“Many thanks. You also are a painter, I take it.”
Wayland laid one hand on the sleeve of his uniform and laughed.
“I was a writer. But there are only soldiers in the world now.”
“Quite so ... This is an odd place for an American to live in.”
“My father bought it years ago. He was a painter of peasant life.” He added, lowering his voice, although Marie-Josephine understood no English: “This old peasant woman was his model many years ago. She also kept house for him. He lived here; I was born here.”
“Really?”
“Yes, but my father desired that I grow up a good Yankee. I was at school in America when he — died.”
The airman continued to eat very busily.
“He died — out there” — Wayland looked through the window, musingly. “There was an Iceland schooner wrecked off the Isle des Chouans. And no life-saving crew short of Ylva Light. So my father went out in his little American catboat, all alone.... Marie-Josephine saw his sail off Eryx Rocks ... for a few moments ... and saw it no more.”
The airman, still devouring his bread and meat, nodded in silence.
“That is how it happened,” said Wayland. “The French authorities notified me. There was a little money and this hut, and — Marie-Josephine. So I came here; and I write children’s stories — that sort of thing.... It goes well enough. I sell a few to American publishers. Otherwise I shoot and fish and read ... when war does not preoccupy me....”
He smiled, experiencing the vague relief of talking to somebody in his native tongue. Quesnel Moors were sometimes very lonely.
“It’s been a long convalescence,” he continued, smilingly. “One of their ‘coal-boxes’ did this” — touching his leg. “When I was able to move I went to America. But the sea off the Eryx called me back; and the authorities permitted me to come down here. I’m getting well very fast now.”
He had stripped every chassis of its canvas, and had made a roll of the material.
“I’m very glad to be of any use to you,” he said pleasantly, laying the roll on the table.
Marie-Josephine, on her low chair by the hearth, sat listening to every word as though she had understood. The expression in her faded eyes varied constantly; solicitude, perplexity, vague uneasiness, a recurrent glimmer of suspicion were succeeded always by wistful tenderness when her gaze returned to Wayland and rested on his youthful face and figure with a pride forever new.
Once she spoke in mixed French and Breton:
“Is the stranger English, Monsieur Jacques, mon chéri?”
“I do not doubt it, Marie-Josephine. Do you?”
“Why dost thou believe him to be English?”
“He has the tricks of speech. Also his accent is of an English university. There is no mistaking it.”
“Are not young Huns sometimes instructed in the universities of England?”
“Yes.... But — —”
“Gar à nous, mon p’tit, Jacques. In Finistère a stranger is a suspect. Since earliest times they have done us harm in Finistère. The strangers — God knows what centuries of evil they have wrought.”
“No fear,” he said, reassuringly, and turned again to the airman, who had now satisfied his hunger and had already risen to gather up the roll of canvas, the hammer, nails, and shellac.
“Thanks awfully, old chap!” he said cordially. “I’ll take these articles, if I may. It’s very good of you ... I’m in a tearing hurry — —”
“Won’t your pilot come over and eat a bit?”
“I’ll take him this bread and meat, if I may. Many thanks.” He held out his heavily gloved hand with a friendly smile, nodded to Marie-Josephine. And as he hurriedly turned to go, the ancient carving on the high-backed chair caught him between the buttons of his leather coat, tearing it wide open over the breast. And Wayland saw the ribbon of the Iron Cross there fastened to a sea-grey tunic.
There was a second’s frightful silence.
“What’s that you wear?” said Wayland hoarsely. “Stop! Stand where you — —”
“Halt! Don’t touch that shotgun!” cried the airman sharply. But Wayland already had it in his hands, and the airman fired twice at him where he stood — steadied the automatic to shoot again, but held his fire, seeing it would not be necessary. Besides, he did not care to shoot the old woman unless military precaution made it advisable; and she was on her knees, her withered arms upflung, shielding the prostrate body with her own.
“You Yankee fool,” he snapped out harshly— “it is your own fault, not mine!... Like the rest of your imbecile nation you poke your nose where it has no business! And I—” He ceased speaking, realizing that his words remained unheard.
After a moment he backed toward the door, carrying the canvas roll under his left arm and keeping his eye carefully on the prostrate man. Also, one can never trust the French! — he was quite ready for that old woman there on the floor who was holding the dead boy’s head to her breast, muttering: “My darling! My child! — Oh, little son of Marie-Josephine! — I told thee — I warned thee of the stranger in Finistère!... Marie — holy — intercede!... All — all are born to grief in Finistère!...”
CHAPTER VIII
EN OBSERVATION
The incredible rumour that German airmen were in Brittany first came from Plouharnel in Morbihan; then from Bannalec, where an old Icelander had notified the Brigadier of the local Gendarmerie. But the Icelander was very drunk. A thimble of cognac did it.
Again came an unconfirmed report that a shepherd lad while alternately playing on his Biniou and fishing for eels at the confluence of the Elle and Isole, had seen a werewolf in Laïs Woods. The Loup Garou walked on two legs and had assumed the shape of a man with no features except two enormous eyes.
The following week a coast guard near Flouranges telephoned to the Aulnes Lighthouse; the keeper of the light telephoned to Lorient the story of Wayland, and was instructed to extinguish the great flash again and to keep watch from the lantern until an investigation could be made.
That an enemy airman had done murder in Finistère was now certain; but that a Boche submarine had come into the Bay of Biscay seemed very improbable, considering the measures which had been taken in the Channel, at Trieste, and at Gibraltar.
That a fleet of many sea-planes was soaring somewhere between the Isle des Chouettes and Finistère, and landing men, seemed to be practically an impossibility. Yet, there were the rumours. And murder had been done.
But an enemy undersea boat required a base. Had such a base been established somewhere along those lonely and desolate wastes of bog and rock and moor and gorse-set cliff haunted only by curlew and wild duck, and bounded inland by a silent barrier of forest through which the wild boar roamed and rooted unmolested?
And where in Finistère was an enemy seaplane to come from, when, save for the few remaining submarines still skulking near British waters, the enemy’s flag had vanished from the seas?
Nevertheless the coast lights at Aulnes and on the Isle des Chouettes went out; the Commandant at Lorient and the General in command of the British expeditionary troops in the harbour consulted; and the fleet of troop-laden transports did not sail as scheduled, but a swarm of French and British cruisers, trawlers, mine-sweepers, destroyers, and submarines put out from the great warport to comb the boisterous seas of Biscay for any possible aërial or amphibious Hun who might venture to haunt the coasts.
Inland, too, officers were sent hither and thither to investigate various rumours and doubtful reports at their several sources.
And it happened in that way that Captain Neeland of the 6th Battalion, Athabasca Regiment, Canadian Overseas Contingent, found himself in the Forest of Aulnes, with instructions to stay there long enough to verify or discredit a disturbing report which had just arrived by mail.
The report was so strange and the investigation required so much secrecy and caution that Captain Neeland changed his uniform for knickerbockers and shooting coat, b
orrowed a fowling piece and a sack of cartridges loaded with No. 4 shot, tucked his gun under his arm, and sauntered out of Lorient town before dawn, like any other duck-hunting enthusiast.
Several reasons influenced his superiors in sending Neeland to investigate this latest and oddest report: for one thing, although he had become temporarily a Canadian for military purposes only, in reality he was an American artist who, like scores and scores of his artistic fellow Yankees, had spent many years industriously painting those sentimental Breton scenes which obsess our painters, if not their critics. He was a very bad painter, but he did not know it; he had already become a promising soldier, but he did not realize that either. As a sportsman, however, Neeland was rather pleased with himself.
He was sent because he knew the sombre and lovely land of Finistère pretty well, because he was more or less of a naturalist and a sportsman, and because the plan which he had immediately proposed appeared to be reasonable as well as original.
It had been a stiff walk across country — fifteen miles, as against thirty odd around by road — but neither cart nor motor was to enter into the affair. If anybody should watch him, he was only a duckhunter afield, crossing the marshes, skirting étangs, a solitary figure in the waste, easily reconcilable with his wide and melancholy surroundings.
CHAPTER IX
L’OMBRE
Aulnes Woods were brown and still under their unshed canopy of October leaves. Against a grey, transparent sky the oaks and beeches towered, unstirred by any wind; in the subdued light among the trees, ferns, startlingly green, spread delicate plumed fronds; there was no sound except the soft crash of his own footsteps through shriveling patches of brake; no movement save when a yellow leaf fluttered down from above or one of those little silvery grey moths took wing and fluttered aimlessly along the forest aisle, only to alight upon some lichen-spotted tree and cling there, slowly waving its delicate, translucent wings.
It was a very ancient wood, the Forest of Aulnes, and the old trees were long past timber value. Even those gleaners of dead wood and fallen branches seemed to have passed a different way, for the forest floor was littered with material that seldom goes to waste in Europe, and which broke under foot with a dull, thick sound, filling the nostrils with the acrid odour of decay.
Narrow paths full of dead leaves ran here and there through the woods, but he took none of these, keeping straight on toward the northwest until a high, moss-grown wall checked his progress.
It ran west through the silent forest; damp green mould and lichens stained it; patches of grey stucco had peeled from it, revealing underneath the roughly dressed stones. He followed the wall.
Now and then, far in the forest, and indistinctly, he heard faint sounds — perhaps the cautious tread of roebuck, or rabbits in the bracken, or the patter of a stoat over dry leaves; perhaps the sullen retirement of some wild boar, winding man in the depths of his own domain, and sulkily conceding him right of way.
After a while there came a break in the wall where four great posts of stone stood, and where there should have been gates.
But only the ancient and rusting hinges remained of either gate or wicket.
He looked up at the carved escutcheons; the moss of many centuries had softened and smothered the sculptured device, so that its form had become indistinguishable.
Inside stood a stone lodge. Tiles had fallen from the ancient roof; leaded panes were broken; nobody came to the closed and discoloured door of massive oak.
The avenue, which was merely an unkempt, overgrown ride, curved away between the great gateposts into the woods; and, as he entered it, three deer left stealthily, making no sound in the forest.
Nobody was to be seen, neither gatekeeper nor woodchopper nor charcoal burner. Nothing moved amid the trees except a tiny, silent bird belated in his autumn migration.
The ride curved to the east; and abruptly he came into view of the house — a low, weather-ravaged structure in the grassy glade, ringed by a square, wet moat.
There was no terrace; the ride crossed a permanent bridge of stone, passed the carved and massive entrance, crossed a second crumbling causeway, and continued on into the forest.
An old Breton woman, who was drawing a jug of water from the moat, turned and looked at Neeland, and then went silently into the house.
A moment later a younger woman appeared on the doorstep and stood watching his approach.
As he crossed the bridge he took off his cap.
“Madame, the Countess of Aulnes?” he inquired. “Would you be kind enough to say to her that I arrive from Lorient at her request?”
“I am the Countess of Aulnes,” she said in flawless English.
He bowed again. “I am Captain Neeland of the British Expeditionary force.”
“May I see your credentials, Captain Neeland?” She had descended the single step of crumbling stone.
“Pardon, Countess; may I first be certain concerning your identity?”
There was a silence. To Neeland she seemed very young in her black gown. Perhaps it was that sombre setting and her dark eyes and hair which made her skin seem so white.
“What proof of my identity do you expect?” she asked in a low voice.
“Only one word, Madame.”
She moved a step nearer, bent a trifle toward him. “L’Ombre,” she whispered.
From his pocket he drew his credentials and offered them. Among them was her own letter to the authorities at Lorient.
After she had examined them she handed them back to him.
“Will you come in, Captain Neeland — or, perhaps we had better seat ourselves on the bridge — in order to lose no time — because I wish you to see for yourself — —”
She lifted her dark eyes; a tint of embarrassment came into her cheeks: “It may seem absurd to you; it seems so to me, at times — what I am going to say to you — concerning L’Ombre — —”
She had turned; he followed; and at her grave gesture of invitation, he seated himself beside her on the coping of mossy stone which ran like a bench under the parapet of the little bridge.
“Captain Neeland,” she said, “I am a Bretonne, but, until recently, I did not suppose myself to be superstitious.... I really am not — unless — except for this one matter of L’Ombre.... My English governess drove superstition out of my head.... Still, living in Finistère — here in this house” — she flushed again— “I shall have to leave it to you.... I dread ridicule; but I am sure you are too courteous — ... It required some courage for me to write to Lorient. But, if it might possibly help my country — to risk ridicule — of course I do not hesitate.”
She looked uncertainly at the young man’s pleasant, serious face, and, as though reassured:
“I shall have to tell you a little about myself first — so that you may understand better.”
“Please,” he said gravely.
“Then — my father and my only brother died a year ago, in battle.... It happened in the Argonne.... I am alone. We had maintained only two men servants here. They went with their classes. One old woman remains.” She looked up with a forced smile. “I need not explain to you that our circumstances are much straitened. You have only to look about you to see that ... our poverty is not recent; it always has been so within my memory — only growing a little worse every year. I believe our misfortunes began during the Vendée.... But that is of no interest ... except that — through coincidence, of course — every time a new misfortune comes upon our family, misfortune also falls on France.” He nodded, still mystified, but interested.
“Did you happen to notice the device carved on the gatepost?” she asked.
“I thought it resembled a fish — —”
“Do you understand French, Captain Neeland?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know that L’Ombre means ‘the shadow’.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know, also, that there is a fish called ‘L’Ombre’?”
“No; I did
not know that.”
“There is. It looks like a shadow in the water. L’Ombre does not belong here in Brittany. It is a northern fish of high altitudes where waters are icy and rapid and always tinctured with melted snow ... would you accord me a little more patience, Monsieur, if I seem to be garrulous concerning my own family? It is merely because I want you to understand everything ... everything....”
“I am interested,” he assured her pleasantly.
“Then — it is a legend — perhaps a superstition in our family — that any misfortune to us — and to France — is always preceded by two invariable omens. One of these dreaded signs is the abrupt appearance of L’Ombre in the waters of our moat—” She turned her head slowly and looked down over the parapet of the bridge.— “The other omen,” she continued quietly, “is that the clocks in our house suddenly go wrong — all striking the same hour, no matter where the hands point, no matter what time it really is.... These things have always happened in our family, they say. I, myself, have never before witnessed them. But during the Vendée the clocks persisted in striking four times every hour. The Comte d’Aulnes mounted the scaffold at that hour; the Vicomte died under Charette at Fontenay at that hour.... L’Ombre appeared in the waters of the moat at four o’clock one afternoon. And then the clocks went wrong.
“And all this happened again, they say, in 1870. L’Ombre appeared in the moat. Every clock continued to strike six, day after day for a whole week, until the battle of Sedan ended.... My grandfather died there with the light cavalry.... I am so afraid I am taxing your courtesy, Captain Neeland — —”
“I am intensely interested,” he repeated, watching the lovely, sensitive face which pride and dread of misinterpretation had slightly flushed again.
“It is only to explain — perhaps to justify myself for writing — for asking that an officer be sent here from Lorient for a few days — —”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 844