The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 12 August 1915, Page 3

The Storyteller

DUTY'S VICTORY Twenty miles from the forest of Fontainebleau, in one of the most charming districts of France, lies the village of Mermont, a spot beloved by artists, where Englishmen have from time to time taken up their abode, with palette, paints, and brush. Edward Conway was one of many who had discovered Mermont's fascinations. In his early twenties he had settled there, and married a clever and accomplished Frenchwoman, to whom he was devotedly attached. Year by year his pictures would be seen at the Paris Salon, and one of his most successful was a portrait of his daughter Jeanne, a girl of more than ordinary character and ability. Jeanne Conway had been educated in an Irish convent, and her nineteenth year was spent with relations in Dublin, where she made her debut in society, enjoyed a season's gaiety, and saw something of life in general, before returning to the quietude of her French home, which her parents rarely left for any length of time. One glorious day in -June, Jeanne sat busily sewing in the garden of 'La Retraite ' ; the picturesque name by which her father's house was known. There were roses everywhere— round the windows and growing in great clusters with the honeysuckle and lilies ; a bunch of the beautiful bloom nestled at her throat. In the distance could be seen the church spire and the walls of the rectory. Jeanne was an especial favorite of M. le Cure's. lie had been her guide and friend since her earliest years, and though school-days had interrupted the course of their friendship, Pere Bardet never forgot his protegee in her convent school, and it would be safe to say that Jeanne would willingly have gone through fire and water for the good priest whom the whole of Mermont regarded with a reverent affection. Jeanne's life was similar to that of most French "iris. The day began with assisting at Holy Mass, while the morning brought its round of household duties. In the afternoon Madame Conway and her daughter might visit their friends, or engage themselves in charitable work, while the evening would be spent with music or singing, or in attending Vespers, should it be a feast day. An uneventful life, perhaps, but one in which the Conways were perfectly happy. As Jeanne's skilful fingers manipulated her needle, her thoughts went dreamily back to the past year. Yet they were not concerned with the good nuns in Erin, nor yet with her Dublin relations. The face of the handsome, honorable Irishman, whom she had met at her first dance, rose before her. Kevin O'Brien had won her heart many months ago, though Jeanne would have admitted the fact to no one. Until she knew for certain that he cared for her, her secret would remain her own. To-morrow, she knew, Kevin was coming from Paris, whither he had been sent on business, to pay his respects to Madame Conway, and, she felt it instinctively, to ask her father for her hand. Perfect confidence had always existed between her and her mother, but the subject of Kevin was one on which she felt it impossible to speak. Her parents, indeed, had almost come to the conclusion that Jeanne had no feelings for O'Brien beyond those of friendship. Though both of them would have liked the match, they had agreed to leave her perfect freedom in the choice of a husband. Kevin was leaving in a few days for South America, where he had accepted a three years' engagement, and it must be Jeanne's duty to give him her answer. 'Jeanne!' the sweet, musical voice came from the drawing-room, where Madame Conway stood at the open French window, a letter in her hand. Jeanne looked up, and seeing her mother awaiting her, she crossed the lawn, and went up to the house. ' Yes, inaman,' she said brightly; ' any news?'

■ .■'< Mr. O'Brien writes to say he will only have. a couple of hours here to-morrow, and he hopes he may have the pleasure of seeing you. He is obliged to return to Paris by the 6 o'clock train. Jeanne, tell me—— ' She broke off abruptly. ' What do you mean to say to him?' 'lsn't the question a little premature, ma-man?' Jeanne said, avoiding her mother's keen "scrutiny. 'You know, you have really no reason for believing Mr. O'Brien wishes to ask me to be his wife.' ' In my opinion, we have every reason, petite, but I shall not worry you about it. You will see him yourself to-morrow ; only—be kind to him.' Jeanne smiled. ' I am going to visit Madame Blanc to-morrow,' she remarked. 'But you will be back for tea, cherie?' Madame Conway looked at her interrogatively. 'Who knows? Madame Blanc is so delightful it is a pleasure to stay there. But no. I am only teasing you. For the sake of old times, it is my duty to meet M?. O'Brien.' ' He would think it strange if you were away,' was the reply, in a relieved tone of voice. ' But come, Mignonne, tea is ready,' and a moment later the question of love, courtship, and marriage had been put aside, as Mr. Conway joined his wife and daughter, and discussed other topics over the pretty little tea-table. Jeanne's visit to Madame Blanc was soon over. She was too engrossed with the thought of Kevin to stay long in the pretty little town where her friend lived, six miles from Mermont. The walk home was always a pleasant one, but the way through the woods was still more charming, and, what was more to the point on this particular occasion, much quicker. With a light heart, Jeanne set oft', and the dusty road was soon far behind her. ' Qu' il est bon, le bon Dieu !' she murmured to herself, as she tripped merrily along by the side of ' the stream, unconsciously echoing the words of Blessed Mere Julie. Her life had always been full of happiness, and now Kevin had come to complete it. He was clever, handsome, manly, a devout Catholic. What more could the most exacting woman want? It was quite sufficient to satisfy Jeanne. Her path through the woods was a lonely one, passing only one human habitation, the low-roofed cottage of old Henri, who had lived there for many years, and who acted'as gamekeeper for the owner of the land. Jeanne had a warm corner in her heart for him, but he was also a source of sorrow to her. For over twenty years Henri had never been near a church. He was now seventy, "and his health at the best of times was not good. In vain had the Cure pleaded with him. In vain, so it seemed, were the prayers offered for him by the people of Mermont —he remained hard and untouched. If anyone could soften him, the villagers said, it was surely Miles' Jeanne. His coldness seemed to fade away when she tearfully begged him to make his peace with God. He would look uneasy, and turn the conversation, but Jeanne knew that her words had left an impression, which she hoped and prayed would deepen into something more. 'Henri!' she cried, as she approached the cottage, 'how are you to-day?' The old man loved his garden. and cultivated it with commendable care, but to-day there was no sign of him, and Jeanne tapped at the door. The afternoon was hot, and a glass of Henri's light wine would be more than welcome. To her surprise, there was no answer. Opening the door, she looked in, and.her face went white with fear. On the couch near the wall lay Henri, gasping for breath. His lips were tinged with blue, his hands trembling. Jeanne's first thought was one of terror, but recovering her self-control, she rushed to the cupboard, seized a bottle of wine, poured some out in a glass, and, raising the old man, pressed it to his lips. The wine seemed to revive him, but, inexperienced as she was, Jeanne realised by Henri's looks that he was very, very ill—apparently near death. Mile. Jeanne,' he whispered feebly, when the attack had passed off, 'and he had been propped up, with pillows, 'there is no time to be lost. I know itmy

days are nearly done. Of your charity, beg M. le Cure to 'he paused, and his breath came quickly and heavily. The effort of speaking had been almost too much for him. 'I understand, Henri,' said Jeanne, gently, still holding his hand. ' I will run as quickly as ever I can for him. But make an act of contrition with me first,' she said . anxiously. The old man made a sign lor her to repeat the solemn words, but"it was more- than he could do himself. Jeanne rose from her knees with a mental -prayer for help, and, leaving some brandy at Henri's side, she closed the door and hurried away. Suddenly she stopped, and an exclamation of dismay escaped her lips. She remembered, with a feeling of despair, that Pere Bardet had told her he was lunching with the Cure of Vivet that very dayand Vivet was a town five or six miles, at least, from the spot where she stood. He would certainly not be home again before dusk. And for the first time since her discovery of poor Henri's plight, Jeanne thought of Kevin. It was now almost 3 o'clock would be impossible to fetch Pere Bardet, and be home in time to catch Kevin. Standing as she was, in the middle of the woods, far from a living creature, there was no one she could send. What would Kevin think if she were not there? What would her parents think? ■ They would come to the conclusion that she wished to avoid the young Irishman, that she wished to be spared the pain of refusing his offer of marriage. Both her mother and father feared she cared nothing. How-easy for them to give him this impression ! He would go away brokenhearted, and two lives might be ruined. ' Surely Henri will live till I reach Mermont, and send someone for the cure,' she tried to persuade herself, still hesitating. 'He has shown every sign of contrition—surely this is enough.' And then her cheeks colored with a feeling of shame. Henri was dyingit was evident that he had only a few hours to live. He had asked for the priest. It was terrible to think that he might die without Viaticum—through her fault. Would she not be held responsible if Henri died unshriven ? 'No ! No !' she cried out, tearfully, ' I must go for Pere Bardet—it is the least I can do.' The struggle had been sharp, but it was soon over. Fortunately, the training and instincts of a lifetime do not desert us at critical moments. Jeanne had not been taught in vain the worth of a human soul, and she tried, poor girl, to forget her own suffering, in the fulfilment of what was obviously her duty—to help old Henri. Running as fast as her feet would carry her through the thick woods, she made for Vivet. The distance seemed interminable, but she knew that if she followed the path to the right, it would bring her out close to the little town. She persevered bravely, in spite of her increasing fatigue, and at last she arrived at the outskirts of the village, in a state of pitiable exhaustion. If she delayed, however, she knew it might be too late to help the dying man, and she went on breathlessly till she reached the presbytery door, and rang the bell. 'Mile. Jeanne, whatever is the matter?', gasped Marie, the loquacious housekeeper, as she opened the door. ' Why, you are ill, cherie ! Come in, and let me give you something.' As she spoke, she took hold of the girl's hand and drew her into the house. Jeanne suffered the old woman to refresh her with wine, and then she said, still hot and panting, ' It is a case for the Last Sacraments. Marie, please tell Pere Bardet. He is here, I know. lb is old Henri—oh! do be quick,' she added impatiently, as Mario stared at her open-mouthed. He is dying, I tell you!' She sank back in her chair, while Marie left the room, muttering words of astonishment on her way. A moment later, Pere Bardet and his host appeared on the scene. 'Jeanne, my child, is" this really true?' said the Cure, in an anxious voice, as he came forward. Only too true. Father he is dying. I will tell you about it after, but there is no time to be lost now.'

Gasping out the words, she loaned back with a white - face. * .<- ... Pere Bardet spoke a few hurried words to his host, s '.■* and the next minute he had disappeared into the church p-for the Blessed Sacrament. When he returned, Jules, ) the faithful sacristan, took his lantern and bell, and started off with the Cure for the house of.the man who was soon"to meet his God. The other priest, who had observed Jeanne's troubled face, remained behind. ' You are upset with it all, my child,' he said, kindly. ' Let me call Marie she will look after you—or, if you should prefer it, I will drive you home.' 'lt is too late, Father,' she said/ tearfully. And then, realising that he could scarcely understand what she meant, she continued : ' I was expecting someone to see me this afternoon—and—andhe will have, returned to Paris by the 6 o'clock train.' Pere Vergerac smiled to himself. lie had not been long at Vivet, and he knew nothing of Joanne's affairs. But his white, hair had not made him less sympathetic to the young, and he guessed the reason of her troubled face. 'Come along, my child,' he said cheerfully, 'there may yet be time to catch your friend. Let" us pray that the good God may keep him. I assure you that Simonne, my horse, is in excellent form.' A new light came over Jeanne's face. 'ls it possible, my Father.'' she asked, rising eagerly. 'Oh! 1 shall never be able to thank you sufficiently.' 'The trap is at the door; 1 was about to drive my guest home,' he observed, leading the way. 'Of course, he has gone by the path through the woods to reach Henri—the way, 1 suppose, you came, which is so much quicker. Now, jump in, child !' So saying, he helped her up, and following her into the trap, Vie took the reins, urged on his horse, and was soon driving at a high rate towards Mermont. Jeanne never forgot the drive home. The country was at its best. Flowers and fruit were growing in profusion. At another time it would have given her intense pleasure to see them, but her eyes were now fixed ahead, and as every minute brought them nearer 'La Retraite,' she became hopeful and despairing by turns. Would it be too late, she wondered I Would Kevin have really gone?' ' We are nearly there, Father,' she said with a sigh of relief, as they approached Mermont, and drove through the main street. ' Simonne has done splendidly.' The tall trees which surrounded the house could be seen close at hand, and a moment later Jeanne had jumped down, and was speaking to her mother, who stood with an anxious face at the gate of the sunny garden. 'Why, Jeanne, what has happened to you?' she exclaimed, and then, seeing Pere Vergerac in his trap, she hurried up to him. : 1 see you have brought Jeanne home, Father; you must come in and have some refreshment.' ' Not to-day, Madame,' he said, with his sweet smile. ' I must hasten home, but I thank you very much, all the same.' Without waiting for Jeanne's thanks, he nodded brightly to the two ladies, whipped his horse gently, and disappeared round the corner. ' Mam an,' said Jeanne, in a tremulous voice, ' is Kevin here?' unconscious that she had dropped the usual prefix. Madame Conway looked at her quizzingly. ' I'm delighted you've come, chorie,' she said. ' Kevin has been here all the afternoon. As a matter of fact, he is staying the next few days with us. He his business in Paris sooner than he expected, ' and he will stay here till he leaves for America. Jeanne laid her head on her mother's arm. Her pride melted away, and she burst into tears of gratitude. ' Jeanne, petite, what is it ? What has happened ■ to you all this time ? asked her mother, as she linked her arm through her daughter's, and looked at her with a troubled face.

away her tears. .'I should have been home long ago, only, on my way through the woods, I found Henri prostrate. Madame Conway uttered an exclamation of surprise. tinued Jeanne. ' I could see he was nearly gone. He asked for Fere Bardet, who has been spending the day with Pere Vergerac. There was no one I could 'send to Vivet, and so I had to go as quickly as I could myself.' i To Vivet!' interrupted her mother, in amazement. ' You must bo exhausted.' 'I found him there,' Jeanne went on, as they entered the house together, ' and of course he went straight to Henri, and Pore Vergerac brought me home. That, in brief, is the storyand—oh! Kevin!' The young man had been seated in the drawingroom, and had seen Jeanne approach. He stood at the door, tall and fine-looking, to welcome her. Jeanne forgot convention, and as his name escaped her lips, her eyes shone with happiness and told their own story. Kevin took her hand, .and then with a look which expressed something of the love in his heart, he kissed if, 'Well,' said Jeanne, laughingly, as she blushed, and as Madame Conway left, the two together for a brief moment, 'you are audacious! Did I give you permission V ' Your face did,' was the triumphant reply, leading her into the room. ' Mavourneen, I've been waiting for this for months.' ***** 'lt was the funniest proposal possible, Father,' said Madame Conway, as she and her husband sat in the presbytery garden -the following evening, after dining with the cure. 'As far as I can make out,' said Mr. Conway, 'it was no proposal at all. Kevin simply claimed Jeanne as his fiancee, and she was quite content. But, seriously speaking, we are delighted.' ' No wonder,' said the priest, thoughtfully. 'Kevin is all that can be desired, though 1 doubt if anyone is quite worthy of your little girl. As 1 told you, I found Henri almost gone yesterday when I reached him, but he was still conscious. He made his confession, received absolution and holy Viaticum, and died perfectly penitent and resigned. 1 am quite sure the merciful God has forgiven him all. He said to me, by the way, "I owe all to Mile. Jeanne. She has saved the soul of a sinner." ' The tears came to Madame Conway's eyes. ' Poor Henri !' she said. ' I can truly say, Father, that even if Jeanne's whole happiness had been involved, I would not have had it otherwise—if it could have helped. Henri.' Mr. Conway looked up, and his voice, too, was not as steady as usual. 'You must say a Mass of thanksgiving for us that it was not necessary,' he said. ' Indeed I will,' the cure replied. ' The good God is never outdono in generosity.' And, as he looked towards the road, along which Jeanne and Kevin were approaching with happy faces, he added, ' I am sure that Jeanne has found that out already.'— Mt. Angel Magazine.