Shadows on the Rock (4 page)

The next morning Auclair sent Cécile up to the Ursuline convent with some borax de Venise which the Mother Superior
required, and a bottle of asafoetida for one of the Sisters who was ailing. At this time of year Cécile always felt a little
homesick for the Sisters and her old life at the Ursuline school. She had left it so early, because of her mother’s illness,
and she never passed the garden walls without looking wistfully at the tree-tops which rose above them. From her walks on
Cap Diamant she could look down into the rectangular courts and see, through the leafless boughs, the rows of dormer windows
in the white roofs, each opening into a Sister’s bare little room. One teacher she loved better than any of the others:
Sister Anne de Sainte–Rose, who taught history and the French language. She was a niece of the Bishop of Tours, had been
happily married, and had led a brilliant life in the great world. Only after the death of her young husband and infant son
had she become a religious. She had charm and wit and the remains of great beauty — everything that would appeal to a little
girl brought up on a rude frontier. Cécile still saw her when she went to the convent on errands, and she was always invited
to the little miracle plays which Sister Anne had the pensionnaires give at Christmas-time, for the good of their French and
their deportment. But her little visits with her teacher were very short, — stolen pleasures. The nuns were always busy, and
if you once dropped out of the school life, you could not share it any more.

This morning she did not see Sister Anne at all; and after delivering her packages to Sister Agatha, the porteress, she
turned away to enjoy the weather. It was on days like this that she loved her town best. The autumn fog was rolling in from
the river so thick that she seemed to be walking through drifts of brown cloud. Only a few roofs and spires stood out in the
fog, detached and isolated: the flèche of the Récollet chapel, the slate roof of the Château, the long, grey outline of
Bishop Laval’s Seminary, floating in the sky. Everything else was blotted out by rolling vapours that were constantly
changing in density and colour; now brown, now amethyst, now reddish lavender, with sometimes a glow of orange overhead
where the sun was struggling behind the thick weather.

It was like walking in a dream. One could not see the people one passed, or the river, or one’s own house. Not even the
winter snows gave one such a feeling of being cut off from everything and living in a world of twilight and miracles. After
loitering on her way, she set off for the Lower Town to look for Jacques.

Cécile never on any account went to his mother’s house to find him. Sometimes, in searching for him, she went behind the
King’s warehouses, as far as the stone paving extended. Beyond the paving the strip of beach directly underneath Cap Diamant
grew so narrow that there was room for barely a dozen houses to sit in a straight line against the foot of the cliff, and
they were the slum of Quebec. Respectability stopped with the cobble-stones.

This morning she did not have to go so far; she found Jacques in a group of little boys who had kindled a fire of sticks
at the foot of Notre Dame street, behind the church. Before she came up to the children, a light sprinkle began to fall. In
a few seconds all the brownish-lilac masses of vapour melted away, leaving a lead-coloured sky, and the rain came down in
streams, like water poured from a great height. Cécile caught Jacques by the arm and ran with him into the church, which had
often been a refuge to them in winter. Not that the church was ever heated, but in there one was out of the wind, and
perhaps the bright colours made one feel the cold less. This morning the church was empty, except for an old man and three
women at their prayers. There were a few benches on either side of the nave, for old people who could not stand during mass,
and the children slipped into one of these, sitting close together to keep warm.

“It’s been a long time since we were in here together,” Cécile whispered.

He nodded.

“But you come in to say your prayers, don’t you, every day?”

“I think so,” he answered vaguely.

“That is right. I like this church better than any other. Even in the chapel of the Ursulines I don’t feel so much at
home, though I used to be there every day when I was going to school. This is our own church, isn’t it, Jacques?”

He glanced up at her and smiled faintly. This child never looked very well. He was not thin, — rather chunky, on the
contrary, — but there was no colour in his cheeks, or even in his lips. That, Cécile knew, was because he wasn’t properly
nourished.

“You might tell me about some nice saint,” said Jacques presently. She began to whisper the story of Saint Anthony of
Padua, who stood quite near them, ruddy and handsome, with a sheaf of lilies on one arm and the Holy Child on the other.

It chanced that this one church in the Lower Town, near Jacques’s little world, where he and Cécile had so often made
rendezvous, was peculiarly the church of childhood. It had been renamed Notre Dame de la Victoire five years ago, after the
Count had driven off Sir William Phips’s besieging fleet, in recognition of the protection which Our Lady had afforded
Quebec in that hour of danger. But originally it was called the Church of the Infant Jesus, and the furnishings and
decorations which had been sent over from France were appropriate for a church of that name.

• The charm of this old church was greatly spoiled by unfortunate alterations in the lighting, made in the autumn of
  1929.
  

Two paintings hung in the Lady Chapel, both of Sainte Geneviève as a little girl. In one she sat under a tree in a
meadow, with a flock of sheep all about her, and a distaff in her hand, while two angels watched her from a distance. In the
other she was reading an illuminated scroll, — but here, too, she was in a field and surrounded by her flock.

The high altar was especially interesting to children, though it was not nearly so costly or so beautiful as the altar in
the Ursulines’ chapel with its delicate gold-work. It was very simple indeed, — but definite. It was a representation of a
feudal castle, all stone walls and towers. The outer wall was low and thick, with many battlements; the second was higher,
with fewer battlements; the third seemed to be the wall of the palace itself, with towers and many windows. Within the
arched gateway (hung with little velvet curtains that were green or red or white according to the day) the Host was kept.
Cécile had always taken it for granted that the Kingdom of Heaven looked exactly like this from the outside and was
surrounded by just such walls; that this altar was a reproduction of it, made in France by people who knew; just as the
statues of the saints and of the Holy Family were portraits. She had taught Jacques to believe the same thing, and it was
very comforting to them both to know just what Heaven looked like, — strong and unassailable, wherever it was set among the
stars.

Out of this walled castle rose three tall stone towers, with holy figures on them. On one stood a grave Sainte Anne,
regally clad like a great lady of this world, with a jewelled coronet upon her head. On her arm sat a little dark-skinned
Virgin, her black hair cut straight across the back like a scholar’s, her hands joined in prayer. Sainte Anne was noble in
bearing, but not young; her delicately featured face was rather worn by life, and sad. She seemed to know beforehand all the
sorrows of her own family, and of the world it was to succour.

On the central tower, which was the tallest and rose almost to the roof of the church, the Blessed Mother and Child stood
high up among the shadows. Today, with the leaden sky and floods of rain, it was too dark up there to see her clearly; but
the children thought they saw her, because they knew her face so well. She was by far the loveliest of all the Virgins in
Kebec, a charming figure of young motherhood, — oh, very young, and radiantly happy, with a stately crown, and a long, blue
cloak that parted in front over a scarlet robe. The little Jesus on her arm was not a baby, — he looked as if he would walk
if she put him down, and walk very well. He was so intelligent and gay, a child in a bright and joyful mood, both arms
outstretched in a gesture of welcome, as if he were giving a fête for his little friends and were in the act of receiving
them. He was a little Lord indeed, in his gaiety and graciousness and savoir-faire.

The rain fell on the roof and drove against the windows. Outside, the ledges of bare rock and all the sloping streets
were running water; everything was slippery and shiny with wet. The children sat contentedly in their corner, feeling the
goodness of shelter. Jacques remarked that it would be nice if there were more candles. The tapers on the votive
candle-stand were burning low, and nobody was coming in now because of the downpour. It was pleasanter, they agreed, when
there were enough candles burning before Sainte Anne to show the gold flowers on her cloak.

“Why don’t you light a candle, Cécile?” Jacques asked. “You do, sometimes.”

“Yes, but this morning I haven’t any money with me.”

Jacques sighed. “It would be nice,” he repeated.

“I wonder, Jacques, if it would be wrong for me to take a candle, and then bring the ten sous down later, when the rain
stops.”

Jacques brightened. He thought that a very good idea.

“But it’s irregular, Jacques. Perhaps it would not be right.”

“You wouldn’t forget, would you?”

“Oh, no! But I might be struck by lightning or something on the way home. And then, I expect, I’d die in sin.”

“But I would tell your father, and he would give me the ten sous to put in the box. I wouldn’t forget.”

She saw he wanted very much to light a candle. “Well, perhaps. I’ll try it this once, and I’ll light one for you, too.
Only be sure you don’t forget, if anything happens to me.”

They went softly up to the feet of Sainte Anne, where the candles were burning down in the metal basin. Each of them took
a fresh taper from the box underneath, lit it, and fitted its hollow base upon one of the little metal horns. After saying a
prayer they returned to their bench to enjoy the sight of the two new bright spots in the brownish gloom. Sure enough, when
the fresh tapers were burning well, the gold flowers on Sainte Anne’s cloak began to show; not entire, but wherever there
was a fold in the mantle, the gold seemed to flow like a glistening liquid. Her figure emerged from the dusk in a rich,
oily, yellow light.

After a long silence Jacques spoke.

“Cécile, all the saints in this church like children, don’t they?”

“Oh, yes! And Our Lord loves children. Because He was a child Himself, you know.”

Jacques had something else in mind. In a moment he brought it out. “Sometimes sailors are fond of children, too.”

“Yes,” she agreed with some hesitation.

He sensed a reservation in her voice.

“And they’re awful brave,” he went on feelingly. “If it wasn’t for the sailors, we wouldn’t have any ships from France,
or anything.”

“That’s true,” Cécile assented.

Jacques relapsed into silence. He was thinking of a jolly Breton sailor who had played with him in the summer, and carved
him a marvellous beaver out of wood and painted its teeth white. He had sailed away on La Garonne three weeks ago, nearly
breaking Jacques’s heart. With that curious tact of childhood, which fails less often than the deepest diplomacy, Jacques
almost never referred to his mother or her house or the people who came there, when he was with Cécile and her father. When
he went to see them, he left his little past behind him, as it were.

At last the fall of water on the roof grew fainter, and the light clearer. Cécile said she must be going home now. “Come
along with me, Jacques. Never mind about your clothes,” seeing that he hung back, “that will be all right. Perhaps my father
will give you a bath while I am getting our déjeuner, and we will all have our chocolate together.”

As they quitted their bench, someone entered the church; a very heavy, tall old man with wide, stooping shoulders and a
head hanging forward. When he took off his shovel hat at the door, a black skull-cap still remained over his scanty locks.
He carried a cane and seemed to move his legs with some difficulty under his long, black gown. It was old Bishop Laval
himself, who had been storm-bound for an hour and more at the house of one of the merchants on the square. Cécile hurried up
to him before he should have time to kneel.

“Excuse me, Monseigneur l’Ancien,” she said respectfully, “but if it is quite convenient would you be so kind as to lend
me twenty sous?”

The old man looked down at her, frowning. His eyes were large and full, but set deep back under his forehead. He had such
a very large, drooping nose, and such a grim, bitter mouth, that he might well have frightened a child who didn’t know him.
With considerable difficulty he got a little black purse out from under his gown. There was not much in it.

“You see,” Cécile explained, “the little boy and I wished to offer candles, and I had no money with me. I was going up to
my father’s shop to get some, but I would rather not leave the church owing for the candles.”

The old man nodded and looked slightly amused. He put two pieces in her hand, and she went to the front of the church to
slip them in the box, leaving Jacques, who had got back against the wall as far as he could go, to bear the scrutiny of the
Bishop’s smouldering eyes. When she came back, she found them regarding each other in silence, but very intently; the old
man staring down from his height, the little boy, his finger in his mouth, looking up at the Bishop shyly, but in a way that
struck her as very personal. Cécile took him by the hand and led him to the door. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw
the Bishop sink heavily to his knees with something between a sigh and a groan.

Everything was glittering when they stepped out into the square; no sun yet, but a bright rain-grey light, silver and cut
steel and pearl on the grey roofs and walls. Long veils of smoky fog were caught in the pine forests across the river. And
how fresh the air smelled!