Quinneys 7

Quinneys 7

Night and

morning she repeated piously the formulas learned at her mother’s knee.

Upon Sundays she followed more or less attentively the fine liturgy of

the Church of England. Naturally intelligent and supremely sympathetic,

she could not doubt that prayer meant more to these Papists than to her,

something vital, something absolutely necessary. She glanced at her

husband’s face, wondering whether he shared her thoughts. Joe was

worshipping after his own fashion the Gothic architecture of the nave,

and favourably contrasting it with the transepts. She touched his arm

timidly.

 

"Would it be wicked, Joe, to kneel down here?"

 

Joe stared at her whimsically.

 

"Do you want to?" he asked.

 

"Ye-es."

 

"Well, then, do it. You ain’t going to pray to that?" He indicated a

graven image, atrociously bedizened in crude blue and silver tinsel.

 

"Oh no!" she answered; then she added, with a blush, "I only want to

thank God that we are here—together."

 

"Right you are!" said Joe heartily, but he did not offer to kneel with

her. She moved from him slowly, with a backward glance, which escaped

his notice, and knelt behind a pillar, covering her face with her hands,

wondering at first what her mother would say if she could see her, and

almost tremblingly glad that she couldn’t. Oddly enough, when she began

to pray it never occurred to her to use the old familiar forms. She

thanked God because He had made her happy; she entreated a continuance

of that happiness in her own artless words, words she might have used to

her mother. When her prayer was ended, she became conscious of the

strange intimacy of her invocation. She felt a glow, although a minute

previously the lower temperature of the Cathedral after the warm

sunshine without had struck her chillingly. When she rose from her

knees, her eyes were shining. She returned to her husband, who said:

"Regular mix-up we have here. Let’s skin out of it."

 

 

*II*

 

They travelled by easy stages to Treguier, their destination, stopping

overnight at Saint Brieux and Guingamp. By the luck of things they

happened to reach Treguier at the time of the great Pardon, _le Pardon

des Pauvres_, the Pardon of Brittany’s greatest and most potent

Saint—_Yves de la Vérité_. Everything also combined to make this new

experience an imperishable memory. Their hotel in Treguier was

charmingly clean and comfortable, an inn of the olden time kept by two

elderly spinsters. It overlooked the river Jaudy flowing placidly to the

sea. Beyond, under soft skies, lay the Breton landscape, quietly

pastoral, pleasingly undulating, with a thin mist revealing rather than

obscuring its beauty. Susan woke early, hearing the sound of sabots

upon the quay, and the tinkle of bells upon the horses. She went to the

open window and looked out. Already the town was full of pilgrims,

peasants in the costume of the country, all chattering and

gesticulating. Some had come in boats. Susan marked the whiteness of

the women’s coifs and the stout cloth of their gowns. When they

laughed, she saw rows of white teeth; their faces were superbly tanned

by sun and wind; they looked what they were—the sisters, the wives, the

mothers of strong men. Amongst them, terribly conspicuous wandered a

few beggars, disease-stricken wretches importuning alms of the healthy,

pointing shrivelled, dirty hands at their dreadful sores, advertising,

almost triumphantly, their poverty and misery. Susan had learned from

the two sisters that this was the fête of the ver poor, she had been

warned to expect a parade of misery and deformity, and Mademoiselle

Yannik had added softly, "Look you, madame, it is good, when one is

young and strong and happy, to look sometimes at these _misérables_."

 

 

*III*

 

The Pardon is not held at Treguier, nor at Minihy, but on the other side

of the Jaudy, upon a hill near Porz-Bihan. Here, in former times, stood

a chapel, now in ruins; only the ossuary is left, in which may still be

found an image of the great Saint, very old, very crudely fashioned, but

supremely interesting by reason of the veneration with which it is

regarded by the peasants. The Quinneys watched the pilgrims coming and

going in a never-ending procession. Each offered prayers and oblations

in copper to the Saint, who stared down upon them with that vague,

impersonal regard which would seem to indicate indifference or

lassitude. Upon an altar were ranged other saints, rude images of

painted wood, saints never canonized, and looking as if they resented

the unique honour paid to Yves le Véridique. Many of the pilgrims

muttered some formula in Breton, which afterwards Mademoiselle Yannik

translated for Susan. It ran: "If theirs be the right, condemn us. If

ours be the right, condemn them." For this is the patron saint of

lawyers, and of the poor oppressed by the law. The procession of

_Misérables_ followed. An Englishman told the tale of the Miracle of

the Soup to Susan. He described vividly a farm hard by filled with

outcasts upon the eve of the Pardon. And so bitter had been the weather

that the farmer had made small provision for his guests, assured that

only a few would demand his hospitality. The _pot-au-feu_ hung upon its

hook, but there was hardly soup enough in it to feed half a dozen, and

scores were arriving. And then suddenly a stranger appeared, approached

the hearth, and affirmed that there would be enough for all. Having

said this, he vanished, and, lo, a miracle! The crowds were abundantly

fed. The stranger was the Saint himself, the blessed Yves. Susan was

thrilled, but Joe whispered to her, "Do you believe that yarn, Sue?" and

she whispered back, "Yes." He squeezed her arm as he replied, "Lawsy,

you are a blessed little fool!"

 

But the great impression remained of poverty and pain parading before a

comparatively prosperous and healthy crowd, who regarded the unfortunate

with kindly and compassionate eyes. Susan was melted to tears, but Joe

said emphatically:

 

"What do you make of this show?"

 

She replied hesitatingly, "They recognize that the poor must be always

with them."

 

Joe persisted.

 

"How does this apply to you and me?"

 

"We must help when we can, dear."

 

"We have to help, Sue. Rates and taxes. By Gum, I’ve never seen such a

lot of wretched devils in all my life. And the sight o’ their misery

just hits a particular nail of mine bang on the head. Drives it home,

like. Me and you must never be poor. We must pull together against the

remotest chance o’ poverty."

 

"They can’t help it, Joe."

 

"Perhaps not, but we can."

 

They returned in a chastened mood to the excellent dinner provided at

the inn.

 

 

*IV*

 

Next day they paid a visit to the great artist, who reproduced so

wonderfully pieces of old furniture. Fortunately for the Quinneys, the

Englishman, whom they had met at the Pardon, accompanied them. He

happened to be staying at the same inn, and knew _le pays Tregorrois_ as

well as, indeed much better than, Quinney knew Melshire. Also he spoke

French fluently, and could make himself understood in Breton. Lastly,

he was something of a collector of Breton _faience_ and old oak, a buyer

in a small way of chests and panelling. The Quinneys interested him

enormously. Joe was evidently an original, and Susan, as evidently, the

reverse, and the more attractive on that account in masculine eyes. He

swooped upon the immense differences in the characters of bride and

groom, having the instinct of the explorer, and promised himself some

amusement in studying them. Joe had been as frank with him as he was

with Mrs. Biddlecombe.

 

"I’ve powers within me," he explained, over a matutinal pipe. "They

push me on—see?"

 

George Le Marchant nodded, smiling pleasantly.

 

"Pushed you across the Channel?" he suggested.

 

"Just so. Beastly crossin’—humiliatin’. Felt like a scoured worm!"

 

Susan interrupted. She saw that Le Marchant, although he wore shabby

clothes, was a gentleman.

 

"That’ll do, Joe."

 

"Nearly did ’do’ for me. The wife"—he liked this __EXPRESSION__, having

heard Pinker use it—"the wife fairly wallered in it. Blue water, wind

and waves—ugh!"

 

"It would have been just lovely," Susan admitted, "if Mr. Quinney——"

 

"Hadn’t ’ad his bloomin’ head in a basin. No, I ain’t going to say

another word. Disgusting about fits it. Well, I was saying it was

something stronger than meself drove me out of good old England."

 

"Mr. Tomlin," put in Susan. She added for the benefit of the stranger,

"He’s a big London dealer."

 

Joe snorted.

 

"Tomlin ain’t stronger than me, Susan. He’s bigger in the trade, that’s

all, and come to his full growth, too. I’m sorter speak sproutin’. Do

you know Tomlin, of the Fulham Road?"

 

"Oh yes."

 

Le Marchant smiled faintly. Quinney, intent upon his own glorification,

missed a derisive __EXPRESSION__, but Susan was sharper. She decided

instantly that there had been "dealings" between the great Tomlin and

this nice gentleman, and that they had not been entirely satisfactory.

Joe continued, warming to his work:

 

"Tomlin told me about this faker of old oak."

 

"But he’s not a faker. Really, you must purge your mind of that. He’s

an artist. Dealers, of course, buy his reproductions and sell them

again as authentic antiques, but he sells them at a moderate price for

what they are—superb copies. They are so masterly in every detail that

you won’t know the copy from the original when you see both together."

 

"Oh, won’t I?" said Quinney. "I’ve a lot to learn, and I’m learning

something every day, but old oak is my hobby. I’ve handled it since I

was a baby, and I shall know."

 

"We’ll see," said Le Marchant, smiling. "What did you think of the

Pardon yesterday?"

 

He addressed Susan, but Joe answered, taking it for granted that his

opinion was worth something.

 

"Rum show! Very—French, hey? Praying hard all the morning didn’t prevent ’em from getting jolly tight in the afternoon."