“I’m driving Madame V. deP. Delongpré at eleven,” he would say. “A huge woman; not easy to embalm, let me tell you. Then back to the shop and get the Cross off the top of the hearse and put on the draped Urn to get old Aaron Wrong to the Presbyterian church by two sharp. He made it to ninety-four, you know. A tiny man at the last—very easy to embalm because there was so little left of him. I’ll just have time for a sandwich in between, but Miss Cameron has promised me a great feed tonight. I’ll look in before me dinner and bring you some more wood. Keep your pecker up, dear man.”
An unfortunate expression to use to Francis, for though Zadok meant it in its English sense of keeping cheerful, it had quite another message for Francis, who was aware that his pecker was too often indefensibly up and assertive during the day. Did Zadok know? Was Zadok mocking him? Adults were incomprehensible.
Zadok never broke his promise to return in the evening, with more wood and news of the day’s diversions.
“Madame Delongpré would have been mortified,” he would say. “Church not much more than a third full. But she was a bitter old gossip. Aaron Wrong, now, pulled a full church at St. Andrew’s. I suppose it shows you what money and great old age can do. Long funeral. I was hard set to get back here to drive Madame Thibodeau home after the card-party. Between you and me, Francis, she’s getting too old and too fat for the pony-trap. But she’s still a great hand with the cards. She cleared over three dollars at the table this afternoon. D’you think she cheats?”
By such cheerful irreverences he relieved the warm, happy, but remorselessly devotional atmosphere created by Aunt, who would appear at eight o’clock to say the rosary, at its full length, with Francis, who now knew it by heart. It was not something to be mentioned to the Major, even if he should appear, which was unlikely. But now that Francis had been baptized by Father Devlin he was certainly a Catholic, and was not the poetry of the rosary his by right?
How much of Aunt’s total dominance of their household was understood by the Senator and his wife? She was so humble, so deferential to Marie-Louise as the mistress, the wife, the mother; Aunt was so soft-voiced, so smiling, that her control of everything was hardly noticed. Marie-Louise often said that dear Mary-Ben was her Right Bower—an expression from Aunt’s favourite game of euchre. She did not aspire to bridge, which was still new in Blairlogie, and fashionable, and beyond the understanding of a poor, addled old maid like herself; that was for such powerful intellects as Marie-Louise, and Madame Thibodeau, and the card-crazed group with whom they played five times a week, displaying astonishing avarice over the modest stakes. Of course, it could not be called gambling; the money was merely to give a little additional interest to the contest of wits, the severe post-mortems, and the occasional sharping which was not quite cheating. Ample meals and the green baize table were all Marie-Louise asked of life, now. As for the Senator, he had his business, his attendance in the Chamber in Ottawa, his politics, and his sun-pictures. Let his sister manage the household; he made her an ample allowance, most of which seemed to go to the Church.
Not all, however. Mary-Benedetta had her own craze. It was oil-paintings. She bought expensive reproductions from shops in Montreal, where she visited Reverend Mother Mary-Basil twice a year. Not all of these could be hung on the walls of her sitting-room, which were full from the ceiling to within three feet of the floor with Murillos, Ary Scheffers, Guido Renis, and all the masters of sweet piety that appealed to her; scores of others, unframed, were kept in portfolios, over which she brooded happily when the rosary had been said, and Francis was seated at her side, wrapped in shawls, in a reverential atmosphere. Masters of the Renaissance and masters of the nineteenth century were here, and not all the pictures were on sacred themes. Ladies languished on balconies, listening to cavaliers who played the guitar and sang in the garden below. Here was that lovely thing Sir Galahad, by G. F. Watts, O.M., R.A.—”the Order of Merit dear, and a Royal Academician, truly a great man”—in which the purity of the young man—”not a saint dear, but a great lover of our Lord”—and the purity of his horse were finely linked. And see, Francis, here is the Infant Samuel, wakened from his sleep by God’s summons; can’t you almost see the words on his lips, “Speak, for Thy servant heareth”? Remember that, Francis, if you should ever hear the Voice in the darkness. Oh, and look, dear, here is the Virgin of Consolation; see the poor soul who has lost her baby, comforted by the Holy Mother; painted by a Frenchman, dear, “William Adolphe Bouguereau; oh, he must be a troubled soul, Francis, for he has painted some dreadful pagan pictures, but here he is, you see, painting this truly sacred picture that assures us of the Virgin’s mercy. And here is The Doctor by Luke Fildes; doctors are very wonderful men, Francis, right next to priests in their pity and concern for human suffering; see him as he looks at the sick little boy, just as Uncle Doctor sat and looked at you when you were so bad with the whooping-cough. Well now, this one has got in here by mistake; it’s called Flaming June, and you can see the girl is asleep, but why Lord Leighton wanted to shove her B.T.M. right into the front of the picture I’ll never know; you may well ask why I bought it, but now I have it I can’t quite bring myself to throw it away. Isn’t the colour fine?
Francis could look at pictures for hours, absorbed in the world of fantasy they created, and their assurance of a life far beyond the reach of Carlyle Rural, and the moral squalor of Alexander Dagg’s Maw. His convalescence began only a week or so before Christmas and when that day came Aunt had two gifts for him, in the choice of which she acknowledged him as a kindred spirit.
One was a head of Christ, for the picture of A Certain Person had been left in the nursery at Chegwidden Lodge. But that had been for a little child; this was unquestionably a work of the highest art. It was called St. Veronica’s Napkin, because you know, dear, that when Our Lord stumbled and fell on the terrible walk to Calvary, St. Veronica wiped His dear Face with her napkin (no, not a dinner napkin, dear, more a hanky) and lo! His Image was imprinted on it forever. Just like the Shroud of Turin. As one looked at the calm face, its closed eyes seemed to open and gaze directly into your own. The work of a great Belgian master, dear; we’ll hang it where you can see it from your bed, and you’ll know He’s looking at you all night long.
The other was secular, but though it was a “nude” it was not sensational; a boy, about Francis’s own age, stood weeping at a door that the painter’s art had made to look very firmly closed, but also as though it gave entry to something wholly delightful; it was called Love Locked Out. Painted by a lady, Francis—an American lady—but what a truly masculine grasp of art she must have to be able to think of and paint such a wonderful picture!
Love locked out. Francis knew all about that. Oh, Mother, darling Mother, why are you so far away? Why are you never here? Mother’s visits were so few and so brief. Of course, it was her work in England, in the hospitals for Canadian soldiers, that kept her away, and Francis must be a brave soldier too, and not mind. Parcels at Christmas, and occasional brief letters that seemed to be written to a much younger boy, did not really make up for Mother’s absence. Love Locked Out—even a brave little soldier could not keep back tears. The picture gave an outward, visible form to a longing that lived deep inside him, and surged to the surface whenever he was sad, or lonely, or when dusk was gathering outside the windows, and the fire made changing shadows on the wall.