Paul was frightened. Something had happened in the household which he couldn’t understand but felt was a disaster. Julienne had been crying, his mother had been crying, his father had been shouting at everyone. Now, without explanation, he and his father were going to Montreal on the train.
He sat on the edge of a seat in the day coach with his legs dangling. He was wearing his best suit and was making a constant effort to keep his hands from getting dirtied by the sooty covering of the seat. Opposite him, his father was hidden by his newspaper. He had been reading it for the past half hour, and Paul, sitting very straight with legs hanging and head turning occasionally to look out the window, felt cut off from him.
His father crinkled up the paper and laid it down, and Paul sensed that a moment of some importance had come. Athanase cleared his throat and surveyed him, and his old face gave a smile that was meant to be reassuring, but was not. “Paul–there are some things you’re old enough to know. Do you understand about Marius?”
Paul knew what had happened, but not from his father. The deliberate refusal to mention Marius’ name in the house had made everything seem ominous and unnatural.
“Marius is quite all right,” his father said, still trying to be reassuring. He regretted never having been able to talk to children as Yardley did. He supposed there must be some special trick necessary in speaking to a child. “Marius hasn’t done anything bad. You’re not to worry about him at all. He’s all right.”
Paul looked down at his feet as they dangled above the floor and vibrated with the throb of the train. Feeling guilty, supposing he was expected to understand something which he did not, he asked his father in a low voice what had happened to his brother.
Athanase gave a forced laugh. “He’s going to be a soldier. We can all be proud of him.”
“But P’pa–he didn’t want to be a soldier.”
“It will be different now. When he gets into uniform he’ll like it.”
Athanase wanted to get the subject away from Marius, but when he tried, he found himself floundering. As he looked at Paul, the boy’s eyes baffled him. “I suppose you’ve been wondering why we’re going into town, suddenly like this?” he said smiling.
“Yes, P’pa.”
“I’d better tell you. We’re going to join another Church.”
He saw that Paul had no comprehension of the meaning of his words. The gap between himself and the boy seemed to grow much larger.
“You see, Paul–there are many Churches in the world. All sorts. Everyone has to belong to one. You and I are going to change our Church, and that’s why we’re going into town.” A new thought striking him, he added eagerly, “You see, next year we’re going to live in town anyway. We’ll have to pick a Montreal church, won’t we? We can’t come out to Saint-Marc every Sunday for Mass.”
Paul continued to look at the floor. It was dirty and stained with tobacco juice which had slopped over from a spittoon.
Athanase went on. “Let me explain. You see, you’re going to an English school this fall. Mind you, that doesn’t mean you’re going to be English. You’ll still be French and you’re not to forget that. But…but you’re not going to be a Roman Catholic any more.”
Paul continued to look at his dangling feet. “What will Father Beaubien say?”
Athanase forced another smile. “He won’t have anything to say once we’re Protestants.” He continued rapidly. “In your new school you’ll study science. You will become”–he waved his arm toward the window as if to include the entire panorama without–“entirely different from all these people here.”
“Won’t everyone know we’re not…not…”
“Not what?” Athanase leaned forward and touched the boy’s knee.
Athanase shrugged his shoulders. “Well–yes, they’ll know that. They know everything like that in Saint-Marc. But it won’t make any difference. I’ll write to the bishop–perhaps even to Father Beaubien–and tell him we’re resigning from the Church.” He saw tears in Paul’s eyes. “Don’t worry. We’re not ordinary people, you and I.”
“Won’t–won’t I go to hell, P’pa?”
Athanase forced another laugh. “No–of course not!”
“But I thought…”
“That was different. Listen, Paul. You don’t imagine God would send a fine man like Captain Yardley to hell, do you? He’s not a Catholic.”
The train clicked over the joints and Athanase leaned back in his seat and looked at his son. He tried to feel confident, but now that the rush of his anger at the priest had subsided he was so worried he was barely able to sit still. He repeated to himself that things had always been bound to come to this, that he had no choice in the matter. But what would now happen to the factory? He nodded to reassure himself. He mustn’t forget McQueen. He would put it through. The English went into many towns and built factories without being opposed by the Church. But if McQueen knew that he had quarrelled with his parish priest would he still desire him as a partner? He sighed heavily, with some relief. McQueen had little real choice in the matter. The contracts were signed, and if McQueen wanted to build the factory he would have to include his partner in his plans. Besides, Athanase realized that if he worked quickly enough he could probably get the written contract from the government to ensure that the railway spur would be built.
More difficulties rose in his mind, and suddenly he was faced with the fact that he was acting like a complete fool. What was he taking Paul into town for now? They could hardly walk up to the minister of St. David’s Church and announce themselves as Presbyterian converts. St. David’s would accept them finally, but no Protestant minister would take a former Roman Catholic without much thought in the matter and a good deal of investigation. He beat his hand against his forehead. He was losing his grip, he was acting like a child. He would have to take Paul back to Saint-Marc tomorrow having accomplished nothing. Then he would have to return immediately to the city himself, and spend nearly a fortnight between Montreal and Ottawa making his arrangements about the factory, the railway spur and the change to St. David’s.
He became aware of the boy’s round eyes looking at him, and guessed that Paul wanted to ask a question.
“Is M’ma coming too?” Paul asked.
Athanase picked up his paper to hide his face. “Your mother understands,” he said. But he knew he had failed Paul with that answer. To cover his embarrassment he lowered the paper and began talking rapidly. He explained how greatly their lives would be changed, how much money they were likely to make in the new enterprise. He outlined his plans for the boy. He would get a scientific education. He would go to college and travel, he might even go to Oxford and the Sorbonne, or perhaps to both places for further study when he had taken his degree in Canada.
“Not many boys will have the opportunities you’ll have,” he finished. “But you’ll have to work hard from now on. Harder than you’ve ever dreamed of working. It’s going to be up to you.”
The train clicked onward. Paul’s eyes watched the dust dancing over the floor-boards, the dust motionless in the spillings from the spittoon, the grains of soot drifting over the dirty green plush of the seat. Oxford…the Sorbonne…New names!