NIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE

by Margery Lawrence

  ‘Dieu! ’Tis like trying to unravel the knots in Mère Pinchot’s knitting to get sense out o’ the poor lad’s talk, Marie! He has been listening to M. Réné’s talk of spells and witches and the like . . . nought else. . . .’

  Marie nodded in understanding. M. Réné and his strange interest in folk-lore and old tales were well-known in little Briéres, where he was regarded indulgently as a mildly crazy young man—but pleasant withal, and generous to his hosts. The idiot stood still glancing from one to the other with a piteous intentness in his mad eyes, obviously on tenterhooks to see whether they had understood. At Jean-Jacques’s laugh and turn away he grew frantic—pulling his brother’s sleeve, he darted to the side of the kitchen, where, as in so many houses in the Loire country, the bed-place was a deep niche in the wall, concealed from view by day by a wooden shutter. Before the astounded and horrified Marie-Blanche could stop him he had dragged from the bed the coarse linen sheet and coverlet, and rushing to the door, made as if to go into the garden with them, shouting unintelligibilities over his shoulder at his gaping brother.

  Jean-Jacques’s mentality, peasant-like in its slowness, lagged behind his wife’s—action came first with her, thinking second, and while her husband gaped and blinked, Marie-Blanche, like an outraged little brown hen, pounced furiously on the trailing ends of her beloved sheets, and dragging with a right good will, arrested the headlong progress of the culprit as he reached the doorway.

  ‘Nom d’une nom d’une pipe!’ gasped Jean, ‘what’s come to the fellow, I should like to know?’

  ‘What’s come to him—he’s mad, I tell you!’ puffed Marie-Blanche, ablaze with fury, tenderly gathering up the outraged linen from the drooping arms of the thief—arrested in his eager flight, he stood piteously staring at his brother, stammering incoherencies, great pitiful tears of distress at his impotence running down his thin face. The sheer extremity of his anxiety forced a measure of clarity into his blundering speech, and he brought out at last almost a clear-cut phrase—something to do with ‘the bed! The bed should be made in the fields . . . the fields . . . Jean-Jacques and Marie-Blanche . . . sleep . . . the fields . . .’

  Jean-Jacques’s sudden uproarious laughter cut across his stammering, and he shouted the explanation to Marie-Blanche huffily smoothing and refolding her crumpled linen.

  ‘Dieu de Dieu! Now I understand . . . le pauvre! He has been listening to M. Réné and his mad talk of health, ma foi, and sleeping out o’ doors as he does, the poor young man! Tais-toi, mon brave—no cranks for me—what did le bon Dieu make houses for, but to sleep in, eh?’

  ‘The world’s full of fools, alors!’ commented Marie-Blanche acidly. ‘The fright he gave me—and look at my beautiful linen, for shame! Don’t tell me again he means well, Jean, or I’ll slap thee—a stupid witless loon, to play me a trick like that. I’ll teach him! Get thee to bed, mon chou, and I’ll get all straight and be after thee. As for thee, Pierre, go out and see the cows are in the byre for the night, and the gates closed—va t’en!’

  The quiet moon looked down on the sleeping valley as the idiot, closing the wooden house-door softly behind him, turned his face towards the blind skies and sobbed soundlessly, heavily, as an animal sobs. Turning instinctively towards the little group of fields that, beyond the rambling garden and the orchard, comprised Jean-Jacques’s tiny property, he stumbled on through the wild tangle of stunted greenery, raising a clumsy hand now and then to brush away the heavy tears, but mostly letting them run unchecked; now and then he sobbed again heavily and bitterly, hopelessly. He could not make them understand! He knew the way, but because of something, something in his mouth—his speech—he could not even tell them what he knew! His whole dumb soul rose in sullen hate against that Unknown that had tied his tongue thus, so that he could not even make known to his god—his worshipped brother—the knowledge these great men from afar had told him—how he had tramped back, chuckling with glee at his secret, this wondrous knowledge that would bring back fruitfulness to these barren lands, and happiness to Jean-Jacques’s heart!

  Listless, still sobbing absently from time to time, he drove the cows to shelter, shut the gate, and stood staring over the waste fields, grimmer and starker than ever under the cold blueness of the moon. Suddenly he held his breath—what if there was yet a way to save Jean-Jacques even against himself—to raise the curse from the land? The moon shone quietly down on the strange uncouth figure staring straight before him, the light eyes gleaming with a sudden determination—doubling swiftly under the hedges, Pierre ran back to the house, his plan resolved.

  A moment at the door he paused—indoors he heard the movements of Marie-Blanche, still busy at the peasant-woman’s endless work—with a twisted grin of content he ducked beneath the window-sill, and stealing into the lean-to shack used as a store-room, came out with a round bottle under his arm; depositing this under a tree in the orchard, he crept into the garden where grew Marie-Blanche’s flowers—the only part of the little farm where growth flourished well, with fresh gay country blooms that sold so well as bouquets to the frequent tourists that passed through the pretty village—and with many a quick frightened glance at the little house behind him, stripped the beds as fast as his lean, knotted hands could pluck.

  The garden was small, and his energy feverish in its intensity, so it was a short enough time before Marie-Blanche’s pleasaunce showed tragically bare in the moonlight, while the marauder, his arms laden with fragrant colour, crept guiltily away towards the waiting fields.

  * * * * *

  Marie-Blanche suffered from a superfluity of energy tonight. Not content with tidying up the tiny house till one could have eaten one’s dinner with complaisance from the tiled floor, she must needs, after a complaisant glance at the sleeping Jean-Jacques, suddenly lay out the crumpled sheets, and heating the huge peasant iron, proceed to press and fold the insulted sheets into their pristine neatness, laying them tenderly at last upon the deep pile of heavy flax-woven household linen that was her pride and joy.

  This, however, took rather more time than she had thought, and looking at the cheap American clock—a wedding present to Jean-Jacques from Réné Baudin, and greatly prized—she decided that it was more than time all were asleep—but ciel, where was Pierre all this time? She had forgotten him. Doubtless he was asleep under some bush, as usual—Mon Dieu, she was the most amiable of women, she, to tolerate this ugly great imbecile always at her heels. Grumbling and yawning, she unhooked a lantern and walked out into the garden—and lo, clear in the moonlight before her horrified stare lay the ravished flower-beds, crushed and trampled as the thief had left them, a few dying flower-heads trodden in the dust, defeated warriors on the unequal field of battle!

  Rubbing her incredulous eyes, Marie-Blanche gaped, dazed, unbelieving—then her mouth set grimly. This was Pierre—doubtless he was angry with her for stopping his rushing out with her linen. This was his revenge, was it—wait till she caught him! She would not wake Jean—he needed his sleep out, the poor soul—but this was why Pierre had not returned, of course! He would be hiding somewhere, afraid to face her—but she would have him out; the wicked, the cochon—thief and coward! . . . her whole dauntless little soul ablaze with righteous wrath, Marie-Blanche marched resolutely up the garden, armed with a switch as long as her small self. This was the end—Jean-Jacques would admit she was right this time! Her beautiful flowers—and tomorrow was Friday, and all those English tourists came then, in great noisy charabancs, and they always bought her flowers . . . she was saving them for Friday . . . ma foi, what a sin, what a crime it was he had done, to ruin even this small profit, when already it was so hard to buy meat to help out the eternal soupe maigre and bread and vegetables! And he pretended to love Jean-Jacques—a sob rose in Marie-Blanche’s throat as she climbed the slope and stepped into the tiny vineyard at the top. Holding the lantern high, she shaded her eyes and, seeing, gasped.

  The field was long and sloping, triangular-shaped, ending in a sharp poi
nt—the vines, that should have been tall and flourishing, small and stunted poor things, where they grew in long rows down the rough-turned earth. At the far end, the apex of the triangle, a lank figure stooped and rose, stooped and rose again—now he was walking in a circle, strewing something it seemed—her blood on fire with indignation, Marie-Blanche put down the lantern for greater haste, and stumbling down the deep furrow at the hedge bottom, hurried towards the scene.

  As she reached the end of the field, panting with haste and anger, the coy moon sailed out from behind the ragged clouds, and her brilliance lighted up a strange picture—so strange indeed that even Marie-Blanche was held, silenced, startled!

  For several square yards the stumpy vines had been uprooted, and laid carefully each by each upon the earth, forming as it were a rude bed; upon these were strewn flowers, and around, from tree and hedge and neighbouring vine, hung garlands of creeping things, pale convolvulus, velvety passion-flower and jasmine, ghostly stars against the shadows.

  Gravely, carefully, bearing himself as a priest conscious of his high rôle, his naked feet soundless on the still warm earth, Pierre Loutrec moved about the little space, stepping delicately clear of the scattered flowers, his expression absorbed, intent. About and about the green bed of branches he trod in a measured circle, and as he went he cast abroad something that brought Marie-Blanche’s breath up short with anger—wine, good rich wine, not the thin stuff drunk ordinarily in the frugal little household, but her fine red Burgundy from the store kept for high days and holidays!—from the broken neck of the slender flask he was sprinkling the thirsty ground itself, drop by drop, around the cleared space of earth!

  Speechless with anger, yet somehow a little frightened, Marie-Blanche’s eyes followed him, fascinated—he had discarded his shabby coat, and in obedience to some strange instinct, stripped himself of even his shirt; clad only in his rough trousers, his great muscular shoulders were wreathed with rude garlands of leaves and creepers, and flowers nodded riotously, incongruously, in his matted dusty hair—from the pathetic childish array his twisted face looked out, curiously remote and still, and for once, scarcely ugly at all. Only strangely and rather horribly—inhuman.

  He looked up and saw the woman watching him—to her astonishment, he made no motion of fear or guilt. Ordinarily he would have cringed in miserable shame, fawned on her for forgiveness, cowered away from her sharp tongue like a chidden dog—now he nodded several times, gravely, as if assured, and casting abroad the last few crimson drops of sacrificial wine, flung aside the empty flask. At the action, her indignation reviving in full force, Marie-Blanche stepped forward into the clearing, her lips parting to scold—but suddenly she paused, scared of something in the strange face so silently regarding her; white, exalted almost, the blank traced eyes seeming to look through and beyond her to some immensely distant glory.

  Staring, uncomprehending, suddenly panic took the girl by the throat, and she turned to fly—but it was too late—the priest had chosen his victim, and an inexorable hand caught her in a grip of iron.

  Frantically she beat with her little hands against the broad hairy chest, the corded throat, but she was a child in the arms of a giant, and the end was soon . . . the moon shuddered and slid behind a curtain of cloud as through her gradually weakening struggles the girl dimily heard a voice—guttural still but strangely clear for once—above her head.

  ‘It is for Jean—to bless the fields, Marie. Be silent, thou—woman, be silent! . . . I must . . . to bless the fields.’

  The acrid smell of sweat, of bruised flowers and green things beneath her, and an earth-stained hand over her shrieking mouth! Blind fighting that grew feebler, hoarse breathing that mingled with a mighty roaring in her ears—and always that terrible hand pressing, pressing—then blackness, sharp and merciful, and Marie-Blanche Loutrec knew no more this side of Heaven.

  * * * * *

  They found him crouching, terrified, miles away in a disused barn, two days after Jean-Jacques, frantic, discovered the dead body of his wife prone upon a bed of vine-leaves and flowers.

  The exaltation of excitement gone, the imbecile had fled gibbering with terror at what he had inadvertently done—the trial was a farce, since no sense could be made of what the culprit said. He wept piteously in court and stretched his hands to his brother, crying of the fields, the ‘spell’ and Marie-Blanche, and flowers and libations, and the fields again; but the learned judge could make no sense of it, and Jean-Jacques, white and stunned, could only shake his head. And indeed, nobody could have thrown any light upon it but the great Professor—and he was miles away, never dreaming how strange a thing had come to pass through his casual words.

  So they sent poor Pierre away to an asylum, where he soon died—bereft of the sun of his worship, his brother Jean-Jacques, he lost interest in life and flickered away like a rushlight in the dawn. But on his good days, when he felt gay and happy, he would sometimes try to tell visitors the story of his wonderful spell to save the fields of Jean-Jacques—would rub his lean hands and bid them go and see how beautiful were those fields but now! Ma foi, how rich, how ripe and heavy-laden the vines, how tall and strong the springing corn—and the nurses would smile and bid him be quiet and good, and perhaps he would seem them himself some day.

  But what is very curious—and might interest the good Professor considerably—is, that it is true, that ever since that night of horror—ever since Pierre Loutrec, in his madness, made oblation to the gods in the old way, there are no more fertile, more fruitful lands in all the fair country of the Loire than the fields of Jean-Jacques.

  October

  The Host’s Story

  Morag-of-the-Cave

  It was not usual to see Frank Saunderson nervous, yet he blushed and grinned like a girl as he rose after dinner one genial autumn night—October, to be exact—amidst the surprised acclamations of the assembled company. In one fat hand he held a bundle of tattered MS sheets—waving the papers to stem the laughter and applause, he spoke, as with expectant eyes and avid ears we drew up chairs, lit cigarettes and settled ourselves to listen.

  ‘Friends, Romans, countrymen! I’m generally one of those people whose métier it is to listen, and not to take part in the show—but by chance this came into my hands, and I felt you might like to hear it. It’s not mine—strange and weird things don’t happen to a fat chap like me!—it was written by a young niece of mine, now married. She used to write a bit at one time, and apparently she wrote this down after it happened to her, and meant to publish it—but then she got married and gave up writing, and forgot it. But I spent a week with her recently, and rummaging for some writing paper in her bureau—you know the delightful chaos of an Irish household!—came across this and insisted on reading it. It impressed me rather—I asked her to let me keep it and read it to you chaps; she blushed and said you’d all think her an imaginative fool, but I promised not to reveal her name, so she consented, and here it is. An odd sort of yarn—and not altogether pleasant, but there, you shall have it. Help yourself to a drink, Vesey, and pass the cigars round, and I’ll tell you the story of “Morag-of-the-Cave”.’

  I saw her first wandering along the bleak seashore, wrapped in the eternal shawl that cloaks the Irish peasant woman. I was staying with the O’Haras, delightful, happy-go-lucky people, but rather too strenuous and energetic for my more sedentary tastes. Fortunately we were sufficiently old friends for me to ‘gang my ain gait’ if I wanted to, and I spent much time pottering about the picturesque, dirty little village, and talking to the friendly fisherfolk. It was while I stood talking to Silis Hagan, the old woman who had nursed big Terry O’Hara, youngest of the clan, and my fiancé, through his many ills, that Morag-of-the-Cave passed by. A grey, quiet woman, tall and thin to a degree, she loitered down the sandy pathway, her hands twisted in her shawl—the absence of the usual knitting that is the ceaseless occupation of the crofter woman struck me, and I remarked on it at once. Silis shook his head as she stared at the retr
eating figure.

  ‘Sure, ’tis always so with her, poor soul, pour soul! ’Twould be better for her peace o’ mind if she’d bide quiet and mind house and work, like good Father Flaherty bids her, but no, ’tis no use. Down to the sea, down to the sea she is all her days! Herself pity her . . . Morag-of-the-Cave.’

  I was alert at once, scenting a story.

  ‘Morag—that’s Mary, isn’t it? Mary-of-the-Cave? Why that name, Silis? Is there a story?’

  Silis nodded, but her deep old eyes contracted a little, half, it seemed, in fear, half in distaste.

  ‘Sure, there’s a story . . . but by that same token it’s rather not telling it I’d be, Miss Edie.’

  ‘Why in the world?’ I was, of course, now all agog to hear.

  ‘Why—it’s no tale for a sweet young lady to hear, for sure now.’ Silis’s tone was frankly reluctant, but I pressed her.

  ‘Ah, now do tell me. I asked Mr Terence whether you’d tell me any of your stories to put in my new book, and he promised me you would.’

  Silis wavered. Terry was her idol, and I had used the one lever likely to sway her obstinacy. A shuffling step came in the soft sand, and Morag-of-the-Cave passed us again, her wide vague gaze lingering with a faint interest on my tweed skirt and bright orange woolly scarf. She paused a second uncertainly, as Silis greeted her kindly, but did not reply. For a moment she surveyed me, then her gaze wandered to Silis, and thence downwards to the rope of seaweed she held; I noticed that it was wet and fresh, and the edge of her torn skirt all dark and draggled with sea-water. She half opened her mouth to speak, then seemed to change her mind, and turning, wandered away up the winding slope towards the village. Suddenly, why I did not know, I felt myself shivering, chilled. Silis glanced at me shrewdly, and nodded.