Autumn Glory Part 33

It was nearly ten at night when the body of Mathurin Lumineau was reverently placed by friendly hands in the great punt used for carrying forage, and which had so often been seen returning from the meadows laden with hay, one of the Terre-Aymont children perched on the top, singing.

The body was laid in the middle of the boat, covered with a white sheet by the hands of Mere Ma.s.sonneau; on it she placed a copper crucifix.

Toussaint Lumineau took his place in the stern at his son's head.

Standing in the bow with their punt poles were the two sons of Glorieux de la Terre-Aymont, two lanterns at their feet to light them on their way.

The boat left the bank amid the laments of those present, and proceeded slowly down the Grand Ca.n.a.l, the wind driving the mists of the Marais towards it as it advanced.

When at a short distance from La Seuliere, a voice from land exclaimed:

"There it is! I hear the punt poles; I see the lights!"

The doors of both rooms were thrown open; the lamplight shone out, illuminating the hillock on which the house stood; the stunted trees on the edge of the d.y.k.e looked silvery out of the darkness. Now all those present at the dance, young men and maidens, came forth in long procession down to the bank to greet the mournful convoy. In their gala dresses they knelt on the muddy bank, their coifs and ap.r.o.ns blown about in the wind. Silently they watched the approach of the white shroud covering the remains of the cripple, their senior by so few years, and the poor old father sitting bent double in the stern, his head almost touching his knees, motionless as the dead son he was guarding.

Behind the others knelt a tall girl supported by two of her companions kneeling on either side of her, the blue kerchief and gold chain she wore conspicuous in the light that streamed from the house. All were silent. All followed with their eyes the boat as it slowly glided away again into the darkness. The sound of the punt poles, as they dipped the water, gradually died away; the ripples left on the smooth surface of the water subsided. The white shroud had pa.s.sed away into the ever-deepening fog. There remained only a glimmer of light, the faint reflection of the lanterns pa.s.sing across the meadows; soon nothing could be distinguished from out the enveloping darkness into which the punt had disappeared.

"Poor eldest Lumineau! the handsomest of us all!"

In the solitude of the Marais, whither the pity of his fellow creatures could not accompany him, the old father wept as he looked on the burden at his feet; he wept, too, when lifting up his head his eyes lighted on the stalwart lads plying the punt poles, who, faithful to their home and soil, were keeping on the straight course.

CHAPTER XVIII.

SPRINGTIDE.

The second week of April was extremely mild throughout the Marais of La Vendee; Spring was at hand. The first to announce its coming were the blackthorns and willows; they were not yet in blossom but in bud.

And those buds which precede the blossoms have a perfume of their own--the whole country side was permeated with it. In the low-lying meadows, from which the water had retired, flowering moss was sending up its slender heads amid the fresh blades of gra.s.s. The plover was making its nest. Horses, turned out to gra.s.s, were enjoying their gallops on sunny banks, once more dry and firm. Pools were blue as the clouds were white, because Spring was coming.

On an afternoon of that happy week when all life was young again, Toussaint Lumineau, standing at his gate, was awaiting the return of the eldest Michelonne, whom, a week ago, he had sent on a mission to the town of Chatelliers. For she had written him that her quest had been successful, and that she was bringing back from the Bocage the humble labourer who was to be Rousille's husband, the mainstay and eventually the master of La Fromentiere. That morning Veronique had come to fetch Rousille to go and meet the travellers, and now the time was approaching when the tilted cart drawn by La Rousse should have rounded the corner and appeared at the foot of the hill between the two corn-fields swaying in the breeze.

The farmer stood waiting on his own domain, leaning on the gate which, alas! had opened to let forth, without return, all the sons of La Fromentiere, and which he, himself, would now open to let in the new-comers. Truly his heart was sad. Life had treated him hardly; the future was not rea.s.suring. Would not the land soon be sold and left to chance? At the very moment that he was about to welcome those who should succeed him, could Toussaint Lumineau chase away the thought that the long traditions of bygone generations were coming to an end, and that, inseparable for centuries, his family name and that of the farm would no longer be one and the same? However, he was too old, and came of too good a stock to surrender hope. The blood that coursed in his veins contained, like wheat, something of eternal youth. It might be deemed dead, it sprang to life again.

A dull, rapid thud, like the sound of men threshing, smote on the balmy air. Toussaint Lumineau recognised his mare's pace. She was coming at a gallop, as when returning from fairs, or fetes, or weddings.

He raised his head. Once more he felt within him the courage to live on, and turning towards the road where the old trees were putting on their fresh glad verdure, knowing that beyond them joy was hastening to him, he took off his hat, and with outstretched arms said:

"Come, my Rousille, with your Jean Nesmy."

THE END.