Literature Network » Gilbert Parker » The Lane That Had No Turning » The Story of the Lime-burner

The Story of the Lime-burner

For a man in whose life there had been tragedy he was cheerful. He had a
habit of humming vague notes in the silence of conversation, as if to put
you at your ease. His body and face were lean and arid, his eyes oblique
and small, his hair straight and dry and straw-coloured; and it flew out
crackling with electricity, to meet his cap as he put it on. He lived
alone in a little but near his lime-kiln by the river, with no near
neighbours, and few companions save his four dogs; and these he fed
sometimes at expense of his own stomach. He had just enough crude poetry
in his nature to enjoy his surroundings. For he was well placed. Behind
the lime-kiln rose knoll on knoll, and beyond these the verdant hills,
all converging to Dalgrothe Mountain. In front of it was the river, with
its banks dropping forty feet, and below, the rapids, always troubled and
sportive. On the farther side of the river lay peaceful areas of meadow
and corn land, and low-roofed, hovering farm-houses, with one larger than
the rest, having a wind-mill and a flag-staff. This building was almost
large enough for a manor, and indeed it was said that it had been built
for one just before the conquest in 1759, but the war had destroyed the
ambitious owner, and it had become a farm-house. Paradis always knew the
time of the day by the way the light fell on the wind-mill. He had owned
this farm once, he and his brother Fabian, and he had loved it as he
loved Fabian, and he loved it now as he loved Fabian's memory. In spite
of all, they were cheerful memories, both of brother and house.

At twenty-three they had become orphans, with two hundred acres of land,
some cash, horses and cattle, and plenty of credit in the parish, or in
the county, for that matter. Both were of hearty dispositions, but Fabian
had a taste for liquor, and Henri for pretty faces and shapely ankles.
Yet no one thought the worse of them for that, especially at first. An
old servant kept house for them and cared for them in her honest way,
both physically and morally. She lectured them when at first there was
little to lecture about. It is no wonder that when there came a vast deal
to reprove, the bonne desisted altogether, overwhelmed by the weight of
it.

Henri got a shock the day before their father died when he saw Fabian
lift the brandy used to mix with the milk of the dying man, and pouring
out the third of a tumbler, drink it off, smacking his lips as he did so,
as though it were a cordial. That gave him a cue to his future and to
Fabian's. After their father died Fabian gave way to the vice. He drank
in the taverns, he was at once the despair and the joy of the parish;
for, wild as he was, he had a gay temper, a humorous mind, a strong arm,
and was the universal lover. The Cure, who did not, of course, know
one-fourth of his wildness, had a warm spot for him in his heart. But
there was a vicious strain in him somewhere, and it came out one day in a
perilous fashion.

There was in the hotel of the Louis Quinze an English servant from the
west, called Nell Barraway. She had been in a hotel in Montreal, and it
was there Fabian had seen her as she waited at table. She was a
splendid-looking creature--all life and energy, tall, fair-haired, and
with a charm above her kind. She was also an excellent servant, could do
as much as any two women in any house, and was capable of more airy
diablerie than any ten of her sex in Pontiac. When Fabian had said to her
in Montreal that he would come to see her again, he told her where he
lived. She came to see him instead, for she wrote to the landlord of the
Louis Quinze, enclosed fine testimonials, and was at once engaged. Fabian
was stunned when he entered the Louis Quinze and saw her waiting at
table, alert, busy, good to behold. She nodded at him with a quick smile
as he stood bewildered just inside the door, then said in English: "This
way, m'sieu'."

As he sat down he said in English also, with a laugh and with snapping
eyes: "Good Lord, what brings you here, lady-bird?"

As she pushed a chair under him she whispered through his hair: "You!"
and then was gone away to fetch pea-soup for six hungry men.

The Louis Quinze did more business now in three months than it had done
before in six. But it became known among a few in Pontiac that Nell was
notorious. How it had crept up from Montreal no one guessed, and, when it
did come, her name was very intimately associated with Fabian's. No one
could say that she was not the most perfect of servants, and also no one
could say that her life in Pontiac had not been exemplary. Yet wise
people had made up their minds that she was determined to marry Fabian,
and the wisest declared that she would do so in spite of
everything--religion (she was a Protestant), character, race. She was
clever, as the young Seigneur found, as the little Avocat was forced to
admit, as the Cure allowed with a sigh, and she had no airs of badness at
all and very little of usual coquetry. Fabian was enamoured, and it was
clear that he intended to bring the woman to the Manor one way or
another.

Henri admitted the fascination of the woman, felt it, despaired, went to
Montreal, got proof of her career, came back, and made his final and only
effort to turn his brother from the girl.

He had waited an hour outside the hotel for his brother, and when Fabian
got in, he drove on without a word. After a while, Fabian, who was in
high spirits, said:

"Open your mouth, Henri. Come along, sleepyhead."

Straightway he began to sing a rollicking song, and Henri joined in with
him heartily, for the spirit of Fabian's humour was contagious:

            "There was a little man,
             The foolish Guilleri
             Carabi.
             He went unto the chase,
             Of partridges the chase.
             Carabi.
             Titi Carabi,
             Toto Carabo,
             You're going to break your neck,
             My lovely Guilleri!"

"You're going to break your neck, Fabian."

"What's up, Henri?" was the reply.

"You're drinking hard, and you don't keep good company."

Fabian laughed. "Can't get the company I want, so what I can get I have,
Henri, my lad."

"Don't drink." Henri laid his freehand on Fabian's knee.

"Whiskey-wine is meat and drink to me--I was born on New Year's Day, old
coffin-face. Whiskey-wine day, they ought to call it. Holy! the empty
jars that day." Henri sighed. "That's the drink, Fabian," he said
patiently. "Give up the company. I'll be better company for you than that
girl, Fabian."

"Girl? What the devil do you mean!"

"She, Nell Barraway, was the company I meant, Fabian."

"Nell Barraway--you mean her? Bosh! I'm going to marry her, Henri."

"You mustn't, Fabian," said Henri, eagerly clutching Fabian's sleeve.

"But I must, my Henri. She's the best-looking, wittiest girl I ever
saw--splendid. Never lonely with her."

"Looks and brains isn't everything, Fabian."

"Isn't it, though? Isn't it? Tiens, you try it!"

"Not without goodness." Henri's voice weakened.

"That's bosh. Of course it is, Henri, my dear. If you love a woman, if
she gets hold of you, gets into your blood, loves you so that the touch
of her fingers sets your pulses going pom-pom, you don't care a sou
whether she is good or not."

"You mean whether she was good or not?"

"No, I don't. I mean is good or not. For if she loves you she'll travel
straight for your sake. Pshaw, you don't know anything about it!"

"I know all about it."

"Know all about it! You're in love--you?"

"Yes."

Fabian sat open-mouthed for a minute. "Godam!" he said. It was his one
English oath.

"Is she good company?" he asked after a minute.

"She's the same as you keep--voila, the same."

"You mean Nell--Nell?" asked Fabian, in a dry, choking voice.

"Yes, Nell. From the first time I saw her. But I'd cut my hand off first.
I'd think of you; of our people that have been here for two hundred
years; of the rooms in the old house where mother used to be."

Fabian laughed nervously. "Holy heaven, and you've got her in your blood,
too!"

"Yes, but I'd never marry her. Fabian, at Montreal I found out all about
her. She was as bad--"

"That's nothing to me, Henri," said Fabian, "but something else is. Here
you are now. I'll make a bargain." His face showed pale in the moonlight.
"If you'll drink with me, do as I do, go where I go, play the devil when
I play it, and never squeal, never hang back, I'll give her up. But I've
got to have you--got to have you all the time, everywhere, hunting,
drinking, or letting alone. You'll see me out, for you're stronger, had
less of it. I'm soon for the little low house in the grass. Stop the
horses."

Henri stopped them and they got out. They were just opposite the
lime-kiln, and they had to go a few hundred yards before they came to the
bridge to cross the river to their home. The light of the fire shone in
their faces as Fabian handed the flask to Henri, and said: "Let's drink
to it, Henri. You half, and me half." He was deadly pale.

Henri drank to the finger-mark set, and then Fabian lifted the flask to
his lips.

"Good-bye, Nell!" he said. "Here's to the good times we've had!" He
emptied the flask, and threw it over the bank into the burning lime, and
Garotte, the old lime-burner, being half asleep, did not see or hear.

The next day the two went on a long hunting expedition, and the following
month Nell Barraway left for Montreal.

Henri kept to his compact, drink for drink, sport for sport. One year the
crops were sold before they were reaped, horses and cattle went little by
little, then came mortgage, and still Henri never wavered, never
weakened, in spite of the Cure and all others. The brothers were always
together, and never from first to last did Henri lose his temper, or
openly lament that ruin was coming surely on them. What money Fabian
wanted he got. The Cure's admonitions availed nothing, for Fabian would
go his gait. The end came on the very spot where the compact had been
made; for, passing the lime-kiln one dark night, as the two rode home
together, Fabian's horse shied, the bank of the river gave way, and with
a startled "Ah, Henri!" the profligate and his horse were gone into the
river below.

Next month the farm and all were sold, Henri Paradis succeeded the old
lime-burner at his post, drank no more ever, and lived his life in sight
of the old home.

Literature Network » Gilbert Parker » The Lane That Had No Turning » The Story of the Lime-burner