Kitabı oku: «Autumn Glory; Or, The Toilers of the Field», sayfa 5

Mathurin, in the shade of the mountain ash, looked on with envy as the team descended the slope of the hill, and the forms of his father and brother, the oxen and mare, grew smaller in the distance.

"François," exclaimed his father, enjoying the feeling of the shaft under his hand, "François, see to Noblet, he is slackening. Touch up Matelot! The mare is drawing to the left. Brisk up, my boy, you look half asleep!"

And, in truth, François was taking no interest in guiding the plough. He was feeling that the time had come for him to speak, and the difficulty of beginning made him walk with head downcast. At the far end of the field they turned and began the ascent, the plough marking a second line of furrows beside the first. From where Mathurin sat he had lost sight of them on the low ground; now the horns of the oxen and his brother's goad came into view, and, to greet the return of the plough, he began with stentorian voice to chant the slow refrain which can be varied or ended at pleasure. The notes were flung far and wide from his powerful chest, embellished with fioriture ancient as the art of ploughing itself. The oxen knew the rhythm, and stepped in time to it; the cadence accompanied the groan of the wheels on their axes; borne on the air, it was wafted afar o'er the hedges, telling other labourers in fields that the plough was at work on the fallow land of La Cailleterie. The cadence rejoiced the farmer's heart. But François remained gloomy. As the plough neared the shade of the ash-tree, Mathurin, whose thoughts were always busied with the future of La Fromentière, said:

"Father, it would be a good thing to re-plant our vineyard that is dying off. As soon as Driot is home we should do it; what think you?"

The farmer stayed his oxen, lifted his hat to cool his hot head, and smiled, well pleased.

"You are always thinking of something to the point, Mathurin. If the wheat comes up well in La Cailleterie, faith of a Lumineau! I will lay in a stock of vines. I am hopeful of our work to-day. Come on, youngster, straighten the harness. Look to your mare, she is hot; coax her a bit, walk beside her, that she may see you and go more quietly."

The team moved off again; a mist of heat enveloped men and beasts; the air was thick with flies; turtle-doves, gorged with seed, took shelter in the ash-trees from the burning heat of the stubble fields. The cripple had ceased his song, and the farmer, as they got to the middle of the field, said:

"It is your turn to tune up now, François. Sing, boy, it will gladden your heart!"

The young man went on a few paces, then began: "Oh! oh! my men, oh! oh! oh!" His voice, of higher register than Mathurin's, made the oxen prick up their ears as it faltered past them; then, all suddenly, it came to a dead stop, rendered mute by the fear that mastered the singer. He pulled himself together, raised his head, and, looking towards the Marais, made a fresh effort; a few more notes faltered out, then a sob choked them, and, crimson with shame, the young man resumed his way in silence, his face turned towards the fallow land, walking in front of his father, who looked at him across the croup of the oxen. No word was said by either until the farmer had finished the furrow; then, at the end of the field, Toussaint Lumineau, troubled to the very depths of his soul, said:

"You have news for me, François, what is it?"

They were some three feet apart, the father standing level with the hedge, his son on the far side of the plough at the head of the oxen.

"That I am going away, father."

"What, François? The heat has turned your head, my boy. Are you feeling ill?" But from the expression of his son's eyes he quickly saw that this was a very different thing from some passing illness; that misfortune was coming.

François had made up his mind to speak. With one hand resting on Noblet's back, as if to support himself, trembling and nervous, yet with hard, insolent look, he cried:

"I have had enough of this. I shall cut it."

"Enough of what, my lad?"

"Enough of digging the ground, enough of looking after the cattle, enough of drudgery at seven-and-twenty to make money that all goes to pay the rent of the farm. I mean to be my own master, and make money for myself. I have got a situation on the railway, and I begin to-morrow – to-morrow, do you hear?" His voice rose in a kind of frenzy.

"I am accepted; there is nothing more to be said. The thing is done. I am taking Eléonore to La Roche to keep house for me. She, too, has had enough of this. She has found a good place, a shop where she will make more than with you; at any rate, she will have a chance of marrying… And I don't see that we have acted badly towards you in what we have done. Don't say that we have! And don't make that rueful face about it! We have served our time with you, father, have waited patiently for André's return. Now that he is coming home, let him help you. It is his turn."

The unexpected blow had stupefied the farmer; he had grown very white. With set teeth, one arm resting on the plough, he remained speechless, his eyes fixed upon François as if demented. Slowly the full force of the situation, with all its pain, filtered into his soul.

"But, François, what you tell me cannot be true; Eléonore never complained of her work."

"Oh yes, she has; not to you."

"As for you, you have always had plenty of help. If I have sometimes reproached you for idleness, it has been because times are hard for everyone. But now that I am going to take on a farm-servant, now that another fortnight will see Driot home, we shall be four of us, counting myself, who am still of some use. You will not go, François?"

"Yes."

"Where will you do better than at home? Have you been short of food?"

"No."

"Have I ever refused you clothes, or even money for your tobacco?"

"No."

"François, it must be that military service has changed your heart towards us."

"That may be."

"But say that you will not leave us?"

The young man put his hand into his coat pocket, and held out the letter.

"I have to be there at noon to-morrow," he said. "If you don't believe me, read for yourself."

The father stretched out his hand across the team for the letter, trembling so much that he could scarcely take it. Once in his hands, without opening it, in a sudden access of indignation he crumpled and tore it into atoms, then crushed the pieces under his sabots into the soft earth.

"There," he cried, "is an end to the letter. Now are you going?"

"That alters nothing," returned François.

He would have passed his father, but a powerful hand was laid upon his shoulders, a voice commanded:

"Stay here!"

And the son was constrained to stay.

"Who engaged you, François?"

"The head of the office."

"No; who advised you? You did not do this thing by yourself, you had the help of some gentleman. Who was it?"

The young man hesitated for a moment, then, feeling himself a prisoner, stammered out:

"M. Meffray."

With one thrust the farmer sent him flying.

"Run; harness La Rousse to the dog-cart. Quick! I am going myself to M. Meffray."

So he shouted in his rage. But when he saw his son obey him and take the path towards the farm – when he found himself alone in the far end of his field, he was seized with anguish. So far he had ever found help in the difficulties of his life; this time, taken unawares by danger in the full swing of work, he turned him slowly round as if moved by habit, and searched the landscape as far as his eyes would carry, for a helper, a support, someone who should defend his cause and advise with him. His oxen standing still, looked at him out of their large soft eyes. The first object he saw, in among the trees, was the belfry of Sallertaine. He shook his head. No, the Curé, the good old friend he consulted so willingly, could do nothing. Toussaint Lumineau knew him to be powerless against town officials and authorities, all the great unknown outside the parish. His gaze left the church, passed over the farm without stopping, but rested awhile on the pointed roofs of La Fromentière. Ah! were the Marquis but there! He feared nothing: neither uniforms, nor titles, nor long words that poor uncultured people could not understand. And expense was nothing to him. He would have made the journey from Paris to prevent a Maraîchin from leaving the soil. Alas! the Château was empty. No longer the Master to appeal to… The old farmer's eyes fell upon the two newly made furrows rising before him to the ash-tree on the hill; then it struck him that Mathurin was waiting and wondering, and that he must say something to prevent his growing uneasy.

"Ohé!" cried he, "Lumineau!"

Over the curve of the hill, through the still air, a voice replied:

"Here I am. You are not coming up again?"

"No; the chain has snapped. I must take back the team."

"All right."

"Do not mind waiting a bit; Rousille will come to fetch you. I am going round by the slope of the meadow."

At the foot of the field, filled in with bundles of thorn, was a gap in the hedge leading on to a narrow slip of meadow, and thence to the farm. To avoid having to answer Mathurin's questions, the farmer touched up his oxen and took this way back. In the middle of the courtyard he perceived the dog-cart already harnessed, François standing beside it in his Sunday clothes.

"Fasten up the oxen," he said roughly. Then, passing in front of him, he opened the house door and called:

"Eléonore!"

There was no answer. Going through the house-place he passed into the kitchen, where he met Rousille.

"Where is your sister?"

"She was talking to François in the courtyard just now. Shall I look for her?"

"No, that will do. I will see her later on. Rousille, we have some business at Chalons, François and I. We shall be back before supper. Go to Mathurin, who will be tired of waiting so long at La Cailleterie, and bring him back."

Without another word, the farmer returned to the yard, where François awaited him. Getting into the cart, he signed to his son to take the place beside him, and with a cut of the whip sent the mare, unaccustomed to such harsh usage, off at a gallop.

"Where are they going at such speed?" thought the few spectators whom they passed on their way – spectators whom nothing escapes: innkeepers standing at their doors, tramps on the highway, peasants lopping the trees. "What has come to them? Old Lumineau is lashing La Rousse, and jerking the reins like a groom afraid of his master, and not a word does he say to his lad."

In fact the farmer's wrath was growing as he meditated his wrongs; he muttered between his teeth what he would say to that Meffray, while his stalwart arms, eager for strife and vengeance, lashed into the mare. François, on the contrary, exhausted by the effort he had made, had relapsed into his usual apathy, and suffered himself to be carried on towards his fate, looking at the hedges with vacant stare.

It was he, who on arrival at the Place by the Halles-Neuves of Chalons, jumped down and tied the mare to a ring attached to one of the pillars; then followed his father who turned up one of the streets on the left, and stopped before a modern, narrow, red-brick building. An iron plate, under the door bell, was inscribed, "Jules Meffray, Ex-Sheriff's Officer, Town Councillor."

The farmer pulled the bell vigorously.

"Is your master in?" he asked the servant who opened the door.

The girl examined the peasant who inquired for her master in a tone and look not of the pleasantest, and who presented himself in work-day clothes soiled with mud, and replied:

"I think he is. What may be your business?"

"Tell him that Toussaint Lumineau, of La Fromentière, wants to speak to him; and let him be quick, I am in a hurry."

Astonished, not daring to show Lumineau into the dining-room where M. Meffray was wont to receive his clients, the maid left the farmer and his son standing in the shabby passage at the foot of the stairs. So taken aback was she, that she did not see the shamefaced François hidden in the background, but only the stalwart old peasant, whose broad shoulders almost blocked the way as he stood erect, hat on head, under the ill-kept hall lamp that was never lighted.

A few seconds later the garden door opened, and a tall, stout man came in, dressed in a white flannel suit, a cap of the same material on his head; his face was clean-shaven, his small eyes blinking, probably with the sudden change from the outer glare. This was M. Meffray, member for Chalons, an ambitious small tradesman, who, originally one of them, was possessed by a secret animosity towards the peasant class; and who, living amongst them, had only learnt to know their defects of which he made use.

Informed of the manner in which Lumineau had presented himself, dreading some violence, he stopped short at the foot of the staircase, rested his elbow on the banisters, and touching the brim of his cap with three fingers, said carelessly:

"They should have shown you in, farmer. But as it seems that you are in haste, we can talk just as well here. I have done your son a service, is that your reason for coming?"

"Just so," returned Lumineau.

"Can I do anything more for you?"

"I want to keep my boy, M. Meffray."

"Keep him? What do you mean?"

"Yes; that you should undo what you have done."

"But that depends upon him. Have you had your summons, François?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, my friend, if you do not want to take the post, there is no lack of candidates to fill your place, as you know. I have now ten other applications which I have far more reason to support than I had yours. For after all, you Lumineaus, you do not vote with us in the elections. So do you wish to give up the place?"

"No, sir."

"It is I who will not have him go," broke in Toussaint Lumineau, "I want him at La Fromentière."

"But he is of age, farmer!"

"He is my son, M. Meffray. It is his part to work for me. Put yourself in my place, I who am an old man. I had counted on leaving my farm to him, as my father left it to me. He goes away, and takes my daughter with him. So I lose two children, and through your fault."

"Excuse me; I did not seek him; he came to me."

"But without you he would not be going, nor Eléonore either! They had to have recommendations. You call that doing a service, M. Meffray? Did you even know what would be best for François – had you ever seen him in his home to know if he was unhappy there? Monsieur Meffray, you must give him back to me."

"Settle it with your son. It does not concern me."

"You will not speak to those who have entrapped my son, and annul the agreement?" Advancing a step, and pointing at him with extended arm, Toussaint Lumineau said in a loud voice: "Then you have done my son more harm in one single day than I in all my life."

M. Meffray's heavy face crimsoned.

"Be off, old hound!" he shouted. "Be off, take your son! Manage your own affairs. Ah! these peasants! Such are the thanks one gets for troubling about them!"

The farmer seemed not to have heard; he remained motionless. But there was a strange fire in his eyes; from the depths of his tortured heart, from the depths of the faith taught to his race for generations past, the words came to his lips:

"You shall answer for them," he said.

"How so?"

"There where they are going they will both be lost, M. Meffray. You shall answer for their eternal perdition."

As though stupefied by a speech so unlike any he had ever heard, the town councillor made no reply; it needed time for him to take in an idea so different from those usually filling his mind; then throwing a contemptuous glance at the huge peasant standing erect before him, he turned on his heel, and moved to the garden door, with a muttered:

"Boor – go!"

Toussaint Lumineau and his son went out into the street, walking silently side by side until they reached the Place. There the father, unfastening the mare, said as he was about to put his foot on the step of the cart:

"Get up, François. We will go home."

But the young man drew back.

"No," he said, "the thing is done; you will not make me alter it. Besides, I arranged with Eléonore, who must have left La Fromentière by now. You will not find her there when you go back." He had taken off his hat in farewell, and was looking uneasily at his old father, who, leaning against the shaft with half-closed eyes, seemed about to swoon. Under the colonnade of the Halles there was not a soul; a few women in their shops round the Place were carelessly looking at the two men. After a moment, François drew a little nearer and held out his hand, doubtless to clasp that of his father for the last time; but seeing him approach the old man revived, motioned his son away, sprang into the cart, and lashing up La Rousse, drove off at a gallop.

CHAPTER VI.
THE APPEAL TO THE MASTER

Eléonore had suffered herself to be persuaded. She had left her home. Weak, and easily led, she had for months past listened too readily to the promptings of vanity and laziness, which, censured by her father at La Fromentière, could be yielded to at will in the town. To have no more baking to do, no more cows to milk, to be in some sort a lady, to wear a hat trimmed with ribbons – such were the reasons for which she went out into the unknown, with only her brother, who would be away all day, for protector. Eléonore had yielded from force of example, and in complete ignorance of the step she was taking. Thus she cast herself adrift, and exposed herself to life in a suburb, to the familiarities of frequenters of the café, without dreaming of its dangers, with the utter ignorance of the peasant who knows nothing beyond the troubles incidental to life in the country.

The separation was accomplished. At the moment that the farmer drove away, intent upon the hope of still recovering his children, Eléonore had hurriedly left the shelter of the barn where she had been hiding, and, despite the entreaties of Marie-Rose and even of Mathurin, going from room to room she had hurriedly collected the little store of personal clothing and trinkets belonging to her. To all Rousille's pleading, as to the calmer adjurations of Mathurin, she had replied:

"It is François' wish, my dears! I cannot tell if I shall be happy; but it is too late now. My promise is given."

She was so greatly in fear of seeing her father come back that she was almost frenzied with haste. Quickly she made up her bundle, went out from La Fromentière, and reached the hollow road, where, crouching beneath the hedge, she waited for the steam tram that runs between Fromentière and Chalons. There some hours later François was to rejoin her.

Meanwhile the farmer, driving La Rousse at her greatest speed, had returned home.

"Eléonore!" he had cried.

"Gone," Mathurin had answered.

Then, half-mad with grief, the old man had flung the reins across the steaming beast, and without a word of explanation had stridden away in the direction of Sallertaine. Had he been actuated by a last hope and idea? Or did his deserted house inspire him with dread?

Night was falling. He had not yet returned. A damp, encircling mist, silent as death, enveloped all around. In the living-room of La Fromentière, beside the fire that no one tended, beside the simmering pot that murmured as if in low plaint, the two remaining inmates of the farm sat watching, but how differently! Rousille, nervous, burning with fever, could not keep still; she was for ever rising from her chair, clasping her hands, and murmuring: "My God, my God!" then going to the open door to look out, shivering, into the dark, thick night.

"Listen!" she said.

The cripple listened, then said:

"It is the goatherd of Malabrit taking home his flock."

"Listen again!"

A distant sound of barking, borne on the silent air, died away in the stillness.

"That is not Bas-Rouge's bark," returned Mathurin.

So from hour to hour, and minute to minute, a step, a cry, the rolling of a vehicle, would keep their senses on the alert.

What were they expecting? Their father, who came not. But Rousille, younger, more credulous, was expecting the others too, or if not both, at least one, either François or Eléonore, who, repentant – was it too much to hope – had come back. Oh, what joy it would be, what rapture to see one of them! It seemed as if the other would have the right to go if one came back to take his place in the home. The young girl felt raised out of herself as a vague sense of duty came over her; she, the only woman, the only one to act in her deserted home.

Mathurin sat in a stooping posture by the hearth, his feet wrapped in a rug, the glow of the fire reddening the beard crushed beneath his chin. For hours he had sat so, never moving, speaking as little as possible; from time to time tears rolled down his cheeks; at other times Rousille, looking at him, was astonished to see the shadow of a smile cross his face – a smile she could in nowise understand.

Nine o'clock struck.

"Mathurin," exclaimed the girl, "I am afraid that some misfortune has befallen father."

"He may be talking over his trouble with the Curé, or the Mayor."

"So I tell myself; yet, all the same, I am frightened."

"That's because you are not accustomed to wait as I am. What do you want to do?"

"To go towards Sallertaine to meet him."

"Go, if you like."

Rousille ran to her room to get her black cloak. When she came back, looking like a little nun, she found that Mathurin had thrown off the rug, and was standing up. His crutches were lying on the ground, and by an effort of will he stood nearly upright, resting one hand on the table, the other on the back of his chair. He looked at his sister with an air of pride and of suppressed pain, perspiration standing on his forehead.

"Rousille," he said, "what should you do if father did not come back?"

"Oh, don't say such things," she exclaimed, covering her eyes with her hand. "And do not exert yourself to stand like that; you make me feel quite ill!"

"Well, I," continued Mathurin gravely, "should take the management here. I feel strong enough. I feel that I am recovering."

"Sit down; sit down, I beg of you. You will fall."

But he remained standing until she reached the door. Scarce had she crossed the threshold before she heard the human mass sink together with a groan. She turned back, saw that he was in a sitting posture on the chair, pressing both hands to his side, doubtless to still his fast-beating heart; then noiselessly, timid as a fawn rising out of the bracken, she ran into the courtyard, and out on to the road.

The rising moon had lessened the mist, already one could see a considerable distance; in another hour it would be clear moonlight. Avoiding the shade of the hedges, Marie-Rose followed the middle of the path that, leading past the dwarf orchard, skirted the meadows; she was frightened, almost running, nor did she slacken speed until she reached the edge of the Marais, where the road suddenly widening like a river that falls into the sea, mingled its grasses with those of the marshland. Then, reassured by the moonlight, she stood still and listened. Where could her father be?

She hoped to hear footsteps on the road, or even Bas-Rouge's bark. But no; in the dream-like mist that incessantly formed and dispersed about her, amid the dim moving lights and shadows around, there was but one sound, that of the distant roll of the sea against the shores of La Vendée. She was about to turn, follow the dyke to reach the bridge of Sallertaine and its familiar houses, when a well-known whistle, like that of a plover, met her ear. Could it be possible?

The young girl's blood rushed to her heart; she stopped short in rapture and astonishment, without strength to look behind her. Motionless she stood, listening to the coming of one her heart had recognised. He came by the road she had come, from the thickets of La Fromentière. Erect, trembling, she stood on the grass-grown road, felt two hands placed on her shoulders, then a rush of air that moved the right side of her cloak, and a man had lightly sprung in front of her, with the words:

"It is I, Rousille. I have not frightened you?"

There he was in his brown coat, stick in hand, looking well pleased at his piece of audacity.

Notwithstanding her distress, Rousille could not repress a cry of joy. A smile rose to her face like an air bubble on troubled waters that none can hinder, and that widens as it goes.

"Oh how happy I am!" she said. But then quickly resumed: "No, I am wrong to speak like that. You do not know of our trouble at home. François has gone, Eléonore has gone; I am all alone there, and I have come out to find father, who has not come home. I have no time to spare for you, Jean Nesmy. It would be wrong!"

He watched the smile fade from her face in the moonlight; and as she drew her cloak about her to resume her way, he said hurriedly:

"I know all, Rousille. For the last three days I have been at Chalons trying to find a situation as near here as possible. I have not found one. But this evening I heard of François' going; it is the talk of the town in one way and another. I ran at once to La Fromentière, keeping out of sight. I watched you in the garden, in the barn. Since sundown I have heard you crying; but the farmer was the only one I saw go out."

"Where is he – at Sallertaine?"

"No; he went, but came back. I was in hiding about here. He passed just where we are now standing, and he was gesticulating and talking to himself as if he were demented."

Terrified, she asked:

"Was that long ago?"

"A quarter of an hour."

"Which way did he go?"

Jean Nesmy pointed in the direction of the mainland, and to the wooden heights further away.

"To the grounds of the Château, I believe. He jumped the fence some hundred yards from here."

"Thanks and good-bye, Jean. I must go."

But he, taking her hand, grew very grave in his turn.

"Yes," he replied, "I know quite well – but myself – soon you will have me no longer. To-morrow I am going home to the Bocage; and I came back to ask you one thing, Rousille. What shall I say to my mother to-morrow when she asks me, 'Is it really true that she loves you? What word of plighted troth did she give you when you parted? My poor Jean, when true-hearted girls see their sweethearts going away from them they say some word that is as binding as a betrothal ring, something to comfort him in absence. What did she of La Fromentière say to you?' If you have said no word, she will not believe me!"

The dim solitude enveloping them threw their shadows faintly on the grey grass. Rousille, her sweetheart's glowing eyes fixed upon her, answered sadly:

"Do not come back until Driot is well settled at home. Some months hence, in mid-winter, if our neighbours who frequent your markets tell you that he is working like a true farmer, that he is to be seen at fairs and gatherings, above all, that he is courting a girl at Sallertaine, then come back and speak to father. My father will not hear of a Boquin for son-in-law; but if I will have no other husband than you – if André speaks for me, who can tell? Father spoke well of you after you went."

"Really, Rousille? What did he say?"

"No, not now. I must be going. Good-bye."

He raised his hat with a natural courtesy that sat well upon him; nor did he seek to detain her longer.

Already Rousille, turning her back upon Sallertaine, was running across the meadow; she had reached the last bushes that border the Marais, her cloak fluttering in the mist. For more than a minute after she had disappeared beyond the fence Jean Nesmy remained motionless, on the same spot, where the words she had spoken were still ringing in his ears. Then slowly, as one learning by heart who looks not about him, he took his way towards Sallertaine and on from thence to Chalons. His heart sang with joy as he repeated to himself: "In mid-winter, if our neighbours who frequent your markets tell you that he is working like a true farmer, come back…"

The one thing he saw on the road to Chalons was that the topmost leaves of the willows were already turning yellow, and that the branches were growing leafless.

Rousille, through a gap in the fence, had made her way into a stubble field, thence through a narrow belt of wood. Then finding that she was in the gravel walk of an avenue, she paused, terrified by the solitude, and seized by the instinctive respect for the seigniorial domain, where even then her people ventured but rarely, from fear of displeasing the Marquis. She was in the outskirts of the park. On all sides, lit by the peaceful light of the moon, were sloping lawns, broken now by groups of forest-trees forming islands of black shade, now disappearing in the blue mist of distance. Sometimes in light, sometimes in shadow, Rousille followed the path, her eyes on the watch, her heart beating wildly. She was seeking marks of footsteps on the gravel; straining to see objects amid the dense thickets. Was that her father over there, that dark form through the wood? No, it was but the pile of a fence overgrown with brambles. Everywhere thorn-bushes, roots, dead branches impeded the moss-grown paths. How neglect had grown with years! The master absent, all was deserted, gone to waste. As she pursued her way, Rousille began to realise more keenly her sorrow at her brother's and sister's flight. They too, perhaps, would never come back to their home; fear in her gave place to grief.

Suddenly, the path winding round a clump of cedars, she found herself in front of the Château, with its huge main building flanked by towers and pointed roofs, on which the weather-cocks that once told the direction of the wind were now motionless with rust. Night owls were silently chasing each other round the gables; the windows were shut, the ground-floor secured with shutters strongly battened.

Anxious as she was, the young girl could not but stop for a moment to look at the melancholy pile, stained by winter rains, already as grey as any ruin; and as she stood there on the broad carriage-drive, her ear detected a distant murmur of words.