The Ruling Passion | Page 8

the point she had in view when she began the
talk. "Dunno's you're any more foolish than a man that keeps on doin'
what he don't like. But what made you come away from the boys in the
woods and travel down this way?"
A shade passed over the face of Jacques. He turned away from the lamp
and bent over the violin on his knees, fingering the strings nervously.
Then he spoke, in a changed, shaken voice.
"Ah'l tole you somet'ing, Ma'amselle Serene. You ma frien'. Don' you
h'ask me dat reason of it no more. Dat's somet'ing vair' bad, bad, bad.
Ah can't nevair tole dat--nevair."
There was something in the way he said it that gave a check to her
gentle curiosity and turned it into pity. A man with a secret in his life?
It was a new element in her experience; like a chapter in a book. She
was lady enough at heart to respect his silence. She kept away from the
forbidden ground. But the knowledge that it was there gave a new
interest to Jacques and his music. She embroidered some strange
romances around that secret while she sat in the kitchen sewing.
Other people at Bytown were less forbearing. They tried their best to
find out something about Fiddlin' Jack's past, but he was not
communicative. He talked about Canada. All Canadians do. But about
himself? No.
If the questions became too pressing, he would try to play himself away
from his inquisitors with new tunes. If that did not succeed, he would
take the violin under his arm and slip quickly out of the room. And if
you had followed him at such a time, you would have heard him
drawing strange, melancholy music from the instrument, sitting alone
in the barn, or in the darkness of his own room in the garret.
Once, and only once, he seemed to come near betraying himself. This

was how it happened.
There was a party at Moody's one night, and Bull Corey had come
down from the Upper Lake and filled himself up with whiskey.
Bull was an ugly-tempered fellow. The more he drank, up to a certain
point, the steadier he got on his legs, and the more necessary it seemed
for him to fight somebody. The tide of his pugnacity that night took a
straight set toward Fiddlin' Jack.
Bull began with musical criticisms. The fiddling did not suit him at all.
It was too quick, or else it was too slow. He failed to perceive how any
one could tolerate such music even in the infernal regions, and he
expressed himself in plain words to that effect. In fact, he damned the
performance without even the faintest praise.
But the majority of the audience gave him no support. On the contrary,
they told him to shut up. And Jack fiddled along cheerfully.
Then Bull returned to the attack, after having fortified himself in the
bar-room. And now he took national grounds. The French were, in his
opinion, a most despicable race. They were not a patch on the noble
American race. They talked too much, and their language was
ridiculous. They had a condemned, fool habit of taking off their hats
when they spoke to a lady. They ate frogs.
Having delivered himself of these sentiments in a loud voice, much to
the interruption of the music, he marched over to the table on which
Fiddlin' Jack was sitting, and grabbed the violin from his hands.
"Gimme that dam' fiddle," he cried, "till I see if there's a frog in it."
Jacques leaped from the table, transported with rage. His face was
convulsed. His eyes blazed. He snatched a carving-knife from the
dresser behind him, and sprang at Corey.
"TORT DIEU!" he shrieked, "MON VIOLON! Ah'll keel you, beast!"

But he could not reach the enemy. Bill Moody's long arms were flung
around the struggling fiddler, and a pair of brawny guides had Corey
pinned by the elbows, hustling him backward. Half a dozen men thrust
themselves between the would-be combatants. There was a dead
silence, a scuffling of feet on the bare floor; then the danger was past,
and a tumult of talk burst forth.
But a strange alteration had passed over Jacques. He trembled. He
turned white. Tears poured down his cheeks. As Moody let him go, he
dropped on his knees, hid his face in his hands, and prayed in his own
tongue.
"My God, it is here again! Was it not enough that I must be tempted
once before? Must I have the madness yet another time? My God, show
the mercy toward me, for the Blessed Virgin's sake. I am a sinner, but
not the second time; for the love of Jesus, not the second time! Ave