The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXIX, Issue 40, 3 October 1901, Page 23

The Storyteller

IN THE BLUE.

' MA'AMSEKLE DERY ! ' called a shrill, girlish voice ; repeating the name a second time as the individual addressed remained obstinately deaf. Then the door of the cottage opened and there was a vision of a round-faced, rosy-cheeked worna*^ already in the decline of life, but full of a good humor which the vicissitudes of the years had been powerless to subdue; an irrepressible flow of good spirits, which resembled nothing so much as the mountain streamlet after heavy rain.

"Ah, let us see!" she cried, cheerily. "It is the little Cecile who calls. But .what is it, my child, brings you so early to see me, and at the time of my menage too? For I expect the visit of Monsieur le Cure, who is to pass by this road to-day or to-morrow. And see, my child, I scour, I scrub, I sweep. The interior will be clean— that's certain.'

She threw wide the door with honest pride, for the girl's inspection of the snow-white floor, settle and chairs; the straight, high backs of the latter flaunting bits of colored ribbon and tidies of coarse lace. Cecile looked with interest, but without surprise, at the shining aspect of her friend's domicile. She was accustomed to the cleanliness which reigned at home, and which she herself had to aid her mother in maintaining ; and so the ever-recurring house-cleanings, preceding every social event were familiar to her.

' But your cleaning, it is all done, Ma'amselle!' Cecile urged. 'Every thing is shining— ah! yes, for sure. And I am come to have my fortune told.'

' Your fortune at this hour on a working day ! My girl you are crazy !' But the shrewd, humorous eyes twinkled and a smile lurked behind the firm-set mouth. ' Please Ma'amselle, just for onee 1 ' pleaded Cecile. ' And what if the visit of Monsieur le Cure should surprise us? He will not countenance these diversions, harmless though they be ' IHe will not pass so early! coaxed the maiden.

She made a charming figure standing on the step outside the cottage door. Her features almost Grecian in their regularity, her eyes dark and velvety, her cheeks rose and brown commingled, her black hair neatly braided; her slender alert figurerecalling the deer that still in remote places haunts the Canadian forests— were all touched by the morning sun. Her frock — a very simple one of green, faded and patched, but exquisitely clean — was worn with an unconscious grace that a princess might have envied. Sihe was a child of the soil, this Cecile ; and the mountain village was quite proud of her budding beauty. Ma'mselle Dery sighed as she looked at her. ' Our beauties they have mostly had sad lots,' she reflected. ' There was Jeannie with the crippled brother, and Marie, and—' she interrupted herself. ' But come in !' she said ; ' the fortune must be told. When one is young that cannot wait.' She busied herself tidying here and there before she went to the cupboard to bring out the mystic blue, in which homely article she was supposed to read the mysteries of the future. She drew her highbacked rocking-chair to the door, with a small bowl of blue in her lap. Cecile, her heart in her eyes, sat down upon the wooden step, solemn as though she were about to assist at some occult ceremony. Ma'amselle Dery never explained by what process she discovered the threads of destiny in the indigo. But she bent

her head over the bowl, examined its contents attentively, and presently began to mutter and to make pronouncements after the manner of the most approved sorceress. The wind swept down from the old mountain, which btood as ever scornful and aloof from all those village atoms who came into being, dwelt a longer or a shorter period in its shadow, and disappeared thence into the whirlpool of life, or were borne downward to take their places in the silent city on the river banks. The breeze stirred a tress or two which had escaped from the severe plamness of Cecile's hairdressing and fanned her hot cheeks, as with intent gaze she silently awaited the reading of her future. ' See !' cried Ma'amselle Dery. It is a surprise for you and a journey —

yes, a journey. ' A journey ! ' cried Cecile. ' For me, who never has been farther than the river village ?'

' For you it may be, lam not •ure. There will be a letter first.'

Cecile blushed a little. A letter was an event at the mountain; and, besides, Cecile wondered if M. Auclair at the post-office knew all that was inside the letters passing through his hands. He seemed as if he did, with his wise look and his spectacles.

' There is someone connected with this journey, my little one ; and also connected with you. Perhaps you are to journey together ' Now Ma'amselle Dery's eyes wer« very merry indeed, and her red cheeks were wrinkled with laughter.

' Someone,' she went on, ' who is not papa, because he is not old '

Cecile grew very red

' Perhaps it is the big brother, Jean,' said the fortune-teller, teasingly

' It cannot be ' ' cried Cecile, with astonishing promptitude ' Jean will be at the Shanties till spring He went last week.'

' Well, but this journey will be made before the snows,' resumed the woman, chuckling. ' There is a letter, a journey, and what next ° A church, — yes, a church, full of people, and there is & priest, vestments and all—'

' Here is the priest, but without his vestments,' said a voice at their elbow.

Ma'amselle very nearly dropped the bowl of blue. Cecile, still blushing, made a terrified reverence to the new arrival and would have run but that the Cure called her back He then turned to the chief offender, shaking his finger at her, silently at first.

' When will you have done with these fooleries ">' he questioned. 'And what nonsense is it you have been putting into this young head ">'

The priest smiled indulgently, as he spoke, at the abashed Cecile

' I was advising her to marry young. Monsieur le Cure , and not to wait, like me, to comb St. Catherine's tresses,' said Ma'amselle

'Jt was your own dcung, Victorine Dery,' observed the Cure.

' You would have it so, they tell me ' ' Ah, well ' ah, well ' that is all past and pone,' laughed the rosy one ' But 1 will have this Cecile to manage otherwise.' ' And with whom are you marrying the child ° asked the pnest, the twinkle m his eye corresponding to the merry glance of the spinster

' Oh, but I cannot tell ' ' cried she ' There are no names to be mentioned.' ' I see ! The blue does not give names : it is anonymous,' remarked the priest ; then, turning with sudden gravity to Cecile, who stood

downcast beside him : ' Pay no heed to witches, whether they dabble . in cards or in blue, in tea leaves or in magic mirrors. Your destiny, *By child, is otherwise regulated.' Here he paused, with a certain sadness in his tone. ' Ood holds that in the hollow of His hand,' he resumed. ' The advice of your parents, the inclination of your own heart, may assist in shaping the future; but, above all, prayer, reflection. I have seen bo many in my time. Marriage is the summit of their wishes. It is the crown to which they all aspire, — too often a crown of thorns.'

The words were spoken almost as in a reverie, while the priest leaned upon his stick, looking thoughtfully away into the distances of those eternal pine forests clothing the mountain slopes.

' And their dreams,' he went on in the same tone, ' are too often as the moonshine that lights the dark places of this earth for a moment, and, vanishing, leaves deeper darkness behind.'

Cecile listened with a strange gravity upon her young face. There is a dim, lurking fear of the unseen, the unknown, in every human heart. And she felt it, though the sunlight was dancing and glowing about her with the Witchery of its morning freshness. Ma'amselle Dery listened too, her rosy face grown grave. She knew — those white hairs upon her head had told her— that what the priest said was true, and that, one way or another, there is ever a deal of tragedy lurking behind %hQ comedy which youth so charmingly, plays.

' But,' resumed the priest, suddenly pulling himself together, ' here am 1 worse than Victorine herself, setting out for a dismal sort of prophet, when, after all, there is plenty of sunshine, plenty of happiness, in this old earth, if we only go the right, way to nnd it. But I can do a little telling of the .future, though I have no bowl of blue 'nor no pack of cards in my soutane pocket. A letter, said your blue ? Well, it has come, my good Victorine ; though it is not for Cecile at all, but for her old parish priest. Now, do you know, my wiseacre, what news this letter brings ? ' He said this with so droll a look at Victorine that she was greatly amused and laughed aloud.

' Nor you, my little ono ? Well, then, I shall tell you both. It announces the speedy arrival in this villago of a certain young man. I am on my way now to prepare Antoino Lajoie and his wife for tJtie coming of their son '

He looked away, that he might not appear to notice how very red Cecile had grown at this announcement, and continued genially : ' Now, this young man has inquired in his letter about certain of my parishioners — not the grand mothers, you understand,' — and he wants to know if one Cecile Dubue is htill unmarried or if she is promised to anyone.'

Cecile shook her head

'No ? So I thought. Good ! I will inform this young man that the said Cecile is free, disengaged, of sound mind and heart, I suppose." ' Oh, as to my heart, Monsieur le Cure,' said Cecile, rallying a little, ' that is all right for sure ! '

'So much the better,' said the priest, with suspicious gravity. ' I will add that information to tho other.'

• Oli, well— but if anyone thinks,' began Cecile.

' But no one thinks, my child,' said the priest. ' And as to that nonsense which I heard our good Victorino telling you about journeys and churches and priests, is all—indigo. Why. my girl, we hhall have you going off to the good nuns on the other side of the river.'

' What if one has not the vocation, Monsieur le Cure,' faltered Cecile.

' Oh, so it is not there you would go !' cried the pastor much amused.

■' That is still another point for Antoine the younger.'

' Oh, Antoine is nothing whatever to me ! ' cried Cecile.

' Indeed !. Then it is another whom Victorine has perceived in the blue. Well, I hope he is a good man ; and I shall put on my grand vestments — grander even than Victorine has imagined — to perform the wedding ceremony.'

' But there is none other,' said Cecile — ' I mean that there is no one at all.'

The priest's smile was very kind as he bade Cecile ' good-day,' observing to Victorine that he would be back that way later for his formal visit.

' It will be a match, after all, and a good one,' he mused. ' I want our girls to marry our young men ; and Antoine will come back here once his father has given him the farm. He has made a little money ; he is a good boy, and Cecile is a treasure.

He paused abruptly for a parting shot at Victorine :

'If I catch you telling fortunes with your blue any more ! '

' Yet it is coming true, and your reverence sees it ! ' cried Victorine, with merry defiance. ' I have made many a match with my blue— many a couple I have sent down to you.'

' And some of them wish themselves back again — in the blue,' laughed the priest.

' That is not my affair, Monsieur le Cure,' said the teller of fortunes.

' I shall have to denounce you some day for an incorrigible witch,' the priest called back. He was already trudging forward, his cassock caught up at the back out of the reach of the dusty road.

Cecile stood twisting and untwisting her fingers a very symbol of lovely maidenhood busied with its first life problem.

' Are your fortunes true ?' she asked, wistfully.

' True as the sun ! ' said Ma'amselle, confidently. Did not the priest himself bring news of that letter which I saw in the blue ? and of a journey, that of Antoine ? I knew him at once in the bowl, and sure as the sun you were beside him in a white frock. It will be before the snows that wedding.'

' Oh, no, no !' cried Cecile. ' Antoine has not even asked me.' ' There was a proposal in the blue.' ' But you did not tell me.' ' Because the arrival of Monsieur le Cure prevented.' ' I do not know yet if I shall accept Antoine.' ' You would do well,' said Victorine, pretending to be deceived ; but if not him there is Henri Dubois.' Cecile tossed her head. ' And then, our good Antoine might think of Lucie Prefontame,' ventured the wily woman. ' Oh, she has red hair and a wicked temper !' flared up Cecile. ' And Antoine does not care for her ' ' She has money,' urged Victorine. ' He might have to arrange himself with the rest, since you do not care for him.' ' I did not say that. You must not tell him that.' ' I will tell him nothing unless he would have his fortune told. And now, my pretty one go home and let me prepare for the formal visit of our pastor. He will be returning from Lajoies'.' And so lie did some hours later, with the notary, who was to accompany him in his pastoral rounds This gentleman wore his hair well brushed up on end, a pair of shining spectacles, a black suit, and a professional gravity which did not permit him to smile when the priest observed jocosely to Ma'amselle Dery :

' You did not see our fi lend the notary in your blue, and yet he must be at the wedding. They cannot marry, those two, without him.'

The notary looked into his hat as if he saw a document there, with its great red seal staring him in the face, while Victorine explained :

' You did not give me time to read my blue. You came entirely too sood, Monsieur le Cure".'

' Ye?, I oame too soon,— that often happens,' assented the priest Presently the i>ota>y, who had been meditating, asked in a d< ep voice : 'If a marriage v> as probable between the son of Antoine Lajoe, of th« mountain village, and the daughter of Elie Dubue, of the same 7'

That question was put in so official a tone that it startled the listeners And it still more startled a young man who was coming up the road with a hand- satchel and who had paused near Ma'amtelle's door. It had been one of the familiar places of his childhood. Ma'amselle had given him many a handful of nuto, many a doughnut of her own making. His thought had been to enter and Bay ' Good-day 1' to this friend of his youth. The voices within had arrested him on the threshold, and he heard that solemn inquiry. It amazed him. It was weird almost ; for the shadows of the afternoon were gathering. He stood still, half dazed, and looked about on that familiar scene,— the mountain dominating all. It had Beemed so lofty to his boyish eyes, even when he had climbed its rugged sides, with a sense of having accomplished a great feat. He had Been higher hills Bince then, and had accomplished harder tasks. There was the road, tugged and dusty as ever, running downward to the station, with grassy edges and hedges or fences overrun with greenery ; there were the orchards and the honey, the farms and the cottage?, all with the kindly sense of home upon them. He recalled the past with a vividness that was painful almost. Why is it indeed that the heart forever regrets and strives to bring back some distant time to which it attaches itself, — with a feverish desire, perhaps, to arrest that swift, inevitable journey onward ? Antoine's wandering mind came back with a bound to that question which the notary had just then repeated, and to which the priest, desiring to turn the matter into a jest, had replied : 1 Oh, as for that I Well, so far that marriage exists only in the indigo of our good Victorine.'

' Only in the indipo.' The words struck a chill to Antoine's heart. He remembered how the good-natured spinster had been wont to tell their fortunes thus of yore, always declaring her predictions ' true as the sun ' ; and how rarely they were verified, save where ehe had spoken from previous knowledge. He, nevertheless, felt rather annoyed that the priest should have treated it all as a jest. Surely, stranger things have happened than that he should have come back and married his playmate. Cecile, on his home-corn iDgs, had received his attentions favorably. And yet she waß beautiful, and mupt have been told so often in his absence ; while he was plain and rough for all his travelling. Indeed, his travelling had made him realise his deficiencies ; and he was an honest lad, underrating rather than overrating his advantages.

' It is only in the blue,' Ma'amselle said ; • but you will see it come true as surely as the sun has risen to-day. Yes, you will see.'

Antoine blessed her for her confidence. But the good priest rose with a hasty summons to the notary. 'Come, my friend, you will have time and to spare for preparing your deed,' he Baid, pleasantly. 'He will prepare it, nevertheless,' said Viotorine, whimsically obstinate. ' Adieu, Victorioe I' said the priest. ' May I find you better occupied when I pass again than striving to weave dreams into realities ! '

1 It is what we are all doing with our lives, we of the laity, at least.'

The prit st did not answer. He was busy helping the notary with the horse. Ma'amBelle Btood on the threshold to ccc them off.

1 It will come true,' she cried gaily, ' with all respect to your reverence I ' ' It may, in spite of your blue,' answered the priest, as he drove away. Antoine, who had hidden, now walked away, with the red glow from the west in his face. He had to pass Gecile'a cottage.

She was standing at the gate, In a muslin frock, with rich, blooming flowers all about her. Antoine s heart misgave hint. The red glow was still in hit eyes. He was strangely agitated, and he spoke out as he would not have done under other oiroumstanoes.

' Ceoile,' he said, abruptly, ' there has been some talk ; Ma'amselle Dery has been telling our fortunes — yours and mme — in her blue Tell me, can it come true, Ceoile ? ' The girl was taken by surprise. ' I do not know,' she stammered. Antoine'q voice grew leu abrupt. There was a deep tenderness in the words that followed :

' We have known each other long, Cecile ; we played together, and my love for you bas been growiDg all the time I was away in that strange country.'

She did not answer at once. A faint smile stole over her face. The red glow touched her too, and seemed to enshroud them both.

' They would like it, the parents,' she said, in a low voice. Antoine made an impatient gesture. ' And Monsieur le Cure too would be pleased,' Ceoile went on.

Antoinel was vexed. The girl's half seriousness puzzled him.

' And you,' he cried, almost roughly, — ' would it please you, little one?' 1 1 would like to please them all,' mid the little coquette, giving Antoine a very sweet smile as she spoke.

' And me, — would you wish to please me ?' cried Antoine.

'Yea, you, too, Antoine,' she replied ; adding with a merry flash of her eyes : ' And, of course, Ma'am Belle Dery ; for her fortune would then be " true as the sun." ' — Aye Maria,