The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXII, Issue 17, 28 April 1904, Page 23

The Storyteller

THE CURE OF MERE JULIE

The little house stood close to the roadside — so close, in fact, that the planks of the high wooden sidewalk almost touched the doorstep, and the tang/!e of ohicory and wild caraway that blossomed all summer lqng at the e*lge.s of that creaking footway reached up over the worn threshold and sent with every gjust of wind a whirl ot blue and white petals across the kitchen floor. As for the passer by he had only to glance over his shoulder to see quite plainly thei whole of the tifny tworoomed interior. Not that there was m&ch to seer— only tine high bed with its green and yellow patchwork qjuilt, tihe tall stove midway in t|he partition, the spinning-wheel, the buffet, the table, attid somewhere in the foreground, half buried in her rocking-chair, Mere Julie herself, small, brown, bent, and cheery. Perhaps it was the patchwork quilt that formed the attraction , perhaps it was the buffet, impressive with the beauty of ripe age, or perhaps it was Julie with her snpwy hair, her bright eyes, and her nervous, gesticulating hands, but, at any rate, the passer by, having given that one glance, was apt to give another, and in the end— for frhe welcome was always ready— to saunter in for a bit of Julie's pleasant gossip. It was— f Oh, monsieur ! I talk too much, it is true; Pierre says so. But what is an old woman like me to do all day lopg ? If one cannot move one's legs, one must wag one's to'ngoie. Is it not so ? 4 Yes, yes, monsieur ! Come in ! I am as stiff as an old turkey to-day, but I have a piece of news for you. Pierro told me nat to tell it, for Pierre would like to have me deaf and dumb as well as lame. However, he: is not here, and since he is not I shall talk 'as much as I please.' < And Julie would forthwith unfold her tale, and, in that innocent diversion, forget for a moment the great affliction that weighed upon her. For Mere Julie was a cripple. It was almost five years now since her active feet had clattered about the 'little house. Five years hince She had risen from a bed of pain to find herself fast in the clutches of that dread enemy, rheumatism, and her world henceforth encompassed by the four walls of tihe cottage. It had been hard at first. Hard to sit all day and bear the pains that tugged at her muscles and wrenched at her joints. Hard to see the spinning-wheel set aside, and the loom and the churn, and hardest of all to watch Pierre fumbling about at housekeeping, trying to make his stiff fingers adapt themselves to their woman's tasks and succeeding but poortfy if the truth were told. Tto the seiven deadly sins inscribed in her prayer book Mere Julie had always mentally addend an eighth, the name of which was uncleanhness. And so, when the austere order of the tiny home degenerated into something very like disorder, and when the hundred small excesses of neatness in which she had been accustomed to indulge became all at once unattainable luxuries, her strong spirit had chafed within her and it had req'uued all her powers of self-control to bear with some semblance of patience the evil days which had come upon her. But matters had gradually adjusted themselves. The youn|g daughter of a neighbor had been called in to right the, cottage daily and to cook the simple fare, and now, after five years, Julie was able once more to sun herself in the "pristine cleanliness of happier times. It was pleasant, on a bright summer day, after tihe rooms had been put in order and petite Alouette, the diminutive btit efficient maid senvant, had taken her departure, to see Julie jerk her chair into the great shaft of sunshine that entered through the open door, and sit there basking in the golden flood like some little, good, brown fairy. At times, as the warm, penetrating rays began to stir her blood and relax the dreary tension in her limbs, she would close her eyes and drift oft into a delicious, dreamful state, half wakefumess, half slumber. At these moments a sweet and subtle change passed diver her worn countenance. Its multitude of tiny lines 1 and wrinkles seemed to fade and disappear. The exipression of suffering habitual to it gave place to one of blissful ease and content. A faint color showed in the'-tihifci cheeks, a delicate freshness irt tho silver hair, and for a brief, unconscious moment Julie blushed again with the long-forgotten beauty of her youth. An.'d while the mistress of the cottage was being thus rejuvenated by the magic touch of the genial sunbeam, a like transformation was taking place in the

humble household articles around her. The ancient buffet, usually a grim and sombre sentinel un its tjorner, began suddenly to send forth feeble flashes of color from the depths of its faded recesses, and to revive along its polished length a pensive brilliancy reminiscent of former untarnished splendor. The spinningwheel, touched here and there with a glint of the spider's dainty handiwork, lost its air of perpetual repose' and seemed to stir and thrill as if the familiar foot were once more tapping the treadle. Even the faded rag carpet took on a look of freshness ; and the bedimmed pictures and other humble ornaments upon the walls, catching the infection, contributed a few fit£ul gleams to the general magnificence of the hour.

But if Julie and her home were thus pleasant to contemplate with the glamor of noonday upon them, they made, perhaps, a scarcely less attractive picture at evqninig when the sunset had faded to a faint amber streak at the edge of the western plain, and the deep hush of night had settled upon the world. Then the tiny lamp had been lighted and all around its circle of flickering rays crowded a great company of shadows that jostled in corners and leaped across floor and ceiling, and huddled in strange, fantastic shapes around Julie's chair, as if trying to oust her from their over- • populated domain. Then, too, Pierre had come home and had begun to busy himself about the supper, and finally, if one waited long enough, one would see the two dim figures emerge from the shadows into the lighted space surrounding the table, and the two gray heads, close together, held bent to the evening meal.,

On a certain morning, toward the mid,dle of July, Mere Jhilic, after a seclusion incident to a week of chill rain, had the door thrown open and her chair broiugftrt to the very threshold.

The day was warm and sun-ny, and the great fields that stretched away on each side of the road as far as the eye could reach were shining in all the splendor of midsummer fruitfulness. Great patches of rye and barley, just beginning to ripen, shimmered for miles towards the horizon. Long ranks of corn, wasihed clean by the recent rains, stood green and sta»tely in their smaller enclosures. Flowering buck-wheat laid its fleecy, snowdrifts here and there, and flecks of blue in the distance showed where the flax was beginning to blossom.

In the pastures a multitude of flocks and herds wandered joyously. Julie, from ber post in the doorway, cauld see the little, stiff-legged colts frisking in the wrnd, and hear the long-drawn winnying of the mares as they ambled patiently after their frolicsome offspring. The little specks of white moving in long, sodate lines across the fields were geese, she knew ; and still other larger white specks, edging along by the fences, were sheep.

In the old poplar before the door a blue bird darted singing, his speck of shadow moving like a flame through the quivering leaves. Grasshoppers shrilled in. tihe thick tangle at her feet. Bees and butterflies slanted edgewise down the air, and a great swarm of tiny, nameless creatures, warmed to life by the sudden heat, btJz/.ed and whirred and rioted in the glorious Sunshine with all the abandon of their frail bodies. It seemed to Julie that the world— her world, at least— had never looked so beautiful or spoken to her in so many beguiling voices. As she sat there drinking in the wide, deep rapture of earth and air and .sky, a feeling of subtle intoxication crept over her. She became conscious of a sudden buoyancy of spirit, a wilderness of desire quite out of keeping with ber years and infirmities. If she could only jump up and loin m the noisy revel. If she could only go out and make merry with this gleaming, pulsing life that was mocking her with ecstasies of reckless motion ! Once upan a time the colts out in the field had not been more fleet of foot than she, nor the birds in the trees more light of heart and sweet of voice. She had not forgotten that time, remote as it was. The memory of it was rushing back upon her now with a force of emotion quite beyond her control. It was impossible for her to sit still and mute and motijDnleste when her feet felt like dancing and her lips like song. ' Vers siCn sanctuaire, Depuis deux cents ans, La Vierge a s-a mere, Conduit ses enfants Daignez, Sainte Anne en un si beam jour, De vos enfan^| agreer l'amotir.' The shrill, quavering treble fell with such suddenness on the drowsing air that the blue bird in the poplar darted off in precipitous flight, and some chiokens which had been pecking contentedly besMe the ste*p s(p,read side wings and, with wild squeaks of alarm, fltfd iginominiously.At the sight of this abrupt retreat on the part of her audience Julie leaned back in her chair and laiughed till the tears rolled down her cheeks.

1 I am an old fool,' she said aloud when her merriment had abated ; ' a silly old fool. This cracked voice of mine would scare the crows, and here I am sing ug away as if I were twenty again. But I could sing that hymjn once,' she added reflectively, ' and well enough, too ; I remember every verse yet— 4 Ah, soyez propice, Sainte Anne, a nos voeux.'

She began another stanza of the old refrain, softly this tijtne, and with many of the quaint turns and quavers which had formed the admired art of her youth. In the, middle of the couplet, Jiowever, she stopped abrulptly and brought herself with a jerk into a rigidly upright position. Her eyes began to glisten, her lips parted breathlessly, and an expression of deepest absorption settled upon her face. It was evident that some momentous idea had taken possession of her mind —an idea whose magnitude at once fascinated and alarmed her. She sat perfectly still for so long a time tfiat tihe blue bird, reassured, fluttered baok to his tree and t(he chickens returned, one by one, to their pecking. At last, with an air of mingled determination and relief, she drew a long breath and sank back into her chair.

• I win go,' she said in a tone of decision. • The journey can be easily managed. Pierre shall carry me to the cars, and from the cars to the boat. The rest is simple. As for the coming back, that will be different!. I suppose they will think I am crazy here in the village, but what do I care ? It was an inspiration that came to me. I have faith. I will go ! ' She continued her monologue for some moments until the rattle of approaching wheels caused her to break off and look up the road. It was young Isidore Bedard in his iriud-bespattered charrette, coming to the post office.

Isidore shouted jocularly as he approached and prepared to pass without further conversation. But Julie beckoned him to stop, and he drew up obediently 'before the door.

' Well, what is it, Mere Julie ? ' he cried goodnaturedly. c Something from the magazin that that lazy Alouette of yours has forgotten ? '

1 No, no, my son, 1 answered Julie, smilingly ing tto-«day from the magazin. But come into the house a moment. I want to tail you a secret.

Isidore jumped down from his cart and in two strides was at Julie's side. Reaching up, she drew his head close to her anxi whispered a few brief words in his ear. Isidore drew back in astonishment. ' You ! ' he cried ; ' but you are too old, Mere J.ulie.'

' Too old ! What has age to do with it ? You have no faith, Isidore. I tell you I had an inspiration as I sat 'here looking at all tfae strong yo,ung growing things around me. It would be a sin for me not to go after tftiat. Do you not see it ? '

Isidore took off his old straw hat and thrust his fingers meditatively into its pointed crown. ' Well,' he said at last, ' who knows *> I have heard great things from that place myself. And if you can only get there, who knows what may happen ? Not I for one.'

' Nor I, either, my boy. But I have a feeling in me that all will be as I say. And think, should I let such a great opportunity pass ? No ; I say again that I will gp.'

The Church of St. Anne de Beaupre was crowded to the doors. It was only an hour after sunrise, but tihe pilgrims who had arrived at daybreak on t>he big Montreal steamer had already returned from the little siide chapels, wherein they had made their confessions and were now gathered in the main edifice for the purpose of receiving Communion. The great portals were set open to the breeze that blew sweet and cool from the adjacent river, and tihtaugji the unstained windows poured streams of tender morning sunshine that illumined every corner of the beautiful building. The masses of violet-'hued flowers upon ivhe white altar glowed ethereally ; the face of the marble Ste. A tine smiled benignly ; t<he great pyramid of crutches towered protectingly like a visible monument of strength for the encouragement of weak or afflicteid beholders. Birds could be heard singing their carols from the neighboring Millside, and a bumble-bee, misled on an early search for sweets, buzzed with a cheery, homelike air through the high marble arahes. At the altar-rail two white-robed priests moved noiselessly, administering the sacrament and presenting the sacred relic to t/he kiss of veneration. The flash of the; golden chalice fell softly for a moment on each upturned face, and then the kneeling communicant rose arid ga/ve place to the gext in the long line of waiting penitemts.

Notwithstanding the constant movement in the viefov'ityj of the altar, the churoh was very still— so still tfhat tihe click of rosary beads could easily be heard, and now and then a deep-drawn sigh or the murmur of a fretlul child.

Suddenly, however, a peculiar sound broke the impressive silence—a long, low, vibrating cry that seemed half of agony, half of joy, and as the echo of it died away, a little, crippled old woman, who had been carried to the altar a moment before by a little, bent old man, rose abruptly from her cramped and painful * posture and, thrusting aside the hands held out to support her, took two or three steps forward, and then began to walk firmdy down the broad central aisle.

Instantly all was commotion. A great wave o( excitement surged over the congregation, agitating most strongly those near the altar, and running off into little ripples of startled curiosity toward the rear of tihe church. Half-smothered exclamations broke forth. 1 A miracle ! Another miracle ! '

• Who is it ? I cannot see.'

'il can. It is that little ldme woman who was' carridd into the church. See, he-re she comes. How straight she is, and how she smiles ! Ah, Bonne Ste. Anne 1 What a miracle ! '

And sure enough, between the rows of eager, questioning faces, stepping briskly, with a wonderful light in her eyes and a wonderful smile on her lips, came Mere Julie— cured, triumphant .'

The great steamer, with its hundreds of devout passengers, was well smarted upon its homeward voyage, and tjhe village of Beaupre, wit/h its green hills and shining churoh spire, and long since disappeared from view.

- Mere Julie, however, from her position of state upon tihe main deck, still kept her face turned toward her humble Mecca, and her expression showed that in spirit she was still within its sacred boundaries.

Around her, at a respectful distance, were gathered a crowd of the curious, who eyed her wonderingly and commented in awed whispers upon her altered appearance.

Pierre, as befitted his relationship, had drawn Ms chair a little nearer to her side, but he had not yet ventured upon the familiarity of addressing her. Indeed, he had only partially emerged from the daze into which the events of the past few hours had thrown him. It was a tremendous thing, he felt, to find oneself on such intimate acquaintanceship with a recipient of miracles. Miracles ! He had often heard of them, but in that vag\ie, far-off way in which one hears of ghosts and other supernatural matters. But to be the Husband of a miracle, so to speak, it was a situation not to be comprehended in a moment.

Yet, through all the fear and amazement which consumed; him, he was conscious of a-n overpowering curiosity, which had taken possession of him almost at the moment of Julie's cure and which had given him no peace since. He regarded his wife tentatively for several minutes, and once or twice he opened his lips to speak, but his courage had not yet risen to the point which would enable him to put tihe burning question.

At} last, however, he burst forttti desperately, choosing words as they lay uppermost in his mind. ' Jruhe,' he cried, ' how did it feel, that miracle ?'

Julie turned her eyes dreamily on the far blue reaches of river and sky ; the grandeur and sublimity of the: scene sieemed to satisfy her mood.

' Hsow did it feel ? ' she repeated slowly. ' I cannot make you understand. First, there was a great pain which swept me from head to foot— that was when I cried out. After the pain had passed I felt strong— oh so strong ! I want-ed to rise and walk. That was all.'

A g;reat pain and then a great strength ! Pierre pondered the words. He was not given to abstruse speculation, but he wondered if somehow it wduld not be the same in that final miracle.-—' Catholic World.'