annette," she said. " You come so sel- 
 dom." 
 
 " But there is Benoit, and the child " 
 
 " The child has the black cat from the House ! " 
 There was again a sly ring to Julie's voice, and she 
 almost pressed Annette into a chair. 
 
 " Well, it must only be a minute." 
 
 " Vv^ere you at the funeral to-day ? " Julie began. 
 
 " No ; I was nursing Benoit. But the poor Seign- 
 eur! They say he died without confession. No on^^ 
 was there except M'sieu' Medallion, the Little Chemist, 
 old Sylvie, and M'sieu* Armand. But, of course, you 
 have heard everything." 
 
 " Is that all you know? " queried Julie. 
 
 " Not much more. I go out little, and no one comes 
 to me except the Little Chemist's wife — she is a good 
 woman." 
 
 "Wliat did she say?" 
 
 " Only something of the night the Seigneur died. 
 He was sitting in his chair, not afraid, but very sad, we 
 can guess. By-and-by he raised his head quickly. * I 
 hear a voice in the Tall Porch,' he said. They thought 
 he was dreaming. But he said other things, and cried 
 again that he heard his son's voice in the Porch. They 
 went and found M'sieu' Armand. Then a great supper 
 was got ready, and he sat very grand at the head of 
 the table, but died quickly, when making a grand 
 speech. It was strange he was so happy, for he did 
 not confess — he hadn't absolution ! " 
 
214 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 This was more than Julie had heard. She showed 
 excitement. 
 
 '* The Seigneur and M'sicu' Armand were good 
 friends when he died? " she asked. 
 
 *' Quite." 
 
 All at once Annette remembered the old talk about 
 Armand and Julie. She was confused. She wished 
 she could get up and run away ; but haste would look 
 strange. 
 
 " You were at the funeral ? " she added after a 
 minute. 
 
 " Everybody was there." 
 
 ** I suppose M'sicu' Armand looks very fine and 
 strange after his long travel," said Annette shyly, rising 
 to go. 
 
 " He was always the grandest gentleman in the 
 province," answered Julie, in her old vain manner. 
 " You should have seen the women look at him to-day 1 
 But they are nothing to him — he is not easy to 
 please ! " 
 
 " Good day," said Annette, shocked and sad, moving 
 fr "■< the door. Suddenly she turned, and laid a hand 
 on Julie's arm. " Come and see my sweet Cecilia," 
 she said. " She is gay ; she will amuse you." 
 
 She was thinking again what a pity it was that Julie 
 had no child. 
 
 "To see Cecilia and the black cat? Verv well — 
 some day." 
 
 You could not have told what she meant. But, as 
 Annette turned away again, she glanced at the mill; 
 and there, high up in the dormer window, sat Parpon, 
 his yellow cat on his shoulder, grinning down at her. 
 
 She wheeled and went into the house. 
 
sIlNG 
 showed 
 
 jre good 
 
 alk about 
 ic wished 
 -ouUl look 
 
 id after a 
 
 y fine and 
 hyly, rising 
 
 Tian in the 
 lin manner, 
 him to-day I 
 lot easy to 
 
 sad, moving 
 
 laid a hand 
 
 leet CeciUa," 
 
 fas that Julie 
 
 [Very well^ 
 
 int. But, as 
 at the mill; 
 , sat Parpon, 
 )wn at her. 
 
 PARPON THE DWARF 
 
 II 
 
 215 
 
 Parpon sat in the dormer window for a long time, 
 the cat purrinpf aj^ainst his head, and not seeming the 
 least afraid of falling', tliougli its master was well out 
 on the window-ledge. I le kept mum!)ling to himself: 
 
 " Ho! ho! I'arette is below there with the gun, rui)- 
 bing and rubbing at tlie rust! Holy Mother, how it 
 will kiek ! But he will only meddle. If she set her 
 eye at him and come up bold and said, ' I'^arette, go 
 and have your whiskey-wine, and then to bed ! ' he 
 would sneak away. ihit he has heard something. 
 Some fool, perhaps that I'cnolt — no, he is sick, — per- 
 haps the herb-woman has been talking, and he thinks 
 he will make a fnss. But it will be nothing. And 
 M'sieu' Armand, will he look at her! " He chuckled 
 at the cat, which set its head back and hissed in reply. 
 Then he sang something to himself. 
 
 Parpon was a poor little dwarf with a big head, 
 but he had one thing which made up for all, though 
 no one knew it — or, at least, he thought so. The Cure 
 himself did not know. He had a beautiful voice. 
 Even in speaking it was pleasant to hear, though he 
 roughened it in a way. It pleased him that he had 
 something of which the finest man or woman would 
 be glad. He had said to himself many times that even 
 Armand de la Riviere would envy him. 
 
 Sometimes Parpon went away off into the Bois Noir, 
 and, perched there in a tree, sang away — a man, 
 shaped something like an animal, with a voice like a 
 muffled silver bell. 
 
 Some of his songs he had made himself : wild things, 
 broken thoughts, not altogether human ; the language 
 
2i6 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 of a world between man and the spirits. But it was all 
 pleasant to hear, even when, at times, there ran a weird, 
 dark thread through the woof. No one in the valley 
 had ever heard the thing he sang softly as he sat look- 
 ing down at Julie: 
 
 " The little white smoke blows there, blows here, 
 The little blue wolf comt:; flown — 
 C'csi la ! 
 And the hill-dwarf laughs in the young wife's ear, 
 When the devil comes back to town — 
 Cest Ih ! " 
 
 It was crooned quietly, but it was distinct and melo- 
 dious, and the cat purred an accompaniment, its head 
 thrust into his thick black hair. From where Parpon 
 sat he could see the House with the Tall Porch, and, 
 as he sang, his eyes ran from the miller's doorway to it. 
 
 Ofif in the grounds of the dead Seigneur's manor he 
 could see a man push the pebbles with his foot, or 
 twist the branch of a shrub thoughtfully as he walked. 
 At last another man entered the garden. The two 
 greeted warmly, and passed up and down together. 
 
 Ill 
 
 " My good friend," said the Cure, " it is too late to 
 mourn for those lost years. Nothing can give them 
 back. As Parpon the dwarf said — you remember 
 him, a wise little man, that Parpon — as he said one 
 day, * For everything you lose you get something, if 
 only how to laugh at yourself! ' " 
 
 Armand nodded thoughtfully, and answered, " Yon 
 are right — you and Parpon. But I cannot forgive 
 
 ini 
 
 IS 
 
NING 
 
 PARPON THE DWARF 
 
 217 
 
 it was all 
 
 n a weird, 
 the valley 
 I sat look- 
 
 ■e, 
 
 s ear, 
 
 t and melo- 
 nt, its head 
 lere Parpon 
 Porch, and, 
 )orway to it. 
 •'s manor he 
 his foot, or 
 s he walked. 
 I. The two 
 L together. 
 
 is too late to 
 
 an give them 
 
 u remember 
 
 he said one 
 
 ;omething, if 
 
 wered, " Yoit 
 mnot forgive 
 
 myself ; he was so fine a man : tall, with a grand look, 
 and a tongue like a book. Ah, yes, I can laugh at 
 myself — for a fool." 
 
 He thrust his hands into his pockets, and tapped 
 the ground nervously with his foot, shrugging his 
 shoulders a little. The priest took off his hat and 
 made the sacred gesture, his lips moving. Armand 
 caught ofTf his hat also, and said, " You pray — for 
 him?" 
 
 " For the peace of a good man's soul." 
 
 " He did not confess ; he had no rites of the Church ; 
 he had refused you many years." 
 
 " My son, he had a confessor." 
 
 Armand raised his eyebrows. " They told me of 
 no one." 
 
 " It was the Angel of Patience." 
 
 They walked on again for a time without a word. 
 At last the Cure said, ** You will remain here ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell. This ' here ' is a small world, and 
 the little life may fret me. Nor do I know what I have 
 of this " — he waved his hands towards the house — " or 
 of my father's property. I may need to be a wanderer 
 again." 
 
 " God forbid ! Plave you not seen the will ? " 
 
 " I have got no farther than his grave," was the som- 
 bre reply. 
 
 The priest sighed. They paced the walk again In 
 silence. At last the Cure said : " You will make the 
 place cheerful, as it once was." 
 
 " You are persistent," replied the young man, smil- 
 ing. ** V/hoever lives here should make it less gloomy." 
 
 " We shall soon know who is to live here. See, there 
 is Monsieur Garon, and Monsieur Medallion also." 
 
 " The Avocat to tell secrets, the auctioneer to sell 
 
/ 
 
 2i3 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 .1 
 
 m 
 
 them — eh ? " Armand went forward to the gate. Like 
 most people, he found MedaUion interesting, and the 
 Avocat and he were old friends. 
 
 " You did not send for me, monsieur," said the 
 Avocat timidly, "but I thought it well to come, that you 
 might know how things are ; and Monsieur Medallion 
 came because he is a witness to the will, and, in a case," 
 — here the little man coughed nervously, — " joint 
 executor with monsieur le Cure.' 
 
 They entered the house. In a businesslike way 
 ■Armand motioned them to chairs, opened the curtains, 
 and rang the bell. The old housekeeper appeared, a 
 sorrowful joy in her face, and Armand said, " Give us 
 a bottle of the white-top, Sy^vie, if there is any left." 
 
 " There is plenty, monsieur," she said ; " none has 
 been drunk these twelve years." 
 
 The Avocat coughed, and said hesitatingly to Ar- 
 mand : " I asked Parpon the dwarf to come, monsieur. 
 There is a reason." 
 
 Armand raised his eyebrows in surprise. " Very 
 good," he said. " When will he be here? " 
 " He is waiting at the Louis Quinze hotel." 
 " I will send for him," said Armand, and gave the 
 message to Sylvie, v,ho was entering the room. 
 
 After they had drunk the wine placed before them, 
 there was silence for a moment, for all were wondering 
 why Parpon should be remembered in the Seigneur's 
 will. 
 
 " Well," said Medallion at last, " a strange little dog 
 is Parpon. I could surprise you about him — and, there 
 isn't any reason why I should keep the thing to myself. 
 One day I was up among the rocks, looking for a 
 straved horse. I got tired, and lay down in the shade 
 of the Rock of Red Pigeons — you know it. I fell 
 
tuammatKm^tm 
 
 PARPON THE DWARF 
 
 219 
 
 asleep. Something waked me. I got up and heard 
 the finest singing you can guess : not Hke any I ever 
 heard; a wild, beautiful, shivery sort of thing. I lis- 
 tened for a long time. At last it stopped. Then 
 something slid down the rock. I peeped out, and saw 
 Parpon toddling away." 
 
 The Cure stared incredulously, the Avocat took off 
 his glasses and tapped his lips musingly, Armand 
 whistled softly. 
 
 " So," said Armand at last, " we have the jewel in 
 the toad's head. The clever imp hid it all these years 
 — even from you, monsieur le Cure." 
 
 " Even from me," said the Cure, smiling. Then, 
 gravely : " It is strange, the angel in the stunted body." 
 
 " Are you sure it's an angel ? " said Armand. 
 
 " Whoever knew Parpon do any harm ? " queried the 
 Cure. 
 
 " He has always been kind to the poor," put in the 
 Avocat. 
 
 " With the miller's flour," laughed Medallion : " a 
 pardonable sin.' He gave a quizzical look at the 
 Cure. 
 
 " Do you remember the words of Parpon's song ? " 
 asked Armand. 
 
 " Only a few lines ; and those not easy to understand, 
 unless one had an inkling." 
 
 " Had you the inkling^ " 
 
 " Perhaps, monsieur," replied Medallion seriously. 
 
 They eyed each other. 
 
 " We will have Parpon in after the will is read," said 
 Armand suddenly, looking at the Avocat. The Avocat 
 drew the deed from his pocket. He looked up hesi- 
 tatingly, and then said to Armand, " You insist on it 
 being read now?" 
 
220 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 J 
 
 Armand nodded coolly, after a quick glance at 
 Medallion. Then the Avocat began, and read to that 
 point where the Seigneur bequeathed all his property 
 to his son, should he return — on a condition. When 
 the Avocat came to the condition Armand stopped 
 him. 
 
 " I do not know in the least what it may be," he said ; 
 " but there is only one by which I could feel bound. 
 I will tell you. My father and I quarrelled " — here 
 he paused for a moment, clenching his hands before 
 him on the table — " about a woman ; and years of 
 misery came. I was to blame in not obeying him. I 
 ought not to have given any cause for gossip. What- 
 ever the condition as to that matter may be, I will ful- 
 fil it. My father is more to me than any woman in 
 the world ; his love of me was greater than that of any 
 woman. I know the world — and women." 
 
 There was a silence. He waved his hand to the 
 Avocat to go on, and as he did so the Cure caught 
 his arm with a quick, affectionate gesture. Then Mon- 
 sieur Garon read the conditions : That Farette, the 
 miller, should have a deed of the land on which his 
 mill was built, with the dam of the mill — provided that 
 Armand should never so much as by a word again 
 address Julie, the miller's wife. If he agreed to the 
 condition, with solemn oath before the Cure, his bless- 
 ing would rest upon his dear son, whom he still hoped 
 to see before he died. 
 
 When the reading ceased there was silence for a 
 moment, then Armand stood up, and took the will 
 from the Avocat; but instantly, without looking at it, 
 handed it back. " The reading is not finished," he 
 said. " And if I do not accept the condition, what 
 then?" 
 
 tovl^v"- 
 
aNG 
 
 PARPON THE DWARF 
 
 221 
 
 iance at 
 
 i to that 
 
 property 
 
 When 
 
 stopped 
 
 ' he said ; 
 el bound, 
 d " — here 
 Lds before 
 years of 
 g him. I 
 3. What- 
 ^ I will f ul- 
 woman in 
 that of any 
 
 and to the 
 Lire caught 
 'hen Mon- 
 arette, the 
 which his 
 ovided that 
 vord again 
 eed to the 
 h, his bless- 
 still hoped 
 
 lence for a 
 ,k the will 
 
 oking at it, 
 ished," he 
 ition, what 
 
 Again Monsieur Garon read, his voice trembling a 
 little. The words of the will ran: " But if this con- 
 dition be not satisfied, I bequeath to my son Armand 
 the house known as the House with the Tall Porch, 
 and the land, according to the deed thereof; and the 
 residue of my property — with the exception of two 
 thousand dollars, which I leave to the Cure of the 
 parish, the good Monsieur Fabre — I bequeath to Par- 
 pon the dwarf." 
 
 Then followed a clause providing that in any case 
 Parpon should have in fee simple the land known as 
 the Bois Noir, and the hut thereon. 
 
 Armand sprang to his feet in surprise, blurting out 
 something, then sat down, quietly took the will, and 
 read it through carefully. When he had finished he 
 looked inquiringly, first at Monsieur Garon, then at the 
 Cure. 
 
 " Why Parpon ? " he said searchingly. 
 
 The Cure, amazed, spread out his hands in a helpless 
 way. At that moment Sylvie announced Parpon. 
 Armand asked that he should be sent in. " We'll 
 talk of the will afterwards," he added. 
 
 Parpon trotted in, the door closed, and he stood 
 blinking at them. Armand put a stool on the ta'^-i'^. 
 " Sit here, Parpon," he said. Medallion caught the 
 dwarf under the arms and lifted him on the table. 
 
 Parpon looked at Armand furtively. " The wild 
 hawk comes back to its nest," he said. " Well, well, 
 what is it you want with the poor Parpon ? " 
 
 He sat down and dropped his chin in his hands, 
 looking round keenly. Armand nodded to Medallion, 
 and Medallion to the priest, but the priest nodded back 
 again. Then Medallion said, " You and I know the 
 Rock of Red Pigeons, Parpon. It is a good place to 
 
222 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 perch. One's voice is all to one's self there, as you 
 know. Welf, sing us the song of the little brown 
 diver." , 
 
 Parpon's hands twitched in his beard. He looked 
 fixedly at Medallion. Presently he turned towards 
 the Cure, and shrank so that he looked smaller still. 
 
 " It's all right, little son," said the Cure kindly. 
 
 Turning sharply on Medallion : *' When was it you 
 heard? " he said. 
 
 Medallion told him. He nodded, then sat very still. 
 They said nothing, but watched him. They saw his 
 eyes grow distant and absorbed, and his face took on 
 a shining look, so that its ugliness was almost beauti- 
 ful. All at once he slid from the stool and crouched 
 on his knees. Then he sent out a low long note, like 
 the toll of the bell-bird. From that time no one stirred 
 as he sang, but sat and watched him. They did not 
 even hear Sylvie steal in gently and stand in the cur- 
 tains at the door. 
 
 The song was weird, with a strange thrilling charm ; 
 it had the slow dignity of a chant, the roll of an epic, 
 the delight of wild beauty. It told of the little good 
 Folk of the Scarlet Hills, in vague allusive phrases : 
 their noiseless wanderings ; their sojourning with the 
 eagle, the wolf, and the deer; their triumph over the 
 winds, the whirlpools, and the spirits of evil fame. It 
 filled the room with the cry of the west wind ; it called 
 out of the frozen seas ghosts of forgotten worlds ; it 
 coaxed the soft breezes out of the South ; it made them 
 all to be at the whistle of the Scarlet Hunter who ruled 
 the North. 
 
 Then, passing through veil after veil of mystery, it 
 told of a grand Seigneur whose boat was overturned in 
 a whirlpool, and was saved by a little brown diver. 
 
PARPON THE DWARF 
 
 '>') 
 
 23 
 
 And the end of it all, and the heart of it all, was in the 
 last few lines, clear of allegory : 
 
 " And the wheel goes round in the village mill, 
 
 And the little brown diver he tells the grain . . . 
 And the grand Seigneur he has gone to meet 
 The little good Folk of the Scarlet Hills ! " 
 
 At first, all were so impressed by the strange power 
 of Parpon's voice, that they were hardly conscious of 
 the story he was telling. But when he sang of the 
 Seigneur they began to read his parable. Their hearts 
 throbbed painfully. 
 
 As the last notes died away Armand got up, and, 
 standing by the table, said : " Parpon, you saved my 
 father's life once ? " 
 
 Parpon did not answer. 
 
 "Will you not tell him, my son?" said the Cure, 
 rising. Still Parpon was silent. 
 
 " The son of your grand Seigneur asks you a ques- 
 tion, Parpon," said Medallion soothingly. 
 
 *' Oh, my grand Seigneur ! " said Parpon, throwing 
 up his hands. " Once he said to me, ' Come, my 
 brown diver, and live with me.' But I said, * No, I 
 am not fit. I will never go to you at the House with 
 the Tall Porch.' And I made him promise that he 
 would never tell of it. And so I have lived sometimes 
 with old Farette." Then he laughed strangely again, 
 and sent a furtive look at Armand. 
 
 " Parpon," said Armand gently, " our grand Sei- 
 gneur has left you the Bois Noir for your own. So 
 the hills and the Rock of Red Pigeons are for you — 
 and the little good people, if you like." 
 
 Parpon, with fiery eyes, gathered himself up with a 
 quick movement, then broke out, " Oh, my grand 
 
224 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 Scigncnr ! my grand Seigneur ! " and fell forward, his 
 head in his arms, laughing and sobbing together. ' 
 
 Armand touched his shoulder. "Parpon!" Cut 
 Parpon shrank away. 
 
 Armand turned to the rest. ** I do not understand 
 it, gentlemen. Parpon does not like the young Sei- 
 gneur as he liked the old." 
 
 Medallion, sitting in the shadow, smiled. He under- 
 stood. Armand continued : " As for this testament, 
 gentlemen, I will fulfil its conditions ; though I swear, 
 were 1 otherwise minded regarding the woman " — hc/e 
 Parpon raised his head swiftly — " I would not hang 
 my hat for an hour in the Tall Porch." 
 
 They rose and shook hands, then the wine was 
 poured out, and they drank it ofif in silence. Parpon, 
 however, sat with his head in his hands. 
 
 " Come, little comrade, drink," said Medallion, offer- 
 ing him a glass. 
 
 Parpon made no reply, but caught up the will, kissed 
 it, put it into Armand's hand, and then, jumping 
 down from the table, ran to the door and disappeared 
 through it. 
 
 IV 
 
 The next afternoon the Avocat visited old Farette. 
 Farette was polishing a gun, mumbling the while. 
 Sitting on some bags of meal was Parpon, with a fierce 
 twinkle in his eye. Monsieur Garon told Farette 
 briefly what the Seigneur had left him. With a quick, 
 greedy chuckle Farette threw the gun away. 
 
 " Man alive ! " said he ; " tell me all about it. Ah, 
 the good news ! " 
 
 " There is nothing to tell : he left it ; that is all. 
 
 >» 
 
UNG 
 
 PARPON THE DWARF 
 
 *# «« ^ 
 
 rard, his 
 iicr. ' 
 I " But 
 
 derstand 
 ung Sci- 
 
 [e under- 
 estament, 
 I I swear, 
 n "— he;e 
 not hang 
 
 whie was 
 Parpon, 
 
 lion, offer- 
 
 vill, kissed 
 jumping 
 appeared 
 
 Id Farette. 
 the while, 
 ith a fierce 
 Id Farette 
 th a quick. 
 
 Lit it. Ah, 
 
 is all 
 
 IS 
 
 >» 
 
 "Oh, the good Seigneur!" cried Farette, "the 
 grand Seigneur ! " 
 
 Some one laughed scornfully in the doorway. It 
 was Julie. 
 
 " Look there! " she cried: '' he gets the land, and 
 throws away the gun ! Brag and coward, miller ! It 
 is for nie to say * the grand Seigneur ! ' " 
 
 She tossed her head : she thought the old Seigneur 
 had relented towards her. She turned away to the 
 house with a flaunting air, and got her hat. At first 
 she thought she would go to the Flouse with the Tall 
 Porch, but she changed her mind, and went to the 
 Bois Noir instead. Parpon followed her a distance 
 off. Behind, in the mill, Farette was chuckling and 
 rubbing his hands. 
 
 Meanwhile, Armand was making his way towards 
 the Bois Noir. All at once, in the shade of a great 
 pine, he stopped. He looked about him astonished. 
 
 *' This is the old place ! What a fool I was, then ! " 
 he said. 
 
 At that moment Julie came quickly, and lifted her 
 hands towards him. " Armand — beloved Armand ! " 
 she said. 
 
 Armand looked at her sternly, from her feet to her pit- 
 ted forehead, then wheeled, and left her without a word. 
 
 She sank in a heap on the ground. There was a 
 sudden burst of tears, and then she clenched her hands 
 "vvith fury. 
 
 Some one laughed in the trees above her — a shrill, 
 wild laugh. She looked up frightened. Parpon 
 presently dropped down beside her. 
 
 " It was as I said," whispered the dwarf, and he 
 touched her shoulder. This was the full cup of shame. 
 She was silent. 
 15 
 
236 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 " There arc others," he whispered again. She could 
 not sec his strange smile ; but she noticed that his voice 
 was not as usual. '* Listen," he urged, and he sang 
 softly over her shoulder for quite a minute. She was 
 amazed. 
 
 " Sing again," she said. 
 
 " 1 have wanted to sing to you like that for many 
 years," he replied ; and he sang a little more. " He 
 cannot sing like that," he wheedled, and he stretched 
 his arm around her shoulder. 
 
 vShe hung her head, then i^ung it back again as she 
 thought of Armand. 
 
 " I hate him ! " she cried ; " I hate him ! " 
 
 " You will not throw meal on me any more, or call 
 me idiot ? " he pleaded. 
 
 " No, Parpon," she said. 
 
 He kissed her on the cheek. She did not resent it. 
 But now he drew away, smiled wickedly at her, and 
 said : " See, we are even now, poor Julie ! " Then 
 he laughed, holding his little sides with huge hands. 
 " Imbecile ! " he added, and, turning, trotted away 
 towards the Rock of Red Pigeons. 
 
 She threw herself, face forward, in the dusty needles 
 of the pines. 
 
 When she rose from her humiliation, her face was as 
 one who has seen the rags of harlequinade stripped 
 from that mummer Life, leaving only naked being. 
 She had touched the limits of the endurable ; her sor- 
 did little hopes had split into fragments. But when a 
 human soul faces upon its past, and sees a gargoyle at 
 every milestone where an angel should be, and in one 
 flash of illumination — the touch of genius to the small- 
 est mind — understands the pitiless comedy, there 
 comes the still stoic outlook. 
 
UNO 
 
 PARPON THE DWARF 
 
 227 
 
 ic couUl 
 lis voice 
 he saug 
 She was 
 
 [or many 
 
 re. *'//<? 
 stretched 
 
 iin as 
 
 >re, or 
 
 she 
 
 call 
 
 it resent it. 
 It her, and 
 1 " Then 
 Ligc hands. 
 )ttcd away 
 
 sty needles 
 
 Julie was transformed. All the possible years of her 
 life were gathered into tlie force of one dreadful mo- 
 ment — dreadful and wonderful. Her mean vanity was 
 lost behind the pale sincerity of her face — she was sin- 
 cere at last! The trivial C( nnnonness was gone from 
 her coquetting shoulders and drooping eyelids ; and 
 from her body had passed its flexuous softness. She 
 was a woman ; suffering, human, paying the price. 
 
 She walked sk)wly the way that Parpon had gone. 
 Looking neither to right nor left, she climbed (he long 
 hillside, and at last reached the summit, where, bundled 
 in a steep corner, was the Rock of Red Pigeons. As 
 she emerged from the pines, she stood for a moment, 
 and leaned with outstretched hand against a tree, look- 
 ing into the sunlight. Slowly her eyes shifted from 
 the Rock to the great ravine, to whose farther side 
 the sini was giving bastions of gold. She was quiet. 
 Presently she stepped into the light and came softly 
 to the Rock. She walked slowly round it as though 
 looking for some one. At the lowest side of the Rock, 
 rude narrow hollows were cut for the feet. With a 
 singular ease she climbed to the top of it. It had a 
 kind of hollow, in which was a rude seat, carved out of 
 the stone. Seeing this, a set look came to her face : 
 she was thinking of Parpon, the master of this place. 
 Her business was with him. 
 
 She got down slowly, and came over to the edge 
 of the precipice. Steadying herself against a sapling, 
 she looked over. Down below was a whirlpool, rising 
 and falling — a hungry funnel of death. She drew 
 back. Presently she peered again, and once more 
 v.ithdrew. She gazed round, and then made another 
 tour of the hill, searching. She returned to the preci- 
 pice. As she did so she heard a voice. She looked 
 
228 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 and saw Parpon seated upon a ledge of rock not far 
 below. A mockinp;' laugh floated up to her. But 
 there was trouble in the laugh too — a bitter sickness. 
 She did not notice that. She looked about her. Not 
 far away was a stone, too heavy to carry but perhaps 
 not too heavy to roll ! 
 
 Foot by foot she rolled it over. She looked. He 
 was still there. She stepped back. As she did so a 
 few pebbles crumbled away from her feet and fell 
 where Parpon perched. She did not sec or hear them 
 fall. He looked up, and saw the stone creeping upon 
 the edge. Like a flash he was on his feet, and, spri.ig- 
 ing into the air to the right, caught a tree steadfast in 
 the rock. The stone fell upon the ledge and bounded 
 ofif again. The look of the woman did not follow the 
 stone. She ran to the spot above the whirlpool, and 
 sprang out and down. 
 
 From Parpon there came a wail such as the hills of 
 the north never heard before. Dropping upon a ledge 
 beneath, and from that to a jutting tree, which gave 
 way, he shot down into the whirlpool. He cauglit 
 Julie's body as it was churned from life to death : and 
 then he fought. There was a demon in the whirlpool, 
 but God and demon were working in the man. Noth- 
 ing on earth could have unloosed that long, brown 
 arm from Julie's drenched body. The sun lifted an 
 eyelid over the yellow bastions of rock, and saw the 
 fight. Once, twice, the shaggy head was caught be- 
 neath the surface — but at last the man conquered ! 
 
 Inch by inch, foot by foot, Parpon, with the lifeless 
 Julie clamped in one arm, climbed the rough wall, on, 
 on, up to the Rock of Red Pigeons. He bore her to 
 the top of it. Then he laid her down, and pillowed 
 her head on his wet coat. 
 
ING 
 
 PARPON THE DWARF 
 
 229 
 
 not far 
 ,r. But 
 iickness. 
 ;r. Not 
 
 perhaps 
 
 cecl. He 
 
 did so a 
 
 and fell 
 icar thcni 
 )ing upon 
 d, spruis- 
 :cad{ast in 
 .1 bounded 
 follow the 
 •Ipool, and 
 
 the hills of 
 )on a ledge 
 vhich gave 
 :^e can gilt 
 death : and 
 whirlpool, 
 an. Noth- 
 )ng, brown 
 nlifted an 
 nd saw the 
 caught be- 
 
 luered ! 
 theUfeless 
 
 r\\ v/all, on, 
 
 Ibore her to 
 
 id pillowed 
 
 The liugc hands came slowly down Julie's soaked 
 hair, along her blanched cheek and shoulders, caught 
 her arms and held them. He peered into her face. 
 The eyes had the film which veils Here from Hereafter. 
 On the lips was a mocking smile. He stooped as if 
 to kiss her. The smile stopped him. He drew back 
 for a time, then he leaned forward, shut his eyes, and 
 her cold lips were his. 
 
 Twilight — dusk — night came upon Parpon and his 
 dead — the woman whom an impish fate had put into 
 his heart with mockery and futile pain. 
 
TIMES WERE HARD IN 
 PONTIAC 
 
} 
 
TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC 
 
 IT was soon after the Rebellion, and there was little 
 food to be had and less money, and winter was at 
 hand. Pontiac, ever most loyal to old France, though 
 obedient to the English, had herself sent few recruits 
 to be shot down by Colborne, but she had emptied 
 her pockets in sending to the front the fulness of her 
 barns and the best cattle of her fields. She gave her 
 all; she was frank in giving, hid nothing; and when 
 her own trouble came there was no voice calling on her 
 behalf. And Pontiac would rather starve than beg. 
 So, as the winter went on, she starved in silence, and no 
 one had more than sour milk and bread and a potato 
 now and then. The Cure, the Avocat, and the Little 
 Chemist fared no better than the habitants, for they 
 gave all they had right and left, and themselves often 
 went hungry to bed. And the truth is that few out- 
 side Pontiac knew of her suffering ; she kept the secret 
 of it close. 
 
 It seemed at last, however, to the Cure that he must, 
 after all, write to the world outside for help. That was 
 when he saw the faces of the children get pale and 
 drawn. There never was a time when there were so 
 few fish in the river and so little game in the woods. 
 At last, from the altar steps one Sunday, the Cure, with 
 a calm, sad voice, told the people that, for '* the dear 
 children's sake," they must sink their pride and ask 
 help from without. He v;ould write first to the Bishop 
 
234 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 of Quebec ; " for," said he, '' Mother Church will 
 help us ; she will give us food, and money to buy seed 
 in the spring; and, please God, we will pay all back 
 in a year or two ! " He paused a minute, then contin- 
 ued : " Some one must go, to speak plainly and wisely 
 of our trouble, that there be no mistake — we are not 
 beggars, we are only borrowers. Who will go? I 
 may not myself, for who would give the Blessed Sac- 
 rament, and speak to the sick, or say Mass and com- 
 fort you ? " 
 
 There was silence in the church for a moment, and 
 many faces meanwhile turned instinctively to M. Garon 
 the Avocat, and some to the Little Chemist. 
 
 " Who will go? " asked the Cure again. " It is a 
 bitter journey, but our pride must not be our shame in 
 the end. Who will go? " 
 
 Every one expected that the Avocat or the Little 
 Chemist would rise; but while they looked at each' 
 other, waiting and sorrowful, and the Avocat's fingers 
 fluttered to the seat in front of him, to draw himself up, 
 a voice came from the corner opposite, saying : 
 
 " M'sieu' le Cure, I will go." 
 
 A strange, painful silence fell on the people for a 
 moment, and then went round an almost incredulous 
 whisper ; " Parpon, the dwarf ! " 
 
 Parpon's deep eyes were fixed on the Cure, his 
 hunched body leaning on the railing in front of him, 
 his long, strong arms stretched out as if he were beg- 
 ging for some good thing. The murmur among the 
 people increased, but the Cure raised his hand to com- 
 mand silence, and his eyes gazed steadily at the dwarf. 
 It might seem that he was noting the huge head, the 
 shaggy hair, the overhanging brows, the weird face of 
 this distortion of a thing made in God's own image. 
 
TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC 235 
 
 But he was thinking instead of how the angel and the 
 devil may live side by side in a man and neither be 
 entirely driven out — and the angel conquer in great 
 times and seasons. 
 
 He beckoned to Parpon to come over, and the dwarf 
 trotted with a sidelong motion to the chancel steps. 
 Every face in the congregation was eager, and some 
 were mystified, even anxious. They all knew the 
 singular power of the little man — his knowledge, his 
 deep wit, his judgment, his occasional ^erceness, his 
 infrequent malice; but he was kind to children and the 
 sick, and the Cure and the Avocat and their little cote- 
 rie respected him. Once everybody had worshipped 
 him : that was when he had sung in the Mass, the day 
 of the funeral of the wife of Farette the miller, for 
 whom he worked. It had been rumoured that in hi;? 
 hut by the Rock of Red Pigeons, up at Dalgrothe 
 Mountain, a voice of most wonderful power and sweet- 
 ness had been heard singing ; but this was only rumour. 
 Yet when the body of the miller's wife lay in the church, 
 he had sung so that men and women wept and held 
 each other's hands for joy. He had never sung since, 
 however; his voice of silver was locked away in the 
 cabinet of secret purposes which every man has some- 
 where in his own soul. 
 
 " What will you say to the Bishop, Parpon ? " asked 
 the Cure. 
 
 The congregation stirred in their seats, for they saw 
 that the Cure intended Parpon to go. 
 
 Parpon went up two steps of the chancel quietly and 
 caught the arm of the Cure, drawing him down to 
 whisper in his ear. 
 
 A flush and then a peculiar soft light passed over the 
 Cure's face, and he raised his hand over Parpen's head 
 
236 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 in benediction and said : " Go, my son, and the blessing 
 of God and of His dear Son be with you." 
 
 Then suddenly he turned to the altar, and, raising 
 his hands, he tried to speak, but only said: " O Lord, 
 Thou knowest our pride and our vanity, hear us, 
 and " 
 
 Soon afterward, with tearful eyes, he preached from 
 the text: 
 
 ^^ And the Light shineth in darkness, and the dark- 
 ness comprehendeth it not.'' 
 
 Five days later a little, uncouth man took off his hat 
 in the chief street of Quebec, and began co sing a song 
 of Picardy to an air which no man in French Canada 
 had ever heard. Little farmers on their way to the 
 market by the Place de Cathedral stopped, listening, 
 though every moment's delay lessened their chances 
 of getting a stand in the market-place. Butchers and 
 milkmen loitered, regardless of waiting customers ; a 
 little company of soldiers caught up the chorus, and 
 to avoid involuntary revolt, their sergeant halted them, 
 that they might listen. Gentlemen strolling by — 
 doctor, lawyer, ofificer, idler — paused and forgot the 
 raw climate, for this marvellous voice in the unshapely 
 body warmed them, and they pushed in among the 
 fast-gathering crowd. Ladies hurrying by in their 
 sleighs lost their hearts to the thrilling notes of : 
 
 " Little grey fisherman, 
 Where is your daughter? 
 Where is your daughter so sweet ? 
 Little gray man who comes 
 Over the water, 
 I have knelt down at her feet, 
 Knelt at your Gabrielle's feet — ci ci ! " 
 
NING 
 : blessing 
 
 1, raising 
 O Lord, 
 hear us, 
 
 :hed from 
 
 the dark- 
 
 off his hat 
 ing a song 
 ch Canada 
 vay to the 
 , listening, 
 ;ir chances 
 itchers and 
 stomers; a 
 horns, and 
 |alted them, 
 |Uing by- 
 forgot the 
 unshapely 
 [among the 
 ,y in their 
 Is of : 
 
 TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC 237 
 
 Presently the wife of the governor stepped out from 
 her sleigh, and, coming over, quickly took Parpon's 
 cap from his hand and went round among the crowd 
 with it, gathering money. 
 
 " He is hungry, he is poor," she said with tears in 
 her eyes. She had known the song in her childhood, 
 and he who used to sing it to her was in her sight no 
 more. In vain the gentlemen would have taken the 
 cap from her; she gathered the money herself, and 
 others followed, and Parpon sang on. 
 
 A night later a crowd gathered in the great hall of 
 the city, filling it to the doors, to hear the dwarf sing. 
 He came on the platform dressed as he had entered the 
 city, with heavy, home-made coat and trousers, and 
 moccasins, and a red woollen comforter about his neck 
 — but this comforter he took off when he began to sing. 
 Old France and New France, and the loves and hates 
 and joys and sorrows of all lands, met that night in the 
 soul of this dwarf with the divine voice, who did not 
 give them his name, so that they called him, for want 
 of a better title, the Provencal. And again two nights 
 afterwards it was the same, and yet again a third night 
 and a fourth, and the simple folk, and wise folk also, 
 went mad after Parpon the dwarf. 
 
 Then, suddenly, he disappeared from Quebec City, 
 and the next Sunday morning, while the Cure was 
 saying the last words of the Mass, he entered the 
 Church of St. Saviour at Pontiac. Going up to the 
 chancel steps he waited. The murmuring of the peo- 
 ple drew the Cure's attention, and then, seeing Parpon, 
 he came forward. 
 
 Parpon drew from his breast a bag, and put it in his 
 hands, and beckoning down the Cure's head, he whis- 
 pered. 
 
238 THE LANK THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 The Cure turned to the altar and raised the bag to- 
 wards it in ascription and thanksgiving, then he turned 
 to Parpon again, but the dwarf was trotting away down 
 the aisle and from the church. 
 
 " Dear children," said the Cure, " we are saved, and 
 we are not shamed." He held up the bag. " Parpon 
 has brought us two thousand dollars: we shall have 
 food to eat, and there shall be more money against 
 seed-time. The fc,iver of this good gift demands that 
 his name be not known. Such is all true charity. Let 
 Its pray." 
 
 So hard times passed from Pontiac as the months 
 went on, but none save the Cure and the Avocat knew 
 who had helped her in her hour of need. 
 
RNING 
 
 he bag to- 
 he turned 
 way down 
 
 saved, and 
 " Parpon 
 shall have 
 ey against 
 nands that 
 irity. Let 
 
 16 months 
 ocat knew 
 
 MEDALLION'S WHIM 
 
 ^ 
 
■" •■■' '"-' - 
 
 I 
 
 i: 
 V 
 
 t 
 
,... -■■. - j.^ ^ i nm ti TTf- _ 
 
 MEDALLION'S WHIM 
 
 WHEN the Avocat began to lose his lieaUh and 
 spirits, and there crept through his shrewd 
 gravity and kindhness a petulance and dejection, Me- 
 dallion was the only person who had an inspiriting ef- 
 fect upon him. The Little Chemist had decided that 
 the change in him was due to bad circulation and fail- 
 ing powers : which was only partially true. 
 
 Medallion made a deeper guess. " Want to know 
 what's the matter with him? " he said. " Ha! I'll tell 
 you: Woman." 
 
 " Woman ! God bless mc ! " said the Little Chemist, 
 in a frightened way. 
 
 ** Woman, little man ; I mean the want of a woman," 
 said Medallion. 
 
 The Cure, who was present, shrugged his shoul- 
 ders. " He has an excellent cook, and his bed and 
 jackets are well aired; I see them constantly at the 
 windows." 
 
 A laugh gurgled in Medallion's throat. He loved 
 these innocent folk ; but himself went twice a year to 
 Quebec City and had more expanded views. 
 
 " Woman, Padre " — nodding to the priest, and rub- 
 bing his chin so that it rasped like sand-paper — " wo- 
 man ! my druggist " — throwing a sly look at the Chem- 
 ist — " woman, neither as cook nor bottle-washer, is 
 what he needs. Every man — out of holy orders " — ■ 
 this in deference to his good friend the Cure — " arrives 
 i6 
 
242 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 at tlic time vvhon his youth must be renewed or lie be- 
 comes as th'v bones — like an empty house — furniture 
 sold oft. Can only be renewed one way — Woman. 
 Well, here's our Avocat, and there's his remedy. He's 
 got the cooking- antl the clean fresh linen, he must have 
 a wife, the very best." 
 
 " Ah, my friend, you are droll," said the Cure, arch- 
 ing his long lingers at his lips and blowing gently 
 through them, but not smiling in the least; rather 
 seri(^us, almost reproving. 
 
 " It is such a whim, such a whim ! " said the Little 
 Chemist, shaking his hea-' and looking throu[;h his 
 glasses sideways like a wise bird. 
 
 " Ha ! You shall see. The man must be saved ; 
 our Cure shall have his fees ; our druggist shall pro- 
 vide the finest essences for the feast — no more pills. 
 And we shall dine with our Avocat once a week — with 
 asparagus in season for the Cure, and a little good wine 
 for all.' Ha!" 
 
 His Ha! was never a laugh ; it was imctuous, abrupt, 
 an ejaculation of satisfaction, knowledge, solid enjoy- 
 ment, final solution. 
 
 The Cure shook his head doubtfully ; he did not see 
 the need ; he did not believe in Medallion's whim ; still 
 he knew that the man's judgment was shrewd in most 
 things, and he would be silent and wait. But he shrank 
 from any new phase of life likely to alter the conditions 
 of that old companionship, which included themselves, 
 the Avocat, and the young Doctor, who, like the Little 
 Chemist, was married. 
 
 The Chemist sharply said : " Well, well, perhaps. I 
 hope. There is a poetry " (his English was not perfect, 
 and at times he mixed it with French in an amusing 
 manner), " a little chanson, which runs : 
 
NING 
 
 MEDALLION'S WHIM 
 
 243 
 
 ur he be- 
 ■fuinilurc 
 -Woman, 
 ly. He's 
 mist have 
 
 lire, arch- 
 i^r ^rcntly 
 St; rather 
 
 the Little 
 rou^^h his 
 
 be saved; 
 shall pro- 
 iiore pills, 
 ^eek — with 
 I good wine 
 
 us, abrupt, 
 Dlid enjoy- 
 
 lid not see 
 whim ; still 
 vd in most 
 he shrank 
 conditions 
 hemselves, 
 the Little 
 
 perhaps. I 
 
 lot perfect, 
 
 In amusing 
 
 •* ' Sorrowful is tlu* liltlo house, 
 
 The hltlc house \>y the winding stream ; 
 All the luughter has died uway 
 
 Out of the little house. 
 I'lUt down there come fronj the lofty hills 
 Footsteps and eyes aj^leam, 
 liriny;inji the lauvjhter of yesterday 
 
 Into the little house, 
 IJy the windiuij stream and the hills. 
 Ui ran, di rott, Ji ron, Ui ron-don !' " 
 
 The Little Chemist blushed faintly at the silence that 
 followed his timid, quaint recital. The Cure looked 
 calm and kind, and drawn away as if in thought ; but 
 Medallion presently got up, stooped, and laid his long 
 lingers on the shoulder of the apothecary. 
 
 " I'lxactly, little man," he said ; " we've both got the 
 same idea in our heads ; I've put it hard fact, you've put 
 it soft sentiment, and it's God's truth cither way." 
 
 Presently the Cure asked, as if from a greut distance, 
 so meditative was his voice, " Who will be the woman. 
 Medallion?" 
 
 " I've got one in my eye — the very righi one for our 
 Avocat; not here, not out of Pontiac, but from St. 
 Jean in the hills — fulfilling your verses, gentle apothe- 
 cary. She must bring what is fresh — he must feel that 
 the hills have come to him, she that the valley is hers 
 for the first time. A new world for them both. Ha ! " 
 
 " Regardezqa! you are a great man," said the Little 
 Chemist. 
 
 There was a strange, inscrutable look in the kind 
 priest's eyes. The Avocat had confessed to him in his 
 time. 
 
 Medallion took up his hat. 
 
 " Where are you going? " said the Little Chemist. 
 
244 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 " To our Avocat, and then to St. Jean." ' 
 He opened the door and vanished. The two that 
 were left shook their heads and wondered. 
 
 Chuckling softly to himself, Medallion strode away 
 through the lane of white-board houses and the smoke 
 of strong tabac from these houses, now and then pulling 
 suddenly up to avoid stumbling over a child, where 
 children are numbered by the dozen to every house. 
 He came at last to a house unlike the others, in that it 
 was of stone and larger. He leaned for a moment 
 over the gate, and looked through a window into a 
 room where the Avocat sat propped up with cushions 
 in a great chair, staring gloomily at two candles burn- 
 ing on the table before him. Medallion watched him 
 for a long time. The Avocat never changed his posi- 
 tion ; he only stared at the can He, and once or twice his 
 lips moved. A woman came in and put a steaming 
 bowl before him, and laid a pipe and matches beside the 
 bowl. She was a very little, thin old woman, quick and 
 quiet and watchful — his housekeeper. The Avocat 
 took no notice of her. She looked at him several times 
 anxiously, and passed backwards and forwards behind 
 him as a hen moves upon the flank of her brood. All 
 at once she stopped. Her small, white lingers with 
 their large rheumatic knuckles lay flat on her lips as 
 she stood for an instant musing; then she trotted 
 lightly to a bureau, got pen and paper and ink, reached 
 down a bunch of keys from- the mantel, and came and 
 put them all beside the bowl and the pipe. Still the 
 Avocat did not stir, or show that he recognized her. 
 She went to the door, turned, and looked back, her 
 fingers again at her lips, then slowly sidled out of the 
 room. It was long before the Avocat moved. His 
 
mmm^ttmiti 
 
 ^NG 
 
 % 
 
 MEDALLION'S WHIM 
 
 245 
 
 two that 
 
 3de away 
 tie smoke 
 ;n pulling 
 Id, where 
 ry house. 
 , in that it 
 I moment 
 ow into a 
 1 cushions 
 idles burn- 
 Itched him 
 d his posi- 
 Dr twice his 
 a steaming 
 I beside the 
 , quick and 
 lie Avocat 
 iveral times 
 irds behind 
 .rood. All 
 ngers with 
 her lips as 
 she trotted 
 Ink, reached 
 Id came and 
 Still the 
 ignized her. 
 Id back, her 
 Id out of the 
 [oved. His 
 
 eyes had not wavered from the space between the 
 candles. At last, however, he glanced down. His 
 eye caught the bowl, then the pipe. He reached out a 
 slow hand for the pipe, and was taking it up, when his 
 glance fell on the keys and the writing material. He 
 put the pipe down, looked up at the door through 
 which the little old woman had gone, gazed round the 
 room, took up the keys, but soon put them down again 
 with a sigh, and settled back in his chair. Now his 
 gaze alternated between that long lane sloping into 
 shadow between the candles, and the keys. 
 
 Medallion threw a leg over-'the fence and came in a 
 few steps to the door. He opened it quietly and en- 
 tered. In the dark he felt his way along the wall to the 
 door of the Avocat's room, opened it, and thrust iu his 
 ungainly, whimsical face. 
 
 " Ha ! " he laughed with quick-winking eyes. 
 " Evening, Garon. Live the Code Napoleon ! Pipes 
 for tv/o." 
 
 A change came slowly over the Avocat. His eyes 
 drew away from that vista between the candles, and the 
 strajige distant look faded out of them. 
 
 " Great is the Code Napoleon ! " he said mechan- 
 ically. Then, presently : " Ah, my friend, Medallion ! " 
 
 His first words were the answer to a formula which 
 always passed between them on meeting. As soon as 
 Garon had said them, Medallion's lanky body followed 
 his face, and in a moment he had the Avocat's hand in 
 his, swallowing it, of purpose crushing it, so that 
 Monsieur Garon waked up smartly and gave his visitor 
 a pensive smile. Medallion's cheerful nervous vitality 
 seldom, failed to inspire whom he chose to inspire with 
 something of his own life and cheerfulness. In a few 
 moments both the Avocat and himself were smokinn:, 
 
 ^»„ 
 
 > 
 
 \ , 
 
246 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 and the contents of the steaming bowl were divided be- 
 tween them. MedalHon talked on many things. The 
 little old housekeeper came in, chirped a soft good- 
 evening, flashed a small thankful smile at Medallion, 
 and, after renewing the bowl and lighting two more tall 
 candles, disappeared. Medallion began with the 
 parish, passed to the law, from the law to Napoleon, 
 from Napoleon to France, and from France to the 
 world, drawing out from the Avocat something of his 
 old vivacity and fire. At last Medallion, seeing that 
 the time was ripe, turned his glass round musingly in 
 his fingers before him, and said : 
 
 " Benoit, Annette's husband, died to-day, Garon. 
 You knew him. He went singing — gone in the head, 
 but singing as he used to do before he married — or got 
 drunk! Perhaps his youth came back to him when 
 he was going to die, just for a minute." 
 
 The Avocat's eye gazed at Medallion earnestly now, 
 and Medallion went on : 
 
 " As good singing as you want to hear. You've 
 heard the words of the song — the river-drivers sing it : 
 
 *' ' What is there like to the cry of the bird 
 That sings in its nest in the lilac tree ? 
 A voice the sweetest you ever have heard ; 
 
 It is there, it is here, ci, ci ! 
 It is there, it is here, it must roam and roam. 
 
 And wander from shore to shore, 
 Till I go forth and bring it home, 
 And enter and close my door — 
 
 Row along, row along home, «, ci ! ' " 
 
 When Medallion had finished saying the first verse 
 he waited, but the Avocat said nothing ; his eyes were 
 now fastened again on that avenue between the candles 
 
ING 
 
 ded be- 
 j. The 
 t good- 
 ;dalUon, 
 lore tall 
 ith the 
 apoleon, 
 t to the 
 ig of his 
 ;ing that 
 singly in 
 
 ', Garon. 
 the head, 
 i— or got 
 lim when 
 
 sstly now, 
 
 You've 
 •s sing it : 
 
 MEDALLION'S WHIM 
 
 247 
 
 Ifirst verse 
 
 [eyes were 
 
 le candles 
 
 leading out into the immortal part of him — his past ; he 
 was busy with a life that had once been spent in the 
 fields of Fontainebleuu and in the shadow of the Pan- 
 theon. 
 
 Medallion went on : 
 
 " ' What is there like to the laughing star, 
 Far up from the lilac tree ? 
 A face that's brighter and finer far ; 
 
 It laughs and it shines, ci, ci ! 
 It laughs and it shines, it must roam and roam 
 
 And travel from shore to shore, 
 
 Till I go forth and bring it home, 
 
 And house it within my door — 
 
 Row along, row along home, ci, ci ! ' " 
 
 When Medallion had finished he raised his glass and 
 said : '* Garon, I drink to home and woman ! " 
 
 He waited. The Avocat's eyes drew away from the 
 candles again, and he came to his feet suddenly, sway- 
 ing slightly as he did so. He caught up a glass and, 
 
 lifting it, said : " I drink to home and " a little cold 
 
 burst of laughter came from him, he threw his head 
 back with something like disdain — " and the Code Na- 
 poleon ! " he added abruptly. 
 
 Then he put the glass down without drinking, 
 wheeled back, and dropped into his chair. Presently 
 lie got up, took his keys, went over, opened the bureau, 
 and brought back a well-worn note-book which looked 
 like a diary. He seemed to have forgotten Medallion's 
 presence, but it was not so ; he had reached the moment 
 of disclosure which comes to every man, no matter how 
 secretive, when he must tell what is on his mind or die. 
 He opened the book with trembling fingers, took a pen 
 and wrote, at first slowly, while Medallion smoked : 
 
248 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 " September 13th. — It is five-and-tvventy years ago 
 to-day — Mon Dieii, how we danced that night on the 
 flags before the Sorbonne ! How gay we were in the 
 Maison Bleu! We were gay and happy — Lulie and I 
 — two rooms and a few francs ahead every week. That 
 night we danced and poured out the light wine, becaus.i 
 we were to be married to-morrow. Perhaps there 
 would be a child, if the priest blessed us, she whispered 
 to me as we watched the soft-travelling moon in the 
 gardens of the Luxembourg. Well, we danced. There 
 was an artist with us. I saw him catch Lulie about the 
 waist, and kiss her on the neck. She was angry, but I 
 did not think of that ; I was mad with wine. I quar- 
 relled with her, and said to her a shameful thing. Then 
 I rushed away. We were not married the next day ; I 
 could not find her. One night, soon after, there was a 
 revolution of students at Mont Parnasse. I was hurt. 
 I remember that she came to me then and nursed me, 
 but when I got well she was gone. Then came the 
 secret word from the Government that I must leave 
 the country or go to prison. I came here. Alas ! it is 
 long since we danced before the Sorbonne, and supped 
 at the Maison Bleu. I shall never see again the gar- 
 dens of the Luxembourg. Well, that was a mad night 
 five-and-twenty years ago ! " 
 
 His pen went faster and faster. His eyes lighted up, 
 he seemed quite forgetful of Medallion's presence. 
 When he finished a fresh change came over him. He 
 gathered his thin fingers in a bunch at his lips, and 
 made an airy salute to the warm space between the 
 candles. He drew himself together with a youthful 
 air, and held his grey head gallantly. Youth and aj^e 
 in him seemed almost grotesquely mingled. Sprightly 
 notes from the song of a cafe chantant hovered on his 
 
MEDALLION'S WHIM 
 
 249 
 
 thin, dry lips. Medallion, amused, yet with a hushed 
 kind of feeling through all his nerves, pushed the Avo- 
 cat's tumbler till it touched his fingers. The thin 
 fingers twined round it, and once more he came to his 
 feet. He raised the glass. " To — " for a minute he 
 got no further — " To the wedding-eve ! " he said, and 
 sipped the hot wine. Presently he pushed the little 
 well-worn book over to Medallion. " I have known 
 you fifteen years — read ! " he said. He gave Medal- 
 lion a meaning look out of his now flashing eyes. 
 
 Meaallion's bony face responded cordially. ** Of 
 course," he answered, picked up the book, and read 
 what the Avocat had written. It was on the last page. 
 When he had finished reading, he held the book mus- 
 ingly. His whim had suddenly taken on a new colour. 
 The Avocat, who had been walking up and down the 
 room, with the quick step of a young man, stopped be- 
 fore him, took the book from him, turned to the first 
 page, and handed it back silentl>. Medallion read: 
 
 " Quebec : September 13th, 18 — . It is one year 
 since. I shall learn to laugh some day." 
 
 Medallion looked up at him. The old man threw 
 back his head, spread out the last page in the book 
 which he had just written, and said defiantly, as though 
 expecting contradiction to his self-deception : " I have 
 learned." 
 
 Then he laughed, but the laugh was dry and hollow 
 and painful. It suddenly passed from his wrinkled 
 lips, and he sat down again ; but now with an air as 
 of shyness and shame. " Let us talk," he said, " of — 
 of the Code Napoleon." 
 
 The next morning Medallion visited St. Jean in the 
 hills. Five years before he had sold to a new-comer. 
 
250 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 at St. Jean — ^Madame Lecyr — the furniture of a little 
 house, and there had sprung up between them a quiet 
 friendship, not the less admiring on Medallion's part 
 because Madame Lecyr was a good friend to the poor 
 and sick. She never tired, when they met, of hearing 
 him talk of the Cure, the Little Chemist, and the Avo- 
 cat; and in the Avocat she seemed to take the most 
 interest, making countless inquiries — countless when 
 spread over mariy conversations — upon his life during 
 the time Medallion had known him. He knew also 
 that she came to Pontiac, occasionally, but only in the 
 evening; and once of a moonlight night he had seen 
 her standing before the window of the Avocat's house. 
 Once also he had seen her veiled in the little crowded 
 court-room of Pontiac when an interesting case was 
 being tried, and noticed how she watched Monsieur 
 Garon, standing so very still that she seemed lifeless ; 
 and how she stole out as soon as he had done speaking. 
 Medallion had acute instincts, and was supremely a 
 man of self-counsel. What he thought he kept to 
 himself until there seemed necessity to speak. A few 
 days before the momentous, one herebefore described 
 he had called at xVladame Lecyr's house, and, in course 
 of conversation, told her that the Avocat's health was 
 breaking; that the day before he had got completely 
 fogged in court over the simplest business, and was 
 quite unlike his old, shrewd, kindly self. By this lime 
 he was almost prepared to see her turn pale and her 
 lingers flutter at the knitting-needles she held. She 
 made an excuse to leave the room for a moment. He 
 saw a little book lying near the chair from which she 
 had risen. Perhaps it had dropped from her pocket. 
 He picked it up. It was a book of French songs — 
 Beranger's and others less notable. On the fly-leaf 
 
MEDALLION'S WHIM 
 
 251 
 
 was written : " From Victor to Lulie, September 13th, 
 18—." 
 
 Presently she came back to him quite recovered and 
 cahii, inquired how the Avocat was cared for, and 
 hoped he would have every comfort and care. Me- 
 dallion grew on the instant bold. He was now certain 
 that Victor was the Avocat, and Lulie was Madame 
 Lecyr. He said abruptly to her : " Why not come and 
 cheer him up — such old friends as you are ? " 
 
 At that she rose with a little cry, and stared anx- 
 iously at him. He pointed to the book of songs. 
 " Don't be angry — I looked," he said. 
 
 She breathed quick and hard, and said nothing, 
 but her fingers laced and interlaced nervously in her 
 lap. 
 
 " If you were friends why don't you go to him ? " 
 he said. 
 
 She shook her head mournfully. " We were more 
 than friends, and that is different." 
 
 " You were his wife ? " said MedalHon gently. 
 
 " It was different," she replied, flushing. " France 
 is not the same as here. We were to be married, 
 but on the eve of our wedding-day there was an end 
 to it all. Only five years ago I found out he was 
 here." 
 
 Then she became silent, and would, or could, speak 
 no m.ore ; only, she said at last before he went : " You 
 will not tell him, or any one ? " 
 
 She need not have asked Medallion. He knew 
 many secrets and kept them — which is not the usual 
 way of good-humoured people. 
 
 But now, with the story told by the Avocat himself 
 in his mind, he saw the end of the long romance. He 
 came once more to the house of Madame Lecyr, and 
 
252 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 being admitted, said to her: " You r uvst come at once 
 with me." 
 
 She trembled towards him, " Irh: is worse — he is 
 dying!" 
 
 He smiled. "Not dying at alV He needs you; 
 come along. I'll tell yc u ls we go," 
 
 But she hung back. Then he told her all he had 
 seen and heard the evening before. Without a word 
 further she prepared to go. On the way he turned 
 to her, and said, " You are Madame Lecyr? " 
 
 " I am as he left me," she replied timidly, but with a 
 kind of pride, too. 
 
 ** Don't mistake me," he said. " I thought perhaps 
 you had been married since." 
 
 The Avocat sat in his little office, feebly fumbling 
 among his papers, as Medallion entered on him and 
 called to him cheerily : " We are coming to see you to- 
 night, Garon— the Cure, our Little Chemist, and the 
 Seigneur ; coming to supper." 
 
 The Avocat put out his hand courteously; but he 
 said in a shrinking, pained voice, " No, no, not to- 
 night. Medallion. I would wish no visitors this night 
 —of all." 
 
 Medallion stooped over him and caught him by both 
 arms gently. " We shall see," he said. " It is the 
 anniversary," he whispered. 
 
 "Ah, pardon!'' r-"d the Avc:'at, with a reproving 
 pride, and shrank back as if all his nerves had been laid 
 bare. But Medallion turned, opened the door, went 
 out, and let in a woman, who came forward and timidly 
 raised her veil. 
 
 " Victor ! •' Medallion heard, then " Lulie ! " and then 
 he shut the door, and, with supper in his mind, 
 went into the kitchen to see the housekeeper, who, in 
 
 .,:-^^' 
 
MEDALLION'S WHIM 253 
 
 this new joy, had her own tragedy— humm g to him- 
 self : 
 
 " But down there come from tht lofty hills 
 Footsteps and eyes agleam, 
 Bringing the laughter of yesterday 
 Into the little house." 
 
THE PRISONER 
 
p 
 
 t( 
 
 e; 
 
 b 
 
 P 
 h 
 
 a 
 
 CJ 
 
 fc 
 vv 
 
 01 
 
 tl 
 
 C( 
 
 n: 
 
THE PRISONER 
 
 HIS chief occupation in the daytime was to stand on 
 the bench by the small barred window and 
 watch the pigeons on tlie roof and in the eaves of the 
 house opposite. For five years he had done this. In 
 the summer a great fire seemed to burn beneath the 
 tin of the roof, for a quivering hot air rose from 
 them, and the pigeons never ahghted on them, save in 
 the early morning or in the evening. Just over the 
 peak could be seen the topmost branch of a maple, 
 too slight to bear the weight of the pigeons, but the 
 caves were dark and cool, and there his eyes rested 
 when he tired of the hard blue sky and the glare of the 
 slates. 
 
 In winter the roof was covered for weeks and months 
 by a blanket of snow which looked like a shawl of im- 
 pacted wool, white and restful, and the windows of the 
 house were spread with frost. But the pigeons were 
 always gay, walking on the ledges or crowding on the 
 shelves of the lead pipes. He studied them much, but 
 he loved them more. His prison was less a prison be- 
 cause of them, and during those long five years he 
 found himself more in touch with them than with the 
 wardens of the prison or with any of his fellow-pris- 
 oners. To the formfr he was respectful, and he gave 
 them no trouble at all ; with the iatlcr he had nothing in 
 common, for they were criminals, and hv? — so wild and 
 mad with drink and anger was he at .n<'. time, that he 
 17 
 
258 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 had no remembrance, absolutely none, of how Jean 
 Gamachc lost his life. 
 
 He remembered that they had played cards far into 
 the night; that they had quarrelled, then made their 
 peace ; that the others had left ; that they had begun 
 gaming and drinking and quarrelling again — and then 
 evcrytliing was blurred, save for a vague recollection 
 that he had won all Gamache's money and had pock- 
 eted it. Afterwards came a blank. 
 
 He waked to find two officers of the law beside him, 
 and the body of Jean Gamache, stark and dreadful, a 
 few feet away. 
 
 When the officers put their hands upon him he 
 shook them oflf ; when they did it again he would have 
 fought them to the death had it not been for his friend, 
 tall Medallion, the auctioneer, who laid a strong hand 
 on his arm and said, " Steady, Turgeon, steady! " and 
 he had yielded to the firm friendly pressure. 
 
 Medallion had left no stone unturned to clear him at 
 the trial, had himself played detective unceasingly. 
 But the hard facts remained, and on a chain of circum- 
 stantial evidence Blaze Turgeon was convicted of 
 manslaughter and sent to prison for ten years. Blaze 
 himself had said that he did not remember, but he 
 could not believe that he had committed the crime. 
 Robbery ? He shrugged his shoulders at that, he in- 
 sisted that his lawyer should not reply to the foolish 
 and insulting suggestion. But the evidence went to 
 show that Gamache had all the winnings when the 
 other members of the party retired, and this very 
 money had been found in Blaze's pocket. There was 
 only Blaze's word that they had played cards again. 
 Anger? Possibly. Blaze could not recall, though he 
 knew they had quarrelled. The judge himself, charg- 
 
■aOMOBtfiSB 
 
 ING 
 ,v Jean 
 
 far into 
 ie their 
 [ begun 
 nd then 
 )llection 
 Lcl pock- 
 
 ide him, 
 eadfitl, a 
 
 him he 
 uld have 
 is friend, 
 )ng hand 
 ly ! " and 
 
 ar him at 
 :easingly. 
 if circum- 
 victed of 
 s. Blaze 
 |r, but he 
 .\e crime, 
 at, he in- 
 :e fooHsh 
 went to 
 when the 
 this very 
 here was 
 ■ds again. 
 :hough he 
 :lf, charg- 
 
 THE PRISONER 
 
 259 
 
 ing the jury, said that he never before Iiad seen a 
 prisoner so frank, so outwardly honest, but he warned 
 them that they must not lose sight of the crime itself, 
 the taking of a human life, whereby a woman was 
 n^ade a widow and a child fatherless. The jury found 
 him guilty. 
 
 With few remarks the judge deli ^ercd his sentence, 
 and then himself, shaken and pale, left the court-room 
 hurriedly, for Blaze Turgeon's father had been his 
 friend from boyhood. 
 
 Blaze took his sentence calmly, looking the jury 
 squarely in the eyes, and when the judge stopped, 
 he bowed to him, and then turned to the jury, and 
 said: 
 
 " Gentlemen, you have ruined my life. You don't 
 know, and I don't know, who killed the man. You 
 have guessed, and I take the penalty. Suppose I'm in- 
 nocent — how will you feel when the truth comes out? 
 You've known me more or less these twenty years, 
 and you've said, with evidently no more knowledge 
 than I've got, that I did this horrible thing. I don't 
 know but that one of you did it. But you are safe, and 
 I take my ten years ! " 
 
 He turned from them, and, as he did so, he saw a 
 woman looking at him from a corner of the court- 
 room, with a strange, wild expression. At the moment 
 he saw no more than an excited, bewildered face, but 
 afterwards this face came and went before him, flashing 
 in and out of dark places in a kind of mockery. 
 
 As he v/ent from the court-room anc*^her woman 
 made her way to him in spite of the guards. It was 
 the Little Chemist's wife who, years before, had been 
 his father's housekeeper, who knew him when his eyes 
 first opened on the world. 
 
26o THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 " My poor Blaze ! my poor Blaze ! " she said, clasp- 
 ing his manacled hands. 
 
 In prison he refused to see all visitors, even Medal- 
 lion, the Little Chemist's wife, and the good Father 
 Fabre. Letters, too, he refused to accept and read. 
 He had no contact, wished no contact with the outer 
 world, but lived his hard, lonely life by himself, silent, 
 studious — for now books were a pleasure to him. He 
 had entered his prison a wild, excitable, dissipated 
 youth, and he had become a mature, brooding man. 
 Five years had done the work of twenty. 
 
 The face of the woman who looked at him so 
 strangely in the court-room haunted him so that at last 
 it became a part of his real life, lived largely at the win- 
 dow where he looked out at the pigeons on the roof of 
 the hospital. 
 
 " She was sorry for me," he said many a time to him- 
 self. He was shaken with misery often, so that he 
 rocked to and fro as he sat on his bed, and a warder 
 heard him cry out even in the last days of his imprison- 
 ment: 
 
 " O God, canst thou do everything but speak ! " 
 And again : " That hour ! the memory of that hour, m 
 exchange for my ruined life ! " 
 
 One day the gaoler came to him and said : " M'sieu' 
 Turg(!on, you are free. The Governor has cut off 
 five years from your sentence." 
 
 Then he was told that people were waiting without 
 — Medallion, the Little Chemist and his v/ife, and 
 others more important. But he would not go to meet 
 them, and he stepped into the open world alone at 
 dawn the next morning, and looked out upon a still 
 sleeping village. Suddenly there stood before him a 
 
ING 
 I, clasp- 
 
 t Medal- 
 [ Father 
 nd read, 
 he outer 
 ;lf, silent, 
 lim. He 
 Ussipated 
 ing man. 
 
 t him so 
 hat at last 
 Lt the win- 
 he roof of 
 
 lie to him- 
 50 that he 
 I a warder 
 ; imprison- 
 
 X speak 1 " 
 lat hour, ^n 
 
 " M'sieii' 
 lias cut off 
 
 |ng without 
 
 wife, and 
 
 go to meet 
 
 lid alone at 
 
 liipon a still 
 
 ;fore him a 
 
 THE PRISONER 
 
 261 
 
 woman, who had watched by the prison gates all 
 night ; and she put out her hand in entreaty, and said 
 with a breaking voice : " You are free at last ! " 
 
 He remembered her — the woman who had looked 
 at him so anxiously and sorrowfully in the court- 
 room. 
 
 " Why did you come to meet me? " he asked. 
 
 " I was sorry for you." 
 
 " But that is no reason." 
 
 " I once committed a crime," she whispered, with 
 shrinking bitterness. 
 
 " That's bad," he said. " Were you punished ? " 
 He looked at her keenly, almost fiercely, for a curious 
 suspicion shot into his mind. 
 
 She shook her head and answered no. 
 
 " That's worse ! " 
 
 " I let some one else take my crime upon him and be 
 punished for it," she said, an agony in her eyes. 
 
 "Why was that?" 
 
 " I had a little child," was her reply. 
 
 ** And the man who was punished instead ? " 
 
 ** He was alone in the world," she said. 
 
 A bitter smile crept to his lips, and his face was afire. 
 He shut his eyes, and when they opened again dis- 
 covery was in them. 
 
 " I remember you now," he said. " I remember 
 now I waked and saw you looking at me that night! 
 iWho was the father of your child? " 
 
 " Jean Gamache," she replied. ** He ruined me and 
 left me to starve." 
 
 " I am innocent of his death! " he said quicL-} and 
 gladly. 
 
 She nodded. He was silent for a moment. " The 
 child still lives ? " he asked. She nodded again. " Well, 
 

 '.^^: 
 
 262 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 let it be so," he said. " But you owe me five years — 
 and a good name." 
 
 " I wish to God I could give them back ! " she cried, 
 tears streaming down her cheeks. " It was for my 
 child ; he was so young." 
 
 " It can't be helped now," he said, sighing, and he 
 turned away from her. 
 
 " Won't you forgive me ? " she asked bitterly. 
 
 " Won't you give me back those five years ? " 
 
 " If the child did not need me I would give my life," 
 she answered. " I owe it to you." 
 
 Her haggard, hunted face made him sorry ; he, too, 
 had sufifered. 
 
 " It's all right," he answered gently. " Take care of 
 your child." 
 
 Again he moved away from her, and went down the 
 little hill, with a cloud gone from his face that had 
 rested there five years. Once he turned to look back. 
 The woman was gone, but over the prison a flock of 
 pigeons were flying. He took off his hat to them. 
 
 Then he went through the town, looking neither to 
 right nor left, and came to his own house, where the 
 summer morning was already entering the open win- 
 dows, though he had thought to find the place closed 
 and dark. 
 
 The Little Chemist's wife met him in the doorway. 
 She could not speak, nor could he, but he kissed her as 
 he had done when he went condemned to prison. Then 
 he passed on to his own room, and entering, sat down 
 before the open window, and peacefully drank in the 
 glory of a new world. Lat more than once he choked 
 down a sob rising in his throat. 
 
INING 
 
 re years — 
 
 she cried, 
 as for my 
 
 \g, and he 
 
 erly. 
 
 •sr 
 
 ^e my Hfe, 
 
 ff 
 
 -y ; he, too, 
 
 ake care of 
 
 it down the 
 :e that had 
 ) look back, 
 n a flock of 
 to them, 
 g neither to 
 J, where the 
 e open win- 
 place closed 
 
 he doorway, 
 kissed her as 
 orison. Then 
 ng, sat down 
 drank in the 
 ce he choked 
 
 AN UPSET PRICE 
 
a 
 
 V 
 
 a 
 n 
 o 
 tc 
 w 
 sc 
 
 ta 
 
 d< 
 vi 
 n( 
 
 b 
 o 
 C 
 e( 
 w 
 n( 
 af 
 dc 
 
AN UPSET PRICE 
 
 ONCE Secord was as fine a man to look at as you 
 would care to see : with a large, intelligent eye, 
 a clear, healthy skin, and a full, brown beard. He 
 walked with a spring, had the gift of conversation, 
 and took life as he found it : never too seriously, yet 
 never careles ly. That was before he left the village 
 of Pontiac in Quebec to offer himself as a surgeon 
 to the America*^ Army. When he came back there 
 was a change ij him. He was still handsome, but 
 something of the spring had gone from his walk, the 
 quick light of his eyes had given place to a dark, dreamy 
 expression, his skin became a little dulled, and his 
 talk slower, though not less musical or pleasant. In- 
 deed, his conversation had distinctly improved. Pre- 
 viously there was an undercurrent of seif-conscious- 
 ness ; it was all gone now. He talked as one knowing 
 his audience. His office became again, as it had 
 been before, a rendezvous for the few interesting -^n 
 of the place, including the Avocat, the Cure, the Little 
 Chemist, and Medallion. Th*-/ played chess ana 
 ecarte for certain hours of certain evenings in the 
 week at Secord's house. Medallion was the first to 
 notice that the wife — whom Secord had married soon 
 after he came back from the war — occasionally put 
 down her work and looked with a curious inquirinc- 
 expression at her husband as he talked. It struck 
 
266 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 Medallion that she was puzzled by some change in 
 Secord. 
 
 Secord was a brilliant surgeon, and with the knife 
 in his hand, or beside a sick bed, was admirable. His 
 intuitive perception, so necessary in a physician, was 
 very fine : he appeared to get at the core of a patient's 
 trouble, and to decide upon necessary action with in- 
 stant and absolute confidence. Some delicate opera- 
 tion performed by him was recorded ana praised in 
 the Lancet, and he was offered a responsible post in 
 a medical college and, Pt the same time, the good-will 
 of a valuable practice. He declined both, to the last- 
 ing astonishment, yet personal joy, of the Cure and the 
 Avocat ; but, as time went on, not so much to the sur- 
 prise of the Little Chemist and Medallion. After three 
 years, the sleepy Little Chem»ist waked up suddenly 
 in his chair one day and said; '^ Parbleu! God bless 
 me ! " (he Icved to mix his native language with Eng- 
 lish), got up and went over to Secord's office, adjusted 
 his glasses, looked at Secord closely, caught his hand 
 with both of his own, shook it with shy abruptness, 
 came back to his shop, sat down, and said : " God bless 
 my soul ! Regarded ga! " 
 
 Medallion made his discovery sooner. Watching 
 closely he had seen a pronounced deliberation infused 
 through all Secord's indolence of manner, and noticed 
 that often, before doing anything, the big eyes debated 
 steadfastly, and the long, slender fin^;ers ran down the 
 beard softly. At times there was a deep meditative- 
 ness in the eye, again a dusky fire. But there was a 
 certain charm through it all — a languid precision, a 
 slumbering look in the face, a vague undercurrent in 
 the voice, a fantastical flavour to the thought. The 
 change had come so gradually that only Medallion 
 
IG 
 
 AN UPSET PRICE 
 
 267 
 
 je in 
 
 knife 
 
 His 
 
 was 
 ient's 
 th in- 
 )pera- 
 ed in 
 ost in 
 d-will 
 e last- 
 nd the 
 10 sur- 
 r three 
 ddenly 
 d bless 
 h Eng- 
 dj listed 
 is hand 
 iptness, 
 3d bless 
 
 atching 
 infused 
 noticed 
 debated 
 own the 
 ditative- 
 •e was a 
 :ision, a 
 iirent in 
 it. The 
 [edallion 
 
 and the wife had a real conception of how great it was. 
 Medallion had studied Sccord from every standpoint. 
 At the very first he wondered if there was a woman in 
 it. Much thinking on a woman, whose influence on 
 his life was evil or disturbing, might account some- 
 what for the change in Secord. But, seeing how fond 
 the man was of his wife. Medallion gave up that idea. 
 It was not liquor, for Secord never touched it. One 
 day, however, when Medallion was selling ilie furniture 
 of a house, he put up a feather bed, and, as was his 
 custom — for he was a whimsical fellow — let his hu- 
 mour have play. Pie used many metaphors as to the 
 virtue of the bed, crowning them with the statement 
 that you slept in it dreaming as delicious dreams as 
 
 though you had eaten poppy, or mandragora, or 
 
 He stopped short, said, " By jingo, that's it !" knocked 
 the bed down instantly, and was an utter failure for, 
 the rest of the day. 
 
 The wife was longer in discovering the truth, but a 
 certain morning, as her husband lay sleeping after an 
 all-night sitting with a patient, she saw lying beside 
 him — it had dropped from his waistcoat pocket — a little 
 bottle full of a dark liquid. She knew that he always 
 carried his medicine-phials in a pocket-case. She got 
 the case, and saw that none was missing. She noticed 
 that the cork of the phial was well-worn. She took 
 it out and smelled the liquid. Then she understood. 
 She waited and watched. She saw him after he waked 
 look watchfully round, quietly take a wineglass, and 
 let the liquid come drop by drop into it from the point 
 of his forefinger. Henceforth she read with under- 
 standing the changes in his manner, and saw behind 
 the mingled abstraction and fanciful meditation of his 
 talk. 
 
268 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 She had not yet made up her mind what to do. She 
 saw that he hid it from her assiduously. He did so 
 more because he wished not to pain her than from 
 furtiveness. By nature he was open and brave, and 
 had always had a reputation for plainness and sincerity. 
 She was in no sense his equal in intelligence or judg- 
 ment, nor even in instinct. She was a woman of more 
 impulse and constitutional good-nature than depth. 
 It is probable that he knew that, and refrained from 
 letting her into the knowledge of this vice, contracted 
 in the war when, seriously ill, he v;as able to drag him- 
 self about from patient to patient only by the help of 
 opium. He was alive to h!s position and its conse- 
 quences, and faced it. He had no children, and he was 
 glad of this for one reason. He could do nothing now 
 without the drug ; it was as necessary as light to him. 
 The little botUe had been his friend so long that, with 
 his finger en its smooth-edged cork, it was as though 
 he held the tap of life. 
 
 The Litth Chemist and Medallion kept the thing to 
 themselves, but they understood each other in the mat- 
 ter, and wondered what they could do to cure him. 
 The Little Chemist only shrank back, and said, " No, 
 nc, pardon, my friend ! " when Medallion suggested 
 that he should speak to Secord. But the Little 
 Chemist was greatly concerned — for had not Secord 
 saved \m, beloved wiie by a clever operation ? and was 
 it not her custom to devote a certain hour every week 
 to the welfare of Secord's soul and body, before the 
 shrine of ihe Virgin ? Her husband told her now that 
 Secord was in ^fouble, and though he was far from 
 being devout himself, he had a shy faith in the great 
 sincerity of his wife. She did her best, and increased 
 her offerings of flowers to the shrine ; also, in her 
 
NG 
 
 AN UPSET PRICE 
 
 269 
 
 . She 
 did so 
 1 from 
 e, and 
 icerity. 
 - judg- 
 )f more 
 depth, 
 d from 
 itracted 
 ig him- 
 help of 
 conse- 
 l he was 
 ng now 
 to him. 
 lat, with 
 though 
 
 thing to 
 the mat- 
 ire him. 
 A, " No, 
 iggested 
 e Little 
 t Secord 
 and was 
 2ry week 
 efore the 
 now that 
 far from 
 he great 
 Increased 
 3, in her 
 
 simplicity, she sent Secord's wife little jars of jam to 
 comfort him. 
 
 One evening the little coterie met by arrangement at 
 the doctor's house. After waiting an hour or two for 
 Secord, who liad been called away to a critical case, the 
 Avocat and the Cure went home, leaving polite old- 
 fashioned messages for their absent host ; but the Little 
 Chemist and Aledaliion remained. For a time Mrs. 
 Secord remained witii them, then retired, begging 
 them to await her husband, vvlio, she knew, would be 
 grateful if they stayed. The Little Chemist, with timid 
 courtesy, showed her out of the room, then came back 
 and sat down. They were very silent. The Little 
 Chemist took off his glasses a half-dozen times, wipeci 
 them, and put them back. Then suddenly turned on 
 Medallion. " You mean to speak to-night? " 
 
 " Yes, that's what I intend, just here." 
 
 " Regarded ca — well, well ! " 
 
 Medallion never smoked harder than he did then. 
 The Little Chemist looked at him nervously again and 
 again, listened towards the door, fingered with his 
 tumbler, and at last hearing the sound of sleigh-bells, 
 suddenly came to his feet, and said : '* Voilh, I will go 
 to my wife." And catching up his cap, and forgetting 
 his overcoat, he trotted away home in fright. 
 
 What Medallion did or said to Secord that night 
 neither ever told. But it must have been a singular 
 scene, for when the humourist pleads or prays there is 
 no pathos like it ; and certainly Medallion's eyes were 
 red when he rapped up the Little Chemist at dawn, 
 caught him by the shoulders, turned him round several 
 times, thumped him on the back, and called him a 
 bully old boy; and then, seeing the old wife in her 
 quaint padded nightgown, suddenly hugged her, threw 
 

 
 IMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-S) 
 
 
 1.0 
 
 
 
 ■^ Ui 12.2 
 ^ IAS 12.0 
 
 I.I 
 
 
 |l.4 ,,.6 
 
 
 1.25 
 
 V] 
 
 /2 
 
 ^. 
 
 % 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 o 
 
 7 
 
 '> > 
 
 ///. 
 
 '^ 
 
 7 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 Corporation 
 
 33 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 
 
 (716) •72-4503 
 
 r|\^ 
 
 \ 
 
 iV 
 
 :\ 
 
 \ 
 
 k 
 
 "% 
 
 N 
 
 
 6^ 
 
6 
 
 
270 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 t 
 
 
 himself into a chair and almost shouted for a cup of 
 coffee. 
 
 At the same time Mrs. Secord was alternately crying 
 and laughing in her husband's arms, and he was saying 
 to her : " I'll make a fight for it, Lesley, a big fight ; but 
 you must be patient, for I expect I'll be a devil some- 
 times without it. Why, I've eaten a drachm a day of 
 the stuff, or drunk its equivalent in the tincture. 
 No, never mind praying ; be a brick and fight with me : 
 that's the game, my girl." 
 
 He did make a fight for it, such an one as few men 
 have made and come out safely. For those who dwell 
 in the Pit never suffer as do they who struggle with 
 this appetite. He was too wise to give it up all at 
 once. He diminished the dose gradually, but still 
 very perceptibly. As it was, it made a marked change 
 in him. The necessary effort of the will gave a kind 
 of hard coldness to his face, and he used to walk his 
 garden for hours at night in conflict with his enemy. 
 His nerves were uncertain, but, strange to say, when 
 (it was not often) any serious case of illness came under 
 his hands, he was somehow able to pull himself to- 
 gether and do his task gallantly enough. But he had 
 had no important surgical case since he began his 
 cure. In his heart he lived in fear of one ; for he was 
 not quite sure of himself. In spite of effort to the 
 contrary he became irritable, and his old pleasant 
 fantasies changed to gloomy and bizarre imaginings. 
 
 The wife never knew what it cost her husband thus, 
 day by day, to take a foe by the throat and hold him in 
 check. She did not guess that he knew if he dropped 
 back even once he could not regain himself : this was 
 his idiosyncrasy. He did not find her a great help to 
 him in his trouble. She was affectionate, but she had 
 
tarn 
 
 mimmm 
 
 mgg/gggsrf"- 
 
 ING 
 cup of 
 
 ' crying 
 ; saying 
 rht ; but 
 il some- 
 1 day of 
 tincture, 
 vith me : 
 
 [ew men 
 ho dwell 
 gle with 
 Lip all at 
 but still 
 d change 
 ^e a kind 
 walk his 
 s enemy, 
 ay, when 
 me under 
 mself to- 
 ut he had 
 )egan bis 
 3r he was 
 )rt to the 
 pleasant 
 laginings. 
 
 and thus, 
 Did him in 
 
 e dropped 
 this was 
 
 at help to 
 
 at she had 
 
 AN UPSET PRICE 
 
 271 
 
 not much penetration even where he was concerned, 
 and she did not grasp how much was at stake. She 
 thought indeed that he should be able to give it up all 
 at once. He was tender with her, but he wished often 
 that she could understand him without explanation on 
 his part. Many a time he took out the little bottle 
 with a reckless hand, but conquered himself. He got 
 most help, perhaps, from the honest, cheerful eye of 
 Medallion and the stumbling, timorous aflection of 
 the Little Chemist. They were perfectly disinterested 
 friends — his wife at times made him aware that he had 
 done her a wrong, for he had married her with this 
 appetite on him. He did not defend himself, but he 
 wished she would — even if she had to act it — make him 
 believe in himself more. One morning against his will 
 he was irritable with her, and she said something that 
 burnt like caustic. He smiled ironically and pushed 
 his newspaper over to her, pointing to a paragraph. 
 It was the announcement that an old admirer of hers 
 whom she had passed by for her husband, had come 
 into a fortune. " Perhaps you've made a mistake," 
 he said. 
 
 She answered nothing, but the look she gave was 
 unfortunate for both. He muffled his mouth in his 
 long, silken beard as if to smother what he felt impelled 
 to say, then suddenly rose and left the table. 
 
 At this time he had reduced his dose of the drug to 
 eight drops twice a day. With a grim courage he 
 rocolved to make it five all at once. He did so, and 
 held to it. Medallion was much with him in these 
 days. One morning in the spring he got up, went out 
 in his garden, drew in the fresh, sweet air with a great 
 gulp, picked some lovely crab-apple blossoms, and, 
 with a strange glowing look in his eyes, came in to 
 
272 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 his wife, put them into her hands, and kissed her. It 
 was the anniversary of their wedding-day. Then, 
 without a word, he took from his pocket the Httle phial 
 that he had carried' so long, rolled it for an instant in 
 his palm, felt its worn, discoloured cork musingly, and 
 threw it out of the window. 
 
 " Now, my dear," he whispered, " we will be happy 
 again." 
 
 He held to his determination with a stern anxiety. 
 He took a month's vacation, and came back better. He 
 was not so happy as he hoped to be ; yet he would not 
 whisper to himself the reason why. He felt that some- 
 thing had failed him somewhere. 
 
 One day a man came riding swiftly up to his door to 
 say that his wife's father had met with a bad accident 
 in his great mill. Secord told his wife. A peculiar 
 troubled look came into his face as he glanced carefully 
 over his instruments and through his medicine case. 
 
 " God ! I must do it alone," he said. 
 
 The old man's injury was a dangerous one : a skilful 
 operation was necessary. As Secord stood beside the 
 sufferer, he felt his nerves suddenly go — ^just as they 
 did in the War before he first took the drug. His wife 
 was in the next room — he could hear her; he wished 
 she would make no sound at all. Unless this opera- 
 tion was performed successfully the sufferer would die 
 — he might die anyhow. Secord tried to gather him- 
 self up to his task, but he felt it was of no use. A 
 month later when he was more recovered physically 
 he would be able to perform the operation, but the old 
 man was dying now, while he stood helplessly stroking 
 his big brown beard. He took up his pocket medicine- 
 case, and went out where his wife was. 
 
 Excited and tearful, she started up to meet him, 
 
her. It 
 Then, 
 tie phial 
 istant in 
 igly, and 
 
 )e happy 
 
 anxiety, 
 itter. He 
 ^ould not 
 lat some- 
 is door to 
 I accident 
 , pecuHar 
 I carefully 
 le case. 
 
 a skilful 
 jeside the 
 5t as they 
 
 His wife 
 he wished 
 lis opera- 
 would die 
 Lther him- 
 use. A 
 physically 
 lut the old 
 y stroking 
 medicine- 
 meet him, 
 
 AN UPSET PRICE 
 
 2/3 
 
 painfully inquiring. *' Can you save him ? " she said. 
 *' Oh, James, what is the matter.'* You are trembling." 
 
 " It's just this way, Lesley : my nerve is broken ; I 
 can't perform the operation as 1 am, and he will die 
 in an hour if I don't." 
 
 She caught hmi by the arm. " Can you not l)e 
 strong? You have a will. Will you not try to save 
 my father, James? Is there no way? " 
 
 " Yes, there is one way," he said. He opened the 
 pocket-case and took out a phial of laudanum. " This 
 is the way. I can pull myself together with it. It will 
 save his life." There was a dogged look in his face. 
 
 " Well? well? " she said. " Oh, my dear father!— 
 will you not keep him here ? " 
 
 A peculiar cold smile hovered about his lips. " But 
 there is danger to me in this . . . and remember, 
 he is very old ! " 
 
 " Oh," she cried, " how can you be so shocking, so 
 cruel ! " She rocked herself to and fro. " If it will 
 save him — and you need not take it again, ever ! " 
 
 " But, I tell you " 
 
 "Do you not hear him — he is dying!" She was 
 mad with grief ; she hardly knew what she said. 
 
 Without a word he dropped the tincture swiftly in a 
 wineglass of water, drank it off, shivered, drew him- 
 self up with a start, gave a sigh as if some huge struggle 
 was over, and went in to where the old man was. 
 Three hours after he told his wife that her father was 
 safe. 
 
 When, after a hasty kiss, she left him and went into 
 the room of sickness, and the door closed after her, 
 standing where she had left him he laughed a hard 
 crackliij^ laugh, and said between his teeth : 
 
 *' An upset price ! " 
 
 i8 •■ • 
 
274 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 Then he poured out another portion of the dark 
 tincture — the largest he had ever taken — and tossed 
 it off. 
 
 That night he might have been seen feeHng about 
 the grass in a moon-Ht garden. At last he put some- 
 thing in his pocket with a quick, harsh chuckle of 
 satisfaction. It was a little black bottle with a well- 
 worn cork. 
 
SIING 
 
 he dark 
 1 tossed 
 
 ig about 
 at some- 
 uckle of 
 I a well- 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF LIVES 
 
ft.. 
 
 e 
 
 g 
 
 gl 
 n 
 
 n* 
 h; 
 
 di 
 
 ti< 
 
 in 
 
 a 
 
 hi 
 sa 
 
A FRAGMENT OF LIVES 
 
 THEY met at last, Dubarre, and Villiard the man 
 who had stolen from him the woman he loved. 
 Both had wronged the woman, but Villiard most, for 
 he had let her die because of jealousy. 
 
 They were now in a room alone in the forest of St. 
 Sebastian. Both were quiet, and both knew that the 
 end of their hatred was near. 
 
 Going to a cupboard Dubarre brought out four 
 glasses and put them on the table. Then from two 
 bottles he poured out what looked like red wine, two 
 glasses from each bottle. Putting the bottles back he 
 returned to the table. 
 
 " Do you dare to drink with me ? " Dubarre asked, 
 nodding towards the glasses. " Two of the glasses 
 have poison in them, two have good red wine only. 
 We will move them about and then drink. Both may, 
 die, or only one of us." . 
 
 Villiard looked at the other with contracting, ques- 
 tioning eyes. 
 
 " You would play that game with me ? " he asked 
 in a mechanical voice. 
 
 ** It would give me great pleasure." The voice had 
 a strange, ironical tone. " It is a grand sport — as one 
 would take a run at a crevasse and clear it, or fall. If 
 we both fall, we are in good company; if you fall, I 
 have the greater joy of escape ; if I fall, you have the 
 same joy." 
 
2;S THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 " I am ready," was the answer. " But let us eat 
 first." 
 
 A great fire burned in the chimney, for the night 
 was cool. It filled the room with a gracious heat and 
 with huge, comfortable shadows. Here and there on 
 the wall a tin cup flashed back the radiance of the fire, 
 the barrel of a gun glistened soberly along a rafter, 
 and the long, wiry hair of an otter-skin in the corner 
 sent out little needles of light. Upon the fire a pot 
 was simmering, and a good savour came from it. A 
 wind went lilting by outside the hut in tune with the 
 singing of the kettle. The ticking of a huge, old- 
 fashioned repeating-watch on the wall was in unison 
 with these. 
 
 Dubarre rose from the table, threw himself upon the 
 little pile of otter-skins, and lay watching Villiard and 
 mechanically studying the little room. 
 
 Villiard took the four glasses filled with the wine 
 and laid them on a shelf against the wall, then began 
 to put the table in order for their supper, and to take 
 the pot from the fire. 
 
 Dubarre noticed that just above where the glasses 
 stood on the shelf a crucifix was hanging, and that 
 red crystal sparkled in the hands and feet where the 
 nails should be driven in. There was a painful humour 
 in the association. He smiled, then turned his head 
 away, for old memories flashed through his brain — 
 he had been an acolyte once : he had served at the altar. 
 
 Suddenly Dubarre rose, took the glasses from the 
 shelf and placed them in the middle of the table — the 
 death's head for the feast. 
 
 As they sat down to eat, the eyes of both men un- 
 consciously wandered to the crucifix, attracted by the 
 red sparkle of the rubies. They drank water with the 
 
ING 
 
 us eat 
 
 e night 
 eat and 
 here on 
 the fire, 
 I rafter, 
 ; corner 
 re a pot 
 n it. A 
 with the 
 ige, old- 
 1 unison 
 
 upon the 
 Hard and 
 
 the wine 
 en began 
 d to take 
 
 le glasses 
 
 and that 
 
 vhere the 
 
 il humour 
 
 his head 
 s brain — ■ 
 ; the altar. 
 
 from the 
 table— the 
 
 men un- 
 ;ed by the 
 r with the 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF LIVES 
 
 279 
 
 well-cooked meat of the wapiti, though red wine faced 
 them on the table. Each ate heartily; as though a 
 long day were before them and not the shadow of the 
 Long Night. There was no speech save that of the 
 usual courtesies of the table. The fire, and the wind, 
 and the watch seemed the only living things besides 
 themselves, perched there between heaven and earth. 
 
 At length the meal was finished, and the two turned 
 in their chairs towards the fire. There was no other 
 light in the room, and on the faces of the two, still and 
 cold, the flame played idly. 
 
 " When ? " said Dubarre at last. 
 
 " Not yet," was the quiet reply. 
 
 " I was thinking of my first theft — an apple from my 
 brother's plate," said Dubarre with a dry smile. 
 " You ? " 
 
 " I, of my first lie." 
 
 " That apple was the sweetest fruit I ever tasted." 
 
 "And I took the penalty of the lie, but I had no 
 sorrow." 
 
 Again there was silence. 
 Now ? " asked Villiard, after an hour had passed. 
 I am ready." 
 
 They came to the table. 
 Shall we bind our eyes ? " asked Dubarre. " I 
 
 « 
 
 « 
 
 <( 
 
 >» 
 
 do not know the glasses that hold the poison.' 
 
 " Nor I the bottles that held it. I will turn my back, 
 and do you change about the glasses." 
 
 Villiard turned his face towards the timepiece on the 
 wall. As he did so it began to strike — a clear, silvery 
 chime : " One ! two ! three " 
 
 Before it had finished striking both men were facing 
 the glasses again. 
 
 " Take one," said Dubarre. 
 
280 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 Villiard took the one nearest himself. Dubarre took 
 one also. Without a word they lifted the glasses and 
 drank. 
 
 " Apain," said Dubarre. 
 
 " You choose," responded Villiard. 
 
 Dubarre lifted the one nearest himself, and Villiard 
 picked up the other. Raising their glasses again, they 
 bowed to each other and d»-ank. 
 
 The watch struck twelve, and stopped its silvery 
 chiming. 
 
 They both sat down, looking at each other, the light 
 of an enormous chance in their eyes, the tragedy of a 
 great stake in their clenched hands ; but the deeper, 
 intenser power was in the face of Dubarre, the ex- 
 plorer. 
 
 There was more than power ; malice drew down the 
 brows and curled the sensitive upper lip. Each man 
 watched the other for knowledge of his own fate. The 
 glasses lay straggling along the table, emptied of death 
 and life. 
 
 All at once a horrible pallor spread over the face of 
 Villiard, and his head jerked forward. He grasped 
 the table with both hands, twitching and trembling. 
 His eyes stared wildly at Dubarie, to whose face the 
 flush of wine had come, whose look was now mali- 
 ciously triumphant. 
 
 Villiard had drunk both glasses of the poison ! 
 
 " I win I " Dubarre stood up. Then, leaning over 
 the table towards the dying man, he added : " You let 
 her die — well! Would you know the truth? She 
 loved you — always ! " 
 
 Villiard gasped, and his look wandered vaguely 
 along the opposite wall. 
 
 Dubarre went on. " I played the game with' you 
 
NG 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF LIVES 
 
 281 
 
 c took 
 es and 
 
 /illiard 
 n, they 
 
 silvery 
 
 he light 
 :dy of a 
 deeper, 
 the ex- 
 own the 
 ich man 
 te. The 
 of death 
 
 e face of 
 grasped 
 
 embling. 
 face the 
 
 low maU- 
 
 honestly, because — because it was the greatest man 
 could play. And I, too, sinned against her. Now 
 die ! She loved you — murderer ! " 
 
 The man's look still wandered distractedly along the 
 wall. The sweat of death was on his face; his lip? 
 were moving spasmodically. 
 
 Suddenly his look became fixed ; he found voice. 
 
 " Pardon — Jesu! " he said, and stiflfened where he 
 sat. 
 
 His eyes were fixed on the jewelled crucifix. Du- 
 barre snatched it from the wall, and hastening to him 
 held it to his lips : but the warm sparkle of the rubies 
 fell on eyes that were cold as frosted glass. Dubarre 
 saw that he was dead. 
 
 " Because the woman loved him ! " he said, gv ing 
 curiously at the dead man. 
 
 He turned, went to the door and opened it, for his 
 breath choked him. 
 
 All was still on the wooded heights and in the wide 
 valley. 
 
 " Because the woman loved him he repented," said 
 Dubarre again with a half-cynical gentleness as he 
 placed the crucifix on the dead man's breast. 
 
 on! 
 
 ling over 
 You let 
 Ih? She 
 
 vaguely 
 witH you 
 
^L-:''v 
 
 yv 
 
 i^. 
 
THE MAN THAT DIED AT 
 
 ALMA 
 
THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA 
 
 THE man who died at Alma had a Kilkenny 
 brogue that you could not cut with a knife, but 
 he was called Kilquhanity, a name as Scotch as Mac- 
 Gregor. Kilquhanity was a retired soldier, on pension, 
 and Pontiac was a place of peace and poverty. The 
 only gentry were the Cure, the Avocat, and the young 
 Seigneur, but of the three the only one with a private 
 income was the young Seigneur. 
 
 What should such a common man as Kilquhanity 
 do with a private income! It seemed almost sus- 
 picious, instead of creditable, to the minds of the simple 
 folk at Pontiac ; for they were French, and poor, and 
 laborious, and Kilquhanity drew his pension from the 
 headquarters of the English Government, which they 
 only knew by legends wafted to them over great tracts 
 of country from the city of Quebec. 
 
 When Kilquhanity first came with his wife, it was 
 without introductions from anywhere — unlike every- 
 body else in Pontiac, whose family history could be 
 instantly reduced to an exact record by the Cure. He 
 had a smattering of French, which he turned cfT with 
 oily brusqueness, he was not close-mouthed, he 
 talked freely of events in his past life, and he told some 
 really wonderful tales of his experiences in the British 
 army. He was no braggart, however, and his one 
 great story which gave him the nickname by which 
 he was called at Pontiac, was told far more in a spirit 
 
 ,'"'.. ■•v-vr 
 
286 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 of laughter at himself than in praise of his own part 
 in the incident. 
 
 The first time he told the story was in the house of 
 Medallion the auctioneer. 
 
 "Aw the night it was!" said Kilquhanity, after a 
 pause, blowing a cloud of tobacco smoke into the air, 
 " the night it was, me darlins! Bitther cowld in that 
 Roosian counthry, though but late sum.mer, and noth- 
 in' to ate but a lump of bread, no bigger than a dicky- 
 bird's skull; nothin' to drink but wather. Turrible! 
 turrible! and for clothes to wear — Mother of Moses! 
 that was a bad day for clothes ! We got betune no bar- 
 rick quilts that night. No stockiu' had I insoide me 
 boots, no shirt had I but a harse's quilt sewed an to 
 me; no heart I had insoide me body; nothin' at all but 
 duty an' shtandin' to orders, me b'ys! 
 
 " Says Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick to me, * Kil- 
 quhanity,' says he, * there's betther places than River 
 Alma to live by,' says he. * Faith! an' by the Liffey I 
 wish I was this moment ' — Liffey's in ould Ireland, 
 Frenchies! ' Eut, Kilquhanity,' says he, 'faith, an' 
 it's the LifTey we'll never see again, an' put that in yer 
 pipe an' smoke it! ' And thrue for him. 
 
 " But that night, aw that night! Ivery bone in me 
 body was achin', and shure me heart was achin' too, 
 for the poor b'ys that were fightin' hard an' gettin* 
 little for it. Bitther cowld it was, aw, bitther cowld I 
 and the b'ys droppin' down, droppin', droppin', drop- 
 pin', wid the Roosian bullets in thim ! 
 
 " * Kilquhanity,' says Sergeant-Major Kilp'.tnck to 
 me, * it's this shtandin' still, while we do be dropph/, 
 droppin', that girds the soul av yer.' Aw! the sight it 
 was, the sight it was! The b'ys of the rigimint shtand- 
 in' shoulder to shoulder, an* the faces av 'm blue wid 
 
ING 
 
 m part 
 
 Duse of 
 
 after a 
 the air, 
 in that 
 d noth- 
 L dicky- 
 urrible! 
 Moses! 
 no bar- 
 3ide me 
 d an to 
 t all but 
 
 :, *Kil- 
 n River 
 Liff ey I 
 Ireland, 
 lith, an' 
 It in yer 
 
 le in me 
 lin' too, 
 ' gettin* 
 ■ cowld! 
 1*, drop- 
 
 fick to 
 lropp!!i', 
 i sight it 
 ; shtand- 
 )lue wid 
 
 THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA 287 
 
 powder, an' red wid blood, an* the bits o' b'ys droppin' 
 round me loike twigs of an ould tree in a shtorm. Just 
 a cry an' a bit av a gurgle tru the teeth, an' divil the 
 wan o' thim would see the Liffey side anny more. 
 
 "'The Roosians are chargin'!' shouts Sergeant- 
 Major Kilpatrick. ' The Roosians are chargin' — here 
 they come! ' Shtandin' besoide me was a bit of a lump 
 of a b'y, as foine a lad as ever shtood in the boots of 
 me rigimint — aw! the look of his face was the look o' 
 the dead. * The Roosians are comin' ! they're charg- 
 in'! ' says Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick, and the bit av a 
 b'y, that had nothin' to eat all day, throws down his gun 
 and turns round to run. Eighteen years old he was, only 
 eighteen! just a straight slip of a lad from Malahide. 
 * Hould on! Teddie,' says I, * hould on! How'll yer 
 face yer mother if yer turn yer back on the inimy of yer 
 counthry? ' The b'y looks me in the eyes long enough 
 to wink three times, picks up his gun, an' shtood loike 
 a rock, he did, till the Roosians charged us, roared on 
 us, an' I saw me slip of a b'y go down under the sabre 
 of a damned Cossack! 'Mother!' I heard him say, 
 'Mother!' an' that's all I heard him say — and the 
 mother waitin' away aflf there by the Liffey soide! 
 Aw ! wurra ! wurra ! the b'ys go down to battle and the 
 mothers wait at home. Some of the b'ys came back, 
 but the most of thim shtay where the battle laves 'em. 
 Wurra! wurra! many's the b'y wint down that day by 
 Alma River, an' niver come back! 
 
 " There I was shtandin', when hell broke loose on 
 the b'ys of me rigimint, and divil the wan o' me knows 
 if I killed a Roosian that day or not. But Sergeant- 
 Major Kilpatrick — a bit of a liar was the Sergeant- 
 Major — says he, * It was tin ye killed, Kilquhanity.' 
 He says that to me the noight that I left the rigimint 
 
288 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 I'i 
 
 for ever, and all the b'ys shtandin' round and liftin' 
 glasses an' saying, ' Kilquhanity ! Kilquhanity ! Kil- 
 quhanity ! ' as if it was sugar and honey in their mouths. 
 Aw ! the sound of it ! * Kilquhanity,' says he, ' it was 
 tin ye killed ! ' but aw, b'ys, the Sergeant-Major was 
 an awful liar. If he could be doin' annybody anny 
 good by lyin', shure he would be lyin' all the time. 
 
 " But it's little I know how many I killed, for I was 
 killed meself that day. A Roosian sabre claved the 
 shoulder and neck av me, an' down I wint, and over 
 me trampled a squadron of Roosian harses, an' I 
 stopped thinkin! Aw! so aisy, so aisy, I slipped away 
 out av the fight. The sbriekin' and roarin' kept 
 dwindlin' and dwindlin', an' I dropped all into a foine 
 shlape, so quiet, so aisy! An' I thought that slip av a 
 lad from the Lififey soide was houlding me hand, and 
 sayin' * Mother! Mother!' and we both wint ashlape; 
 an' the b'ys of the rigimint when Alma was over, they 
 said to each other, the b'ys they said, * Kilquhanity's 
 dead ! ' An' the trinches was dug, an' all we foine dead 
 b'ys was laid in long rows loike candles in the trinches. 
 An' I was laid in among thim, and Sergeant-Major 
 Kilpatrick shtandin' there an' looking at me an* sayin*, 
 ' Poor b'y! poor b'y!' 
 
 " But when they threw another man on tap of me, I 
 waked up out o' that beautiful shlape, and gave him a 
 kick. ' Yer not polite,' says I to mesilf. Shure, I 
 couldn't shpake — there was no strength in me. An* 
 they threw another man on, an* I kicked again, and the 
 Sergeant-Major he sees it, an* shouts out : * Kil- 
 quhanity's leg is kickin' ! ' says he. An' they pulled afif 
 the two poor divils that had been thrown o* tap o' me, 
 and the Sergeant-Major lifts me head, an* he says, 
 * Yer not killed, Kilquhanity ? * says he. 
 
NING 
 
 THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA 289 
 
 nd liftin' 
 ity! Kil- 
 : mouths. 
 ;, * it was 
 ajor was 
 )dy anny 
 ;ime. 
 
 for I was 
 laved the 
 and over 
 es, an' I 
 ped away 
 irin' kept 
 to a foine 
 t slip av a 
 hand, and 
 t ashlape; 
 over, they 
 juhanity's 
 oine dead 
 ; trinches. 
 mt-Major 
 an* sayin', 
 
 p of me, I 
 ave him a 
 
 Shure, I 
 me. An' 
 n, and the 
 ut: *Kil- 
 
 pulled afif 
 tap o' me, 
 * he says, 
 
 Divil a word could I shpake, but I winked at him, 
 and Captain Masham shtandin' by whips out a flask. 
 ' Put that betune his teeth,' says he. Whin I got it 
 there, trust me fur not lettin* it go. An' the Sergeant- 
 Major says to me, * I have hopes of you, Kilquhanity, 
 when you do be drinkin' loike that ! * 
 
 "A fo'nc healthy corpse I am; an' a foine thirsty 
 healthy corpse I am ! " says I. 
 
 A dozen hands stretched out to give Kilquhanity 
 a drink, for even the best story-teller of Pontiac could 
 not have told his tale so well. 
 
 Yet the success achieved by Kilquhanity at such 
 moments was discounted through long months of 
 mingled suspicion and doubtful tolerance. Although 
 both he and his wife were Catholics (so they said, and 
 so it seemed), Kilquhanity never went to confession 
 or took the Blessed Sacrament. The Cure spoke to 
 Kilquhanity's wife about it, and she said she could do 
 nothing with her husband. Her tongue once loosed, 
 she spoke freely, and what she said was little to the 
 credit of Kilquhanity. Not that she could urge any 
 horrible things against him; but she railed at minor 
 faults till the Cure dismissed her with some good ad- 
 vice upon wives rehearsing their husband's faults, even 
 to the parish priest. 
 
 Mrs. Kilquhanity could not get the Cure to listen 
 to her, but she was more successful elsewhere. One 
 day she came to get Kilquhanity's pension, which was 
 sent every three months through M. Garon, the Avo- 
 cat. After she had handed over the receipt prepared 
 beforehand by Kilquhanity, she replied to M. Garon's 
 inquiry concerning her husband, in these words: 
 " Misther Garon, sir, such a man it is — enough to 
 break the heart of anny woman. And the timper of 
 
 X9 
 
"«■> 
 
 290 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 him — Misther Garon, the timper of him's that awful, 
 awful ! No conshideration, and that ugly-hearted, got 
 whin a soldier b'y ! The things he does — my, my, the 
 things he does ! " She threw up her hands with an 
 air of distraction. 
 
 " Well, and what does he do, Madame? " asked the 
 Avocat simply. 
 
 " An' what he says, too — the awful of it! Ah, the 
 bad sour heart in him! What's he lyin' in his bed for 
 now — an' the New Year comin' on, whin we ought to 
 be praisin' God an' enjoyin' each other's company in 
 this blessed wurruld? What's he lying betune the 
 quilts now fur, but by token of the bad heart in him! 
 It's a wicked cowld he has, an' how did he come by it? 
 I'll tell ye, Misther Garon. So wild was he, yesterday 
 it was a week, so black mad wid somethin' I'd said to 
 him and somethin' that shlipped from me hand at his 
 head, that he turns his back on me, throws opin the 
 dure, shteps out into the shnow, and shtandin' there 
 alone, he curses the wide wurruld — oh, dear Misther 
 Garon, he cursed the wide wurruld, shtandin' there 
 in the snow. God forgive the black heart of him, 
 shtandin' out there cursin* the wide wurruld ! '* 
 
 The Avocat looked at the Sergeant's wife musingly, 
 the fingers of his hands tapping together, but he did 
 not speak : he was becoming wiser all in a moment as 
 to the ways of women. 
 
 " An' now, he's in bed, the shtrappin' blasphemer, 
 fur the cowld he got shtandin' there in the snow cursin' 
 the wide wurruld. Ah, Misther Garon, pity a poor 
 woman that has to live wid the loikes o' that! " 
 
 The Avocat still did not speak. He turned his face 
 away and looked out of the window, where his eyes 
 could see the little house on the hill, which to-day had 
 
s[ING 
 
 THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA 291 
 
 it awful, 
 
 rted, got 
 
 my, the 
 
 with an 
 
 sked the 
 
 Ah, the 
 s bed for 
 ought to 
 npany in 
 tune the 
 t in him I 
 me by it? 
 yesterday 
 'd said to 
 nd at his 
 
 opin the 
 iin' there 
 r Misther 
 iin' there 
 t of him, 
 
 musingly, 
 ut he did 
 loment as 
 
 isphemer, 
 
 3W cursin' 
 
 y a poor 
 
 d his face 
 ; his eyes 
 o-day had 
 
 the Union Jack flying in honour of some battle or 
 some victory, dear to Kilquhanity's heart. It looked 
 peaceful enough, the little house lying there in the 
 waste of snow, banked up with earth, and sheltered 
 on the northwest by a little grove of pines. At 
 last M. Garon rose, and lifting himself up and down 
 on his toes as if about to deliver a legal opinion, 
 he coughed slightly, and then said n a dry little 
 voice : 
 
 " Madame, I shall have pleasure in calling on your 
 husband. You have not seen the matter in the true 
 light. Madame, I bid you good-day I " 
 
 That night the Avocat, true to his promise, callerl on 
 Sergeant Kilquhanity. Kilquhanity was alone in the 
 house. His wife had gone to the village for the Little 
 Chemist. She had been roused at last to the serious 
 nature of Kilquhanity's illness. 
 
 M. Garon knocked. There was no answer. He 
 knocked again more loudly, and still no answer. He 
 opened the door and entered into a clean, warm living 
 room, so hot that the heat came to him in waves, buffet- 
 ing his face. Dining, sitting, and drawing room, it 
 was also a sort of winter kitchen ; and side by side with 
 relics of Kilquhanity's soldier-life were clean, bright 
 tins, black saucepans, strings of dried fruit, and well- 
 cured hams. Certainly the place had the air of home; 
 it spoke for the absent termagant. 
 
 M. Garon looked round and saw a half-opened door, 
 through which presently came a voice speaking in a 
 laboured whisper. The Avocat knocked gently at the 
 door. " May I come in, Sergeant? " he asked, and 
 entered. There was no light in the room, but the fire 
 in the kitchen stove threw a glow over the bed where 
 
292 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 the sick man lay. The big hands of the soldier moved 
 restlessly on the quilt. 
 
 " Aw, it's the koind av ye ! " said Kilquhanity, with 
 difficulty, out of the half shadows. 
 
 The Avocat took one burning hand in both of his, 
 held it for a moment, and pressed it two or three times. 
 He did not know what to say. 
 
 " We must have a light," said he at last, and taking 
 a candle from the shelf he lighted it at the stove and 
 came into the bedroom again. This time he was 
 startled. Even in this short illness, Kilquhanity's flesh 
 had dropped away from him, leaving him but a bundle 
 of bones, on which the skin quivered with fever. Every 
 word the sick man tried to speak cut his chest like a 
 knife, and his eyes half started from his head with the 
 agony of it. The Avocat's heart sank within him, for 
 he saw that a life was hanging in the balance. Not 
 knowing what to do, he tucked in the bedclothes 
 gently. 
 
 " I do be thinkin'," said the strained, whispering 
 voice — " I do be thinkin' I could shmoke ! " 
 
 The Avocat looked round the room, saw the pipe on 
 the window, and cutting some tobacco from a " plug," 
 he tenderly filled the old black corn-cob. Then he put 
 the stem in Kilquhanity's mouth and held the candle 
 to the bowl. Kilquhanity smiled, drew a long breath, 
 and blew out a cloud of thick smoke. For a moment 
 he puffed vigorously, then, all at once, the pleasure of 
 it seemed to die away, and presently the bowl dropped 
 down on his chin. M. Garon lifted it away. Kil- 
 quhanity did not speak, but kept saying something over 
 and over again to himself, looking beyond M. Garon 
 abstractedly. 
 
 At that moment the front door of the house opened. 
 
i *ir<ijWi. ■*«< 
 
 ING 
 moved 
 
 ty, with 
 
 I of his, 
 e times. 
 
 1 taking 
 ove and 
 he was 
 y's flesh 
 I bundle 
 •. Every 
 St Hke a 
 with the 
 him, for 
 :e. Not 
 :dclothes 
 
 lispering 
 
 ; pipe on 
 " plug," 
 in he put 
 e candle 
 y breath, 
 moment 
 easure of 
 dropped 
 ly. Kil- 
 ling over 
 Garon 
 
 J opened. 
 
 THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA 293 
 
 and presently a shrill voice came through the door. 
 " Shmokin,' shmokin', are yc, Kilouhanity? As soon 
 
 as me back's turned, it's playin' the fool " She 
 
 stopped short, seeing the Avocat. 
 
 " Beggin' yer pardon, Misther Garon," she said, " I 
 thought it was only Kilqulianity here, an' he wid no 
 more sense than a babby." 
 
 Kilquhanity's eyes closed, and he buried one side of 
 his head in the pillow, that her shrill voice should not 
 pierce his ears. 
 
 " The Little Chemist '11 be comin' in a minit, dear 
 Misther Garon," said the wife presently, and she began 
 to fuss with the bedclothes and to be nervously and 
 uselessly busy. 
 
 " Aw, lave thim alone, darlin'," whispered Kilquha- 
 nity, tossing. Her officiousness seemed to hurt him 
 more than the pain in his chest. 
 
 M. Garon did not wait for the Little Chemist to ar- 
 rive, but after pressing the Sergeant's hand he left the 
 house and went straight to the house of the Cure, and 
 told him in what condition was the black sheep of his 
 flock. 
 
 When M. Garon returned to his own home he 
 found a visitor in his library. It was a woman, and be- 
 tween forty and fifty years of age, who rose slowly to 
 her feet as the Avocat entered, and, without prelimi- 
 nary, put into his hands a document. 
 
 " That is who I am," she said. " Mary Muddock 
 that was, Mary Kilquhanity that is." 
 
 The Avocat held in his hands the marriage lines of 
 Matthew Kilquhanity of the parish of Malahide and 
 Mary Muddock of the parish of St. Giles, London. 
 The Avocat was completely taken back. He blew ner- 
 vously through his pale fingers, raised himself up and 
 
294 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 down on his toes, and grew pale through suppressed 
 excitement. He examined tlie certificate carefully, 
 though from the first he had no doubt of its accuracy 
 and correctness. 
 
 " Well! " said the woman, with a hard look in her 
 face and a hard note in her voice. " Well! " 
 
 The Avocat looked at her musingly for a moment. 
 All at once there had been unfolded to him Kilquha- 
 nity's story. In his younger days Kilquhanity had 
 married this woman with a face of tin and a heart of 
 leather. It needed no confession from Kilquhanity 's 
 own lips to explain by what hard paths he had come 
 to the reckless hour when, at Blackpool, he had left her 
 for ever, as he thought. In the flush of his criminal 
 freedom he had married again — with the woman who 
 shared his home on the little hillside, behind the Parish 
 Church, she believing him a widower. Mary Mud- 
 dock, with the stupidity of her class, had never gone 
 to the right quarters to discover his whereabouts until 
 a year before this day when she stood in the Avo- 
 cat's library. At last, through the War Of^ce, she 
 had found the whereabouts of her missing Matthew. 
 She had gathered her little savings together, and, 
 after due preparation, had sailed away to Canada to 
 find the soldier boy whom she had never given 
 anything but bad hours in all the days of his life 
 with her. 
 
 " Well," said the woman, " you're a lawyer — have 
 you nothing to say? You pay his pension — next time 
 you'll pay k *o me. I'll teach him to leave me and my 
 kid and go oflf with an Irish cook! " 
 
 The Avocat looked her steadily in the eyes, and 
 then delivered the strongest blow that was possible 
 from the opposite side of the case. " Madame," said 
 
ING 
 
 THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA 295 
 
 pressed 
 refully, 
 xuracy 
 
 in her 
 
 loment. 
 ;il([uha- 
 ity had 
 heart of 
 hanity's 
 id come 
 i left her 
 criminal 
 lan who 
 e Parish 
 •y Mud- 
 /er gone 
 uts until 
 he Avo- 
 Rfice, she 
 Matthew, 
 ler, and, 
 anada to 
 2r given 
 his life 
 
 er — have 
 lext time 
 e and my 
 
 yes, and 
 
 possible 
 
 ■Tie," said 
 
 he, " Madame, I regret to inform you that Matthew 
 Kilquhanity is dying." 
 
 "Dying, is he?" said the woman with a sudden 
 change of voice and manner, hut her whine did not 
 ring true. " The poor darlin' ! and only that Irish hag 
 to care for him ! Has he made a will ? " she added 
 eagerly. 
 
 Kilquhanity had made no will, and the little house 
 on the hillside, and all that he had, belonged to this 
 woman who had spoiled the first part of his life, and 
 had come now to spoil the last part. 
 
 An hour later the Avocat, the Cure, and the two 
 women stood in the chief room of the little house on 
 the hillside. The door was shut between the two 
 rooms, and the Little Chemist was with Kilquhanity. 
 The Cure's hand was on the arm of the first wife and 
 the Avocat's upon the arm of the second. The two 
 women were glaring eye to eye, having just finished 
 as fine a torrent of abuse of each other and of Kilquha- 
 nity as can be imagined. Kilquhanity himself, with 
 the sorrow of death upon him, though he knew it not, 
 had listened to the brawl, his chickens come home to 
 roost at last. The first Mrs. Kilquhanity had sworn, 
 with an oath that took no account of the Cure's pres- 
 ence, that not a stick nor a stone nor a rag nor a penny 
 should that Irish slattern have of Matthew Kilquha- 
 nity 's ! 
 
 The Cure and the Avocat had quieted them at last, 
 and the Cure spoke sternly now to both women : 
 
 " In the presence of death," said he, " have done 
 with your sinful clatter. Stop quarrelling over a dying 
 man. Let him go in peace! Let him go in peace! 
 If I hear one word more," he added sternly, " I will 
 
i 
 
 296 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 turn you both out of the house into the night. I will 
 have the man die in peace! " 
 
 Opening the door of the bedroom, the Cure went in 
 and shut the door, bolting it quietly behind him. The 
 Little Chemist sat by the bedside, and Kilquhanity lay 
 as still as a babe upon the bed. His eyes were half 
 closed, for the Little Chemist had given him an opiate 
 to quiet the terrible pain. 
 
 The Cure saw that the end was near. He touched 
 Kilquhanity's arm. " My son," said he, " look up. 
 You have sinned, you must confess your sins, and 
 repent." 
 
 Kilquhanity looked up at him with dazed but half- 
 smiling eyes. ** Are they gone? Are the women 
 gone? " 
 
 The Cure nodded his head. Kilquhanity's eyes 
 closed and opened again. *^ They're gone, thin ! Oh, 
 the foine of it ! the foine of it ! " he whispered. " So 
 quiet, so aisy, so quiet! Faith, I'll just be shlaping! 
 I'll be shlaping now ! " 
 
 His eyes closed, but the Cure touched his arm again. 
 " My son," said he, '* look up. Do vou thoroughly 
 and earnestly repent you of your sins? " 
 
 His eyes opened again. " Yis, father, oh, yis. 
 There's been a dale o' noise — there's been a dale o' 
 noise in the wurruld, father," said he. " Oh, so quiet, 
 so quiet now ! I do be shlaping ! " 
 
 A smile crossed his face. " Oh, the foine of it ! I 
 do be shlaping — shlaping." 
 
 And he fell into a noiseless Sleep. 
 
WING 
 it. I will 
 
 e went in 
 lim. The 
 lianity lay 
 were half 
 an opiate 
 
 e touched 
 
 ' look up. 
 
 sins, and 
 
 . but hali- 
 le women 
 
 ity's eyes 
 
 hin! Oh, 
 
 red. "So 
 
 shlaping ! 
 
 irm again, 
 horoughly 
 
 , oh, yis. 
 
 a dale o' 
 
 1, so quiet, 
 
 eofit! I 
 
 THE BARON OF BEAUGARD 
 
^im> 
 
THE BARON OF BEAUGARD 
 
 THE Manor House at Beaugard, monsieur? Ah, 
 certainlee, I mind it very well. It was the first 
 in Quebec, and there are many tales. It had a chapel 
 and a gallows. Its baron, he had the power of life 
 and death, and the right of the seigneur— you under- 
 stand! — which he used only once; and then what 
 trouble it made for him and the woman, and the bar- 
 ony, and the parish, and all the country ! " 
 
 " What is the whole story, Larue ? " said Medallion, 
 who had spent months in the seigneur's company, 
 stalking game, and tales, and legends of the St. Law- 
 rence. 
 
 Larue spoke English very well — his mother was 
 English. 
 
 " Mais, I do not know for sure ; but the Abbe Fron- 
 tone, he and I were snowed up together in that same 
 house which now belongs to the Church, and in the 
 big fireplace, where we sat on a bench, toasting our 
 knees and our bacon, he told me the tale as he knew it. 
 He was a great scholar — there is none greater. He 
 had found papers in the wall of the house, and from the 
 Gover'ment chest he got more. Then there were the 
 tales handed down, and the records of the Church— for 
 she knows the true story of every man that has come to 
 New France from first to last. So, because I have a 
 taste for tales, and gave him some, he told me of the 
 
300 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 Baron of Beaugard and that time he took the right of 
 the seigneur, and the end of it all. 
 
 " Of course it was a hundred and fifty years ago, 
 when Bigot was Intendant — ah, what a rascal was that 
 Bigot, robber and deceiver! He never stood by a 
 friend, and never fought fair a foe — so the Abbe said. 
 Well, Beaugard was no longer young. He had built 
 the Manor House, he had put up his gallows, he had 
 liis vassals, he had been made a lord. He had quar- 
 relled with Bigot, and had conquered, but at great 
 cost ; for Bigot had such power, and the Governor had 
 trouble enough to care for himself against Bigot, 
 though he was Beaugard's friend. 
 
 " Well, there was a good lump of a fellow who had 
 been a soldier, and he picked out a girl in the Sei- 
 gneury of Beaugard to make his wife. It is said the girl 
 herself was not set for the man, for she was of finer 
 stuff than the peasants about her, and showed it. But 
 her father and mother had a dozen other children, and 
 what was this girl, this Falise, to do ? She said yes to 
 the man, the time was fixed for the marriage, and it 
 came along. 
 
 " So. At the very hour of the wedding Beaugard 
 came by, for the church was in mending, and he had 
 given leave it should be in his own chapel. Well, he 
 rode by just as the bride was coming out with the man 
 — Garoche. When Beaugard saw Falise he gave a 
 whistle, then spoke in his throat, reined up his horse, 
 and got down. He fastened his eyes on the girl's. A 
 strange look passed between them — he had never seen 
 her before, but she had seen him often, and when he 
 was gone had helped the housekeeper with his rooms. 
 She had carried away with her a stray glove of his. 
 Of course it sounds droll, and they said of her when all 
 
THE BARON OF BEAUGARD 
 
 came out that it was wicked ; but evil is according to a 
 man's own heart, and the girl had hid this glove as she 
 hid whatever was in her soul — hid it even from the 
 priest. 
 
 " Well, the Baron looked and she looked, and he 
 took off his hat, stepped forward, and kissed her on the 
 cheek. She turned pale as a ghost, and her eyes took 
 the colour that her cheeks lost. When he stepped 
 back he looked close at the husband. * What is your 
 name?* he said. * Garoche, m'sieu' le Baron,' was the 
 reply. * Garoche ! Garoche ! ' he said, eyeing him up 
 and down. ' You have been a soldier? ' * Yes, m'sieu' 
 le Baron.' ' You have served with me ? ' * Against 
 you, m'sieu' le Baron . . . when Bigot came 
 lighting.' ' Better against me than for me,' said the 
 Baron, speaking to himself, though he had so strong 
 a voice that what he said could be heard by those 
 near him — that is, those who were tall, for he was 
 six and a half feet, with legs and shoulders like a 
 bull. 
 
 " He stooped and stroked the head of his hound fot 
 a moment, and all the people stood and watched him, 
 wondering what next. At last he said : ' And what part 
 played you in that siege, Garoche ? ' Garoche looked 
 troubled, but answered : ' It was in the way of duty, 
 m'sieu' le Baron — I with five others captured the relief- 
 party sent from your cousin the Seigneur of Vadrome.' 
 * Oh,' said the Baron, looking sharp, * you were in that, 
 were you? Then you know what happened to the 
 young Marmette ? ' Garoche trembled a little, but 
 drew himself up and said : * M'sieu' le Baron, he tried 
 to kill the Intendant — there was no other way.' * What 
 part played you in that, Garoche ? ' Some trembled, 
 for they knew the truth, and they feared the mad will 
 
302 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 of the Baron. ' I ordered the firing-party, m'sieu' le 
 Baron,' he answered. 
 
 " The Baron's eyes got fierce and his face hardened, 
 but he stooped and drew the ears of the hound through 
 his hand softly. ' Marmette was my cousin's son, and 
 had hved with me,' he said. ' A brave lad, and he had 
 a nice hatred of vileness — else he had not died.' A 
 strange smile played on his lips for a moment, then he 
 looked at Falise steadily. Who can tell what was 
 working in his mind ! ' War is war,' he went on, ' and 
 Bigot was your master, Garoche ; but the man pays for 
 his master's sins this way or that. Yet I would not 
 have it different, no, not a jot.' Then he turned round 
 to the crowd, raised his hat to the Cure, who stood on 
 the chapel steps, once more looked steadily at Falise, 
 and said : * You shall all come to the Manor House, 
 and have your feastings there, and we will drink to the 
 home-coming of the fairest woman in my barony.* 
 With that he turned round, bowed to Falise, put on 
 his hat, caught the bridle through his arm, and led 
 his horse to the Manor House. 
 
 " This was in the afternoon. Of course, whether 
 they wished or not, Garoche and Falise could not re- 
 fuse, and the people were glad enough, for they would 
 have a free hand at meat and wine, the Baron being 
 liberal of table. And it was as they guessed, for though 
 the time was so short, the people at Beaugard soon had 
 the tables heavy with food and drink. It was just at 
 the time of candle-lighting the Baron came in and 
 gave a toast. * To the dwellers in Eden to-night,' he 
 said — ' Eden against the time of the Angel and the 
 Sword.' I do not think that any except the Cure 
 and the woman understood, and she, maybe, only be- 
 cause a woman feels the truth about a thing, even when 
 
sIING 
 
 THE BARON OF BEAUGARD 
 
 303 
 
 I'sieu' Ic 
 
 ardened, 
 through 
 son, and 
 d he had 
 iied.' A 
 ;, then he 
 vhat was 
 on, * and 
 1 pays for 
 vould not 
 led round 
 ) stood on 
 at FaUse, 
 or House, 
 ■ink to the 
 \f barony.' 
 se, put on 
 and led 
 
 , whether 
 lid not re- 
 |hcy would 
 iron being 
 |for though 
 soon had 
 as just at 
 le in and 
 night,' he 
 lei and the 
 the Cure 
 |e, only be- 
 even when 
 
 her brain does not. After they had done shouting to 
 his toast, he said a go^ J-night to all, and they began to 
 leave, the Cure among the first to go, with a troubled 
 look in his face. 
 
 " As the people left, the Baron said to Garoche and 
 Falise, * A moment with me before you go.' The wom- 
 an started, for she thought of one thing, and Garoche 
 started, for he thought of another — the siege of Beau- 
 gard and the killing of young Marmette. But they 
 followed the Baron to his chamber. Coming in, he 
 shut the door on them. Then he turned to Garoche. 
 *You will accept the roof and bed of Beaugard to- 
 night, my man,' he said, ' and come to me here at nine 
 to-morrow morning.' Garoche stared hard for an in- 
 stant. * Stay here ! ' said Garoche, ' Falise and me stay 
 here in the manor, m'sieu' le Baron!' 'Here, even 
 here, Garoche ; so good-night to you,' said the Baron. 
 Garoche turned towards the girl. ' Then come, Falise,' 
 he said, and reached out his hand. ' Your room shall 
 be shown you at once,' the Baron added softly, * the 
 lady's at her pleasure.' 
 
 " Then a cry burst from Garoche, and he sprang 
 forward, but the Baron waved him back. * Stand ofT,' 
 he said, * and let the lady choose between us.' * She is 
 my wife,' said Garoche. * I am your Seigneur,' said the 
 other. * And there is more than that,' he went on ; 
 * for damn me, she is too fine stufif for you, and the 
 Church shall untie what she has tied to-day ! ' At that 
 Falise fainted, and the Baron caught her as she fell. 
 He laid her on a couch, keeping an eye on Garoche the 
 while. * Loose her gown,' he said, * while I get 
 brandy.' Then he turned to a cupboard, poured 
 liquor, and came over. Garoche had her dress open 
 at the neck and bosom, and was staring at something 
 
304 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 on her breast. The Baron saw also, stooped with a 
 strange sound in his throat, and picked it up. * My 
 glove ! ' he said. ' And on her wedding-day ! ' He 
 pointed. * There on the table is its mate, fished this 
 morning from my hunting coat — a pair the Governor 
 gave me. You see, man, you see her choice.' 
 
 " At that he stooped and put some brandy to her 
 lips. Garoche drew back sick and numb, and did noth- 
 ing, only stared. Falise came to herself soon, and 
 when she felt her dress open, gave a cry. Garoche 
 could have killed her then, when he saw her shudder 
 from him, as if afraid, over towards the Baron, who 
 held the glove in his hand, and said : * See, Garoche, 
 you had better go. In the next room they will tell you 
 where to sleep. To-morrow, as I said, you will meet 
 me here. We shall have things to say, you and I.* Ah, 
 that Baron, he had a queer mind, but in truth he loved 
 the woman, as you shall see. 
 
 " Garoche got up without a word, went to the door 
 and opened it, the eyes of the Baron and the woman 
 following him, for there was a devil in his eye. In the 
 other room there were men waiting, and he was taken 
 to a chamber and locked in. You can guess what that 
 night must have been to him ! 
 
 "What was it to the Baron and Falise? " asked Me- 
 dallion. 
 
 " M'sieu', what do you think ? Beaugard had never 
 had an eye for women; loving his hounds, fighting, 
 quarrelling, doing wild, strong things. So, all at once, 
 he was face to face with a woman who has the look 
 of love in her face, who was young, and fine of body, 
 so the Abbe said, and was walking to marriage, at her 
 father's will and against her own, carrying the Baron's 
 glove in her bosom. What should Beaugard do?, 
 
ING 
 
 THE BARON OF BEAUGARD 
 
 305 
 
 with a 
 . 'My 
 
 !' He 
 led this 
 overnor 
 
 \f to her 
 [id noth- 
 »on, and 
 Garoche 
 
 shudder 
 •on, who 
 Garoche, 
 1 tell you 
 will meet 
 dl/ Ah, 
 
 he loved 
 
 the door 
 woman 
 In the 
 N2iS taken 
 what that 
 
 Lsked Me- 
 
 had never 
 
 fighting, 
 11 at once, 
 
 the look 
 of body, 
 
 ge, at her 
 le Baron's 
 
 gard do?, 
 
 But no, ah, no, m'sieu*, not as you think, not quite. 
 Wild, with the bit in his teeth, yes ; but at heart — well, 
 here was the one woman for him. He knew it all in a 
 minute, and he would have her once and for all, and 
 till death should come their way. And so he said to 
 her, as he raised her, she drawing back afraid, her heart 
 hungering for him, yet fear in her eyes, and her fingers 
 trembling as she softly pushed him from her. You 
 see, she did not know quite what was in his heart. She 
 was the daughter of a tenant vassal, who had lived in 
 the family of a grand seigneur in her youth, the friend 
 of his child — that was all, and that was where she got 
 her manners and her mind. 
 
 " She got on her feet and said : * M'sieu' le Baron, 
 you will let me go — to my husband. I cannot stay 
 here. Oh, you are great, you arc noble, you would not 
 make me sorry, make me to hate myself — and you. I 
 have only one thing in the world of any price — you 
 would not steal my happiness?' He looked at her 
 steadily in the eyes, and said : ' Will it make you happy 
 to go to Garoche ? ' She raised her hands and wrung 
 them. ' God knows, God knows, I am his wife,' she 
 said helplessly, * and he loves me.' * And God knows, 
 God knows,' said the Baron, * it is all a question of 
 whether one shall feed and two go hungry, or two 
 gather and one have the stubble. Shall not he stand 
 in the stubble ? What has he done to merit you ? What 
 would he do? You are for the master, not the man; 
 for love, not the feeding on ; for the manor house and 
 the hunt, not the cottage and the loom.' 
 
 " She broke into tears, her heart thumping in her 
 throat. ' I am for what the Church did for me this 
 day,' she said. ' Oh, sir, I pray you, forgive me and let 
 me go. Do not punish me, but forgive me — and let me 
 
 20 
 
"<»• 
 
 3o6 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 go. I was wicked to wear your glove — wicked, wicked.* 
 * But no,' was his reply, ' 1 shall not forgive you so 
 good a deed, and you shall not go. And what the 
 Church did for you this day she shall undo — by all the 
 saints, she shall ! You came sailing into my heart this 
 hour past on a strong wind, and you shall not slide out 
 on an ebb-tide. I have you here, as your Seigneur, 
 but I have you here as a man who will * 
 
 " He sat down by her at that point, and whispered 
 softly in her car : at which she gave a cry which had 
 both gladness and pain. * Surely, even that,* he said, 
 catching her to his breast. * And the Baron of Beau- 
 gard never broke his word,* What should be her re- 
 ply ? Docs not a woman when she truly loves, always 
 believe? That is the great sign. She slid to her knees 
 and dropped her head into the hollow of his arm. ' I 
 do not understand these things,' she said, ' but I know 
 that the other was death, and this is life. And yet I 
 know, too, for my heart says so, that the end — the end, 
 will be death.' 
 
 " ' Tut, tut, my flower, my wild-rose,' he said. * Of 
 course the end of all is death, l^ut we will go a-Maying 
 first, come October and let the world break over us 
 when it must. We are for Maying now, my rose of all 
 the world ! ' It was as if he meant more than he said, 
 as if he saw what would come in that October which all 
 New France never forgot, when, as he said, the world 
 broke over them. 
 
 " The next morning the Baron called Garoche to 
 him. The man was like some mad buck harried by 
 the hounds, and he gnashed his teeth behind his shut 
 lips. The Baron eyed him curiously, yet kindly, too, 
 as well he might, for when was ever man to hear 
 such a speech as came to Garoche the morning after 
 
ING 
 
 THE BARON OF BEAUGARD 
 
 307 
 
 vicked.' 
 you so 
 hat the 
 y all the 
 part this 
 slide out 
 cigneur, 
 
 hispcred 
 hich had 
 he said, 
 of Bcau- 
 e her re- 
 s, always 
 licr knees 
 arm. * I 
 It I know 
 Vnd yet I 
 -the end, 
 
 aid. 'Of 
 a-Maying 
 k over us 
 •ose of all 
 In he said, 
 which all 
 Ithe world 
 
 laroche to 
 larried by 
 his shut 
 [ndly, too, 
 to hear 
 ling after 
 
 his marriage. * Garoche,' the Baron said, having 
 waved his men away, ' as you see, the lady made her 
 choice — and for ever. You and she have said your 
 last farewell in this world — for the w'fe of the Baron of 
 Bcaugard can have nothing to say to Garoche the 
 soldier.' At that Garoche snarled out, ' The luifc of 
 the Baron of Beaugard ! That is a lie to shame all 
 hell.' The Baron wound the lash of a riding-whip 
 round and round his fingers quietly, and said : ' It is 
 no lie, my man, but the truth.' Garoche eyed him 
 savagely, and growled : * The Church made her my wife 
 yesterday. And you ! — you ! — you ! — ah, you who had 
 all — you with your money and place, which could get 
 all easy, you take the one thing I have. You, the 
 grand seigneur, are only a common robber ! Ah, Jesu 
 — if you would but fight me ! ' 
 
 " The Baron, very calm, said, * First, Garoche, the 
 lady was only your wife by a form which the Church 
 shall set aside — it could never have been a true mar- 
 riage. Second, it is no stealing to take from you what 
 you did not have. I took what was mine — remember 
 the glove ! For the rest — to fight you ? No, my 
 churl, you know that's impossible. You may shoot 
 me from behind a tree or a rock, but swording with 
 you? — Come, come, a pretty gossip for the Court! 
 Then, why wish a fight? Where would you be, as 
 you stood before me — you! The Baron stretched 
 himself up, and smiled down at Garoche. * You have 
 your life, man ; take it and go — to the farthest corner of 
 New France, and show not your face here again. If 
 I find you ever again in Beaugard, I will have you 
 whipped from parish to parish. Here is money for 
 you — good gold coins. Take them, and go.' 
 
 " Garoche got still and cold as stone. He said in a 
 
3o8 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 low, harsh voice, * M'sieu' le Baron, you are a common 
 thief, a wolf, a snui\e. Such men as you come lower 
 than Judas. As God has an eye to see, you shall pay 
 all one day. I do not fear you nor your men nor your 
 gallows. You are a jackal, and the woman has a filthy 
 heart — a ditch of shame.' 
 
 " The Baron drew up his arm like lightning, and the 
 lash of his whip came singing across Garoche's pale 
 face. Where it passed, a red welt rose, but the man 
 never stirred. The arm came up again, but a voice 
 behind the Baron said, ' Ah, no, no, not again ! ' There 
 stood Falise. Both men looked at her. ' I have heard 
 Garochc,' she said. * He docs not judge me right. 
 My heart is no filthy ditch of shame. But it was break- 
 ing when I came from the altar with him yesterday. 
 Yet I would have been a true wife to him after all. A 
 ditch of shame — ah, Garoche — Garoche ! And you said 
 you loved me, and that nothing could change you ! " 
 
 " The Baron said to her : * Why have you come, 
 Falise ? I forbade you.' * Oh, my lord,' she answered, 
 * I feared — for you both. When men go mad because 
 of women a devil enters into them.' The Baron, 
 taking her by the hand, said, * Permit me,' and he 
 led her to the door for her to pass out. She looked 
 back sadly at Garoche, standing for a minute very 
 still. Then Garoche said, ' I command you, come 
 with me; you are my wife.' She did not reply, but 
 shook her head at him. Then he spoke out high and 
 fierce : ' May no child be born to you. May a curse 
 fall on you. May your field be barren, and your 
 horses and cattle die. May you never see nor hear 
 good things. May the waters leave their courses to 
 drown you, and the hills their bases to bury you, and 
 no hand lay you in decent graves ! ' 
 
^ING 
 
 THE BARON OF BEAUGARD 
 
 309 
 
 :ommon 
 ic lower 
 hall pay 
 nor your 
 s a filthy 
 
 , and the 
 he's pale 
 the man 
 t a voice 
 !' There 
 ive heard 
 Tie right, 
 'as break- 
 /esterday. 
 :cr all. A 
 1 you said 
 ge you ! " 
 ou come, 
 answered, 
 d because 
 10 Baron, 
 and he 
 he looked 
 nute very 
 ^ou, come 
 reply, but 
 : high and 
 ly a curse 
 and your 
 nor hear 
 courses to 
 yT you, and 
 
 ** The woman put her hands to her cars and gave a 
 little cry, and the JLiaron pushed her gently un, and 
 closed the door after her. Then he turned on Garoche. 
 * Have you said all you wish ? ' he asked. * For, if not, 
 say on, and then go ; and go so far you cannot see the 
 sky that covers Bcaugard. We are even now — we can 
 cry quits. But that I have a little injured you, you 
 should be done for instantly. But hear me : if I ever 
 see you again, my gallows shall end you straight. 
 Your tongue has been gross before the mistress of this 
 m.anor ; I will have it torn out if it so much as syllables 
 her name to me or to the world again. She is dead to 
 you. Go, and go for ever ! ' 
 
 " He put a bag of money on the table, but Garoche 
 turned away from it, and without a word left the room, 
 and the house, and the parish, and said nothing to any 
 man of the evil that had come to him. 
 
 " But what talk was there, and what dreadful things 
 were said at first ! — that Garoche had sold his wife to 
 the Baron ; that he had been killed and his wife taken ; 
 that the Baron kept him a prisoner in a cellar under the 
 Manor House. And all the time there was Falise with 
 the Baron — very quiet and sweet and fine to see, and 
 going to Chapel every day, and to Mass on Sundays — 
 which no one could understand, any more than they 
 could see why she should be called the Baroness of 
 Beaugard ; for had they all not seen her married to 
 Garoche ? And there were many people who thought 
 her vile. Yet truly, at heart, she was not so — not at 
 all. Then it was said that there was to be a new mar- 
 riage ; that the Church would let it be so, doing and un- 
 doing, and doing again. But the weeks and the months 
 went by, and it was never done. For, powerful as the 
 Baron was, Bigot, the Intendant, was powerful also, 
 
3IO THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 and fought the thing with all his might. The Baron 
 went to Quebec to see the Bishop and the Governor, 
 and though promises were made, nothing was done. 
 It must go to the King and then to the Pope, and from 
 the Pope to the King again, and so on. And the 
 months and the years went by as they waited, and with 
 them came no child to the Manor House of Beangard. 
 That was the only sad thing — that and the waiting, so 
 far as man could see. For never were man and woman 
 truer to each other than these, and never was a lady of 
 the manor kinder to the poor, or a lord freer of hand to 
 his vassals. He would bluster sometimes, and string a 
 peasant up by the heels, but his gallows was never used, 
 and, what was much in the minds of the people, the 
 Cure did not refuse the woman the Sacrament. 
 
 " At last the Baron, fierce because he knew that 
 Bigot was the cause of the great delay, so that he might 
 not call Falise his wife, seized a transport on the river, 
 which had been sent to brutally levy upon a poor 
 gentleman, and when Bigot's men resisted, shot them 
 down. Then Bigot sent against Beaugard a company 
 of artillery and some soldiers of the line. The guns 
 were placed on a hill looking down on the Manor 
 House across the little river. In the evening the can- 
 nons arrived, and in the morning the fight was to 
 begin. The guns were loaded and everything was 
 ready. At the Manor all was making ready also, and 
 the Baron had no fear, 
 
 " But Falise's heart was heavy, she knew not why. 
 * Eugene,' she said, * if anything should happen ! ' 
 ' Nonsense, my Falise,' he answered ; * what should 
 happen ? ' ' If — if you were taken — were killed ! ' she 
 said. ' Nonsense, my rose,' he said again, * I shall not 
 be killed. But if I were, you should be at peace here.* 
 
 an 
 bc} 
 
IING 
 
 THE BARON OF BEAUGARD 311 
 
 I Baron 
 5vernor, 
 IS (lone, 
 .nd from 
 \nd the 
 and with 
 eaugard. 
 liting, so 
 d woman 
 a lady of 
 »f hand to 
 d string a 
 2ver used, 
 eople, the 
 
 It. 
 
 Knew that 
 t he might 
 I the river, 
 )n a poor 
 shot them 
 company 
 The guns 
 fhe Manor 
 ^g the can- 
 rht was to 
 [thing was 
 also, and 
 
 not why. 
 
 happen ! * 
 |hat should 
 dlledP she 
 
 I shall not 
 )eace here.' 
 
 ' Ah, no, no ! ' said she. * Never. Life to me is only 
 possible with you. I have had nothing but you — none 
 of those things which give peace to other women — 
 none. But I have been happy — oh, yes, very happy. 
 And, God forgive me ! Eugene, I cannot regret, and I 
 never have. But it has been always and always my 
 prayer that, when you die, I may die with you — at 
 the same moment. For I cannot live without you, 
 and, besides, I would like to go to the good God 
 with you to speak for us both ; for oh, I loved you, I 
 lovd you, and I love you still, my husband, my 
 adored ! * 
 
 " He stooped — he was so big, and she but of middle 
 height — kissed her, and said, ' S?c, my Falise, I am 
 of the same mind. We have been happy in life, and 
 we could well be happy in death together.' So they 
 sat long, long into the night and talked to each other 
 — of the days they had passed together, of cheerful 
 things, she trying to comfort herself, and he trying to 
 bring smiles to her lip: . At last they said good-night, 
 and he lay down in his clothes ; and after a few mo- 
 ments she was sleeping like a child. But he could 
 not sleep, for he lay thinking of her and of her life — 
 how she had come from humble things and fitted in 
 with the highest. At last, at break of day, he arose 
 and went outside. He looked up at the hill where 
 Bigot's two guns were. Men were already stirring 
 there. One man was standing beside the gun, and 
 another not far behind. Of course the Baron could 
 not know that the man behind the gunner said : * Yes, 
 you may open the dance with an early salute ' ; and he 
 smiled up boldly at the hill and went into the house, 
 and stole to the bed of his wife to kiss her before he 
 began the day'f, fighting. He looked at her a moment. 
 
312 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 standing over her, and then stooped and softly put 
 his lips to hers. 
 
 " At that moment the gunner up on the hill used 
 the match, and an awful thing happened. With the 
 loud roar the whole hillside of rock and gravel and 
 sand split down, not ten feet in front of the gun, moved 
 with horrible swiftness upon the river, filled its bed, 
 turned it from its course, and, sweeping on, swal- 
 lowed the Manor House of Beaugard. There had 
 been a crack in the hill, the water of the river had 
 sapped its foundations, and it needed only this shock 
 to send it down. 
 
 " And so, as the woman wished : the same hour for 
 herself and the man ! And when at last their prison 
 was opened by the hands of Bigot's men, they were 
 found cheek by cheek, bourd in the sacred marriage 
 of death. 
 
 " But another had gone the same road, for, at the 
 awful moment, beside the bursted gun, the dying gun- 
 ner, Garoche, lifted up his head, saw the loose travel- 
 ling hill, and said with his last breath : * The waters 
 
 drown them, and the hills bury them, and ' He 
 
 had his way with them, and after that perhaps the 
 great God had His way with him — ^perhaps." 
 
NING 
 oftly put 
 
 hill used 
 With the 
 ravel and 
 in, moved 
 d its bed, 
 on, swal- 
 'here had 
 river had 
 ;his shock 
 
 z hour for 
 leir prison 
 they were 
 I marriage 
 
 PARABLES OF A PROVINCE 
 
 for, at the 
 lying gun- 
 ose travel- 
 rhe waters 
 
 ' He 
 
 erhaps the 
 
 >» 
 
r 
 I 
 i 
 
 s 
 
 I .i 
 
THE GOLDEN PIPES 
 
 THEY hung all bronzed and shining, on the side 
 of Margath Mountain — the tall and perfect 
 pipes of the organ which was played by some son of 
 God when the world was young. At least Hepnon 
 the cripple said this was so, when he was but a child, 
 and when he got older he said that even now a golden 
 music came from the pipes at sunrise and sunset. And 
 no one laughed at Hepnon, for you could not look 
 into the dark warm eyes, dilating with his fancies, nor 
 see the transparent temper of his face, the look of the 
 dreamer over all, without believing him, and reproving 
 your own judgment. You felt that he had travelled 
 ways you could never travel, that he had had dreams 
 beyond you, that his fanciful spirit had had adventures 
 you would give years of your dull life to know. 
 
 And yet he was not made only as women are made, 
 fragile and trembling in his nerves. For he was strong 
 of arm, and there was no place in the hills to be climbed 
 by venturesome man, which he could not climb with 
 cnitch and shrivelled leg. And he was a gallant horse- 
 man, riding with his knees and one foot in stirrup, 
 his crutch slung behind him. It may be that was why 
 rough men listened to his fancies about the Golden 
 Pipes. Indeed they would go out at sunrise and look 
 across to where the pipes hung, taking the rosy glory 
 of the morning, and steal awdy alone at sunset, and in 
 some lonely spot lean out towards the flaming instru- 
 
3i6 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 mcnt to hear if any music rose from them. The legend 
 tliat one of the Mighty Men of the Kimash Hills came 
 here to play, with invisible hands, the music of the 
 first years of the world, became a truth, though a truth 
 that none could prove. And by-and-by, no man ever 
 travelled the valley without taking off his hat as he 
 passed the Golden Pipes — so had a cripple with his 
 whimsies worked upon the land. 
 
 Then too perhaps his music had to do with it. As 
 a child he had only a poor concertina, but by it he drew 
 the traveller and the mountaineer and the worker in 
 the valley to him like a magnet. Some touch of the 
 mysterious, some sweet fantastical melody in all he 
 played, charmed them, even when he gave them old 
 familiar airs. From the concertina he passed to the 
 violin, and his skill and mastery over his followers 
 grew ; and then there came a notable day when up over 
 a thousand miles of country a melodeon was brought 
 him. Then a wanderer, a minstrel outcast from 
 a far country, taking refuge in those hills, taught 
 him, and there was one long year of loving labour 
 together, and merry whisperings between the two, 
 and secret drawings, and worship of the Goldei, 
 Pipes; and then the minstrel died, and left Hepnon 
 alone. 
 
 And now they said that Hepnon tried to coax out 
 of the old melodeon the music of the Golden Pipes. 
 But a look of sorrow grew upon his face, and stayed 
 for many months. Then there came a change, and he 
 went into the woods, and began working there in the 
 perfect summer weather, and the tale went abroad that 
 he V IS building an organ, so that he might play for all 
 who came, the music he heard on the Golden Pipes — 
 for they had ravished his ear since childhood, and now 
 
ING 
 
 THE GOLDEN PIPES 
 
 317 
 
 legend 
 Is came 
 of the 
 a truth 
 an ever 
 ,t as he 
 vith his 
 
 it. As 
 he drew 
 )rker in 
 [\ of the 
 1 all he 
 lem old 
 i to the 
 allowers 
 up over 
 brought 
 st from 
 taught 
 labour 
 he two, 
 Goldei, 
 Hepnon 
 
 ;oax out 
 n Pipes, 
 d stayed 
 
 and he 
 re in the 
 •oad that 
 ly for all 
 
 Pipes — 
 and now 
 
 he must know the wonderful melodies all by heart, they 
 said. 
 
 With consummate patience Hepnon dried the wood 
 and fashioned it into long tuneful tubes, beating out 
 soft metal got from the forge in the valley to case the 
 lips of them, taiming the leather for the bellows, 
 stretching it, and exposing all his work to the sun of 
 early morning, which gave every fibre and valve a rich 
 sweetness, like a sound fruit of autumn. People also 
 ■said that he set all the pieces out at sunrise and sunset 
 that the tone of the Golden Pipes might pass into 
 them, so that when the organ was built, each part 
 should be saturated witli such melody as it had drawn 
 in, according to its temper and its fibre. 
 
 So the building of the organ went on, and a year 
 passed, and then another, and it was summer again, 
 and soon Hepnon began to build also — while yet it 
 was sweet weather — a home for his organ, a tall nest 
 of cedar added to his father's house. And in it every 
 piece of wood, and every board had been made ready 
 by his own hands, and set in the sun and dried slowly 
 to a healthy soundness ; and he used no nails of metal, 
 but wooden pins of the ironwood or hickory tree, and 
 it was all polished, and there was no paint or varnish 
 anywhere, and when you spoke in this nest your voice 
 sounded pure and strong. 
 
 At last the time came when, piece by piece, the 
 organ was set up in its home; and as the days and 
 v/eeks went by, and autumn drew to winter, and the 
 music of the Golden Pipes stole down the flumes of 
 snow to their ardent lover, and spring came with its 
 sap, and small purple blossoms, and yellow apples of 
 mandrake, and summer stole on luxurious and dry, 
 the face of Hepnon became thinner and thinner, a 
 
3i8 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 strange deep light shone in his eyes, and all his person 
 seemed to exhale a kind of glow. He ceased to ride, 
 to climb, to lift weights with his strong arms as he 
 had — poor cripple — been once so proud to do. A 
 delicacy came upon him, and more and more he with- 
 drew himself to his organ, and to those lofty and 
 lonely places where he could see — and hear — the 
 Golden Pipes boom softly over the valley. 
 
 At last it all was done, even to the fine-carved stool 
 of cedar whereon he should sit when he played his 
 organ. Never yet had he done more than sound each 
 note as he made it, trying it, softening it by tender 
 devices with the wood ; but now the hour was come 
 when he should gather down the soul of the Golden 
 Pipes to his fingers, and give to the ears of the world 
 the song of the morning stars, the music of Jubal and 
 his comrades, the affluent melody to which the sons of 
 men, in the first days, paced the world in time with the 
 thoughts of God. For days he lived alone in the 
 cedar-house, — and who may know what he was doing : 
 dreaming, listening, or praying? Then the word 
 went through the valley and the hills, that one evening 
 he would play for all who came; — and that day was 
 ** Toussaint " or the Feast of All Souls. 
 
 So they came both old and young, and they did not 
 enter the house, but waited outside, upon the mossy 
 rocks, or sat among the trees, and watched the heavy 
 sun roll down and the Golden Pipes flame in the light 
 of evening. Far beneath in the valley the water ran 
 lightly on, but there came no sound from it, none from 
 anywhere ; only a general pervasive murmur quieting 
 to the heart. 
 
 Now they heard a note come from the organ — a soft 
 low sound that seemed to rise out of the good earth 
 
IING 
 
 person 
 to ride, 
 s as he 
 
 do. A 
 le with- 
 •fty and 
 jar — the 
 
 ed stool 
 lyed his 
 ind each 
 y tender 
 as come 
 : Golden 
 ic world 
 ubal and 
 e sons of 
 
 with the 
 e in the 
 IS doing : 
 he word 
 J evening 
 
 day was 
 
 y did not 
 lie mossy 
 :he heavy 
 the light 
 water ran 
 lone from 
 • quieting 
 
 an — a soft 
 ood earth 
 
 THE GOLDEN PIPES 
 
 319 
 
 and mingle with the vibrant air, the song of birds, the 
 whisper of trees, and the murmuring water. Then 
 came another, and another note, then chords, and 
 chords upon these, and by-and-by rolling tides of 
 melody, until, as it seemed to the listeners, the air 
 ached with the incomparable song; and men and 
 women wept, and children hid their heads in the laps 
 of their mothers, and young men and maidens dreamed 
 dreams never to be forgotten. For one short hour the 
 music went on, then twilight came. Presently the 
 sounds grew fainter, and exquisitely painful, and now 
 a low sob seemed to pass through all the heart of the 
 organ, and then silence fell, and in the sacred pause, 
 Hepnon came out among them all, pale and desolate. 
 He looked at them a minute most sadly, and then lifting 
 up his arms towards the Golden Pipes, now hidden 
 in the dusk, he cried low and brokenly : 
 
 '' Oh my God, give me back my dream ! " 
 
 Then his crutch seemed to give way beneath him, 
 and he sank upon the ground, faint and gasping. 
 
 They raised him up, and women and men whispered 
 in his ear : 
 
 " Ah, the beautiful, beautiful music, Hepnon ! " 
 
 But he only said : 
 
 " Oh my God, Oh my God, give me back my 
 dream ' " 
 
 When he had said it thrice, he turned his face to 
 where his organ was in the cedar-house, and then his 
 eyes closed, and he fell asleep. And they could not 
 wake him. But at sunrise the next morning a shiver 
 passed through him, and then a cold quiet stole over 
 him, and Hepnon and the music of the Golden Pipes 
 departed from the Voshti Hills, and came again no 
 more. 
 
THE GUARDIAN OF THE FIRE 
 
 ''''Height unto height answer eth knowledge.'* 
 
 HIS was the first watch, the farthest fire, for Shak- 
 non Hill towered above the great gulf, and 
 looked back also over thirty leagues of country towards 
 the great city. There came a time again when all the 
 land was threatened. From sovereign lands far oil, 
 two fleets were sailing hard to reach the wide basin 
 before the walled city, the one to save, the other to de- 
 stroy. If Tinoir, the Guardian of the Fire, should sight 
 the destroying fleet, he must light two fires on Shaknon 
 Hill, and then, at the edge of the wide basin, in a 
 treacherous channel, the people would send out fire- 
 rafts to burn the ships of the foe. Five times in the 
 past had Tinoir been the Guardian of the Fire, and 
 five times had the people praised him ; but praise and 
 his scanty wage were all he got. 
 
 The hut in which he lived with his wife on another 
 hill, ten miles from Shaknon, had but two rooms, and 
 their little farm and the garden gave them only enough 
 to live, no more. Elsewhere there was good land in 
 abundance, but it had been said years ago to Tinoir by 
 the great men, that he should live not far from Shak- 
 non, so that in times of peril he might guard the fire, 
 and be the sentinel for all the people. Perhaps Tinoir 
 was too dull to see that he was giving all and getting 
 naught; that while he waited and watched he was 
 always poor, and also was getting old. There was no 
 
THE GUARDIAN OF THE FIRE 321 
 
 Shak- 
 f, and 
 
 owards 
 all the 
 
 far off, 
 
 2 basin 
 r to de- 
 Id sight 
 laknon 
 n, in a 
 Hit fire- 
 5 in the 
 re, and 
 lise and 
 
 another 
 ms, and 
 enough 
 land in 
 inoir by 
 1 Shak- 
 the fire, 
 
 3 Tinoir 
 getting 
 he was 
 was no 
 
 house or home within fifty miles of them, and only 
 now and then some wandering Indians lifted the latch, 
 and drew in beside their hearth, or a good priest with 
 a soul of love for others, came and said Mass in the 
 room where a little Calvary had been put up. Two 
 children had come and gone, and Tinoir and Dalice 
 had dug their graves and put them in a warm nest of 
 maple leaves, and afterwards lived upon the memories 
 of them. But after these two, children came no more ; 
 and Tinoir and Dalice grew close and closer to each 
 other, coming to look alike in face, as they had long 
 been alike in mind and feeling. None ever lived nearer 
 to nature than they, and wild things grew to be their 
 friends ; so that you might see Dalice at her door, toss- 
 ing crumbs with one hand to birds, and with the other 
 bits of meat to foxes, martins, and wild dogs, that came 
 and went unharmed by them. Tinoir shot no wild 
 animals for profit — only for food and for skins and furs 
 to wear. Because of this he was laughed at by all 
 who knew, save the priest of St. Sulpice, who, on 
 Easter Day, when the little man came yearly to Mass 
 over two hundred miles of country, praised him to his 
 people and made much of him, though Tinoir was not 
 vain enough to see it. 
 
 When word came down the river, and up over the 
 hills to Tinoir that war was come and that he must go 
 to watch for the hostile fleet and for the friendly fleet 
 as well, he made no murmur, though i; was the time 
 of harvest, and Dalice had had a sickness from which 
 she was not yet recovered. 
 
 "Go, my Tinoir," said Dalice, with a little smile," 
 " and I will reap the grain. If your eyes are sharp you 
 shall see my bright sickle moving in the sun." 
 
 " There is the churning of the milk too, Dalice, 
 
 21 
 
 » 
 
322 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 answered Tinoir ; " you are not strong, and sometimes 
 th'" butter comes slow; and there's tlie milking also." 
 
 *' Strength is coming to me fast, Tinoir," she said, 
 and drew herself up ; but her dress lay almost flat on 
 hcT bosom. Tinoir took her arm and felt it above the 
 elbow. 
 
 " It is like the muscle of a little child," he said. 
 
 " But I will drink those bottles of red wine the 
 Governor sent the last time you watched the fire on 
 Shaknon," she said, brightening up, and trying to 
 cheer him. 
 
 He nodded, for he saw what she was trying to do, 
 and said : " And a little of the gentian and orange root 
 three times a day — eh, Dalice ? " 
 
 After arranging for certain signs, by little fires, 
 which they were to light upon the hills and so speak 
 with each other, they said, " Good day, Dalice," and 
 " Good day, Tinoir," drank a glass of the red wine, and 
 added, " Thank the good God ; " then Tinoir wiped 
 his mouth with his sleeve, and went away, leaving 
 Dalice with a broken glass at her feet, and a look in 
 her eyes which it is well that Tinoir did not see. 
 
 But as he went he was thinking how, the night 
 before, Dalice had lain with her arm round his neck 
 hour after hour as she slept, as she did before they ever 
 had a child ; and that even in her sleep, she kissed him 
 as she used to kiss him before he brought her away 
 from the parish of Ste. Genevieve to be his wif'i. And 
 the more he thought about it th*^ happier he became, 
 and more ihan once he stopped and shook his head in 
 pleased retrospection. And Dalice thought of it too 
 as she hung over the churn, her face drawn and tired 
 and shining with sweat ; and she shook her head, and 
 tears came into her eyes, for she saw further into things 
 
THE GUARDIAN OF THE FIRE 323 
 
 than Tinoir. And once as she passed his coat on the 
 wall, she rubbed it softly with her hand, as she migiit 
 his curly head when he lay beside her. 
 
 From Shaknon Tinoir watched, but of course, he 
 could never see her bright sickle shining, and he could 
 not know whether her dress still hung loose upon her 
 breast, or whether the flesh of her arms was still like a 
 child's. If all was well with Dalice a little fire should 
 be lighted at the house door just at the going down of 
 the sun, and it should be at once put out. If she were 
 ill, a fire should be lit and then put out two hours after 
 sundown. If she should be ill beyond any help, this 
 fire should burn on till it went out. 
 
 Day after day Tinoir, as he watched for the coming 
 fleet, saw the fire lit at sundown and then put out. 
 But one night the fire did not come till two hours after 
 sundown, and it was put out at once. He fretted 
 much, and he prayed that Dalice might be better, and 
 he kept to his post, looking for the fleet of the foe. 
 Evening after evening was this other fire lighted and 
 then put out at once, and a great longing came to him 
 to leave this guarding of the fire, and go to her — " For 
 half a day," he said — " just for half a day." But in 
 that half day the fleet might pass, and then it would 
 be said that Tinoir had betrayed his country. At last 
 sleep left him and he fought a demon night and day, 
 and always he remembered Dalice's arm about his 
 neck, and her kisses that last night they were together. 
 Twice he started away from his post to go to her, but 
 before he had gone a hundred paces he came back. 
 
 At last one afternoon he saw ships, not far oflf, 
 rounding the great cape in the gulf, and after a time, at 
 sunset, he knew by their shape it was the fleet of the 
 foe, and so he lighted his great fires, and they were 
 
324 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 ^■•■^ 
 
 answered leagues awa.y towards the city by another 
 beacon. 
 
 Two hours after sunset of this day the fire in front 
 of Tinoir's home was Hghted, and was not put out, and 
 Tinoir sat and watched it till it died away. So he lay 
 in the light of his own great war-fire till morning, for 
 he could not travel at night, and then, his duty over, he 
 went back to his home. He found Dalice lying beside 
 the ashes of her fire, past hearing all he said in her 
 ear, unheeding the kiss he set upon her lips. 
 
 Two nights afterwards, coming back from laying 
 her beside her children, he saw a great light in the sky 
 towards the city, as of a huge fire. When the courier 
 came to him bearing the Governor's message and the 
 praise of the people, and told of the enemy's fleet 
 destroyed by the fire-rafts, he stared at the man, then 
 turned his head to a place where a pine cross showed 
 against the green grass, and said: 
 
 " Dalice — my wife — is dead." 
 
 ** You have saved your country, Tinoir," answered 
 the couner kindly. 
 
 " What is that to me ! " he said, and fondled the 
 rosary Dalice used to carry when she lived; and he 
 would speak to the man no more. 
 
 <^ 
 
NING 
 ' another 
 
 ! in front 
 ; out, and 
 5o he lay 
 •ning, for 
 { over, he 
 iig beside 
 id in her 
 
 m laying 
 n the sky 
 le courier 
 e and the 
 Tiy's fleet 
 nan, then 
 ;s showed 
 
 answered 
 
 idled the 
 ; and he 
 
 BY THAT PLACE CALLED 
 
 VENTURE 
 
 PERAD- 
 
 BY that place called Peradventure in the Voshti 
 Hills dwelt Golgothar the strong tnan, who, it 
 was said, could break an iron pot with a blow, or pull 
 a tall sapling from the ground. 
 
 ** If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgothar, 
 ** I would go and conquer Nooni the city of our foes." 
 
 Because he had not the hundred men he did not go, 
 and Nooni still sent insults to the country of Golgo- 
 thar, and none could travel safe between the capitals. 
 And Golgothar was sorry. 
 
 " If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgothar, 
 " I would build a dyke to keep the floods back from 
 the people crowded on the lowlands." 
 
 Because he had not the hundred men, now and again 
 the floods came down, and swept the poor folk out to 
 sea, or laid low their habitations. And Golgothar 
 pitied them. 
 
 " If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgo- 
 thar, " I would clear the wild boar from the forests, 
 that the children should not fear to play among the 
 trees." 
 
 Because he had not the hundred men the graves of 
 children multiplied, and countless mothers sat by 
 empty beds and mourned. And Golgothar put his 
 head between his knees in trouble for them. 
 
 " If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgo- 
 thar, " I would with great stones mend the broken 
 
326 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 pier, and the bridge between the islands should not 
 fall." 
 
 Because he had not the hundred men, at last the 
 bridge gave way, and a legion of the King's army were 
 carried to the v/hirlpool, where they fought in vain. 
 And Golgothar made a feast of remembrance to them, 
 and tears dripped on his beard when he said, " Hail and 
 Farewell ! " 
 
 " If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgo- 
 thar, " I would go against the walls of chains our rebels 
 built, and break them one by one." 
 
 Because he had not the hundred men, the chain 
 walls blocked the only pass between the hills, and so 
 cut in two the kingdom : and they who pined for corn 
 went wanting, and they who wished for fish went 
 hungry. And Golgothar, brooding, said his heart bled 
 for his country. 
 
 " If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgo- 
 thar. " I would go among the thousand brigands of 
 Mirnan, and bring again the beloved daughter of our 
 city." 
 
 Because he had not the hundred men the beloved 
 lady languished in her prison, for the brigands asked as 
 ransom the city of Talgone which they hated. And 
 Golgothar carried in his breast a stone image she had 
 given him, and for very grief let no man speak her 
 name before him. 
 
 " If I had a hundred men so strong — " said Golgo- 
 thar, one day, standing on a great point of land and 
 looking down the valley. 
 
 As he said it, he heard a laugh, and looking down 
 he saw Sapphire, or Laugh of the Hills, as she was 
 called. A long staflf of ironwood was in her hands, 
 with which she jumped the dykes and streams and 
 
aNG ' 
 
 luld not 
 
 last the 
 Tiy were 
 in vain, 
 to them, 
 Hail and 
 
 [ Golgo- 
 Lir rebels 
 
 [le chain 
 , and so 
 for corn 
 ish went 
 eart bled 
 
 i Golgo- 
 gands of 
 er of our 
 
 beloved 
 
 asked as 
 
 d. And 
 
 she had 
 
 peak her 
 
 d Gol go- 
 land and 
 
 ng down 
 she was 
 sr hands, 
 ;ams and 
 
 PLACE CALLED PERADVENTURE 327 
 
 rocky fissures ; in her breast were yellow roses, and 
 there was a tuft of pretty feathers in her hair. She 
 reached up and touched him on the breast with her 
 staff, then she laughed again, and sang a snatch of song 
 in mockery : 
 
 " I am a king, 
 I have no crown, 
 I have no throne to sit in — " 
 
 " Pull me up, boy," she said. She wound a leg 
 about the staff, and, taking hold, he drew her up as if 
 she had been a feather. 
 
 " If I had a hundred mouths I would kiss you for 
 that," she said, still mocking, " but having only one 
 I'll give it to the cat, and weep for Golgothar." 
 
 " Silly jade," he said, and turned towards his tent. 
 
 As they passed a slippery and dangerous place, 
 where was one strong solitary tree, she suddenly threw 
 a noose over him, drew it fast and sprang far out over 
 the precipice into the air. Even as she did so, he 
 jumped behind the tree, and clasped it, else on the 
 slippery place he would have gone over with her. The 
 rope came taut, and presently he drew her up again 
 to safety, and while she laughed at him and mocked 
 him, he held her tight under his arm, and carried her 
 to his lodge, where he let her go. 
 
 " Why did you do it, devil's madcap ? " he said. 
 
 " Why didn't you wait for the hundred men so 
 strong? " she laughed. " Why did you jump behind 
 the tree ? 
 
 *' ' If I had a hundred men, higho, 
 
 I would buy my corn for a penny a gill. 
 
 If I had a hundred men or so, 
 
 I would dig a grave for the maid of the hill, higho ! ' " 
 
328 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 He did not answer her, but stirred tlie soup in the 
 pot and tasted it, and hung a great piece of meat over 
 the fire. Then he sat down, and only once did he 
 show anger as she mocked him, and that was when 
 she thrust her hand into his breast, took out the Httle 
 stone image, and said : 
 
 *' If a little stone god had a hundred hearts, 
 Would a little stone goddess trust in one ? " 
 
 Then she made as if she would throw it into the fire, 
 but he caught her hand and crushed it, so that she 
 cried out for pain and anger, and said : 
 
 ** Brute of iron, go break the posts in the brigands* 
 prison-house, but leave a poor girl's wrist alone. If 
 I had a hundred men — " she added, mocking wildly 
 again, and then, springing at him, put her two thumbs 
 at the corners of his eyes, and cried : " Stir a hand, and 
 out they will come — your eyes, for my bones ! " 
 
 He did not stir till her fury was gone. Then he 
 made her sit dovv^n and eat with him, and afterwards 
 she said softly to him, and without a laugh : " Why 
 should the people say, * Golgothar is our shame, for 
 he has great strength, and yet he does nothing but 
 throw great stones for sport into the sea' ? " 
 
 He had the simple mind of a child, and he listened 
 to her patiently, and at last got up and began preparing 
 for a journey, cleaning all his weapons, and gathering 
 them together. She understood him, and she said, 
 with a little laugh like music : " One strong man is 
 better than a hundred — a little key will open a great 
 door easier than a hundred hammers. What is the 
 strength of a hundred bullo-;ks without this?" she 
 added, tapping him on the forehead. 
 
SfING 
 
 p in the 
 leat over 
 e did he 
 ^as when 
 the httle 
 
 the fire, 
 
 1 that she 
 
 brigands* 
 alone. K 
 ing wildly 
 vo thumbs 
 hand, and 
 es ! " 
 
 Then he 
 afterwards 
 rh : " Why 
 shame, for 
 othing but 
 
 he listened 
 n preparing 
 i gathering 
 id she said, 
 Dng man is 
 pen a great 
 A^hat is the 
 this?" she 
 
 PLACE CALLED PER AD VENTURE 329 
 
 Then they sat down and talked together quietly for 
 a long time, and at sunset she saw him start away upon 
 great errands. 
 
 Before two years had gone, Nooni, the city of their 
 foes, was taken, the chain wall of the rebels opened 
 to the fish and corn of the poor, the children wandered 
 in the forest without fear of wild boars, the dyke was 
 built to save the people in the lowlands, and Golgothar 
 carried to the castle the King had given him the 
 daughter of the city, freed from Mirnan. 
 
 " If Golgothar had a hundred wives — " said a voice 
 to the strong man as he entered the castle gates. 
 
 Looking up he saw Sapphire. He stretched out his 
 hand to her in joy and friendship. 
 
 " — I would not be one of them," she added with a 
 mocking laugh, as she dropped from the wall, leaped 
 the moat by the help of her staflf, and danced away 
 laughing. There are those who say, however, that 
 tears fell down her cheeks as she laughed. 
 
THE SINGING OF THE BEES 
 
 *' TV yr OTHER, didst thou not say thy prayers last 
 
 IVl night ? " 
 
 " Twice, my child." 
 
 " Once before the little shrine, and once beside my 
 bed — is it not so? " 
 
 " It is so, my Fanchon. What hast thou in thy 
 mind?" 
 
 '* Thou didst pray that the storm die in the hills, 
 and the flood cease, and that my father come before 
 it was again the hour of prayer. It is now the hour. 
 Canst thou not hear the storm and the wash of the 
 flood ? And my father does not come ! " 
 
 " My Fanchon, God is good." 
 
 " V/hen thou wast asleep, I rose from my bed, and 
 in the dark I kissed the feet of — Him — on the little 
 Calvary, and I did not speak, but in my heart I called." 
 
 " What didst thou call, my child? " 
 
 " I called to my father : ' Come back ! come back ! ' " 
 
 ** Thou shouldst have called to God, my Fanchon." 
 
 " I loved my father, and I called to him." 
 
 " Thou shouldst love God." 
 
 " I knew my father first. If God loved thee. He 
 would answer thy prayer. Dost thou not hear the 
 cracking oi the cedar trees and the cry of the wolves — 
 they are afraid. All day and all night the rain and 
 wind come down, and the birds and wild fowl have no 
 peace. I kissed — His feet, and my throat was full of 
 
THE SINGING OF THE BEES 
 
 331 
 
 ^ers last 
 
 jside my 
 
 1 in thy 
 
 :he hills, 
 e before 
 he hour, 
 h of the 
 
 bed, and 
 
 the little 
 
 called." 
 
 back ! ' " 
 mchon." 
 
 hee, He 
 hear the 
 solves — 
 rain and 
 have no 
 IS full of 
 
 tears, but I called in my heart. Yet the storm and the 
 dark stay, and my father does not come." 
 
 " Let us be patient, my Fanchon." 
 
 " He went to guide the priest across the hills. Why 
 does not God guide him back ? " 
 
 '* My Fanchon, let us be patient." 
 
 " The priest was young, and my father has grey 
 hair." 
 
 " Wilt thou not be patient, my child ! " 
 
 " He filled the knapsack of the priest with food 
 better than his own, and — thou didst not see it — put 
 money in his hand." 
 
 " My own, the storm may pass." 
 
 " He told the priest to think upon our home as a 
 little nest God set up here for such as he." 
 
 " There are places of shelter in the hills for thy 
 father, my Fanchon." 
 
 " And when the priest prayed, ' That Thou mayst 
 bring us safely to this place where we would go,' my 
 father said so softly, *lVe beseech Thee to hear us, 
 good Lord!''' 
 
 " My Fanchon, thy father hath gone this trail many 
 times." 
 
 " The prayer was for the out-trail, not the in-trail, 
 my mother." 
 
 " Nay, I do not understand thee." 
 
 " A swarm of bees came singing through the room 
 last night, my mother. It was dark and I could not 
 see, but there was a sweet smell, and I heard the 
 .voices." 
 
 " My child, thou art tired with watching, and thy 
 mind is full of fancies. Thou must sleep." 
 
 '' I am tired of watching. Through the singing of the 
 bees as they passed over my bed, I heard my father'i 
 
332 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 voice. I could not hear the words, they seemed so far 
 away, Hke the voices of the bees ; and I did not cry out, 
 for the tears were in my throat. After a moment the 
 room was so still that it made my heart ache." 
 
 " Oh, my Fanchon^ my child, thou dost break my 
 heart ! Dost thou not know the holy words ? — 
 
 ''^ And their souls do pass like singing bfes, where no 
 man may follow. These ure they whom God gat her eth 
 out of the whirlwind and the desert, and bringeth home 
 in a goodly svjarm. 
 
 Nijjht drew close to the earth, and as suddenly as a 
 sluice-gate drops and holds bark a flood, the storm 
 ceased. Along the crest of the hills there slowly grew 
 a line of light, and then the serene moon came up and 
 on, persistent to give the earth love where it had had 
 punishment. Divers flocks of clouds, camp-followers 
 of the storm, could not abash her. But once she drew 
 shrinking back behind a slow troop of them, for down 
 at the bottom of a gorge lay a mountaineer, face up- 
 ward and unmoving, as he had lain since a rock loos- 
 ened beneath him, and the depths swallowed him. If 
 he had had ears to hear, he would have answered ihe 
 soft, bitter cries which rose from a hut on the Voshti 
 Hills above him : 
 
 " Michel, Michel, art thou gone ^ " 
 
 " Come back, oh, my father^ come back 1 " 
 
 But perhaps it did avail that there were lighted 
 candles before a little shrine, and that a mother, in her 
 darkness, kissed the feet of One on a Calvary 
 
sJING 
 
 ed so far 
 
 cry out, 
 
 nent the 
 > 
 
 reak my 
 
 THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY 
 
 where no 
 "■athereth 
 •etk home 
 
 enly as a 
 le storm 
 Arly grew 
 e up and 
 
 had had 
 followers 
 she drew 
 for down 
 
 face up- 
 3ck loos- 
 
 him. If 
 ;ered the 
 le Voshti 
 
 £ lighted 
 er, in her 
 
 IT lay between the mountains and the sea, and a 
 river ran down past it, carrying its good and ill 
 news to a pacific shore, and out upon soft winds, travel- 
 ling lazily to the scarlet east. All white and a tem- 
 pered red, it nestled in a valley with other valleys on 
 lower t^teppes, which seemed as if built by the gods, 
 that they might travel easily from the white-topped 
 mountains, Margath, Shaknon, and the rest, to wash 
 their feet in the sea. In the summer a hot but gracious 
 mistiness softened the green of the valleys, the varying 
 colours of the hills, the blue of the river, the sharp out- 
 lines of the cliffs. Along the high shelf of the moun- 
 tain, mule-trains travelled like a procession seen in 
 dreams — slow, hazy, graven, yet moving, a part of the 
 ancient hills themselves ; upon the river great rafts, 
 manned with scarlet-vested crews, swerved and swam, 
 guided by the gigantic oars which needed five men to 
 lift and sway — argonauts they from the sweet-smelling 
 forerts to the salt-smelling main. In winter the little 
 city lay still under a coverlet of pure white, with the 
 mists from the river and the great falls above frozen 
 upon the trees, clothing them as graciously as with 
 white samite, so that far as eye could see there was 
 a h'^avcnly purity upon all, covering every mean and 
 distorted thing. There were days when no wind 
 stirred anywhere, and the gorgeous sun made the little 
 city and all the land roundabout a pretty silver king- 
 
334 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 dom, where Oberon and his courtiers might have 
 danced and been glad. 
 
 Often, too, you could hear a distant woodcutter's 
 axe make a pleasant song in the air, p,nd the wood- 
 cutter himself, as the hickory and steel swung in a 
 shining half-circle to the bole of balsam, was clad in 
 the bright livery of frost, his breath issuing in gray 
 smoke like life itself, mystic and peculiar, man, axe, 
 tree, and breath, one common being. And when, by- 
 and-by, the woodcutter added a song of his own to the 
 song his axe made, the illusion was not lost, but rather 
 heightened ; for it, too, was part of the unassuming 
 pride of nature, childlike in its simplicity, primeval in 
 its suggestion and expression. The song had a soft 
 monotony, swinging backwards and forwards to the 
 waving axe like the pendulum of a clock. It began 
 with a low humming, as one could think man made 
 before he heard the Voice which taught him how to 
 speak. And th.. "* came the words : 
 
 " None shall stand in the way of the lord, 
 The lord of the Earth — of the rivers and trees, 
 Of the cattle and fields and vines ! 
 Hew! 
 
 Here shall I build me my cedar home, 
 A city with gates, a road to the sea — 
 For I am the lord of the Earth ! 
 Hew ! Hew ! 
 
 Hew and hc»v, and the sap of the tree 
 Shall be yours, and your bones shall be strong. 
 Shall be yours, and your heart shall rejoice, 
 Shall be yours, c-'nd the city be yours, 
 And the key of its gates be the key 
 Of the home where your little ones dw<;ll. 
 Hew, and be strong ! Hew and rejoice ! 
 For man is the lord of the Earth, 
 And God is the Lord over all ! " 
 
aNG 
 
 lit have 
 
 icutter's 
 e wood- 
 ng in a 
 , clad in 
 in gray 
 an, axe, 
 hen, by- 
 vn to the 
 ut rather 
 Lssuming 
 meval in 
 ad a soft 
 Is to the 
 It began 
 lan made 
 a how to 
 
 THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY 
 
 335 
 
 And so long as the Httlc city stands will this same 
 woodcutter's name and history stand also. He had 
 camped where it stood now, when nothing was there 
 save the wild duck in the reeds, the antelopes upon the 
 hills, and all manner of furred and feathered things ; 
 and it all was his. He had seen the yellow flashes of 
 gold in the stream called Pipi, and he had not gatiiercd 
 it, for his lite was simple, and he was young enough 
 to cherish in his heart the love of the open world, 
 beyond the desire of cities and the stir of the market- 
 place. In those days there was not a line in his face, 
 not an angle in his body — all smoothly rounded and 
 lithe and alert, like him that was called " the young 
 lion of Dedan." Day by day he drank in the wisdom 
 of the hills and the valleys, and he wrote upon the 
 dried barks of trees the thoughts that came as he lay 
 upon the bearskin in his tent, or cooled his hands and 
 feet, of a hot summer day, in tl.'e moist, sandy earth, 
 and watched the master of the deer iead his cohorts 
 down the passes of the hills. 
 
 But by-and-by mule-trains began to crawl along the 
 ledges of Margath Mountain, and over Shaknon came 
 adventurers, and after them, wandering men seeking 
 a new home, women and children coming also. But 
 when these came he had passed the spring-time of 
 his years, and had grown fixed in the love of the valley, 
 where his sole visitors had been passing tribes of 
 Indians, who knew hjmmoods and trespassed not at all 
 on his domain. Ther adventurers hungered for the 
 gold in the rivers, and they made it one long washing- 
 trough, where the disease that afflicted them passed on 
 from man to man like poison down a sewer. Then the 
 little city grew, and with the search for gold came 
 other seekings and findings and toilings, and men who 
 
336 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 came as one stops at an inn to feed, stayed to make 
 their liomc, and women made the valley cheerful, 
 and children were born, and the pride of the place 
 was as fT;-reat as that of some village of the crimson 
 East, where every man has ancestors to Mahomet and 
 beyond. 
 
 And he, Felion, who had been lord and master of the 
 valley, worked with them, but did not seek for riches, 
 and more often drew away into the hills to find some 
 newer place unspoiled by man. But again and again 
 he returned, for no fire is like the old fire, and no trail 
 like the old trail. And at last it seemed as if he had 
 driven his tent-peg in the Pipi Valley forever ; for from 
 among the women who came he chose one comely 
 and wise and kind, and for five years the world grew 
 older, and Felion did not know it. When he danced 
 his little daughter on his knee, he felt that he had 
 found a new world. 
 
 But a day came when trouble fell upon the little 
 city, for of a sudden the reef of gold was lost, and 
 the great crushing mills stood idle, and the sound of 
 the hammers was stayed. And they came to Felion, 
 because in his youth he had been of the best of the 
 schoolmen ; and he got up from his misery — only the 
 day before his wife had taken a great and lonely 
 journey to that Country which welcomes, but never 
 yields again — and leaving his little child behind, he 
 went down to the mines. And in three days they 
 found the reef once more; for it had curved like the 
 hook of a sickle, and the first arc of the yellow circle 
 had dropped down into the bowels of the earth. 
 
 And so he saved the little city from disaster, and 
 the people blessed him at the moment ; and the years 
 went on. 
 
NING 
 
 THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY 
 
 337 
 
 to make 
 
 cheerful, 
 
 the place 
 
 crimson 
 
 omet and 
 
 ter of the 
 DT riches, 
 ind some 
 ind again 
 d no trail 
 if he had 
 ; for from 
 e comely 
 )rld grew 
 le danced 
 it he had 
 
 the little 
 lost, and 
 sound of 
 to Felion, 
 est of the 
 —only the 
 nd lonely 
 but never 
 lehind, he 
 days they 
 d like the 
 low circle 
 th. 
 
 aster, and 
 the years 
 
 Then there came a time when the little city was 
 threatened with a woeful Hood, because of a breaking 
 ilume; but by a simple and wise device l-Y'lion stayed 
 the danger. 
 
 And again the people blessed him ; and the years 
 went on. 
 
 By-and-by an awful peril came, for two score chil- 
 dren had set a great raft loose upon the river, and they 
 drifted down towards the rapids in the sight of tlie 
 people ; and mothers and helpless fathers wrung their 
 hands, for on the swift tide no boat could reach them, 
 and none could intercept the raft. But Felion, seeing, 
 ran out upon the girders of a bridge that was being 
 builded, and there, before them all, as the raft passed 
 under, he let himself fall, breaking his leg as he 
 dropped among the timbers of the fore-part of the raft ; 
 for the children were all gathered at the back, where 
 the great oars lay motionless, one dragging in the 
 water behind, Felion drew himself over to the huge 
 oar, and with the strength of five men, while the people 
 watched and prayed, he kept the raft straight for the 
 great slide, else it had gone over the dam and been 
 lost, and all that were thereon. A mile below, the raft 
 was brought to shore, and again the people said that 
 Felion had saved the little city from disaster. 
 
 And they blessed him for the moment ; and the years 
 went on. 
 
 Felion's daughter grew towards womanhood, and 
 her beauty was great, and she was welcome everywhere 
 in the valley, the people speaking well of her for her 
 own sake. But at last a time came when of the men 
 of the valley one called, and Felion's daughter came 
 quickly to hiru, and with tears for her father and smiles 
 for her husband, she left the valley and journeyed into 
 
 22 
 
338 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 the east, having sworn to love and cherish him while 
 she lived. And her father, left solitary, mourned for 
 her, and drew away into a hill above the valley in a 
 cedar house that he built ; and having little else to love, 
 loved the earth, and sky, and animals, and the children 
 from the little city when they came his way. But his 
 heart was sore ; for by-and-by no letters came from his 
 daughter, and the little city, having prospered, con- 
 cerned itself no more with him. When he came into 
 its streets there were those who laughed, for he was 
 very tall and rude, and his grey hair hung loose on his 
 shoulders, and his dress was still a hunter's. They 
 had not long remembered the time when a grievous 
 disease, like a plague, fell upon the place, and people 
 died by scores, as sheep fall in a murrain. And again 
 they had turned to him, and he, because he knew of a 
 miraculous medicine got from Indian sachems, whose 
 people had suffered of his sickness, came into the 
 little city, and by his medicines and fearless love and 
 kindness he stayed the plague. 
 
 And thus once more he saved the little citv from 
 disaster, and they blessed him for the moment ; and the 
 3'ears went on. 
 
 In time they ceased to think of Felion at all, and he 
 was left alone ; even the children came no more to visit 
 him, and he had pleasure only in hunting and shoot- 
 ing and in felling trees, with which he built a high 
 stockade and a fine cedar house within it. And all 
 the work of this he did with his own hands, even to the 
 polishing of the floors and the carved work of the large 
 fireplaces. Yet he never lived in the house, nor in 
 any room of it, and the stockade gate was always shut ; 
 and when any people passed that way they stared and 
 shrugged their shoulders, and thought Felion mad or 
 
WING 
 
 lim while 
 
 urned for 
 
 alley in a 
 
 se to love, 
 
 2 children 
 
 But his 
 
 t from his 
 
 red, con- 
 
 :ame into 
 
 )r he was 
 
 )se on his 
 
 's. They 
 
 grievotis 
 
 id people 
 
 ^nd again 
 
 <:new of a 
 
 ns, whose 
 
 into the 
 
 love and 
 
 citv from 
 t ; and the 
 
 11, and he 
 re to visit 
 id shoot- 
 It a high 
 And all 
 en to the 
 the large 
 s, nor in 
 ays shut ; 
 :ared and 
 1 mad or 
 
 THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY 
 
 339 
 
 a fool. But he was wise in his own way, which was 
 not the way of those who had reason to bless him for 
 ev*^r, and vAio forgot him, though he had served them 
 through so many years. Against the little city he had 
 an exceeding bitterness ; and this grew, and had it 
 not been that his heart was kept young by the love of 
 the earth, and the beasts about him in the hills, he must 
 needs have cursed the place and died. But the sight of 
 a bird in the nest with her young, and the smell of a 
 lair, and the light of the dawn that came out of the 
 east, and the winds that came up from the sea, and the 
 hope that would not die kept him from being of those 
 who love not life for life's sake, be it in ease or in sor- 
 row. He was of those who find all worth the doing, 
 even all worth the suffering; and so, though he 
 frowned and his lips drew tight with anger when he 
 looked down at the little city, he felt that elsewhere in 
 the world there was that which made it worth the 
 saving. 
 
 If his daughter had been with him he would have 
 laughed at that which his own hands had founded, 
 protected, and saved. But no word came from her, 
 and laughter was never on his lips — only an occasional 
 smile when, perhaps, he saw two sparrows fighting, or 
 watched the fish chase each other in the river, or a toad, 
 too lazy to jump, walk stupidly like a convict, dragging 
 his long, green legs behind him. And when he looked 
 up towards Shaknon and Margath, a light came in his 
 eyes, for they were wise and quiet, and watched the 
 world, and something of their grandeur drew about 
 him like a cloak. As age cut deep lines in his face and 
 gave angles to his figure, a strange, settled dignity 
 grew upon him, whether he swung his axe by the 
 balsams or dressed the skins of the animals he had 
 
340 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 killed, piling up the pelts in a long shed in the stockade, 
 a goodly heritage for his daughter, if she ever came 
 back. Every day at sunrise he walked to the door of 
 his house and looked eastward steadily, and sometimes 
 there broke from his lips the words, " My daughter — 
 Malise ! " Again, he would sit and brood with his 
 chin in his hand, and smile, as though remembering 
 pleasant things. 
 
 One day at last, in the full tide of summer, a man, 
 haggard and troubled, came to Felion's house, and 
 knocked, and, getting no reply, waited, and whenever 
 he looked down at the little city he wrung his hands, 
 and more than once he put them up to his face and 
 shuddered, and again looked for Felion. Just when 
 the dusk was rolling down, Felion came back, and, see- 
 ing the man, would have passed him without a word, 
 but that the man stopped with an eager, sorrowful 
 gesture and said : " The plague has come upon us 
 again, and the people, remembering how you healed 
 them long ago, beg you to come." 
 
 At that Felion leaned his fishing-rod against the 
 door, and answered : " What people ? " 
 
 The other then replied : " The people of the little 
 city below, Felion." 
 
 " I do not know your name," was the reply ; " I 
 know naught of you or of your city." 
 
 " Are you mad? " cried the man. " Do you forget 
 the little city down there ? Have you no heart ? " 
 
 A strange smile passed over Felion's face, and he 
 answered : " When one forgets why should the other 
 remember? " 
 
 He turned and went into the house and shut the 
 door, and though the man knocked, the door was not 
 opened, and he went back angry and miserable, and 
 
 
NING 
 
 jtockade, 
 ver came 
 i door of 
 )metimes 
 ughter — 
 with his 
 jmbering 
 
 , a man, 
 use, and 
 vhenever 
 is hands, 
 face and 
 ist when 
 and, see- 
 
 a word, 
 orrowful 
 upon us 
 u healed 
 
 linst the 
 
 the little 
 
 ply; "I 
 
 lu forget 
 t?" 
 
 , and he 
 he other 
 
 shut the 
 was not 
 ble, and 
 
 THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY 341 
 
 the people could not believe that Felion would not 
 come to help them, as he had done all his life. At 
 dawn three others came, and they found Felion look- 
 ing out towards the east, his lips moving as though he 
 prayed. Yet it was no prayer, only a call, that was on 
 his lips. They felt a son of awe in his presence, for 
 now he seemed as if he had lived more than a century, 
 so wise and old was the look of his face, so wliitc his 
 hair, so set and distant his dignity. They begged 
 him to come, and, bringing his medicines, save the 
 people, for deatli was galloping through the town, 
 knocking at many doors. 
 
 " One came to heal you," he answered — " the young 
 man of the schools, who wrote mystic letters after his 
 name ; it swings on a brass by his door — where is he ? " 
 
 " He is dead of the plague," they replied, " and the 
 other also that came with him, who iled before the 
 sickness, fell dead of it on the roadside, going to 
 the sea." 
 
 " Why should I go ? " he replied, and he turned 
 threateningly to his weapon, as if in menace of their 
 presence. 
 
 " You have no one to leave behind," they answered 
 eagerly, " and you are old." 
 
 " Liars ! " he rejoined, " let the little city save itself," 
 and he wheeled and went into his house, and they saw 
 that they had erred in not remembering his daughter, 
 whose presence they had once prized. They saw that 
 they had angered him beyond soothing, and they went 
 back in grief, for two of them had lost dear relatives 
 by the fell sickness. When they told what had hap- 
 pened, the people said : " We will send the women ; he 
 will listen to them — he had a daughter." 
 
 That afternoon, when all the hills lay still and dead. 
 
342 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 and nowhere did bird or breeze stir, the women came, 
 and they found him seated with his back turned to the 
 town. He was looking into the deep woods, into the 
 hot shadows of the trees. 
 
 " We have come to bring you to the little city," 
 they said to him ; " the sick grow in numbers every 
 hour." 
 
 " It is safe in the hills," he answered, not looking at 
 them. " Why do the people stay in the valley ? " 
 
 " Every man has a friend, or a wife, or a child, ill or 
 dying, and every woman has a husband, or a child, or 
 a friend, or a brother. Cowards have fled, and many 
 of them have fallen by the way." 
 
 " Last summer I lay sick here many weeks and none 
 came near me ; why should I go to the little city ? " he 
 replied austerely. " Four times I saved it, and of all 
 that I saved none came to give me water to drink, or 
 food to eat, and I lay burning with fever, and thirsty 
 and hungry — God of Heaven, how thirsty ! " 
 
 " We did not know," they answered humbly ; " you 
 came to us so seldom, we had forgotten ; . we were 
 fools." 
 
 " I came and went fifty years," he answered bitterly, 
 " and I have forgotten how to rid the little city of the 
 plague ! " 
 
 At that one of the women, mad with anger, made as 
 if to catch him by his beard, but she forbore, and 
 said : " Liar ! the men shall hang you to your own roof- 
 tree." 
 
 His eyes had a wild light, but he waved his hand 
 quietly, and answered : " Begone, and learn how great 
 a sill is ingratitude." 
 
 He turned away from them gloomily, and would 
 have entered his home, but one of the women, who 
 
.NING 
 
 THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY 
 
 343 
 
 en came, 
 ed to the 
 , into the 
 
 tie city," 
 ers every 
 
 )oking at 
 
 lild, ill or 
 
 child, or 
 
 nd many 
 
 and none 
 ;ity?"he 
 ind of all 
 drink, or 
 d thirsty 
 
 ly ; " you 
 we were 
 
 bitterly, 
 ty of the 
 
 made as 
 ore, and 
 wn roof- 
 
 lis hand 
 3w great 
 
 d would 
 en, who 
 
 was young, plucked his sleeve, and said sorrowfully: 
 " I loved Malise, your daughter." 
 
 " And forgot her and her father. I am three score 
 and ten years, and she has been gone fifteen, and for 
 the first time I see your face," was his scornful reply. 
 
 She was tempted to say : " I was ever bearing chil- 
 dren and nursing them, and the hills were hard to 
 climb, and my husband would not go ; " but she saw 
 how dark his look was, and she hid her face in her 
 hands and turned away to follow after the others. She 
 had five little children, and her heart was anxious for 
 them and her eyes full of tears. 
 
 Anger and remorse seized on the little city, and 
 there were those who would have killed Felion, but 
 others saw that the old man had been sorely wronged 
 in the past, and these said : " Wait until the morrow 
 and we will devise something." 
 
 That night a mule-train crept slowly down the 
 mountain side and entered the little city, for no one 
 who came with them knew of the plague. The cara- 
 van had come from the east across the great plains, 
 and not from the west, which was the travelled highway 
 to the sea. Among them was a woman who already 
 was ill of a fever, and knew naught of what passed 
 round her. She had with her a beautiful child; and 
 one of the women of the place devised a thing. 
 
 " This woman," she said, " does not belong to the 
 little city, and he can have nothing against her ; she is a 
 stranger. Let one of us take this beautiful lad to him, 
 and he shall ask Felion to come and save his mother." 
 
 Every one approved the woman's wisdom, and in 
 the early morning she herself, with another, took the 
 child and went up the long hillside in the gross heat ; 
 and when they came near Felion's house the women 
 
344 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 stayed behind, and the child went forward, having been 
 taught what to say to the old man. 
 
 Felion sat just within his doorway, looking out into 
 the sunlight which fell upon the red and white walls 
 of the little city, flanked by young orchards, with great, 
 oozy meadows beyond these, where cattle ate, knee- 
 deep in the lush grass and cool reed-beds. Along 
 the riverside, far up on the high banks, were the tall 
 couches of dead Indians, set on poles, their useless 
 weapons laid along the deerskin pall. Down the hurry- 
 ing river there passed a raft, bearing a black flag on a 
 pole, and on it were women and children who were 
 being taken down to the sea from the doomed city. 
 These were they who had lost fathers and brothers, 
 and now were going out alone with the shadow of the 
 plague over them, for there was none to say them nay. 
 The tall oarsmen bent to their task, and Felion felt his 
 blood beat faster when he saw the huge oars swing 
 high, then drop and bend in the water, as the raft 
 swung straight in its course and passed on safe through 
 the narrow slide into the white rapids below, which 
 licked the long timbers as with white tongues, and 
 tossed spray upon the sad voyagers. Felion remem- 
 bered the day when he left his own child behind and 
 sprang from the bridge to the raft whereon were the 
 children of the little city, and saved them. 
 
 And when he tried to be angry now, the thought of 
 the children as they watched him, with his broken leg 
 striving against their peril, softened his heart. He 
 shook his head, for suddenly there came to him the 
 memory of a time, three-score years before, when he 
 and the foundryman's daughter had gone hunting 
 flag-flowers by the little trout stream, of the songs 
 they sang together at the festivals, oh. in her sweet 
 
miNG 
 ving been 
 
 ^ out into 
 hite walls 
 ^ith great, 
 ite, knee- 
 1. Along 
 e the tall 
 ir useless 
 he hurry- 
 flag on a 
 vho were 
 med city, 
 brothers, 
 Dw of the 
 :hem nay. 
 )n felt his 
 irs swing 
 ! the raft 
 ; through 
 w, which 
 (•ues, and 
 1 remem- 
 hind and 
 were the 
 
 [ought of 
 oken leg 
 art. He 
 
 him the 
 when he 
 
 hunting 
 le songs 
 er sweet 
 
 THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY 345 
 
 Quaker garb and demure Quaker beauty, he lithe, 
 alert, and full of the joy of life and loving. As he sat 
 so, thinking, he wondered where she was, and why he 
 should be thinking of her now, facing the dreary 
 sorrow of this pestilence and his own anger and ven- 
 geance. He nodded softly to the waving trees far 
 down in the valley, for his thoughts had drifted on to 
 his wife as he first saw her. She was standing bare- 
 armed among the grapevines by a wall of rock, the 
 dew of rich life on her lip and forehead, her grey eyes 
 swimming with a soft light ; and looking at her he had 
 loved her at once, as he had loved, on the instant, the 
 little child that came to him later; as he had loved 
 the girl into which the child grew, till she left him and 
 came back no more. Why had he never gone in 
 search of her ? 
 
 He got to his feet involuntarily and stepped towards 
 the door, looking down into the valley. As his eyes 
 rested on the little city his face grew dark, but his 
 eyes were troubled and presently grew bewildered, for 
 out of a green covert near there stepped a pretty boy, 
 who came to him with frank, unabashed face and a 
 half-shy smile. 
 
 Felion did not speak at first, but stood looking, and 
 presently the child said : " I have come to fetch you." 
 
 " To fetch me where, little man ? " asked Felion, a 
 light coming into his face, his heart beating faster. 
 
 " To my mother. She is sick." 
 
 " Where is your mother? " 
 
 " She's in the village down there," answered the boy, 
 pointing. 
 
 In spite of himself, Felion smiled in a sour sort of 
 way, for the boy had called the place a village, and he 
 relished the unconscious irony. 
 
346 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 "What is the matter with her?" asked Felion, 
 beckoning- the lad inside. 
 
 Tlie lad came and stood in the doorway, gazing 
 round curiously, while the old man sat down and 
 looked at him, moved, he knew not why. 
 
 The bright steel of Fe'*oi 's axe, «^tanding in tho 
 corner, caught ♦^he , hVb < a* d held it. F,lion saw, 
 and said: "What aru yrrv. hinking of?" 
 
 The lad answered : ' '1" th*^ ixe. When I'm bigger 
 I will cut down trees and builu a house, a bridge, and a 
 city. Aren't you coming quick to help my mother? 
 She will die if you don't come." 
 
 Felion did not answer, and fiom the trees without 
 two women watched him anxiously. 
 
 " Why should I '^ome ? " asked Felion, curiously. 
 
 " Because she's sick, and she's my mother." 
 
 " Why should I do it because she's your mother? " 
 
 " I don't know," the lad answered, and his brow 
 knitted in the attempt to think it > it, " but I like you.'* 
 He came and stood beside the old man and looked 
 into his face with a pleasant confidence. " If your 
 mother was sick, and I could heal her, I would — I 
 know I would — I wouldn't be afraid to go down into 
 the village." 
 
 Here were rebuke, love, and impeachment, all in 
 one, and the old man half started from his seat. 
 
 " Did you think I was afraid ? " he asked of the boy, 
 as simply as might a child of a child, so near are chil- 
 dren and wise men in their thoughts. 
 
 " I knew ii* you didn't it'd be because you were 
 angry or were afraid, and you didn't look angry." 
 
 " How does one look when one is angry? " 
 
 " Like my father." 
 
 " And how does your father look ? " 
 
^fING 
 
 Felion, 
 
 , gazing 
 >wn and 
 
 J in the 
 ion saw, 
 
 n bigger 
 je, and a 
 mother ? 
 
 without 
 
 ously. 
 
 other?'' 
 lis brow 
 ke you." 
 I looked 
 If your 
 'ould — I 
 •wn into 
 
 t, all in 
 
 * • 
 
 the boy, 
 ire chil- 
 
 :)u were 
 ... »» 
 
 THERE WAS A i^ITTLE CITY 347 
 
 " Hy father's dead." 
 
 " .L 'id he die of the plague ? " asked Felion, laying 
 his hind on th'^ lad's shoulder. 
 
 " .^Jo," aid the lad quickly, and shut his lips tight. 
 
 ' Won't you tell me? " psked Felion, with a strange 
 inquiditiv^nesr:. 
 
 " No. Mother'll tell you, but I won't ; " and the 
 lad's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " Poor boy ! poor boy ! " said Felion, and his hand 
 tightened on the small shoulder. 
 
 *' Don't be sorry for me ; be sorry for mother, please," 
 said the boy, and he laid a hand on the old man's knee, 
 and that touch went to a heart long closed against th* 
 little city below ; and Felion rose and said : " I will 
 go with you to your mother." 
 
 Then he went into another room, and the boy camc 
 near the axe and ran his fingers along the bright steel, 
 and fondled the handle, as does a hunter the tried 
 weapon which has been his through many seasons. 
 When the old man came back he said to the boy : 
 " Why do you look at the axe ? " 
 
 " I don't know," was the answer ; " maybe because 
 my mother used to sing a song about the woodcutters." 
 
 Without a word, and thinking much, he stepped out 
 into the path leading to the little city, the lad holding 
 one hand. Years afterwards men spoke with a sort 
 Oi awe or reverence of seeing the beautiful stranger 
 lad leading old Felion into the plague-stricken place, 
 and how, as they passed, women threw themselves at 
 Felion's feet, begging him to save their loved ones. 
 Arid a drunkard cast his arm round the old man's 
 shoulder and sputtered foolish pleadings in his ear; 
 but Felion only waved them back gently, and said: 
 " By-and-by, by-and-by — God help us all ! " 
 
348 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 Now a fevered hand snatched at him from a door- 
 way, meanings came from everywhere, and more than 
 once he ahnost stumbled over a dead body ; others 
 he saw being carried away to the graveyard for hasty 
 burial. Few were the mourners that followed, and the 
 faces of those who watched the processions go by were 
 set and drawn. The sunlight and the green trees 
 seemed an insult to the dead. 
 
 They passed into the house where the sick woman 
 lay, and some met him at the door with faces of joy and 
 meaning; for now they knew the woman and would 
 have spoken to him of her ; but he waved them off, and 
 put his fingers upon his lips and went where a fire 
 burned in a kitchen, and brewed his medicines. And 
 the ch'ld entered the room where his mother lay, and 
 presently he came to the kitchen and said : " She is 
 asleep — my mother." 
 
 The old man looked down on him a moment steadily, 
 and a look of bewilderment came into his face. But 
 he turned away again to the simmering pots. The boy 
 went to the window, and, leaning upon the sill, began 
 to hum softly a sort of chant, while he watched a 
 lizard running hither and thither in the sun. As he 
 hummed, the old man listened, and presently, with his 
 medicines in his hands and a half-startled look, he 
 came over to the lad. 
 
 " What are you humming? " he asked. 
 
 The lad answered ; " A song of the woodcutters." 
 
 " Sing it again," said Felion. 
 
 The lad began to sing : 
 
 " Here shall I build me my cedar house, 
 A city with gates, a road to the sea — 
 For I am the lord of the Earth ! 
 Hew! Hew!" 
 
 
NING 
 
 THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY 349 
 
 a door- 
 lore than 
 
 ; others 
 
 or hasty 
 
 , and the 
 
 by were 
 
 en trees 
 
 : woman 
 t joy and 
 d would 
 I off, and 
 re a fire 
 !s. And 
 lay, and 
 " She is 
 
 steadily, 
 ce. But 
 The boy 
 1, began 
 Itched a 
 As he 
 with his 
 look, he 
 
 tters. 
 
 The old man stopped him. " What is your name? " 
 
 " My name is Felion," answered the lad, and he put 
 his face close to the jug that held the steaming tinc- 
 tures, but the old man caught the little chin in his huge 
 hand and bent back the head, looking long into the 
 lad's eyes. At last he caught little Felion's hand and 
 hurried into the other room, where the woman lay in 
 a stupor. The old man came quickly to her and looked 
 into her face. Seeing, he gave a broken cry and said : 
 " Malise, my daughter ! Malise ! " 
 
 He drew her to his breast, and as he did so he 
 groaned aloud, for he knew that inevitable Death was 
 waiting for her at the door. He straightened himself 
 up, clasped the child to his breast, and said : " I, too, 
 am Felion, my little son." 
 
 And then he set about to defeat that dark, hovering 
 Figure at the door. 
 
 For three long hours he sat beside her, giving her 
 little by little his potent medicines ; and now and again 
 he stopped his mouth with his hand, lest he should cry 
 out ; and his eyes never wavered from her face, not even 
 to the boy, who lay asleep in the corner. 
 
 At last his look relaxed its vigilance, for a dewy 
 look passed over the woman's face, and she opened her 
 eyes and saw him, and gave a little cry of " Father ! '* 
 and was straightway lost in his arms. 
 
 " I have come home to die," she said. 
 
 " No, no, to live," he answered firmly. " Why did 
 you not send me word all these long years ? " 
 
 " My husband was in shame, in prison, and I in 
 sorrow," she answered sadly. " I could not." 
 
 " He is " he paused. " He did evil ? " 
 
 " He is dead," she said. " It is better so." Her 
 eyes wandered round the room restlessly, and then 
 
 
350 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 fixed upon the sleeping child, and a smile passed over 
 her face. She pointed to the lad. 
 
 The old man nodded. " He brouj:;;'ht me here," he 
 said gently. Then he got to his feet. " You must 
 sleep now," he added, and he gave her a cordial. " I 
 must go forth and save the sick." 
 
 " Is it a plague? " she asked. 
 
 He nodded. " They said you would not come to 
 save them," she continued reproachfully. " You came 
 to me because I was your Malise, only for that ? " 
 
 " No, no," he answered ; " I knew not who you were ; 
 I came to save a mother to her child." 
 
 " Thank God, my father," she said. 
 
 With a smile she hid her face in the pillow. At last, 
 leaving her and the child asleep, old Felion went forth 
 into the little city, and the people flocked to him, and 
 for many days he came and went ceaselessly. And 
 once more he saved the city, and the people blessed 
 him ; and the years go on. 
 
THE FORGE IN TPIE VALLEY 
 
 H 
 
 E lay where he could see her working at the forge. 
 As she worked she sang : 
 
 " When God was making the world, 
 
 {Swift is the luind and wliile is the ftre) 
 The feet of his people danced the stars ; 
 There was laughter and swinging bells, 
 And clanging iron and breaking breath, 
 The hammers of heaven making the hills, 
 The vales on the anvil of (lod. 
 
 ( Wild is the fire and low is the xvind.) " 
 
 His eyes were shining, and his face had a pale radi- 
 ance from the reflected light, though he lay in the 
 shadow where he could watch her, while she could not 
 see him. Now her hand was upon the bellows, and the 
 low, white fire seethed hungrily up, and set its teeth 
 upon the iron she held; now it turned the iron about 
 upon the anvil, and the sparks showered about her very 
 softly and strangely. There was a cheerful gravity in 
 her motions, a high, fine look in her face. 
 
 They two live^ alone in the solitudes of Megalou 
 Valley. 
 
 It was night now and the pleasant gloom of the 
 valley was not broken by any sound save the hum of 
 the stream near by, and the song, and the ringing anvil. 
 But into the workshop came the moist, fragrant smell 
 of the acacia and the maple, and a long brown lizard 
 
VM 
 
 352 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 stretched its neck sleepily across the threshold of the 
 door -^peniu"' into the valley. 
 The song went on: 
 
 " When God had finished the world, 
 
 {^Bright was the firt and stveet 7oas the xvind) 
 Up from the valleys came song, 
 To answer the morning stars, 
 And the hand of man on the anvil rang, 
 1 1 is breath was big in his breast, his life 
 Beat strong on the walls of the world. 
 
 {Glad is the ivind and tail is the Jire.) " 
 
 He put his hands to his eyes, and took them away 
 again, as if to make sure that the song was not a dream. 
 Wonder grew upon his thin, bearded face, he ran his 
 fingers through his thick hair in a dazed way. Then 
 he lay and looked, and a rich warm flush crept over 
 his cheek, and stayed there. 
 
 There was a great gap in his memory. 
 
 The evening wore on. Once or twice the woman 
 turned towards the room where the man lay, and lis- 
 tened — she could not see his face from where she stood. 
 At such times he lay still, though his heart beat quickly, 
 like that of an expectant child. His lips opened to 
 speak, but still they remained silent. As yet he was 
 like a returned traveller who does not quickly recog- 
 nise old familiar things, and who is struggling with 
 vague suggestions and forgotten events. As time went 
 on, the woman turned towards the doorway cftener, 
 and shifted her position so that she faced it, and the 
 sparks, flying up, lighted her face with a wonderful 
 irregular brightness, 
 
 " Samantha," he sa>d at last, and his voice sounded 
 so strctuge to him that the word quivered timidly 
 towards her. 
 
RNING 
 
 old of the 
 
 wind) 
 
 :hem away 
 3t a dream, 
 he ran his 
 ^ay. Then 
 crept over 
 
 he woman 
 .y, and Hs- 
 
 she stood, 
 at quickly, 
 
 opened to 
 yet he was 
 kly recog- 
 gling with 
 
 time went 
 ly cftener, 
 it, and the 
 
 wonderful 
 
 :e sounded 
 ed timidly 
 
 THE FORGE IN THE VALLEY 355 
 
 She paused upon a stroke, and some new note in 
 his voice sent so sudden a thrill to her heart that she 
 caught her breath with a painful kind of joy. The 
 hammer dropped upon the anvil, and, in a moment, 
 she stood in the doorway of his room. 
 
 " Francis, Francis," she said in a low whisper. 
 
 He started up from his couch of skins. " Samantha, 
 my wife ! " he cried in a strong proud voice. 
 
 She dropped beside him and caught his head, like a 
 mother, to her shoulder, and set her warm lips on his 
 forehead and hair with a kind of hunger ; and then he 
 drew her face down and kissed her on the lips. Tears 
 hung at her eyes, and presently dropped on her cheeks, 
 a sob shook her, and then she was still, her hands 
 grasping his shoulders. 
 
 "Have I been ill?" he said. 
 
 " You have been very ill, Francis." 
 
 " Has it been long? " 
 
 Her fingers passed tenderly throug,di his grizzled 
 hair. " Too long, too long, my husband," she replied. 
 
 " Is it summer now ? " 
 
 *^ Yes, Francis, it is summer." 
 
 " Was it in the spring, Samantha ? — Yes, I think 
 it was in the spring," he added, musing. 
 
 " It was in a spring." 
 
 " There was snow still on the mountain-top, the 
 river was running high, and wild-fowl were gathered 
 on the island in the lake — yes, I remember, I think." 
 
 " And the men were working at the mine," she 
 whispered, her voice shaking a little, and her eyes 
 eagerly questioning his face. 
 
 " Ah ! the mine — it was the mine, Samantha," he 
 said abruptly, his eyes flashing up, " I was working 
 at the forge to make a great bolt for the machinery. 
 
 :-*'f,*W3^*** 
 
354 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 and someone forgot and set the engine in motion. I 
 ran out, but it was too late . . . and then . . ." 
 
 " And then you tried to save them, Francis, and you 
 were hurt." 
 
 " What month is this, my wife ? " 
 
 " It is December." 
 
 " And that was in October? " 
 
 " Yes, in October." 
 
 "I have been ill since? What happened?" 
 
 " Many were killed, Francis, and you and I came 
 away." 
 
 " Where are we now ? I do not know the place." 
 
 " This is Megalon Valley. You and I live alone 
 here." 
 
 " Why did you bring me here ? " 
 
 " I did not bring you, Francis ; you wished me to 
 come. One day you said to me, * There is a place in 
 IMegalon Valley where, long ago, an old man lived, 
 who had become a stranger among men — a place where 
 the blackbird stays, and the wolf-dog troops and hides, 
 and the damson grows as thick as blossoms on the 
 acacia tree; we will go there.' And I came with 
 you." 
 
 " I do not remember, my wife. What of the mine ? 
 Was I a coward and left the mine ? There was no one 
 understood the ways of the wheel, and rod, and steam, 
 but me." 
 
 " The mine is closed, Francis," she answ(;red gently. 
 ** You were no coward, but — but you 'lad strange 
 fancies." 
 
 " When did the mine close ? " he said with a kind of 
 sorrow ; " I put hard work and good years into it." 
 
 At that moment, when her face drew close to his, the 
 vision of her as she stood at the anvil came to him 
 
INING 
 
 lotion. I 
 ;n . . . 
 >, and you 
 
 ? " 
 id I came 
 
 : place," 
 live alone 
 
 led me to 
 a place in 
 liian lived, 
 ace where 
 and hides, 
 lis on the 
 ame with 
 
 he mine? 
 ras no one 
 md steam, 
 
 ed gently. 
 d strange 
 
 a kind of 
 nto it." 
 to his, the 
 le to him 
 
 THE FORGE IN THE VALLEY 355 
 
 with a new impression, and he said again in a half- 
 frightened way, " When did it close, Samantha? " 
 
 " The mine was jlosed — twelve years ago, my hus- 
 band." 
 
 He got to his feet and clasped her to his breast. A 
 strength came to him which had eluded him twelve 
 years, and she, womanlike, delighted in that strength, 
 and, with a great gladness, changed eyes and hands 
 with him ; keeping her soul still her own, brooding and 
 lofty, as is the soul of every true woman, though, like 
 this one, she labours at a forge, and in a far, un- 
 tenanted country is faithful friend, ceaseless apothecary 
 to a comrade with a disordered mind ; living on savage 
 meats, clothing herself and the other in skins, and, 
 with a divine persistence, keeping a cheerful heart, 
 certain that the intelligence which was frightened from 
 its home would come back one day. It should be 
 hers to watch for the great moment, and give the wan- 
 derer loving welcome, lest it should hurry madly away 
 again into the desert, never to return. 
 
 She had her reward, yet she wept. She had carried 
 herself before him with the bright ways of an unvexed 
 girl these twelve years past ; she had earned the salt of 
 her tears. He was dazed still, but, the doublet of his 
 mind no longer unbraced, he understood what she had 
 been to him, and how she had tended him in absolute 
 loneliness, her companions the wild things of the 
 valley — these and God. 
 
 He drew her into the workshop, and put his hand 
 upon the bellows and churned them, so that the fire 
 roared joyously up, and the place was red with the 
 light. In this light he turned her to him and looked 
 at her. The look was as that of one who had come 
 back from the dead — that naked, profound, uncon- 
 
356 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 ditional gaze which is as deep and honest as the prime- 
 val sense. His eyes fell upon her rich, firm, stately 
 body, it lingered for a moment on the brown fulness 
 of her hair, then her look was gathered to his, and they 
 fell into each other's arms. 
 
 For long they sat in the solemn silence of their joy, 
 and so awed were they by the thing which had come to 
 them that they frit no surprise when a .wolf-dog crav/led 
 over the lizard on the threshold, and stole along the 
 wall with shining, bloody eyes to an inner room, and 
 stayed there munching meat to surfeit and drowsiness, 
 and at last crept out and lay beside the forge in a thick 
 sleep. These two had lived so much with the untamed 
 things of nature, the bellows and the fire had been 
 so long there, and the clang of the anvil was so familiar, 
 that there was a kinship among them, man and beast, 
 with the woman as ruler. 
 
 " Tell me, my wife," he said at last, " what has hap- 
 pened during these twelve years, all from the first. 
 Keep nothing back. I am strong now." He looked 
 around the workshop, then, suddenly, at her, with a 
 strange pain, and they both turned their heads away 
 for an instant, for the same thought was on them. 
 Then, presently, she spoke, and answered his shy, sor- 
 rowful thought before all else. " The child is gone," 
 she softly said. 
 
 He sat still, but a sob was in his throat. He looked 
 at her with a kind of fear. He wondered if his mad- 
 ness had cost the life of the child. She understood. 
 
 " Did I ever sec the child ? " he said. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I sometimes thought that through the 
 b.?be vou would be yourself again. When you were 
 near ha' yon never ceased to look at her and fondle her, 
 aF I thouo-ht very timidl;- ; and you would start some- 
 
 I 
 
RNING 
 
 the prime- 
 rm, stately 
 iwn fulness 
 s, and they 
 
 »f their joy, 
 ad come to 
 og crav;led 
 : along the 
 
 room, and 
 drowsiness, 
 s in a thick 
 le untamed 
 I had been 
 so familiar, 
 
 and beast, 
 
 at has hap- 
 1 the first. 
 He looked 
 ler, with a 
 eads away 
 on them, 
 is shy, sor- 
 i is gone," 
 
 He looked 
 f his mad- 
 erstood. 
 
 rough the 
 you were 
 fondle her, 
 itart some- 
 
 THE FORGE IN THE VALLEY 357 
 
 times and gaze at me with the old wise look hovering 
 at your eyes. But the look did not stay. The child 
 was fond of you, but she faded and pined, and one day 
 as you nursed her you came to me and said, * See, my 
 wife, the little one will not wake. She pulled at my 
 beard and said *' Daddy," and fell asleep.' And I took 
 her from your arms . . . There is a chestnut tree 
 near the door of our cottage at the mine. One night 
 you and I buried her there ; but you do not remember 
 her, do you ? " 
 
 " My child ! My child ! " he said, looking out into 
 the night, and he lifted up his arms and looked at 
 them. " I held her here, and still I never held her ; 
 I fondled her, and yet I never fondled her ; I buried her. 
 yet — to me — she never was born." 
 
 " You have been far away, Francis ; you have come 
 back home. I waited, and prayed, and worked with 
 you, and was patient . . . It is very strange," she 
 continued. " In all these twelve years you cannot 
 remember our past, though you remembered about 
 this place — the one thing, as if God had made it so — 
 and now you cannot remember these twelve years." 
 
 " Tell me now of the twelve years," he urged. 
 
 " It was the same from day to day. When we cam 
 from the mountain, we brought with us the implement - 
 of the forge upon a horse. Now and again as we trav- 
 elled we cut our way through the heavy woods. Y i 
 were changed for tlie better then; a dreadful trot^ble 
 seemed to have gone from your face. There v ..- a 
 strong kind of peace in the valley, and there were so 
 many birds and animals, and the smell of the trees was 
 so fine, that we were not lonely, neither you nor I." 
 
 She paused, thinking, her eye ; looking out to where 
 the Evening Star v;as sailing slowly out of the wood;"d 
 
358 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING 
 
 horizon, his look on her. In the pause the wolf-dog 
 raised its big, sleepy eyes at them, then plunged its 
 head into its paws, its wildness undisturbed by their 
 presence. 
 
 Presently the wife continued : " At last we reached 
 here, and here we have lived, where no human oeing, 
 save one, has ever been. We put up the forge, and in 
 a little hill not far away we found coal for it. The days 
 went on. It was always summer, though there came 
 at times a sharp frost, and covered the ground with 
 a coverlet of white. But the birds were always with us, 
 and the beasts were our friends. 1 learned to love 
 even the shrill cry of the reed hens, and the soft tap-tap 
 of the woodpecker is the sweetest music to my ear 
 after the song of the anvil. How often have you and I 
 stood here at the anvil, the fire heating the iron, and 
 our hammers falling constantly ! Oh, my husband, I 
 knew that only here with God and His dumb creatures, 
 and His wonderful healing world, all sun, and wind, 
 and flowers, and blossoming trees, working as you 
 used to work, as the urst of men worked, would the 
 sane wandering soul return to you. The thought was 
 in you, too, for you led me here, and have been patient 
 also in the awful exile of your mind." 
 
 " I have been as a child, and not as a man," he said 
 gravely. " Shall I ever again be a man, as I once was, 
 Samantha ? " 
 
 ** ^ou cannot see yourself," she said. " A week ago 
 you fell ill, and since then you have been pale and 
 worn ; but your body has been, and is, that of a great 
 strong man. In the morning I will take you to a 
 spring in the hills, and you shall see yourself, my hus- 
 band." 
 
 " He stood up, stretched himself, went to the door. 
 
 
vJING 
 
 volf-dog 
 nged its 
 by their 
 
 reached 
 ,n Deing, 
 e, and in 
 rhc days 
 2Te came 
 ind with 
 ; with us, 
 
 to love 
 ft tap-tap 
 ) my ear 
 ^ou and I 
 iron, and 
 isband, I 
 :reatures, 
 nd wind, 
 r as you 
 ^ould the 
 ught was 
 >n patient 
 
 ," he said 
 once was, 
 
 week ago 
 pale and 
 Df a great 
 you to a 
 , my hus- 
 
 the door, 
 
 THE FORGE IN THE VALLEY 359 
 
 and looked out into the valley flooded with moonlight. 
 He drew in a great drauglit of air, and said, '* The 
 world ! the great, wonderful world, where men live, and 
 love work, and do strong things ! " — he paused, and 
 turned with a trouble in his face. " IVIy wife," he said, 
 " you have lived with a dead man twelve years, and I 
 have lost twelve years in the world. I had a great 
 thought once — an invention — but now — " he hung his 
 head bitterly. 
 
 She came to him, and her hands slid up along his 
 breast to his shoulders, and rested there ; and she said, 
 with a glad smile : " Francis, you have lost nothing. 
 The thing — the invention — was all but finished when 
 you fell ill a week ago. We have worked at it for 
 these twelve years ; through it, I think, you have been 
 brought back to me. Come, there is a little work yet 
 to do upon it; " and she drew him to where ; ■ir...chine 
 of iron lay in the corner. With a great cry he lell upon 
 his knees beside it, and fondled it. 
 
 Then presently, he rose, and caught his wife to his 
 breast. 
 
 Together, a moment after, they stood beside the 
 anvil. The wolf-dog fled out into the night from the 
 shower of sparks, as, in the red light, the two sang to 
 the clanging of the hammers : 
 
 " When God was making the world, 
 
 {Sxvift is the wind and white is the fire) — " 
 
 R*"-y.f,i^ipi!Sf*f*|^^«5»^i-=^iii