diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6249-0.txt | 13958 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6249-0.zip | bin | 0 -> 268805 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6249-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 283216 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6249-h/6249-h.htm | 16686 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6249.txt | 13958 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6249.zip | bin | 0 -> 267060 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/gp76w10.txt | 14208 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/gp76w10.zip | bin | 0 -> 275281 bytes |
11 files changed, 58826 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/6249-0.txt b/6249-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bf79a95 --- /dev/null +++ b/6249-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13958 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Right of Way, Complete, by Gilbert Parker + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Right of Way, Complete + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: October 18, 2006 [EBook #6249] +Last Updated: August 27, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIGHT OF WAY, COMPLETE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +THE RIGHT OF WAY + +By Gilbert Parker + + +CONTENTS + + Volume 1. + I. THE WAY TO THE VERDICT + II. WHAT CAME OF THE TRIAL + III. AFTER FIVE YEARS + IV. CHARLEY MAKES A DISCOVERY + V. THE WOMAN IN HELIOTROPE + VI. THE WIND AND THE SHORN LAMB + VII. “PEACE, PEACE, AND THERE IS NO PEACE!” + VIII. THE COST OF THE ORNAMENT + + Volume 2. + IX. OLD DEBTS FOR NEW + X. THE WAY IN AND THE WAY OUT + XI. THE RAISING OF THE CURTAIN + XII. THE COMING OF ROSALIE + XIII. HOW CHARLEY WENT ADVENTURING, AND WHAT HE FOUND + XIV. ROSALIE, CHARLEY, AND THE MAN THE WIDOW PLOMONDON JILTED + XV. THE MARK IN THE PAPER + XVI. MADAME DAUPHIN HAS A MISSION + XVII. THE TAILOR MAKES A MIDNIGHT FORAY + XVIII. THE STEALING OF THE CROSS + + Volume 3. + XIX. THE SIGN FROM HEAVEN + XX. THE RETURN OF THE TAILOR + XXI. THE CURE HAS AN INSPIRATION + XXII. THE WOMAN WHO SAW + XXIII. THE WOMAN WHO DID NOT TELL + XXIV. THE SEIGNEUR TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME + XXV. THE COLONEL TELLS HIS STORY + XXVI. A SONG, A BOTTLE, AND A GHOST + XXVII. OUT ON THE OLD TRAIL + XXVIII. THE SEIGNEUR GIVES A WARNING + + Volume 4. + XXIX. THE WILD RIDE + XXX. ROSALIE WARNS CHARLEY + XXXI. CHARLEY STANDS AT BAY + XXXII. JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY + XXXIII. THE EDGE OF LIFE + XXXIV. IN AMBUSH + XXXV. THE COMING OF MAXIMILIAN COUR AND ANOTHER + XXXVI. BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY + XXXVII. THE CHALLENGE OF PAULETTE DUBOIS + XXXVIII. THE CURE AND THE SEIGNEUR VISIT THE TAILOR + XXXIX. THE SCARLET WOMAN + XL. AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING + + Volume 5. + XLI. IT WAS MICHAELMAS DAY + XLII. A TRIAL AND A VERDICT + XLIII. JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY + XLIV. “WHO WAS KATHLEEN?” + XLV. SIX MONTHS GO BY + XLVI. THE FORGOTTEN MAN + XLVII. ONE WAS TAKEN AND THE OTHER LEFT + XLVIII. “WHERE THE TREE OF LIFE IS BLOOMING--” + XLIX. THE OPEN GATE + + Volume 6. + L. THE PASSION PLAY AT CHAUDIERE + LI. FACE TO FACE + LII. THE COMING OF BILLY + LIII. THE SEIGNEUR AND THE CURE HAVE A SUSPICION + LIV. M. ROSSIGNOL SLIPS THE LEASH + LV. ROSALIE PLAYS A PART + LVI. MRS. FLYNN SPEAKS + LVII. A BURNING FIERY FURNACE + LVIII. WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL + LIX. IN WHICH CHARLEY MEETS A STRANGER + LX. THE HAND AT THE DOOR + LXI. THE CURE SPEAKS + + EPILOGUE + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +In a book called ‘The House of Harper’, published in this year, 1912, +there are two letters of mine, concerning ‘The Right of Way’, written +to Henry M. Alden, editor of Harper’s Magazine. To my mind those letters +should never have been published. They were purely personal. They were +intended for one man’s eyes only, and he was not merely an editor but a +beloved and admired personal friend. Only to him and to W. E. Henley, as +editors, could I ever have emptied out my heart and brain; and, as may +be seen by these two letters, one written from London and the other from +a place near Southampton, I uncovered all my feelings, my hopes and my +ambitions concerning The Right of Way. Had I been asked permission to +publish them I should not have granted it. I may wear my heart upon my +sleeve for my friend, but not for the universe. + +The most scathing thing ever said in literature was said by Robert +Buchanan on Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s verses--“He has wheeled his nuptial +bed into the street.” Looking at these letters I have a great shrinking, +for they were meant only for the eyes of an aged man for whom I cared +enough to let him see behind the curtain. But since they have been +printed, and without a “by your leave,” I will use one or two passages +in them to show in what mood, under what pressure of impulse, under what +mental and, maybe, spiritual hypnotism it was written. I first planned +it as a story of twenty-five thousand words, even as ‘Valmond’ was +planned as a story of five thousand words, and ‘A Ladder of Swords’ as +a story of twenty thousand words; but I had not written three chapters +before I saw what the destiny of the tale was to be. I had gone to +Quebec to start the thing in the atmosphere where Charley Steele +belonged, and there it was borne in upon me that it must be a +three-decker novel, not a novelette. I telegraphed to Harper & Brothers +to ask them whether it would suit them just as well if I made it into a +long novel. They telegraphed their assent at once; so I went on. At that +time Mr. F. N. Doubleday was a sort of director of Harper’s firm. To +him I had told the tale in a railway train, and he had carried me off +at once to Henry M. Alden, to whom I also told it, with the result that +Harper’s Magazine was wide open to it, and there in Quebec, soon after +my interview with Mr. Alden and Mr. Doubleday, the book was begun. + +The first of the letters published in The House of Harper, however, was +apparently written immediately after my return to London when the novel +was well on its way. Evidently the first paragraph of the letter was an +apology for having suddenly announced the development of the book from a +long short story to a long novel; for I used these words: + +“Yet if you really take an interest in the working of the human mind in +its relation to the vicissitudes of life, you will appreciate what I am +going to tell you, and will recognise that there is only stability in +evolution which the vulgar call chance.... Now, sir, perpend. Charley +Steele is going to be a novel of one hundred thousand words or one +hundred and twenty thousand--a real bang-up heartful of a novel.” + +Then there follows the confidence of a friend to a friend. As I look at +the words I am not sorry that I wrote them. They were a part of me. They +were the inveterate truth, but I would not willingly have uncovered my +inner self to any except the man to whom the words were written. But +here is what I wrote: + +“I am a bit of a fool over this book. It catches me at every tender +corner of my nature. It has aroused all the old ardent dreams of youth +and springtime puissance. I cannot lay it down, and I cannot shorten it, +for story, character, soul and reflection, imagination, observation +are dragging me along after them.... This novel will make me or break +me--prove me human and an artist, or an affected literary bore. If +you want it you must take the risk. But, my dear Alden, you will be +investing in a man’s heart--which may be a fortune or a folly. Why, +I ought to have seen--and far back in my brain I did see--that the +character of Charley Steele was a type, an idiosyncrasy of modern life, +a resultant of forces all round us, and that he would demand space in +which to live and tell his story to the world.... And behold with what +joy I follow him, not only lovingly but sternly and severely, noting him +down as he really is, condoning naught, forgiving naught, but above +all else, understanding him--his wilful mystification of the world, his +shameless disdain of it, but the old law of interrogation, of sad yet +eager inquiry and wonder and ‘non possumus’ with him to the end.” + +This letter was evidently written in December, 1899, and the other went +to Mr. Alden on the 7th August, 1900; therefore, eight or nine months +later. The work had gone well. Week after week, month after month it had +unfolded itself with an almost unpardonable ease. Evidently, the very +ease with which the book was written troubled me, because I find that in +this letter of the 7th August, 1900, to Mr. Alden, I used these words: + +“A kind of terror has seized me, and instead of sending a dozen more +chapters to you as I proposed to do, I am setting to to break this love +story anew under the stones of my most exacting criticism and troubled +regard. I go to bury myself at a solitary little seaside place” (it +was Mablethorpe in Lincolnshire), “there to live alone with Rosalie and +Charley, and if I do not know them hereafter, never ask me to write for +‘Harper’s’ again.... This book has been written out of something vital +in me--I do not mean the religious part of it, I mean the humanity that +becomes one’s own and part of one’s self, by observation, experience, +and understanding got from dead years.” + +Anyhow that shows the spirit in which the book was written, and there +must have been something in it that rang true, because not only did +it have an enormous sale and therefore a multitude of readers, but I +received hundreds of letters from people who in one way or another were +deeply interested in the story. + +The majority of them were inquisitive letters. A great many of them said +that the writer had shared in controversy as to what the relations +of Charley and Rosalie were, and asked me to set for ever queries and +controversies at rest by declaring either that the relations of these +two were what, in the way of life’s stern conventions, they ought not +to be, or that Rosalie passed unscathed through the fire. I had foreseen +all this, though I could not have foreseen the passionately intense +interest which my readers would take in the life-story of these unhappy +yet happy people. I had, however, only one reply. It was that all I had +meant to say concerning Charley and Rosalie had been said in the book, +to the last word. All I had meant not to say would not be said after the +book was written. I asked them to take exactly the same view of Charley +and Rosalie as they would in real life regarding two human beings with +whom they were acquainted, and concerning whom, to their minds, there +was sufficient evidence, or not sufficient evidence, to come to a +conclusion as to what their relations were. I added that, as in real +life we used our judgment upon such things with a reasonable amount +of accuracy, I asked them to apply that judgment to Charley Steele and +Rosalie Evanturel. They and their story were there for eyes to see and +read, and when I had ended my manuscript in the year 1900 I had said +the last word I ever meant to say as to their history. The controversy +therefore continues, for the book still makes its appeal to an ever +increasing congregation of new readers. + +But another kind of letter came to me--the letter of some man who had +just such a struggle as Charley Steele, or whose father or brother or +friend had had such a struggle. Letters came from clergymen who had +preached concerning the book; from men who told me in brief their own +life problems and tragedies. These letters I prize; most of them had the +real thing in them, the human truth. + +That the book drew wide attention to the Dominion of Canada, +particularly to French Canada, and crystallised something of the life of +that dear Province, was a deep pleasure to me; and I was glad that I +had been able to culminate my efforts to portray the life of the +French-Canadian as I saw it, by a book which arrested the attention of +so comprehensive a public. + +I have seen many statements as to the original of Charley Steele, but +I have never seen a story which was true. Many people have told me that +they had seen the original of Charley Steele in an American lawyer. They +knew he was the original, because he himself had said so. The gentleman +was mistaken; I have never seen him. As with the purple cow, I never +hope to see him. Whoever he is or whatever he is, the original Charley +was an abler and a more striking man. I knew him as a boy, and he died +while I was yet a boy, taking with him, save in the memory of a few, a +rare and wonderful, if not wholly lovable personality. For over twenty +years I had carried him in my mind, wondering whether, and when, I +should-make use of him. Again and again I was tempted, but was never +convinced that his time had come; yet through all the years he was +gaining strength, securing possession of my mind, and gathering to him, +magnet-like, the thousand observations which my experience sent in his +direction. In my mind his life-story ended with his death at the Cote +Dorion. For years and years I saw his ending there. Yet it all seemed to +me so futile, despite the wonder of his personality, that I could make +nothing of him, and though always fascinated by his character I was held +back from exploiting it, because of the hopelessness of it all. It led +nowhere. It was the ‘quid refert’ of the philosopher, and I could not +bring myself to get any further than an interrogation mark at the end of +a life which was all scepticism, mind and matter, and nothing more. + +There came a day, however, when that all ended, when the doors were +flung wide to a new conception of the man, and of what he might have +become. I was going to America, and I paid an angry and reluctant visit +to my London tailor thirty-six hours before I was to start. A suit of +clothes had been sent home which, after an effective trying-on, was a +monstrosity. I went straight to my tailor, put on the clothes and bade +him look at them. He was a great tailor-he saw exactly what I saw, and +what I saw was bad; and when a tailor will do that, you may be quite +sure he is a good and a great man. He said the clothes were as bad as +they could be, but he added: “You shall have them before you sail, and +they shall be exactly as you want them. I’ll have the foreman down.” He +rang a bell. Presently the door swung open and in stepped a man with +an eyeglass in his eye. There, with a look at once reflective and +penetrating, with a figure at once slovenly and alert, was a caricature +of Charley Steele as I had known him, and of all his characteristics. +There was such a resemblance as an ugly child in a family may have to +his handsome brother. It was Charley Steele with a twist--gone to seed. +Looking at him in blank amazement, I burst out: “Good heavens, so you +didn’t die, Charley Steele! You became a tailor!” + +All at once the whole new landscape of my story as it eventually became, +spread out before me. I was justified in waiting all the years. My +discontent with the futile end of the tale as I originally knew it +and saw it was justified. Charley Steele, brilliant, enigmatic and +epigrammatic, did not die at the Cote Dorion, but lived in that far +valley by Dalgrothe Mountain, and became a tailor! So far as I am +concerned he became much more. He was the beginning of a new epoch in +my literary life. I had got into subtler methods, reached more intimate +understandings, had come to a place where analysis of character had +shaken itself free--but certainly not quite free--from a natural yet +rather dangerous eloquence. + +As a play The Right of Way, skilfully and sympathetically dramatised by +Mr. Eugene Presbery, has had a career extending over several years, and +still continues to make its appearance. + + + + +NOTE + +It should not be assumed that the “Chaudiere” of this story is the real +Chaudiere of Quebec province. The name is characteristic, and for this +reason alone I have used it. + +I must also apologise to my readers for appearing to disregard a +statement made in ‘The Lane that Had no Turning’, that that tale was the +last I should write about French Canada. In explanation I would say that +‘The Lane that Had no Turning’ was written after the present book was +finished. G. F. + + + + +THE RIGHT OF WAY + +By Gilbert Parker + + + + “They had lived and loved, and walked and worked in their own way, + and the world went by them. Between them and it a great gulf was + fixed: and they met its every catastrophe with the Quid Refert? of + the philosophers.” + + “I want to talk with some old lover’s ghost, + Who lived before the god of love was born.” + + “There are, it may be, so many kinds of voices in the world, and + none of them is without signification.” + + + + +CHAPTER I. THE WAY TO THE VERDICT + +“Not guilty, your Honour!” + +A hundred atmospheres had seemed pressing down on the fretted people in +the crowded court-room. As the discordant treble of the huge foreman of +the jury squeaked over the mass of gaping humanity, which had twitched +at skirts, drawn purposeless hands across prickling faces, and kept +nervous legs at a gallop, the smothering weights of elastic air lifted +suddenly, a great suspiration of relief swept through the place like a +breeze, and in a far corner of the gallery a woman laughed outright. + +The judge looked up reprovingly at the gallery; the clerk of the court +angrily called “Silence!” towards the offending corner, and seven or +eight hundred eyes raced between three centres of interest--the judge, +the prisoner, and the prisoner’s counsel. Perhaps more people looked +at the prisoner’s counsel than at the prisoner, certainly far more than +looked at the judge. + +Never was a verdict more unexpected. If a poll had been taken of the +judgment of the population twenty-four hours before, a great majority +would have been found believing that there was no escape for the +prisoner, who was accused of murdering a wealthy timber merchant. The +minority would have based their belief that the prisoner had a chance of +escape, not on his possible innocence, not on insufficient evidence, +but on a curious faith in the prisoner’s lawyer. This minority would not +have been composed of the friends of the lawyer alone, but of outside +spectators, who, because Charley Steele had never lost a criminal case, +attached to him a certain incapacity for bad luck; and of very young +men, who looked upon him as the perfect pattern of the person good to +see and hard to understand. + +During the first two days of the trial the case had gone wholly against +the prisoner, who had given his name as Joseph Nadeau. Witnesses had +heard him quarrelling with the murdered man, and the next day the +body of the victim had been found by the roadside. The prisoner was a +stranger in the lumber-camp where the deed was done, and while there +had been morose and lived apart; no one knew him; and he refused to +tell even his lawyer whence he came, or what his origin, or to bring +witnesses from his home to speak for his character. + +One by one the points had been made against him--with no perceptible +effect upon Charley Steele, who seemed the one cool, undisturbed person +in the courtroom. + +Indifferent as he seemed, seldom speaking to the prisoner, often +looking out of the windows to the cool green trees far over on the hill, +absorbed and unbusinesslike, yet judge and jury came to see, before the +second day was done, that he had let no essential thing pass, that the +questions he asked had either a pregnant aptness, opened up new avenues +of deliberation, or were touched with mystery--seemed to have a longer +reach than the moment or the hour. + +Before the end of this second day, however, more attention was upon him +than upon the prisoner, and nine-tenths of the people in the court-room +could have told how many fine linen handkerchiefs he used during the +afternoon, how many times he adjusted his monocle to look at the judge +meditatively. Probably no man, for eight hours a day, ever exasperated +and tried a judge, jury, and public, as did this man of twenty-nine +years of age, who had been known at college as Beauty Steele, and who +was still so spoken of familiarly; or was called as familiarly, Charley +Steele, by people who never had attempted to be familiar with him. + +The second day of the trial had ended gloomily for the prisoner. The +coil of evidence had drawn so close that extrication seemed impossible. +That the evidence was circumstantial, that no sign of the crime was upon +the prisoner, that he was found sleeping quietly in his bed when he was +arrested, that he had not been seen to commit the deed, did not weigh +in the minds of the general public. The man’s guilt was freely believed; +not even the few who clung to the opinion that Charley Steele would yet +get him off thought that he was innocent. There seemed no flaw in the +evidence, once granted its circumstantiality. + +During the last two hours of the sitting the prisoner had looked at his +counsel in despair, for he seemed perfunctorily conducting the case: was +occupied in sketching upon the blotting-pad before him, looking out of +the window, or turning his head occasionally towards a corner where sat +a half-dozen well-dressed ladies, and more particularly towards one +lady who watched him in a puzzled way--more than once with a look of +disappointment. Only at the very close of the sitting did he appear to +rouse himself. Then, for a brief ten minutes, he cross-examined a friend +of the murdered merchant in a fashion which startled the court-room, +for he suddenly brought out the fact that the dead man had once struck +a woman in the face in the open street. This fact, sharply stated by the +prisoner’s counsel, with no explanation and no comment, seemed uselessly +intrusive and malicious. His ironical smile merely irritated all +concerned. The thin, clean-shaven face of the prisoner grew more pinched +and downcast, and he turned almost pleadingly towards the judge. The +judge pulled his long side-whiskers nervously, and looked over his +glasses in severe annoyance, then hastily adjourned the sitting and +left the bench, while the prisoner saw with dismay his lawyer leave the +court-room with not even a glance towards him. + +On the morning of the third day Charley Steele’s face, for the first +time, wore an expression which, by a stretch of imagination, might be +called anxious. He also took out his monocle frequently, rubbed it with +his handkerchief, and screwed it in again, staring straight before him +much of the time. But twice he spoke to the prisoner in a low voice, and +was hurriedly answered in French as crude as his own was perfect. When +he spoke, which was at rare intervals, his voice was without feeling, +concise, insistent, unappealing. It was as though the business before +him was wholly alien to him, as though he were held there against his +will, but would go on with his task bitterly to the bitter end. + +The court adjourned for an hour at noon. During this time Charley +refused to see any one, but sat alone in his office with a few biscuits +and an ominous bottle before him, till the time came for him to go back +to the court-house. Arrived there he entered by a side door, and was not +seen until the court opened once more. + +For two hours and a half the crown attorney mercilessly made out his +case against the prisoner. When he sat down, people glanced meaningly +at each other, as though the last word had been said, then looked at the +prisoner, as at one already condemned. + +Yet Charley Steele was to reply. He was not now the same man that had +conducted the case during the past two days and a half. Some +great change had passed over him. There was no longer abstraction, +indifference, or apparent boredom, or disdain, or distant stare. He +was human, intimate and eager, yet concentrated and impelling: he was +quietly, unnoticeably drunk. + +He assured the prisoner with a glance of the eye, with a word scarce +above a whisper, as he slowly rose to make his speech for the defence. + +His first words caused a new feeling in the courtroom. He was a new +presence; the personality had a changed significance. At first the +public, the jury, and the judge were curiously attracted, surprised into +a fresh interest. The voice had an insinuating quality, but it also +had a measured force, a subterranean insistence, a winning tactfulness. +Withal, a logical simplicity governed his argument. The flaneur, +the poseur--if such he was--no longer appeared. He came close to the +jurymen, leaned his hands upon the back of a chair--as it were, shut out +the public, even the judge, from his circle of interest--and talked in a +conversational tone. An air of confidence passed from him to the amazed +yet easily captivated jury; the distance between them, so gaping +during the last two days, closed suddenly up. The tension of the past +estrangement, relaxing all at once, surprised the jury into an almost +eager friendliness, as on a long voyage a sensitive traveller finds +in some exciting accident a natural introduction to an exclusive +fellow-passenger, whom he discovers as human as he had thought him +offensively distant. + +Charley began by congratulating the crown attorney on his statement of +the case. He called it masterly; he said that in its presentations +it was irrefutable; as a precis of evidence purely circumstantial it +was--useful and interesting. But, speech-making aside, and ability--and +rhetoric--aside, and even personal conviction aside, the case should +stand or fall by its total, not its comparative, soundness. Since the +evidence was purely circumstantial, there must be no flaw in its cable +of assumption, it must be logically inviolate within itself. Starting +with assumption only, there must be no straying possibilities, no loose +ends of certainty, no invading alternatives. Was this so in the case of +the man before them? They were faced by a curious situation. So far as +the trial was concerned, the prisoner himself was the only person who +could tell them who he was, what was his past, and, if he committed the +crime, what was--the motive of it: out of what spirit--of revenge, or +hatred--the dead man had been sent to his account. Probably in the whole +history of crime there never was a more peculiar case. Even himself +the prisoner’s counsel was dealing with one whose life was hid from him +previous to the day the murdered man was discovered by the roadside. +The prisoner had not sought to prove an alibi; he had done no more than +formally plead not guilty. There was no material for defence save +that offered by the prosecution. He had undertaken the defence of +the prisoner because it was his duty as a lawyer to see that the law +justified itself; that it satisfied every demand of proof to the last +atom of certainty; that it met the final possibility of doubt with +evidence perfect and inviolate if circumstantial, and uncontradictory if +eye-witness, if tell-tale incident, were to furnish basis of proof. + +Judge, jury, and public riveted their eyes upon Charley Steele. He had +now drawn a little farther away from the jury-box; his eye took in +the judge as well; once or twice he turned, as if appealingly and +confidently, to the people in the room. It was terribly hot, the air +was sickeningly close, every one seemed oppressed--every one save a +lady sitting not a score of feet from where the counsel for the prisoner +stood. This lady’s face was not one that could flush easily; it belonged +to a temperament as even as her person was symmetrically beautiful. +As Charley talked, her eyes were fixed steadily, wonderingly upon him. +There was a question in her gaze, which never in the course of the +speech was quite absorbed by the admiration--the intense admiration--she +was feeling for him. Once as he turned with a concentrated earnestness +in her direction his eyes met hers. The message he flashed her was +sub-conscious, for his mind never wavered an instant from the cause in +hand, but it said to her: + +“When this is over, Kathleen, I will come to you.” For another quarter +of an hour he exposed the fallacy of purely circumstantial evidence; +he raised in the minds of his hearers the painful responsibility of the +law, the awful tyranny of miscarriage of justice; he condemned prejudice +against a prisoner because that prisoner demanded that the law should +prove him guilty instead of his proving himself innocent. If a man chose +to stand to that, to sternly assume this perilous position, the law had +no right to take advantage of it. He turned towards the prisoner and +traced his possible history: as the sensitive, intelligent son of godly +Catholic parents from some remote parish in French Canada. He drew an +imaginary picture of the home from which he might have come, and of the +parents and brothers and sisters who would have lived weeks of torture +knowing that their son and brother was being tried for his life. It +might at first glance seem quixotic, eccentric, but was it unnatural +that the prisoner should choose silence as to his origin and home, +rather than have his family and friends face the undoubted peril +lying before him? Besides, though his past life might have been wholly +blameless, it would not be evidence in his favour. It might, indeed, +if it had not been blameless, provide some element of unjust suspicion +against him, furnish some fancied motive. The prisoner had chosen his +path, and events had so far justified him. It must be clear to the +minds of judge and jury that there were fatally weak places in the +circumstantial evidence offered for the conviction of this man. + +There was the fact that no sign of the crime, no drop of blood, no +weapon, was found about him or near him, and that he was peacefully +sleeping at the moment the constable arrested him. + +There was also the fact that no motive for the crime had been shown. It +was not enough that he and the dead man had been heard quarrelling. Was +there any certainty that it was a quarrel, since no word or sentence +of the conversation had been brought into court? Men with quick tempers +might quarrel over trivial things, but exasperation did not always +end in bodily injury and the taking of life; imprecations were not so +uncommon that they could be taken as evidence of wilful murder. The +prisoner refused to say what that troubled conversation was about, +but who could question his right to take the risk of his silence being +misunderstood? + +The judge was alternately taking notes and looking fixedly at the +prisoner; the jury were in various attitudes of strained attention; the +public sat open mouthed; and up in the gallery a woman with white face +and clinched hands listened moveless and staring. Charley Steele was +holding captive the emotions and the judgments of his hearers. All +antipathy had gone; there was a strange eager intimacy between the +jurymen and himself. People no longer looked with distant dislike at the +prisoner, but began to see innocence in his grim silence, disdain only +in his surly defiance. + +But Charley Steele had preserved his great stroke for the psychological +moment. He suddenly launched upon them the fact, brought out in +evidence, that the dead man had struck a woman in the face a year ago; +also that he had kept a factory girl in affluence for two years. Here +was motive for murder--if motive were to govern them--far greater than +might be suggested by excited conversation which listeners who could not +hear a word construed into a quarrel--listeners who bore the prisoner +at the bar ill-will because he shunned them while in the lumber-camp. +If the prisoner was to be hanged for motive untraceable, why should not +these two women be hanged for motive traceable! + +Here was his chance. He appeared to impeach subtly every intelligence in +the room for having had any preconviction about the prisoner’s guilt. He +compelled the jury to feel that they, with him, had made the discovery +of the unsound character of the evidence. The man might be guilty, but +their personal guilt, the guilt of the law, would be far greater if they +condemned the man on violable evidence. With a last simple appeal, his +hands resting on the railing before the seat where the jury sat, his +voice low and conversational again, his eyes running down the line of +faces of the men who had his client’s life in their hands, he said: + +“It is not a life only that is at stake, it is not revenge for a life +snatched from the busy world by a brutal hand that we should heed +to-day, but the awful responsibility of that thing we call the State, +which, having the power of life and death without gainsay or hindrance, +should prove to the last inch of necessity its right to take a human +life. And the right and the reason should bring conviction to every +honest human mind. That is all I have to say.” + +The crown attorney made a perfunctory reply. The judge’s charge was +brief, and, if anything, a little in favour of the prisoner--very +little, a casuist’s little; and the jury filed out of the room. They +were gone but ten minutes. When they returned, the verdict was given: +“Not guilty, your Honour!” + +Then it was that a woman laughed in the gallery. Then a whispering voice +said across the railing which separated the public from the lawyers: +“Charley! Charley!” + +Though Charley turned and looked at the lady who spoke, he made no +response. + +A few minutes later, outside the court, as he walked quickly away, again +inscrutable and debonair, the prisoner, Joseph Nadeau, touched him on +the arm and said: + +“M’sieu’, M’sieu’, you have saved my life--I thank you, M’sieu’!” + +Charley Steele drew his arm away with disgust. “Get out of my sight! +You’re as guilty as hell!” he said. + + + + +CHAPTER II. WHAT CAME OF THE TRIAL + +“When this is over, Kathleen, I will come to you.” So Charley Steele’s +eyes had said to a lady in the court room on that last day of the great +trial. The lady had left the court-room dazed and exalted. She, with +hundreds of others, had had a revelation of Charley Steele; had had also +the great emotional experience of seeing a crowd make the ‘volte face’ +with their convictions; looking at a prisoner one moment with eyes of +loathing and anticipating his gruesome end, the next moment seeing him +as the possible martyr to the machinery of the law. She whose heart +was used to beat so evenly had felt it leap and swell with excitement, +awaiting the moment when the jury filed back into the court-room. Then +it stood still, as a wave might hang for an instant at its crest ere it +swept down to beat upon the shore. + +With her as with most present, the deepest feeling in the agitated +suspense was not so much that the prisoner should go free, as that the +prisoner’s counsel should win his case. It was as if Charley Steele were +on trial instead of the prisoner. He was the imminent figure; it was his +fate that was in the balance--such was the antic irony of suggestion. +And the truth was, that the fates of both prisoner and counsel had been +weighed in the balance that sweltering August day. + +The prisoner was forgotten almost as soon as he had left the court-room +a free man, but wherever men and women met in Montreal that day, one +name was on the lips of all-Charley Steele! In his speech he had done +two things: he had thrown down every barrier of reserve--or so it +seemed--and had become human and intimate. “I could not have believed +it of him,” was the remark on every lip. Of his ability there never had +been a moment’s doubt, but it had ever been an uncomfortable ability, +it had tortured foes and made friends anxious. No one had ever seen +him show feeling. If it was a mask, he had worn it with a curious +consistency: it had been with him as a child, at school, at college, +and he had brought it back again to the town where he was born. It had +effectually prevented his being popular, but it had made him--with his +foppishness and his originality--an object of perpetual interest. Few +men had ventured to cross swords with him. He left his fellow-citizens +very much alone. He was uniformly if distantly courteous, and he was +respected in his own profession for his uncommon powers and for an utter +indifference as to whether he had cases in court or not. + +Coming from the judge’s chambers after the trial he went to his office, +receiving as he passed congratulations more effusively offered than, as +people presently found, his manner warranted. + +For he was again the formal, masked Charley Steele, looking calmly +through the interrogative eye-glass. By the time he reached his office, +greetings became more subdued. His prestige had increased immensely in +a few short hours, but he had no more friends than before. Old relations +were soon re-established. The town was proud of his ability as it +had always been, irritated by his manner as it had always been, more +prophetic of his future than it had ever been, and unconsciously +grateful for the fact that he had given them a sensation which would +outlast the summer. + +All these things concerned him little. Once the business of the +court-room was over, a thought which had quietly lain in waiting behind +the strenuous occupations of his brain leaped forward to exclude all +others. + +As he entered his office he was thinking of that girl’s face in the +court-room, with its flush of added beauty which he and his speech had +brought there. “What a perfect loveliness!” he said to himself as he +bathed his face and hands, and prepared to go into the street again. +“She needed just such a flush to make her supreme Kathleen!” He stood, +looking out into the square, out into the green of the trees where the +birds twittered. “Faultless--faultless in form and feature. She was so +as a child, she is so as a woman.” He lighted a cigarette, and blew away +little clouds of smoke. “I will do it. I will marry her. She will have +me: I saw it in her eye. Fairing doesn’t matter. Her uncle will never +consent to that, and she doesn’t care enough for him. She cares, but she +doesn’t care enough.... I will do it.” + +He turned towards a cupboard into which he had put a certain bottle +before he went to the court-room two hours before. He put the key in the +lock, then stopped. “No, I think not!” he said. “What I say to her shall +not be said forensically. What a discovery I’ve made! I was dull, +blank, all iron and ice; the judge, the jury, the public, even Kathleen, +against me; and then that bottle in there--and I saw things like +crystal! I had a glow in my brain, I had a tingle in my fingers; and +I had success, and”--his face clouded--“He was as guilty as hell!” + he added, almost bitterly, as he put the key of the cupboard into his +pocket again. + +There was a knock at the door, and a youth of about nineteen entered. + +“Hello!” he said. “I say, sir, but that speech of yours struck us all +where we couldn’t say no. Even Kathleen got in a glow over it. Perhaps +Captain Fairing didn’t, for he’s just left her in a huff, and she’s +looking--you remember those lines in the school-book: + + “‘A red spot burned upon her cheek, + Streamed her rich tresses down--’” + +He laughed gaily. “I’ve come to ask you up to tea,” he added. “The +Unclekins is there. When I told him that Kathleen had sent Fairing away +with a flea in his ear, he nearly fell off his chair. He lent me twenty +dollars on the spot. Are you coming our way?” he continued, suddenly +trying to imitate Charley’s manner. Charley nodded, and they left the +office together and moved away under a long avenue of maples to where, +in the shade of a high hill, was the house of the uncle of Kathleen +Wantage, with whom she and her brother Billy lived. They walked in +silence for some time, and at last Billy said, ‘a propos’ of nothing: + +“Fairing hasn’t a red cent.” + +“You have a perambulating mind, Billy,” said Charley, and bowed to a +young clergyman approaching them from the opposite direction. + +“What does that mean?” remarked Billy, and said “Hello!” to the young +clergyman, and did not wait for Charley’s answer. + +The Rev. John Brown was by no means a conventional parson. He was +smoking a cigarette, and two dogs followed at his heels. He was +certainly not a fogy. He had more than a little admiration for Charley +Steele, but he found it difficult to preach when Charley was in the +congregation. He was always aware of a subterranean and half-pitying +criticism going on in the barrister’s mind. John Brown knew that he +could never match his intelligence against Charley’s, in spite of the +theological course at Durham, so he undertook to scotch the snake by +kindness. He thought that he might be able to do this, because Charley, +who was known to be frankly agnostical, came to his church more or less +regularly. + +The Rev. John Brown was not indifferent to what men thought of him. He +had a reputation for being “independent,” but his chief independence +consisted in dressing a little like a layman, posing as the athletic +parson of the new school, consorting with ministers of the dissenting +denominations when it was sufficiently effective, and being a “good +fellow” with men easily bored by church and churchmen. He preached +theatrical sermons to societies and benevolent associations. He wanted +to be thought well of on all hands, and he was shrewd enough to know +that if he trimmed between ritualism on one hand and evangelicism on +the other, he was on a safe road. He might perforate old dogmatical +prejudices with a good deal of freedom so long as he did not begin +bringing “millinery” into the service of the church. He invested his own +personal habits with the millinery. He looked a picturesque figure with +his blond moustache, a little silk-lined brown cloak thrown carelessly +over his shoulder, a gold-headed cane, and a brisk jacket half +ecclesiastical, half military. + +He had interested Charley Steele, also he had amused him, and sometimes +he had surprised him into a sort of admiration; for Brown had a +temperament capable of little inspirations--such a literary inspiration +as might come to a second-rate actor--and Charley never belittled +any man’s ability, but seized upon every sign of knowledge with the +appreciation of the epicure. + +John Brown raised his hat to Charley, then held out a hand. +“Masterly-masterly!” he said. “Permit my congratulations. It was the +one thing to do. You couldn’t have saved him by making him an object of +pity, by appealing to our sympathies.” + +“What do you take to be the secret, then?” asked Charley, with a look +half abstracted, half quizzical. “Terror--sheer terror. You startled +the conscience. You made defects in the circumstantial evidence, the +imminent problems of our own salvation. You put us all on trial. We +were under the lash of fear. If we parsons could only do that from the +pulpit!” + +“We will discuss that on our shooting-trip next week. Duck-shooting +gives plenty of time for theological asides. You are coming, eh?” + +John Brown scarcely noticed the sarcasm, he was so delighted at the +suggestion that he was to be included in the annual duck-shoot of the +Seven, as the little yearly party of Charley and his friends to Lake +Aubergine was called. He had angled for this invitation for two years. + +“I must not keep you,” Charley said, and dismissed him with a bow. “The +sheep will stray, and the shepherd must use his crook.” + +Brown smiled at the badinage, and went on his way rejoicing in the fact +that he was to share the amusements of the Seven at Lake Aubergine--the +Lake of the Mad Apple. To get hold of these seven men of repute and +position, to be admitted into this good presence!--He had a pious +exaltation, but whether it was because he might gather into the fold +erratic and agnostical sheep like Charley Steele, or because it pleased +his social ambitions, he had occasion to answer in the future. He gaily +prepared to go to the Lake of the Mad Apple, where he was fated to eat +of the tree of knowledge. + +Charley Steele and Billy Wantage walked on slowly to the house under the +hill. + +“He’s the right sort,” said Billy. “He’s a sport. I can stand that kind. +Did you ever hear him sing? No? Well, he can sing a comic song fit to +make you die. I can sing a bit myself, but to hear him sing ‘The Man Who +Couldn’t Get Warm’ is a show in itself. He can play the banjo too, and +the guitar--but he’s best on the banjo. It’s worth a dollar to listen +to his Epha-haam--that’s Ephraim, you know--Ephahaam Come Home,’ and ‘I +Found Y’ in de Honeysuckle Paitch.’” + +“He preaches, too!” said Charley drily. + +They had reached the door of the house under the hill, and Billy had +no time for further remark. He ran into the drawing-room, announcing +Charley with the words: “I say, Kathleen, I’ve brought the man that made +the judge sit up.” + +Billy suddenly stopped, however, for there sat the judge who had tried +the case, calmly munching a piece of toast. The judge did not allow +himself the luxury of embarrassment, but bowed to Charley with a +smile, which he presently turned on Kathleen, who came as near being +disconcerted as she had ever been in her life. + +Kathleen had passed through a good deal to look so unflurried. She +had been on trial in the court-room as well as the prisoner. Important +things had been at stake with her. She and Charley Steele had known each +other since they were children. To her, even in childhood, he had been +a dominant figure. He had judicially and admiringly told her she was +beautiful--when he was twelve and she five. But he had said it without +any of those glances which usually accompanied the same sentiments in +the mouths of other lads. He had never made boy-love to her, and she had +thrilled at the praise of less splendid people than Charley Steele. He +had always piqued her, he was so superior to the ordinary enchantments +of youth, beauty, and fine linen. + +As he came and went, growing older and more characteristic, more and +more “Beauty Steele,” accompanied by legends of wild deeds and days +at college, by tales of his fopperies and the fashions he had set, she +herself had grown, as he had termed it, more “decorative.” He had told +her so, not in the least patronisingly, but as a simple fact in which +no sentiment lurked. He thought her the most beautiful thing he had ever +seen, but he had never regarded her save as a creation for the perfect +pleasure of the eye; he thought her the concrete glory of sensuous +purity, no more capable of sentiment than himself. He had said again and +again, as he grew older and left college and began the business of life +after two years in Europe, that sentiment would spoil her, would scatter +the charm of her perfect beauty; it would vitalise her too much, and her +nature would lose its proportion; she would be decentralised! She had +been piqued at his indifference to sentiment; she could not easily be +content without worship, though she felt none. This pique had grown +until Captain Tom Fairing crossed her path. + +Fairing was the antithesis of Charley Steele. Handsome, poor, +enthusiastic, and none too able, he was simple and straightforward, and +might be depended on till the end of the chapter. And the end of it was, +that in so far as she had ever felt real sentiment for anybody, she felt +it for Tom Fairing of the Royal Fusileers. It was not love she felt in +the old, in the big, in the noble sense, but it had behind it selection +and instinct and natural gravitation. + +Fairing declared his love. She would give him no answer. For as soon as +she was presented with the issue, the destiny, she began to look round +her anxiously. The first person to fill the perspective was Charley +Steele. As her mind dwelt on him, her uncle gave forth his judgment, +that she should never have a penny if she married Tom Fairing. This only +irritated her, it did not influence her. But there was Charley. He was +a figure, was already noted in his profession because of a few +masterly successes in criminal cases, and if he was not popular, he was +distinguished, and the world would talk about him to the end. He was +handsome, and he was well-to-do-he had a big unoccupied house on the +hill among the maples. How many people had said, What a couple they +would make-Charley Steele and Kathleen Wantage! + +So, as Fairing presented an issue to her, she concentrated her thoughts +as she had never done before on the man whom the world set apart for +her, in a way the world has. + +As she looked and looked, Charley began to look also. He had not been +enamoured of the sordid things of the world; he had been merely curious. +He thought vice was ugly; he had imagination and a sense of form. +Kathleen was beautiful. Sentiment had, so he thought, never seriously +disturbed her; he did not think it ever would. It had not affected +him. He did not understand it. He had been born non-intime. He had had +acquaintances, but never friendships, and never loves or love. But he +had a fine sense of the fitting and the proportionate, and he worshipped +beauty in so far as he could worship anything. The homage was cerebral, +intellectual, temperamental, not of the heart. As he looked out upon the +world half pityingly, half ironically, he was struck with wonder at the +disproportion which was engendered by “having heart,” as it was called. +He did not find it necessary. + +Now that he had begun to think of marriage, who so suitable as Kathleen? +He knew of Fairing’s adoration, but he took it as a matter of course +that she had nothing to give of the same sort in return. Her beauty was +still serene and unimpaired. He would not spoil it by the tortures of +emotion. He would try to make Kathleen’s heart beat in harmony with his +own; it should not thunder out of time. He had made up his mind that he +would marry her. + +For Kathleen, with the great trial, the beginning of the end had come. +Charley’s power over her was subtle, finely sensuous, and, in deciding, +there were no mere heart-impulses working for Charley. Instinct and +impulse were working in another direction. She had not committed her +mind to either man, though her heart, to a point, was committed to +Fairing. + +On the day of the trial, however, she fell wholly under that influence +which had swayed judge, jury, and public. To her the verdict of the jury +was not in favour of the prisoner at the bar--she did not think of him. +It was in favour of Charley Steele. + +And so, indifferent as to who heard, over the heads of the people in +front of her, to the accused’s counsel inside the railings, she had +called, softly: “Charley! Charley!” + +Now, in the house under the hill, they were face to face, and the end +was at hand: the end of something and the beginning of something. + +There was a few moments of casual conversation, in which Billy talked as +much as anybody, and then Kathleen said: + +“What do you suppose was the man’s motive for committing the murder?” + +Charley looked at Kathleen steadily, curiously, through his monocle. It +was a singular compliment she paid him. Her remark took no heed of +the verdict of the jury. He turned inquiringly towards the judge, who, +though slightly shocked by the question, recovered himself quickly. + +“What do you think it was, sir?” Charley asked quietly. + +“A woman--and revenge, perhaps,” answered the judge, with a +matter-of-course air. + +A few moments afterwards the judge was carried off by Kathleen’s uncle +to see some rare old books; Billy, his work being done, vanished; and +Kathleen and Charley were left alone. + +“You did not answer me in the court-room,” Kathleen said. “I called to +you.” + +“I wanted to hear you say them here,” he rejoined. “Say what?” she +asked, a little puzzled by the tone of his voice. + +“Your congratulations,” he answered. + +She held out a hand to him. “I offer them now. It was wonderful. You +were inspired. I did not think you could ever let yourself go.” + +He held her hand firmly. “I promise not to do it again,” he said +whimsically. + +“Why not?” + +“Have I not your congratulations?” His hand drew her slightly towards +him; she rose to her feet. + +“That is no reason,” she answered, confused, yet feeling that there was +a double meaning in his words. + +“I could not allow you to be so vain,” he said. “We must be +companionable. Henceforth I shall congratulate myself--Kathleen.” + +There was no mistaking now. “Oh, what is it you are going to say to me?” + she asked, yet not disengaging her hand. + +“I said it all in the court-room,” he rejoined; “and you heard.” + +“You want me to marry you--Charley?” she asked frankly. + +“If you think there is no just impediment,” he answered, with a smile. + +She drew her hand away, and for a moment there was a struggle in +her mind--or heart. He knew of what she was thinking, and he did not +consider it of serious consequence. Romance was a trivial thing, and +women were prone to become absorbed in trivialities. When the woman had +no brains, she might break her life upon a trifle. But Kathleen had an +even mind, a serene temperament. Her nerves were daily cooled in a bath +of nature’s perfect health. She had never had an hour’s illness in her +life. + +“There is no just or unjust impediment, Kathleen,” he added presently, +and took her hand again. + +She looked him in the eyes clearly. “You really think so?” she asked. + +“I know so,” he answered. “We shall be two perfect panels in one picture +of life.” + + + + +CHAPTER III. AFTER FIVE YEARS + +“You have forgotten me?” + +Charley Steele’s glance was serenely non-committal as he answered drily: + +“I cannot remember doing so.” + +The other man’s eyelids drew down with a look of anger, then the humour +of the impertinence worked upon him, and he gave a nervous little laugh +and said: “I am John Brown.” + +“Then I’m sure my memory is not at fault,” remarked Charley, with an +outstretched hand. “My dear Brown! Still preaching little sermons?” + +“Do I look it?” There was a curious glitter in John Brown’s eyes. “I’m +not preaching little sermons, and you know it well enough.” He laughed, +but it was a hard sort of mirth. “Perhaps you forgot to remember that, +though,” he sneeringly added. “It was the work of your hands.” + +“That’s why I should remember to forget it--I am the child of modesty.” + Charley touched the corners of his mouth with his tongue, as though his +lips were dry, and his eyes wandered to a saloon a little farther down +the street. + +“Modesty is your curse,” rejoined Brown mockingly. + +“Once when you preached at me you said that beauty was my curse.” + Charley laughed a curt, distant little laugh which was no more the +spontaneous humour lying for ever behind his thoughts than his eye-glass +was the real sight of his eyes, though since childhood this laugh and +his eye-glass were as natural to all expression of himself as John +Brown’s outward and showy frankness did not come from the real John +Brown. + +John Brown looked him up and down quickly, then fastened his eyes on +the ruddy cheeks of his old friend. “Do they call you Beauty now as they +used to?” he asked, rather insolently. + +“No. They only say, ‘There goes Charley Steele!’” The tongue again +touched the corners of the mouth, and the eyes wandered to the doorway +down the street, over which was written in French: “Jean Jolicoeur, +Licensed to sell wine, beer, and other spirituous and fermented +liquors.” + +Just then an archdeacon of the cathedral passed them, bowed gravely to +Charley, glanced at John Brown, turned colour slightly, and then with a +cold stare passed on too quickly for dignity. + +“I’m thinking of Bunyan,” said the aforetime friend of Charley Steele. +“I’ll paraphrase him and say: ‘There, but for beauty and a monocle, +walks John Brown.’” + +Under the bitter sarcasm of the man, who, five years ago, had gone down +at last beneath his agnostic raillery, Charley’s blue eye did not waver, +not a nerve stirred in his face, as he replied: “Who knows!” + +“That was what you always said--who knows! That did for John Brown.” + +Charley seemed not to hear the remark. “What are you doing now?” he +asked, looking steadily at the face whence had gone all the warmth +of manhood, all that courage of life which keeps men young. The lean +parchment visage had the hunted look of the incorrigible failure, had +written on it self-indulgence, cunning, and uncertainty. + +“Nothing much,” John Brown replied. + +“What last?” + +“Floated an arsenic-mine on Lake Superior.” + +“Failed?” + +“More or less. There are hopes yet. I’ve kept the wolf from the door.” + +“What are you going to do?” + +“Don’t know--nothing, perhaps; I’ve not the courage I had.” + +“I’d have thought you might find arsenic a good thing,” said Charley, +holding out a silver cigarette-case, his eyes turning slowly from the +startled, gloomy face of the man before him, to the cool darkness beyond +the open doorway of that saloon on the other side of the street. + +John Brown shivered--there was something so cold-blooded in the +suggestion that he might have found arsenic a good thing. The metallic +glare of Charley’s eye-glass seemed to give an added cruelty to the +words. Charley’s monocle was the token of what was behind his blue +eye-one ceaseless interrogation. It was that everlasting questioning, +the ceaseless who knows! which had in the end unsettled John Brown’s +mind, and driven him at last from the church and the possible gaiters of +a dean into the rough business of life, where he had been a failure. Yet +as Brown looked at Charley the old fascination came on him with a rush. +His hand suddenly caught Charley’s as he took a cigarette, and he said: +“Perhaps I’ll find arsenic a good thing yet.” + +For reply Charley laid a hand on his arm-turned him towards the shade of +the houses opposite. Without a word they crossed the street, entered +the saloon, and passed to a little back room, Charley giving an +unsympathetic stare to some men at the bar who seemed inclined to speak +to him. + +As the two passed into the small back room with the frosted door, one +of the strangers said to the other: “What does he come here for, if +he’s too proud to speak! What’s a saloon for! I’d like to smash that +eye-glass for him!” + +“He’s going down-hill fast,” said the other. “He drinks steady--steady.” + +“Tiens--tiens!” interposed Jean Jolicoeur, the landlord. “It is not harm +to him. He drink all day, an’ he walk a crack like a bee-line.” + +“He’s got the handsomest wife in this city. If I was him, I’d think more +of myself,” answered the Englishman. + +“How you think more--hein? You not come down more to my saloon?” + +“No, I wouldn’t come to your saloon, and I wouldn’t go to Theophile +Charlemagne’s shebang at the Cote Dorion.” + +“You not like Charlemagne’s hotel?” said a huge black-bearded pilot, +standing beside the landlord. “Oh, I like Charlemagne’s hotel, and +I like to talk to Suzon Charlemagne, but I’m not married, Rouge +Gosselin--” + +“If he go to Charlemagne’s hotel, and talk some more too mooch to dat +Suzon Charlemagne, he will lose dat glass out of his eye,” interrupted +Rouge Gosselin. + +“Who say he been at dat place?” said Jean Jolicoeur. “He bin dere four +times las’ month, and dat Suzon Charlemagne talk’bout him ever since. +When dat Narcisse Bovin and Jacques Gravel come down de river, he better +keep away from dat Cote Dorion,” sputtered Rouge Gosselin. “Dat’s a long +story short, all de same for you--bagosh!” + +Rouge Gosselin flung off his glass of white whiskey, and threw after it +a glass of cold water. + +“Tiens! you know not M’sieu’ Charley Steele,” said Jean Jolicoeur, and +turned on his heel, nodding his head sagely. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. CHARLEY MAKES A DISCOVERY + +A hot day a month later Charley Steele sat in his office staring before +him into space, and negligently smoking a cigarette. Outside there was a +slow clacking of wheels, and a newsboy was crying “La Patrie! La +Patrie! All about the War in France! All about the massacree!” + Bells--wedding-bells--were ringing also, and the jubilant sounds, like +the call of the newsboy, were out of accord with the slumberous feeling +of the afternoon. Charley Steele turned his head slowly towards the +window. The branches of a maple-tree half crossed it, and the leaves +moved softly in the shadow they made. His eye went past the tree and +swam into the tremulous white heat of the square, and beyond to where in +the church-tower the bells were ringing-to the church doors, from +which gaily dressed folk were issuing to the carriages, or thronged +the pavement, waiting for the bride and groom to come forth into a +new-created world--for them. + +Charley looked through his monocle at the crowd reflectively, his head +held a little to one side in a questioning sort of way, on his lips the +ghost of a smile--not a reassuring smile. Presently he leaned forward +slightly and the monocle dropped from his eye. He fumbled for it, +raised it, blew on it, rubbed it with his handkerchief, and screwed it +carefully into his eye again, his rather bushy brow gathering over it +strongly, his look sharpened to more active thought. He stared straight +across the square at a figure in heliotrope, whose face was turned to a +man in scarlet uniform taller than herself two glowing figures towards +whom many other eyes than his own were directed, some curiously, some +disdain fully, some sadly. But Charley did not see the faces of those +who looked on; he only saw two people--one in heliotrope, one in +scarlet. + +Presently his white firm hand went up and ran through his hair +nervously, his comely figure settled down in the chair, his tongue +touched the corners of his red lips, and his eyes withdrew from the +woman in heliotrope and the man in scarlet, and loitered among the +leaves of the tree at the window. The softness of the green, the cool +health of the foliage, changed the look of his eye from something cold +and curious to something companionable, and scarcely above a whisper two +words came from his lips: + +“Kathleen! Kathleen!” + +By the mere sound of the voice it would have been hard to tell what the +words meant, for it had an inquiring cadence and yet a kind of distant +doubt, a vague anxiety. The face conveyed nothing--it was smooth, fresh, +and immobile. The only point where the mind and meaning of the man +worked according to the law of his life was at the eye, where the +monocle was caught now as in a vise. Behind this glass there was a +troubled depth which belied the self-indulgent mouth, the egotism +speaking loudly in the red tie, the jewelled finger, the ostentatiously +simple yet sumptuous clothes. + +At last he drew in a sharp, sibilant breath, clicked his tongue--a +sound of devil-may-care and hopelessness at once--and turned to a little +cupboard behind him. The chair squeaked on the floor as he turned, and +he frowned, shivered a little, and kicked it irritably with his heel. + +From the cupboard he took a bottle of liqueur, and, pouring out a small +glassful, drank it off eagerly. As he put the bottle away, he said +again, in an abstracted fashion, “Kathleen!” + +Then, seating himself at the table, as if with an effort towards energy, +he rang a bell. A clerk entered. “Ask Mr. Wantage to come for a moment,” + he said. “Mr. Wantage has gone to the church--to the wedding,” was the +reply. + +“Oh, very well. He will be in again this afternoon?” + +“Sure to, sir.” + +“Just so. That will do.” + +The clerk retired, and Charley, rising, unlocked a drawer, and taking +out some books and papers, laid them on the table. Intently, carefully, +he began to examine them, referring at the same time to a letter which +had lain open at his hand while he had been sitting there. For a quarter +of an hour he studied the books and papers, then, all at once, his +fingers fastened on a point and stayed. Again he read the letter lying +beside him. A flush crimsoned his face to his hair--a singular flush +of shame, of embarrassment, of guilt--a guilt not his own. His breath +caught in his throat. + +“Billy!” he gasped. “Billy, by God!” + + + + +CHAPTER V. THE WOMAN IN HELIOTROPE + +The flush was still on Charley’s face when the door opened slowly, and +a lady dressed in heliotrope silk entered, and came forward. Without a +word Charley rose, and, taking a step towards her, offered a chair; +at the same time noticing her heightened colour, and a certain rigid +carriage not in keeping with her lithe and graceful figure. There was no +mistaking the quiver of her upper lip--a short lip which did not hide a +wonderfully pretty set of teeth. + +With a wave of the hand she declined the seat. Glancing at the books and +papers lying on the table, she flashed an inquiry at his flushed face, +and, misreading the cause, with slow, quiet point, in which bitterness +or contempt showed, she said meaningly: + +“What a slave you are!” + +“Behold the white man work!” he said good-naturedly, the flush passing +slowly from his face. With apparent negligence he pushed the letter +and the books and papers a little to one side, but really to place them +beyond the range of her angry eyes. She shrugged her shoulders at his +action. + +“For ‘the fatherless children and widows, and all that are desolate and +oppressed?’” she said, not concealing her malice, for at the wedding +she had just left all her married life had rushed before her in a swift +panorama, and the man in scarlet had fixed the shooting pictures in her +mind. + +Again a flush swept up Charley’s face and seemed to blur his sight. His +monocle dropped the length of its silken tether, and he caught it and +slowly adjusted it again as he replied evenly: + +“You always hit the nail on the head, Kathleen.” There was a kind of +appeal in his voice, a sort of deprecation in his eye, as though he +would be friends with her, as though, indeed, there was in his mind some +secret pity for her. + +Her look at his face was critical and cold. It was plain that she was +not prepared for any extra friendliness on his part--there seemed no +reason why he should add to his usual courtesy a note of sympathy to +the sound of her name on his lips. He had not fastened the door of the +cupboard from which he had taken the liqueur, and it had swung open a +little, disclosing the bottle and the glass. She saw. Her face took on a +look of quiet hardness. + +“Why did you not come to the wedding? She was your cousin. People asked +where you were. You knew I was going.” + +“Did you need me?” he asked quietly, and his eyes involuntarily swept +to the place where he had seen the heliotrope and scarlet make a glow of +colour on the other side of the square. “You were not alone.” + +She misunderstood him. Her mind had been overwrought, and she caught +insinuation in his voice. “You mean Tom Fairing!” Her eyes blazed. “You +are quite right--I did not need you. Tom Fairing is a man that all the +world trusts save you.” + +“Kathleen!” The words were almost a cry. “For God’s sake! I have never +thought of ‘trusting’ men where you are concerned. I believe in no +man”--his voice had a sharp bitterness, though his face was smooth and +unemotional--“but I trust you, and believe in you. Yes, upon my soul and +honour, Kathleen.” + +As he spoke she turned quickly and stepped towards the window, an +involuntary movement of agitation. He had touched a chord. But even as +she reached the window and glanced down to the hot, dusty street, she +heard a loud voice below, a reckless, ribald sort of voice, calling to +some one to, “Come and have a drink.” + +“Billy!” she said involuntarily, and looked down, then shrank back +quickly. She turned swiftly on her husband. “Your soul and honour, +Charley!” she said slowly. “Look at what you’ve made of Billy! Look at +the company he keeps--John Brown, who hasn’t even decency enough to keep +away from the place he disgraced. Billy is always with him. You ruined +John Brown, with your dissipation and your sneers at religion and +your-’I-wonder-nows!’ Of what use have you been, Charley? Of what use to +anyone in the world? You think of nothing but eating, and drinking, and +playing the fop.” + +He glanced down involuntarily, and carefully flicked some cigarette-ash +from his waistcoat. The action arrested her speech for a moment, and +then, with a little shudder, she continued: “The best they can say of +you is, ‘There goes Charley Steele!’” + +“And the worst?” he asked. He was almost smiling now, for he admired her +anger, her scorn. He knew it was deserved, and he had no idea of making +any defence. He had said all in that instant’s cry, “Kathleen!”--that +one awakening feeling of his life so far. She had congealed the word on +his lips by her scorn, and now he was his old debonair, dissipated self, +with the impertinent monocle in his eye and a jest upon his tongue. + +“Do you want to know the worst they say?” she asked, growing pale to +the lips. “Go and stand behind the door of Jolicoeur’s saloon. Go to any +street corner, and listen. Do you think I don’t know what they say? Do +you think the world doesn’t talk about the company you keep? Haven’t I +seen you going into Jolicoeur’s saloon when I was walking on the other +side of the street? Do you think that all the world, and I among the +rest, are blind? Oh, you fop, you fool, you have ruined my brother, +you have ruined my life, and I hate and despise you for a cold-blooded, +selfish coward!” + +He made a deprecating gesture and stared--a look of most curious +inquiry. They had been married for five years, and during that time they +had never been anything but persistently courteous to each other. He had +never on any occasion seen her face change colour, or her manner show +chagrin or emotion. Stately and cold and polite, she had fairly met his +ceaseless foppery and preciseness of manner. But people had said of her, +“Poor Kathleen Steele!” for her spotless name stood sharply off from his +negligence and dissipation. They called her “Poor Kathleen Steele!” in +sympathy, though they knew that she had not resisted marriage with the +well-to-do Charley Steele, while loving a poor captain in the Royal +Fusileers. She preserved social sympathy by a perfect outward decorum, +though the man of the scarlet coat remained in the town and haunted the +places where she appeared, and though the eyes of the censorious world +were watching expectantly. No voice was raised against her. Her cold +beauty held the admiration of all women, for she was not eager for men’s +company, and she kept her poise even with the man in scarlet near her, +glacially complacent, beautifully still, disconcertingly emotionless. +They did not know that the poise with her was to an extent as much a +pose as Charley’s manner was to him. + +“I hate you and despise you for a cold-blooded, selfish coward!” So that +was the way Kathleen felt! Charley’s tongue touched his lips quickly, +for they were arid, and he slowly said: + +“I assure you I have not tried to influence Billy. I have no remembrance +of his imitating me in anything. Won’t you sit down? It is very +fatiguing, this heat.” + +Charley was entirely himself again. His words concerning Billy Wantage +might have been either an impeachment of Billy’s character and, by +deduction, praise of his own, or it may have been the insufferable +egoism of the fop, well used to imitators. The veil between the two, +which for one sacred moment had seemed about to lift, was fallen now, +leaded and weighted at the bottom. + +“I suppose you would say the same about John Brown! It is disconcerting +at least to think that we used to sit and listen to Mr. Brown as he +waved his arms gracefully in his surplice and preached sentimental +sermons. I suppose you will say, what we have heard you say before, +that you only asked questions. Was that how you ruined the Rev. John +Brown--and Billy?” + +Charley was very thirsty, and because of that perhaps, his voice had an +unusually dry tone as he replied: “I asked questions of John Brown; I +answer them to Billy. It is I that am ruined!” + +There was that in his voice she did not understand, for though long used +to his paradoxical phrases and his everlasting pose--as it seemed to her +and all the world--there now rang through his words a note she had never +heard before. For a fleeting instant she was inclined to catch at some +hidden meaning, but her grasp of things was uncertain. She had been +thrown off her balance, or poise, as Charley had, for an unwonted +second, been thrown off his pose, and her thought could not pierce +beneath the surface. + +“I suppose you will be flippant at Judgment Day,” she said with a bitter +laugh, for it seemed to her a monstrous thing that they should be such +an infinite distance apart. + +“Why should one be serious then? There will be no question of an alibi, +or evidence for the defence--no cross-examination. A cut-and-dried +verdict!” + +She ignored his words. “Shall you be at home to dinner?” she rejoined +coldly, and her eyes wandered out of the window again to that spot +across the square where heliotrope and scarlet had met. + +“I fancy not,” he answered, his eyes turned away also--towards the +cupboard containing the liqueur. “Better ask Billy; and keep him in, and +talk to him--I really would like you to talk to him. He admires you so +much. I wish--in fact I hope you will ask Billy to come and live with +us,” he added half abstractedly. He was trying to see his way through +a sudden confusion of ideas. Confusion was rare to him, and his senses, +feeling the fog, embarrassed by a sudden air of mystery and a cloud of +futurity, were creeping to a mind-path of understanding. + +“Don’t be absurd,” she said coldly. “You know I won’t ask him, and you +don’t want him.” + +“I have always said that decision is the greatest of all qualities--even +when the decision is bad. It saves so much worry, and tends to health.” + Suddenly he turned to the desk and opened a tin box. “Here is further +practice for your admirable gift.” He opened a paper. “I want you to +sign off for this building--leaving it to my absolute disposal.” He +spread the paper out before her. + +She turned pale and her lips tightened. She looked at him squarely in +the eyes. “My wedding-gift!” she said. Then she shrugged her shoulders. +A moment she hesitated, and in that moment seemed to congeal. “You need +it?” she asked distantly. + +He inclined his head, his eye never leaving hers. With a swift angry +motion she caught the glove from her left hand, and, doubling it back, +dragged it off. A smooth round ring came off with it and rolled upon the +floor. + +Stooping, he picked up the ring, and handed it back to her, saying: +“Permit me.” It was her wedding-ring. She took it with a curious +contracted look and put it on the finger again, then pulled off the +other glove quietly. “Of course one uses the pen with the right hand,” + she said calmly. + +“Involuntary act of memory,” he rejoined slowly, as she took the pen +in her hand. “You had spoken of a wedding, this was a wedding-gift, +and--that’s right, sign there!” + +There was a brief pause, in which she appeared to hesitate, and then she +wrote her name in a large firm hand, and, throwing down the pen, caught +up her gloves, and began to pull them on viciously. + +“Thanks. It is very kind of you,” he said. He put the document in the +tin box, and took out another, as without a word, but with a grave face +in which scorn and trouble were mingled, she now turned towards the +door. + +“Can you spare a minute longer?” he said, and advanced towards her, +holding the new document in his hand. “Fair exchange is no robbery. +Please take this. No, not with the right hand; the left is better +luck--the better the hand, the better the deed,” he added with a +whimsical squint and a low laugh, and he placed the paper in her left +hand. “Item No. 2 to take the place of item No. 1.” + +She scrutinised the paper. Wonder filled her face. “Why, this is a +deed of the homestead property--worth three times as much!” she said. +“Why--why do you do this?” + +“Remember that questions ruin people sometimes,” he answered, and +stepped to the door and turned the handle, as though to show her out. +She was agitated and embarrassed now. She felt she had been unjust, and +yet she felt that she could not say what ought to be said, if all the +rules were right. + +“Thank you,” she said simply. “Did you think of this when--when you +handed me back the ring?” + +“I never had an inspiration in my life. I was born with a plan of +campaign.” + +“I suppose I ought to--kiss you!” she said in some little confusion. + +“It might be too expensive,” he answered, with a curious laugh. Then he +added lightly: “This was a fair exchange”--he touched the papers--“but I +should like you to bear witness, madam, that I am no robber!” He opened +the door. Again there was that curious penetrating note in his voice, +and that veiled look. She half hesitated, but in the pause there was a +loud voice below and a quick foot on the stairs. + +“It’s Billy!” she said sharply, and passed out. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. THE WIND AND THE SHORN LAMB + +A half-hour later Charley Steele sat in his office alone with Billy +Wantage, his brother-in-law, a tall, shapely fellow of twenty-four. +Billy had been drinking, his face was flushed, and his whole manner was +indolently careless and irresponsible. In spite of this, however, his +grey eyes were nervously fixed on Charley, and his voice was shaky as +he said, in reply to a question as to his finances: “That’s my own +business, Charley.” + +Charley took a long swallow from the tumbler of whiskey and soda beside +him, and, as he drew some papers towards him, answered quietly: “I must +make it mine, Billy, without a doubt.” + +The tall youth shifted in his chair and essayed to laugh. + +“You’ve never been particular about your own business. Pshaw, what’s the +use of preaching to me!” + +Charley pushed his chair back, and his look had just a touch of +surprise, a hint of embarrassment. This youth, then, thought him +something of a fool: read him by virtue of his ornamentations, his outer +idiosyncrasy! This boy, whose iniquity was under his finger on that +table, despised him for his follies, and believed in him less than his +wife--two people who had lived closer to him than any others in the +world. Before he answered he lifted the glass beside him and drank to +the last drop, then slowly set it down and said, with a dangerous smile: + +“I have always been particular about other people’s finances, and the +statement that you haven’t isn’t preaching, it’s an indictment--so it +is, Billy.” + +“An indictment!” Billy bit his finger-nails now, and his voice shook. + +“That’s what the jury would say, and the judge would do the preaching. +You have stolen twenty-five thousand dollars of trust-moneys!” + +For a moment there was absolute silence in the room. From outside in the +square came the Marche-t’en! of a driver, and the loud cackling laugh of +some loafer at the corner. Charley’s look imprisoned his brother-in-law, +and Billy’s eyes were fixed in a helpless stare on Charley’s finger, +which held like a nail the record of his infamy. + +Billy drew himself back with a jerk of recovery, and said with bravado, +but with fear in look and motion: “Don’t stare like that. The thing’s +done, and you can’t undo it, and that’s all there is about it.” Charley +had been staring at the youth-staring and not seeing him really, but +seeing his wife and watching her lips say again: “You are ruining +Billy!” He was not sober, but his mind was alert, his eccentric soul was +getting kaleidoscopic glances at strange facts of life as they rushed +past his mind into a painful red obscurity. + +“Oh yes, it can be undone, and it’s not all there is about it!” he +answered quietly. + +He got up suddenly, went to the door, locked it, put the key in his +pocket, and, coming back, sat down again beside the table. + +Billy watched him with shrewd, hunted eyes. What did Charley mean to +do? To give him in charge? To send him to jail? To shut him out from the +world where he had enjoyed himself so much for years and years? Never to +go forth free among his fellows! Never to play the gallant with all the +pretty girls he knew! Never to have any sports, or games, or tobacco, +or good meals, or canoeing in summer, or tobogganing in winter, or +moose-hunting, or any sort of philandering! + +The thoughts that filled his mind now were not those of regret for his +crime, but the fears of the materialist and sentimentalist, who revolted +at punishment and all the shame and deprivation it would involve. + +“What did you do with the money?” said Charley, after a minute’s +silence, in which two minds had travelled far. + +“I put it into mines.” + +“What mines?” + +“Out on Lake Superior.” + +“What sort of mines?” + +“Arsenic.” + +Charley’s eye-glass dropped, and rattled against the gold button of his +white waistcoat. + +“In arsenic-mines!” He put the monocle to his eye again. “On whose +advice?” + +“John Brown’s.” + +“John Brown’s!” Charley Steele’s ideas were suddenly shaken and +scattered by a man’s name, as a bolting horse will crumple into +confusion a crowd of people. So this was the way his John Brown had come +home to roost. He lifted the empty whiskey-glass to his lips and drained +air. He was terribly thirsty; he needed something to pull himself +together. Five years of dissipation had not robbed him of his splendid +native ability, but it had, as it were, broken the continuity of his +will and the sequence of his intellect. + +“It was not investment?” he asked, his tongue thick and hot in his +mouth. + +“No. What would have been the good?” + +“Of course. Speculation--you bought heavily to sell on an expected +rise?” + +“Yes.” + +There was something so even in Charley’s manner and tone that Billy +misinterpreted it. It seemed hopeful that Charley was going to make the +best of a bad job. + +“You see,” Billy said eagerly, “it seemed dead certain. He showed me the +way the thing was being done, the way the company was being floated, how +the market in New York was catching hold. It looked splendid. I thought +I could use the money for a week or so, then put it back, and have +a nice little scoop, at no one’s cost. I thought it was a dead-sure +thing--and I was hard up, and Kathleen wouldn’t lend me any more. If +Kathleen had only done the decent thing--” + +A sudden flush of anger swept over Charley’s face--never before in his +life had that face been so sensitive, never even as a child. Something +had waked in the odd soul of Beauty Steele. + +“Don’t be a sweep--leave Kathleen out of it!” he said, in a sharp, +querulous voice--a voice unnatural to himself, suggestive of little use, +as though he were learning to speak, using strange words stumblingly +through a melee of the emotions. It was not the voice of Charley Steele +the fop, the poseur, the idlest man in the world. + +“What part of the twenty-five thousand went into the arsenic?” he said, +after a pause. There was no feeling in the voice now; it was again even +and inquiring. + +“Nearly all.” + +“Don’t lie. You’ve been living freely. Tell the truth, or--or I’ll know +the reason why, Billy.” + +“About two-thirds-that’s the truth. I had debts, and I paid them.” + +“And you bet on the races?” + +“Yes.” + +“And lost?” + +“Yes. See here, Charley; it was the most awful luck--” + +“Yes, for the fatherless children and widows, and all that are +oppressed!” + +Charley’s look again went through and beyond the culprit, and he +recalled his wife’s words and his own reply. A quick contempt and a sort +of meditative sarcasm were in the tone. It was curious, too, that he +could smile, but the smile did not encourage Billy Wantage now. + +“It’s all gone, I suppose?” he added. + +“All but about a hundred dollars.” + +“Well, you have had your game; now you must pay for it.” + +Billy had imagination, and he was melodramatic. He felt danger ahead. + +“I’ll go and shoot myself!” he said, banging the table with his fist so +that the whiskey-tumbler shook. + +He was hardly prepared for what followed. Charley’s nerves had been +irritated; his teeth were on edge. This threat, made in such a cheap, +insincere way, was the last thing in the world he could bear to hear. +He knew that Billy lied; that if there was one thing Billy would not +do, shooting himself was that one thing. His own life was very sweet to +Billy Wantage. Charley hated him the more at that moment because he was +Kathleen’s brother. For if there was one thing he knew of Kathleen, it +was that she could not do a mean thing. Cold, unsympathetic she might +be, cruel at a pinch perhaps, but dishonourable--never! This weak, +cowardly youth was her brother! No one had ever seen such a look on +Charley Steele’s face as came upon it now--malicious, vindictive. He +stooped over Billy in a fury. + +“You think I’m a fool and an ass--you ignorant, brainless, lying +cub! You make me a thief before all the world by forging my name, and +stealing the money for which I am responsible, and then you rate me +so low that you think you’ll bamboozle me by threats of suicide. You +haven’t the courage to shoot yourself--drunk or sober. And what do you +think would be gained by it? Eh, what do you think would be gained? You +can’t see that you’d insult your sister as well as--as rob me.” + +Billy Wantage cowered. This was not the Charley Steele he had known, +not like the man he had seen since a child. There was something almost +uncouth in this harsh high voice, these gauche words, this raw accent; +but it was powerful and vengeful, and it was full of purpose. Billy +quivered, yet his adroit senses caught at a straw in the words, “as rob +me!” Charley was counting it a robbery of himself, not of the widows and +orphans! That gave him a ray of hope. In a paroxysm of fear, joined to +emotional excitement, he fell upon his knees, and pleaded for mercy--for +the sake of one chance in life, for the family name, for Kathleen’s +sake, for the sake of everything he had ruthlessly dishonoured. Tears +came readily to his eyes, real tears--of excitement; but he could +measure, too, the strength of his appeal. + +“If you’ll stand by me in this, I’ll pay you back every cent, Charley,” + he cried. “I will, upon my soul and honour! You shan’t lose a penny, if +you’ll only see me through. I’ll work my fingers off to pay it back till +the last hour of my life. I’ll be straight till the day I die--so help +me God!” + +Charley’s eyes wandered to the cupboard where the liqueurs were. If +he could only decently take a drink! But how could he with this boy +kneeling before him? His breath scorched his throat. + +“Get up!” he said shortly. “I’ll see what I can do--to-morrow. Go away +home. Don’t go out again to-night. And come here at ten o’clock in the +morning.” + +Billy took up his hat, straightened his tie, carefully brushed the dust +from his knees, and, seizing Charley’s hand, said: “You’re the best +fellow in the world, Charley.” He went towards the door, dusting his +face of emotion as he had dusted his knees. The old selfish, shrewd +look was again in his eyes. Charley’s gaze followed him gloomily. Billy +turned the handle of the door. It was locked. + +Charley came forward and unlocked it. As Billy passed through, Charley, +looking sharply in his face, said hoarsely: “By Heaven, I believe you’re +not worth it!” Then he shut the door again and locked it. + +He almost ran back and opened the cupboard. Taking out the bottle of +liqueur, he filled a glass and drank it off. Three times he did this, +then seated himself at the table with a sigh of relief and no emotion in +his face. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. “PEACE, PEACE, AND THERE IS NO PEACE”’ + +The sun was setting by the time Charley was ready to leave his office. +Never in his life had he stayed so late in “the halls of industry,” as +he flippantly called his place of business. The few cases he had won so +brilliantly since the beginning of his career, he had studied at night +in his luxurious bedroom in the white brick house among the maples on +the hill. In every case, as at the trial of Joseph Nadeau, the man who +murdered the timber-merchant, the first prejudice of judge and jury had +given way slowly before the deep-seeing mind, which had as rare a power +of analysis as for generalisation, and reduced masses of evidence to +phrases; and verdicts had been given against all personal prejudice--to +be followed outside the court by the old prejudice, the old look askance +at the man called Beauty Steele. + +To him it had made no difference at any time. He cared for neither +praise nor blame. In his actions a materialist, in his mind he was a +watcher of life, a baffled inquirer whose refuge was irony, and whose +singular habits had in five years become a personal insult to the +standards polite society and Puritan morality had set up. Perhaps the +insult had been intended, for irregularities were committed with an +insolent disdain for appearances. He did nothing secretly; his page +of life was for him who cared to read. He played cards, he talked +agnosticism, he went on shooting expeditions which became orgies, he +drank openly in saloons, he whose forefathers had been gentlemen of +King George, and who sacrificed all in the great American revolution for +honour and loyalty--statesmen, writers, politicians, from whom he had +direct inheritance, through stirring, strengthening forces, in the +building up of laws and civilisation in a new land. Why he chose to be +what he was--if he did choose--he alone could answer. His personality +had impressed itself upon his world, first by its idiosyncrasies and +afterwards by its enigmatical excesses. + +What was he thinking of as he laid the papers away in the tin box in a +drawer, locked it, and put the key in his pocket? He had found to the +smallest detail Billy’s iniquity, and he was now ready to shoulder the +responsibility, to save the man, who, he knew, was scarce worth the +saving. But Kathleen--there was what gave him pause. As he turned to the +window and looked out over the square he shuddered. He thought of the +exchange of documents he had made with her that day, and he had a sense +of satisfaction. This defalcation of Billy’s would cripple him, for +money had flown these last few years. He had had heavy losses, and he +had dug deep into his capital. Down past the square ran a cool avenue of +beeches to the water, and he could see his yacht at anchor. On the other +side of the water, far down the shore, was a house which had been begun +as a summer cottage, and had ended in being a mansion. A few Moorish +pillars, brought from Algiers for the decoration of the entrance, +had necessitated the raising of the roof, and then all had to be in +proportion, and the cottage became like an appanage to a palace. So +it had gone, and he had cared so little about it all, and for the +consequences. He had this day secured Kathleen from absolute poverty, no +matter what happened, and that had its comfort. His eyes wandered among +the trees. He could see the yellow feathers of the oriole and catch the +note of the whippoorwill, and from the great church near the voices of +the choir came over. He could hear the words “Lord, now lettest thou thy +servant depart in peace, according to thy word.” + +Depart in peace--how much peace was there in the world? Who had it? The +remembrance of what Kathleen said to him at the door--“I suppose I ought +to kiss you”--came to him, was like a refrain in his ears. + +“Peace is the penalty of silence and inaction,” he said to himself +meditatively. “Where there is action there is no peace. If the brain and +body fatten, then there is peace. Kathleen and I have lived at peace, I +suppose. I never said a word to her that mightn’t be put down in large +type and pasted on my tombstone, and she never said a word to me--till +to-day--that wasn’t like a water-colour picture. Not till to-day, in a +moment’s strife and trouble, did I ever get near her. And we’ve lived +in peace. Peace? Where is the right kind of peace? Over there is old +Sainton. He married a rich woman, he has had the platter of plenty +before him always, he wears ribbons and such like baubles given by the +Queen, but his son had to flee the country. There’s Herring. He doesn’t +sleep because his daughter is going to marry an Italian count. There’s +Latouche. His place in the cabinet is begotten in corruption, in the +hotbed of faction war. There’s Kenealy. His wife has led him a dance +of deep damnation. There’s the lot of them--every one, not an ounce of +peace among them, except with old Casson, who weighs eighteen stone, +lives like a pig, grows stuffier in mind and body every day, and drinks +half a bottle of whiskey every night. There’s no one else--yes, there +is!” + +He was looking at a small black-robed figure with clean-shaven face, +white hair, and shovel-hat, who passed slowly along the wooden walk +beneath, with meditative content in his face. + +“There’s peace,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve known Father Hallon +for twenty-five years, and no man ever worked so hard, ever saw more +trouble, ever shared other people’s bad luck mere than he; ever took the +bit in his teeth, when it was a matter of duty, stronger than he; +and yet there’s peace; he has it; a peace that passes all +understanding--mine anyhow. I’ve never had a minute’s real peace. The +World, or Nature, or God, or It, whatever the name is, owes me peace. +And how is It to give it? Why, by answering my questions. Now it’s +a curious thing that the only person I ever met who could answer any +questions of mine--answer them in the way that satisfies--is Suzon. She +works things down to phrases. She has wisdom in the raw, and a real grip +on life, and yet all the men she has known have been river-drivers and +farmers, and a few men from town who mistook the sort of Suzon she is. +Virtuous and straight, she’s a born child of Aphrodite too--by nature. +She was made for love. A thousand years ago she would have had a +thousand loves! And she thinks the world is a magnificent place, and she +loves it, and wallows--fairly wallows--in content. Now which is right: +Suzon or Father Hallon--Aphrodite or the Nazarene? Which is peace--as +the bird and the beast of the field get it--the fallow futile content, +or--” + +He suddenly stopped, hiccoughed, then hurriedly drawing paper before +him, he sat down. For an hour he wrote. It grew darker. He pushed the +table nearer the window, and the singing of the choir in the church +came in upon him as his pen seemed to etch words into the paper, firm, +eccentric, meaning. What he wrote that evening has been preserved, and +the yellow sheets lie loosely in a black despatch-box which contains the +few records Charley Steele left behind him. What he wrote that night was +the note of his mind, the key to all those strange events through which +he began to move two hours after the lines were written: + + Over thy face is a veil of white sea-mist, + Only thine eyes shine like stars; bless or blight me, + I will hold close to the leash at thy wrist, + O Aphrodite! + + Thou in the East and I here in the West, + Under our newer skies purple and pleasant: + Who shall decide which is better--attest, + Saga or peasant? + + Thou with Serapis, Osiris, and Isis, + I with Jehovah, in vapours and shadows; + Thou with the gods’ joy-enhancing devices, + Sweet-smelling meadows! + + What is there given us?--Food and some raiment, + Toiling to reach to some Patmian haven, + Giving up all for uncertain repayment, + Feeding the raven! + + Striving to peer through the infinite azure, + Alternate turning to earthward and falling, + Measuring life with Damastian measure, + Finite, appalling. + + What does it matter! They passed who with Homer + Poured out the wine at the feet of their idols: + Passing, what found they? To-come a misnomer, + It and their idols? + + Sacristan, acolyte, player, or preacher, + Each to his office, but who holds the key? + Death, only Death--thou, the ultimate teacher + Wilt show it to me. + + And when the forts and the barriers fall, + Shall we then find One the true, the almighty, + Wisely to speak with the worst of us all-- + Ah, Aphrodite! + + Waiting, I turn from the futile, the human, + Gone is the life of me, laughing with youth + Steals to learn all in the face of a woman, + Mendicant Truth! + +Rising with a bitter laugh, and murmuring the last lines, he thrust the +papers into a drawer, locked it, and going quickly from the room, he +went down-stairs. His horse and cart were waiting for him, and he got +in. + +The groom looked at him inquiringly. “The Cote Dorion!” he said, and +they sped away through the night. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. THE COST OF THE ORNAMENT + +One, two, three, four, five, six miles. The sharp click of the iron +hoofs on the road; the strong rush of the river; the sweet smell of the +maple and the pungent balsam; the dank rich odour of the cedar +swamp; the cry of the loon from the water; the flaming crane in the +fishing-boat; the fisherman, spear in hand, staring into the dark waters +tinged with sombre red; the voice of a lonely settler keeping time to +the ping of the axe as, lengthening out his day to nightly weariness, he +felled a tree; river-drivers’ camps spotted along the shore; huge cribs +or rafts which had swung down the great stream for scores of miles, the +immense oars motionless, the little houses on the timbers blinking with +light; and from cheerful raftsmen coming the old familiar song of the +rivers: + + “En roulant, ma boule roulant, + En roulant ma boule!” + +Not once had Charley Steele turned his head as the horse sped on. His +face was kept straight along the line of the road; he seemed not to see +or to hear, to be unresponsive to sound or scene. The monocle at his eye +was like a veil to hide the soul, a defence against inquiry, itself +the unceasing question, a sort of battery thrown forward, a kind of +field-casemate for a lonely besieged spirit. + +It was full of suggestion. It might have been the glass behind which +showed some mediaeval relic, the body of some ancient Egyptian king +whose life had been spent in doing wonders and making signs--the +primitive, anthropomorphic being. He might have been a stone man, for +any motion that he made. Yet looking at him closely you would have seen +discontent in the eye, a kind of glaze of the sardonic over the whole +face. + +What is the good! the face asked. What is there worth doing? it said. +What a limitless futility! it urged, fain to be contradicted too, as the +grim melancholy of the figure suggested. + +“To be an animal and soak in the world,” he thought to himself--“that is +natural; and the unnatural is civilisation, and the cheap adventure of +the mind into fields of baffling speculation, lighted by the flickering +intelligences of dead speculators, whose seats we have bought in the +stock-exchange of mortality, and exhaust our lives in paying for. To +eat, to drink, to lie fallow, indifferent to what comes after, to roam +like the deer, and to fight like the tiger--” + +He came to a dead stop in his thinking. “To fight like the tiger!” He +turned his head quickly now to where upon a raft some river-drivers were +singing: + + “And when a man in the fight goes down, + Why, we will carry him home!” + +“To fight like the tiger!” Ravage--the struggle to possess from all the +world what one wished for one’s self, and to do it without mercy and +without fear-that was the clear plan in the primitive world, where +action was more than speech and dominance than knowledge. Was not +civilisation a mistake, and religion the insinuating delusion designed +to cover it up; or, if not designed, accepted by the original few who +saw that humanity could not turn back, and must even go forward with +illusions, lest in mere despair all men died and the world died with +them? + +His eyes wandered to the raft where the men were singing, and he +remembered the threat made: that if he came again to the Cote Dorion +he “would get what for!” He remembered the warning of Rouge Gosselin +conveyed by Jolicoeur, and a sinister smile crossed over his face. The +contradictions of his own thoughts came home to him suddenly, for was it +not the case that his physical strength alone, no matter what his skill, +would be of small service to him in a dark corner of contest? Primitive +ideas could only hold in a primitive world. His real weapon was his +brain, that which civilisation had given him in lieu of primitive +prowess and the giant’s strength. + +They had come to a long piece of corduroy-road, and the horse’s hoofs +struck rumbling hollow sounds from the floor of cedar logs. There was +a swamp on one side where fire-flies were flickering, and there flashed +into Charley Steele’s mind some verses he had once learned at school: + + “They made her a grave too cold and damp + For a soul so warm and true--” + +It kept repeating itself in his brain in a strange dreary monotone. + +“Stop the horse. I’ll walk the rest of the way,” he said presently to +the groom. “You needn’t come for me, Finn; I’ll walk back as far as the +Marochal Tavern. At twelve sharp I’ll be there. Give yourself a drink +and some supper”--he put a dollar into the man’s hand--“and no white +whiskey, mind: a bottle of beer and a leg of mutton, that’s the thing.” + He nodded his head, and by the light of the moon walked away smartly +down the corduroy-road through the shadows of the swamp. Finn the groom +looked after him. + +“Well, if he ain’t a queer dick! A reg’lar ‘centric--but a reg’lar +brick, cutting a wide swathe as he goes. He’s a tip-topper; and he’s a +sort of tough too--a sort of a kind of a tough. Well, it’s none of my +business. Get up!” he added to the horse, and turning round in the road +with difficulty, he drove back a mile to the Tavern Marochal for his +beer and mutton--and white whiskey. + +Charley stepped on briskly, his shining leather shoes, straw hat, and +light cane in no good keeping with his surroundings. He was thinking +that he had never been in such a mood for talk with Suzon Charlemagne. +Charlemagne’s tavern of the Cote Dorion was known over half a province, +and its patrons carried news of it half across a continent. Suzon +Charlemagne--a girl of the people, a tavern-girl, a friend of sulking, +coarse river-drivers! But she had an alert precision of brain, an +instinct that clove through wastes of mental underbrush to the tree of +knowledge. Her mental sight was as keen and accurate as that which runs +along the rifle-barrel of the great hunter with the red deer in view. +Suzon Charlemagne no company for Charley Steele? What did it matter! +He had entered into other people’s lives to-day, had played their games +with them and for them, and now he would play his own game, live his own +life in his own way through the rest of this day. He thirsted for some +sort of combat, for the sharp contrasts of life, for the common and the +base; he thirsted even for the white whiskey against which he had warned +his groom. He was reckless--not blindly, but wilfully, wildly reckless, +caring not at all what fate or penalty might come his way. + +“What do I care!” he said to himself. “I shall never squeal at any +penalty. I shall never say in the great round-up that I was weak and I +fell. I’ll take my gruel expecting it, not fearing it--if there is to be +any gruel anywhere, or any round-up anywhere!” + +A figure suddenly appeared coming round the bend of the road before +him. It was Rouge Gosselin. Rouge Gosselin was inclined to speak. Some +satanic whim or malicious foppery made Charley stare him blankly in the +face. The monocle and the stare stopped the bon soir and the friendly +warning on Rouge Gosselin’s tongue, and the pilot passed on with a +muttered oath. + +Gosselin had not gone far, however, before he suddenly stopped and +laughed outright, for at the bottom he had great good-nature, in keeping +with his “six-foot” height, and his temper was friendly if quick. +It seemed so absurd, so audacious, that a man could act like Charley +Steele, that he at once became interested in the phenomenon, and +followed slowly after Charley, saying as he went: “Tiens, there will be +things to watch to-night!” + +Before Charley was within five hundred yards of the tavern he could +hear the laughter and song coming from the old seigneury which Theophile +Charlemagne called now the Cote Dorion Hotel, after the name given to +the point on which the house stood. Low and wide-roofed, with dormer +windows and a wide stoop in front, and walls three feet thick, behind, +on the river side, it hung over the water, its narrow veranda supported +by piles, with steps down to the water-side. Seldom was there an hour +when boats were not tied to these steps. Summer and winter the tavern +was a place of resort. Inside, the low ceiling, the broad rafters, the +great fireplace, the well-worn floor, the deep windows, the wooden cross +let into the wall, and the varied and picturesque humanity frequenting +this great room, gave it an air of romance. Yet there were people +who called the tavern a “shebang”--slander as it was against Suzon +Charlemagne, which every river-driver and woodsman and habitant who +frequented the place would have resented with violence. It was because +they thought Charley Steele slandered the girl and the place in his +mind, that the river-drivers had sworn they would make it hot for him if +he came again. Charley was the last man in the world to undeceive them +by words. + +When he coolly walked into the great room, where a half-dozen of +them were already assembled, drinking white “whiskey-wine,” he had no +intention of setting himself right. He raised his hat cavalierly to +Suzon and shook hands with her. + +He took no notice of the men around him. “Brandy, please!” he said. “Why +do I drink, do you say?” he added, as Suzon placed the bottle and glass +before him. + +She was silent for an instant, then she said gravely: “Perhaps because +you like it; perhaps because something was left out of you when you were +made, and--” + +She paused and went no further, for a red-shirted river-driver with +brass rings in his ears came close to them, and called gruffly for +whiskey. He glowered at Charley, who looked at him indolently, then +raised his glass towards Suzon and drank the brandy. + +“Pish!” said Red Shirt, and, turning round, joined his comrades. It was +clear he wanted a pretext to quarrel. + +“Perhaps because you like it; perhaps because something was left out of +you when you were made--” Charley smiled pleasantly as Suzon came over +to him again. “You’ve answered the question,” he said, “and struck the +thing at the centre. Which is it? The difficulty to decide which has +divided the world. If it’s only a physical craving, it means that we are +materialists naturally, and that the soil from which the grape came is +the soil that’s in us; that it is the body feeding on itself all the +time; that like returns to like, and we live a little together, and +then mould together for ever and ever, amen. If it isn’t a natural +craving--like to like--it’s a proof of immortality, for it represents +the wild wish to forget the world, to be in another medium. + +“I am only myself when I am drunk. Liquor makes me human. At other times +I’m merely Charley Steele! Now isn’t it funny, this sort of talk here?” + +“I don’t know about that,” she answered, “if, as you say, it’s natural. +This tavern’s the only place I have to think in, and what seems to you +funny is a sort of ordinary fact to me.” + +“Right again, ma belle Suzon. Nothing’s incongruous. I’ve never felt so +much like singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs as when I’ve been +drinking. I remember the last time I was squiffy I sang all the way home +that old nursery hymn: + + “‘On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you. + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!’” + +“I should have liked to hear you sing it--sure!” said Suzon, laughing. + +Charley tossed off a quarter-tumbler of brandy, which, instead of +flushing the face, seemed only to deepen the whiteness of the skin, +showing up more brightly the spots of colour in the cheeks, that white +and red which had made him known as Beauty Steele. With a whimsical +humour, behind which was the natural disposition of the man to do +what he listed without thinking of the consequences, he suddenly began +singing, in a voice shaken a little now by drink, but full of a curious +magnetism: + + “On the other side of Jordan--” + +“Oh, don’t; please don’t!” said the girl, in fear, for she saw two +river-drivers entering the door, one of whom had sworn he would do for +Charley Steele if ever he crossed his path. + +“Oh, don’t--M’sieu’ Charley!” she again urged. The “Charley” caught his +ear, and the daring in his eye brightened still more. He was ready +for any change or chance to-night, was standing on the verge of any +adventure, the most reckless soul in Christendom. + + “On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you!” + +What more incongruous thing than this flaneur in patent leathers and red +tie, this “hell-of-a-fellow with a pane of glass in his eye,” as +Jake Hough, the horse-doctor, afterwards said, surrounded by red and +blue-shirted river-men, woodsmen, loafers, and toughs, singing a sacred +song with all the unction of a choir-boy; with a magnetism, too, that +did its work in spite of all prejudice? It was as if he were counsel in +one of those cases when, the minds and sympathies of judge and jury at +first arrayed against him, he had irresistibly cloven his way to their +judgment--not stealing away their hearts, but governing, dominating +their intelligences. Whenever he had done this he had been drinking +hard, was in a mental world created by drink, serene, clear-eyed, in +which his brain worked like an invincible machine, perfect and powerful. +Was it the case that, as he himself suggested, he was never so natural +as when under this influence? That then and only then the real man +spoke, that then and only then the primitive soul awakened, that it +supplied the thing left out of him at birth? + + “There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!” + +One, two verses he sang as the men, at first snorting and scornful, +shuffled angrily; then Jake Hough, the English horse-doctor, roared in +the refrain: + + “There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!” + +Upon which, carried away, every one of them roared, gurgled, or shouted + + “There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!” + +Rouge Gosselin, who had entered during the singing, now spoke up quickly +in French: + +“A sermon now, M’sieu’!” + +Charley took his monocle out of his eye and put it back again. Now each +man present seemed singled out for an attack by this little battery +of glass. He did not reply directly to Rouge Gosselin, but standing +perfectly still, with one hand resting on the counter at which Suzon +stood, he prepared to speak. + +Suzon did not attempt to stop him now, but gazed at him in a sort +of awe. These men present were Catholics, and held religion in +superstitious respect, however far from practising its precepts. Many +of them had been profane and blasphemous in their time; may have sworn +“sacre bapteme!” one of the worst oaths of their race; but it had been +done in the wildness of anger, and they were little likely to endure +from Charley Steele any word that sounded like blasphemy. Besides, +the world said that he was an infidel, and that was enough for bitter +prejudice. + +In the pause--very short--before Charley began speaking, Suzon’s +fingers stole to his on the counter and pressed them quickly. He made no +response; he was scarcely aware of it. He was in a kind of dream. In an +even, conversational tone, in French at once idiomatic and very simple, +he began: + +“My dear friends, this is a world where men get tired. If they work they +get tired, and if they play they get tired. If they look straight ahead +of them they walk straight, but then they get blind by-and-by; if they +look round them and get open-eyed, their feet stumble and they fall. It +is a world of contradictions. If a man drinks much he loses his head, +and if he doesn’t drink at all he loses heart. If he asks questions he +gets into trouble, and if he doesn’t ask them he gets old before his +time. Take the hymn we have just sung: + + “‘On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you!’ + +“We all like that, because we get tired, and it isn’t always summer, and +nothing blooms all the year round. We get up early and we work late, and +we sleep hard, and when the weather is good and wages good, and there’s +plenty in the house, we stay sober and we sadly sing, ‘On the other side +of Jordan’; but when the weather’s heavy and funds scarce, and the pork +and molasses and bread come hard, we get drunk, and we sing the comic +chanson ‘Brigadier, vows avez raison!’ We’ve been singing a sad song +to-night when we’re feeling happy. We didn’t think whether it was sad or +not, we only knew it pleased our ears, and we wanted those sweet fields +of Eden, and the blooming tree of life, and the rest under the tree. But +ask a question or two. Where is the other side of Jordan? Do you go up +to it, or down to it? And how do you go? And those sweet fields of Eden, +what do they look like, and how many will they hold? Isn’t it clear that +the things that make us happiest in this world are the things we go for +blind?” + +He paused. Now a dozen men came a step or two nearer, and crowded +close together, looking over each others’ shoulders at him with sharp, +wondering eyes. + +“Isn’t that so?” he continued. “Do you realise that no man knows where +that Jordan and those fields are, and what the flower of the tree of +life looks like? Let us ask a question again. Why is it that the one +being in all the world who could tell us anything about it, the one +being who had ever seen Jordan or Eden or that tree of life-in fact, +the one of all creation who could describe heaven, never told? Isn’t it +queer? Here he was--that one man-standing just as I am among you, and +round him were the men who followed him, all ordinary men, with ordinary +curiosity. And he said he had come down from heaven, and for years they +were with him, and yet they never asked him what that heaven was like: +what it looked like, what it felt like, what sort of life they lived +there, what manner of folk were the angels, what was the appearance of +God. Why didn’t they ask, and why didn’t he answer? People must have +kept asking that question afterwards, for a man called John answered +it. He described, as only an oriental Jew would or could, a place all +precious stones and gold and jewels and candles, in oriental language +very splendid and auriferous. But why didn’t those twelve men ask the +One Man who knew, and why didn’t the One answer? And why didn’t the One +tell without being asked?” + +He paused again, and now there came a shuffling and a murmuring, a +curious rumble, a hard breathing, for Charley had touched with steely +finger the tender places in the natures of these Catholics, who, +whatever their lives, held fast to the immemorial form, the sacredness +of Mother Church. They were ever ready to step into the galley which +should bear them all home, with the invisible rowers of God at the oars, +down the wild rapids, to the haven of St. Peter. There was savagery in +their faces now. + +He saw, and he could not refrain from smiling as he stretched out +his hand to them again with a little quieting gesture, and continued +soothingly: + +“But why should we ask? There’s a thing called electricity. Well, you +know that if you take a slice out of anything, less remains behind. We +can take the air out of this room, and scarcely leave any in it. + +“We take a drink out of a bottle, and certainly there isn’t as much left +in it! But the queer thing is that with this electricity you take it +away and just as much remains. It goes out from your toe, rushes away +to Timbuctoo, and is back in your toe before you can wink. Why? No one +knows. What’s the good of asking? You can’t see it: you can only see +what it does. What good would it do us if we knew all about it? There it +is, and it’s going to revolutionise the world. It’s no good asking--no +one knows what it is and where it comes from, or what it looks like. +It’s better to go it blind, because you feel the power, though you can’t +see where it comes from. You can’t tell where the fields of Eden are, +but you believe they’re somewhere, and that you’ll get to them some day. +So say your prayers, believe all you can, don’t ask questions, and don’t +try to answer ‘em; and remember that Charley Steele preached to you the +fear of the Lord at the Cote Dorion, and wound up the service with the +fine old hymn: + + “‘I’ll away, I’ll away, to the promised land--’” + +A whole verse of this camp-meeting hymn he sang in an ominous silence +now, for it had crept into their minds that the hymn they had previously +sung so loudly was a Protestant hymn, and that this was another +Protestant hymn of the rankest sort. When he stopped singing and pushed +over his glass for Suzon to fill it, the crowd were noiseless and silent +for a moment, for the spell was still on them. They did not recover +themselves until they saw him lift his glass to Suzon, his back on them, +again insolently oblivious of them all. They could not see his face, but +they could see the face of Suzon Charlemagne, and they misunderstood the +light in her eye, the flush on her cheek. They set it down to a personal +interest in Charley Steele. + +Charley had, however, thrown a spell over her in another fashion. In her +eye, in her face, was admiration, the sympathy of a strong intelligence, +the wonder of a mind in the presence of its master, but they thought +they saw passion, love, desire, in her face--in the face of their Suzon, +the pride of the river, the flower of the Cote Dorion. Not alone because +Charley had blasphemed against religion did they hate him at this +moment, but because every heart was scorched with envy and jealousy--the +black unreasoning jealousy which the unlettered, the dull, the crude, +feels for the lettered, the able and the outwardly refined. + +Charley was back again in the unfriendly climate of his natural life. +Suzon felt the troubled air round them, saw the dark looks on the faces +of the men, and was at once afraid and elated. She loved the glow of +excitement, she had a keen sense of danger, but she also felt that in +any possible trouble to-night the chances of escape would be small for +the man before her. + +He pushed out his glass again. She mechanically poured brandy into it. + +“You’ve had more than enough,” she said, in a low voice. + +“Every man knows his own capacity, Suzon. Love me little, love me long,” + he added, again raising his glass to her, as the men behind suddenly +moved forward upon the bar. + +“Don’t--for God’s sake!” she whispered hastily. “Do go--or there’ll be +trouble!” + +The black face of Theophile Charlemagne was also turned anxiously in +Charley’s direction as he pushed out glasses for those who called for +liquor. + +“Oh, do, do go--like a good soul!” Suzon urged. Charley laughed +disdainfully. “Like a good soul!” Had it come to this, that Suzon +pleaded with him as if he were a foolish, obstreperous child! + +“Faithless and unbelieving!” he said to Suzon in English. “Didn’t I play +my game well a minute ago--eh--eh--eh, Suzon?” + +“Oh, yes, yes, M’sieu’,” she replied in English; “but now you are +differen’ and so are they. You must goah, so, you must!” + +He laughed again, a queer sardonic sort of laugh, yet he put out his +hand and touched the girl’s arm lightly with a forefinger. “I am a +Quaker born; I never stir till the spirit moves me,” he said. + +He scented conflict, and his spirits rose at the thought. Some reckless +demon of adventure possessed him; some fatalistic courage was upon him. +So far as the eye could see, the liquor he had drunk had done no more +than darken the blue of his eye, for his hand was steady, his body was +well poised, his look was direct; there seemed some strange electric +force in leash behind his face, a watchful yet nonchalant energy of +spirit, joined to an indolent pose of body. As the girl looked at +him something of his unreckoning courage passed into her. Somehow she +believed in him, felt that by some wild chance he might again conquer +this truculent element now almost surrounding him. She spoke quickly to +her step-father. “He won’t go. What can we do?” + +“You go, and he’ll follow,” said Theophile, who didn’t want a row--a +dangerous row-in his house. + +“No, he won’t,” she said; “and I don’t believe they’d let him follow +me.” + +There was no time to say more. The crowd were insistent and restless +now. They seemed to have a plan of campaign, and they began to carry it +out. First one, then another, brushed roughly against Charley. Cool and +collected, he refused to accept the insults. + +“Pardon,” he said, in each case; “I am very awkward.” + +He smiled all the time; he seemed waiting. The pushing and crowding +became worse. “Don’t mention it,” he said. “You should learn how to +carry your liquor in your legs.” + +Suddenly he changed from apology to attack. He talked at them with +a cheerful scorn, a deprecating impertinence, as though they were +children; he chided them with patient imprecations. This confused them +for a moment and cleared a small space around him. There was no defiance +in his aspect, no aggressiveness of manner; he was as quiet as though +it were a drawing-room and he a master of monologues. He hurled original +epithets at them in well-cadenced French, he called them what he listed, +but in language which half-veiled the insults--the more infuriating to +his hearers because they did not perfectly understand. + +Suddenly a low-set fellow, with brass rings in his ears, pulled off +his coat and threw it on the floor. “I’ll eat your heart,” he said, and +rolled up blue sleeves along a hairy arm. + +“My child,” said Charley, “be careful what you eat. Take up your coat +again, and learn that it is only dogs that delight to bark and bite. Our +little hands were never made to tear each other’s eyes.” + +The low-set fellow made a rush forward, but Rouge Gosselin held him +back. “No, no, Jougon,” he said. “I have the oldest grudge.” + +Jougon struggled with Rouge Gosselin. “Be good, Jougon,” said Charley. + +As he spoke a heavy tumbler flew from the other side of the room. +Charley saw the missile thrown and dodged. It missed his temple, but +caught the rim of his straw hat, carrying it off his head, and crashed +into a lantern hanging against the wall, putting out the light. The room +was only lighted now by another lantern on the other side of the room. +Charley stooped, picked up his hat, and put it on his head again coolly. + +“Stop that, or I’ll clear the bar!” cried Theophile Charlemagne, taking +the pistol Suzon slipped into his hand. The sight of the pistol drove +the men wild, and more than one snatched at the knife in his belt. + +At that instant there pushed forward into the clear space beside Charley +Steele the great figure of Jake Hough, the horse-doctor, the strongest +man, and the most popular Englishman on the river. He took his stand by +Charley, raised his great hand, smote him in the small of his back, and +said: + +“By the Lord, you have sand, and I’ll stand by you!” Under the friendly +but heavy stroke the monocle shot from Charley’s eye the length of the +string. Charley lifted it again, put it up, and staring hard at Jake, +coolly said: + +“I beg your pardon--but have I ever--been introduced to you?” + +What unbelievable indifference to danger, what disdain to friendliness, +made Charley act as he did is a matter for speculation. It was throwing +away his one chance; it was foppery on the scaffold--an incorrigible +affectation or a relentless purpose. + +Jake Hough strode forward into the crowd, rage in his eye. “Go to the +devil, then, and take care of yourself!” he said roughly. + +“Please,” said Charley. + +They were the last words he uttered that night, for suddenly the other +lantern went out, there was a rush and a struggle, a muffled groan, +a shrill woman’s voice, a scramble and hurrying feet, a noise of a +something splashing heavily in the water outside. When the lights were +up again the room was empty, save for Theophile Charlemagne, Jake Hough, +and Suzon, who lay in a faint on the floor with a nasty bruise on her +forehead. + +A score of river-drivers were scattering into the country-side, and +somewhere in the black river, alive or dead, was Charley Steele. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. OLD DEBTS FOR NEW + +Jo Portugtais was breaking the law of the river--he was running a +little raft down the stream at night, instead of tying up at sundown and +camping on the shore, or sitting snugly over cooking-pot by the little +wooden caboose on his raft. But defiance of custom and tradition was a +habit with Jo Portugais. He had lived in his own way many a year, and he +was likely to do so till the end, though he was a young man yet. He had +many professions, or rather many gifts, which he practised as it pleased +him. He was river-driver, woodsman, hunter, carpenter, guide, as whim or +opportunity came to him. On the evening when Charley Steele met with his +mishap he was a river-driver--or so it seemed. He had been up nor’west +a hundred and fifty miles, and he had come down-stream alone with his +raft-which in the usual course should take two men to guide it--through +slides, over rapids, and in strong currents. Defying the code of the +river, with only one small light at the rear of his raft, he voyaged the +swift current towards his home, which, when he arrived opposite the Cote +Dorion, was still a hundred miles below. He had watched the lights in +the river-drivers’ camps, had seen the men beside the fires, and had +drifted on, with no temptation to join in the songs floating out over +the dark water, to share the contents of the jugs raised to boisterous +lips, or to thrust his hand into the greasy cooking-pot for a succulent +bone. + +He drifted on until he came opposite Charlemagne’s tavern. Here the +current carried him inshore. He saw the dim light, he saw dark figures +in the bar-room, he even got a glimpse of Suzon Charlemagne. He dropped +the house behind quickly, but looked back, leaning on the oar and +thinking how swift was the rush of the current past the tavern. His eyes +were on the tavern door and the light shining through it. Suddenly +the light disappeared, and the door vanished into darkness. He heard a +scuffle, and then a heavy splash. + +“There’s trouble there,” said Jo Portugais, straining his eyes through +the night, for a kind of low roar, dwindling to a loud whispering, and +then a noise of hurrying feet, came down the stream, and he could dimly +see dark figures running away into the night by different paths. + +“Some dirty work, very sure,” said Jo Portugais, and his eyes travelled +back over the dark water like a lynx’s, for the splash was in his ear, +and a sort of prescience possessed him. He could not stop his raft. It +must go on down the current, or be swerved to the shore, to be fastened. + +“God knows, it had an ugly sound,” said Jo Portugais, and again strained +his eyes and ears. He shifted his position and took another oar, where +the raft-lantern might not throw a reflection upon the water. He saw a +light shine again through the tavern doorway, then a dark object +block the light, and a head thrust forward towards the river as though +listening. + +At this moment he fancied he saw something in the water nearing him. He +stretched his neck. Yes, there was something. + +“It’s a man. God save us--was it murder?” said Jo Portugais, and +shuddered. “Was it murder?” + +The body moved more swiftly than the raft. There was a hand thrust +up--two hands. + +“He’s alive!” said Jo Portugais, and, hurriedly pulling round his waist +a rope tied to a timber, jumped into the water. + +Three minutes later, on the raft, he was examining a wound in the head +of an insensible man. + +As his hand wandered over the body towards the heart, it touched +something that rattled against a button. He picked it up mechanically +and held it to the light. It was an eye-glass. + +“My God!” said Jo Portugais, and peered into the man’s face. “It’s him.” + Then he remembered the last words the man had spoken to him--“Get out of +my sight. You’re as guilty as hell!” But his heart yearned towards the +man nevertheless. + + + + +CHAPTER X. THE WAY IN AND THE WAY OUT + +In his own world of the parish of Chaudiere Jo Portugais was counted a +widely travelled man. He had adventured freely on the great rivers and +in the forests, and had journeyed up towards Hudson’s Bay farther than +any man in seven parishes. + +Jo’s father and mother had both died in one year--when he was +twenty-five. That year had turned him from a clean-shaven cheerful boy +into a morose bearded man who looked forty, for it had been marked by +his disappearance from Chaudiere and his return at the end of it, to +find his mother dead and his father dying broken-hearted. What had +driven Jo from home only his father knew; what had happened to him +during that year only Jo himself knew, and he told no one, not even his +dying father. + +A mystery surrounded him, and no one pierced it. He was a figure apart +in Chaudiere parish. A dreadful memory that haunted him, carried him out +of the village, which clustered round the parish church, into Vadrome +Mountain, three miles away, where he lived apart from all his kind. It +was here he brought the man with the eye-glass one early dawn, after two +nights and two days on the river, pulling him up the long hill in a +low cart with his strong faithful dogs, hitching himself with them and +toiling upwards through the dark. In his three-roomed hut he laid his +charge down upon a pile of bear-skins, and tended him with a strange +gentleness, bathing the wound in the head and binding it again and +again. + +The next morning the sick man opened his eyes heavily. He then began +fumbling mechanically on his breast. At last his fingers found his +monocle. He feebly put it to his eye, and looked at Jo in a strange, +questioning, uncomprehending way. + +“I beg--your pardon,” he said haltingly, “have I ever--been intro--” + Suddenly his eyes closed, a frown gathered on his forehead. After +a minute his eyes opened again, and he gazed with painful, pathetic +seriousness at Jo. This grew to a kind of childish terror; then slowly, +as a shadow passes, the perplexity, anxiety and terror cleared away, +and left his forehead calm, his eyes unvexed and peaceful. The monocle +dropped, and he did not heed it. At length he said wearily, and with an +incredibly simple dependence: + +“I am thirsty now.” + +Jo lifted a wooden bowl to his lips, and he drank, drank, drank to +repletion. When he had finished he patted Jo’s shoulder. + +“I am always thirsty,” he said. “I shall be hungry too. I always am.” + +Jo brought him some milk and bread in a bowl. When the sick man had +eaten and drunk the bowlful to the last drop and crumb, he lay back with +a sigh of content, but trembling from weakness and the strain, though +Jo’s hand had been under his head, and he had been fed like a little +child. + +All day he lay and watched Jo as he worked, as he came and went. +Sometimes he put his hand to his head and said to Jo: “It hurts.” Then +Jo would cool the wound with fresh water from the mountain spring, and +he would drag down the bowl to drink from it greedily. + +It was as though he could never get enough water to drink. So the first +day in the hut at Vadrome Mountain passed without questioning on the +part of either Charley Steele or his host. + +With good reason. Jo Portugais saw that memory was gone; that the past +was blotted out. He had watched that first terrible struggle of memory +to reassert itself, as the eyes mechanically looked out upon new and +strange surroundings, but it was only the automatic habit of the sight, +the fumbling of the blind soul in its cell-fumbling for the latch which +it could not find, for the door which would not open. The first day on +the raft, as Charley had opened his eyes upon the world again after +that awful night at the Cote Dorion, Jo. had seen that same blank +uncomprehending look--as it were, the first look of a mind upon the +world. This time he saw, and understood what he saw, and spoke as men +speak, but with no knowledge or memory behind it--only the involuntary +action of muscle and mind repeated from the vanished past. + +Charley Steele was as a little child, and having no past, and +comprehending in the present only its limited physical needs and +motions, he had no hope, no future, no understanding. In three days he +was upon his feet, and in four he walked out of doors and followed Jo +into the woods, and watched him fell a tree and do a woodsman’s work. +Indoors he regarded all Jo did with eager interest and a pleased, +complacent look, and readily did as he was told. He seldom spoke--not +above three or four times a day, and then simply and directly, and only +concerning his wants. From first to last he never asked a question, and +there was never any inquiry by look or word. A hundred and twenty miles +lay between him and his old home, between him and Kathleen and Billy and +Jean Jolicoeur’s saloon, but between him and his past life the unending +miles of eternity intervened. He was removed from it as completely as +though he were dead and buried. + +A month went by. Sometimes Jo went down to the village below, and then, +at first, he locked the door of the house behind him upon Charley. +Against this Charley made no motion and said no word, but patiently +awaited Jo’s return. So it was that, at last, Jo made no attempt to lock +the door, but with a nod or a good-bye left him alone. When Charley saw +him returning he would go to meet him, and shake hands with him, and say +“Good-day,” and then would come in with him and help him get supper or +do the work of the house. + +Since Charley came no one had visited the house, for there were no paths +beyond it, and no one came to the Vadrome Mountain, save by chance. But +after two months had gone the Cure came. Twice a year the Cure made it +a point to visit Jo in the interests of his soul, though the visits came +to little, for Jo never went to confession, and seldom to mass. On this +occasion the Cure arrived when Jo was out in the woods. He discovered +Charley. Charley made no answer to his astonished and friendly greeting, +but watched him with a wide-eyed anxiety till the Cure seated himself at +the door to await Jo’s coming. Presently, as he sat there, Charley, +who had studied his face as a child studies the unfamiliar face of a +stranger, brought him a bowl of bread and milk and put it in his hands. +The Cure smiled and thanked him, and Charley smiled in return and said: +“It is very good.” + +As the Cure ate, Charley watched him with satisfaction, and nodded at +him kindly. + +When Jo came he lied to the Cure. He said he had found Charley wandering +in the woods, with a wound in his head, and had brought him home with +him and cared for him. Forty miles away he had found him. + +The Cure was perplexed. What was there to do? He believed what Jo said. +So far as he knew, Jo had never lied to him before, and he thought he +understood Jo’s interest in this man with the look of a child and no +memory: Jo’s life was terribly lonely; he had no one to care for, and +no one cared for him; here was what might comfort him! Through this +helpless man might come a way to Jo’s own good. So he argued with +himself. + +What to do? Tell the story to the world by writing to the newspaper at +Quebec? Jo pooh-poohed this. Wait till the man’s memory came back? Would +it come back--what chance was there of its ever coming back? Jo said +that they ought to wait and see--wait awhile, and then, if his memory +did not return, they would try to find his friends, by publishing his +story abroad. + +Chaudiere was far from anywhere: it knew little of the world, and the +world knew naught of it, and this was a large problem for the Cure. +Perhaps Jo was right, he thought. The man was being well cared for, and +what more could be wished at the moment? The Cure was a simple man, and +when Jo urged that if the sick man could get well anywhere in the world +it would be at Vadrome Mountain in Chaudiere, the Cure’s parochial pride +was roused, and he was ready to believe all Jo said. He also saw reason +in Jo’s request that the village should not be told of the sick man’s +presence. Before he left, the Cure knelt down and prayed, “for the good +of this poor mortal’s soul and body.” + +As he prayed, Charley knelt down also, and kept his eyes-calm +unwondering eyes-full fixed on the good M. Loisel, whose grey hair, thin +peaceful face, and dark brown eyes made a noble picture of patience and +devotion. + +When the Cure shook him by the hand, murmuring in good-bye, “God be +gracious to thee, my son,” Charley nodded in a friendly way. He watched +the departing figure till it disappeared over the crest of the hill. + +This day marked an epoch in the solitude of the hut on Vadrome Mountain. +Jo had an inspiration. He got a second set of carpenter’s tools, and +straightway began to build a new room to the house. He gave the extra +set of tools to Charley with an encouraging word. For the first time +since he had been brought here, Charley’s face took on a look of +interest. In half-an-hour he was at work, smiling and perspiring, and +quickly learning the craft. He seldom spoke, but he sometimes laughed a +mirthful, natural boy’s laugh of good spirits and contentment. From that +day his interest in things increased, and before two months went round, +while yet it was late autumn, he looked in perfect health. He ate +moderately, drank a great deal of water, and slept half the circle of +the clock each day. His skin was like silk; the colour of his face was +as that of an apple; he was more than ever Beauty Steele. The Cure +came two or three times, and Charley spoke to him but never held +conversation, and no word concerning the past ever passed his tongue, +nor did he have memory of what was said to him from one day to the next. +A hundred ways Jo had tried to rouse his memory. But the words Cote +Dorion had no meaning to him, and he listened blankly to all names and +phrases once so familiar. Yet he spoke French and English in a slow, +passive, involuntary way. All was automatic, mechanical. + +The weeks again wore on, and autumn became winter, and then at last one +day the Cure came, bringing his brother, a great Parisian surgeon lately +arrived from France on a short visit. The Cure had told his brother the +story, and had been met by a keen, astonished interest in the unknown +man on Vadrome Mountain. A slight pressure on the brain from accident +had before now produced loss of memory--the great man’s professional +curiosity was aroused: he saw a nice piece of surgical work ready to his +hand; he asked to be taken to Vadrome Mountain. + +Now the Cure had lived long out of the world, and was not in touch with +the swift-minded action and adventuring intellects of such men as his +brother, Marcel Loisel. Was it not tempting Providence, a surgical +operation? He was so used to people getting ill and getting well without +a doctor--the nearest was twenty miles distant--or getting ill and dying +in what seemed a natural and preordained way, that to cut open a man’s +head and look into his brain, and do this or that to his skull, seemed +almost sinful. Was it not better to wait and see if the poor man would +not recover in God’s appointed time? + +In answer to his sensitively eager and diverse questions, Marcel +Loisel replied that his dear Cure was merely mediaeval, and that he had +sacrificed his mental powers on the altar of a simple faith, which +might remove mountains but was of no value in a case like this, where, +clearly, surgery was the only providence. + +At this the Cure got to his feet, came over, laid his hand on his +brother’s shoulder, and said, with tears in his eyes: + +“Marcel, you shock me. Indeed you shock me!” + +Then he twisted a knot in his cassock cords, and added “Come then, +Marcel. We will go to him. And may God guide us aright!” + +That afternoon the two grey-haired men visited Vadrome Mountain, and +there they found Charley at work in the little room that the two men had +built. Charley nodded pleasantly when the Cure introduced his brother, +but showed no further interest at first. He went on working at the +cupboard under his hand. His cap was off and his hair was a little +rumpled where the wound had been, for he had a habit of rubbing the +place now and then--an abstracted, sensitive motion--although he seemed +to suffer no pain. The surgeon’s eyes fastened on the place, and as +Charley worked and his brother talked, he studied the man, the scar, the +contour of the head. At last he came up to Charley and softly placed his +fingers on the scar, feeling the skull. Charley turned quickly. + +There was something in the long, piercing look of the surgeon which +seemed to come through limitless space to the sleeping and imprisoned +memory of Charley’s sick mind. A confused, anxious, half-fearful look +crept into the wide blue eyes. It was like a troubled ghost, flitting +along the boundaries of sight and sense, and leaving a chill and a +horrified wonder behind. The surgeon gazed on, and the trouble in +Charley’s eye passed to his face, stayed an instant. Then he turned away +to Jo Portugais. “I am thirsty now,” he said, and he touched his lips +in the way he was wont to do in those countless ages ago, when, millions +upon millions of miles away, people said: “There goes Charley Steele!” + +“I am thirsty now,” and that touch of the lip with the tongue, were a +revelation to the surgeon. + +A half-hour later he was walking homeward with the Cure. Jo accompanied +them for a distance. As they emerged into the wider road-paths that +began half-way down the mountain, the Cure, who had watched his +brother’s face for a long time in silence, said: + +“What is in your mind, Marcel?” The surgeon turned with a half-smile. + +“He is happy now. No memory, no conscience, no pain, no responsibility, +no trouble--nothing behind or before. Is it good to bring him back?” + +The Cure had thought it all over, and he had wholly changed his mind +since that first talk with his brother. “To save a mind, Marcel!” he +said. + +“Then to save a soul?” suggested the surgeon. “Would he thank me?” + +“It is our duty to save him.” + +“Body and mind and soul, eh? And if I look after the body and the mind?” + +“His soul is in God’s hands, Marcel.” + +“But will he thank me? How can you tell what sorrows, what troubles, +he has had? What struggles, temptations, sins? He has none now, of any +sort; not a stain, physical or moral.” + +“That is not life, Marcel.” + +“Well, well, you have changed. This morning it was I who would, and you +hesitated.” + +“I see differently now, Marcel.” + +The surgeon put a hand playfully on his brother’s shoulder. + +“Did you think, my dear Prosper, that I should hesitate? Am I a +sentimentalist? But what will he say? + +“We need not think of that, Marcel.” + +“But yet suppose that with memory come again sin and shame--even crime?” + +“We will pray for him.” + +“But if he isn’t a Catholic?” + +“One must pray for sinners,” said the Curb, after a silence. + +This time the surgeon laid a hand on the shoulder of his brother +affectionately. “Upon my soul, dear Prosper, you almost persuade me to +be reactionary and mediaeval.” + +The Curb turned half uneasily towards Jo, who was following at a little +distance. This seemed hardly the sort of thing for him to hear. + +“You had better return now, Jo,” he said. + +“As you wish, M’sieu’,” Jo answered, then looked inquiringly at the +surgeon. + +“In about five days, Portugais. Have you a steady hand and a quick eye?” + +Jo spread out his hands in deprecation, and turned to the Curb, as +though for him to answer. + +“Jo is something of a physician and surgeon too, Marcel. He has a gift. +He has cured many in the parish with his herbs and tinctures, and he has +set legs and arms successfully.” + +The surgeon eyed Jo humorously, but kindly. “He is probably as good a +doctor as some of us. Medicine is a gift, surgery is a gift and an art. +You shall hear from me, Portugais.” He looked again keenly at Jo. “You +have not given him ‘herbs and tinctures’?” + +“Nothing, M’sieu’.” + +“Very sensible. Good-day, Portugais.” + +“Good-day, my son,” said the priest, and raised his fingers in +benediction, as Jo turned and quickly retraced his steps. + +“Why did you ask him if he had given the poor man any herbs or +tinctures, Marcel?” said the priest. + +“Because those quack tinctures have whiskey in them.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Whiskey in any form would be bad for him,” the surgeon answered +evasively. + +But to himself he kept saying: “The man was a drunkard--he was a +drunkard.” + + + + +CHAPTER XI. THE RAISING OF THE CURTAIN + +M. Marcel Loisel did his work with a masterly precision, with the aid +of his brother and Portugais. The man under the instruments, not wholly +insensible, groaned once or twice. Once or twice, too, his eyes opened +with a dumb hunted look, then closed as with an irresistible weariness. +When the work was over, and every stain or sign of surgery removed, +sleep came down on the bed--a deep and saturating sleep, which seemed +to fill the room with peace. For hours the surgeon sat beside the couch, +now and again feeling the pulse, wetting the hot lips, touching the +forehead with his palm. At last, with a look of satisfaction, he came +forward to where Jo and the Cure sat beside the fire. + +“It is all right,” he said. “Let him sleep as long as he will.” He +turned again to the bed. “I wish I could stay to see the end of it. Is +there no chance, Prosper?” he added to the priest. + +“Impossible, Marcel. You must have sleep. You have a seventy-mile drive +before you to-morrow, and sixty the next day. You can only reach the +port now by starting at daylight to-morrow.” + +So it was that Marcel Loisel, the great surgeon, was compelled to leave +Chaudiere before he knew that the memory of the man who had been under +his knife had actually returned to him. He had, however, no doubt in his +own mind, and he was confident that there could be no physical harm from +the operation. Sleep was the all-important thing. In it lay the strength +for the shock of the awakening--if awakening of memory there was to be. + +Before he left he stooped over Charley and said musingly: “I wonder what +you will wake up to, my friend?” Then he touched the wound with a light +caressing finger. “It was well done, well done,” he murmured proudly. + +A moment afterwards he was hurrying down the hill to the open road, +where a cariole awaited the Cure and himself. + +For a day and a half Charley slept, and Jo watched him with an +affectionate solicitude. Once or twice, becoming anxious, because of the +heavy breathing and the motionless sleep, he had forced open the teeth, +and poured a little broth between. + +Just before dawn on the second morning, worn out and heavy with slumber, +Jo lay down by the piled-up fire and dropped into a sleep that wrapped +him like a blanket, folding him away into a drenching darkness. + +For a time there was a deep silence, troubled only by Jo’s deep +breathing, which seemed itself like the pulse of the silence. Charley +appeared not to be breathing at all. He was lying on his back, seemingly +lifeless. Suddenly on the snug silence there was a sharp sound. A tree +outside snapped with the frost. + +Charley awoke. The body seemed not to awake, for it did not stir, but +the eyes opened wide and full, looking straight before them--straight +up to the brown smoke-stained rafters, along which were ranged guns and +fishing-tackle, axes and bear-traps. Full clear blue eyes, healthy and +untired as a child’s fresh from an all-night’s drowse, they looked and +looked. Yet, at first, the body did not stir; only the mind seemed to be +awakening, the soul creeping out from slumber into the day. Presently, +however, as the eyes gazed, there stole into them a wonder, a trouble, +an anxiety. For a moment they strained at the rafters and the crude +weapons and implements there, then the body moved, quickly, eagerly, +and turned to see the flickering shadows made by the fire and the simple +order of the room. + +A minute more, and Charley was sitting on the side of his couch, dazed +and staring. This hut, this fire, the figure by the hearth in a sound +sleep-his hand went to his head: it felt the bandage there! + +He remembered now! Last night at the Cote Dorion! Last night he had +talked with Suzon Charlemagne at the Cote Dorion; last night he had +drunk harder than he had ever drunk in his life, he had defied, chaffed, +insulted the river-drivers. The whole scene came back: the faces of +Suzon and her father; Suzon’s fingers on his for an instant; the glass +of brandy beside him; the lanterns on the walls; the hymn he sang; the +sermon he preached--he shuddered a little; the rumble of angry noises +round him; the tumbler thrown; the crash of the lantern, and only one +light left in the place! Then Jake Hough and his heavy hand, the flying +monocle, and his disdainful, insulting reply; the sight of the pistol in +the hand of Suzon’s father; then a rush, a darkness, and his own fierce +plunge towards the door, beyond which were the stars and the cool night +and the dark river. Curses, hands that battered and tore at him, the +doorway reached, and then a blow on the head and--falling, falling, +falling, and distant noises growing more distant, and suddenly and +sweetly--absolute silence. + +Again he shuddered. Why? He remembered that scene in his office +yesterday with Kathleen, and the one later with Billy. A sensitive chill +swept all over him, making his flesh creep, and a flush sped over his +face from chin to brow. To-day he must pick up all these threads again, +must make things right for Billy, must replace the money he had stolen, +must face Kathleen again he shuddered. Was he at the Cote Dorion still? +He looked round him. No, this was not the sort of house to be found at +the Cote Dorion. Clearly this was the hut of a hunter. Probably he had +been fished out of the river by this woodsman and brought here. He felt +his head. The wound was fresh and very sore. He had played for death, +with an insulting disdain, yet here he was alive. + +Certainly he was not intended to be drowned or knifed--he remembered the +knives he saw unsheathed--or kicked or pummelled into the hereafter. +It was about ten o’clock when he had had his “accident”--he affected a +smile, yet somehow he did not smile easily--it must be now about five, +for here was the morning creeping in behind the deer-skin blind at the +window. + +Strange that he felt none the worse for his mishap, and his tongue was +as clean and fresh as if he had been drinking milk last night, and +not very doubtful brandy at the Cote Dorion. No fever in his hands, +no headache, only the sore skull, so well and tightly bandaged but a +wonderful thirst, and an intolerable hunger. He smiled. When had he ever +been hungry for breakfast before? Here he was with a fine appetite: it +was like coals of fire heaped on his head by Nature for last night’s +business at the Cote Dorion. How true it was that penalties did not +always come with--indiscretions. Yet, all at once, he flushed again to +the forehead, for a curious sense of shame flashed through his whole +being, and one Charley Steele--the Charley Steele of this morning, +an unknown, unadventuring, onlooking Charley Steele--was viewing with +abashed eyes the Charley Steele who had ended a doubtful career in the +coarse and desperate proceedings of last night. With a nervous confusion +he sought refuge in his eye-glass. His fingers fumbled over his +waistcoat, but did not find it. The weapon of defence and attack, the +symbol of interrogation and incomprehensibility, was gone. Beauty Steele +was under the eyes of another self, and neither disdain, nor contempt, +nor the passive stare, were available. He got suddenly to his feet, and +started forward, as though to find refuge from himself. + +The abrupt action sent the blood to his head, and feeling a blindness +come over him, he put both hands up to his temples, and sank back on the +couch, dizzy and faint. + +His motions waked Jo Portugais, who scrambled from the floor, and came +towards him. + +“M’sieu’,” he said, “you must not. You are faint.” He dropped his hands +supportingly to Charley’s shoulders. + +Charley nodded, but did not yet look up. His head throbbed sorely. +“Water--please!” he said. + +In an instant Jo was beside him again, with a bowl of fresh water at his +lips. He drank, drank, drank, until the great bowl was drained to the +last drop. + +“Whew! That was good!” he said, and looked up at Jo with a smile. “Thank +you, my friend; I haven’t the honour of your acquaintance, but--” + +He stopped suddenly and stared at Jo. Inquiry, mystification, were in +his look. + +“Have I ever seen you before?” he said. “Who knows, M’sieu’!” + +Since Jo had stood before Charley in the dock near six years ago he had +greatly changed. The marks of smallpox, a heavy beard, grey hair, and +solitary life had altered him beyond Charley’s recognition. + +Jo could hardly speak. His legs were trembling under him, for now he +knew that Charley Steele was himself again. He was no longer the simple, +quiet man-child of three days ago, and of these months past, but the +man who had saved him from hanging, to whom he owed a debt he dare not +acknowledge. Jo’s brain was in a muddle. Now that the great crisis was +over, now that the expected thing had come, and face to face with the +cure, he had neither tongue, nor strength, nor wit. His words stuck in +his throat where his heart was, and for a minute his eyes had a kind of +mist before them. + +Meanwhile Charley’s eyes were upon him, curious, fixed, abstracted. + +“Is this your house?” + +“It is, M’sieu’.” + +“You fished me out of the river by the Cote Dorion?” He still held his +head with his hands, for it throbbed so, but his eyes were intent on his +companion. + +“Yes, M’sieu’.” + +Charley’s hand mechanically fumbled for his monocle. Jo turned quickly +to the wall, and taking it by its cord from the nail where it had been +for these long months, handed it over. Charley took it and mechanically +put it in his eye. “Thank you, my friend,” he said. “Have I been +conscious at all since you rescued me last night?” he asked. + +“In a way, M’sieu’.” + +“Ah, well, I can’t remember, but it was very kind of you--I do thank you +very much. Do you think you could find me something to eat? I beg your +pardon--it isn’t breakfast-time, of course, but I was never so hungry in +my life!” + +“In a minute, M’sieu’--in one minute. But lie down, you must lie down a +little. You got up too quick, and it makes your head throb. You have had +nothing to eat.” + +“Nothing, since yesterday noon, and very little then. I didn’t eat +anything at the Cote Dorion, I remember.” He lay back on the couch and +closed his eyes. The throbbing in his head presently stopped, and he +felt that if he ate something he could go to sleep again, it was so +restful in this place--a whole day’s sleep and rest, how good it +would be after last night’s racketing! Here was primitive and material +comfort, the secret of content, if you liked! Here was this poor +hunter-fellow, with enough to eat and to drink, earning it every day +by every day’s labour, and, like Robinson Crusoe no doubt, living in a +serene self-sufficiency and an elysian retirement. Probably he had no +responsibilities in the world, with no one to say him nay, himself only +to consider in all the universe: a divine conception of adequate life. +Yet himself, Charley Steele, an idler, a waster, with no purpose in +life, with scarcely the necessity to earn his bread-never, at any rate, +until lately--was the slave of the civilisation to which he belonged. +Was civilisation worth the game? + +His hand involuntarily went to his head. It changed the course of his +thoughts. He must go back to-day to put Billy’s crime right, to replace +the trust-moneys Billy had taken by forging his brother-in-law’s name. +Not a moment must be lost. No doubt he was within driving distance +of his office, and, bandaged head or no bandaged head, last night’s +disgraceful doings notwithstanding, it was his duty to face the +wondering eyes--what did he care for wondering eyes? hadn’t he been +making eyes wonder all his life?--face the wondering eyes in the little +city, and set a crooked business straight. Fool and scoundrel certainly +Billy was, but there was Kathleen! + +His lips tightened; he had a strange anxious flutter of the heart. When +had his heart fluttered like this? When had he ever before considered +Kathleen’s feelings as to his personal conduct so delicately? Well, +since yesterday he did feel it, and a sudden sense of pity sprang up +in him--vague, shamefaced pity, which belied the sudden egotistical +flourish with which he put his monocle to his eye and tried futilely to +smile in the old way. + +He had lain with his eyes closed. They opened now, and he saw his host +spreading a newspaper as a kind of cloth on a small rough table, and +putting some food upon it-bread, meat, and a bowl of soup. It was +thoughtful of this man to make his soup overnight-he saw Jo lift it from +beside the fire where it had been kept hot. A good fellow-an excellent +fellow, this woodsman. + +His head did not throb now, and he drew himself up slowly on his +elbow-then, after a moment, lifted himself to a sitting posture. + +“What is your name, my friend?” he said. + +“Jo Portugais, M’sieu’,” Jo answered, and brought a candle and put it on +the table, then lifted the tin-plate from over the bowl of savoury soup. + +Never before had Charley Steele sat down to such a breakfast. A roll and +a cup of coffee had been enough, and often too much, for him. Yet now +he could not wait to eat the soup with a spoon, but lifted the bowl and +took a long draught of it, and set it down with a sigh of content. Then +he broke bread into the soup--large pieces of black oat bread--until the +bowl was a mass of luscious pulp. This he ate almost ravenously, his eye +wandering avidly the while to the small piece of meat beside the bowl. +What meat was it? It looked like venison, yet summer was not the time +for venison. What did it matter! Jo sat on a bench beside the fire, his +face turned towards his guest, dreading the moment when the man he had +nursed and cared for, with whom he had eaten and drunk for so long, +should know the truth about himself. He could not tell him all there was +to tell, he was taking another means of letting him know. + +Charley did not speak. Hunger was a new sensation, a delicious thing, +too good to be broken by talking. He ate till he had cleared away the +last crumbs of bread and meat and drunk the last drop of soup. He looked +at the woodsman as though wondering if he would bring more. Jo evidently +thought he had had enough, for he did not move. Charley’s glance +withdrew from Jo, and busied itself with the few crumbs remaining upon +the table. He saw a little piece of bread on the floor. He picked it up +and ate it with relish, laughing to himself. + +“How long will it take us to get to town? Can we do it this morning?” + +“Not this morning, M’sieu’,” said Jo, in a sort of hoarse whisper. + +“How many hours would it take?” + +He was gathering the last crumbs of his feast with his hand, and looking +casually down at the newspaper spread as a table-cloth. + +All at once his hand stopped, his eyes became fixed on a spot in the +paper. He gave a hoarse, guttural cry, like an animal in agony. His lips +became dry, his hand wiped a blinding mist from his eyes. + +Jo watched him with an intense alarm and a horrified curiosity. He felt +a base coward for not having told Charley what this paper contained. +Never had he seen such a look as this. He felt his beads, and told +them over and over again, as Charley Steele, in a dry, croaking sort +of whisper, read, in letters that seemed monstrous symbols of fire, a +record of himself: + +“To-day, by special license from the civil and ecclesiastical courts +[the paragraph in the paper began], was married, at St. Theobald’s +Church, Mrs. Charles Steele, daughter of the late Hon. Julien Wantage, +and niece of the late Eustace Wantage, Esq., to Captain Thomas Fairing, +of the Royal Fusileers--” + +Charley snatched at the top of the paper and read the date “Tenth of +February, 18-!” It was August when he was at the Cote Dorion, the 5th +August, 18-, and this paper was February 10th, 18-. He read on, in the +month-old paper, with every nerve in his body throbbing now: a fierce +beating that seemed as if it must burst the heart and the veins: + +“--Captain Thomas Fairing, of the Royal Fusileers, whose career in our +midst has been marked by an honourable sense of public and private duty. +Our fellow-citizens will unite with us in congratulating the bride, +whose previous misfortunes have only increased the respect in which she +is held. If all remember the obscure death of her first husband (though +the body was not found, there has never been a doubt of his death), +and the subsequent discovery that he had embezzled trust-moneys to the +extent of twenty-five thousand dollars, thereby setting the final seal +of shame upon a misspent life, destined for brilliant and powerful +uses, all have conspired to forget the association of our beautiful +and admired townswoman with his career. It is painful to refer to these +circumstances, but it is only within the past few days that the estate +of the misguided man has been wound up, and the money he embezzled +restored to its rightful owners; and it is better to make these remarks +now than repeat them in the future, only to arouse painful memories in +quarters where we should least desire to wound. + +“In her new life, blessed by a romantic devotion known and admired by +all, Mrs. Fairing and her husband will be followed by the affectionate +good wishes of the whole community.” + +The man on the hearth-stone shrank back at the sight of the still, white +face, in which the eyes were like sparks of fire. His impulse had been +to go over and offer the hand of sympathy to the stricken man, but his +simple mind grasped the fact that no one might, with impunity, invade +this awful quiet. Charley was frozen in body, but his brain was awake +with the heat of “a burning fiery furnace.” + +Seven months of unconscious life-seven months of silence--no sight, no +seeing, no knowing; seven months of oblivion, in which the world had +buried him out of ken in an unknown grave of infamy! Seven months--and +Kathleen was married again to the man she had always loved. To the world +he himself was a rogue and thief. Billy had remained silent--Billy, whom +he had so befriended, had let decent men heap scorn and reproaches on +his memory. Here was what the world thought of him--he read the lines +over again, his eyes scorching, but his finger steady, as it traced the +lines slowly: “the obscure death...” “embezzled trustmoneys...” “the +final seal of shame upon a misspent life!” + +These were the epitaphs on the tombstone of Charley Steele; dead and +buried, out of sight, out of repute, soon to be out of mind and out of +memory, save as a warning to others--an old example raked out of the +dust-bin of time by the scavengers of morality, to toss at all who trod +the paths of dalliance. + +What was there to do? Go back? Go back and knock at Kathleen’s door, +another Enoch Arden, and say: “I have come to my own again?” Return and +tell Tom Fairing to go his way and show his face no more? Break up +this union, this marriage of love in which these two rejoiced? Summon +Kathleen out of her illegal intercourse with the man who had been true +to her all these years? + +To what end? What had he ever done for her that he might destroy her +now? What sort of Spartan tragedy was this, that the woman who had been +the victim of circumstances, who had been the slave to a tie he never +felt, yet which had been as iron-bound to her, should now be brought out +to be mangled body and soul for no fault of her own? What had she done? +What had she ever done to give him right to touch so much as a hair of +her head? + +Go back, and bring Billy to justice, and clear his own name? Go back, +and send Kathleen’s brother, the forger, to jail? What an achievement +in justice! Would not the world have a right to say that the only decent +thing he could do was to eliminate himself from the equation? What +profit for him in the great summing-up, that he was technically innocent +of this one thing, and that to establish his innocence he broke a +woman’s heart and destroyed a boy’s life? To what end! It was the +murderer coming back as a ghost to avenge himself for being hanged. +Suppose he went back--the death’s-head at the feast--what would there be +for himself afterwards; for any one for whom he was responsible? Living +at that price? + +To die and end it all, to disappear from this petty life where he had +done so little, and that little ill? To die? + +No. There was in him some deep, if obscure, fatalism after all. If he +had been meant to die now, why had he not gone to the bottom of the +river that yesterday at the Cote Dorion? Why had he been saved by this +yokel at the fire, and brought here to lie in oblivion in this mountain +hut, wrapped in silence and lost to the world? Why had his brain and +senses lain fallow all these months, a vacuous vegetation, an empty +consciousness? Was it fate? Did it not seem probable that the Great +Machine had, in its automatic movement, tossed him up again on the +shores of Time because he had not fallen on the trap-door predestined +for his eternal exit? + +It was clear to him that death by his own hand was futile, and that if +there were trap-doors set for him alone, it were well to wait until he +trod upon them and fell through in his appointed hour in the movement of +the Great Machine. + +What to do--where to live--how to live? + +He got slowly to his feet and took a step forward half blindly. The man +on the bench stirred. Crossing the room he dropped a hand on the man’s +shoulder. “Open the blind, my friend.” + +Jo Portugais got to his feet quickly, eyes averted--he did not dare look +into Charley’s face--and went over and drew back the deer-skin blind. +The clear, crisp sunlight of a frosty morning broke gladly into the +room. Charley turned and blew out the candle on the table where he had +eaten, then walked feebly to the window. Standing on the crest of the +mountain the hut looked down through a clearing, flanked by forest +trees. + +It was a goodly scene. The green and frosted foliage of the pines and +cedars; the flowery tracery of frost hanging like cobwebs everywhere; +the poudre sparkle in the air; the hills of silver and emerald sloping +down to the valley miles away, where the village clustered about the +great old parish church; the smoke from a hundred chimneys, in purple +spirals, rising straight up in the windless air; over all peace and a +perfect silence. + +Charley mechanically fixed his eye-glass and stood with hands resting on +the window-sill, looking, looking out upon a new world. + +At length he turned. + +“Is there anything I can do for you, M’sieu’?” said Jo huskily. + +Charley held out his hand and clasped Jo’s. “Tell me about all these +months,” he said. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. THE COMING OF ROSALIE + +Charley Steele saw himself as he had been through the eyes of another. +He saw the work that he had done in the carpentering shed, and had no +memory of it. The real Charley Steele had been enveloped in oblivion for +seven months. During that time a mild phantom of himself had wandered, +as it were in a somnambulistic dream, through the purlieus of life. +Open-eyed, but with the soul asleep, all idiosyncrasy laid aside, all +acquired impressions and influences vanished, he had been walking in +the world with no more complexity of mind than a new-born child, nothing +intervening between the sight of the eyes and the original sense. + +Now, when the real Charley Steele emerged again, the folds of mind and +soul unrolling to the million-voiced creation and touched by the antenna +of a various civilisation, the phantom Charley was gone once more into +obscurity. The real Charley could remember naught of the other, could +feel naught, save, as in the stirring industrious day, one remembers +that he has dreamed a strange dream the night before, and cannot recall +it, though the overpowering sense of it remains. + +He saw the work of his hands, the things he had made with adze and +plane, with chisel and hammer, but nothing seemed familiar save the +smell of the glue pot, which brought back in a cloudy impression curious +unfamiliar feelings. Sights, sounds, motions, passed in a confused way +through his mind as the smell of the glue crept through his nostrils; +and he struggled hard to remember. But no--seven months of his life were +gone for ever. Yet he knew and felt that a vast change had gone over +him, had passed through him. While the soul had lain fallow, while the +body had been growing back to childlike health again, and Nature +had been pouring into his sick senses her healing balm; while the +medicaments of peace and sleep and quiet labour had been having their +way with him, he had been reorganised, renewed, flushed of the turgid +silt of dissipation. For his sins and weaknesses there had been no gall +and vinegar to drink. + +As Charley stood looking round the workshop, Jo entered, shaking the +snow from his moccasined feet. “The Cure, M’sieu’ Loisel, has come,” he +said. Charley turned, and, without a word, followed Jo into the house. +There, standing at the window and looking down at the village +beneath, was the Cure. As Charley entered, M. Loisel came forward with +outstretched hand. + +“I am glad to see you well again, Monsieur,” he said, and his cool thin +hand held Charley’s for a moment, as he looked him benignly in the eye. + +With a kind of instinct as to the course he must henceforth pursue, +Charley replied simply, dropping his eye-glass as he met that clear +soluble look of the priest--such a well of simplicity he had never +before seen. Only naked eye could meet that naked eye, imperfect though +his own sight was. + +“It is good of you to feel so, and to come and tell me so,” he answered +quietly. “I have been a great trouble, I know.” + +There was none of the old pose in his manner, none of the old cryptic +quality in his words. + +“We were anxious for your sake--and for the sake of your friends, +Monsieur.” + +Charley evaded the suggestion. “I cannot easily repay your kindness and +that of Jo Portugais, my good friend here,” he rejoined. + +“M’sieu’,” replied Jo, his face turned away, and his foot pushing a log +on the fire, “you have repaid it.” + +Charley shook his head. “I am in a conspiracy of kindness,” he said. “It +is all a mystery to me. For why should one expect such treatment from +strangers, when, besides all, one can never make any real return, not +even to pay for board and lodging!” + +“‘I was a stranger and ye took me in,”’ said the Cure, smiling by no +means sentimentally. “So said the Friend of the World.” + +Charley looked the Curb steadily in the eyes. He was thinking how simply +this man had said these things; as if, indeed, they were part of +his life; as though it were usual speech with him, a something that +belonged, not an acquired language. There was the old impulse to ask a +question, and he put the monocle to his eye, but his lips did not open, +and the eye-glass fell again. He had seen familiarity with sacred names +and things in the uneducated, in excited revivalists, worked up to a +state clairvoyant and conversational with the Creator; but he had never +heard an educated man speak as this man did. + +At last Charley said: “Your brother--Portugais tells me that your +brother, the surgeon, has gone away. I should have liked to thank +him--if no more.” + +“I have written him of your good recovery. He will be glad, I know. But +my brother, from one stand-point--a human stand-point--had scruples. +These I did not share, but they were strong in him, Monsieur. Marcel +asked himself--” He stopped suddenly and looked towards Jo. + +Charley saw the look, and said quickly: “Speak plainly. Portugais is my +friend.” + +Jo turned slowly towards him, and a light seemed to come to his eyes--a +shining something that resolved itself into a dog-like fondness, an +utter obedience, a strange intense gratitude. + +“Marcel asked himself,” the Cure continued, “whether you would thank him +for bringing you back to--to life and memory. I fear he was trying to +see what I should say--I fear so. Marcel said, ‘Suppose that he should +curse me for it? Who knows what he would be brought back to--to what +suffering and pain, perhaps?’ Marcel said that.” + +“And you replied, Monsieur le Cure?” + +“I replied that Nature required you to answer that question for +yourself, and whether bitterly or gladly, it was your duty to take up +your life and live it out. Besides, it was not you alone that had to be +considered. One does not live alone or die alone in this world. There +were your friends to consider.” + +“And because I had no friends here, you were compelled to think for me!” + answered Charley calmly. “Truth is, it was not a question of my friends, +for what I was during those seven months, or what I am now, can make no +difference to them.” + +He looked the Cure in the eyes steadily, and as though he would +convey his intentions without words. The Curb understood. The habit of +listening to the revelations of the human heart had given him something +of that clairvoyance which can only be pursued by the primitive mind, +unvexed by complexity. + +“It is, then, as though you had not come to life again? It is as though +you had no past, Monsieur?” + +“It is that, Monsieur.” + +Jo suddenly turned and left the room, for he heard a step on the frosty +snow without. + +“You will remain here, Monsieur?” said the Cure. “I cannot tell.” + +The Cure had the bravery of simple souls with a duty to perform. He +fastened his eyes on Charley. “Monsieur, is there any reason why you +should not stay here? I ask it now, man to man--not as a priest of my +people, but as man to man.” + +Charley did not answer for a moment. He was wondering how he should put +his reply. But his look did not waver, and the Cure saw the honesty of +the gaze. At length he replied: “If you mean, have I committed any crime +which the law may punish?--I answer no, Monsieur. If you mean, have I +robbed or killed, or forged--or wronged a woman as men wrong women? No. +These, I take it, are the things that matter first. For the rest, +you can think of me as badly as you will, or as well, for what I do +henceforth is the only thing that really concerns the world, Monsieur le +Cure.” + +The Cure came forward and put out his hand with a kindly gesture. +“Monsieur, you have suffered,” he said. + +“Never, never at all, Monsieur. Never for a moment, until I was dropped +down here like a stone from a sling. I had life by the throat; now it +has me there--that is all.” + +“You are not a Catholic, Monsieur?” asked the priest, almost pleadingly, +and as though the question had been much on his mind. + +“No, Monsieur.” + +The Cure made no rejoinder. If he was not a Catholic, what matter +what he was? If he was not a Catholic, were he Buddhist, pagan, or +Protestant, the position for them personally was the same. “I am +very sorry,” he said gently. “I might have helped you had you been a +Catholic.” + +The eye-glass came like lightning to the eye, and a caustic, questioning +phrase was on the tongue, but Charley stopped himself in time. For, +apart from all else, this priest had been his friend in calamity, had +acted with a charming sensibility. The eye-glass troubled the Cure, and +the look on Charley’s face troubled him still more, but it passed as +Charley said, in a voice as simple as the Cure’s own: + +“You may still help me as you have already done. I give you my word, +too”--strange that he touched his lips with his tongue as he did in the +old days when his mind turned to Jean Jolicoeur’s saloon--“that I +will do nothing to cause regret for your humanity and--and Christian +kindness.” Again the tongue touched the lips--a wave of the old life had +swept over him, the old thirst had rushed upon him. Perhaps it was the +force of this feeling which made him add, with a curious energy, “I give +you my word, Monsieur le Cure.” At that moment the door opened and Jo +entered. + +“M’sieu’,” he said to Charley, “a registered parcel has come for you. +It has been brought by the postmaster’s daughter. She will give it to no +one but yourself.” + +Charley’s face paled, and the Cure’s was scarcely less pale. In +Charley’s mind was the question, Who had discovered his presence here? +Was he not, then, to escape? Who should send him parcels through the +post? + +The Cure was perturbed. Was he, then, to know who this man was--his name +and history? Was the story of his life now to be told? + +Charley broke the silence. “Tell the girl to come in.” Instantly +afterwards the postmaster’s daughter entered. The look of the girl’s +face, at once delicate and rosy with health, almost put the question of +the letter out of his mind for an instant. Her dark eyes met his as he +came forward with outstretched hand. + +“This is addressed, as you will see, ‘To the Sick Man at the House of +Jo Portugais, at Vadrome Mountain.’ Are you that person, Monsieur?” she +asked. + +As she handed the parcel, Charley’s eyes scanned her face quickly. How +did this habitant girl come by this perfect French accent, this refined +manner? He did not know the handwriting on the parcel; he hastily tore +it open. Inside were a few dozen small packets. Here also was a sheet of +paper. He opened and read it quickly. It said: + + Monsieur, I am not sure that you have recovered your memory and your + health, and I am also not sure that in such case you will thank me + for my work. If you think I have done you an injury, pray accept my + profound apologies. Monsieur, you have been a drunkard. If you + would reverse the record now, these powders, taken at opportune + moments, will aid you. Monsieur, with every expression of my good- + will, and the hope that you will convey to me without reserve your + feelings on this delicate matter, I append my address in Paris, and + I have the honour to subscribe myself, with high consideration, + Monsieur, yours faithfully, + MARCEL LOISEL. + +The others looked at him with varied feelings as he read. Curiosity, +inquiry, expectation, were common to them all, but with each was a +different personal feeling. The Cure’s has been described. Jo Portugais’ +mind was asking if this meant that the man who had come into his life +must now go out of it; and the girl was asking who was this mysterious +man, like none she had ever seen or known. + +Without hesitation Charley handed over the letter to the Cure, who took +it with surprise, read it with amazement, and handed it back with a +flush on his face. + +“Thank you,” said Charley to the girl. “It is good of you to bring it +all this way. May I ask--” + +“She is Mademoiselle Rosalie Evanturel,” said the Cure smiling. + +“I am Charles Mallard,” said Charley slowly. “Thank you. I will go +now, Monsieur Mallard,” the girl said, lifting her eyes to his face. +He bowed. As she turned and went towards the door her eyes met his. She +blushed. + +“Wait, Mademoiselle; I will go back with you,” said the Cure kindly. +He turned to Charley and held out his hand. “God be with you, +Monsieur--Charles,” he said. “Come and see me soon.” Remembering that +his brother had written that the man was a drunkard, his eyes had a +look of pity. This was the man’s own secret and his. It was a way to the +man’s heart; he would use it. + +As the two went out of the door, the girl looked back. Charley was +putting the surgeon’s letter into the fire, and did not see her; yet she +blushed again. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. HOW CHARLEY WENT ADVENTURING AND WHAT HE FOUND + +A week passed. Charley’s life was running in a tiny circle, but his mind +was compassing large revolutions. The events of the last few days had +cut deep. His life had been turned upside down. All his predispositions +had been suddenly brought to check, his habits turned upon the flank and +routed, his mental postures flung into confusion. He had to start life +again; but it could not be in the way of any previous travel of mind or +body. The line of cleavage was sharp and wide, and the only connection +with the past was in the long-reaching influence of evil habits, which +crept from their coverts, now and again, to mock him as his old self +had mocked life--to mock him and to tempt him. Through seven months of +healthy life for his body, while brain and will were sleeping, the whole +man had made long strides towards recreation. But with the renewal of +will and mind the old weaknesses, roused by memory, began to emerge +intermittently, as water rises from a spring. There was something +terrible in this repetition of sensation--the law of habit answering +to the machine-like throbbing of memory, as, a kaleidoscope turning, +turning, its pictures pass a certain point at fixed intervals--an +automatic recurrence. He found himself at times touching his lips with +his tongue, and with this act came the dry throat, the hot eye, the +restless hand feeling for a glass that eluded his fingers. + +Twice in one week did this fever surge up in him, and it caught him +in those moments when, exhausted by the struggle of his mind to adapt +itself to the new conditions, his senses were delicately susceptible. +Visions of Jolicoeur’s saloon came to his mind’s eye. With a singular +separateness, a new-developed dual sense, he saw himself standing in the +summer heat, looking over to the cool dark doorway of the saloon, and +he caught again the smell of the fresh-drawn beer. He was conscious +of watching himself do this and that, of seeing himself move here and +there. He began to look upon Charley Steele as a man he had known--he, +Charles Mallard, had known--while he had to suffer for what Charley +Steele had done. Then, all at once, as he was thinking and dreaming and +seeing, there would seize upon him the old appetite, coincident with the +seizure of his brain by the old sense of cynicism at its worst--such a +worst as had made him insult Jake Hough when the rough countryman was +ready to take his part that wild night at the Cote Dorion. + +At such moments life became a conflict--almost a terror--for as yet he +had not swung into line with the new order of things. In truth, there +was no order of things; for one life was behind him and the new one +was not yet decided upon, save that here he would stay--here out of the +world, out of the game, far from old associations, cut off, and to be +for ever cut off, from all that he had ever known or seen or felt or +loved!... Loved! When did he ever love? If love was synonymous with +unselfishness, with the desire to give greater than the desire to get, +then he had never known love. He realised now that he had given Kathleen +only what might be given across a dinner-table--the sensuous tribute of +a temperament, passionate without true passion or faith or friendship. +Kathleen had known that he gave her nothing worth the having; for in +some meagre sense she knew what love was, and had given it meagrely, +after her nature, to another man, preserving meanwhile the letter of the +law, respecting that bond which he had shamed by his excesses. + +Kathleen was now sitting at another man’s table--no, probably at his own +table--his, Charley Steele’s own table in his own house--the house he +had given her by deed of gift the day he died. Tom Fairing was sitting +where he used to sit, talking across the table--not as he used to +talk--looking into Kathleen’s face as he had never looked. He was no +more to them than a dark memory. “Well, why should I be more?” he asked +himself. “I am dead, if not buried. They think me down among the fishes. +My game is done; and when she gets older and understands life better, +Kathleen will say, ‘Poor Charley--he might have been anything!’ She’ll +be sure to say that some day, for habit and memory go round in a circle +and pass the same point again and again. For me--they take me by the +throat--” He put his hand up as if to free his throat from a grip, his +tongue touched his lips, his hands grew restless. + +“It comes back on me like a fit of ague, this miserable thirst. If I +were within sight of Jolicoeur’s saloon, I should be drinking hard this +minute. But I’m here, and--” His hand felt his pocket, and he took out +the powders the great surgeon had sent him. + +“He knew--how did he know that I was a drunkard? Does a man carry in his +face the tale he would not tell? Jo says I didn’t talk of the past, that +I never had delirium, that I never said a word to suggest who I was, or +where I came from. Then how did the doctor--man know? I suppose every +particular habit carries its own signal, and the expert knows the +ciphers.” He opened the paper containing the powders, and looked round +for water, then paused, folded the paper up, and put it in his pocket +again. He went over to the window and looked out. His shoulders set +square. “No, no, no, not a speck on my tongue!” he said. “What I can’t +do of my own will is not worth doing. It’s too foolish, to yield to the +shadow of an old appetite. I play this game alone--here in Chaudiere.” + +He looked out and down. The sweet sun of early spring was shining +hard, and the snow was beginning to pack, to hang like a blanket on +the branches, to lie like a soft coverlet over all the forest and the +fields. Far away on the frozen river were saplings stuck up to show +where the ice was safe--a long line of poles from shore to shore--and +carioles were hurrying across to the village. Being market-day, the +place was alive with the cheerful commerce of the habitant. The bell +of the parish church was ringing. The sound of it came up distantly and +peacefully. Charley drew a long breath, turned away to a pail of water, +filled a dipper half full, and drank it off gaspingly. Then he returned +to the window with a look of relief. + +“That does it,” he said. “The horrible thing is gone again--out of my +brain and out of my throat.” + +As he stood there, Jo came up the hill with a bundle in his arms. +Charley watched him for a moment, half whimsically, half curiously. Yet +he sighed once too as Portugais opened the door and came into the room. +“Well done, Jo!” said he. “You have ‘em?” + +“Yes, M’sieu’. A good suit, and I believe they’ll fit. Old Trudel says +it’s the best suit he’s made in a year. I’m afraid he’ll not make many +more suits, old Trudel. + +“He’s very bad. When he goes there’ll be no tailor--ah, old Trudel will +be missed for sure, M’sieu’!” + +Jo spread the clothes out on the table--a coat, waistcoat, and trousers +of fulled cloth, grey and bulky, and smelling of the loom and the +tailor’s iron. Charley looked at them interestedly, then glanced at +the clothes he had on, the suit that had belonged to him last +year--grave-clothes. + +He drew himself up as though rousing from a dream. “Come, Jo, clear out, +and you shall have your new habitant in a minute,” he said. Portugais +left the room, and when he came back, Charley was dressed in the suit +of grey fulled cloth. It was loose, but comfortable, and save for the +refined face--on which a beard was growing now--and the eye-glass, he +might easily have passed for a farmer. When he put on the dog-skin +fur cap and a small muffler round his neck, it was the costume of the +habitant complete. + +Yet it was no disguise, for it was part of the life that Charles +Mallard, once Charley Steele, should lead henceforth. + +He turned to the door and opened it. “Good-bye, Portugais,” he said. + +Jo was startled. “Where are you going, M’sieu’?” + +“To the village.” + +“What to do, M’sieu’?” + +“Who knows?” + +“You will come back?” Jo asked anxiously. + +“Before sundown, Jo. Good-bye!” + +This was the first long walk he had taken since he had become himself +again. The sweet, cold air, with a bracing wind in his face, gave peace +to the nerves but now strained and fevered in the fight with appetite. +His mind cleared, and he drank in the sunny air and the pungent smell +of the balsams. His feet light with moccasins, he even ran a distance, +enjoying the glow from a fast-beating pulse. + +As he came into the high-road, people passed him in carioles and +sleighs. Some eyed him curiously. What did he mean to do? What object +had he in coming to the village? What did he expect? As he entered the +village his pace slackened. He had no destination, no object. He was +simply aware that his new life was beginning. + +He passed a little house on which was a sign, “Narcisse Dauphin, +Notary.” It gave him a curious feeling. It was the old life before him. +“Charles Mallard, Notary?”--No, that was not for him. Everything that +reminded him of the past, that brought him in touch with it, must be set +aside. He moved on. Should he go to the Cure? No; one thing at a time, +and today he wanted his thoughts for himself. More people passed +him, and spoke of him to each other, though there was no coarse +curiosity--the habitant has manners. + +Presently he passed a low shop with a divided door. The lower half was +closed, the upper open, and the winter sun was shining full into the +room, where a bright fire burned. + +Charley looked up. Over the door was painted, in straggling letters: +“Louis Trudel, Tailor.” He looked inside. There, on a low table, bent +over his work, with a needle in his hand, sat Louis Trudel the tailor. +Hearing footsteps, feeling a shadow, he looked up. Charley started at +the look of the shrunken, yellow face; for if ever death had set his +seal, it was on that haggard parchment. The tailor’s yellow eyes ran +from Charley’s face to his clothes. + +“I knew they’d fit,” he said, with a snarl. “Drove me hard, too!” + +Charley had an inspiration. He opened the halfdoor, and entered. + +“Do you want help?” he said, fixing his eyes on the tailor’s, steady and +persistent. + +“What’s the good of wanting--I can’t get it,” was the irritable reply, +as he uncrossed his legs. + +Charley took the iron out of his hand. “I’ll press, if you’ll show me +how,” he said. + +“I don’t want a fiddling ten-minutes’ help like that.” + +“It isn’t fiddling. I’m going to stay, if you think I’ll do.” + +“You are going to stop-every day?” The old man’s voice quavered a +little. + +“Precisely that.” Charley wetted a seam with water as he had often +seen tailors do. He dropped the hot iron on the seam, and sniffed with +satisfaction. + +“Who are you?” said the tailor. + +“A man who wants work. The Cure knows. It’s all right. Shall I stay?” + +The tailor nodded, and sat down with a colour in his face. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. ROSALIE, CHARLEY, AND THE MAN THE WIDOW PLOMONDON JILTED + +From the moment there came to the post-office the letter addressed to +“The Sick Man at the House of Jo Portugais at Vadrome Mountain,” Rosalie +Evanturel dreamed dreams. Mystery, so fascinating a thing in all the +experiences of life, took hold of her. The strange man in the lonely +hut on the hill, the bandaged head, the keen, piercing blue eyes, +the monocle, like a masked battery of the mind, levelled at her--all +appealed to that life she lived apart from the people with whom she had +daily commerce. Her world was a world of books and dreams, and simple, +practical duties of life. Most books were romance to her, for most were +of a life to which she had not been educated. Even one or two purely +Protestant books of missionary enterprise, found in a box in her dead +mother’s room, had had all the charms of poetry and adventure. It was +all new, therefore all delightful, even when the Protestant sentiments +shocked her as being not merely untrue, but hurting that aesthetic sense +never remote from the mind of the devout Catholic. + +She had blushed when monsieur had first looked at her, in the hut on +Vadrome Mountain, not because there was any soft sentiment about him +in her heart--how could there be for a man she had but just seen!--but +because her feelings, her imagination, were all at high temperature; +because the man compelled attention. The feeling sprang from a deep +sensibility, a natural sense, not yet made incredulous by the ironies +of life. These had never presented themselves to her in a country, in +a parish, where people said of fortune and misfortune, happiness and +sorrow, “C’est le bon Dieu!”--always “C’est le bon Dieu!” + +In some sense it was a pity that she had brains above the ordinary, that +she had had a good education and nice tastes. It was the cultivation of +the primitive and idealistic mind, which could not rationalise a sense +of romance, of the altruistic, by knowledge of life. As she sat behind +the post-office counter she read all sorts of books that came her way. +When she learned English so as to read it almost as easily as she read +French, her greatest joy was to pore over Shakespeare, with a heart full +of wonder, and, very often, eyes full of tears--so near to the eyes of +her race. Her imagination inhabited Chaudiere with a different folk, +living in homes very unlike these wide, sweeping-roofed structures, with +double windows and clean-scrubbed steps, tall doors, and wide, uncovered +stoops. Her people--people of bright dreaming--were not quarrelsome, +or childish, or merely traditional, like the habitants. They were +picturesque and able and simple, doing good things in disguise, +succouring distress, yielding their lives without thought for a cause, +or a woman, and loving with an undying love. + +Charley was of these people--from the first instant she saw him. The +Cure, the Avocat, and the Seigneur were also of them, but placidly, +unimportantly. “The Sick Man at Jo Portugais’ House” came out of a +mysterious distance. Something in his eyes said, “I have seen, I have +known,” told her that when he spoke she would answer freely, that they +were kinsfolk in some hidden way. Her nature was open and frank; she +lived upon the house-tops, as it were, going in and out of the lives of +the people of Chaudiere with neighbourly sympathy and understanding. Yet +she knew that she was not of them, and they knew that, poor as she was, +in her veins flowed the blood of the old nobility of France. For this +the Cure could vouch. Her official position made her the servant of the +public, and she did her duty with naturalness. + +She had been a figure in the parish ever since the day she returned from +the convent at Quebec, and took her dead mother’s place in the home and +the parish. She had a quick temper, but there was not a cheerless note +in her nature, and there was scarce a dog or a horse in the parish but +knew her touch, and responded to it. Squirrels ate out of her hand, she +had even tamed two partridges, and she kept in her little garden a bear +she had brought up from a cub. Her devotion to her crippled father was +in keeping with her quick response to every incident of sorrow or joy in +the parish--only modified by wilful prejudices scarcely in keeping with +her unselfishness. + +As Mrs. Flynn, the Seigneur’s Irish cook, said of her: “Shure, she’s not +made all av wan piece, the darlin’! She’ll wear like silk, but she’s not +linen for everybody’s washin’.” And Mrs. Flynn knew a thing or two, as +was conceded by all in Chaudiere. No gossip was Mrs. Flynn, but she knew +well what was going on in the parish, and she had strong views upon +all subjects, and a special interest in the welfare of two people in +Chaudiere. One of these was the Seigneur, who, when her husband died, +leaving behind him a name for wit and neighbourliness, and nothing else, +proposed that she should come to be his cook. In spite of her protest +that what was “fit for Teddy was not fit for a gintleman of quality,” + the Seigneur had had his way, never repenting of his choice. Mrs. +Flynn’s cooking was not her only good point. She had the rarest sense +and an unfailing spring of good-nature--life bubbled round her. It was +she that had suggested the crippled M. Evanturel to the Seigneur when +the office of postmaster became vacant, and the Seigneur had acted on +her suggestion, henceforth taking greater interest in Rosalie. + +It was Mrs. Flynn who gave Rosalie information concerning Charley’s +arrival at the shop of Louis Trudel the tailor. The morning after +Charley came, Mrs. Flynn had called for a waistcoat of the Seigneur, who +was expected home from a visit to Quebec. She found Charley standing at +a table pressing seams, and her quick eye took him in with knowledge and +instinct. She was the one person, save Rosalie, who could always divert +old Louis, and this morning she puckered his sour face with amusement by +the story of the courtship of the widow Plomondon and Germain Boily the +horse-trainer, whose greatest gift was animal-training, and greatest +weakness a fondness for widows, temporary and otherwise. Before she left +the shop, with the stranger’s smile answering to her nod, she had made +up her mind that Charley was a tailor by courtesy only. So she told +Rosalie a few moments afterwards. + +“‘Tis a man, darlin’, that’s seen the wide wurruld. ‘Tis himisperes he +knows, not parrishes. Fwhat’s he doin’ here, I dun’no’. Fwhere’s he come +from, I dun’no’. French or English, I dun’no’. But a gintleman born, I +know. ‘Tis no tailor, darlin’, but tailorin’ he’ll do as aisy as he’ll +do a hunderd other things anny day. But how he shlipped in here, an’ +when he shlipped in here, an’ what’s he come for, an’ how long he’s +stayin’, an’ meanin’ well, or doin’ ill, I dun’no’, darlin’, I dun’ +no’.” + +“I don’t think he’ll do ill, Mrs. Flynn,” said Rosalie, in English. + +“An’ if ye haven’t seen him, how d’ye know?” asked Mrs. Flynn, taking a +pinch of snuff. + +“I have seen him--but not in the tailor-shop. I saw him at Jo Portugais’ +a fortnight ago.” + +“Aisy, aisy, darlin’. At Jo Portugais’--that’s a quare place for a +stranger. ‘Tis not wid Jo’s introducshun I’d be comin’ to Chaudiere.” + +“He comes with the Cure’s introduction.” + +“An’ how d’ye know that, darlin’?” + +“The Curb was at Jo Portugais’ with monsieur when I went there.” + +“You wint there!” + +“To take him a letter--the stranger.” “What’s his name, darlin’?” + +“The letter I took him was addressed, ‘To the Sick Man at Jo Portugais’ +House at Vadrome Mountain.’” + +“Ah, thin, the Cure knows. ‘Tis some rich man come to get well, and +plays at bein’ tailor. But why didn’t the letther come to his name, I +wander now? That’s what I wander.” + +Rosalie shook her head, and looked reflectively through the window +towards the tailor-shop. + +“How manny times have ye seen him?” + +“Only once;” answered Rosalie truthfully. She did not, however, tell +Mrs. Flynn that she had thrice walked nearly to Vadrome Mountain in the +hope of seeing him again; and that she had gone to her favourite resort, +the Rest of the Flax-Beaters, lying in the way of the riverpath from +Vadrome Mountain, on the chance of his passing. She did not tell Mrs. +Flynn that there had scarcely been a waking hour when she had not +thought of him. + +“What Portugais knows, he’ll not be tellin’,” said Mrs. Flynn, after a +moment. “An’ ‘tis no business of ours, is it, darlin’? Shure, there’s Jo +comin’ out of the tailor-shop now!” + +They both looked out of the window, and saw Jo encounter Filion Lacasse +the saddler, and Maximilian Cour the baker. The three stood in the +middle of the street for a minute, Jo talking freely. He was usually +morose and taciturn, but now he spoke as though eager to unburden his +mind--Charley and he had agreed upon what should be said to the people +of Chaudiere. + +The sight of the confidences among the three was too much for Mrs. +Flynn. She opened the door of the post office and called to Jo. “Like +three crows shtandin’ there!” she said. “Come in--ma’m’selle says come +in, and tell your tales here, if they’re fit to hear, Jo Portugais. Who +are you to say no when ma’m’selle bids!” she added. + +Very soon afterwards Jo was inside the post-office, telling his tale +with the deliberation of a lesson learned by heart. + +“It’s all right, as ma’m’selle knows,” he said. “The Cure was there +when ma’m’selle brought a letter to M’sieu’ Mallard. The Cure knows all. +M’sieu’ come to my house sick-and he stayed there. There is nothing like +the pine-trees and the junipers to cure some things. He was with me +very quiet some time. The Cure come and come. He knows. When m’sieu’ got +well, he say, ‘I will not go from Chaudiere; I will stay. I am poor, +and I will earn my bread here.’ At first, when he is getting well, he is +carpent’ring. He makes cupboards and picture-frames. The Cure has one of +the cupboards in the sacristy; the frames he puts on the Stations of the +Cross in the church.” + +“That’s good enough for me!” said Maximilian Cour. “Did he make them for +nothing?” asked Filion Lacasse solemnly. + +“Not one cent did he ask. What’s more, he’s working for Louis Trudel +for nothing. He come through the village yesterday; he see Louis old and +sick on his bench, and he set down and go to work.” + +“That’s good enough for me,” said the saddler. “If a man work for the +Church for nothing, he is a Christian. If he work for Louis Trudel for +nothing, he is a fool--first-class--or a saint. I wouldn’t work for +Louis Trudel if he give me five dollars a day.” + +“Tiens! the man that work for Louis Trudel work for the Church, for all +old Louis makes goes to the Church in the end--that is his will. The +Notary knows,” said Maximilian Cour. + +“See there, now,” interposed Mrs. Flynn, pointing across the street +to the tailor-shop. “Look at that grocer-man stickin’ in his head; and +there’s Magloire Cadoret and that pig of a barber, Moise Moisan, starin’ +through the dure, an’--” + +As she spoke, the barber and his companion suddenly turned their faces +to the street, and started forward with startled exclamations, the +grocer following. They all ran out from the post-office. Not far up +the street a crowd was gathering. Rosalie locked the office-door and +followed the others quickly. + +In front of the Hotel Trois Couronnes a painful thing was happening. +Germain Boily, the horse-trainer, fresh from his disappointment with the +widow Plomondon, had driven his tamed moose up to the Trois Couronnes, +and had drunk enough whiskey to make him ill-tempered. He had then begun +to “show off” the animal, but the savage instincts of the moose being +roused, he had attacked his master, charging with wide-branching horns, +and striking with his feet. Boily was too drunk to fight intelligently. +He went down under the hoofs of the enraged animal, as his huge +boar-hound, always with him, fastened on the moose’s throat, dragged him +to the ground, and tore gaping wounds in his neck. + +It was all the work of a moment. People ran from the doorways and +sidewalks, but stayed at a comfortable distance until the moose was +dragged down; then they made to approach the insensible man. Before +any one could reach him, however, the great hound, with dripping fangs, +rushed to his master’s body, and, standing over it, showed his teeth +savagely. The hotel-keeper approached, but the bristles of the hound +stood up, he prepared to attack, and the landlord drew back in haste. +Then M. Dauphin, the Notary, who had joined the crowd, held out a hand +coaxingly, and with insinuating rhetoric drew a little nearer than the +landlord had done; but he retreated precipitously as the hound crouched +back for a spring. Some one called for a gun, and Filion Lacasse ran +into his shop. The animal had now settled down on his master’s body, his +bloodshot eyes watching in menace. The one chance seemed to be to shoot +him, and there must be no bungling, lest his prostrate master suffer at +the same time. The crowd had melted away into the houses, and were now +standing at doorways and windows, ready for instant retreat. + +Filion Lacasse’s gun was now at disposal, but who would fire it? Jo +Portugais was an expert shot, and he reached out a hand for the weapon. + +As he did so, Rosalie Evanturel cried: “Wait, oh, wait!” Before any +one could interfere she moved along the open space to the mad beast, +speaking soothingly, and calling his name. + +The crowd held their breath. A woman fainted. Some wrung their hands, +and Jo Portugais, with blanched face, stood with gun half raised. With +assured kindness of voice and manner, Rosalie walked deliberately over +to the hound. At first the animal’s bristles came up, and he prepared to +spring, but murmuring to him, she held out her hand, and presently laid +it on his huge head. With a growl of subjection, the dog drew from the +body of his master, and licked Rosalie’s fingers as she knelt beside +Boily and felt his heart. She put her arm round the dog’s neck, and said +to the crowd, “Some one come--only one--ah, yes, you, Monsieur!” she +added, as Charley, who had just arrived on the scene, came forward. +“Only you, if you can lift him. Take him to my house.” + +Her arm still round the dog, she talked to him, as Charley came forward, +and, lifting up the body of the little horse-trainer, drew him across +his shoulder. The hound at first resented the act, but under Rosalie’s +touch became quiet, and followed at their heels towards the post-office, +licking the wounded man’s hands as they hung down. Inside M. Evanturel’s +house the injured man was laid upon a couch. Charley examined his +wounds, and, finding them severe, advised that the Cure be sent for, +while he and Jo Portugais set about restoring him to consciousness. Jo +had skill of a sort, and his crude medicaments were efficacious. + +When the Cure came, the injured man was handed over to his care, and he +arranged that in the evening Boily should be removed to his house, to +await the arrival of the doctor from the next parish. + +This was Charley’s public introduction to the people of Chaudiere, and +it was his second meeting with Rosalie Evanturel. + +The incident brought him into immediate prominence. Before he left the +post-office, Filion Lacasse, Maximilian Cour, and Mrs. Flynn had given +forth his history, as related by Jo Portugais. The village was agog with +excitement. + +But attention was not centred on himself, for Rosalie’s courage had set +the parish talking. When the Notary stood on the steps of the saddler’s +shop, and with fine rhetoric proposed a vote of admiration for the girl, +the cheering could be heard inside the post-office, and it brought Mrs. +Flynn outside. + +“‘Tis for her, the darlin’--for Ma’m’selle Rosalie--they’re splittin’ +their throats!” she said to Charley as he was making his way from the +sick man’s room to the street door. “Did ye iver see such an eye an’ +hand? That avil baste that’s killed two Injins already--an’ all the men +o’ the place sneakin’ behind dures, an’ she walkin’ up cool as leaf in +mornin’ dew, an’ quietin’ the divil’s own! Did ye iver see annything +like it, sir--you that’s seen so much?” + +“Madame, it is not touch of hand alone, or voice alone,” answered +Charley. + +“Shure, ‘tis somethin’ kin in baste an’ maid, you’re manin’ thin?” + +“Quite so, Madame.” + +“Simple like, an’ understandin’ what Noah understood in that ark av +his--for talk to the bastes he must have, explainin’ what was for thim +to do.” + +“Like that, Madame.” + +“Thrue for you, sir, ‘tis as you say. There’s language more than tongue +of man can shpake. But listen, thin, to me”--her voice got +lower--“for ‘tis not the furst time, a thing like that, the lady she +is--granddaughter of a Seigneur, and descinded from nobility in France! +‘Tis not the furst time to be doin’ brave things. Just a shlip of a girl +she was, three years ago, afther her mother died, an’ she was back from +convint. A woman come to the parish an’ was took sick in the house of +her brother--from France she was. Small-pox they said at furst. ‘Twas +no small-pox, but plague, got upon the seas. Alone she was in the +house--her brother left her alone, the black-hearted coward. The people +wouldn’t go near the place. The Cure was away. Alone the woman was--poor +soul! Who wint--who wint and cared for her? Who do ye think, sir?” + +“Mademoiselle?” + +“None other. ‘Go tell Mrs. Flynn,’ says she, ‘to care for my father +till I come back,’ an’ away she wint to the house of plague. A week she +stayed, an’ no one wint near her. Alone she was with the woman and the +plague. ‘Lave her be,’ said the Cure when he come back; ‘‘tis for the +love of God. God is with her--lave her be, and pray for her,’ says he. +An’ he wint himself, but she would not let him in. ‘‘Tis my work,’ says +she. ‘‘Tis God’s work for me to do,’ says she. ‘An’ the woman will live +if ‘tis God’s will,’ says she. ‘There’s an agnus dei on her breast,’ +says she. ‘Go an’ pray,’ says she. Pray the Cure did, an’ pray did we +all, but the woman died of the plague. All alone did Rosalie draw her to +the grave on a stone-boat down the lane, an’ over the hill, an’ into the +churchyard. An’ buried her with her own hands at night, no one knowin’ +till the mornin’, she did. So it was. An’ the burial over, she wint back +an’ burned the house to the ground--sarve the villain right that lave +the sick woman alone! An’ her own clothes she burned, an’ put on the +clothes I brought her wid me own hand. An’ for that thing she did, the +love o’ God in her heart, is it for Widdy Flynn or Cure or anny other to +forgit? Shure the Cure was for iver broken-hearted, for that he was sick +abed for days an’ could not go to the house when the woman died, an’ +say to Rosalie, ‘Let me in for her last hour.’ But the word of +Rosalie--shure ‘twas as good as the words of a praste, savin’ the Cure +prisince wheriver he may be!” + +This was the story of Rosalie which Mrs. Flynn told Charley, as he stood +at the street door of the post-office. When she had finished, Charley +went back into the room where Rosalie sat beside the sick man’s couch, +the hound at her feet. She came forward, surprised, for he had bade her +good-bye but a few minutes before. + +“May I sit and watch for an hour longer, Mademoiselle?” he said. “You +will have your duties in the post-office.” + +“Monsieur--it is good of you,” she answered. + +For two hours Charley watched her going in and out, whispering +directions to Mrs. Flynn, doing household duty, bringing warmth in with +her, and leaving light behind her. + +It was afternoon when he returned to his bench in the tailor-shop, and +was received by old Louis Trudel in peevish silence. For an hour they +worked in silence, and then the tailor said: + +“A brave girl--that. We will work till nine to-night!” + + + + +CHAPTER XV. THE MARK IN THE PAPER + +Chaudiere was nearing the last of its nine-days’ wonder. It had filed +past the doorway of the tailor-shop; it had loitered on the other side +of the street; it had been measured for more clothes than in three +months past--that it might see Charley at work in the shop, cross-legged +on a bench, or wielding the goose, his eye glass in his eye. Here was +sensation indeed, for though old M. Rossignol, the Seigneur, had an +eye-glass, it was held to his eye--a large bone-bound thing with a +little gold handle; but no one in Chaudiere had ever worn a glass in +his eye like that. Also, no one in Chaudiere had ever looked quite like +“M’sieu’”--for so it was that, after the first few days (a real tribute +to his importance and sign of the interest he created) Charley came to +be called “M’sieu’,” and the Mallard was at last entirely dropped. + +Presently people came and stood at the tailor’s door and talked, or +listened to Louis Trudel and M’sieu’ talking. And it came to be noised +abroad that the stranger talked as well as the Cure and better than the +Notary. By-and-by they associated his eye-glass with his talent, so that +it seemed, as it were, to be the cause of it. Yet their talk was ever of +simple subjects, of everyday life about them, now and then of politics, +occasionally of the events of the world filtered to them through vast +tracts of country. There was one subject which, however, was barred; +perhaps because there was knowledge abroad that M’sieu’ was not +a Catholic, perhaps because Charley himself adroitly changed the +conversation when it veered that way. + +Though the parish had not quite made up its mind about him, there were +a number of things in his favour. In the first place, the Cure seemed +satisfied; secondly, he minded his own business. Also, he was working +for Louis Trudel for nothing. These things Jo Portugais diligently +impressed on the minds of all who would listen. + +From above the frosted part of the windows of the post-office, in the +corner where she sorted letters, Rosalie could look over at the tailor’s +shop at an angle; could sometimes even see M’sieu’ standing at the long +table with a piece of chalk, a pair of shears, or a measure. She watched +the tailor-shop herself, but it annoyed her when she saw any one else +do so. She resented--she was a woman and loved monopoly--all inquiry +regarding M’sieu’, so frequently addressed to her. + +One afternoon, as Charley came out, on his way to the house on Vadrome +Mountain, she happened to be outside. He saw her, paused, lifted his fur +cap, and crossed the street to her. + +“Have you, perhaps, paper, pens, and ink for sale, Mademoiselle?” + +“Yes, oh yes; come in, Monsieur Mallard.” + +“Ah, it is nice of you to remember me,” he answered. “I see you every +day--often,” she answered. + +“Of course, we are neighbours,” he responded. “The man--the +horse-trainer--is quite well again?” + +“He has gone home almost well,” she answered. She placed pens, paper, +and ink before him. “Will these do?” + +“Perfectly,” he answered mechanically, and laid a few pens and a bottle +of ink beside the paper. + +“You were very brave that day,” he said--they had not talked together +since, though seeing each other so often. + +“Oh, no; I knew he would make friends with me--the hound.” + +“Of course,” he rejoined. + +“We should show animals that we trust them,” she said, in some +confusion, for being near him made her heart throb painfully. + +He did not answer. Presently his eye glanced at the paper again, and was +arrested. He ran his fingers over it, and a curious look flashed across +his face. He held the paper up to the light quickly, and looked through +it. It was thin, half-foreign paper, without lines, and there was a +water-mark in it-large, shadowy, filmy--Kathleen. + +It was paper made in the mills which had belonged to Kathleen’s uncle. +This water-mark was made to celebrate their marriage-day. Only for one +year had this paper been made, and then the trade in it was stopped. It +had gone its ways down the channels of commerce, and here it was in +his hand, a reminder, not only of the old life, but, as it were, the +parchment for the new. There it was, a piece of plain good paper, ready +for pen and ink and his letter to the Cure’s brother in Paris--the +only letter he would ever write, ever again until he died, so he told +himself; but hold it up to the light and there was the name over which +his letter must be written--Kathleen, invisible but permanent, obscured, +but brought to life by the raising of a hand. + +The girl caught the flash of feeling in his face, saw him holding the +paper up to the light, and then, with an abstracted air, calmly lay it +down. + +“That will do, thank you,” he said. “Give me the whole packet.” She +wrapped it up for him without a word, and he laid down a two-dollar +note, the last he had in the world. + +“How much of this paper have you?” he asked. The girl looked under the +counter. “Six packets,” she said. “Six, and a few sheets over.” + +“I will take it all. But keep it for me, for a week, or perhaps a +fortnight, will you?” He did not need all this paper to write letters +upon, yet he meant to buy all the paper of this sort that the shop +contained. But he must get money from Louis Trudel--he would speak about +it to-morrow. + +“Monsieur does not want me to sell even the loose sheets?” + +“No. I like the paper, and I will take it all.” + +“Very good, Monsieur.” + +Her heart was beating hard. All this man did had peculiar significance +to her. His look seemed to say: “Do not fear. I will tell you things.” + +She gave him the parcel and the change, and he turned to go. “You read +much?” he asked, almost casually, yet deeply interested in the charm and +intelligence of her face. + +“Why, yes, Monsieur,” she answered quickly. “I am always reading.” + +He did not speak at once. He was wondering whether, in this primitive +place, such a mind and nature would be the wiser for reading; whether +it were not better to be without a mental aspiration, which might set up +false standards. + +“What are you reading now?” he asked, with his hand on the door. + +“Antony and Cleopatra, also Enoch Arden,” she answered, in good English, +and without accent. + +His head turned quickly towards her, but he did not speak. + +“Enoch Arden is terrible,” she added eagerly. “Don’t you think so, +Monsieur?” + +“It is very painful,” he answered. “Good-night.” He opened the door and +went out. + +She ran to the door and watched him go down the street. For a little she +stood thinking, then, turning to the counter, and snatching up a sheet +of the paper he had bought, held it up to the light. She gave a cry of +amazement. + +“Kathleen!” she exclaimed. + +She thought of the start he gave when he looked at the water-mark; she +thought of the look on his face when he said he would buy all this paper +she had. + +“Who was Kathleen?” she whispered, as though she was afraid some one +would hear. “Who was Kathleen!” she said again resentfully. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. MADAME DAUPHIN HAS A MISSION + +One day Charley began to know the gossip of the village about him from a +source less friendly than Jo Portugais. The Notary’s wife, bringing her +boy to be measured for a suit of broadcloth, asked Charley if the things +Jo had told about him were true, and if it was also true that he was a +Protestant, and perhaps an Englishman. As yet, Charley had been asked no +direct questions, for the people of Chaudiere had the consideration of +their temperament; but the Notary’s wife was half English, and being a +figure in the place, she took to herself more privileges than did old +Madame Dugal, the Cure’s sister. + +To her ill-disguised impertinence in English, as bad as her French and +as fluent, Charley listened with quiet interest. When she had finished +her voluble statement she said, with a simper and a sneer-for, after +all, a Notary’s wife must keep her position--“And now, what is the truth +about it? And are you a Protestant?” + +There was a sinister look in old Trudel’s eyes as, cross-legged on +his table, he listened to Madame Dauphin. He remembered the time, +twenty-five years ago, when he had proposed to this babbling woman, and +had been rejected with scorn--to his subsequent satisfaction; for there +was no visible reason why any one should envy the Notary, in his house +or out of it. Already Trudel had a respect for the tongue of M’sieu’. +He had not talked much the few days he had been in the shop, but, as +the old man had said to Filion Lacasse the saddler, his brain was like +a pair of shears--it went clip, clip, clip right through everything. He +now hoped that his new apprentice, with the hand of a master-workman, +would go clip, clip through madame’s inquisitiveness. He was not +disappointed, for he heard Charley say: + +“One person in the witness-box at a time, Madame. Till Jo Portugais is +cross-examined and steps down, I don’t see what I can do!” + +“But you are a Protestant!” said the woman snappishly. This man was only +a tailor, dressed in fulled cloth, and no doubt his past life would not +bear inspection; and she was the Notary’s wife, and had said to people +in the village that she would find out the man’s history from himself. + +“That is one good reason why I should not go to confession,” he +replied casually, and turned to a table where he had been cutting a +waistcoat--for the first time in his life. + +“Do you think I’m going to stand your impertinence? Do you know who I +am?” + +Charley calmly put up his monocle. He looked at the foolish little woman +with so cruel a flash of the eye that she shrank back. + +“I should know you anywhere,” he said. + +“Come, Stephan,” she said nervously to her boy, and pulled him towards +the door. + +On the instant Charley’s feeling changed. Was he then going to carry the +old life into the new, and rebuke a silly garish woman whose faults +were generic more than personal? He hurried forward to the door and +courteously opened it for her. + +“Permit me, Madame,” he said. + +She saw that there was nothing ironical in this politeness. She had a +sudden apprehension of an unusual quality called “the genteel,” for no +storekeeper in Chaudiere ever opened or shut a shop-door for anybody. +She smiled a vacuous smile; she played “the lady” terribly, as, with a +curious conception of dignity, she held her body stiff as a ramrod, and +with a prim merci sailed into the street. + +This gorgeous exit changed her opinion of the man she had been unable to +catechise. Undoubtedly he had snubbed her--that was the word she used +in her mind--but his last act had enabled her, in the sight of several +habitants and even of Madame Dugal, “to put on airs,” as the charming +Madame Dugal said afterwards. + +Thinking it better to give the impression that she had had a successful +interview, she shook her head mysteriously when asked about M’sieu’, +and murmured, “He is quite the gentleman!” which she thought a socially +distinguished remark. + +When she had gone, Charley turned to old Louis. + +“I don’t want to turn your customers away,” he said quietly, “but there +it is! I don’t need to answer questions as a part of the business, do +I?” + +There was a sour grin on the face of old Trudel. He grunted some +inaudible answer, then, after a pause, added: “I’d have been hung for +murder, if she’d answered the question I asked her once as I wanted her +to.” + +He opened and shut his shears with a sardonic gesture. + +Charley smiled, and went to the window. For a minute he stood watching +Madame Dauphin and Rosalie at the post-office door. The memory of his +talk with Rosalie was vivid to him at the moment. He was thinking also +that he had not a penny in the world to pay for the rest of the paper he +had bought. He turned round and put on his coat slowly. + +“What are you doing that for?” asked the old man, with a kind of snarl, +yet with trepidation. + +“I don’t think I’ll work any more to-day.” + +“Not work! Smoke of the devil, isn’t Sunday enough to play in? You’re +not put out by that fool wife of Dauphin’s?” + +“Oh no--not that! I want an understanding about wages.” + +To Louis the dread crisis had come. He turned a little green, for he was +very miserly-for the love of God. + +He had scarcely realised what was happening when Charley first sat down +on the bench beside him. He had been taken by surprise. Apart from the +excitement of the new experience, he had profited by the curiosity of +the public, for he had orders enough to keep him busy until summer, and +he had had to give out work to two extra women in the parish, though +he had never before had more than one working for him. But his ruling +passion was strong in him. He always remembered with satisfaction that +once when the Cure was absent and he was supposed to be dying, a priest +from another parish came, and, the ministrations over, he had made an +offering of a gold piece. When the young priest hesitated, his fingers +had crept back to the gold piece, closed on it, and drawn it back +beneath the coverlet again. He had then peacefully fallen asleep. It was +a gracious memory. + +“I don’t need much, I don’t want a great deal,” continued Charley when +the tailor did not answer, “but I have to pay for my bed and board, and +I can’t do it on nothing.” + +“How have you done it so far?” peevishly replied the tailor. + +“By working after hours at carpentering up there”--he made a gesture +towards Vadrome Mountain. “But I can’t go on doing that all the time, or +I’ll be like you too soon.” + +“Be like me!” The voice of the tailor rose shrilly. + +“Be like me! What’s the matter with me?” + +“Only that you’re in a bad way before your time, and that you mayn’t +get out of this hole without stepping into another. You work too hard, +Monsieur Trudel.” + +“What do you want--wages?” + +Charley inclined his head. “If you think I’m worth them.” + +The tailor viciously snipped a piece of cloth. “How can I pay you wages, +if you stand there doing nothing?” “This is my day for doing nothing,” + Charley answered pleasantly, for the tailor-man amused him, and the +whimsical mental attitude of his past life was being brought to the +surface by this odd figure, with big spectacles pushed up on a yellow +forehead, and shrunken hands viciously clutching the shears. + +“You don’t mean to say you’re not going to work to-day, and this suit of +clothes promised for to-morrow night--for the Manor House too!” + +With a piece of chalk Charley idly made heads on brown paper. “After +all, why should clothes be the first thing in one’s mind--when they are +some one else’s! It’s a beautiful day outside. I’ve never felt the sun +so warm and the air so crisp and sweet--never in all my life.” + +“Then where have you lived?” snapped out the tailor with a sneer. “You +must be a Yankee--they have only what we leave over down there!”--he +jerked his head southward. “We don’t stop to look at weather here. I +suppose you did where you come from?” + +Charley smiled in a distant sort of way. “Where I came from, when we +weren’t paid for our work we always stopped to consider our health--and +the weather. I don’t want a great deal. I put it to you honestly. Do you +want me? If you do, will you give me enough to live on--enough to buy +a suit of clothes a year, to pay for food and a room? If I work for you +for nothing, I have to live on others for nothing, or kill myself as +you’re doing.” + +There was no answer at once, and Charley went on: “I came to you because +I saw you wanted help badly. I saw that you were hard-pushed and sick--” + +“I wasn’t sick,” interrupted the tailor with a snarl. + +“Well, overworked, which is the same thing in the end. I did the best I +could: I gave you my hands--awkward enough they were at first, I know, +but--” + +“It’s a lie. They weren’t awkward,” churlishly cut in the tailor. + +“Well, perhaps they weren’t so awkward, but they didn’t know quite what +to do--” + +“You knew as well as if you’d been taught,” came back in a growl. + +“Well, then, I wasn’t awkward, and I had a knack for the work. What was +more, I wanted work. I wanted to work at the first thing that appealed +to me. I had no particular fancy for tailoring--you get bowlegged in +time!”--the old spirit was fighting with the new--“but here you were at +work, and there I was idle, and I had been ill, and some one who wasn’t +responsible for me--a stranger-worked for me and cared for me. Wasn’t +it natural, when you were playing the devil with yourself, that I should +step in and give you a hand? You’ve been better since--isn’t that so?” + The tailor did not answer. + +“But I can’t go on as we are, though I want only enough to keep me +going,” Charley continued. + +“And if I don’t give you what you want, you’ll leave?” + +“No. I’m never going to leave you. I’m going to stay here, for you’ll +never get another man so cheap; and it suits me to stay--you need some +one to look after you.” + +A curious soft look suddenly flashed into the tailor’s eyes. + +“Will you take on the business after I’m gone?” he asked at last. “It’s +along time to look ahead, I know,” he added quickly, for not in words +would he acknowledge the possibility of the end. + +“I should think so,” Charley answered, his eyes on the bright sun and +the soft snow on the trees beyond the window. + +The tailor snatched up a pattern and figured on it for a moment. Then he +handed it to Charley. “Will that do?” he asked with anxious, acquisitive +look, his yellow eyes blinking hard. + +Charley looked at it musingly, then said “Yes, if you give me a room +here.” + +“I meant board and lodging too,” said Louis Trudel with an outburst of +eager generosity, for, as it was, he had offered about one-half of what +Charley was worth to him. + +Charley nodded. “Very well, that will do,” he said, and took off his +coat and went to work. For a long time they worked silently. The tailor +was in great good-humour; for the terrible trial was over, and he now +had an assistant who would be a better tailor than himself. There would +be more profit, more silver nails for the church door, and more masses +for his soul. + +“The Cure says you are all right.... When will you come here?” he said +at last. + +“To-morrow night I shall sleep here,” answered Charley. + +So it was arranged that Charley should come to live in the tailor’s +house, to sleep in the room which the tailor had provided for a wife +twenty-five years before--even for her that was now known as Madame +Dauphin. + +All morning the tailor chuckled to himself. When they sat down at noon +to a piece of venison which Charley had prepared himself--taking the +frying-pan out of the hands of Margot Patry, the old servant, and +cooking it to a turn--Louis Trudel saw his years lengthen to an +indefinite period. He even allowed himself to nervously stand up, bow, +shake Charley’s hand jerkingly, and say: + +“M’sieu’, I care not what you are or where you come from, or even if +you’re a Protestant, perhaps an Englishman. You’re a gentleman and a +tailor, and old Louis Trudel will not forget you. It shall be as you +said this morning--it is no day for work. We will play, and the clothes +for the Manor can go to the devil. Smoke of hell-fire, I will go and +have a pipe with that, poor wretch the Notary!” + +So, a wonderful thing happened. Louis Trudel, on a week-day and a +market-day, went to smoke a pipe with Narcisse Dauphin, and to tell him +that M. Mallard was going to stay with him for ever, at fine wages. He +also announced that he had paid this whole week’s wages in advance; but +he did not tell what he did not know--that half the money had already +been given to old Margot, whose son lay ill at home with a broken leg, +and whose children were living on bread and water. Charley had slowly +drawn from the woman the story of her life as he sat by the kitchen fire +and talked to her, while her master was talking to the Notary. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. THE TAILOR MAKES A MIDNIGHT FORAY + +Since the day Charley had brought home the paper bought at the +post-office, and water-marked Kathleen, he had, at odd times, written +down his thoughts, and promptly torn the paper up again or put it in the +fire. In the repression of the new life, in which he must live wholly +alone, so far as all past habits of mind were concerned, it was a relief +to record his passing reflections, as he had been wont to do when the +necessity for it was less. Writing them here was like the bursting of +an imprisoned stream; it was relaxing the ceaseless eye of vigilance; +freeing an imprisoned personality. This personality was not yet +merged into that which must take its place, must express itself in the +involuntary acts which tell of a habit of mind and body--no longer the +imitative and the histrionic, but the inherent and the real. + +On the afternoon of the day that old Louis agreed to give him wages, +and went to smoke a pipe with the Notary, Charley scribbled down his +thoughts on this matter of personality and habit. + +“Who knows,” he wrote, “which is the real self? A child comes into the +world gin-begotten, with the instinct for liquor in his brain, like the +scent of the fox in the nostrils of the hound. And that seems the real. +But the same child caught up on the hands of chance is carried into +another atmosphere, is cared for by ginhating minds and hearts: habit +fastens on him--fair, decent, and temperate habit--and he grows up like +the Cure yonder, a brother of Aaron. Which is the real? Is the instinct +for the gin killed, or covered? Is the habit of good living mere habit +and mere acting, in which the real man never lives his real life, or is +it the real life? + +“Who knows! Here am I, born with a question in my mouth, with the +ever-present ‘non possumus’ in me. Here am I, to whom life was one +poor futility; to whom brain was but animal intelligence abnormally +developed; to whom speechless sensibility and intelligence was the only +reality; to whom nothing from beyond ever sent a flash of conviction, +an intimation, into my soul--not one. To me God always seemed a being of +dreams, the creation of a personal need and helplessness, the despairing +cry of the victims of futility--And here am I flung like a stone from a +sling into this field where men believe in God as a present and tangible +being; who reply to all life’s agonies and joys and exultations with the +words ‘C’est le bon Dieu.’ And what shall I become? Will habit do its +work, and shall I cease to be me? Shall I, in the permanency of habit, +become like unto this tailor here, whose life narrows into one sole +cause; whose only wish is to have the Church draw the coverlet of +forgiveness and safety over him; who has solved all questions in a blind +belief or an inherited predisposition--which? This stingy, hard, unhappy +man--how should he know what I am denied! Or does he know? Is it all +illusion? If there is a God who receives such devotion, to the exclusion +of natural demand and spiritual anxieties, why does not this tailor +‘let his light so shine before men that they may see his good works, +and glorify his Father which is in heaven?’ That is it. Therefore, +wherefore, tailor-man? Therefore, wherefore, God? Show me a sign from +Heaven, tailor-man!” + +Seated on his bench in the shop, with his eyes ever and anon raised +towards the little post-office opposite, he wrote these words. +Afterwards he sat and thought till the shadows deepened, and the tailor +came in to supper. Then he took up the pieces of paper, and, going to +the fire, which was still lighted of an evening, thrust them inside. + +Louis Trudel saw the paper burning, and, glancing down, he noticed that +one piece--the last--had slipped to the floor and was lying under the +table. He saw the pencil still in Charley’s hand. Forthwith his natural +suspicion leaped up, and the cunning of the monomaniac was upon him. +With all his belief in le bon Dieu and the Church, Louis Trudel trusted +no one. One eye was ever open to distrust man, while the other was ever +closed with blind belief in Heaven. + +As Charley stooped to put wood in the fire, the tailor thrust a foot +forward and pushed the piece of paper further under the table. + +That night the tailor crept down into the shop, felt for the paper +in the dark, found it, and carried it away to his room. All kinds of +thoughts had raged through his diseased mind. It was a letter, perhaps, +and if a letter, then he would gain some facts about the man’s life. +But if it was a letter, why did he burn it? It was said that he never +received a letter and never sent one, therefore it was little likely to +be a letter if not a letter, then what could it be? Perhaps the man +was English and a spy of the English government, for was there not +disaffection in some of the parishes? Perhaps it was a plan of robbery. +To such a state of hallucination did his weakened mind come, that he +forgot the kindly feeling he had had for this stranger who had worked +for him without pay. Suspicion, the bane of sick old age, was hot on +him. He remembered that M’sieu’ had put an arm through his when they +went upstairs, and that now increased suspicion. Why should the man have +been so friendly? To lull him into confidence, perhaps, and then to rob +and murder him in his sleep. Thank God, his ready money was well hid, +and the rest was safe in the bank far away! He crept back to his room +with the paper in his hand. It was the last sheet of what Charley had +written, and had been accidentally brushed off on the floor. It was in +French, and, holding the candle close, he slowly deciphered the crabbed, +characteristic handwriting. + +His eyes dilated, his yellow cheeks took on spots of unhealthy red, his +hand trembled. Anger seized him, and he mumbled the words over and over +again to himself. Twice or thrice, as the paper lay in one hand, he +struck it with the clinched fist of the other, muttering and distraught. + +“This tailor here.... This stingy, hard, unhappy man.... If there is +a God!... Therefore, wherefore, tailor-man?... Therefore, wherefore, +God?... Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!” + +Hatred of himself, blasphemy, the profane and hellish humour of--of +the infidel! A Protestant heretic--he was already damned; a robber--you +could put him in jail; a spy--you could shoot him or tar and feather +him; a murderer--you could hang him. But an infide--this was a +deadly poison, a black danger, a being capable of all crimes. An +infidel--“Therefore, wherefore, tailor-man?... Therefore, wherefore, +God?... Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!” + +The devil laughing--the devil incarnate come to mock a poor tailor, to +sow plague through a parish where all were at peace in the bosom of +the Church. The tailor had three ruling passions--cupidity, vanity, +and religion. Charley had now touched the three, and the whole man +was alive. His cupidity had been flattered by the unpaid service of a +capable assistant, but now he saw that he was paying the devil a wage. +His vanity was overwhelmed by a satanic ridicule. His religion and his +God had been assaulted in so shameful a way that no punishment could be +great enough for the man of hell. In religion he was a fanatic; he was a +demented fanatic now. + +He thrust the paper into his pocket, then crept out into the hall and +to the door of Charley’s bedroom. He put his ear to the door. After +a moment he softly raised the latch, and opened the door and listened +again. ‘M’sieu’ was in a deep sleep. + +Louis Trudel scarcely knew why he had listened, why he had opened the +door and stood looking at the figure in the bed, barely definable in the +semi-darkness of the room. If he had meant harm to the helpless man, +he had brought no weapon; if he had been curious, there the man was +peacefully sleeping! + +His sick, morbid imagination was so alive, that he scarcely knew what +he did. As he stood there listening, hatred and horror in his heart, a +voice said to him: “Thou shalt do no murder.” The words kept ringing in +his ears. Yet he had not thought of murder. The fancied command itself +was his first temptation towards such a deed. He had thought of raising +the parish, of condign punishment of many sorts, but not this. As he +closed the door softly, killing entered his mind and stayed there. “Thou +shalt not” had been the first instigation to “Thou shalt.” + +It haunted him as he returned to his room, undressed himself, and went +to bed. He could not sleep. “Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!” + The challenge had been to himself. He must respond to it. The duty lay +with him; he must answer this black infidel for the Church, for faith, +for God. + +The more he thought of it, the more Charley’s face came before him, with +the monocle shining and hard in the eye. The monocle haunted him. That +was the infidel’s sign. “Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!” What +sign should he show? + +Presently he sat up straight in bed. In another minute he was out and +dressing. Five minutes later he was on his way to the parish church. +When he reached it he took a tool from his pocket and unscrewed a small +iron cross from the front door. It was a cross which had been blessed by +the Pope, and had been brought to Chaudiere by the beloved mother of the +Cure, now dead. + +“When I have done with it I will put it back,” he said, as he thrust it +inside his shirt, and hurried stealthily back to his house. As he got +into bed he gave a noiseless, mirthless laugh. All night he lay with +his yellow eyes wide open, gazing at the ceiling. He was up at dawn, +hovering about the fire in the shop. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. THE STEALING OF THE CROSS + +If Charley had been less engaged with his own thoughts, he would have +noticed the curious baleful look in the eyes of the tailor; but he was +deeply absorbed in a struggle that had nothing to do with Louis Trudel. + +The old fever of thirst and desire was upon him. All morning the door of +Jolicoeur’s saloon was opening and shutting before his mind’s eye, and +there was a smell of liquor everywhere. It was in his nostrils when the +hot steam rose from the clothes he was pressing, in the thick odour of +the fulled cloth, in the melting snow outside the door. + +Time and again he felt that he must run out of the shop and away to the +little tavern where white whiskey was sold to unwise habitants. But he +fought on. Here was the heritage of his past, the lengthening chain +of slavery to his old self--was it his real self? Here was what would +prevent him from forgetting all that he had been and not been, all +the happiness he might have had, all that he had lost--the ceaseless +reminder. He was still the victim to a poison which gave not only a +struggle of body, but a struggle of soul--if he had a soul. + +“If he had a soul!” The phrase kept repeating itself to him even as he +fought the fever in his throat, resisting the temptation to take that +medicine which the Curb’s brother had sent him. + +“If he had a soul!” The thinking served as an antidote, for by the +ceaseless iteration his mind was lulled into a kind of drowse. Again and +again he went to the pail of water that stood on the window-sill, and +lifting it to his lips, drank deep and full, to quench the wearing +thirst. + +“If he had a soul!” He looked at Louis Trudel, silent and morose, the +clammy yellow of a great sickness in his face and hands, but his mind +only intent on making a waistcoat--and the end of all things very near! +The words he had written the night before came to him: “Therefore, +wherefore, tailor-man? Therefore, wherefore, God?... Show me a sign from +Heaven, tailor-man!” As if in reply to his thoughts there came the sound +of singing, and of bells ringing in the parish church. + +A procession with banners was coming near. It was a holy day, and +Chaudiere was mindful of its duties. The wanderers of the parish had +come home for Easter. All who belonged to Chaudiere and worked in the +woods or shanties, or lived in big cities far away, were returned--those +who could return--to take the holy communion in the parish church. +Yesterday the parish had been alive with a pious hilarity. The great +church had been crowded beyond the doors, the streets had been full of +cheerily dressed habitants. There had, however, come a sudden chill to +the seemly rejoicings--the little iron cross blessed by the Pope had +been stolen from the door of the church! + +The fact had been told to the Cure as he said the Mass, and from the +altar steps, before going to the pulpit, he referred to the robbery with +poignant feeling; for the relic had belonged to a martyr of the Church, +who, two centuries before, had laid down his life for the Master on the +coast of Africa. + +Louis Trudel had heard the Cure’s words, and in his place at the rear +of the church he smiled sourly to himself. In due time the little cross +should be returned, but it had work to do first. He did not take the +holy communion this Easter day, or go to confession as was his wont. +Not, however, until a certain day later did the Cure realise this, +though for thirty years the tailor had never omitted his Easter-time +duties. + +The people guessed and guessed, but they knew not on whom to cast +suspicion at first. No sane Catholic of Chaudiere could possibly have +taken the holy thing. Presently a murmur crept about that M’sieu’ might +have been the thief. He was not a Catholic, and--who could tell? +Who knew where he came from? Who knew what he had been? Perhaps a +jail-bird-robber-murderer! Charley, however, stitched on, intent upon +his own struggle. + +The procession passed the doorway: men bearing banners with sacred +texts, acolytes swinging censers, a figure of the Saviour carved in wood +borne aloft, the Cure under a silk canopy, and a long line of habitants +following with sacred song. People fell upon their knees in the street +as the procession passed, and the Cure’s face was bent here and there, +his hand raised in blessing. + +Old Louis got up from his bench, and, putting on a coat over his wool +jacket, hastened to the doorway, knelt down, made the sign of the cross, +and said a prayer. Then he turned quickly towards Charley, who, +looking at the procession, then at the tailor, then back again at the +procession, smiled. + +Charley was hardly conscious of what he did. His mind had ranged far +beyond this scene to the large issues which these symbols represented. +Was it one universal self-deception? Was this “religion” the pathetic, +the soul-breaking make-believe of mortality? So he smiled--at himself, +at his own soul, which seemed alone in this play, the skeleton in +armour, the thing that did not belong. His own words written that +fateful day before he died at the Cote Dorion came to him: + +“Sacristan, acolyte, player, or preacher, Each to his office, but who +holds the key? Death, only Death, thou, the ultimate teacher, Wilt show +it to me!” + +He was suddenly startled from his reverie, through which the procession +was moving--a cloud of witnesses. It was the voice of Louis Trudel, +sharp and piercing: + +“Don’t you believe in God and the Son of God?” + +“God knows!” answered Charley slowly in reply--an involuntary +exclamation of helplessness, an automatic phrase deflected from its +first significance to meet a casual need of the mind. Yet it seemed like +satire, like a sardonic, even vulgar, humour. So it struck Louis Trudel, +who snatched up a hot iron from the fire and rushed forward with +a snarl. So astounded was Charley that he did not stir. He was not +prepared for the sudden onslaught. He did not put up his hand even, but +stared at the tailor, who, within a foot of him, stopped short with the +iron poised. + +Louis Trudel repented in time. With the cunning of the monomaniac he +realised that an attack now might frustrate his great stroke. It would +bring the village to his shop door, precipitate the crisis upon the +wrong incident. + +As it chanced, only one person in Chaudiere saw the act. That was +Rosalie Evanturel across the way. She saw the iron raised, and looked +for M’sieu’ to knock the tailor down; but, instead, she beheld the +tailor go back and put the iron on the fire again. She saw also that +M’sieu’ was speaking, though she could hear no words. + +Charley’s words were simple enough. “I beg your pardon, Monsieur,” he +said across the room to old Louis; “I meant no offence at all. I was +trying to think it out in a human sort of way. I suppose I wanted a sign +from Heaven--wanted too much, no doubt.” + +The tailor’s lips twitched, and his hand convulsively clutched the +shears at his side. + +“It is no matter now,” he answered shortly. “I have had signs from +Heaven; perhaps you will have one too!” + +“It would be worth while,” rejoined Charley musingly. Charley wondered +bitterly if he had made an irreparable error in saying those ill-chosen +words. This might mean a breach between them, and so make his position +in the parish untenable. He had no wish to go elsewhere--where could he +go? It mattered little what he was, tinker or tailor. He had now only +to work his way back to the mind of the peasant; to be an animal with +intelligence; to get close to mother earth, and move down the declivity +of life with what natural wisdom were possible. It was his duty to adapt +himself to the mind of such as this tailor; to acquire what the +tailor and his like had found--an intolerant belief and an inexpensive +security, to be got through yielding his nature to the great religious +dream. And what perfect tranquillity, what smooth travelling found +therein. + +Gazing across the street towards the little post-office, he saw Rosalie +Evanturel at the window. He fell to thinking about her. Rosalie, on her +part, kept wondering what old Louis’ violence meant. + +Presently she saw a half-dozen men come quickly down the street, and, +before they reached the tailorshop, stand in a group talking excitedly. +Afterwards one came forward from the others quickly--Filion Lacasse the +saddler. He stopped short at the tailor’s door. Looking at Charley, he +exclaimed roughly: + +“If you don’t hand out the cross you stole from the church door, we’ll +tar and feather you, M’sieu’.” Charley looked up, surprised. It had +never occurred to him that they could associate him with the theft. “I +know nothing of the cross,” he said quietly. “You’re the only heretic +in the place. You’ve done it. Who are you? What are you doing here in +Chaudiere?” + +“Working at my trade,” was Charley’s quiet answer. He looked towards +Louis Trudel, as though to see how he took this ugly charge. + +Old Louis responded at once. “Get away with you, Filion Lacasse,” he +croaked. “Don’t come here with your twaddle. M’sieu’ hasn’t stole the +cross. What does he want with a cross? He’s not a Catholic.” + +“If he didn’t steal the cross, why, he didn’t,” answered the saddler; +“but if he did, what’ll you say for yourself, Louis? You call yourself a +good Catholic--bah!--when you’ve got a heretic living with you.” + +“What’s that to you?” growled the tailor, and reached out a nervous hand +towards the iron. “I served at the altar before you were born. Sacre! +I’ll make your grave-clothes yet, and be a good Catholic when you’re in +the churchyard. Be off with you. Ach,” he sharply added, when Filion did +not move, “I’ll cut your hair for you!” He scrambled off the bench with +his shears. + +Filion Lacasse disappeared with his friends, and the old man settled +back on his bench. + +Charley, looking up quietly from his work, said “Thank you, Monsieur.” + +He did not notice what an evil look was in Louis Trudel’s face as it +turned towards him, but Rosalie Evanturel, standing outside, saw it; and +she stole back to the post-office ill at ease and wondering. + +All that day she watched the tailor’s shop, and even when the door was +shut in the evening, her eyes were fastened on the windows. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. THE SIGN FROM HEAVEN + +The agitation and curiosity possessing Rosalie all day held her in the +evening when the wooden shutters of the tailor’s shop were closed and +only a flickering light showed through the cracks. She was restless and +uneasy during supper, and gave more than one unmeaning response to +the remarks of her crippled father, who, drawn up for supper in his +wheel-chair, was more than usually inclined to gossip. + +Damase Evanturel’s mind was stirred concerning the loss of the iron +cross; the threat made by Filion Lacasse and his companions troubled +him. The one person beside the Cure, Jo Portugais, and Louis Trudel, to +whom M’sieu’ talked much, was the postmaster, who sometimes met him of +an evening as he was taking the air. More than once he had walked behind +the wheel-chair and pushed it some distance, making the little crippled +man gossip of village matters. + +As the two sat at supper the postmaster was inclined to take a serious +view of M’sieu’s position. He railed at Filion Lacasse; he called the +suspicious habitants clodhoppers, who didn’t know any better--which +was a tribute to his own superior birth; and at last, carried away by a +feverish curiosity, he suggested that Rosalie should go and look through +the cracks in the shutters of the tailor-shop and find out what was +going on within. This was indignantly rejected by Rosalie, but the more +she thought, the more uneasy she became. She ceased to reply to her +father’s remarks, and he at last relapsed into gloom, and said that +he was tired and would go to bed. Thereupon she wheeled him inside his +bedroom, bade him good-night, and left him to his moodiness, which, +however, was soon absorbed in a deep sleep, for the mind of the little +grey postmaster could no more hold trouble or thought than a sieve. + +Left alone, Rosalie began to be tortured. What were they doing in the +house opposite? + +Go and look through the windows? But she had never spied on people in +her life! Yet would it be spying? Would it not be pardonable? In the +interest of the man who had been attacked in the morning by the tailor, +who had been threatened by the saddler, and concerning whom she had seen +a signal pass between old Louis and Filion Lacasse, would it not be a +humane thing to do? It might be foolish and feminine to be anxious, but +did she not mean well, and was it not, therefore, honourable? + +The mystery inflamed her imagination. Charley’s passiveness when he was +assaulted by old Louis and afterwards threatened by the saddler seemed +to her indifference to any sort of danger--the courage of the hopeless +life, maybe. Instantly her heart overflowed with sympathy. Monsieur was +not a Catholic perhaps? Well, so much the more he should be befriended, +for he was so much the more alone and helpless. If a man was born a +Protestant--or English--he could not help it, and should not be punished +in this world for it, since he was sure to be punished in the next. + +Her mind became more and more excited. The postoffice had been long +since closed, and her father was asleep--she could hear him snoring. +It was ten o’clock, and there was still a light in the tailor’s +shop. Usually the light went out before nine o’clock. She went to the +post-office door and looked out. The streets were empty; there was not +a light burning anywhere, save in the house of the Notary. Down towards +the river a sleigh was making its way over the thin snow of spring, and +screeching on the stones. Some late revellers, moving homewards from the +Trois Couronnes, were roaring at the top of their voices the habitant +chanson, ‘Le Petit Roger Bontemps’: + + “For I am Roger Bontemps, + Gai, gai, gai! + With drink I am full and with joy content, + Gai, gaiment!” + +The chanson died away as she stood there, and still the light was +burning in the shop opposite. A thought suddenly came to her. She would +go over and see if the old housekeeper, Margot Patry, had gone to bed. +Here was the solution to the problem, the satisfaction of modesty and +propriety. + +She crossed the street quickly, hurried round the corner of the house, +and was passing the side-window of the shop, when a crack in the +shutters caught her eye. She heard something fall on the floor within. +Could it be that the tailor and M’sieu’ were working at so late an hour? +She had an irresistible impulse, and glued her eye to the crack. + +But presently she started back with a smothered cry. There by the great +fireplace stood Louis Trudel picking up a red-hot cross with a pair of +pincers. Grasping the iron firmly just below the arms of the cross, the +tailor held it up again. He looked at it with a wild triumph, yet with a +malignancy little in keeping with the object he held--the holy relic he +had stolen from the door of the parish church. The girl gave a low cry +of dismay. + +She saw old Louis advance stealthily towards the door of the shop +leading into the house. In bewilderment, she stood still an instant, +then, with a sudden impulse, she ran to the kitchen-door and tried it +softly. It was not locked. She opened it, entered quickly, and found old +Margot standing in the middle of the room in her night-dress. + +“Oh, Rosalie, Rosalie!” cried the old woman, “something’s going to +happen. M’sieu’ Trudel has been queer all evening. I peeped in the +key-hole of the shop just now, and--” + +“Yes, yes, I’ve seen too. Come!” said Rosalie, and going quickly to the +door, opened it, and passed through to another room. Here she opened +another door, leading into the hall between the shop and the house. +Entering the hall, she saw a glimmer of light above. It was the reddish +glow of the iron cross held by old Louis. She crept softly up the stone +steps. She heard a door open very quietly. She hurried now, and came to +the landing. She saw the door of Charley’s room open--all the village +knew what room he slept in--and the moonlight was streaming in at the +window. + +She saw the sleeping man on the bed, and the tailor standing over him. +Charley was lying with one arm thrown above his head; the other lay over +the side of the bed. + +As she rushed forward, divining old Louis’ purpose, the fiery +cross descended, and a voice cried: “‘Show me a sign from Heaven, +tailor-man!’” + +This voice was drowned by that of another, which, gasping with agony +out of a deep sleep, as the body sprang upright, cried: “God-oh God!” + Rosalie’s hand grasped old Louis’ arm too late. The tailor sprang +back with a horrible laugh, striking her aside, and rushed out to the +landing. + +“Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!” cried Rosalie, and, snatching a scarf from +her bosom, thrust it in upon the excoriated breast, as Charley, hardly +realising what had happened, choked back moans of pain. + +“What did he do?” he gasped. + +“The iron cross from the church door!” she answered. “A minute, one +minute, Monsieur!” + +She rushed out upon the landing in time to see the tailor stumble on +the stairs and fall head forwards to the bottom, at the feet of Margot +Patry. + +Rosalie paid no heed to the fallen man. “Oil! flour! Quick!” she cried. +“Quick! Quick!” She stepped over the body of the tailor, snatched at +Margot’s arm, and dragged her into the kitchen. “Quick-oil and flour!” + +The old woman showed her where they were, moaning and whining. + +“He tried to kill Monsieur,” cried Rosalie, “burned him on the breast +with the holy cross!” + +With oil and flour she hurried back, over the body of the tailor, up +the stairs, and into Charley’s room. Charley was now out of bed and half +dressed, though choking with pain, and preserving consciousness only by +a great effort. + +“Good Mademoiselle!” he said. + +She took the scarf off gently, soaked it in oil and splashed it with +flour, and laid it quickly back on the burnt flesh. + +Margot came staggering into the room. + +“I cannot rouse him. I cannot rouse him. He is dead! He is dead!” she +whimpered. + +“He--” + +Charley swayed forward towards the woman, recovered himself, and said: + +“Now not a word of what he did to me, remember. Not one word, or you +will go to jail with him. If you keep quiet, I’ll say nothing. He didn’t +know what he was doing.” He turned to Rosalie. “Not a word of this, +please,” he moaned. “Hide the cross.” + +He moved towards the door. Rosalie saw his purpose, and ran out ahead of +him and down the stairs to where the tailor lay prone on his face, one +hand still holding the pincers. The little iron cross lay in a dark +corner. Stooping, she lifted up the tailor’s head, then felt his heart. + +“He is not dead,” she cried. “Quick, Margot, some water,” she added, +to the whimpering woman. Margot tottered away, and came again presently +with the water. + +“I will go for some one to help,” Rosalie said, rising to her feet, +as she saw Charley come slowly down the staircase, his face white with +misery. She ran and took his arm to help him down. + +“No, no, dear Mademoiselle,” he said; “I shall be all right presently. +You must get help to carry him up stairs. Bring the Notary; he and I can +carry him up.” + +“You, Monsieur! You--it would kill you! You are terribly hurt.” + +“I must help to carry him, else people will be asking questions,” he +answered painfully. “He is going to die. It must not be known--you +understand!” His eyes searched the floor until they found the cross. +Rosalie picked it up with the pincers. “It must not be known what he did +to me,” Charley said to the muttering and weeping old woman. He caught +her shoulder with his hand, for she seemed scarcely to heed. + +She nodded. “Yes, yes, M’sieu’, I will never speak.” Rosalie was +standing in the door. “Go quickly, Mademoiselle,” he said. She +disappeared with the iron cross, and flying across the street, thrust it +inside the post-office, then ran to the house of the Notary. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. THE RETURN OF THE TAILOR + +Twenty minutes later the tailor was lying in his bed, breathing, but +still unconscious, the Notary, M’sieu’, and the doctor of the next +parish, who by chance was in Chaudiere, beside him. Charley’s face was +drawn and haggard with pain, for he had helped to carry old Louis to +bed, though every motion of his arms gave him untold agony. In the +doorway stood Rosalie and Margot Patry. + +“Will he live?” asked the Notary. + +The doctor shook his head. “A few hours, perhaps. He fell downstairs?” + +Charley nodded. There was silence for some time, as the doctor went on +with his ministrations, and the Notary sat drumming his fingers on the +little table beside the bed. The two women stole away to the kitchen, +where Rosalie again pressed secrecy on Margot. In the interest of the +cause she had even threatened Margot with a charge of complicity. She +had heard the phrase “accessory before the fact,” and she used it now +with good effect. + +Then she took some fresh flour and oil, and thrust them inside the +bedroom door where Charley now sat clinching his hands and fighting down +the pain. Careful as ever of his personal appearance, however, he had +brushed every speck of flour from his clothes, and buttoned his coat up +to the neck. + +Nearly an hour passed, and then the Cure appeared. When he entered the +sick man’s room, Charley followed, and again Rosalie and old Margot came +and stood within the doorway. + +“Peace be to this house!” said the Cure. He had a few minutes of +whispered conversation with the doctor, and then turned to Charley. + +“He fell down-stairs, Monsieur? You saw him fall?” + +“I was in my room--I heard him fall, Cure.” + +“Had he been ill during the day?” + +“He appeared to be feeble, and he seemed moody.” + +“More than usual, Monsieur?” The Cure had heard of the incident of the +morning when Filion Lacasse accused Charley of stealing the cross. + +“Rather more than usual, Monsieur.” + +The Cure turned towards the door. “You, Mademoiselle Rosalie, how came +you to know?” + +“I was in the kitchen with Margot, who was not well.” + +The Cure looked at Margot, who tearfully nodded. “I was ill,” she said, +“and Rosalie was here with me. She helped M’sieu’ and me. Rosalie is a +good girl, and kind to me,” she whimpered. + +The Cure seemed satisfied, and after looking at the sick man for a +moment, he came close to Charley. “I am deeply pained at what happened +to-day,” he said courteously. “I know you have had nothing to do with +the beloved little cross.” + +The Notary tried to draw near and listen, but the Cure’s look held him +back. The doctor was busy with his patient. + +“You are only just, Monsieur,” said Charley in response, wishing that +these kind eyes were fixed anywhere than on his face. + +All at once the Cure laid a hand upon his arm. “You are ill,” he said +anxiously. “You look very ill indeed. See, Vaudrey,” he added to the +doctor, “you have another patient here!” + +The friendly, oleaginous doctor came over and peered into Charley’s +face. “Ill-sure enough!” he said. “Look at this sweat!” he pointed to +the drops of perspiration on Charley’s forehead. “Where do you suffer?” + +“Severe pains all through my body,” Charley answered simply, for it +seemed easier to tell the truth, as near as might be. + +“I must look to you,” said the doctor. “Go and lie down, and I will come +to you.” + +Charley bowed, but did not move. Just then two things drew the attention +of all: the tailor showed returning consciousness, and there was noise +of many voices outside the house and the tramping of feet below-stairs. + +“Go and tell them no one must come up,” said the doctor to the Notary, +and the Cure made ready to say the last offices for the dying. + +Presently the noise below-stairs diminished, and the priest’s voice +rose in the office, vibrating and touching. The two women sank to their +knees, the doctor followed, his eyes still fixed on the dying man. +Presently, however, Charley did the same; for something penetrating and +reasonable in the devotion touched him. + +All at once Louis Trudel opened his eyes. Staring round with acute +excitement, his eyes fell on the Cure, then upon Charley. + +“Stop--stop, M’sieu’ le Cure!” he cried. “There’s other work to do.” He +gasped and was convulsed, but the pallor of his face was alive with fire +from the distempered eyes. He snatched from his breast the paper Charley +had neglected to burn. He thrust it into the Curb’s hand. + +“See--see!” he croaked. “He is an infidel--black infidel--from hell!” + His voice rose in a kind of shriek, piercing to every corner of the +house. He pointed at Charley with shaking finger. + +“He wrote it there--on that paper. He doesn’t--believe in God.” + +His strength failed him, his hand clutched tremblingly at the air. He +laughed, a dry, crackling laugh, and his mouth opened twice or thrice +to speak, but gasping breaths only came forth. With a last effort, +however--as the priest, shocked, stretched out his hand and said: “Have +done, have done, Trudel!”--he cried, in a voice that quavered shrilly: + +“He asked--tailor-man--sign--from--Heaven. Look-look!” He pointed wildly +at Charley. “I--gave him--sign of--” + +But that was the end. With a shudder the body collapsed in a formless +heap, and the tailor-man was gone to tell of the work he had done for +his faith on earth. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. THE CURE HAS AN INSPIRATION + +White and malicious faces peered through the doorway. There was an ugly +murmur coming up the staircase. Many habitants had heard Louis Trudel’s +last words, and had passed them on with vehement exaggeration. + +Chaudiere had been touched in its most superstitious corner. +Protestantism was a sin, but atheism was a crime against humanity. The +Protestant might be the victim of a mistake, but the atheist was the +deliberate son of darkness, the source of fearful dangers. An atheist in +their midst was like a scorpion in a flower-bed--no one could tell when +and where he would sting. Rough misdemeanours among them had been many, +there had once been a murder in the parish, but the undefined horrors of +infidelity were more shameful than crimes the eye could see. + +To the minds of these excited people the tailor-man’s death was due to +the infidel before them. They were ready to do all that might become +a Catholic intent to avenge the profaned honour of the Church and the +faith. Bodily harm was the natural form for their passion to take. + +“Bring him out--let us have him!” they cried with fierce gestures, to +which Rosalie Evanturel turned a pained, indignant face. + +As the Curb stood with the paper in his hand, his face set and bitter, +Rosalie made a step forward. She meant to tell the truth about Louis +Trudel, and show how good this man was, who stood charged with an +imaginary crime. But she met the warning eye of the man himself, calm +and resolute, she saw the suffering in the face, endured with what +composure! and she felt instantly that she must obey him, and that--who +could tell?--his plan might be the best in the end. She looked at the +Cure anxiously. What would he say and do? In the Cure’s heart and mind a +great struggle was going on. All his inherent prejudice, the hereditary +predisposition of centuries, the ingrain hatred of atheism, were alive +in him, hardening his mind against the man before him. His first +impulse was to let Charley take his fate at the hands of the people +of Chaudiere, whatever it might be. But as he looked at the man, as he +recalled their first meeting, and remembered the simple, quiet life he +had lived among them--charitable, and unselfish--the barriers of creed +and habit fell down, and tears unbidden rushed into his eyes. + +The Cure had, all at once, the one great inspiration of his life--its +one beautiful and supreme imagining. For thus he reasoned swiftly: + +Here he was, a priest who had shepherded a flock of the faithful passed +on to him by another priest before him, who again had received them from +a guardian of the fold--a family of faithful Catholics whose thoughts +never strayed into forbidden realms. He had done no more than keep them +faithful and prevent them from wandering--counselling, admonishing, +baptising, and burying, giving in marriage and blessing, sending them on +their last great journey with the cachet of Holy Church upon them. But +never once, never in all his life, had he brought a lost soul into +the fold. If he died to-night, he could not say to St. Peter, when he +arrived at Heaven’s gate: “See, I have saved a soul!” Before the Throne +he could not say to Him who cried: “Go ye into all the world and preach +the gospel to every creature”--he could not say: “Lord, by Thy grace +I found this soul in the wilderness, in the dark and the loneliness, +having no God to worship, denial and rebellion in his heart; and behold, +I took him to my breast, and taught him in Thy name, and led him home to +Thy haven, the Church!” + +Thus it was that the Cure dreamed a dream. He would set his life to +saving this lost soul. He would rescue him from the outer darkness. + +His face suffused, he handed the paper in his hand back to the man +who had written the words upon it. Then he lifted his hand against the +people at the door and the loud murmuring behind them. + +“Peace--peace!” he said, as though from the altar. “Leave this room of +death, I command you. Go at once to your homes. This man”--he pointed to +Charley--“is my friend. Who seeks to harm him, would harm me. Go hence +and pray. Pray for yourselves, pray for him, and for me; and pray for +the troubled soul of Louis Trudel. Go in peace.” + +Soon afterwards the house was empty, save for the Cure, Charley, old +Margot, and the Notary. + +That night Charley sat in the tailor’s bedroom, rigid and calm, though +racked with pain, and watched the candles flickering beside the dead +body. He was thinking of the Cure’s last words to the people. + +“I wonder--I wonder,” he said, and through his eyeglass he stared at the +crucifix that threw a shadow on the dead man’s face. Morning found him +there. As dawn crept in he rose to his feet. “Whither now?” he said, +like one in a dream. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. THE WOMAN WHO SAW + +Up to the moment of her meeting with Charley, Rosalie Evanturel’s life +had been governed by habit, which was lightly coloured by temperament. +Since the eventful hour on Vadrome Mountain it had become a life of +temperament, in which habit was involuntary and mechanical. She did her +daily duties with a good heart, but also with a sense superior to the +practical action. This grew from day to day, until, in the tragical days +wherein she had secretly played a great part, she moved as in a dream, +but a dream so formal that no one saw any change taking place in her, or +associated her with the events happening across the way. + +She had been compelled to answer many questions, for it was known she +was in the tailor’s house when Louis Trudel fell down-stairs, but what +more was there to tell than that she had run for the Notary, and +sent word to the Cure, and that she was present when the tailor died, +charging M’sieu’ with being an infidel? At first she was ill disposed +to answer any questions, but she soon felt that attitude would only do +harm. For the first time in her life she was face to face with moral +problems--the beginning of sorrow, of knowledge, and of life. + +In all secrets there is a kind of guilt, however beautiful or joyful +they may be, or for what good end they may be set to serve. Secrecy +means evasion, and evasion means a problem to the moral mind. To the +primitive mind, with its direct yes and no, there is danger of it +becoming a tragical problem ere it is realised that truth is various +and diverse. Perhaps even with that Mary who hid the matter in her +heart--the exquisite tragedy and glory of Christendom--there was a +delicate feeling of guilt, the guilt of the hidden though lofty and +beautiful thing. + +If secrecy was guilt, then Charley and Rosalie were bound together by +a bond as strong as death: Rosalie held the key to a series of fateful +days and doings. + +In ordinary course, they might have known each other for five years and +not have come to this sensitive and delicate association. With one great +plunge she had sprung into the river of understanding. In the moment +that she had thrust her scarf into his scorched breast, in that little +upper room, the work of years had been done. + +As long as he lived, that mark must remain on M’sieu’s breast--the red, +smooth scar of a cross! She had seen the sort of shining scar a bad burn +makes, and at thought of it she flushed, trembled, and turned her +head away, as though some one were watching her. Even in the night +she flushed and buried her face in the pillow when the thought flashed +through her mind; though when she had soaked the scarf in oil and +flour and laid it on the angry wound she had not flushed at all, was +determined, quiet, and resourceful. + +That incident had made her from a girl into a woman, from a child of the +convent into a child of the world. She no longer thought and felt as she +had done before. What she did think or feel could not easily have been +set down, for her mind was one tremulous confusion of unusual thoughts, +her heart was beset by new feelings, her imagination, suddenly finding +itself, was trying its wings helplessly. The past was full of wonder and +event, the present full of surprises. + +There was M’sieu’ established already in Louis Trudel’s place, having +been granted a lease of the house and shop by the Curte, on the part of +the parish, to which the property had been left; receiving also a gift +of the furniture and of old Margot, who remained where she had been so +many years. She could easily see Charley at work--pale and suffering +still--for the door was generally open in the sweet April weather, +with the birds singing, and the trees bursting into blossom. Her wilful +imagination traced the cross upon his breast--it almost seemed as if it +were outside upon his clothes, exposed to every eye, a shining thing all +fire, not a wound inside, for which old Margot prepared oiled linen now. + +The parish was as perturbed as her own mind, for the mystery of the +stolen cross had never been cleared up, and a few still believed that +M’sieu’ had taken it. They were of those who kept hinting at dark things +which would yet be worked upon the infidel in the tailor’s shop. These +were they to whom the Curb’s beautiful ambition did not appeal. He had +said that if the man were an infidel, then they must pray that he be +brought into the fold; but a few were still suspicious, and they said in +Rosalie’s presence: “Where is the little cross? M’sieu’ knows.” + +He did know. That was the worst of it. The cross was in her possession. +Was it not necessary, then, to quiet suspicion for his sake? She had +locked the relic away in a cupboard in her bedroom, and she carried the +key of it always in her pocket. Every day she went and looked at it, +as at some ghostly token. To her it was a symbol, not of supernatural +things, but of life in its new reality to her. It was M’sieu’, it was +herself, it was their secret--she chafed inwardly that Margot should +share a part of that secret. If it were only between their two +selves--between M’sieu’ and herself! If Margot--she paused suddenly, +for she was going to say, If Margot would only die! She was not wicked +enough to wish that; yet in the past few weeks she had found herself +capable of thinking things beyond the bounds of any past experience. + +She found a solution at last. She would go to-night secretly and nail +the cross again on the church door, and so stop the chatter of evil +tongues. The moon set very early now, and as every one in Chaudiere was +supposed to be in bed by ten o’clock, the chances of not being seen were +in her favour. She received the final impetus to her resolution by a +quarrelsome and threatening remark of Jo Portugais to some sharp-tongued +gossip in the post-office. She was glad that Jo should defend M’sieu’, +but she was jealous of his friendship for the tailor. Besides, did there +not appear to be a secret between Jo and M’sieu’? Was it not possible +that Jo knew where M’sieu’ came from, and all about him? Of late Jo +had come in and gone out of the shop oftener than in the past, had even +brought her bunches of mosses for her flower-pots, the first budding +lilacs, and some maple-sugar made from the trees on Vadrome Mountain. +She remembered that when she was a girl at school, years ago--ten years +ago--Jo Portugais, then scarcely out of his teens, a cheerful, pleasant, +quick-tempered lad, had brought her bunches of the mountain-ash berry; +that once he had mended the broken runner of her sled; and yet another +time had sent her a birch-bark valentine at the convent, where it was +confiscated by the Mother Superior. Since those days he had become a +dark morose figure, living apart from men, never going to confession, +seldom going to Mass, unloving and unlovable. + +There was only one other person in the parish more unloved. That was the +woman called Paulette Dubois, who lived in the little house at the outer +gate of the Manor. Paulette Dubois had a bad name in the parish--so bad +that all women shunned her, and few men noticed her. Yet no one +could say that at the present time she did not live a careful life, +justifying, so far as eye could see, the protection of the Seigneur, +M. Rossignol, a man of queer habits and queerer dress, a dabbler in +physical science, a devout Catholic, and a constant friend of the Cure. +He it was who, when an effort was made to drive Paulette out of the +parish, had said that she should not go unless she wished; that, having +been born in Chaudiere, she had a right to live there and die there; and +if she had sinned there, the parish was in some sense to blame. Though +he had no lodge-gates, and though the seigneury was but a great wide +low-roofed farmhouse, with an observatory, and a chimney-piece dating +from the time of Louis the Fourteenth, the Seigneur gave Paulette Dubois +a little hut at his outer gate, which had been there since the great +Count Frontenac visited Chaudiere. Probably Rosalie spoke to Paulette +Dubois more often than did any one else in the parish, but that was +because the woman came for little things at the shop, and asked for +letters, and every week sent one--to a man living in Montreal. She sent +these letters, but not more than once in six months did she get a reply, +and she had not had one in a whole year. Yet every week she asked, and +Rosalie found it hard to answer her politely, and sometimes showed it. + +So it was that the two disliked each other without good cause, save that +they were separated by a chasm as wide as a sea. The one disliked the +other because she must recognise her; the other chafed because she could +be recognised by Rosalie officially only. + +The late afternoon of the day in which Rosalie decided to nail the cross +on the church door again, Paulette arrived to ask for letters at the +moment that the office wicket was closed, and Rosalie had answered that +it was after office hours, and had almost closed the door in her face. +As she turned away Jo Portugais came out of the tailor-shop opposite. +He saw Paulette, and stood still an instant. She did the same. A strange +look passed across the face of each, then they turned and went in +opposite directions. + +Never in her life had time gone so slowly with Rosalie. She watched +the clock. A dozen times she went to the front door and looked out. She +tried to read--it was no use; she tried to spin-her fingers trembled; +she sorted the letters in the office again, and rearranged every letter +and parcel and paper in its little pigeonhole--then did it all over +again. She took out again the letter Paulette had dropped in the +letter-box; it was addressed in the name of the man at Montreal. She +looked at it in a kind of awe, as she had ever done the letters of this +woman who was without the pale. They had a sense of mystery, an air of +forbidden imagination. + +She put the letter back, went to the door again, and looked out. It was +now time to go. Drawing a hood over her head, she stepped out into the +night. There was a little frost, though spring was well forward, and the +smell of the rich earth and the budding trees was sweet to the sense. +The moon had just set, but the stars were shining, and here and there +patches of snow on the hillside and in the fields added to the light. +Yet it was not bright enough to see far, and as Rosalie moved down the +street she did not notice a figure at a little distance behind, walking +on the new-springing grass by the roadside. All was quiet at the tavern; +there was no light in the Notary’s house--as a rule, he sat up late, +reading; and even the fiddle of Maximilian Cour, the baker, was silent. +The Cure’s windows were dark, and the church with its white tin spire +stood up sentinel-like above the village. + +Rosalie had the fateful cross in her hand as she softly opened the +gate of the churchyard and approached the great oak doors. Taking a +screw-driver and some screws from her pocket, she felt with a finger +for the old screw-holes in the door. Then she began her work, looking +fearfully round once or twice at first. Presently, however, because the +screws were larger than the old ones, it became much harder; the task +called forth more strength, and drove all thought of being seen out of +her mind for a space. At last, however, she gave the final turn to the +handle, and every screw was in its place, its top level and smooth with +the iron of the cross. She stopped and looked round again with an uneasy +feeling. She could see no one, hear no one, but she began to tremble, +and, overcome, she fell on her knees before the door, and, with her +fingers on the foot of the little cross, prayed passionately; for +herself, for Monsieur. + +Suddenly she heard footsteps inside the church. They were coming towards +the doorway, nearer and nearer. At first she was so struck with terror +that she could not move. Then with a little cry she sprang to her feet, +rushed to the gate, threw it open, ran out into the road, ind wildly on +towards home. She did not stop for at least three hundred yards. Turning +and looking back she saw at the church door a pale round light. With +another cry she sped on, and did not pause till she reached the house. +Then, bursting in and locking the door, she hurried to her room, +undressed quickly, got into bed without saying her prayers, and buried +her face in the pillow, shivering and overwrought. + +The footsteps she had heard were those of the Cure and Jo Portugais. +The Cure had sent for Jo to do some last work upon a little altar, to +be used the next day for the first time. The carpenter and the carver +in wood who were responsible for the work had fallen victims to white +whiskey on the very last day of their task, and had been driven from the +church by the Cure, who then sent for Jo. Rosalie had not seen the light +at the shrine, as it was on the side of the church farthest from the +village. + +Their labour finished, the two came towards the front door, the Cure’s +lantern in his hand. Opening the door, Jo heard the sound of +footsteps and saw a figure flying down the road. As the Cure came out +abstractedly, he glanced sorrowfully towards the place where the little +cross was used to be. He gave a wondering cry, and almost dropped the +lantern. + +“See, see, Portugais,” he said, “our little cross again!” Jo nodded. “So +it seems, Monsieur,” he said. + +At that instant he saw a hood lying on the ground, and as the Cure held +up the lantern, peering at the little cross, he hastily picked it up and +thrust it inside his coat. + +“Strange--very strange!” said the Cure. “It must have been done while we +were inside. It was not there when we entered.” + +“We entered by the vestry door,” said Jo. + +“Ah, true-true,” responded the Cure. + +“It comes as it went,” said Jo. “You can’t account for some things.” + +The Cure turned and looked at Jo curiously. “Are you then so +superstitious, Jo? Nonsense; it is the work of human hands--very human +hands,” he added sadly. + +“There is nothing to show,” said the Cure, seeing Jo’s glance round. + +“As you see, M’sieu’ le Cure.” + +“Well, it is a mystery which time no doubt will clear up. Meanwhile, let +us be thankful to God,” said the Cure. + +They parted, the Cure going through a side-gate into his own garden, Jo +passing out of the churchyard-gate through which Rosalie had gone. He +looked down the road towards the village. + +“Well!” said a voice in his ear. Paulette Dubois stood before him. + +“It was you, then,” he said, with a glowering look. “What did you want +with it?” + +“What do you want with the hood in your coat there?” She threw her head +back with a spiteful laugh. “Whose do you think it is?” he said quietly. + +“You and the schoolmaster made verses about her once.” + +“It was Rosalie Evanturel?” he asked, with aggravating composure. + +“You have the hood-look at it! You saw her running down the road; I +saw her come, watched her, and saw her go. She is a thief--pretty +Rosalie--thief and postmistress! No doubt she takes letters too.” + +“The ones you wait for, and that never come--eh?” Her face darkened with +rage and hatred. “I will tell the world she’s a thief,” she sneered. + +“Who will believe you?” + +“You will.” She was hard and fierce, and looked him in the eyes +squarely. “You’ll give evidence quick enough, if I ask you.” + +“I wouldn’t do anything you asked me to-nothing, if it was to save my +life.” + +“I’ll prove her a thief without you. She can’t deny it.” + +“If you try it, I’ll--” He stopped, husky and shaking. + +“You’ll kill me, eh? You killed him, and you didn’t hang. Oh no, you +wouldn’t kill me, Jo,” she added quickly, in a changed voice. “You’ve +had enough of that kind of thing. If I’d been you, I’d rather have +hung--ah, sure!” She suddenly came close to him. “Do you hate me so bad, +Jo?” she said anxiously. “It’s eight years--do you hate me so bad as +then?” + +“You keep your tongue off Rosalie Evanturel,” he said, and turned on his +heel. + +She caught his arm. “We’re both bad, Jo. Can’t we be friends?” she said +eagerly, her voice shaking. + +He did not reply. + +“Don’t drive a woman too hard,” she said between her teeth. + +“Threats! Pah!” he rejoined. “What do you think I’m made of?” + +“I’ll find that out,” she said, and, turning on her heel, ran down the +road towards the Manor House. “What had Rosalie to do with the cross?” + Jo said to himself. “This is her hood.” He took it out and looked at it. +“It’s her hood--but what did she want with the cross?” + +He hurried on, and as he neared the post-office he saw the figure of a +woman in the road. At first he thought it might be Rosalie, but as he +came nearer he saw it was not. The woman was muttering and crying. She +wandered to and fro bewilderedly. He came up, caught her by the arm, and +looked into her face. + +It was old Margot Patry. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. THE WOMAN WHO DID NOT TELL. “Oh, M’sieu’, I am afraid.” + +“Afraid of what, Margot?” + +“Of the last moment, M’sieu’ le Cure.” + +“There will be no last moment to your mind--you will not know it when it +comes, Margot.” + +The woman trembled. “I am not sorry to die. But I am afraid; it is so +lonely, M’sieu’ le Cure.” + +“God is with us, Margot.” + +“When we are born we do not know. It is on the shoulders of others. When +we die we know, and we have to answer.” + +“Is the answering so hard, Margot?” + +The woman shook her head feebly and sadly, but did not speak. + +“You have been a good mother, Margot.” She made no sign. + +“You have been a good neighbour; you have done unto others as you would +be done by.” + +She scarcely seemed to hear. + +“You have been a good servant--doing your duty in season and out of +season; honest and just and faithful.” + +The woman’s fingers twitched on the coverlet, and she moved her head +restlessly. + +The Curb almost smiled, for it seemed as if Margot were finding herself +wanting. Yet none in Chaudiere but knew that she had lived a blameless +life--faithful, friendly, a loving and devoted mother, whose health had +been broken by sleepless attendance at sick-beds by night, while doing +her daily work at the house of the late Louis Trudel. + +“I will answer for the way you have done your duty, Margot,” said the +Cure. “You have been a good daughter of the Church.” + +He paused a minute, and in the pause some one rose from a chair by +the window and looked out on the sunset sky. It was Charley. The woman +heard, and turned her eyes towards him. “Do you wish him to go?” asked +the Cure. + +“No, no--oh no, M’sieu’!” she said eagerly. She had asked all day that +either Rosalie or M’sieu’ should be in the room with her. It would seem +as though she were afraid she had not courage enough to keep the secret +of the cross without their presence. Charley had yielded to her request, +while he shrank from granting it. Yet, as he said to himself, the woman +was keeping his secret--his and Rosalie’s--and she had some right to +make demand. + +When the Cure asked the question of old Margot, he turned expectantly, +and with a sense of relief. He thought it strange that the Cure should +wish him to remain. The Cure, on his part, was well pleased to have him +in the influence of a Christian death-bed. A time must come when the +last confidences of the dying woman could be given to no ears but his +own, but meanwhile it was good that M’sieu’ should be there. + +“M’sieu’ le Cure,” said the dying woman, “must I tell all?” + +“All what, Margot?” + +“All that is sin?” + +“There is no must, Margot.” + +“If you should ask me, M’sieu’--” + +She paused, and the man at the window turned and looked curiously at +her. He saw the problem in the woman’s mind: had she the right to die +with the secret of another’s crime upon her mind? + +“The priest does not ask, Margot: it is you who confess your sins. That +is between you and God.” + +The Cure spoke firmly, for he wanted the man at the window to clearly +understand. + +“But if there are the sins of others, and you know, and they trouble +your soul, M’sieu’?” + +“You have nothing to do with the sins of others; it is enough to repent +of your own sins. The priest has nothing to do with any sins but those +confessed by the sinner to himself. Your own sins are your sole concern +to-night, Margot.” + +The woman’s face seemed to clear a little, and her eyes wandered to +the man at the window with less anxiety. Charley was wondering whether, +after all, she would have the courage to keep her word, whether +spiritual terror would surmount the moral attitude of honour. He was +also wondering how much right he had to put the strain upon the woman +in her desperate hour. “How long did the doctor say I could live?” the +woman asked presently. + +“Till morning, perhaps, Margot.” + +“I should like to live till sunrise,” she answered, “till after +breakfast. Rosalie makes good tea,” she added musingly. + +The Cure almost smiled. “There is the Living Bread, my daughter.” + +She nodded. “But I should like to see the sunrise and have Rosalie bring +me tea,” she persisted. + +“Very well, Margot. We will ask God for that.” + +Her mind flew back again to the old question. + +“Is it wrong to keep a secret?” she asked, her face turned away from the +man at the window. + +“If it is the secret of a sin, and the sin is your own--yes, Margot.” + +“And if the sin is not your own?” + +“If you share the sin, and if the secret means injury to others, and a +wrong is being done, and the law can right that wrong, then you must go +to the law, not to your priest.” + +The Cure’s look was grave, even anxious, for he saw that the old woman’s +mind was greatly disturbed. But her face cleared now, and stayed so. +“It has all been a mix and a muddle,” she answered; “and it hurt my poor +head, M’sieu’ le Cure, but now I think I under stand. I am not afraid; I +will confess.” + +The Cure had made it clear to her that she could carry to her grave the +secret of the little cross and the work it had done, and so keep her +word and still not injure her chances of salvation. She was content. +She no longer needed the helpful presence of M’sieu’ or Rosalie. Charley +instinctively felt what was in her mind, and came towards the bed. + +“I will tell Mademoiselle Rosalie about the tea,” he said to her. + +She looked up at him, almost smiling. “Thank you, good M’sieu’,” she +said. + +“I will confess now, M’sieu’ le Cure” she continued. Charley left the +room. + +Towards morning Margot waked out of a brief sleep, and found the Cure +and his sister and others about her bed. + +“Is it near sunrise?” she whispered. + +“It is just sunrise. See; God has been good,” answered the Cure, drawing +open the blind and letting in the first golden rays. + +Rosalie entered the room with a cup of tea, and came towards the bed. + +Old Margot looked at the girl, at the tea, and then at the Cure. + +“Drink the tea for me, Rosalie,” she whispered. Rosalie did as she was +asked. + +She looked round feebly; her eyes were growing filmy. “I never +gave--so much--trouble--before,” she managed to say. “I never had--so +much--attention.... I can keep--a secret too,” she said, setting her +lips feebly with pride. “But I--never--had--so much--attention--before; +have I--Rosalie?” + +Rosalie did not need to answer, for the woman was gone. The crowning +interest of her life had come all at the last moment, as it were, and +she had gone away almost gladly and with a kind of pride. + +Rosalie also had a hidden pride: the secret was now her very own--hers +and M’sieu’s. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. THE SEIGNEUR TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME + +It was St. Jean Baptiste’s day, and French Canada was en fete. Every +seigneur, every cure, every doctor, every notary--the chief figures in a +parish--and every habitant was bent for a happy holiday, dressed in his +best clothes, moved in his best spirits, in the sweet summer weather. + +Bells were ringing, flags were flying, every road and lane was filled +with caleches and wagons, and every dog that could draw a cart pulled +big and little people, the old and the blind and the mendicant, the +happy and the sour, to the village, where there were to be sports and +speeches, races upon the river, and a review of the militia, arranged +by the member of the Legislature for the Chaudiere-half of the county. +French soldiers in English red coats and carrying British flags were +straggling along the roads to join the battalion at the volunteers’ camp +three miles from the town, and singing: + + “Brigadier, respondez Pandore-- + Brigadier, vous avez raison.” + +It was not less incongruous and curious when one group presently broke +out into ‘God save the Queen’, and another into the ‘Marseillaise’, and +another still into ‘Malbrouck s’en va t’en guerre’. At last songs and +soldiers were absorbed in the battalion at the rendezvous, and the long +dusty march to the village gave a disciplined note to the gaiety of the +militant habitant. + +At high noon Chaudiere was filled to overflowing. There were booths +and tents everywhere--all sorts of cheap-jacks vaunted their wares, +merry-go-rounds and swings and shooting-galleries filled the usual +spaces in the perspective. The Cure, M. Rossignol the Seigneur, and +the Notary stood on the church steps viewing the scene and awaiting the +approach of the soldier-citizens. The Seigneur and the Cure had ceased +listening to the babble of M. Dauphin, who seemed not to know that his +audience closed its ears and found refuge in a “Well, well!” or “Think +of that!” or an abstracted “You surprise me!” + +The Notary talked on with eager gesture and wreathing smile, shaking +back his oiled ringlets as though they trespassed on his smooth, +somewhat jaundiced cheeks, until it began to dawn upon him that there +was no coin of real applause to be got at this mint. Fortune favoured +him at the critical juncture, for the tailor walked slowly past them, +looking neither to right nor to left, his eyes cast upon the ground, +apparently oblivious to all round him. Almost opposite the church door, +however, Charley was suddenly stopped by Filion Lacasse, who ran out +from a group before the tavern, and, standing in front of him with +outstretched hand, said loudly: + +“M’sieu’, it’s all right. What you said done it, sure! I’m a thousand +dollars richer to-day. You may be an infidel, but you have a head, and +you save me money, and you give away your own, and that’s good enough +for me,”--he wrung Charley’s hand,--“and I don’t care who knows +it--sacre!” + +Charley did not answer him, but calmly withdrew his hand, smiled, raised +his hat at the lonely cheer the saddler raised, and passed on, scarce +conscious of what had happened. Indeed he was indifferent to it, for he +had a matter on his mind this day which bitterly absorbed him. + +But the Notary was not indifferent. “Look there, what do you think +of that?” he asked querulously. “I am glad to see that Lacasse treats +Monsieur well,” said the Cure. + +“What do you think of that, Monsieur?” repeated the Notary excitedly to +the Seigneur. + +The Seigneur put his large gold-handled glass to his eye and looked +interestedly after Charley for a moment, then answered: “Well, Dauphin, +what?” + +“He’s been giving Filion Lacasse advice about the old legacy business, +and Filion’s taken it; and he’s got a thousand dollars; and now there’s +all that fuss. And four months ago Filion wanted to tar and feather him +for being just what he is to-day--an infidel--an infidel!” + +He was going to say something else, but he did not like the look the +Cure turned on him, and he broke off short. + +“Do you regret that he gave Lacasse good advice?” asked the Cure. + +“It’s taking bread out of other men’s mouths.” + +“It put bread into Filion’s mouth. Did you ever give Lacasse advice? The +truth now, Dauphin!” said the Seigneur drily. + +“Yes, Monsieur, and sound advice too, within the law-precedent and code +and every legal fact behind.” The Seigneur was a man of laconic speech. +“Tut, tut, Dauphin; precedent and code and legal fact are only good when +there’s brain behind ‘em. The tailor yonder has brains.” + +“Ah, but what does he know about the law?” answered Dauphin, with +acrimonious voice but insinuating manner, for he loved to stand well +with the Seigneur. + +“Enough for the saddler evidently,” sharply rejoined the Seigneur. + +Dauphin was fighting for his life, as it were. His back was to the wall. +If this man was to be allowed to advise the habitants of Chaudiere on +their disputes and “going to law,” where would his own prestige be? His +vanity had been deeply wounded. + +“It’s guesswork with him. Let him stick to his trade as I stick to mine. +That sort of thing only does harm.” + +“He puts a thousand dollars into the saddler’s pocket: that’s a positive +good. He may or may not take thereby ten dollars out of your pocket: +that’s a negative injury. In this case there was no injury, for you had +already cost Lacasse--how much had you cost him, Dauphin?” continued the +Seigneur, with a half-malicious smile. “I’ve been out of Chaudiere for +near a year; I don’t know the record--how much, eh, Dauphin?” + +The Notary was too offended to answer. He shook his ringlets back +angrily, and a scarlet spot showed on each straw-coloured cheek. + +“Twenty dollars is what Lacasse paid our dear Dauphin,” said the Cure +benignly, “and a very proper charge. Lacasse probably gave Monsieur +there quite as much, and Monsieur will give it to the first poor man he +meets, or send it to the first sick person of whom he hears.” + +“My own opinion is, he’s playing some game here,” said the Notary. + +“We all play games,” said the Seigneur. “His seems to give him hard work +and little luxury. Will you bring him to see me at the Manor, my dear +Cure?” he added. “He will not go. I have asked him.” + +“Then I shall visit him at his tailor-shop,” said the Seigneur. “I need +a new suit.” + +“But you always had your clothes made in Quebec, Monsieur,” said the +Notary, still carping. + +“We never had such a tailor,” answered the Seigneur. + +“We’ll hear more of him before we’re done with him,” obstinately urged +the Notary. + +“It would give Dauphin the greatest pleasure if our tailor proved to be +a murderer or a robber. I suppose you believe that he stole our little +cross here,” the Cure added, turning to the church door, where his eye +lingered lovingly on the relic, hanging on a pillar just inside, whither +he had had it removed. + +“I’m not sure yet he hadn’t something to do with it,” was the stubborn +response. + +“If he did, may it bring him peace at last!” said the Cure piously. “I +have set my heart on nailing him to our blessed faith as that cross is +fixed to the pillar yonder--‘I will fasten him like a nail in a sure +place,’ says the Book. I take it hard that my friend Dauphin will not +help me on the way. Suppose the man were evil, then the Church should +try to snatch him like a brand from the burning. But suppose that in his +past there was no wrong necessary to be hidden in the present--and this +I believe with all my heart; suppose that he was wronged, not wronging: +then how much more should the Church strive to win him to the light! +Why, man, have you no pride in Holy Church? I am ashamed of you, +Dauphin, with your great intelligence, your wide reading. With our +knowledge of the world we should be broader.” + +The Seigneur’s eyes were turned away, for there was in them at once +humour and a suspicious moisture. Of all men in the world he most +admired the Cure, for his utter truth and nobility; but he could not +help smiling at his enthusiasm--his dear Cure turned evangelist like any +“Methody”!--and at the appeal of the Notary on the ground of knowledge +of the world. He was wise enough to count himself an old fogy, a +provincial, and “a simon-pure habitant,” but of the three he only had +any knowledge of life. As men of the world the Cure and the Notary +were sad failures, though they stood for much in Chaudiere. Yet this +detracted nothing from the fine gentlemanliness of the Cure or the +melodramatic courtesy of the Notary. + +Amused and touched as the Seigneur had been at the Cure’s words, he +turned now and said: “Always on the weaker side, Cure; always hoping the +best from the worst of us.” + +“I am only following an example at my door--you taught us all charity +and justice,” answered M. Loisel, looking meaningly at the Seigneur. +There was silence a little while, for all three were thinking of the +woman of the hut, at the gate of the Seigneur’s manor. + +On this topic M. Dauphin was not voluble. His original kindness to the +woman had given him many troubled hours at home, for Madame Dauphin had +construed his human sympathy into the dark and carnal desires of +the heart, and his truthful eloquence had made his case the worse. A +miserable sentimentalist, the Notary was likely to be misunderstood +for ever, and one or two indiscretions of his extreme youth had been a +weapon against him through the long years of a blameless married life. + +He heaved a sigh of sympathy with the Cure now. “She has not come +back yet?” he said to the Seigneur. “No sign of her. She locked up and +stepped out, so my housekeeper says, about the time--” + +“The day of old Margot’s funeral,” interposed the Notary. “She’d had +a letter that day, a letter she’d been waiting for, and abroad she +went--alas! the flyaway--from bad to worse, I fear--ah me!” + +The Seigneur turned sharply on him. “Who told you she had a letter that +day, for which she had been waiting?” he said. + +“Monsieur Evanturel.” + +The Seigneur’s face became sterner still. “What business had he to know +that she received a letter that day?” + +“He is postmaster,” innocently replied the Notary. “He is the +devil!” said the Seigneur tartly. “I beg your pardon, Cure; but it is +Evanturel’s business not to know what letters go to and fro in that +office. He should be blind and dumb, so far as we all are concerned.” + +“Remember that Evanturel is a cripple,” the Cure answered gently. “I am +glad, very glad it was not Rosalie.” + +“Rosalie has more than usual sense for her sex,” gruffly but kindly +answered the Seigneur, a look of friendliness in his eyes. “I shall talk +to her about her father; I can’t trust myself to speak to the man.” + +“Rosalie is down there with Madame Dauphin,” said the Notary, pointing. +“Shall I ask her to come?” + +The Seigneur nodded. He was magistrate and magnate, and he was the +guarantor of the post-office, and of Rosalie and her father. His eyes +fixed in reverie on Rosalie; he and the Cure passively waited her +approach. + +She came over, pale and a little anxious, but with a courageous look. +She had a vague sense of trouble, and she feared it might be the little +cross, that haunting thing of all these months. + +When she came near, the Cure greeted her courteously, and then, taking +the Notary by the arm, led him away. + +The Seigneur and Rosalie being left alone, the girl said: “You wish to +speak with me, Monsieur?” + +The Seigneur scrutinised her sharply. Though her colour came and went, +her look was frank and fearless. She had had many dark hours since that +fateful month of April. At night, trying to sleep, she had heard the +ghostly footsteps in the church, which had sent her flying homeward. +Then, there was the hood. She had waited on and on, fearing word would +come that it had been found in the churchyard, and that she had been +seen putting the cross back upon the church door. As day after day +passed she had come at length to realise that, whatever had happened to +the hood, she was not suspected. Yet the whole train of circumstances +had a supernatural air, for the Cure and Jo Portugais had not made +public their experience on the eventful night; she had been educated in +a land of legend and superstition, and a deep impression had been made +upon her mind, giving to her other new emotions a touch of pathos, of +imagination, and adding character to her face. The old Seigneur stroked +his chin as he looked at her. He realised that a change had come upon +her, that she had developed in some surprising way. + +“What has happened--who has happened, Mademoiselle Rosalie?” he asked. +He had suddenly made up his mind about that look in her face--he thought +it the woman in her which answers to the call of man, not perhaps any +particular man, but man the attractive influence, the complement. + +Her eyes dropped, then raised frankly to his. “I don’t know,”--adding, +with a quick humour, for he had been very friendly with her, and joked +with her in his dry way all her life; “do you, Monsieur?” + +He pulled his nose with a quick gesture habitual to him, and answered +slowly and meaningly: “The government’s a good husband and pays regular +wages, Mademoiselle. I’d stick to government.” + +“I am not asking for a divorce, Monsieur.” + +He pulled his nose again delightedly--so many people were pathetically +in earnest in Chaudiere--even the Cure’s humour was too mediaeval and +obvious. He had never before thought Rosalie so separate from them all. +All at once he had a new interest in her. His cheek flushed a little, +his eye kindled, humour relaxed his lips. + +“No other husband would intrude so little,” he rejoined. + +“True, there’s little love lost between us, Monsieur.” She felt +exhilaration in talking with him, a kind of joy in measuring word +against word; yet a year ago she would have done no more than smile +respectfully and give a demure reply if the Seigneur had spoken to her +like this. + +The Seigneur noted the mixed emotions in her face and the delicate +alertness of expression. As a man of the world, he was inclined to +believe that only one kind of experience can bring such looks to a +woman’s face. He saw in her the awakening of the deeper interests of +life, the tremulous apprehension of nascent emotions and passions which, +at some time or other, give beauty and importance to the nature of every +human being. It did not occur to him that the tailor--the mysterious +figure in the parish--might be responsible. He was observant, but not +imaginative; he was moved by what he saw, in a quiet, unexplainable +manner. + +“The government is the best sort of husband. From the other sort you +would get more kisses and less ha’pence,” he continued. + +“That might be a satisfactory balance-sheet, Monsieur.” + +“Take care, Mademoiselle Rosalie,” he rejoined, half seriously, “that +you don’t miss the ha’pence before you get the kisses.” + +She turned pale in very fear. What was he going to say? Was the +post-office to be taken from them? She came straight to the point. + +“What have I done wrong, Monsieur? I’ve never kept the mail-stage +waiting; I’ve never left the mailbag unlocked; I’ve never been late +in opening the wicket; I’ve never been careless, and no one’s ever +complained of a lost letter.” + +The Seigneur saw her agitation, and was sorry for her. He came to the +point as she had done: + +“We will have you made postmistress--you alone, Rosalie Evanturel. I’ve +made up my mind to that. But you’ll promise not to get married--eh? +Anyhow, there’s no one in the parish for you to marry. You’re too +well-born and you’ve been too well educated for a habitant’s wife--and +the Cure or I can’t marry you.” + +He was not taken back to see her flush deeply, and it pleased him to see +this much life rising to his own touch, this much revelation to give his +mind a new interest. He had come to that age when the mind is surprised +to find that the things that once charmed charm less, and the things +once hated are less acutely repulsive. He saw her embarrassment. He +did not know that this was the first time that she had ever thought of +marriage since it ceased to be a dream of girlhood, and, by reason of +thinking much on a man, had become a possibility, which, however, she +had never confessed to herself. Here she was faced by it now in the +broad open day: a plain, hard statement, unrelieved by aught save the +humour of the shrewd eyes bent upon her. + +She did not answer him at once. “Do you promise not to marry so useless +a thing as man, and to remain true to the government?” he continued. + +“If I wished to marry a man, I should not let the government stand in my +way,” she said, in brave confusion. + +“But do you wish to marry any man?” he asked abruptly, even petulantly. + +“I have not asked myself that question, Monsieur, and--should you ask +it, unless--” she said, and paused with as pretty and whimsical a glance +of merriment as could well be. + +He burst out laughing at the swift turn she had given her reply, and at +the double suggestion. Then he suddenly changed. A curious expression +filled his eyes. A smile, almost beautiful, came to his lips. + +“‘Pon my honour,” he said, in a low tone, “you have me caught! And I beg +to say--I beg to say,” he added, with a flush mounting in his own face, +a sudden inspiration in his look, “that if you do not think me too old +and crabbed and ugly, and can endure me, I shall be profoundly happy if +you will marry me, Rosalie.” + +He stood upright, holding himself very hard, for this idea had shot +into his mind all in an instant, though, unknown to himself, it had been +growing for years, cherished by many a kind act to her father and by +a simple gratitude on her part. He had spoken without feeling the +absurdity of the proposal. He had never married, and he was unprepared +to make any statement on such a theme; but now, having made it somehow, +he would stand by it, in spite of any and all criticism. He had known +Rosalie since her birth, her education was as good as a convent could +secure, she was the granddaughter of a notable seigneur, and here +she was, as fine a type of health, beauty and character as man could +wish--and he was only fifty! Life was getting lonelier for him every +day, and, after all, why should he leave distant relations and the +Church his worldly goods? All this flashed through his mind as he waited +for her answer. Now it seemed to him that he had meant to say this thing +for many years. He had seen an awakening in her--he had suddenly been +awakened himself. + +“Monsieur, Monsieur,” she said in a bewildered way, “do not amuse +yourself at my expense.” + +“Would it be that, then?” he said, with a smile, behind which there was +determination and self-will. “I want you to marry me; I do with all my +heart. You shall have those ha’pence, and the kisses too, if so be you +will take them--or not, as you will, Rosalie.” + +“Monsieur,” she gasped, for something caught her in the throat, and the +tears started to her eyes, “ask me to forget that you have ever said +those words. Oh, Monsieur, it is not possible, it never could be +possible! I am only the postmaster’s daughter.” + +“You are my wife, if you will but say the word,” he answered, “and I as +proud a husband as the land holds!” + +“You were always kind to me, Monsieur,” she rejoined, her lips +trembling; “won’t you be so still?” + +“I am too old?” he asked. + +“Oh no, it is not that,” she replied. + +“You have as good manners as my mother had. You need not fear comparison +with any lady in the land. Have I not known you all your life? I know +the way you have come, and your birth is as good as mine.” + +“Ah, it is not that, Monsieur!” + +“I give you my word that I do not come to you because no one else would +have me,” he said with a curious simplicity. “I never asked a woman to +marry me--never! You are the first. There was talk once--but it was all +false. I never meant to ask any one to marry me. But I have the wish now +which I never had in my youth. I thought best of myself always; now, I +think--I think better of you than--” + +“Oh, Monsieur, I beg of you, no more! I cannot; oh, I cannot--” + +“You--but no; I will not ask you, Mademoiselle. If you have some one +else in your heart, or want some one else there, that is your affair, +not mine--undoubtedly. I would have tried to make you happy; you would +have had peace and comfort all your life; you could have trusted me--but +there it is....” He felt all at once that he was unfair to her, that he +had thrust upon her too hard a problem in too troubled an hour. + +“I could trust you with my life, Monsieur Rossignol,” she replied. “And +I love you in a way that a man may be loved to no one’s harm or sorrow: +it is true that!” She raised her eyes to his simply, trustingly. + +He looked at her steadily for a moment. “If you change your mind--” + +She shook her head sadly. + +“Good, then,” he went on, for he thought it wise not to press her now, +though he had no intention of taking her no as final. “I’ll keep an +eye on you. You’ll need me some day soon; I can do things that the Cure +can’t, perhaps.” His manner changed still more. “Now to business,” he +continued. “Your father has been talking about letters received and sent +from the post-office. That is punishable. I am responsible for you both, +and if it is reported, if the woman were to report it--you know the +letter I mean--there would be trouble. You do not talk. Now I am +going to ask the government to make you sole postmistress, with full +responsibility. Then you must govern your father--he hasn’t as much +sense as you.” + +“Monsieur, we owe you so much! I am deeply grateful, and, whatever you +do for us, you may rely on me to do my duty.” + +They could scarcely hear each other speak now, for the soldiers were +coming nearer, and the fife-and-drum bands were screeching, ‘Louis the +King was a Soldier’. + +“Then you will keep the government as your husband?” he asked, with +forced humour, as he saw the Cure and the Notary approaching. + +“It is less trouble, Seigneur,” she answered, with a smile of relief. + +M. Rossignol turned to the Cure and the Notary. “I have just offered +Mademoiselle a husband she might rule in place of a government that +rules her, and she has refused,” he said in the Cure’s ear, with a dry +laugh. + +“She’s a sensible girl, is Rosalie,” said the Cure, not apprehending. + +The soldiers were now opposite the church, and riding at their head was +the battalion Colonel, also member of the Legislature. + +They all moved down, and Rosalie disappeared in the crowd. As the +Seigneur and the Cure greeted the Colonel, the latter said: + +“At luncheon I’ll tell you one of the bravest things ever seen. Happened +half-hour ago at the Red Ravine. Man who did it wore an eye-glass--said +he was a tailor.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. THE COLONEL TELLS HIS STORY + +The Colonel had lunched very well indeed. He had done justice to every +dish set before him; he had made a little speech, congratulating himself +on having such a well-trained body of men to command, and felicitating +Chaudiere from many points of view. He was in great good-humour with +himself, and when the Notary asked him--it was at the Manor, with the +soldiers resting on the grass without--about the tale of bravery he +had promised them, he brought his fist down on the table with great +intensity but little noise, and said: + +“Chaudiere may well be proud of it. I shall refer to it in the +Legislature on the question of roads and bridges--there ought to be +a stone fence on that dangerous road by the Red Ravine--Have I your +attention?” + +He stood up, for he was an excitable and voluble Colonel, and he loved +oration as a cat does milk. With a knife he drew a picture of the +locale on the table cloth. “Here I was riding on my sorrel, all my noble +fellows behind, the fife and drums going as at Louisburg--that day! +Martial ardour united to manliness and local pride--follow me? Here we +were, Red Ravine left, stump fences and waving fields of grain right. +From military point of view, bad position--ravine, stump fence, brave +soldiers in the middle, food for powder--catch it?--see?” + +He emptied his glass, drew a long breath, and again began, the +carving-knife cutting a rhetorical path before him. “I was engaged +upon the military problem--demonstration in force, no scouts ahead, +no rearguard, ravine on the right, stump fence on the left, red coats, +fife-and-drum band, concealed enemy--follow me? Observant mind +always sees problems everywhere--unresting military genius accustoms +intelligence to all possible contingencies--‘stand what I mean?” + +The Seigneur took a pinch of snuff, and the Cure, whose mind was +benevolent, listened with the gravest interest. + +“At the juncture when, in my mind’s eye, I saw my gallant fellows +enfiladed with a terrible fire, caught in a trap, and I, despairing, +spurring on to die at their head--have I your attention?--just at that +moment there appeared between the ravine and the road ahead a man. +He wore an eye-glass; he seemed an unconcerned spectator of our +movements--so does the untrained, unthinking eye look out upon destiny! +Not far away was a wagon, in it a man. Wagon bisecting our course from a +cross-road--” + +He drew a line on the table-cloth with the carvingknife, and the Notary +said: “Yes, yes, the concession road.” + +“So, Messieurs. There were we, a battalion and a fife-and-drum band; +there was the man with the eyeglass, the indifferent spectator, yet +the engine of fate; there was the wagon, a mottled horse, and a man +driving--catch it? The mottled horse took fright at our band, which at +that instant strikes up ‘The Chevalier Drew his Sabre’. He shies from +the road with a leap, the man falls backwards into the wagon, and the +reins drop. The horse dashes from the road into the open, and rushes on +to the ravine. What good now to stop the fifes and drums-follow me? +What can we, an armed force, bandoleered, knapsacked, sworded, rifled, +impetuous, brave, what can we do before this tragedy? The man in the +wagon senseless, the flying horse, the ravine, death! How futile the +power of man--‘stand what I mean?” + +“Why didn’t your battalion shoot the horse?” said the Seigneur drily, +taking a pinch of snuff. “Monsieur,” said the Colonel, “see the irony, +the implacable irony of fate--we had only blank cartridge! But see you, +here was this one despised man with an eye-glass, a tailor--takes nine +tailors to make a man!--between the ravine and the galloping tragedy. +His spirit arrayed itself like an army with banners, prepared to wrestle +with death as Jacob wrestled with his shadow all the night ‘sieur le +Cure!” + +The Cure bowed; the Notary shook back his oiled locks in excitement. + +“Awoke a whole man--nine-ninths, as in Adam--in the obscure soul of the +tailor, and, rushing forward, he seized the mottled horse by the bridle +as he galloped upon the chasm: The horse dragged him on--dragged him +on--on--on. We, an army, so to speak, stood and watched the Tailor and +the Tragedy! All seemed lost, but, by the decree of fate--” + +“The will of God,” said the Cure softly. + +“By the great decree, the man was able to stop the horse, not a +half-dozen feet from the ravine. The horse and the insensible driver +were spared death--death. So, Messieurs, does bravery come from +unexpected places--see?” + +The Seigneur, the Cure, and even the Notary clapped their hands, and +murmured praises of the tailor-man. But the Colonel did not yet take his +seat. + +“But now, mark the sequel,” he said. “As I galloped over, I saw the +tailor look into the wagon, and turn away quickly. He waited by the +horse till I came near, and then walked off without a word. I rode up, +and tapped him with my sword upon the shoulder. ‘A noble deed, my good +man,’ said I. ‘I approve of your conduct, and I will remember it in the +Legislature when I address the committee of the whole house on roads and +bridges.’ What do you think was his reply to my affable words? When I +tapped him approvingly on the shoulder a second time, he screwed his +eye-glass in his eye, and, with no emotion, though my own eyes were +full of tears, he said, in a tone of affront, ‘Look after the man there, +constable,’ and pointed to the wagon. Constable--mon Dieu! Gross manners +even for a tailor!” + +“I had not thought his manners bad,” said the Cure, as the Colonel sat +down, gulped a glass of brandy-and-water, and mopped his forehead. + +“A most remarkable tailor,” said the Seigneur, peering into his +snuff-box. + +“And the driver of the mottled horse?” asked the Notary. + +“Knocked senseless. One of my captains soon restored him. He followed +us into the village. He is a quack-doctor. I suppose he is now selling +tinctures, pulling teeth, and driving away rheumatics. He gave me his +card. I told him he should leave one on the tailor.” + +With a flourish he threw a professional card upon the table, before the +Cure. + +The Cure picked it up and read: + + JOHN BROWN, B.A., M.D., + + Healer of Ailments that Defy the Ordinary Skill of Ordinary + Medical Men. Rheumatism, Sciatica, Headache, Toothache, + Asthma, Ague, Pleurisy, Gout, and all Chronic Diseases Yield + Instantly to the Power of his Medicines. + + Dr. Brown will publicly treat the most stubborn cases, laying + himself open to the derision of mankind if he does not instantly + give relief and benefit. His whole career has been a blessing to + his fellows, and his journey now through this country, fresh from + his studies in the Orient, is to introduce his remedies to a + suffering world, for the conquest of malady, not for personal + profit. + + JOHN BROWN, B.A., M.D., + + Specialist in Chronic Diseases and General Practitioner. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. A SONG, A BOTTLE, AND A GHOST + +All day John Brown, ex-clergyman and quack-doctor, harangued the people +of Chaudiere from his gaily-painted wagon. He had the perfect gift +of the charlatan, and he had discovered his metier. Inclined to the +picturesque by nature, melodramatic and empirical, his earlier career +had been the due fruit of habit and education. As a dabbler in mines +he had been out of his element. He lacked the necessary reticence, and +arsenic had not availed him, though it had tempted Billy Wantage to +forgery; and because Billy hid himself behind the dismal opportunity of +silence, had ruined the name of a dead man called Charley Steele. Since +Charley’s death John Brown had never seen Billy: he had left the town +one woful day an hour after Billy had told him of the discovery Charley +had made. From a far corner of the country he had read the story of +Charley’s death; of the futile trial of the river-drivers afterwards, +ending in acquittal, and the subsequent discovery of the theft of the +widows’ and orphans’ trust-moneys. + +On this St. Jean Baptiste’s day he was thinking of anything and +everything else but Charley Steele. Nothing could have been a better +advertisement for him than the perilous incident at the Red Ravine. +Falling backwards when the horse suddenly bolted, his head had struck +the medicine-chest, and he had lain insensible till brought back to +consciousness by the good offices of the voluble Colonel. He had not, +therefore, seen Charley. It was like him that his sense of gratitude to +the unknown tailor should be presently lost in exploiting the interest +he created in the parish. His piebald horse, his white “plug” hat, +his gaily painted wagon, his flamboyant manner, and, above all, the +marvellous tale of his escape from death, were more exciting to +the people of Chaudiere than the militia, the dancing-bears, the +shooting-galleries, or the boat-races. He could sing extremely well--had +he not trained his own choir when he was a parson? had not Billy +approved his comic songs?--and these comic songs, now sandwiched between +his cures and his sales, created much laughter. He cured headaches, +toothaches, rheumatism, and all sorts of local ailments “with despatch.” + He miraculously juggled away pains by what he called his Pain Paint, and +he stopped a cough by a laugh and a dose of his Golden Pectoral. In the +exuberance of trade, which steadily increased till sundown, he gave no +thought to the tailor, to whom, however, he had sent by a messenger +a two-dollar bill and two bottles of Pain Paint, with the lordly +announcement that he would call in the evening and “present his +compliments and his thanks.” The messenger left the Pain Paint on the +door-step of the tailor-shop, and the two dollars he promptly spent at +the Trois Couronnes. + +Rosalie Evanturel rescued the bottles from the doorstep and awaited +Charley’s return to his shop, that she might take them over to him, and +so have an excuse to speak with him; for to-day her heart and mind were +full of him. He had done a brave thing for the medicine-man, and had +then fled from public gaze as a brave man should. There was no one to +compare with him. Not even the Cure was his superior in ability, and +certainly he was a greater man--though seemingly only a tailor--than M. +Rossignol. M. Rossignol--she flushed. Who could have believed that the +Seigneur would say those words to her this morning--to her, Rosalie +Evanturel, who hadn’t five hundred dollars to her name? That she should +be asked to be Madame Rossignol! Confusion mingled with her simple +pride, and she ran out into the street, to where her father sat +listening to the medicine-man singing, in doubtful French: + + “I am a waterman bold, + Oh, I’m a waterman bold: + But for my lass I have great fear, + Yes, in the isles I have great fear, + For she is young, and I am old, + And she is bien gentille!” + +It was night now. The militia had departed, their Colonel roaring +commands at them out of a little red drill-book; the older people had +gone to their homes, but festive youth hovered round the booths and +sideshows, the majority enjoying themselves at some expense in the +medicine-man’s encampment. + +As Rosalie ran towards the crowd she turned a wistful glance to the +tailor-shop. Not a sign of life there! She imagined M’sieu’ to be at +Vadrome Mountain, until, glancing round the crowd at the quack-doctor’s +wagon, she saw Jo Portugais gloomily watching the travelling tinker of +human bodies. Evidently M’sieu’ was not at Vadrome Mountain. + +He was not far from her. At the side of the road, under a huge +maple-tree with wide-spreading branches, Charley stood and watched John +Brown performing behind the flaring oil-lights stuck on poles round his +wagon, his hat now on, now off; now singing a comic song in English---‘I +found Y’ in de Honeysuckle Paitch;’ now a French chanson--‘En Revenant +de St. Alban;’ now treating a stiff neck or a bent back, or giving +momentary help to the palsy of an old man, or again making a speech. + +Charley was in touch again with the old life, but in a kind of fantasy +only--a staring, high-coloured dream. This man--John Brown--had gone +down before his old ironical questioning, had been, indirectly, the +means of disgracing his name. A step forward to that wagon, a word +uttered, a look, and he would have to face again the life he had put +by for ever, would have to meet a hard problem and settle it--to what +misery and tragedy, who might say? Under this tree he was M. Mallard, +the infidel tailor, whose life was slowly entering into the life of +this place called Chaudiere, slowly being acted upon by habit, which, +automatically repeated, at length becomes character. Out in that red +light, before that garish wagon, he would be Charley Steele, barrister, +‘flaneur’, and fop, who, according to the world, had misused a wife, +misled her brother, robbed widows and orphans, squandered a fortune, +become drunkard and wastrel, and at last had lost his life in +a disorderly tavern at the Cote Dorion. This man before him had +contributed to his disgrace; but once he had contributed to John Brown’s +disgrace; and to-day he had saved John Brown’s life. They were even. + +All the night before, all this morning, he had fought a fierce battle +with his past--with a raging thirst. The old appetite had swept over him +fiercely. All day he had moved in a fevered conflict, which had lifted +him away from the small movements of everyday life into a region where +only were himself and one strong foe, who tirelessly strove with him. In +his old life he had never had a struggle of any sort. His emotions had +been cloaked, his soul masked, there had been a film before his eyes, he +had worn an armour of selfishness on a life which had no deep problems, +because it had no deep feelings--a life never rising to the intellectual +prowess for which it was fitted, save when under the stimulus of liquor. + +From the moment he had waked from a long seven months’ sleep in the +hut on Vadrome Mountain, new deep feelings had come to him as he faced +problems of life. Fighting had begun from that hour--a fighting which +was putting his nature through bitter mortal exercises, yet, too, giving +him a sense of being he had never known. He had now the sweetness of +earning daily bread by the work of his hands; of giving to the poor, the +needy, and the afflicted; of knowing for the first time in his life that +he was not alone in the world. Out of the grey dawn of life a woman’s +voice had called to him; the look of her face had said to him: “Viens +ici! Viens ici!”--“Come to me! Come to me!” + +But with that call there was the answer of his soul, the desolating cry +of the dispossessed Lear--“--never--never--never--never!” + +He had not questioned himself concerning Rosalie--had dared not to do +so. But now, as he stood under the great tree, within hand-touch of the +old life, in imminent danger of being thrust back into it, the question +of Rosalie came upon him with all the force of months of feeling behind +it. Thus did he argue with himself: + +“Do I love her? And if I love her, what is to be done? Marry her, with +a wife living? Marry her while charged with a wretched crime? Would that +be love? But suppose I never were discovered, and we might live here for +ever, I as ‘Monsieur Mallard,’ in peace and quiet all the days of our +life? Would that be love?... Could there be love with a vital secret, +like, a cloud between, out of which, at any hour, might spring +discovery? Could I build our life upon a silence which must be a lie? +Would I not have to face the question, Does any one know cause or +just impediment why this woman should not be married to this man? Tell +Rosalie all, and let the law separate myself and Kathleen? That would +mean Billy’s ruin and imprisonment, and Kathleen’s shame, and it might +not bring Rosalir. She is a Catholic, and her Church would not listen to +it. Would I have the right to bring trouble into her life? To wrong one +woman should seem enough for one lifetime!” + +At that instant Rosalie, who had been on the outskirts of the crowd, +moved into his line of vision. The glare from the lights fell on her +face as she stood by her father’s chair, looking curiously at the +quack-doctor who, having sold many bottles of his medicines, noy picked +up a guitar and began singing an old dialect chanson of Saintonge: + + “Voici, the day has come + When Rosette leaves her home! + With fear she walks in the sun, + For Raoul is ninety year, + And she not twenty-one. + La petit’ Rosette, + She is not twenty-one. + + “He takes her by the hand, + And to the church they go; + By parents ‘twas well meant, + But is Rosette content? + ‘Tis gold and ninety year + She walks in the sun with fear, + La petit’ Rosette, + Not twenty-one as yet!” + +Charley’s eyes, which had watched her these months past, noted the +deepening colour of the face, the glow in the eyes, the glances of keen +but agitated interest towards the singer. He could not translate her +looks; and she, on her part, had she been compelled to do so, could only +have set down a confusion of sensations. + +In Rosette she saw herself, Rosalie Evanturel; in the man “de +quatre-vingt-dix ans,” who was to marry this Rosette of Saintonge, she +saw M. Rossignol. Disconcerting pictures of a possible life with +the Seigneur flitted before her mind. She beheld herself, young, +fresh-cheeked, with life beating high and all the impulses of youth +panting to use, sitting at the head of the seigneury table. She saw +herself in the great pew at Mass, stiff with dignity, old in the way +of manorial pride--all laughter dead in her, all spring-time joy +overshadowed by the grave decorum of the Manor, all the imagination of +her dreaming spirit chilled by the presence of age, however kindly and +quaint and cheerful. + +She shuddered, and dropped her eyes upon the ground, as, to the laughter +and giggling of old and young gathered round the wagon, the medicine-man +sang: + + “He takes her by the hand, + And to her chamber fair--” + +Then, suddenly turning, she vanished into the night, followed by the +feeble inquiry of her father’s eyes, the anxious look in Charley’s. + +Charley could not read her tale. He had, however, a hot impulse +to follow and ask her if she would vanish from the scene if the +medicine-man should sing of Rosette and a man of thirty, not ninety, +years. The fight he had had all day with his craving for drink had made +him feverish, and all his emotions--unregulated, under the command of +his will only--were in high temperature. A reckless feeling seized him. +He would go to Rosalie, look into her eyes, and tell her that he loved +her, no matter what the penalty of fate. He had never loved a human +being, and the sudden impulse to cry out in the new language was driving +him to follow the girl whose spirit for ever called to him. + +He made a step forward to follow her, but stopped short, recalled to +caution and his danger by the voice of the medicine-man: + +“I had a friend once--good fellow, bad fellow, cleverest chap I ever +knew. Tremendous fop--ladies loved him--cheeks like roses--tongue like +sulphuric acid. Beautiful to look at. Clothes like a fashion-plate--got +any fashion-plates in Chaudiere? ‘who’s your tailor?’” he added, in the +slang of the hour, with a loud laugh, then stopped suddenly and took +off his hat. “I forgot,” he added, with upturned eyes and a dramatic +seriousness, “your tailor saved my life to-day-henceforth I am the +friend of all tailors. Well, to continue. My friend that was--I call him +my friend, though he ruined me and ruined others,--didn’t mean to, but +he did just the same,--he came to a bad end. But he was a great man +while he lived. And what I’m coming to is this, the song he used to sing +when, in youthful exuberance, we went on the war-path like our young +friend over there”--he pointed to a young habitant farmer, who was +trying hard to preserve equilibrium--“Brown’s Golden Pectoral will cure +that cough, my friend!” he added, as the young man, gloomily ashamed of +the laughter of the crowd, hiccoughed and turned away to the tree under +which Charley Steele stood. “Well,” he went on, “I was going to say +that my friend’s name was Charley, and the song he used to sing when the +roosters waked the morn was called ‘Champagne Charlie.’ He was called +‘Champagne Charlie’--till he came to a bad end.” + +He twanged his guitar, cleared his throat, winked at Maximilian Cour the +baker, and began: + + “The way I gained my title’s by a hobby which I’ve got + Of never letting others pay, however long the shot; + Whoever drinks at my expense is treated all the same; + Whoever calls himself my friend, I make him drink champagne. + Some epicures like Burgundy, Hock, Claret, and Moselle, + But Moet’s vintage only satisfies this champagne swell. + What matter if I go to bed and head is muddled thick, + A bottle in the morning sets me right then very quick. + Champagne Charlie is my name; + Champagne Charlie is my name. + Who’s the man with the heart so young, + Who’s the man with the ginger tongue? + Champagne Charlie is his name!” + +Under the tree, Charley Steele listened to this jaunty epitaph on his +old self. At the first words of the coarse song there rushed on him +the dreaded thirst. He felt his veins beating with desire, with anger, +disgust, and shame; for there was John Brown, to the applause of the +crowd, imitating his old manner, his voice, his very look. He started +forward, but the drunken young habitant lurched sideways under the tree +and collapsed upon the ground, a bottle of whiskey falling out of his +pocket and rolling almost to his own feet. + + “Champagne Charlie is my name,” + +sang the medicine-man. All Charley’s old life surged up in him as +dyked water suddenly bursts bounds and spreads destruction. He had an +uncontrollable impulse. As a starving animal snatches at the first food +offered it, he stooped, with a rattle in his throat, seized the bottle, +uncorked it, put it to his lips, and drank--drank--drank. + +Then he turned and plunged away into the trees. The sound of the song +followed him. It came to him, the last refrain, sung loudly to the +laughter of the crowd, in imitation of his own voice as it used to +be--it had been a different voice during this past year. He turned with +headlong intention, and, as the last notes of the song and the applause +that followed it, died away, threw back his head and sang out of the +darkness: + + “Champagne Charlie is my name--” + +With a shrill laugh, like the half-mad cry of an outcast soul, he flung +away farther into the trees. + +There was a sudden silence. The crowd turned with half-apprehensive +laughter to the trees. Upon John Brown the effect was startling. His +face blanched, his eyes grew large with terror, his mouth opened in +helpless agitation. Charley Steele was lying under the waters of the +great river, his bones rotting there for a year, yet here was his voice +coming out of the night, in response to his own grotesque imitation of +the dead man. Seeing his agitation, women turned pale, men felt their +flesh creep, imagination gave a thrilling coldness to the air. For a +moment the silence was unbroken. Then John Brown stretched out his hand +and said, in a hoarse whisper: + +“It was his voice--Charley’s voice, and he’s been dead a year!” + +Within half-an-hour, in utter collapse and fright, he was being driven +to the next parish by two young habitants whom he paid to accompany him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. OUT ON THE OLD TRAIL. + +There was one person in the crowd surrounding the medicine-man’s wagon +who had none of that superstitious thrill which had scattered the +habitants into little awe-stricken groups, and then by twos and threes +to their homes; none of that fear which had reduced the quack-doctor to +such nervous collapse that he would not spend the night in the village. +Jo Portugais had recognised the voice--that of Charley Steele the lawyer +who had saved him from hanging years ago. It was little like the voice +of M’sieu’! There was that in it which frightened him. He waited until +he had seen the quackdoctor start for the next parish, then he went +slowly down the street. There were people still about, so he walked on +towards the river. When he returned, the street was empty. Keeping in +the shadow of the trees, he went to Charley’s house. There was a light +in a window. He went to the back door and tried it. It was not locked, +and, without knocking, he stepped inside the kitchen. Here was no light, +and he passed into the hallway and on to a little room opening from the +tailorshop. He knocked; then, not waiting for response, opened the door +and entered. + +Charley was standing before a mirror, holding a pair of scissors. He +turned abruptly, and said forbiddingly: “I am at my toilet!” + +Then, turning again to the mirror, with a shrug of the shoulders, he +raised the shears to his beard. Before he could use them, Jo’s hand was +on his arm. + +“Stop that, M’sieu’!” he said huskily. + +Charley had drunk nearly a whole bottle of cheap whiskey within an hour. +He was intoxicated, but, as had ever been the case with him, his brain +was working clearly, his hand was steady; he was in that wide dream +of clear-seeing and clear-knowing which, in old days, had given him +glimpses of the real life from which, in the egotism of the non-intime, +he had been shut out. Looking at Jo now, he was possessed by a composed +intoxication like that in which he had moved during that last night at +the Cote Dorion. + +But now, with the baleful crust of egotism gone, with every nerve of +life exposed, with conscience struggling to its feet from the torpor of +thirty-odd vacant years, he was as two men in one, with different lives +and different souls, yet as inseparable in their misery as those poor +victims of Gallic tyranny, chained back to back and thrown into the +Seine. + +Jo’s words, insistent and eager, suddenly roused in him some old memory, +which stayed his hand. + +“Why should I stop?” he asked quietly, and smiling that smile which had +infuriated the river-drivers at the Cote Dorion. + +“Are you going back, M’sieu?” + +“Back where?” Charley’s eyes were fixed on Jo with a penetrating +intensity, heightened to a strange abstraction, as though he saw not Jo +alone, but something great distances beyond. + +Jo did not answer this question directly. “Some one came to-day--he is +gone; some one may come to-morrow--and stay,” he said meaningly. + +Charley went over to the fire and sat down on a bench, opening and +shutting the scissors mechanically. Jo was in the light, and Charley’s +eyes again studied him hard. + +His memory was industriously feeling its way into the baffling distance. + +“What if some one did come-and stay?” he urged quietly. + +“You might be recognised without the beard.” + +“What difference would it make?” Charley’s memory was creeping close to +the hidden door. It was feeling-feeling for the latch. + +“You know best, M’sieu’.” + +“But what do you know?” Charley’s face now had a strained look, and he +touched his lips with his tongue. “What John Brown knows, M’sieu’.” + +There flashed across Charley’s mind the fatal newspaper he had read on +the day he awakened to memory again in the but on Vadrome Mountain. He +remembered that he had put it in the fire. But Jo might have read it +before it was spread upon the bench-put it there of purpose for him to +read. Yet what reason could Jo have for being silent, for hiding his +secret? + +There was silence for a space, in which Charley’s eyes were like +unmoving sparks of steel. He did not see Jo’s face--it was in a mist--he +was searching, searching, searching. All at once he felt the latch of +the hidden door under his finger; he saw a court-room, a judge and jury, +and hundreds of excited faces, himself standing in the midst. He saw +twelve men file slowly into the room and take their seats-all save one, +who stood still in his place and said: “Not guilty, your Honour!” He +saw the prisoner leave the box and step down a free man. He saw himself +coming out into the staring summer day. He watched the prisoner come to +him and touch his arm, and say: “Thank you, M’sieu’. You have saved my +life.” He saw himself turn to this man: + +He roused from his trance, he staggered to his feet, the shears rattled +to the floor. Lurching forward, he caught Jo Portugais by the throat, +and said, as he had said outside the court-room years ago: + +“Get out of my sight. You’re as guilty as hell!” + +His grip tightened--tightened on Jo’s throat. Jo did not move, though +his face grew black. Then, suddenly, the hands relaxed, a bluish +paleness swept over the face, and Charley fell sidewise to the floor +before Jo could catch him. + +All night, alone, the murderer struggled with death over the body of the +lawyer who had saved his life. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. THE SEIGNEUR GIVES A WARNING + +Rosalie had watched a shut door for five days--a door from which, for +months past, had come all the light and glow of her life. It framed a +figure which had come to represent to her all that meant hope and soul +and conscience-and love. The morning after St. Jean Baptiste’s day +she had awaited the opening door, but it had remained closed. Ensued +watchful hours, and then from Jo Portugais she had learned that M’sieu’ +had been ill and near to death. She had been told the weird story of the +medicine-man and the ghostly voice, and, without reason, she took the +incident as a warning, and associated it with the man across the way. +She was come of a superstitious race, and she herself had heard and seen +things of which she never had been able to speak--the footsteps in the +church the night she had screwed the little cross to the door again; +the tiny round white light by the door of the church; the hood which had +vanished into the unknown. One mystery fed another. It seemed to her as +if some dreadful event were forward; and all day she kept her eyes fixed +on the tailor’s door. + +Dead--if M’sieu’ should die! If M’sieu’ should die--it needed all her +will to prevent herself from going over and taking things in her +own hands, being his nurse, his handmaid, his slave. Duty--to the +government, to her father? Her heart cried out that her duty lay where +all her life was eddying to one centre. What would the world say? She +was not concerned for that, save for him. What, then, would M’sieu’ say? +That gave her pause. The Seigneur’s words the day before had driven her +back upon a tide of emotions which carried her far out upon that sea +where reason and life’s conventions are derelicts, where Love sails with +reckless courage down the shoreless main. + +“If I could only be near him!” she kept saying to herself. “It is my +right. I would give my life, my soul for his. I was with him before when +his life was in danger. It was my hand that saved him. It was my love +that tended him. It was my soul that kept his secret. It was my faith +that spoke for him. It was my heart that ached for him. It is my heart +that aches for him now as none other in all the world can. No one on +earth could care as I care. Who could there be?” Something whispered in +her ear, “Kathleen!” The name haunted her, as the little cross had done. +Misery and anger possessed her, and she fought on with herself through +dark hours. + +Thus five days had gone, until at last a wagon was brought to the door +of the tailor-shop, and M’sieu’ came out, leaning on the arm of Jo +Portugais. There were several people in the street at the time, and they +kept whispering that M’sieu’ had been at death’s door. He was pale and +haggard, with dark hollows under the eyes. Just as he got into the wagon +the Cure came up. They shook hands. The Cure looked him earnestly in the +face, his lips moved, but no one could have told what he said. As the +wagon started, Charley looked across to the post-office. Rosalie was +standing a little back from the door, but she stepped forward now. Their +eyes met. Her heart beat faster, for there was a look in his eyes she +had never seen before--a look of human helplessness, of deep anxiety. It +was meant for her--for herself alone. She could not trust herself to go +and speak to him. She felt that she must burst into tears. So, with a +look of pity and pain, she watched the wagon go down the street. + +Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!--the Seigneur’s gold-headed cane rattled on the +front door of the tailor-shop. It was plain to be seen his business was +urgent. + +Madame Dauphin came hurrying from the postoffice, followed by Maximilian +Cour and Filion Lacasse. “Ah, M’sieu’, the tailor will not answer. +There’s no use knocking--not a bit, M’sieu’ Rossignol,” said Madame. + +The Seigneur turned querulously upon the Notary’s wife, yet with a glint +of hard humour in his eye. He had no love for Madame Dauphin. He thought +she took unfair advantages of M. Dauphin, whom also he did not love, but +whose temperament did him credit. + +“How should Madame know whether or no the gentleman will answer? Does +Madame share the gentleman’s confidence, perhaps?” he remarked. + +Madame did not reply at once. She turned on the saddler and the baker. +“I hope you’ll learn a lesson,” she cried triumphantly. “I’ve always +said the tailor was quite the gentleman; and now you see how your +betters call him. No, M’sieu’, the gentleman will not answer,” she added +to the Seigneur. + +“He is in bed yet, Madame?” + +“His bed is empty there, M’sieu’,” she said, impressively, and pointing. + +“I suppose I should trust you in this matter; I suppose you should know. +But, Dauphin--what does Dauphin say?” + +The saddler laughed outright. Maximilian Cour suddenly blushed in +sympathy with Madame Dauphin, who now saw the drift of the Seigneur’s +remarks, and was sensibly agitated, as the Seigneur had meant her to be. +Had she not turned Dauphin’s human sympathies into a crime? Had not +the Notary supported the Seigneur in his friendly offices to Paulette +Dubois; and had not Madame troubled her husband’s life because of it? +Madame bridled up now--with discretion, for it was not her cue to offend +the Seigneur. + +“All the village knows his bed’s empty there, M’sieu’,” she said, with +tightening lips. + +“I am subtracted from the total, then?” he asked drily. + +“You have been away for the last five days--” + +“Come, now, how did you know that?” + +“Everybody knows it. You went away with the Colonel and the soldiers on +St. Jean Baptiste’s day. Since then M’sieu’ the tailor has been ill. I +should think Mrs. Flynn would have told you that, M’sieu’.” + +“H’m! Would you? Well, Mrs. Flynn has been away too--and you didn’t know +that! What is the matter with Monsieur Mallard?” + +“Some kind of fever. On St. Jean Baptiste’s day he was taken ill, and +that animal Portugais took care of him all night--I wonder how M’sieu’ +can have the creature about! That St. Jean Baptiste’s night was an awful +night. Have you heard of what happened, M’sieu’? Ghost or no ghost--” + +“Come, come, I want to know about the tailor, not of ghosts,” + impatiently interrupted the Seigneur. “Tiens! M’sieu’, the tailor was +ill for three days here, and he would let no one except the Cure and Jo +Portugais near him. I went myself to clean up and make some broth, but +that toad of a Portugais shut the door in my face. The Cure told us to +go home and leave M’sieu’ with Portugais. He must be very sick to have +that black sheep about him--and no doctor either.” + +The saddler spoke up now. “I took him a bottle of good brandy and some +buttermilk-pop and seed cake--I would give him a saddle if he had a +horse--he got my thousand dollars for me! Well, he took them, but what +do you think? He sent them right off to the shantyman, Gugon, who has a +broken leg. Infidel or no, I’m on his side for sure. And God blesses a +cheerful giver, I’m told.” + +It was the baker’s chance, and he took it. “I played ‘The Heart Bowed +Down’-it is English-under his window, two nights ago, and he sent word +for me to come and play it again in the kitchen. Ah, that is a good +song, ‘The Heart Bowed Down.’” + +“You’d be a better baker if you fiddled less,” said Madame Dauphin, +annoyed at being dropped out of the conversation. + +“The soul must be fed, Madame,” rejoined the baker, with asperity. + +“Where is the tailor now?” said the Seigneur shortly. “At Portugais’s on +Vadrome Mountain. They say he looked like a ghost when he went. Rosalie +Evanturel saw him, but she has no tongue in her head this morning,” + added Madame. + +The Seigneur moved away. “Good-bye to you--I am obliged to you, Madame. +Good-bye, Lacasse. Come and fiddle to me some night, Cour.” + +He bowed to the obsequious three, and then bent his steps towards the +post-office. They seemed about to follow him, but he stopped them with a +look. The men raised their bonnets-rouges, the woman bowed low, and the +Seigneur entered the post-office door. + +From the shadows of the office Rosalie had watched the little group +before the door of the tailor-shop. She saw the Seigneur coming across +the street. Suddenly she flushed deeply, for there came to her mind the +song the quack-doctor sang: + + “Voila, the day has come + When Rosette leaves her home! + With fear she walks in the sun, + For Raoul is ninety year, + And she not twenty-one.” + +As M. Rossignol’s figure darkened the doorway, she pretended to be busy +behind the wicket, and not to see him. He was not sure, but he +thought it quite possible that she had seen him coming, and he put her +embarrassment down to shyness. Naturally the poor child was not given +the chance every day to receive an offer of marriage from a seigneur. +He had made up his mind that she would be sure to accept him if he asked +her a second time. + +“Ah, Ma’m’selle Rosalie,” he said gaily, “what have you to say that you +should not come before a magistrate at once?” + +“Nothing, if Monsieur Rossignol is to be the magistrate,” she replied, +with forced lightness. + +“Good!” He looked at her quizzically through his gold-handled glass. “I +can’t frighten you, I see. Well, you must wait a little; you shall be +sworn in postmistress in three days.” His voice lowered, became more +serious. “Tell me,” he said, “do you know what is the matter with the +gentleman across the way?” Turning, he looked across to the tailor-shop, +as though he expected “the gentleman” to appear, and he did not see her +turn pale. When his look fell on her again, she was self-controlled. + +“I do not know, Monsieur.” + +“You have been opposite him here these months past--did you ever see +anything not--not as it should be?” + +“With him, Monsieur? Never.” + +“It is as though the infidel behaved like a good Catholic and a +Christian?” + +“There are good Catholics in Chaudiere who do not behave like +Christians.” + +“What would you say, for instance, about his past?” + +“What should I say about his past, Monsieur? What should I know?” + +“You should know more than any one else in Chaudiere. The secrets of his +breast might well be bared to you.” + +She started and crimsoned. Before her eyes there came a mist obscuring +the Seigneur, and for an instant shutting out the world. The secrets of +his breast--what did he mean? Did he know that on Monsieur’s breast was +the red scar which... + +M. Rossignol’s voice seemed coming from an infinite distance, and as it +came, the mist slowly passed from her eyes. + +“You will know, Mademoiselle Rosalie,” he was saying, “that while I +suggested that the secrets of his breast might well be bared to you, I +meant that as an honest lady and faithful postmistress they were not. It +was my awkward joke--a stupid gambolling by an old man who ought to know +better.” + +She did not answer, and he continued: + +“You know that you are trusted. Pray accept my apologies.” + +She was herself again. “Monsieur,” she said quietly; “I know nothing of +his past. I want to know nothing. It does not seem to me that it is my +business. The world is free for a man to come and go in, if he keeps the +law and does no ill--is it not? But, in any case, I know nothing. Since +you have said so much, I shall say this, and betray no ‘secrets of his +breast’--that he has received no letter through this office since the +day he first came from Vadrome Mountain.” + +The Seigneur smiled. “A wonderful tailor! How does he carry on business +without writing letters?” + +“There was a large stock of everything left by Louis Trudel, and not +long ago a commercial traveller was here with everything.” + +“You think he has nothing to hide, then?” + +“Have not we all something to hide--with or without shame?” she asked +simply. + +“You have more sense than any woman in Chaudiere, Mademoiselle.” + +She shook her head, yet she raised her eyes gratefully to him. + +“I put faith in what you say,” he continued. “Now listen. My brother, +the Abbe, chaplain to the Archbishop, is coming here. He has heard of +‘the infidel’ of our parish. He is narrow and intolerant--the Abbe. He +is going to stir up trouble against the tailor. We are a peaceful people +here, and like to be left alone. We are going on very well as we are. So +I wanted to talk to Monsieur to-day. I must make up my own mind how to +act. The tailor-shop is the property of the Church. An infidel occupies +it, so it is said; the Abbe does not like that. I believe there are +other curious suspicions about Monsieur: that he is a robber, or +incendiary, or something of the sort. The Abbe may take a stand, and the +Cure’s position will be difficult. What is more, my brother has friends +here, fanatics like himself. He has been writing to them. They are men +capable of doing unpleasant things--the Abbe certainly is. It is fair to +warn the tailor. Shall I leave it to you? Do not frighten him. But there +is no doubt he should be warned--fair play, fair play! I hear nothing +but good of him from those whose opinions I value. But, you see, every +man’s history in this parish and in every parish of the province is +known. This man, for us, has no history. The Cure even admits there are +some grounds for calling him an infidel, but, as you know, he would keep +the man here, not drive him out from among us. I have not told the Cure +about the Abbe yet. I wished first to talk with you. The Abbe may come +at any moment. I have been away, and only find his letters to-day.” + +“You wish me to tell Monsieur?” interrupted Rosalie, unable to hold +silence any longer. More than once during the Seigneur’s disclosure she +had felt that she must cry out and fiercely repel the base insinuations +against the man she loved. + +“You would do it with discretion. You are friendly with him, are you +not?--you talk with him now and then?” + +She inclined her head. “Very well, Monsieur. I will go to Vadrome +Mountain to-morrow,” she said quietly. Anger, apprehension, indignation, +possessed her, but she held herself firmly. The Seigneur was doing a +friendly thing; and, in any case, she could have no quarrel with him. +There was danger to the man she loved, however, and every faculty was +alive. + +“That’s right. He shall have his chance to evade the Abbe if he wishes,” + answered M. Rossignol. + +There was silence for a moment, in which she was scarcely conscious of +his presence; then he leaned over the counter towards her, and spoke in +a low voice. + +“What I said the other day I meant. I do not change my mind--I am too +old for that. Yet I’m young enough to know that you may change yours.” + +“I cannot change, Monsieur,” she said tremblingly. + +“But you will change. I knew your mother well, I know how anxious she +was for your future. I told her once that I should keep an eye on you +always. Her father was my father’s good friend. I knew you when you were +in the cradle--a little brown-haired babe. I watched you till you went +to the convent. I saw you come back to take up the duties which your +mother laid down, alas!--” + +“Monsieur--!” she said choking, and with a troubled little gesture. + +“You must let me speak, Rosalie. We got your father this post-office. +It is a poor living, but it keeps a roof over your head. You have never +failed us you have always fulfilled our hopes. But the best years of +your life are going, and your education and your nature have not their +chance. Oh, I’ve not watched you all these years for nothing. I never +meant to ask you to marry me. It came to me, though, all at once, and I +know that it has been in my mind all these years--far back in my mind. I +don’t ask you for my own sake alone. Your father may grow very ill--who +can tell what may happen!” + +“I should be postmistress still,” she said sadly. + +“As a young girl you could not have the responsibility here alone. And +you should not waste your life it is a fine, full spirit; let the lean, +the poor-spirited, go singly. You should be mated. You can’t marry +any of the young farmers of Chaudiere. ‘Tis impossible. I can give you +enough for any woman’s needs--the world may be yours to see and use to +your heart’s content. I can give, too”--he drew himself up proudly--“the +unused emotions of a lifetime.” This struck him as a very fine and +important thing to say. + +“Ah, Monsieur, that is not enough,” she responded. + +“What more can you want?” + +She looked up with a tearful smile. “I will tell you one day, Monsieur.” + +“What day?” + +“I have not picked it out in the calendar.” + +“Fix the day, and I will wait till then. I will not open my mouth again +till then.” + +“Michaelmas day, then, Monsieur,” she answered mechanically and at +haphazard, but with an urged gaiety, for a great depression was on her. + +“Good. Till Michaelmas day, then!” He pulled his long nose, laughing +silently.... “I leave the tailor in your hands. Give every man his +chance, I say. The Abbe is a hard man, but our hearts are soft--eh, eh, +very soft!” He raised his hat and turned to the door. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. THE WILD RIDE + +There had been a fierce thunder-storm in the valley of the Chaudiere. +It had come suddenly from the east, had shrieked over the village, +levelling fences, carrying away small bridges, and ending in a pelting +hail, which whitened the ground with pebbles of ice. It had swept up to +Vadrome Mountain, and had marched furiously through the forest, carrying +down hundreds of trees, drowning the roars of wild animals and the +crying and fluttering of birds. One hour of ravage and rage, and then, +spent and bodiless, the storm crept down the other side of the mountain +and into the next parish, whither the affrighted quack-doctor had +betaken himself. After, a perfect calm, a shining sun, and a sweet smell +over all the land, which had thirstily drunk the battering showers. + +In the house on Vadrome Mountain the tailor of Chaudiere had watched the +storm with sympathetic interest. It was in accord with his own feelings. +He had had a hard fight for months past, and had gone down in the storm +of his emotions one night when a song called Champagne Charlie had had a +weird and thrilling antiphonal. There had been a subsequent debacle for +himself, and then a revelation concerning Jo Portugais. Ensued hours +and days, wherein he had fought a desperate fight with the present--with +himself and the reaction from his dangerous debauch. + +The battle for his life had been fought for him by this gloomy woodsman +who henceforth represented his past, was bound to him by a measureless +gratitude, almost a sacrament--of the damned. Of himself he had played +no conscious part in it till the worst was over. On the one side was the +Cure, patient, gentle, friendly, never pushing forward the Faith which +the good man dreamed should give him refuge and peace; on the other +side was the murderer, who typified unrest, secretiveness, an awful +isolation, and a remorse which had never been put into words or acts of +restitution. For six days the tailor-shop and the life at Chaudiere had +been things almost apart from his consciousness. Ever-recurring +memories of Rosalie Evanturel were driven from his mind with a painful +persistence. In the shadows where his nature dwelt now he would not +allow her good innocence and truth to enter. His self-reproach was the +more poignant because it was silent. + +Watching the tempest-swept valley, the tortured forest, where wild life +was in panic, there came upon him the old impulse to put his thoughts +into words, “and so be rid of them,” as he was wont to say in other +days. Taking from his pocket some slips of paper, he laid them on the +table before him. Three or four times he leaned over the paper to write, +but the noise of the storm again and again drew his look to the window. +The tempest ceased almost as suddenly as it had come, and, as the first +sunlight broke through the flying clouds, he mechanically lifted a sheet +of the paper and held it up to the light. It brought to his eyes the +large water-mark, Kathleen! + +A sombre look passed over his face, he shifted in his chair, then bent +over the paper and began to write. Words flowed from his pen. The lines +of his face relaxed, his eyes lightened; he was lost in a dream. He +thought of the present, and he wrote: + + “Wave walls to seaward, + Storm-clouds to leeward, + Beaten and blown by the winds of the West; + Sail we encumbered + Past isles unnumbered, + But never to greet the green island of Rest.” + +He thought of Father Loisel. He had seen the good man’s lips tremble at +some materialistic words he had once used in their many talks, and he +wrote: + + “Lips that now tremble, + Do you dissemble + When you deny that the human is best?-- + Love, the evangel, + Finds the Archangel? + Is that a truth when this may be a jest? + + “Star-drifts that glimmer + Dimmer and dimmer, + What do ye know of my weal or my woe? + Was I born under + The sun or the thunder? + What do I come from? and where do I go? + + “Rest, shall it ever + Come? Is endeavour + But a vain twining and twisting of cords? + Is faith but treason; + Reason, unreason, + But a mechanical weaving of words?” + +He thought of Louis Trudel, in his grave, and his own questioning: “Show +me a sign from Heaven, tailorman!” and he wrote: + + “What is the token, + Ever unbroken, + Swept down the spaces of querulous years, + Weeping or singing + That the Beginning + Of all things is with us, and sees us, and hears?” + +He made an involuntary motion of his hand to his breast, where old Louis +Trudel had set a sign. So long as he lived, it must be there to read: +a shining smooth scar of excoriation, a sacred sign of the faith he had +never been able to accept; of which he had never, indeed, been able to +think, so distant had been his soul, until, against his will, his +heart had answered to the revealing call in a woman’s eyes. He felt her +fingers touch his breast as they did that night the iron seared him; and +out of this first intimacy of his soul he wrote: + + “What is the token? + Bruised and broken, + Bend I my life to a blossoming rod? + Shall then the worst things + Come to the first things, + Finding the best of all, last of all, God?” + +Like the cry of his “Aphrodite,” written that last afternoon of the old +life, this plaint ended with the same restless, unceasing question. But +there was a difference. There was no longer the material, distant +note of a pagan mind; there was the intimate, spiritual note of a mind +finding a foothold on the submerged causeway of life and time. + +As he folded up the paper to put it into his pocket, Jo Portugais +entered the room. He threw in a corner the wet bag which had protected +his shoulders from the rain, hung his hat on a peg of the chimney-piece, +nodded to Charley, and put a kettle on the little fire. + +“A big storm, M’sieu’,” Jo said presently as he put some tea into a pot. + +“I have never seen a great storm in a forest before,” answered Charley, +and came nearer to the window through which the bright sun streamed. + +“It always does me good,” said Jo. “Every bird and beast is awake and +afraid and trying to hide, and the trees fall, and the roar of it like +the roar of the chasse-galerie on the Kimash River.” + +“The Kimash River--where is it?” + +Jo shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows!” + +“Is it a legend, then?” + +“It is a river.” + +“And the chasse-galerie?” + +“That is true, M’sieu’, no matter what any one thinks. I know; I have +seen--I have seen with my own eyes.” Jo was excited now. + +“I am listening.” He took a cup of tea from Portugais and drank eagerly. + +“The Kimash River, M’sieu’, that is the river in the air. On it is the +chasse-galerie. You sell your soul to the devil; you ask him to help +you; you deny God. You get into a canoe and call on the devil. You are +lifted up, canoe and all, and you rush on down rapids, over falls, on +the Kimash River in the air. The devil stands behind you and shouts, and +you sing, ‘V’la! l’bon vent! V’la l’joli vent!’ On and on you go, faster +and faster, and you forget the world, and you forget yourself, and +the devil is with you in the air--in the chasse-galerie on the Kimash +River.” + +“Jo,” said Charley Steele, “do you honestly think there’s a river like +that?” + +‘M’sieu’, I know it. I saw Ignace Latoile, who robbed a priest and got +drunk on the communion wine--I saw him with the devil in the Black Canoe +at the Saguenay. I could see Ignace; I could see the devil; I could see +the Kimash River. I shall ride myself some day. + +“Ride where?” + +“What does it matter where?” + +“Why should you ride?” + +“Because you ride fast with the devil.” + +“What is the good of riding fast?” + +“In the rush a man forget.” + +“What does he forget, my friend?” + +There was a pause, in which a man with a load of crime upon his soul +dwelt upon the words my friend, coming from the lips of one who knew the +fulness of his iniquity. Then he answered: + +“In the noise he forget that a voice is calling in his ear, ‘You did +It!’ He forget what he see in his dreams. He forget the hand that touch +him on the arm when he walk in the woods alone, or lie down to sleep at +night, no one near. He forget that some one wait--wait--wait, till he +has suffer long enough, or till, one day, he think he is happy again, +and the Thing he did is far off like a dream--to drag him out to the +death he did not die. He forget that he is alone--all alone in the +world, for ever and ever and ever.” + +He suddenly sank upon the floor beside Charley, and a groan burst from +his lips. “To have no friend--ah, it is so awful!” he said. “Never to +see a face that look into yours, and know how bad are you, and doesn’t +mind. For five years I have live like that. I cannot let any one be +my friend because I was that! They seem to know--everything, +everybody--what I am. The little children when I pass them run away to +hide. I have wake in the night and cry out in fear, it is so lonely. I +have hear voices round me in the woods, and I run and run and run from +them, and not leave them behind. Three times I go to the jails in Quebec +to see the prisoners behind the bars, and watch the pains on their +faces, to understand what I escape. Five times have I go to the courts +to listen to murderers tried, and watch them when the Jury say Guilty! +and the Judge send them to death--that I might know. Twice have I go to +see murderers hung. Once I was helper to the hangman, that I might hear +and know what the man said, what he felt. When the arms were bound, I +felt the straps on my own; when the cap come down, I gasp for breath; +when the bolt is shot, I feel the wrench and the choke, and shudder go +through myself--feel the world jerk out in the dark. When the body is +bundled in the pit, I see myself lie still under the quick-lime with the +red mark round my throat.” + +Charley touched him on the shoulder. “Jo--poor Jo, my friend!” he said. +Jo raised his eyes, red with an unnatural fire, deep with gratitude. + +“As I sit at my dinner, with the sun shining and the woods green and +glad, and all the world gay, I have see what happened all over again. +I have see his strong hands; his bad face laugh at my words; I have see +him raise his riding-whip and cut me across the head. I have see him +stagger and fall from the blows I give him with the knife--the knife +which never was found--why, I not know, for I throw it on the ground +beside him! There, as I sit in the open day, a thousand times I have +see him shiver and fall, staring, staring at me as if he see a dreadful +thing. Then I stand up again and strike at him--at his ghost!--as I did +that day in the woods. Again I see him lie in his blood, straight and +white--so large, so handsome, so still! I have shed tears--but what are +tears! Blind with tears I have call out for the devils of hell to take +me with them. I have call on God to give me death. I have prayed, and I +have cursed. Twice I have travelled to the grave where he lies. I have +knelt there and have beg him to tell the truth to God, and say that he +torture me till I kill him. I have beg him to forgive me and to haunt +me no more with his bad face. But never--never--never--have I one quiet +hour until you come, M’sieu’; nor any joy in my heart till I tell you +the black truth--M’sieu’! M’sieu!” + +He buried his face between Charley’s feet, and held them with his hands. + +Charley laid a hand on the shaggy head as though it were that of a +child. “Be still--be still, Jo,” he said gently. + +Since that night of St. Jean Baptiste’s festival, no word of the past, +of the time when Charley turned aside the revanche of justice from a man +called Joseph Nadeau, had been spoken between them. Out of the delirium +of his drunken trance had come Charley’s recognition of the man he knew +now as Jo Portugais. But the recognition had been sent again into the +obscurity whence it came, and had not been mentioned since. To outward +seeming they had gone on as before. As Charley saw the knotted brows, +the staring eyes, the clinched hands, the figure of the woodsman rigid +in its agony of remorse, he said to himself: “What right had I to save +this man’s life? To have paid for his crime would have been easier for +him. I knew he was guilty. Perhaps it was my duty to see that every +condition, to the last shade of the law, was satisfied, but was it +justice to the poor devil himself? There he sits with a load on him that +weighs him down every hour of his life. I called him back; I gave him +life; but I gave him memory and remorse, and the ghosts that haunt +him: the voice in his ear, the touch on his arm, the some one that is +‘waiting--waiting--waiting!’ That is what I did, and that is what +the brother of the Cure did for me. He drew me back. He knew I was +a drunkard, but he drew me back. I might have been a murderer like +Portugais. The world says I was a thief, and a thief I am until I prove +to the world I am innocent--and wreck three lives! How much of Jo’s +guilt is guilt? How much remorse should a man suffer to pay the debt +of a life? If the law is an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, how +much hourly remorse and torture, such as Jo’s, should balance the eye or +the tooth or the life? I wonder, now!” + +He leaned over, and, helping Jo to his feet, gently forced him down upon +a bench near. “All right, Jo, my friend,” he said. “I understand. We’ll +drink the gall together.” + +They sat and looked at each other in silence. + +At length Charley leaned over and touched Jo on the shoulder. + +“Why did you want to save yourself?” he said. + +At that instant there was a knock at the door, and a voice said: +“Monsieur!--Monsieur!” + +Jo sprang to his feet with a sharp exclamation, then went heavily to the +door and threw it open. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. ROSALIE WARNS CHARLEY + +Charley’s eyes met Rosalie’s with a look the girl had never seen in them +before. It gave a glow to his haggard face. + +Rosalie turned to Jo and greeted him with a friendlier manner than was +her wont towards him. The nearer she was to Charley, the farther away +from him, to her mind, was Portugais, and she became magnanimous. + +Jo nodded’ awkwardly and left the room. Looking after the departing +figure, Rosalie said: “I know he has been good to you, but--but do you +trust him, Monsieur?” + +“Does not everybody in Chaudiere trust him?” + +“There is one who does not, though perhaps that’s of no consequence.” + +“Why do you not trust him?” + +“I don’t know. I never knew him do a bad thing; I never heard of a bad +thing he has done; and--he has been good to you.” + +She paused, flushing as she felt the significance of her words, and +continued: “Yet there is--I cannot tell what. I feel something. It is +not reasonable to go upon one’s feelings; but there it is, and so I do +not trust him.” + +“It is the way he lives, here in these lonely woods--the mystery around +him.” + +A change passed over her. With the first glow of meeting the object of +her visit had receded, though since her last interview with the Seigneur +she had not rested a moment, in her anxiety to warn him of his danger. +“Oh, no,” she said, lifting her eyes frankly to his: “oh, no, Monsieur! +It is not that. There is mystery about you!” She felt her heart beating +hard. It almost choked her, but she kept on bravely. “People say strange +and bad things about you. No one knows”--she trembled under the painful +inquiry of his eyes. Then she gained courage and went on, for she must +make it clear she trusted him, that she took him at his word, before she +told him of the peril before him--“No one knows where you came from... +and it is nobody’s business. Some people do not believe in you. But I +believe in you--I should believe in you if every one doubted; for there +is no feeling in me that says, ‘He has done some wicked thing +that stands-between us.’ It isn’t the same as with Portugais, you +see--naturally, it could not be the same.” + +She seemed not to realise that she was telling more of her own heart +than she had ever told. It was a revelation, having its origin in an +honesty which impelled a pure outspokenness to himself. Reserve, of +course, there had been elsewhere, for did not she hold a secret with +him? Had she not hidden things, equivocated else where? Yet it had been +at his wish, to protect the name of a dead man, for the repose of whose +soul masses were now said, with expensive candles burning. For this she +had no repentance; she was without logic where this man’s good was at +stake. + +Charley had before him a problem, which he now knew he never could evade +in the future. He could solve it by none of the old intellectual means, +but by the use of new faculties, slowly emerging from the unexplored +fastnesses of his nature. + +“Why should you believe in me?” he asked, forcing himself to smile, yet +acutely alive to the fact that a crisis was impending. “You, like all +down there in Chaudiere, know nothing of my past, are not sure that I +haven’t been a hundred times worse than you think poor Jo there. I may +have been anything. You may be harbouring a man the law is tracking +down.” + +In all that befell Rosalie Evanturel thereafter, never could come such +another great resolute moment. There was nothing to support her in the +crisis but her own faith. It needed high courage to tell this man who +had first given her dreams, then imagination, hope, and the beauty of +doing for another’s well-being rather than for her own--to tell this man +that he was a suspected criminal. Would he hate her? Would his kindness +turn to anger? Would he despise her for even having dared to name the +suspicion which was bringing hither an austere Abbe and officers of the +law? + +“We are harbouring a man the law is tracking down,” she said with an +infinite appeal in her eyes. + +He did not quite understand. He thought that perhaps she meant Jo, and +he glanced towards the door; but she kept her eyes on him, and they +told him that she meant himself. He chilled, as though ether were being +poured through his veins. + +Did the world know, then, that Charley Steele was alive? Was the law +sending its officers to seize the embezzler, the ruffian who had robbed +widow and orphan? + +If it were so.... To go back to the world whence he came, with the +injury he must do to others, and the punishment also that he must +suffer, if he did not tell the truth about Billy! And Chaudiere, which, +in spite of all, was beginning to have a real belief in him--where was +his contempt for the world now!... And Rosalie, who trusted him--this +new element rapidly grew dominant in his thoughts-to be the common +criminal in her eyes! + +His paleness gave way to a flush as like her own as could be. + +“You mean me?” he asked quietly. + +She had thought that his flush meant anger, and she was surprised at the +quiet tone. She nodded assent. “For what crime?” he asked. + +“For stealing.” + +His heart seemed to stand still. Then, it had come in spite of all it +had come. Here was his resurrection, and the old life to face. + +“What did I steal?” he asked with dull apathy. “The gold vessels +from the Catholic Cathedral of Quebec, after--after trying to blow up +Government House with gunpowder.” + +His despair passed. His face suddenly lighted. He smiled. It was so +absurd. “Really!” he said. “When was the place blown up?” + +“Two days before you came here last year--it was not blown up; an +attempt was made.” + +“Ah, I did not know. Why was the attempt made to blow it up?” + +“Some Frenchman’s hatred of the English, they say.” + +“But I am not French.” + +“They do not know. You speak French as perfectly as English--ah, +Monsieur, Monsieur, I believe you are whatever you say.” Pain and appeal +rang from her lips. + +“I am only an honest tailor,” he answered gently. He ruled his face to +calmness, for he read the agony in the girl’s face, and troubled as he +was, he wished to show her that he had no fear. + +“It is for what you were they will arrest you,” she said helplessly, and +as though he needed to have all made clear to him. “Oh, Monsieur,” she +continued, in a broken voice, “it would shame me so to have you made a +prisoner in Chaudiere--before all these silly people, who turn with the +wind. I should not lift my head--but yes, I should lift my head!” she +added hurriedly. “I should tell them all they lied--every one--the +idiots! The Seigneur--” + +“Well, what of the Seigneur-Rosalie?” + +Her own name on his lips--the sound of it dimmed her eyes. + +“Monsieur Rossignol does not know you. He neither believes nor +disbelieves. He said to me that if you wanted consideration, to command +him, for in Chaudiere he had heard nothing but good of you. If you +stayed, he would see that you had justice--not persecution. I saw him +two hours ago.” + +She said the last words shyly, for she was thinking why the Seigneur +had spoken as he did--that he had taken her opinion of Monsieur as +his guide, and she had not scrupled to impress him with her views. The +Seigneur was in danger of becoming prejudiced by his sentiments. + +A wave of feeling passed over Charley, a rushing wave of sympathy for +this simple girl, who, out of a blind confidence, risked so much for +him. Risk there certainly was, if she--if she cared for him. It was +cruelty not to reassure her. + +Touching his breast, he said gravely: “By this sign here, I am not +guilty of the crime for which they come to seek me, Rosalie. Nor of any +other crime for which the law might punish me--dear, noble friend.” + +He did so little to get such rich return. Her eyes leaped up to brighter +degrees of light, her face shone with a joy it had never reflected +before, her blood rushed to her finger-tips. She abruptly sat down in +a chair and buried her face in her hands, trembling. Then, lifting her +head slowly, after a moment she spoke in a tone that told him her faith, +her gratitude--not for reassurance, but for confidence, which is as +water in a thirsty land to a woman. + +“Oh, Monsieur, I thank you, I thank you from the depth of my heart; and +my heart is deep indeed, very, very deep--I cannot find what lies lowest +in it! I thank you, because you trust me, because you make it so easy +to--to be your friend; to say ‘I know’ when any one might doubt you. +One has no right to speak for another till--till the other has given +confidence, has said you may. Ah, Monsieur, I am so happy!” + +In very abandonment of heart she clasped her hands and came a step +nearer to him, but abruptly stopped still; for, realising her action, +timidity and embarrassment rushed upon her. + +Charley understood, and again his impulse was to say what was in his +heart and dare all; but resolution possessed him, and he said quickly: + +“Once, Rosalie, you saved me--from death perhaps. Once your hands helped +my pain--here.” He touched his breast. “Your words now, and what you do, +they still help me--here... but in a different way. The trouble is in +my heart, Rosalie. You are glad of my confidence? Well, I will give +you more.... I cannot go back to my old life. To do so would injure +others--some who have never injured me and some who have. That is why. +That is why I do not wish to be taken to Quebec now on a false charge. +That is all I can say. Is it enough?” + +She was about to answer, but Jo Portugais entered, exclaiming. +“M’sieu’,” he cried, “men are coming with the Seigneur and Cure.” + +Charley nodded at Jo, then turned to Rosalie. “You need not be seen if +you go out by the back way, Mademoiselle.” He held aside the bear-skin +curtain of the door that led into the next room. + +There was a frightened look in her face. “Do not fear for me,” he +continued. “It will come right--somehow. You have done more for me than +any one has ever done or ever will do. I will remember till the last +moment of my life. Good-bye.” + +He laid a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her from the room. + +“God protect you! The Blessed Virgin speak for you! I will pray for +you,” she whispered. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. CHARLEY STANDS AT BAY + +Charley turned quickly to the woodsman. “Listen,” he said, and he told +Jo how things stood. + +“You will not hide, M’sieu’? There is time,” Jo asked. + +“I will not hide, Jo.” + +“What will you do?” + +“I’ll decide when they come.” + +There was silence for a moment, then the sound of voices on the +hill-side. + +Charley’s soul rose up in revolt against the danger that faced him--not +against personal peril, but the danger of being dragged back again into +the life he had come from, with all that it involved--the futility of +this charge against him! To be the victim of an error--to go to the bar +of justice with the hand of injustice on his arm! + +All at once the love of this new life welled up in him, as a spring of +water overflows its bounds. A voice kept ringing in his ears, “I +will pray for you.” Subconsciously his mind kept saying, +“Rosalie--Rosalie--Rosalie!” There was nothing now that he would not +do to avert his being taken away upon this ridiculous charge. Mistaken +identity? To prove that, he must at once prove himself--who he was, +whence he came. Tell the Cure, and make it a point of honour for his +secret to be kept? But once told, the new life would no longer stand +by itself as the new life, cut off from all contact with the past. Its +success, its possibility, must lie in its absolute separateness, with +obscurity behind--as though he had come out of nothing into this very +room, on that winter morning when memory returned. + +It was clear that he must, somehow, evade the issue. He glanced at Jo, +whose eyes, strained and painful, were fixed upon the door. Here was a +man who suffered for his sake.... He took a step forward, as though with +sudden resolve, but there came a knocking, and, pausing, he motioned Jo +to open the door. Then, turning to a shelf, he took something from it +hastily, and kept it in his hand. + +Jo roused himself with an effort, and opened to the knocking. + +Three people entered: the Seigneur, the Cure, and the Abbe Rossignol, an +ascetic, severe man, with a face of intolerance and inflexibility. Two +constables in plain clothes followed; one stolid, one alert, one +English and one French, both with grim satisfaction in their faces--the +successful exercise of his trade is pleasant to every craftsman. When +they entered, Charley was standing with his back to the fireplace, his +eye-glass adjusted, one hand stroking his beard, the other held behind +his back. + +The Cure came forward and shook hands in an eager friendly way. + +“My dear Monsieur,” said he, “I hope that you are better.” + +“I am quite well, thank you, Monsieur le Cure,” answered Charley. “I +shall get back to work on Monday, I hope.” + +“Yes, yes, that is good,” responded the Cure, and seemed confused. +He turned uneasily to the Seigneur. “You have come to see my friend +Portugais,” Charley remarked slowly, almost apologetically. “I will take +my leave.” He made a step forward. The two constables did the same, and +would have laid their hands upon his shoulder but that the Seigneur said +tartly: + +“Stand off, Jack-in-boxes!” + +The two stood aside, and looked covertly at the Seigneur, whose temper +seemed unusually irascible. Charley’s face showed no surprise, but he +looked inquiringly at the Cure. + +“If they wish to be measured for uniforms--or manners--I will see them +at my shop,” he said. + +The Seigneur chuckled. Charley stepped again towards the door. The +two constables stood before it. Again he turned inquiringly, this time +towards the Cure. The Cure did not speak. + +“It is you we wish to see, tailor,” said the Abbe Rossignol. + +Soft-tongued irony leaped to Charley’s lips: “Have I, then, the honour +of including Monsieur among my customers? I cannot recall Monsieur’s +figure. I think I should not have forgotten it.” + +It was now the old Charley Steele, with the new body, the new spirit, +but with the old skilful mind, aggravatingly polite, non-intime--the +intolerant face of this father of souls irritated him. + +“I never forget a figure which has idiosyncrasy,” he added, with a bland +eye wandering over the priest’s gaunt form. It was his old way to strike +first and heal after--“a kick and a lick,” as old Paddy Wier, whom he +once saved from prison, said of him. It was like bygone years of another +life to appear in defence when the law was tightening round a victim. +The secret spring had been touched, the ancient machinery of his mind +was working almost automatically. + +The illusion was considerable, for the Seigneur had taken the only +arm-chair in the room, a little apart, as it were, filling the place of +judge. The priest-brother, cold and inveterate, was like the attorney +for the crown. The Cure was the clerk of the court, who could only echo +the decisions of the Judge. The constables were the machinery of the +Law, and Jo Portugais was the unwilling witness, whose evidence would +be the crux of the case. The prisoner--he himself was prisoner and +prisoner’s counsel. + +A good struggle was forward. + +He had enraged the Abbe as much as he had delighted the Abbe’s brother; +for nothing gave the Seigneur such pleasure as the discomfiture of the +Abbe Rossignol, chaplain and ordinary to the Archbishop of Quebec. The +genial, sympathetic nature of the Seigneur could not even be patient +with the excessive piety of the churchman, who, in rigid righteousness, +had thrashed him cruelly as a boy. At Charley’s words upon the Abbe’s +figure, gaunt and precise as a swaddled ramrod, he pulled his nose with +a grunt of satisfaction. + +The Cure, the peace-maker, intervened. The tailor’s meaning was +sufficiently clear: if they had come to see him personally, then it was +natural for him to wish to know the names and stations of his guests, +and their business. The Seigneur was aware that the tailor did know, and +he enjoyed the ‘sang-froid’ with which he was meeting the situation. + +“Monsieur,” said the Cure, in a mollifying voice, “I have ventured +to bring the Seigneur of Chaudiere”--the Seigneur stood up and bowed +gravely--“and his brother, the Abbe Rossignol, who would speak with you +on private business”--he ignored the presence of the constables. + +Charley bowed to the Seigneur and the Abbe, then turned inquiringly +towards the two constables. “Friends of my brother the Abbe,” said the +Seigneur maliciously. + +“Their names, Monsieur?” asked Charley. + +“They have numbers,” answered the Seigneur whimsically--to the Cure’s +pain, for levity seemed improper at such a time. + +“Numbers of names are legally suspicious, numbers for names are +suspiciously legal,” rejoined Charley. “You have pierced the disguise +of discourtesy,” said the Seigneur, and, on the instant, he made up +his mind that whatever the tailor might have been, he was deserving of +respect. + +“You have private business with me, Monsieur?” asked Charley of the +Abbe. + +The Abbe shook his head. “The business is not private, in one sense. +These men have come to charge you with having broken into the cathedral +at Quebec and stolen the gold vessels of the altar; also with having +tried to blow up the Governor’s residence.” + +One of the constables handed Charley the warrant. He looked at it with a +curious smile. It was so natural, yet so unnatural, to be thus in touch +with the habits of far-off times. + +“On what information is this warrant issued?” he asked. + +“That is for the law to show in due course,” said the priest. + +“Pardon me; it is for the law to show now. I have a right to know.” + +The constables shifted from one foot to the other, looked at each other +meaningly, and instinctively felt their weapons. + +“I believe,” said the Seigneur evenly, “that--” The Abbe interrupted. +“He can have information at his trial.” + +“Excuse me, but the warrant has my endorsement,” said the Seigneur, +“and, as the justice most concerned, I shall give proper information +to the gentleman under suspicion.” He waved a hand at the Abbe, as at a +fractious child, and turned courteously to Charley. + +“Monsieur,” he said, “on the tenth of August last the cathedral at +Quebec was broken into, and the gold altar-vessels were stolen. You are +suspected. The same day an attempt was made to blow up the Governor’s +residence. You are suspected.” + +“On what ground, Monsieur?” + +“You appeared in this vicinity three days afterwards with an injury to +the head. Now, the incendiary received a severe blow on the head from a +servant of the Governor. You see the connection, Monsieur?” + +“Where is the servant of the Governor, Monsieur?” + +“Dead, unfortunately. He told the story so often, to so much +hospitality, that he lost his footing on Mountain Street steps--you +remember Mountain Street steps possibly, Monsieur?--and cracked his head +on the last stone.” + +There was silence for a moment. If the thing had not been so serious, +Charley must have laughed outright. If he but disclosed his identity, +how easy to dispose of this silly charge! He did not reply at once, but +looked calmly at the Abbe. In the pause, the Seigneur added “I forgot to +add that the man had a brown beard. You have a brown beard, Monsieur.” + +“I had not when I arrived here.” + +Jo Portugais spoke. “That is true, M’sieu’; and what is more, I know a +newly shaved face when I see it, and M’sieu’s was tanned with the sun. +It is foolish, that!” + +“This is not the place for evidence,” said the Abbe sharply. + +“Excuse me, Abbe,” said his brother; “if Monsieur wishes to have a +preliminary trial here, he may. He is in my seigneury; he is a tenant of +the Church here--” + +“It is a grave offence that an infidel, dropping down here from, who +knows where--that an acknowledged infidel should be a tenant of the +Church!” + +“The devil is a tenant of the Almighty, if creation is the Almighty’s,” + said Charley. + +“Satan is a prisoner,” snapped the Abbe. + +“With large domains for exercise,” retorted Charley, “and in successful +opposition to the Church. If it is true that the man you charge is an +infidel, how does that warrant suspicion?” + +“Other thefts,” answered the Abbe. “A sacred iron cross was stolen from +the door of the church of Chaudiere. I have no doubt that the thief of +the gold vessels of the cathedral was the thief of the iron cross.” + +“It is not true,” sullenly broke in Jo Portugais. + +“What proof have you?” said the Seigneur. Charley waved a deprecating +hand towards Jo. + +“I shall not call Portugais as evidence,” he said. + +“You are conducting your own case?” asked the Seigneur, with a grim +smile. + +“It is dangerous, I believe.” + +“I will take my chances,” answered Charley. “Will you tell me what +object the criminal could have in stealing the gold vessels from the +cathedral?” he added, turning to the Abbe. + +“They were gold!” + +“And for taking the cross from the door of the church in Chaudiere?” + +“It was sacred, and he was an infidel, and hated it.” + +“I do not see the logic of the argument. He stole the vessels because +they were valuable, and the iron cross because he was an infidel! Now +how do you know that the suspected criminal was an infidel, Monsieur?” + +“It is well known.” + +“Has he ever said so?” + +“He does not deny it.” + +“If you were charged with being an opium-eater, does it follow that +you are one because you do not deny it? There was a Man who was said to +blaspheme, to have all ‘the crafts and assaults of the devil’--was it +His duty to deny it? Suppose you were accused of being a highwayman, +would you be less a highwayman if you denied it? Or would you be less +guilty if you denied it?” + +“That is beside the case,” said the priest with acerbity. + +“Faith, I think it is the case itself,” said the Seigneur with a +satisfied pull of his nose. + +“But do you seriously suggest that only infidels rob churches?” Charley +persisted. + +“I am not here to be cross-examined,” answered the Abbe harshly. +“You are charged with robbing the cathedral and trying to blow up the +Governor’s residence. Arrest him!” he added, turning to the constables. + +“Stand where you are, men,” sharply threatened the Seigneur. “There +are no lettres de cachet nowadays, Francois,” he added tartly to his +brother. + +“If it is the exclusive temptation of an infidel to rob a church, has +infidelity also an inherent penchant for arson? Is it a patent? Why did +the infidel blow up the Governor’s residence?” continued Charley. + +“He did not blow it up, he only tried,” interposed the Cure softly. + +“I was not aware,” said Charley. “Well, did the man who stole the patens +from the altar--” + +“They were chalices,” again interrupted the Cure, with a faint smile. + +“Ah, I was not aware!” again rejoined Charley. “I repeat, what reason +had the person who stole the chalices to try to blow up the Governor’s +residence? Is it a sign of infidelity, or--” + +“You can answer for that yourself,” angrily interposed the Abbe. The +strain was telling on his nerves. + +“It is fair to give reasons for the suspicion,” urged the Seigneur +acidly. + +“As I said before, Francois, this is not the fifteenth century.” + +“He hated the English government,” said the Abbe. “I do not understand,” + responded Charley. “Am I then to suppose that the alleged criminal was a +Frenchman as well as an infidel?” + +There was silence, and Charley continued. “It is an unusual thing for a +French Abbe to be so concerned for the safety of an English Protestant’s +life and housing... the Governor is a Protestant--eh? That is, indeed, a +zeal almost Christian--or millennial.” + +The Abby turned to the Seigneur. “Are you going to interfere longer with +the process of the law?” + +“I think Monsieur has not quite finished his argument,” said the +Seigneur, with a twist of the mouth. + +“If the man was a Frenchman, why do you suspect the tailor of +Chaudiere?” asked Charley softly. “Of course I understand the reason +behind all: you have heard that the tailor is an infidel; you have +protested to the good Cure here, and the Cure is a man who has a sense +of justice, and will not drive a poor man from his parish by Christian +persecution--without cause. Since certain dates coincide and impulses +urge, you suspect the tailor. Again, according to your mind, a man who +steals holy vessels must needs be an infidel; therefore a tailor in +Chaudiere, suspected of being an infidel, stole the holy chalices. It +might seem a fair case for a grand jury of clericals. But it breaks down +in certain places. Your criminal is a Frenchman; the tailor of Chaudiere +is an Englishman.” + +The Abbe’s face was contracted with stubborn annoyance, though he held +his tongue from violence. “Do you deny that you are French?” he asked +tartly. + +“I could almost endure the suspicion because of the compliment to my +command of your charming language.” + +“Prove that you are an Englishman. No one knows where you came from; no +one knows what you are. You are a fair subject for suspicion, apart from +the evidence shown,” said the Abbe, trying now to be as polite as the +tailor. + +“This is a free country. So long as the law is obeyed, one can go where +one wills without question, I take it.” + +“There is a law of vagrancy.” + +“I am a householder, a tenant of the Church, not a vagrant.” + +“Monsieur, you can have your choice of proving these things here or in +Quebec,” said the Abbe, with angry impatience again. + +“I may not be compelled to prove anything. It is the privilege of the +law to prove the crime against me.” + +“You are a very remarkable tailor,” said the Abbe sarcastically. + +“I have not had the honour of making you even a cassock, I think. +Monsieur le Cure, I believe, approves of those I make for him. He has a +good figure, however.” + +“You refuse to identify yourself?” asked the Abbe, with asperity. + +“I am not aware that you possess any right to ask me to do so.” + +The Abbe’s thin lips clipped-to like shears. He turned again towards the +officers. + +“It would relieve the situation,” interposed the Seigneur, “if Monsieur +could find it possible to grant the Abbe’s demand.” + +Charley bowed to the Seigneur. “I do not know why I should be taken for +a Frenchman or an infidel. I speak French well, I presume, but I spoke +it from the cradle. I speak English with equally good accent,” he added, +with the glimmer of a smile; for there was a kind of exhilaration in the +little contest, even with so much at stake. This miserable, silly charge +had that behind it which might open up a grave, make its dead to walk, +fright folk from their senses, and destroy their peace for ever. Yet +he was cool and thinking clearly. He measured up the Abbe in his mind, +analysed him, found the vulnerable spot in his nature, the avenue to the +one place lighted by a lamp of humanity. He leaned a hand upon the ledge +of the chimney where he stood, and said, in a low voice: + +“Monsieur l’Abbe, it is sometimes the misfortune of just men to +be terribly unjust. ‘For conscience sake’ is another name for +prejudice--for those antipathies which, natural to us, are, at the same +time, trap-doors, for our just intentions. You, Monsieur, have a radical +antipathy to those men who are unable to see or to feel what you were +privileged to see and feel from the time of your birth. You know that +you are right. Do you think that those who do not see as you do are +wicked because they were not given what you were given? If you are +right, may they, poor folk! not be the victims of their blindness of +heart--of the darkness born with them, or of the evils that overtake +them? For conscience sake, you would crush out evil. To you an +infidel--so called--is an evil-doer, a peril to the peace of God. +You drive him out from among the faithful. You heard that a tailor +of Chaudiere was an infidel. You did not prove him one, but you, for +conscience sake, are trying to remove him, by fixing on him a crime of +which he may, with slight show of reason, be suspected. But I ask you, +would you have taken the same deep interest in setting the law upon this +suspected man did you not believe him to be an infidel?” + +He paused. The Abbe made no reply. The Cure was bending forward eagerly; +the Seigneur sat with his hands over the top of his cane, his chin on +his hands, never taking his eyes from him, save to glance once or twice +at his brother. Jo Portugais was crouched on the bench, watching. + +“I do not know what makes an infidel,” Charley went on. “Is it an honest +mind, a decent life, an austerity of living as great as that of any +priest, a neighbourliness that gives and takes in fairness--” + +“No, no, no,” interposed the Cure eagerly. “So you have lived here, +Monsieur; I can vouch for that. Charity and a good heart have gone with +you always.” + +“Do you mean that a man is an infidel because he cannot say, as Louis +Trudel said to me, ‘Do you believe in God?’ and replies, as I replied, +‘God knows!’ Is that infidelity? If God is God, He alone knows when +the mind or the tongue can answer in the terms of that faith which you +profess. He knows the secret desires of our hearts, and what we believe, +and what we do not believe; He knows better than we ourselves know--if +there is a God. Does a man conjure God, if he does not believe in +God? ‘God knows!’ is not a statement of infidelity. With me it was a +phrase--no more. You ask me to bare my inmost soul. I have not learned +how to confess. You ask me to lay bare my past, to prove my identity. +For conscience sake you ask that, and I for conscience sake say I will +not, Monsieur. You, when you enter your priestly life, put all your past +behind you. It is dead for ever: all its deeds and thoughts and desires, +all its errors--sins. I have entered on a life here which is to me as +much a new life as your priesthood is to you. Shall I not have the right +to say, that may not be disinterred? Have I not the right to say, Hands +off? For the past I am responsible, and for the past I will speak from +the past; but for the deeds of the present I will speak only from the +present. I am not a Frenchman; I did not steal the little cross from the +church door here, nor the golden chalices in Quebec; nor did I seek to +injure the Governor’s residence. I have not been in Quebec for three +years.” + +He ceased speaking, and fixed his eyes on the Abbe, who now met his look +fairly. + +“In the way of justice, there is nothing hidden that shall not be +revealed, nor secret that shall not be made known,” answered the +Abbe. “Prove that you were not in Quebec on the day the robbery was +committed.” There was silence. The Abbe’s pertinacity was too difficult. +The Seigneur saw the grim look in Charley’s face, and touched the Abbe +on the arm. “Let us walk a little outside. Come, Cure” he added. “It +is right that Monsieur should have a few minutes alone. It is a serious +charge against him, and reflection will be good for us all.” + +He motioned the constables from the room. The Abby passed through the +door into the open air, and the Cure and the Seigneur went arm in arm +together, talking earnestly. The Cure turned in the doorway. + +“Courage, Monsieur!” he said to Charley, and bowed himself out. Jo +Portugais followed. + +One officer took his place at the front door and the other at the back +door, outside. + +The Abby, by himself, took to walking backward and forward under the +trees, buried in gloomy reflection. Jo Portugais caught his sleeve. + +“Come with me for a moment, M’sieu’,” he said. “It is important.” + +The Abby followed him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY + +Jo Portugais had fastened down a secret with clasps heavier than iron, +and had long stood guard over it. But life is a wheel, and natures move +in circles, passing the same points again and again, the points being +distant or near to the sense as the courses of life have influenced +the nature. Confession was an old principle, a light in the way, a +rest-house for Jo and all his race, by inheritance, by disposition, and +by practice. Again and again Jo had come round to the rest-house +since one direful day, but had not, found his way therein. There were +passwords to give at the door, there was the tale of the journey to tell +to the door-keeper. And this tale he had not been ready to tell. But the +man who knew of the terrible thing he had done, who had saved him from +the consequences of that terrible thing, was in sore trouble, and this +broke down the gloomy guard he had kept over his dread secret. He fought +the matter out with himself, and, the battle ended, he touched the +door-keeper on the arm, beckoned him to a lonely place in the trees, and +knelt down before him. + +“What is it you seek?” asked the door-keeper, whose face was set and +forbidding. + +“To find peace,” answered the man; yet he was thinking more of another’s +peril than of his own soul. “What have I to do with the peace of your +soul? Yonder is your shepherd and keeper,” said the doorkeeper, pointing +to where two men walked arm in arm under the trees. + +“Shall the sinner not choose the keeper of his sins?” said the man +huskily. + +“Who has been the keeper all these years? Who has given you peace?” + +“I have had no keeper; I have had no peace these many years.” + +“How many years?” The Abbe’s voice was low and even, and showed no +feeling, but his eyes were keenly inquiring and intent. + +“Seven years.” + +“Is the sin that held you back from the comfort of the Church a great +one?” + +“The greatest, save one.” + +“What would be the greatest?” + +“To curse God.” + +“The next?” + +“To murder.” + +The other’s whole manner changed on the instant. He was no longer +the stern Churchman, the inveterate friend of Justice, the prejudiced +priest, rigid in a pious convention, who could neither bend nor break. +The sin of an infidel breaker of the law, that was one thing; the crime +of a son of the Church, which a human soul came to relate in its agony, +that was another. He had a crass sense of justice, but there was in +him a deeper thing still: the revelation of the human soul, the +responsibility of speaking to the heart which has dropped the folds of +secrecy, exposing the skeleton of truth, grim and staring, to the eye of +a secret earthly mentor. + +“If it has been hidden all these years, why do you tell it now, my son?” + +“It is the only way.” + +“Why was it hidden?” + +“I have come to confess,” answered the man bitterly. The priest looked +at him anxiously. “You have spoken rightly, my son. I am not here to +ask, but to receive.” + +“Forgive me, but it is my crime I would speak of now. I choose this +moment that another should not suffer for what he did not do.” + +The priest thought of the man they had left in the little house, and the +crime with which he was charged, and wondered what the sinner before him +was going to say. + +“Tell your story, my son, and God give your tongue the very spirit of +truth, that nothing be forgotten and nothing excused.” + +There was a fleeting pause, in which the colour left the priest’s +face, and, as he opened the door of his mind--of the Church, secret +and inviolate--he had a pain at his heart; for beneath his arrogant +churchmanship there was a fanatical spirituality of a mediaeval kind. +His sense of responsibility was painful and intense. The same pain +possessed him always, were the sin that of a child or a Borgia. + +As he listened to the broken tale, the forest around was vocal, the +chipmunks scampered from tree to tree, the woodpecker’s tap-tap, +tap-tap, went on over their heads, the leaves rustled and gave forth +their divine sweetness, as though man and nature were at peace, and +there were no storms in sky above or soul beneath, or in the waters of +life that are deeper than “the waters under the earth.” + +It was only a short time, but to the door-keeper and the wayfarer +it seemed hours, for the human soul travels far and hard and long in +moments of pain and revelation. The priest in his anxiety suffered as +much as the man who did the wicked thing. When the man had finished, the +priest said: + +“Is this all?” + +“It is the great sin of my life.” He shuddered, and continued: “I have +no love of life; I have no fear of death; but there is the man who saved +me years ago, who got me freedom. He has had great sorrow and trouble, +and I would live for his sake--because he has no friend.” + +“Who is the man?” + +The other pointed to where the little house was hidden among the trees. +The priest almost gasped his amazement, but waited. + +Thereupon the woodsman told the whole truth concerning the tailor of +Chaudiere. + +“To save him, I have confessed my own sin. To you I might tell all in +confession, and the truth about him would be buried for ever. I might +not confess at all unless I confessed my own sin. You will save him, +father?” he asked anxiously. + +“I will save him,” was the reply of the priest. + +“I want to give myself to justice; but he has been ill, and he may be +ill again, and he needs me.” He told of the tailor’s besetting weakness, +of his struggles against it, of his fall a few days before, and the +cause of it... told all to the man of silence. + +“You wish to give yourself to justice?” + +“I shall have no peace unless.” + +There was something martyr-like in the man’s attitude. It appealed to +some stern, martyr-like quality in the priest. If the man would win +eternal peace so, then so be it. His grim piety approved. He spoke now +with the authority of divine justice. + +“For one year longer go on as you are, then give yourself to +justice--one year from to-day, my son. Is it enough?” + +“It is enough.” + +“Absolvo te!” said the priest. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. THE EDGE OF LIFE + +Meantime Charley was alone with his problem. The net of circumstances +seemed to have coiled inextricably round him. Once, at a trial in court +in other days, he had said in his ironical way: “One hasn’t to fear the +penalties of one’s sins, but the damnable accident of discovery.” + +To try to escape now, or, with the assistance of Jo Portugais, when +en route to Quebec in charge of the constables, and find refuge and +seclusion elsewhere? There was nothing he might ask of Portugais which +he would not do. To escape--and so acknowledge a guilt not his own! +Well, what did it matter! Who mattered? He knew only too well. The Cure +mattered--that good man who had never intruded his piety on him; who +had been from the first a discreet friend, a gentleman,--a Christian +gentleman, if there was such a sort of gentleman apart from all others. +Who mattered? The Seigneur, whom he had never seen before, yet who had +showed that day a brusque sympathy, a gruff belief in him? Who mattered? + +Above all, Rosalie mattered. To escape, to go from Rosalie’s presence +by a dark way, as it were, like a thief in the night--was that possible? +His escape would work upon her mind. She would first wonder, then doubt, +and then believe at last that he was a common criminal. She was the one +who mattered in that thought of escape escape to some other parish, to +some other province, to some other country--to some other world! + +To some other world? He looked at a little bottle he held in the palm of +his hand. + +A hand held aside the curtain of the door entering on the next room, and +a girl’s troubled face looked in, but he did not see. + +Escape to some other world? And why not, after all? On the day his +memory came back he had resisted the idea in this very room. As the +fatalist he had resisted it then. Now how poor seemed the reasons for +not having ended it all that day! If his appointed time had been come, +the river would have ended him then--that had been his argument. Was +that argument not belief in Somebody or Something which governed his +going or staying? Was it not preordination? Was not fatalism, then, +the cheapest sort of belief in an unchangeable Somebody or Something, +representing purpose and law and will? Attribute to anything power, and +there was God, whatever His qualities, personality, or being. + +The little phial of laudanum was in his hand to loosen life into +knowledge. Was it not his duty to eliminate himself, rather than be an +unsolvable quantity in the problem of many lives? It was neither vulgar +nor cowardly to pass quietly from forces making for ruin, and so avert +ruin and secure happiness. To go while yet there was time, and smooth +for ever the way for others by an eternal silence--that seemed well. +Punishment thereafter, the Cure would say. But was it not worth while +being punished, even should the Cure’s fond belief in the noble fable be +true, if one saved others here? Who--God or man--had the right to +take from him the right to destroy himself, not for fear, not through +despair, but for others’ sake? Had he not the right to make restitution +to Kathleen for having given her nothing but himself, whom she had +learned to despise? If he were God, he would say, Do justice and fear +not. And this was justice. Suppose he were in a battle, with all these +things behind him, and put himself, with daring and great results, +in some forlorn hope--to die; and he died, ostensibly a hero for his +country, but, in his heart of hearts, to throw his life away to +save some one he loved, not his country, which profited by his +sacrifice--suppose that were the case, what would the world say? + +“He saved others, himself he could not save”--flashed through his mind, +possessed him. He could save others; but it was clear he could not +save himself. It was so simple, so kind, and so decent. And he would +be buried here in quiet, unconsecrated ground, a mystery, a tailor who, +finding he could not mend the garment of life, cast it away, and took on +himself the mantle of eternal obscurity. No reproaches would follow him; +and he would not reproach himself, for Kathleen and Billy and another +would be safe and free to live their lives. + +Far, far better for Rosalie! She too would be saved--free from the peril +of his presence. For where could happiness come to her from him? He +might not love her; he might not marry her; and it were well to go now, +while yet love was not a habit, but an awakening, a realisation of life. +His death would settle this sad question for ever. To her he would be a +softening memory as time went on. + +The girl who had watched by the curtain stepped softly inside the room +... she divined his purpose. He was so intent he did not hear. + +“I will do it,” he said to himself. “It is better to go than to stay. I +have never done a good thing for love of any human being. I will do one +now.” + +He turned towards the window through which the sunlight streamed. +Stepping forward into the sun, he uncorked the bottle. + +There was a quick step behind him, and the girl’s voice said clearly: + +“If you go, I go also.” + +He turned swiftly, cold with amazement, the blood emptied from his +heart. + +Rosalie stood a little distance from him, her face pale, her hands held +hard to her side. + +“I understand all. I could not go outside, I stayed there”--she pointed +to the other room--“and I know why you would die. You would die to save +others.” + +“Rosalie!” he protested in a hoarse voice, and could say nothing more. + +“You think that I will stay, if you go! No, no, no--I will not. You +taught me how to live, and I will follow you now.” + +He saw the strange determination of her look. It startled him; he knew +not what to say. “Your father, Rosalie--” + +“My father will be cared for. But who will care for you in the place +where you are going? You will have no friends there. You shall not go +alone. You will need me--in the dark.” + +“It is good that I go,” he said. “It would be wicked, it would be +dreadful, for you to go.” + +“I go if you go,” she urged. “I will lose my soul to be with you; you +will want me--there!” + +There was no mistaking her intention. Footsteps sounded outside. The +others were coming back. To die here before her face? To bring her to +death with him? He was sick with despair. + +“Go into the next room quickly,” he said. “No matter what comes, I will +not--on my honour!” + +She threw him a look of gratitude, and, as the bearskin curtain dropped +behind her, he put the phial of laudanum in his pocket. + +The door opened, and the Abbe Rossignol entered, followed by the +Seigneur, the Cure, and Jo Portugais. Charley faced them calmly, and +waited. + +The Abbe’s face was still cold and severe, but his voice was human as he +said quickly: “Monsieur, I have decided to take you at your word. I am +assured you are not the man who committed the crime. You probably have +reasons for not establishing your identity.” + +Had Charley been a prisoner in the dock, he could not have had a moment +of deeper amazement--even if after the jury had said Guilty, a piece +of evidence had been handed in, proving innocence, averting the death +sentence. A wave of excitement passed over him, leaving him cold and +still. In the other room a girl put her hand to her mouth to stifle a +cry of joy. + +Charley bowed. “You made a mistake, Monsieur--pray do not apologise,” he +said. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. IN AMBUSH + +Weeks went by. Summer was done, autumn was upon the land. Harvest-home +had gone, and the “fall” ploughing was forward. The smell of the burning +stubble, of decaying plant and fibre, was mingling with the odours of +the orchards and the balsams of the forest. The leafy hill-sides, far +and near, were resplendent in scarlet and saffron and tawny red. Over +the decline of the year flickered the ruined fires of energy. + +It had been a prosperous summer in the valley. Harvests had been reaped +such as the country had not known for years--and for years there had +been great harvests. There had not been a death in the parish all +summer, and births had occurred out of all usual proportion. + +When Filion Lacasse commented thereon, and mentioned the fact that even +the Notary’s wife had had the gift of twins as the crowning fulness of +the year, Maximilian Cour, who was essentially superstitious, tapped on +the table three times, to prevent a turn in the luck. + +The baker was too late, however, for the very next day the Notary was +brought home with a nasty gunshot wound in his leg. He had been lured +into duck-hunting on a lake twenty miles away, in the hills, and had +been accidentally shot on an Indian reservation, called Four Mountains, +where the Church sometimes held a mission and presented a primitive sort +of passion-play. From there he had been brought home by his comrades, +and the doctor from the next parish summoned. The Cure assisted the +doctor at first, but the task was difficult to him. At the instant when +the case was most critical the tailor of Chaudiere set his foot inside +the Notary’s door. A moment later he relieved the Cure and helped to +probe for shot, and care for an ugly wound. + +Charley had no knowledge of surgery, but his fingers were skilful, his +eye was true, and he had intuition. The long operation over, the rural +physician and surgeon washed his hands and then studied Charley with +curious admiration. + +“Thank you, Monsieur,” he said, as he dried his hands on a towel. “I +couldn’t have done it without you. It’s a pretty good job; and you share +the credit.” + +Charley bowed. “It’s a good thing not to halloo till you’re out of the +woods,” he said. “Our friend there has a bad time before him--hein?” + +“I take you. It is so.” The man of knives and tinctures pulled his +side-whiskers with smug satisfaction as he looked into a small mirror on +the wall. “Do you chance to know if madame has any cordials or spirits?” + he added, straightening his waistcoat and adjusting his cravat. + +“It is likely,” answered Charley, and moved away to the window looking +upon the street. + +The doctor turned in surprise. He was used to being waited on, and he +had expected the tailor to follow the tradition. + +“We might--eh?” he said suggestively. “It is usually the custom to +provide refreshment, but the poor woman, madame, has been greatly +occupied with her husband, and--” + +“And the twins,” Charley put in drily--“and a house full of work, and +only one old crone in the kitchen to help. Still, I have no doubt she +has thought of the cordials too. Women are the slaves of custom--ah, +here they are, as I said, and--” + +He stopped short, for in the doorway, with a tray, stood Rosalie +Evanturel. The surgeon was so intent upon at once fortifying himself +that he did not see the look which passed between Rosalie and the +tailor. + +Rosalie had been absent for two months. Her father had been taken +seriously ill the day after the critical episode in the but at Vadrome +Mountain, and she had gone with him to the hospital at Quebec, for an +operation. The Abbe Rossignol had undertaken to see them safely to the +hospital, and Jo Portugais, at his own request, was permitted to go in +attendance upon M. Evanturel. + +There had been a hasty leave-taking between Charley and Rosalie, but +it was in the presence of others, and they had never spoken a word +privately together since the day she had said to him that where he went +she would go, in life or out of it. + +“You have been gone two months,” Charley said now, after their touch of +hands and voiceless greeting. “Two months yesterday,” she answered. + +“At sundown,” he replied, in an even voice. + +“The Angelus was ringing,” she answered calmly, though her heart was +leaping and her hands were trembling. The doctor, instantly busy with +the cordial, had not noticed what they said. + +“Won’t you join me?” he asked, offering a glass to Charley. + +“Spirits do not suit me,” answered Charley. “Matter of constitution,” + rejoined the doctor, and buttoned up his coat, preparing to depart. He +came close to Charley. “Now, I don’t want to put upon you, Monsieur,” he +said, “but this sick man is valuable in the parish--you take me? Well, +it’s a difficult, delicate case, and I’d be glad if I could rely on you +for a few days. The Cure would do, but you are young, you have a sense +of things--take me? Half the fees are yours if you’ll keep a sharp eye +on him--three times a day, and be with him at night a while. Fever is +the thing I’m afraid of--temperature--this way, please!” He went to the +window, and for a minute engaged Charley in whispered conversation. “You +take me?” he said cheerily at last, as he turned again towards Rosalie. + +“Quite, Monsieur,” answered Charley, and drew away, for he caught the +odour of the doctor’s breath, and a cold perspiration broke out over +him. He felt the old desire for drink sweeping through him. “I will do +what I can,” he said. + +“Come, my dear,” the doctor said to Rosalie. “We will go and see your +father.” + +Charley’s eyes had fastened on the bottles avidly. As Rosalie turned to +bid him good-bye, he said to her, almost hoarsely: “Take the tray back +to Madame Dauphin--please.” + +She flashed a glance of inquiry at him. She was puzzled by the fire in +his eyes. With her soul in her face as she lifted the tray, out of the +warm-beating life in her, she said in a low tone: + +“It is good to live, isn’t it?” + +He nodded and smiled, and the trouble slowly passed from his eyes. The +woman in her had conquered his enemy. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. THE COMING OF MAXIMILIAN COUR AND ANOTHER + +“It is good to live, isn’t it?” In the autumn weather when the air drank +like wine, it seemed so indeed, even to Charley, who worked all day in +his shop, his door wide open to the sunlight, and sat up half the night +with Narcisse Dauphin, sometimes even taking a turn at the cradle of the +twins, while madame sat beside her husband’s bed. + +To Charley the answer to Rosalie’s question lay in the fact that his +eyes had never been so keen, his face so alive, or his step so buoyant +as in this week of double duty. His mind was more hopeful than it had +ever been since the day he awoke with memory restored in the silence of +a mountain hut. + +He had found the antidote to his great temptation, to the lurking, +relentless habit which had almost killed him the night John Brown +had sung Champagne Charlie from behind the flaring lights. From a +determination to fight his own fight with no material aids, he had never +once used the antidote sent him by the Cure’s brother. + +On St. Jean Baptiste’s day his proud will had failed him; intellectual +force, native power of mind, had broken like reeds under the weight of +a cruel temptation. But now a new force had entered into him. As his +fingers were about to reach for the spirit-bottle in the house of the +Notary, and he had, for the first time in his life, made an appeal for +help, a woman’s voice had said, “It is good to live, isn’t it?” and his +hand was stayed. A woman’s look had stilled the strife. Never before in +his life had he relied on a moral or a spiritual impulse in him. What +of these existed in him were in unseen quantities--for which there was +neither multiple nor measure--had been primitive and hereditary, flowing +in him like a feeble tincture diluted to inefficacy. + +Rosalie had resolved him back to the original elements. The quiet days +he had spent in Chaudiere, the self-sacrifice he had been compelled to +make, the human sins, such as those of Jo Portugais and Louis Trudel, +with which he had had to do, the simplicity of the life around him--the +uncomplicated lie and the unvarnished truth, the obvious sorrow and the +patent joy, the childish faith, and the rude wickedness so pardonable +because so frankly brutal--had worked upon him. The elemental spirit +of it all had so invaded his nature, breaking through the crust of old +habit to the new man, that, when he fell before his temptation, and his +body became saturated with liquor, the healthy natural being and the +growing natural mind were overpowered by the coarse onslaught, and death +had nearly followed. + +It was his first appeal to a force outside himself, to an active +principle unfamiliar to the voluntary working of his nature, and the +answer had been immediate and adequate. Yet what was it? He did not ask; +he had not got beyond the mere experience, and the old questioning habit +was in abeyance. Each new and great emotion has its dominating moment, +its supreme occasion, before taking its place in the modulated moral +mechanism. He was touched with helplessness. + +As he sat beside Narcisse Dauphin’s bedside, one evening, the sick man +on his way to recovery, there came to him the text of a sermon he had +once heard John Brown preach: “Greater love hath no man than this, that +a man lay down his life for his friend.” He had been thinking of Rosalie +and that day at Vadrome Mountain. She would not only have died with him, +but she would have died for him, if need had been. What might he give in +return for what she gave? + +The Notary interrupted his thoughts. He had lain watching Charley for a +long time, his brow drawn down with thought. At last he said: + +“Monsieur, you have been good to me.” Charley laid a hand on the sick +man’s arm. + +“I don’t see that. But if you won’t talk, I’ll believe you think so.” + +The Notary shook his head. “I’ve not been talking for an hour, I’ve no +fever, and I want to say some things. When I’ve said them, I’ll feel +better--voila! I want to make the amende honorable. I once thought +you were this and that--I won’t say what I thought you. I said you +interfered--giving advice to people, as you did to Filion Lacasse, and +taking the bread out of my mouth. I said that!” + +He paused, raised himself on his elbow, smoothed back his grizzled +hair behind his ears, looked at himself in the mirror opposite with +satisfaction, and added oracularly: “But how prone is the mind of man +to judge amiss! You have put bread into my mouth--no, no, Monsieur, you +shall hear me! As well as doing your own work, you have done my business +since my accident as well as a lawyer could do it; and you’ve given +every penny to my wife.” + +“As for the work I’ve done,” answered Charley, “it was nothing--you +notaries have easy times. You may take your turn with my shears and +needle one day.” + +With a dash of patronage true to his nature, “You are wonderful for a +tailor,” the Notary rejoined. Charley laughed--seldom, if ever, had he +laughed since coming to Chaudiere. It was, however, a curious fact that +he took a real pleasure in the work he did with his hands. In making +clothes for habitant farmers, and their sons and their sons’ sons, and +jackets for their wives and daughters, he had had the keenest pleasure +of his life. + +He had taken his earnings with pride, if not with exultation. He knew +the Notary did not mean that he was wonderful as a tailor, but he +answered to the suggestion. + +“You liked that last coat I made for you, then,” he said drily; “I +believe you wore it when you were shot. It was the thing for your +figure, man.” + +The Notary looked in the large mirror opposite with sad content. “Ah, it +was a good figure, the first time I went to that hut at Four Mountains!” + +“We can’t always be young. You have a waist yet, and your chest-barrel +gives form to a waistcoat. Tut, tut! Think of the twins in the way of +vainglory and hypocrisy.” + +“‘Twins’ and ‘hypocrisy’; there you have struck the nail on the head, +tailor. There is the thing I’m going to tell you about.” + +After a cautious glance at the door and the window, Dauphin continued in +quick, broken sentences: “It wasn’t an accident at Four Mountains--not +quite. It was Paulette Dubois--you know the woman that lives at the +Seigneur’s gate? Twelve years ago she was a handsome girl. I fell in +love with her, but she left here. There were two other men. There was a +timber-merchant,--and there was a lawyer after. The timber-merchant was +married; the lawyer wasn’t. She lived at first with the timber-merchant. +He was killed--murdered in the woods.” + +“What was the timber-merchant’s name?” interrupted Charley in an even +voice. + +“Turley--but that doesn’t matter!” continued the Notary. “He was +murdered, and then the lawyer came on the scene. He lived with her for +a year. She had a child by him. One day he sent the child away to a safe +place and told her he was going to turn over a new leaf--he was going +to stand for Parliament, and she must go. She wouldn’t go without +the child. At last he said the child was dead; and showed her the +certificate of death. Then she came back here, and for a while, alas! +she disgraced the parish. But all at once she changed--she got a message +that her child was alive. To her it was like being born again. It was at +this time they were going to drive her from the parish. But the Seigneur +and then the Cure spoke for her, and so did I--at last.” + +He paused and plaintively admired himself in the mirror. He was grateful +that he had been clean-shaved that morning, and he was content to catch +the citrine odour of the bergamot upon his hair. + +New phases of the most interesting case Charley had ever defended spread +out before him--the case which had given him his friend Jo Portugais, +which had turned his own destiny. Yet he could not quite trace in it the +vital association of this vain Notary now in the confessional mood. + +“You behaved very well,” said Charley tentatively. + +“Ah, you say that, knowing so little! What will you say when you know +all--ah! That I should take a stand also was important. Neither the +Seigneur nor the Cure was married; I was. I have been long-suffering for +a cause. My marital felicity has been bruised--bruised--but not broken.” + +“There are the twins,” said Charley, with a half-closed eye. + +“Could woman ask greater proof?” urged the Notary seriously, for the +other’s voice had been so well masked that he did not catch its satire. +“But see my peril, and mark the ground of my interest in this poor +wanton! Yet a woman--a woman-frail creatures, as we know, and to be +pitied, not made more pitiable by the stronger sex.... But, see now! +Why should I have perilled mine own conjugal peace, given ground for +suspicion even--for I am unfortunate, unfortunate in the exterior with +which Dame Nature has honoured me!” Again he looked in the mirror with +sad complacency. + +On these words his listener offered no comment, and he continued: + +“For this reason I lifted my voice for the poor wanton. It was I who +wrote the letter to her that her child was alive. I did it with high +purpose--I foresaw that she would change her ways if she thought her +child was living. Was I mistaken? No. I am an observer of human nature. +Intellect conquered. ‘Io triumphe’. The poor fly-away changed, led a new +life. Ever since then she has tried to get the man--the lawyer--to tell +her where her child is. He has not done so. He has said the child is +dead--always. When she seemed to give up belief, then would come another +letter to her, telling her the child was living--but not where. So +she would keep on writing to the man, and sometimes she would go away +searching--searching. To what end? Nothing! She had a letter some months +ago, for she had got restless, and a young kinsman of the Seigneur had +come to visit at the seigneury for a week, and took much notice of her. +There was danger. Voila, another letter.” + +“From you?” + +“Monsieur, of course! Will you keep a secret--on your sacred honour?” + +“I can keep a secret without sacred honour.” + +“Ah, yes, of course! You have a secret of your own--pardon me, I am +only saying what every one says. Well, this is the secret of the woman +Paulette Dubois. My cousin, Robespierre Dauphin, a notary in Quebec, +is the agent of the lawyer, the father of the child. He pities the poor +woman. But he is bound in professional honour to the lawyer fellow, +not to betray. When visiting Robespierre once I found out the truth-by +accident. + +“I told him what I intended. He gave permission to tell the woman her +child was alive; and, if need be for her good, to affirm it over and +over again--no more.” + +“And this?” said Charley, pointing to the injured leg, for he now +associated the accident with the secret just disclosed. + +“Ah, you apprehend! You have an avocat’s mind--almost. It was at Four +Mountains. Paulette is superstitious; so not long ago she went to live +there alone with an old half-breed woman who has second-sight. Monsieur, +it is a gift unmistakably. For as soon as the hag clapped eyes on me +in the hut, she said: ‘There is the man that wrote you the letters.’ +Well--what! Paulette Dubois came down on me like an avalanche--Monsieur, +like an avalanche! She believed the old witch; and there was I lying +with an unconvincing manner”--he sighed--“lying requires practice, alas! +She saw I was lying, and in a rage snatched up my gun. It went off by +accident, and brought me down. Did she relent? Not so. She helped to +bind me up, and the last words she said to me were: ‘You will suffer; +you will have time to think. I am glad. You have kept me on the rack. I +shall only be sorry if you die, for then I shall not be able to torture +you till you tell me where my child is!’ Monsieur, I lied to the last, +lest she should come here and make a noise; but I’m not sure it wouldn’t +have been better to break faith with Robespierre, and tell the poor +wanton where her child is. What would you do, Monsieur? I cannot ask +the Cure or the Seigneur--I have reasons. But you have the head of +a lawyer--almost--and you have no local feelings, no personal +interest--eh?” + +“I should tell the truth.” + +“Your reasons, Monsieur?” + +“Because the lawyer is a scoundrel. Your betrayal of his secret is not a +thousandth part so bad as one lie told to this woman, whose very life is +her child. Is it a boy or a girl?” + +“A boy.” + +“Good! What harm can be done? A left-handed boy is all right in the +world. Your wife has twins--then think of the woman, the one ewe lamb of +‘the poor wanton.’ If you do not tell her, you will have her here making +a noise, as you say. I wonder she has not been here on your door-step.” + +“I had a letter from her to-day. She is coming-ah, mon dieu!” + +“When?” + +There was a tap at the window. The Notary started. “Ah, Heaven, here she +is!” he gasped, and drew over to the wall. + +A voice came from outside. “Shall I play for you, Dauphin? It is as good +as medicine.” + +The Notary recovered himself at once. His volatile nature sprang back to +its pose. He could forget Paulette Dubois for the moment. + +“It is Maximilian Cour in the garden,” he said happily. Then he raised +his voice. “Play on, baker; but something for convalescence--the return +of spring, the sweet assonance of memory.” + +“A September air, and a gush of spring,” said the baker, trying to crane +his long neck through the window. “Ah, there you are, Dauphin! I shall +give you a sleep to-night like a balmy eve.” He nodded to the tailor. +“M’sieu’, you shall judge if sentiment be dead. + +“I have racked my heart to play this time. I have called it, ‘The +Baffled Quest of Love’. I have taken the music of the song of Alsace, +‘Le Jardin d’Amour’, and I have made variations on it, keeping the last +verse of the song in my mind. You know the song, M’sieu’: + + “‘Quand je vais au jardin, Jardin d’amour, + Je crois entendu des pas, + Je veux fuir, et n’ose pas. + Voici la fin du jour... + Je crains et j’hesite, + Mon coeur bat plus vite + En ce sejour... + Quand je vais an jardin, jardin d’amour.’” + +The baker sat down on a stool he had brought, and began to tune his +fiddle. From inside came the voice of the Notary. + +“Play ‘The Woods are Green’ first,” he said. “Then the other.” + +The Notary possessed the one high-walled garden in the village, and +though folk gathered outside and said that the baker was playing for the +sick man, there was no one in the garden save the fiddler himself. +Once or twice a lad appeared on the top of the wall, looking over, but +vanished at once when he saw Charley’s face at the window. Long ere the +baker had finished, the song was caught up from outside, and before the +last notes of the violin had died away, twenty voices were singing it in +the street, and forty feet marched away with it into the dusk. + +Darkness comes quickly in this land of brief twilight. Presently out +of the soft shadowed stillness, broken by the note of a vagrant +whippoorwill, crept out from Maximilian Cour’s old violin the music of +‘The Baffled Quest of Love’. + +The baker was not a great musician, but he had a talent, a rare gift of +pathos, and an imagination untrammelled by rigorous rules of harmony and +construction. Whatever there was in his sentimental bosom he poured +into this one achievement of his life. It brought tears to the eyes of +Narcisse Dauphin. It opened a gate of the garden wall, and drew inside a +girl’s face, shining with feeling. + +Maximilian Cour spoke for more than himself that night. His philandering +spirit had, at middle age, begotten a desire to house itself in a quiet +place, where the blinds could be drawn close, and the room of life made +ready with all the furniture of love. So he had spoken to his violin, +and it had answered as it had never done before. The soul of the lean +baker touched the heart of a man whose life had been but a baffled +quest, and the spirit of a girl whose love was her sun by day, her moon +by night, and the starlight of her dreams. + +From the shade of the window the man the girl loved watched her as she +sank upon the ground and clasped her hands before her in abandonment to +the music. He watched her when the baker, at last, overcome by his +own feelings--and ashamed of them--got up and stole swiftly out of the +garden. He watched her till he saw her drop her face in her hands; then, +opening the door and stealing out, he came and laid a hand upon her +shoulder, and she heard him say: + +“Rosalie!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY + +Rosalie came to her feet, gasping with pleasure. She had been unhappy +ever since she had returned from Quebec, for though she had sometimes +been brought in contact with Charley in the Notary’s house since the +day of the operation, nothing had passed between them save the necessary +commonplaces of a sick-room, given a little extra colour, perhaps, +by the sense of responsibility which fell upon them both, and by that +importance which hidden sentiment gives to every motion. The twins had +been troublesome and ill, and Madame Dauphin had begged Rosalie to come +in for a couple of hours every evening. Thus the tailor and the girl +who, by every rule of wisdom, should have been kept as far apart as +the poles, were played into each other’s hands by human kindness and +damnable propinquity. The man, manlike, felt no real danger, because +nothing was said--after everything had been said for all time at the hut +on Vadrome Mountain. He had not realised the true situation, because of +late her voice, like his, had been even and her hand cool and steady. +He had not noticed that her eyes were like hungry fires, eating up her +face--eating away its roundness, and leaving a pathetic beauty behind. + +It seemed to him that because there was silence--neither the written +word nor the speaking look--that all was well. He was hugging the chain +of denial to his bosom, as though to say, “This way is safety”; he was +hiding his face from the beacon-lights of her eyes, which said: “This +way is home.” + +Home? Pictures of home, of a home such as Maximilian Cour painted in +his music, had passed before him now and then since that great day on +Vadrome Mountain. A simple fireside, with frugal but comfortable fare; a +few books; the study of the fields and woods; the daily humble task over +which he could meditate as his hands worked mechanically; the happy face +of a happy woman near--he had thought of home; and he had put it from +him. No matter what the temptation, his must be, perhaps for ever, the +bed and board unshared. He had had his chance in the old days, and +he had thrown it away with insolent indifference, and an unpardonable +contempt for the opinion of the world. + +Now, with a blind fatuousness which had nothing to do with his old +intellectual power, but was evidence of a primitive life of feeling, had +vaguely imagined that because there were no clinging hands, or stolen +looks, or any vow or promise, that all might go on as at present--upon +the surface. With a curious absence of his old accuracy of observation +he was treating the immediate past--his and Rosalie’s past--as if it did +not actually exist; as if only the other and farther past was a tragedy, +and this nearer one a dream. + +But the film fell from his eyes as Maximilian Cour played his ‘Baffled +Quest’, with its quaint, searching pathos; and as he saw the figure of +the girl alone in the shade of the great rose-bushes, past and present +became one, and the whole man was lost in that one word “Rosalie!” which +called her to her feet with outstretched hands. + +The tears sprang to her eyes; her face upturned to his was a mute +appeal, a speechless ‘Viens ici’. + +Past, present, future, duty, apprehension, consequences, suddenly fell +away from Charley’s mind like a garment slipping from the shoulders, and +the new man, swept off his feet by the onrush of unused and ungoverned +emotions, caught the girl to his arms with a desperate joy. + +“Oh, do you care, then--for me?” wept the girl, and hid her face in his +breast. + +A voice came from inside the house: “Monsieur, Monsieur--ah, come, if +you please, tailor!” + +The girl drew back quickly, looked up at him for one instant with a +triumphant happy daring, then, suddenly covered with confusion, turned, +ran to the gate, opened it, passed swiftly out, and was swallowed up in +the dusk. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. THE CHALLENGE OF PAULETTE DUBOIS + +“Monsieur, Monsieur!” came the voice from inside the house, querulously +and anxiously. Charley entered the Notary’s bedroom. + +“Monsieur,” said the Notary excitedly, “she is here--Paulette is here. +My wife is asleep, thank God! but old Sophie has just told me that the +woman asks to see me. Ah, Heaven above, what shall I do?” + +“Will you leave it to me?” + +“Yes, yes, Monsieur.” + +“You will do exactly as I say?” + +“Ah, most sure.” + +“Very well. Keep still. I will see her first. Trust to me.” He turned +and left the room. + +Charley found the woman in the Notary’s office, which, while partly +detached from the house, did duty as sitting-room and library. +When Charley entered, the room was only lighted by two candles, +and Paulette’s face was hidden by a veil, but Charley observed the +tremulousness of the figure and the nervous decision of manner. He had +seen her before several times, and he had always noticed the air, half +bravado, half shrinking, marking her walk and movements, as though two +emotions were fighting in her. She was now dressed in black, save for +one bright red ribbon round her throat, incongruous and garish. + +When she saw Charley she started, for she had expected the servant with +a message from the Notary--her own message had been peremptory. + +“I wish to see the Notary,” she said defiantly. + +“He is not able to come to you.” + +“What of that?” + +“Did you expect to go to his bedroom?” + +“Why not?” She was abrupt to discourtesy. + +“You are neither physician, nor relative.” + +“I have important business.” + +“I transact his business for him, Madame.” + +“You are a tailor.” + +“I learned that; I am learning to be a notary.” + +“My business is private.” + +“I transact his private business too--that which his wife cannot do. +Would you prefer his wife to me? It must be either the one or the +other.” + +The woman started towards the door in a rage. He stepped between. “You +cannot see the Notary.” + +“I’ll see his wife, then--” + +“That would only put the fat in the fire. His wife would not listen +to you. She is quick-tempered, and she fancies she has reasons for not +liking you.” + +“She’s a fool. I haven’t been always particular, but as for Narcisse +Dauphin--” + +“He has been a good friend to you at some expense, the world says.” + +The woman struggled with herself. “The world lies!” she said at last. + +“But he doesn’t. The village was against you once. That was when the +Notary, with the Seigneur, was for you--it has cost him something ever +since, I’m told. You’ve never thanked him.” + +“He has tortured me for years, the oily, smirking, lying--” + +“He has been your best friend,” he interrupted. “Please sit down, and +listen to me for a moment.” + +She hesitated, then did as he asked. + +“He tells me that years ago he was in love with you. Hasn’t he behaved +better than some who said they loved you?” + +The woman half started up, her eyes flashing, but met a deprecating +motion of his hand and sat down again. + +“He thought that if you knew your child lived, you would think better of +life--and of yourself. He has his good points, the Notary.” + +“Why doesn’t he tell me where my child is?” + +“The Notary is in bed--you shot him! Don’t you think it is doing you a +good turn not to have you arrested?” + +“It was an accident.” + +“Oh no, it wasn’t! You couldn’t make a jury believe that. And if you +were in prison, how could you find your child? You see, you have treated +the Notary very badly.” + +She was silent, and he added, slowly: “He had good reasons for not +telling you. It wasn’t his own secret, and he hadn’t come by it in a +strictly professional way. Your child was being well cared for, and he +told you simply that it was alive--for your own sake. But he has changed +his mind at last, and--” + +The woman sprang from her seat. “He will tell me--he will tell me?” + +“I will tell you.” + +“Monsieur-Monsieur--ah, my God, but you are kind! How should you +know--what do you know?” + +“I give you my word that by to-morrow evening you shall know where your +child is.” + +For a moment she was bewildered and overcome, then a look of gratitude, +of luminous hope, covered her face, softening the hardness of its +contour, and she fell on her knees beside the table, dropped her head in +her arms, and sobbed as if her heart would break. + +“My little lamb, my little, little lamb-my own dearest!” she sobbed. “I +shall have you again. I shall have you again--all my own!” + +He stood and watched her meditatively. He was wondering why it was that +grief like this had never touched him so before. His eyes were moist. +Though he had been many things in his life, he had never been abashed; +but a curious timidity possessed him now. + +He leaned over and touched her shoulder with a kindly abruptness, a +friendly awkwardness. “Cheer up,” he said. “You shall have your child, +if Dauphin can help you to it.” + +“If he ever tries to take him from me”--she sprang to her feet, her face +in a fury--“I will--” + +For an instant her overpowering passion possessed her, and she stood +violent and wilful; then, under his fixed, exacting gaze, her rage +ceased; she became still and grey and quiet. + +“I shall know to-morrow evening, Monsieur? Where?” Her voice was weak +and distant. + +He thought for a time. “At my house-at nine o’clock,” he answered at +last. + +“Monsieur,” she said, in a choking voice, “if I get my child again, I +will bless you to my dying day.” + +“No, no; it will be Dauphin you must bless,” he said, and opened the +door for her. As she disappeared into the dusk and silence he adjusted +his eye-glass, and stared musingly after her, though there was nothing +to see save the summer darkness, nothing to hear save the croak of +the frogs in the village pond. He was thinking of the trial of Joseph +Nadeau, and of a woman in the gallery, who laughed. + +“Monsieur, Monsieur,” called the voice of the Notary from the bedroom. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE CURE AND THE SEIGNEUR VISIT THE TAILOR + +It had been a perfect September day. The tailor of Chaudiere had been +busier than usual, for winter was within hail, and careful habitants +were renewing their simple wardrobes. The Seigneur and the Cure arrived +together, each to order the making of a greatcoat of the Irish frieze +which the Seigneur kept in quantity at the Manor. The Seigneur was in +rare spirits. And not without reason; for this was Michaelmas eve, and +tomorrow would be Michaelmas day, and there was a promise to be redeemed +on Michaelmas day! He had high hopes of its redemption according to his +own wishes; for he was a vain Seigneur, and he had had his way in all +things all his life, as everybody knew. Importunity with discretion was +his motto, and he often vowed to the Cure that there was no other motto +for the modern world. + +The Cure’s visit to the tailor’s shop on this particular day had unusual +interest, for it concerned his dear ambition, the fondest aspiration of +his life: to bring the infidel tailor (they could not but call a man an +infidel whose soul was negative--the word agnostic had not then become +usual) from the chains of captivity into the freedom of the Church. +The Cure had ever clung to his fond hope; and it was due to his +patient confidence that there were several parishioners who now carried +Charley’s name before the shrine of the blessed Virgin, and to the +little calvaries by the road-side. The wife of Filion Lacasse never +failed to pray for him every day. The thousand dollars gained by the +saddler on the tailor’s advice had made her life happier ever since, +for Filion had become saving and prudent, and had even got her a “hired +girl.” There were at least a half-dozen other women, including Madame +Dauphin, who did the same. + +That he might listen again to the good priest on his holy hobby, +inflamed with this passion of missionary zeal, the Seigneur, this +morning, had thrown doubt upon the ultimate success of the Cure’s +efforts. + +“My dear Cure” said the Seigneur, “it is true, I think, what the tailor +suggested to my brother--on my soul, I wonder the Abbe gave in, for +a more obstinate fellow I never knew!--that a man is born with the +disbelieving maggot in his brain, or the butterfly of belief, or +whatever it may be called. It’s constitutional--may be criminal, but +constitutional. It seems to me you would stand more chance with the Jew, +Greek, or heretic, than our infidel. He thinks too much--for a tailor, +or for nine tailors, or for one man.” + +He pulled his nose, as if he had said a very good thing indeed. They +were walking slowly towards the village during this conversation, and +the Cure, stopping short, brought his stick emphatically down in his +palm several times, as he said: + +“Ah, you will not see! You will not understand. With God all things are +possible. Were it the devil himself in human form, I should work and +pray and hope, as my duty is, though he should still remain the devil +to the end. What am I? Nothing. But what the Church has done, the Church +may do. Think of Paul and Augustine, and Constantine!” + +“They were classic barbarians to whom religion was but an emotion. This +man has a brain which must be satisfied.” + +“I must count him as a soul to be saved through that very intelligence, +as well as through the goodness of his daily life, which, in its +charity, shames us all. He gives all he earns to the sick and needy. He +lives on fare as poor as the poorest of our people eat; he gives up his +hours of sleep to nurse the sick. Dauphin might not have lived but for +him. His heart is good, else these things were impossible. He could not +act them.” + +“But that’s just it, Cure. Doesn’t he act them? Isn’t it a whim? What +more likely than that, tired of the flesh-pots of Egypt, he comes here +to live in the desert--for a sensation? We don’t know.” + +“We do know. The man has had sorrow and the man has had sin. Yes, +believe me, there is none of us that suffers as this man has suffered. +I have had many, many talks with him. Believe me, Maurice, I speak the +truth. My heart bleeds for him. I think I know the thing that drove him +here amongst us. It is a great temptation, which pursues him here--even +here, where his life is so commendable. I have seen him fighting it. I +have seen his torture, the piteous, ignoble yielding, and the struggle, +with more than mortal energy, to be master of himself.” + +“It is--” the Seigneur said, then paused. + +“No, no; do not ask me. He has not confessed to me, Maurice-naturally, +nothing like that. But I know. I know and pity--ah, Maurice, I almost +love. You argue, and reason, but I know this, my friend, that something +was left out of this man when he was made, and it is that thing that +we must find, or he will die among us a ruined soul, and his gravestone +will be the monument of our shame. If he can once trust the Church, if +he can once say, ‘Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,’ then his +temptation will vanish, and I shall bring him in--I shall lead him +home.” + +For an instant the Seigneur looked at him in amazement, for this was a +Cure he had never known. + +“Dear Cure, you are not your old self,” he said gently. + +“I am not myself--yes, that is it, Maurice. I am not the old humdrum +Cure you knew. The whole world is my field now. I have sorrowed for sin, +within the bounds of this little Chaudiere. Now I sorrow for unbelief. +Through this man, through much thinking on him, I have come to feel the +woe of all the world. I have come to hear the footsteps of the Master +near. My friend, it is not a legend, not a belief now, it is a presence. +I owe him much, Maurice. In bringing him home, I shall understand what +it all means--the faith that we profess. I shall in truth feel that +it is all real. You see how much I may yet owe to him--to this infidel +tailor. I only hope I have not betrayed him,” he added anxiously. “I +would keep faith with him--ah, yes, indeed!” + +“I only remember that you have said the man suffers. That is no +betrayal.” + +They entered the village in silence. Presently, however, the sound of +Maximilian Cour’s violin, as they passed the bakery, set the Seigneur’s +tongue wagging again, and it wagged on till they came to the tailor’s +shop. + +“Good-day to you, Monsieur,” he said, as they entered. + +“Have you a hot goose for me?” + +“I have, but I will not press it on you,” replied Charley. + +“Should you so take my question--eh?” + +“Should you so take my ‘anser’?” + +The pun was new to the Seigneur, and he turned to the Cure chuckling. +“Think of that, Cure! He knows the classics.” He laughed till the tears +came into his eyes. + +The next few moments Charley was busy measuring the two potentates for +greatcoats. As it was his first work for them, it was necessary for the +Cure to write down the Seigneur’s measurements, as the tailor called +them off, while the Seigneur did the same when the Cure was being +measured. So intent were the three it might have been a conference of +war. The Seigneur ventured a distant but self-conscious smile when +the measurement of his waist was called, for he had by two inches the +advantage of the Cure, though they were the same age, while he was one +inch better in the chest. The Seigneur was proud of his figure, and, +unheeding the passing of fashions, held to the knee-breeches and silk +stockings long after they had disappeared from the province. To the Cure +he had often said that the only time he ever felt heretical was when in +the presence of the gaitered calves of a Protestant dean. He wore his +sleeves tight and his stock high, as in the days when William the Sailor +was king in England, and his long gold-topped Prince Regent cane was the +very acme of dignity. + +The measurement done, the three studied the fashion plates--mostly five +years old--as Von Moltke and Bismarck might have studied the field of +Gravelotte. The Seigneur’s remarks were highly critical, till, with a +few hasty strokes on brown paper, Charley sketched in his figure with +a long overcoat in style much the same as his undercoat, stately and +flowing and confined at the waist. + +“Admirable, most admirable!” said the Seigneur. “The likeness is +astonishing”--he admired the carriage of his own head in Charley’s swift +lines--“the garment in perfect taste. Form--there is nothing like form +and proportion in life. It is almost a religion.” + +“My dear friend!” said the Cure, in amazement. + +“I know when I am in the presence of an artist and his work. Louis +Trudel had rule and measure, shears and a needle. Our friend here has +eye and head, sense of form and creative gift. Ah, Cure, Cure, if I were +twenty-five, with the assistance of Monsieur, I would show the bucks in +Fabrique Street how to dress. What style is this called, Monsieur?” he +suddenly asked, pointing to the drawing. + +“Style a la Rossignol, Seigneur,” said the tailor. + +The Seigneur was flattered out of all reason. He looked across at the +post-office, where he could see Rosalie dimly moving in the shade of the +shop. + +“Ah, if I had but ordered this coat sooner!” he said regretfully. He was +thinking that to-morrow was Michaelmas day, when he was to ask Rosalie +for her answer again, and he fancied himself appearing before her in +the gentle cool of the evening, in this coat, lightly thrown back, +disclosing his embroidered waistcoat, seals, and snowy linen. “Monsieur, +I am highly complimented, believe me,” he said. “Observe, Cure, that +this coat is invented for me on the spot.” + +The Cure nodded appreciatively. “Wonderful! Wonderful! But do you not +think,” he added, a little wistfully--for, was he not a Frenchman, +susceptible like all his race to the appearance of things?--“do you not +think it might be too fashionable for me?” + +“Not a whit--not a whit,” replied the Seigneur generously. “Should not +a Cure look distinguished--be dignified? Consider the length, the line, +the eloquence of design! Ah, Monsieur, once again, you are an artist! +The Cure shall wear it--indeed but he shall! Then I shall look like him, +and perhaps get credit for some of his perfections.” + +“And the Cure?” said Charley. + +“The Cure?--the Cure? Tiens, a little of my worldliness will do him +good. There are no contrasts in him. He must wear the coat.” He waved +his walking-stick complacently, for he was thinking that the Cure’s less +perfect figure would set off his own well as they walked together. “May +I have the honour to keep this as a souvenir?” he added, picking up the +sketch. + +“With pleasure,” answered Charley. “You do not need it?” + +“Not at all.” + +The Cure looked a little disappointed, and Charley, seeing, immediately +sketched on brown paper the priestly figure in the new-created coat, a +la Rossignol. On this drawing he was a little longer engaged, with the +result that the Cure was reproduced with a singular fidelity--in face, +figure, and expression a personality gentle yet important. + +“On my soul, you shall not have it!” said the Seigneur. “But you shall +have me, and I shall have you, lest we both grow vain by looking at +ourselves.” He thrust the sketch of himself into the Cure’s hands, and +carefully rolled up that of his friend. + +The Cure was amazed at this gift of the tailor, and delighted with the +picture of himself--his vanity was as that of a child, without guile or +worldliness. He was better pleased, however, to have the drawing of his +friend by him, that vanity might not be too companionable. He thanked +Charley with a beaming face, and then the two friends bowed and moved +towards the door. Suddenly the Cure stopped. + +“My dear Maurice,” said he, “we have forgotten the important thing.” + +“Think of that--we two old babblers!” said the Seigneur. He nodded for +the Cure to begin. “Monsieur,” said the Cure to Charley, “you maybe +able to help us in a little difficulty. For a long time we have intended +holding a great mission with a kind of religious drama like that +performed at Ober-Ammergau, and called The Passion Play. You know of it, +Monsieur?” + +“Very well through reading, Monsieur.” + +“Next Easter we propose having a Passion Play in pious imitation of +the famous drama. We will hold it at the Indian reservation of Four +Mountains, thus quickening our own souls and giving a good object-lesson +of the great History to the Indians.” + +The Cure paused rather anxiously, but Charley did not speak. His eyes +were fixed inquiringly on the Cure, and he had a sudden suspicion that +some devious means were forward to influence him. He dismissed the +thought, however, for this Cure was simple as man ever was made, +straightforward as the most heretical layman might demand. + +The Cure, taking heart, again continued: “Now I possess an authentic +description of the Ober-Ammergau drama, giving details of its +presentation at different periods, and also a book of the play. But +there is no one in the parish who reads German, and it occurred to the +Seigneur and myself that, understanding French so well, by chance you +may understand German also, and would, perhaps, translate the work for +us.” + +“I read German easily and speak it fairly,” Charley answered, relieved; +“and you are welcome to my services.” + +The Cure’s pale face flushed with pleasure. He took the little German +book from his pocket, and handed it over. + +“It is not so very long,” he said; “and we shall all be grateful.” Then +an inspiration came to him; his eyes lighted. + +“Monsieur,” he said, “you will notice that there are no illustrations +in the book. It is possible that you might be able to make us a few +drawings--if we do not ask too much? It would aid greatly in the matter +of costume, and you might use my library--I have a fair number of +histories.” The Cure was almost breathless, his heart thumped as he made +the request. After a slight pause he added, hastily: “You are always +doing for others. It is hardly kind to ask you; but we have some months +to spare; there need be no haste.” Charley hastened to relieve the +Cure’s anxiety. “Do not apologise,” he said. “I will do what I can when +I can. But as for drawing, Monsieur, it will be but amateurish.” + +“Monsieur,” interposed the Seigneur promptly, “if you’re not an artist, +I’m damned!” + +“Maurice!” murmured the Cure reproachfully. “Can’t help it, Cure. I’ve +held it in for an hour. It had to come; so there it is exploded. I see +no damage either, save to my own reputation. Monsieur,” he added to +Charley, “if I had gifts like yours, nothing would hold me. I should put +on more airs than Beauty Steele.” + +It was fortunate that, at that instant, Charley’s face was turned away, +or the Seigneur would have seen it go white and startled. Charley did +not dare turn his head for the moment. He could not speak. What did the +Seigneur know of Beauty Steele? + +To hide his momentary confusion, he went over to the drawer of a +cupboard in the wall, and placed the book inside. It gave him time +to recover himself. When he turned round again his face was calm, his +manner composed. + +“And who, may I ask, is Beauty Steele?” he said. “Faith I do not know,” + answered the Seigneur, taking a pinch of snuff. “It’s years since I +first read the phrase in a letter a scamp of a relative of mine wrote me +from the West. He had met a man of the name, who had a reputation as a +clever fop, a very handsome fellow. So I thought it a good phrase, +and I’ve used it ever since on occasions. ‘More airs than Beauty +Steele.’--It has a sound; it’s effective, I fancy, Monsieur?” + +“Decidedly effective,” answered Charley quietly. He picked up his +shears. “You will excuse me,” he said grimly, “but I must earn my +living. I cannot live on my reputation.” + +The Seigneur and the Cure lifted their hats--to the tailor. + +“Au revoir, Monsieur,” they both said, and Charley bowed them out. + +The two friends turned to each other a little way up the street. +“Something will come of this, Cure,” said the Seigneur. The Cure, whose +face had a look of happiness, pressed his arm in reply. + +Inside the tailor-shop, a voice kept saying, “More airs than Beauty +Steele!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. THE SCARLET WOMAN + +Since the evening in the garden when she had been drawn into Charley’s +arms, and then fled from them in joyful confusion, Rosalie had been in +a dream. She had not closed her eyes all night, or, if she closed them, +they still saw beautiful things flashing by, to be succeeded by other +beautiful things. It was a roseate world. To her simple nature it was +not so important to be loved as to love. Selfishness was as yet the +minor part of her. She had been giving all her life--to her mother, as +a child; to sisters at the convent who had been kind to her; to the poor +and the sick of the parish; to her father, who was helpless without her; +to the tailor across the way. In each case she had given more than she +had got. A nature overflowing with impulsive affection, it must spend +itself upon others. The maternal instinct was at the very core of her +nature, and care for others was as much a habit as an instinct with her. +She had love to give, and it must be given. It had been poured like +the rain from heaven on the just and the unjust; on animals as on human +beings, and in so far as her nature, in the first spring--the very +April--of its powers, could do. + +Till Charley had come to Chaudiere, it had all been the undisciplined +ardour of a girl’s nature. A change had begun in the moment when she had +tearfully thrust the oil and flour in upon his excoriated breast. Later +came real awakening, and a riotous outpouring of herself in sympathy, +in observation, in a reckless kindness which must have done her harm but +that her clear intelligence balanced her actions, and because secrecy in +one thing helped to restrain her in all. Yet with all the fresh overflow +of her spirit, which, assisted by her new position as postmistress, made +her a conspicuous and popular figure in the parish, where officialdom +had rare honour and little labour, she had prejudices almost unworthy +of her, due though they were to radical antipathy. These prejudices, +one against Jo Portugais and the other against Paulette Dubois, she had +never been able entirely to overcome, though she had honestly tried. On +the way to the hospital at Quebec, however, Jo had been so careful of +her father, so respectful when speaking of M’sieu’, so regardful of +her own comfort, that her antagonism to him was lulled. But the strong +prejudice against Paulette Dubois remained, casting a shadow on her +bright spirit. + +All this day she had moved about in a mellow dream, very busy, scarcely +thinking. New feelings dominated her, and she was too primitive to +analyse them and too occupied with them to realise acutely the life +about her. Work was an abstraction, resting rather than tiring her. + +Many times she had looked across at the tailor-shop, only seeing Charley +once. She did not wish to speak with him now, nor to be near him yet; +she wanted this day for herself only. + +So it was that, soon after the Cure and the Seigneur had bade good-bye +to Charley, she left the post-office and went quickly through the +village to a spot by the river, where was a place called the Rest of the +Flaxbeaters. It was an overhanging rock which made a kind of canopy over +a sweet spring, where, in the days when their labours sounded through +the valley, the flaxbeaters from the level below came to eat their meals +and to rest. + +This had always been a resort for her in the months when the +flax-beaters did not use it. Since a child she had made the place her +own. To this day it is called Rosalie’s Dell; for are not her sorrows +and joys still told by those who knew and loved her? and is not the +parish still fragrant with her name? Has not her history become a living +legend a thousand times told? + +Leaving the village behind her, Rosalie passed down the high-road till +she came to a path that led off through a grove of scattered pines. +There would be yet a half-hour’s sun and then a short twilight, and the +river and the woods and the Rest of the Flax-beaters would be her +own; and she could think of the wonderful thing come upon her. She had +brought with her a book of English poems, and as she went through the +grove she opened it, and in her pretty English repeated over and over to +herself: + + “My heart is thine, and soul and body render + Faith to thy faith; I give nor hold in thrall: + Take all, dear love! thou art my life’s defender; + Speak to my soul! Take life and love; take all!” + +She was lifted up by the abandonment of the verse, by the fulness of +her own feelings, which had only needed a touch of beauty to give it +exaltation. The touch had come. + +She went on abstractedly to the place where she had trysted with her +thoughts only, these many years, and, sitting down, watched the sun +sink beyond the trees, the shades of evening fall. All that had +happened since Charley came to the parish she went over in her mind. +She remembered the day he had said this, the day he had said that; she +brought back the night--it was etched upon her mind!--when he had said +to her, “You have saved my life, Mademoiselle!” She recalled the time +she put the little cross back on the church-door, the ghostly footsteps +in the church, the light, the lost hood. A shudder ran through her now, +for the mystery of that hood had never been cleared up. But the words on +the page caught her eye again: + + “My heart is thine, and soul and body render + Faith to thy faith...” + +It swallowed up the moment’s agitation. Never till this day, never till +last night, had she dared to say to herself, He loves me. He seemed so +far above her--she never had thought of him as a tailor!--that she had +given and never dared hope to receive, had lived without anticipation +lest there should come despair. Even that day at Vadrome Mountain she +had not thought he meant love, when he had said to her that he would +remember to the last. When he had said that he would die for love’s +sake, he had not meant her, but others--some one else whom he would save +by his death. Kathleen, that name which had haunted her--ah, whoever +Kathleen was, or whatever Kathleen had to do with him or his life, she +had no reason to fear Kathleen now. She had no reason to fear any one; +for had she not heard his words of love as he clasped her in his arms +last night? Had she not fled from that enfolding, because her heart was +so full in the hour of her triumph that she could not bear more, could +not look longer into the eyes to which she had told her love before his +was spoken? + +In the midst of her thoughts she heard footsteps. She started up. +Paulette Dubois suddenly appeared in the path below. She had taken the +river-path down from Vadrome Mountain, where she had gone to see Jo +Portugais, who had not yet returned from Quebec. Paulette’s face was +agitated, her manner nervous. For nights she had not slept, and her +approaching meeting with the tailor had made her tremble all day. +Excited as she was, there was a wild sort of beauty in her face, and her +figure was lithe and supple. She dressed always a little garishly, but +now there was only that band of colour round the throat, worn last night +in the talk with Charley. + +To both women this meeting was as a personal misfortune, a mutual +affront. Each had a natural antipathy. To Rosalie the invasion of +her beloved retreat was as hateful as though the woman had purposely +intruded. + +For a moment they confronted each other without speaking, then Rosalie’s +natural courtesy, her instinctive good-heartedness, overcame her +irritation, and she said quietly: + +“Good-evening, Madame.” + +“I am not Madame, and you know it,” answered the woman harshly. + +“I am sorry. Good-evening, Mademoiselle,” rejoined Rosalie evenly. + +“You wanted to insult me. You knew I wasn’t Madame.” + +Rosalie shook her head. “How should I know? You have not always lived +in Chaudiere, you have lived in Montreal, and people often call you +Madame.” + +“You know better. You know that letters come to me from Montreal +addressed Mademoiselle.” + +Rosalie turned as if to go. “I do not recall what letters pass through +the post-office. I have a good memory for forgetting. Good-evening,” she +added, with an excess of courtesy. Paulette read the placid scorn in the +girl’s face; she did not see and would not understand that Rosalie did +not scorn her for what she had ever done, but for something that she +was. + +“You think I am the dirt under your feet,” she said, now white, now red, +and mad with anger. “I’m not fit to speak with you--I’m a rag for the +dust pile!” + +“I have never thought so,” answered Rosalie. “I have not liked you, but +I am sorry for you, and I never thought those things.” + +“You lie!” was the rejoinder; and Rosalie, turning away quickly with +trouble in her face, put her hands to her ears, and, hastening down the +hillside, did not hear the words the woman called after her. + +“To-morrow every one shall know you are a thief. Run, run, run! You +can hear what I say, white-face! They shall know about the little cross +to-morrow.” + +She followed Rosalie at a distance, her eyes blazing. As fate would have +it, she met on the highroad the least scrupulous man in the parish, +an inveterate gossip, the keeper of the general store, whose only +opposition in business was the post-office shop. He was the centre of +the village tittle-tattle, and worse. With malicious speed Paulette told +him how she had seen Rosalie Evanturel nailing the little cross on the +church door of a certain night. If he wanted proof of what she said, let +him ask Jo Portugais. + +Having spat out her revenge, she went on to the village, and through it +to her house, where she prepared to visit the shop of the tailor. Her +sense of retaliation satisfied, Rosalie passed from her mind; her +child only occupied it. In another hour she would know where her child +was--the tailor had promised that she should. Then perhaps she would be +sorry for the accident to the Notary; for it was an accident, in spite +of appearances. + +It was dark when Paulette entered the door of the tailor’s house. When +she came out, a half-hour later, with elation in her carriage, and tears +of joy running down her face, she did not look about her; she did not +care whether or not any one saw her: she was possessed with only one +thought--her child! She passed like a swift wind down the street, making +for home and for her departure to the hiding-place of her child. + +She had not seen a figure in the shadow of a tree near by as she came +from the tailor’s door. She had not heard a smothered cry behind her. +She was not aware that in unspeakable agony another woman knocked softly +at the door of the tailor’s house, and, not waiting for an answer, +opened it and entered. It was Rosalie Evanturel. + + + + +CHAPTER XL. AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING + +The kitchen was empty, but light fell through the door of the shop +opening upon the little hall between. Rosalie crossed the hall and +stood in the doorway of the shop, a figure of concentrated indignation, +despair, and shame. Leaning on his elbow Charley was bending over a book +in the light of a candle on the bench be side him. He was reading aloud, +translating into English the German text of the narrative the Cure had +given him: + + “And because of this divine interposition, consequent upon their + faithful prayers and their oblations, they did perform these holy + scenes from season to season, with solemn proof of piety and godly + living, so that it seemed the life of the Lord our Shepherd was ever + present with them, as though, indeed, Ober-Ammergau were Nazareth or + Jerusalem. And the hearts of all in the land did answer daily to + that sweet and lively faith, insomuch that even in times of war the + zeal of the people became an holy zeal, and their warfare noble; so + that they did accept both victory and defeat with equal humbleness. + Because there was no war in their hearts, but peace, and they did + fight to defend and not to acquire, they buried their foe with tears + and their own with singleness of heart and quiet joy, for that they + did rest from their labours. In this manner was the great tragedy + and glory of the world made to the people a present thing, + transforming them to the body of the Life that hath neither spot nor + blemish nor...” + +Charley had not heard Rosalie enter, nor her footsteps in the hall. But +now there ran through his reading a thread of something not of himself +or of it. He had thrilled to the archaic but clear-hearted style of the +old German chronicler, and the warmth he felt had passed into his voice, +so that it became louder. + +As Rosalie listened to his reading, a hundred thoughts rushed through +her mind. Paulette Dubois, the wanton woman, had just left his doorway +secretly, yet there he was, instantly after, calmly reading a pious +book! Her mind was in tumult. She could not reason, she could not rule +her judgment. She only knew that the woman had come from this house, +and hurried guiltily away into the dark. She only knew that the man the +woman had left here was the man she loved--loved more than her life, for +he embodied all her past; all her present--she knew that she could +not live without him; all her future--for where he went she would go, +whatever the fate. + +Her judgment had been swept from its moorings. She had been carried on +the wave of her heart’s fever into this room, not daring to think this +or that, not planning this or that, not accusing, not reproaching, not +shaming herself and him by black suspicion, but blindly, madly demanding +to see him, to look into his eyes, to hear his voice, to know him, +whatever he was--man, lover, or devil. She was a child-woman--a child +in her primitive feelings that threw aside all convention, because +there was no wrong in her heart; a woman, because she was possessed by +a jealousy which shamed and angered her, because its very existence +put him on trial, condemned him. Her soul was the sport of emotions and +passions stronger than herself, because the heritage, the instinct, of +all the race of women, the eternal predisposition. At the moment her +will was not sufficient to rule them to obedience. She was in the first +subservience to that power which feeds the streams of human history. + +As she now listened to Charley reading, a sudden revulsion of feeling +came over her. Some note in his voice reassured her heart--if it needed +reassuring. The quiet force of his presence stilled the tumult in her, +so that her eyes could see without mist, her heart beat without +agony; but every pulse in her was throbbing, every instinct was alive. +Presently there rushed upon her the words that had rung in her ears and +chimed in her heart at the Rest of the Flax-beaters: + + “Take all, dear love! thou art my life’s defender; + Speak to my soul! Take life and love; take all.” + +Feelings lying beneath the mad conflict of emotion which had sent +her into this room in such unmaidenly fashion--feelings that were her +deepest self-welled up. Her breath came hard and broken. + +As Charley read on, a breathing seemed to answer his own. It became +quicker than his own, it pierced the stillness, it filled the room with +feeling, it came calling to him out of the silence. He swung round, and +saw the girl in the doorway. + +“Rosalie!” he cried, and sprang to his feet. + +With a piteously pathetic cry, she flung herself on her knees beside the +tailor’s bench where he worked every day, and, burying her face in her +arms as they rested on the bench, wept bitterly. + +“Rosalie!” he said anxiously, leaning over her. “What is the matter? +What has happened?” + +She wept more bitterly still; she made a despairing gesture. His hand +touched her hair; he dropped on a knee beside her. + +“Oh, I am so ashamed, ashamed! I have been so wicked,” she murmured. + +“Rosalie, what has happened?” he urged gently. His own heart was beating +hard, his own eyes were responding to hers. The new feelings alive in +him, the forces his love had awakened, which, last night, had kept him +sleepless, and had been upon him like a dream all day--they were at +height in him now. He knew not how to command them. + +“Rosalie, dearest, tell me all!” he persisted. + +“I shall never--I have been--oh--you will never forgive me!” she said +brokenly. “I knew it wasn’t true, but I couldn’t help it. I saw her--the +woman--come from your house, and--” + +“Hush! For God’s sake, hush!” he broke in almost harshly. Then a better +understanding came upon him, and it made him gentle with her. + +“Ah, Rosalie, you did not think! But--but it was natural you should wish +to see me....” + +“But, as soon as I saw you, I knew that--that--” She broke down again +and wept. + +“I will tell you about her, Rosalie--” His fingers stroked her hair, +and, bending over her, his face was near her hands. + +“No, no, tell me nothing--oh, if you tell me!--” + +“She came to hear from me what she ought to have heard from the Notary. +She has had great trouble--the man--her child--and I have helped her, +told her--” His face was so near now that his breath was on her hair. +She suddenly raised her head and clasped his face in her hands. + +“I knew--oh, I knew, I knew...!” she wept, and her eyes drank his. + +“Rosalie, my life!” he cried, clasping her in his arms. + +The love that was in him, new-born and but half understood, poured +itself out in broken words like her own. For him there was no outside +world; no past, no Kathleen, no Billy; no suspicion, or infidelity, or +unfaith; no fear of disaster; no terrors of the future. Life was Now to +him and to her: nothing brooded behind, nothing lay before. The candle +spluttered and burnt low in the socket. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. IT WAS MICHAELMAS DAY + +Not a cloud in the sky, and, ruling all, a sweet sun, liberal in +warmth and eager in brightness as its distance from the northern world +decreased. As Mrs. Flynn entered the door of the post-office she sang +out to Maximilian Cour, with a buoyant lilt: “Oh, isn’t it the fun o’ +the world to be alive!” + +The tailor over the way heard it, and lifted his head with a smile; +Rosalie Evanturel, behind the postal wicket, heard it, and her face swam +with colour. Rosalie busied herself with the letters and papers for a +moment before she answered Mrs. Flynn’s greeting, for there were ringing +in her ears the words she herself had said a few days before: “It is +good to live, isn’t it?” + +To-day it was so good to live that life seemed an endless being and +a tireless happy doing--a gift of labour, an inspiring daytime, and +a rejoicing sleep. Exaltation, a painful joy, and a wide embarrassing +wonderment possessed her. She met Mrs. Flynn’s face at the wicket with +shining eyes and a timid smile. + +“Ah, there y’are, darlin’!” said Mrs. Flynn. “And how’s the dear father +to-day?” + +“He seems about the same, thank you.” + +“Ah, that’s foine. Shure, if we could always be ‘about the same,’ we’d +do. True for you, darlin’, ‘tis as you say. If ould Mary Flynn could be +always ‘‘bout the same,’ the clods o’ the valley would never cover her +bones. But there ‘tis--we’re here to-day, and away tomorrow. Shure, +though, I am not complainin’. Not I--not Mary Flynn. Teddy Flynn used +to say to me, says he: ‘Niver born to know distress! Happy as worms in +a garden av cucumbers. Seventeen years in this country, Mary,’ says he, +‘an’ nivir in the pinitintiary yet.’ There y’are. Ah, the birds do be +singin’ to-day! ‘Tis good! ‘Tis good, darlin’! You’ll not mind Mary +Flynn callin’ you darlin’, though y’are postmistress, an’ ‘ll be more +than that--more than that wan day--or Mary Flynn’s a fool. Aye, more +than that y’ll be, darlin’, and y’re eyes like purty brown topazzes +and y’re cheeks like roses-shure, is there anny lether for Mary Flynn, +darlin’?” she hastily added as she saw the Seigneur standing in the +doorway. He had evidently been listening. + +“Ye didn’t hear what y’re ould fool of a cook was sayin’,” she added +to the Seigneur, as Rosalie shook her head and answered: “No letters, +Madame--dear.” Rosalie timidly added the dear, for there was something +so great-hearted in Mrs. Flynn that she longed to clasp her round the +neck, longed as she had never done in her life to lay her head upon +some motherly breast and pour out her heart. But it was not to be now. +Secrecy was her duty still. + +“Can’t ye speak to y’re ould fool of a cook, sir?” Mrs. Flynn said +again, as the Seigneur made way for her to leave the shop. + +“How did you guess?” he said to her in a low voice, his sharp eyes +peering into hers. + +“By the looks in y’re face these past weeks, and the look in hers,” she +whispered, and went on her way rejoicing. + +“I’ll wind thim both round me finger like a wisp o’ straw,” she said, +going up the road with a light step, despite her weight, till she was +stopped by the malicious grocer-man of the village, whose tongue had +been wagging for hours upon an unwholesome theme. + +Meanwhile, in the post-office, the Seigneur and Rosalie were face to +face. + +“It is Michaelmas day,” he said. “May I speak with you, Mademoiselle?” + +She looked at the clock. It was on the stroke of noon. The shop always +closed from twelve till half-past twelve. + +“Will you step into the parlour, Monsieur?” she said, and coming round +the counter, locked the shop-door. She was trembling and confused, +and entered the little parlour shyly. Yet her eyes met the Seigneur’s +bravely. “Your father, how is he?” he said, offering her a chair. The +sunlight streaming in the window made a sort of pathway of light between +them, while they were in the shade. + +“He seems no worse, and to-day he is wheeling himself about.” + +“He is stronger, then--that’s good. Is there any fear that he must go to +the hospital again?” + +She inclined her head. “The doctor says he may have to go any moment. It +may be his one chance. The Cure is very kind, and says that, with your +permission, his sister will keep the office here, if--if needed.” + +The Seigneur nodded briskly. “Of course, of course. But have you not +thought that we might secure another postmistress?” + +Her face clouded a little; her heart beat hard. She knew what was +coming. She dreaded it, but it was better to have it over now. + +“We could not live without it,” she said helplessly. + +“What we have saved is not enough. The little my mother had must pay for +the visits to the hospital. I have kept it for that. You see, I need the +place here.” + +“But you have thought, just the same. Do you not know the day?” he asked +meaningly. + +She was silent. + +“I have come to ask you to marry me--this is Michaelmas day, Rosalie.” + +She did not speak. He had hopes from her silence. “If anything happened +to your father, you could not live here alone--but a young girl! Your +father may be in the hospital for a long time. You cannot afford that. +If I were to offer you money, you would refuse. If you marry me, all +that I have is yours to dispose of at your will: to make others happy, +to take you now and then from this narrow place, to see what’s going on +in the world.” + +“I am happy here,” she said falteringly. + +“Chaudiere is the finest place in the world,” he replied proudly, and as +a matter of fact. “But, for the sake of knowledge, you should see what +the rest of the world is. It helps you to understand Chaudiere better. I +ask you to be my wife, Rosalie.” + +She shook her head sorrowfully. + +“You said before, it was not because I am old, not because I am rich, +not because I am Seigneur, not because I am I, that you refused me.” + +She smiled at him now. “That is true,” she said. + +“Then what reason can you have? None, none. ‘Pon honour, I believe you +are afraid of marriage because it’s marriage. By my life, there’s naught +to dread. A little giving here and taking there, and it’s easy. And when +a woman is all that’s good, to a man, it can be done without fear or +trembling. Even the Cure would tell you that.” + +“Ah, I know, I know,” she said, in a voice half painful, half joyous. +“I know that it is so. But, oh, dear Monsieur, I cannot marry +you--never--never.” + +He hung on bravely. “I want to make life easy and happy for you. I want +the right to do so. When trouble comes upon you--” + +“When it does I will turn to you--ah, yes, I would turn to you without +fear, dear Monsieur,” she said, and her heart ached within her, for a +premonition of sorrow came upon her and filled her eyes, and made her +heart like lead within her breast. “I know how true a gentleman you +are,” she added. “I could give you everything but that which is life to +me, which is being, and soul, and the beginning and the end.” + +The weight of the revealing hour of her life, its wonder, its agony, +its irrevocability, was upon her. It was giving new meanings to +existence-primitive woman, child of nature as she was. All morning she +had longed to go out into the woods and bury herself among the ferns and +bracken, and laugh and weep for very excess of feeling, downright joy +and vague woe possessing her at once. She looked the Seigneur in the +eyes with consuming earnestness. + +“Oh, it is not because I am young,” she said, in a low voice, “for I am +old--indeed, I am very old. It is because I cannot love you, and never +can love you in the one great way; and I will not marry without love. +My heart is fixed on that. When I marry, it will be when I love a man so +much that I cannot live without him. If he is so poor that each meal +is a miracle, it will make no difference. Oh, can’t you see, can’t you +feel, what I mean, Monsieur--you who are so wise and learned, and know +the world so well?” + +“Wise and learned!” he said, a little roughly, for his voice was husky +with emotion. “‘Pon honour, I think I am a fool! A bewildered fool, that +knows no more of woman than my cook knows Sanscrit. Faith, a hundred +times less! For Mary Flynn’s got an eye to see, and, without telling, +she knew I had a mind set on you. But Mary Flynn thought more than that, +for she has an idea that you’ve a mind set on some one, Rosalie. She +thought it might be me.” + +“A woman is not so easily read as a man,” she replied, half smiling, but +with her eyes turned to the street. A few people were gathering in front +of the house--she wondered why. + +“There is some one else--that is it, Rosalie. There is some one else. +You shall tell me who it is. You shall--” + +He stopped short, for there was a loud knocking at the shop-door, and +the voice of M. Evanturel calling: “Rosalie! Rosalie! Rosalie! Ah, come +quickly--ah, my Rosalie!” + +Without a look at the Seigneur, Rosalie rushed into the shop and +opened the front door. Her father was deathly pale, and was trembling +violently. + +“Rosalie, my bird,” he cried indignantly, “they’re saying you stole the +cross from the church door.” + +He was now wheeled inside the shop, and people gathered round, +looking at him and Rosalie, some covertly, some as friends, some in a +half-frightened way, as though strange things were about to happen. + +“Shure, ‘tis a lie, or me name’s not Mary Flynn--the darlin’!” said the +Seigneur’s cook, with blazing face. “Who makes this charge?” roared an +angry voice. No one had seen the Seigneur enter from the little room +beside the shop, and at the sound of the sharp voice the people fell +back, for he was as free with his stick as his tongue. + +“I do,” said the grocer, to whom Paulette Dubois had told her story. + +“Ye shall be tarred and feathered before y’are a day older,” said Mary +Flynn. + +Rosalie was very pale. + +The Seigneur was struck by this and by the strangeness of her look. + +“Clear the room,” he said to Filion Lacasse, who was now a constable of +the parish. + +“Not yet!” said a voice at the doorway. “What is the trouble?” It was +the Cure, who had already heard rumours of the scandal, and had come at +once to Rosalie. M. Evanturel tried to speak, and could not. But Mary +Flynn did, with a face like a piece of scarlet bunting. Having finished +with a flourish, she could scarce keep her hands off the cowardly +grocer. + +The Cure turned to Rosalie. “It is absurd,” he said. “Forgive me,” he +added to the Seigneur. “It is better that Rosalie should answer this +charge. If she gives her word of honour, I will deny communion to +whoever slanders her hereafter.” + +“She did it,” said the grocer stubbornly. “She can’t deny it.” + +“Answer, Rosalie,” said the Cure firmly. + +“Excuse me; I will answer,” said a voice at the door. The tailor of +Chaudiere made his way into the shop, through the fast-gathering crowd. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. A TRIAL AND A VERDICT + +“What right have you to answer for mademoiselle?” said the Seigneur, +with a sudden rush of jealousy. Was not he alone the protector of +Rosalie Evanturel? Yet here was mystery, and it was clear the tailor +had something important to say. M. Rossignol offered the Cure a chair, +seated himself on a small bench, and gently drew Rosalie down beside +him. + +“I will make this a court,” said he. “Advance, grocer.” + +The grocer came forward smugly. + +“On what information do you make this charge against mademoiselle?” + +The grocer volubly related all that Paulette Dubois had said. As he +told his tale the Cure’s face was a study, for the night the cross was +restored came back to him, and the events, so far as he knew them, were +in keeping with the grocer’s narrative. He looked at Rosalie anxiously. +Monsieur Evanturel moaned, for he remembered he had heard Rosalie come +in very late that night. Yet he fixed his eyes on her in dog-like faith. + +“Mademoiselle will admit that this is true, I presume,” said Charley. + +Rosalie looked at him intently, as though to read his very heart. It was +clear that he wished her to say yes; and what he wished was law. + +“It is quite true,” answered Rosalie calmly, and all fear passed from +her. + +“But she did not steal the cross,” continued Charley, in a louder voice, +that all might hear, for people were gathering fast. + +“If she didn’t steal it, why was she putting it back on the church +door in the dark?” said the grocer. “Ah, hould y’r head, ould +sand-in-the-sugar!” said Mrs. Flynn, her fingers aching to get into his +hair. “Silence!” said the Seigneur severely, and looked inquiringly at +Rosalie. Rosalie looked at Charley. + +“It is not a question of why mademoiselle put the cross back,” he said. +“It is a question of who took the cross away, is it not? Suppose it was +not a theft. Suppose that the person who took the relic thought to do a +pious act--for your Church, Monsieur?” + +“I do not see,” the Cure answered helplessly. “It was a secret act, +therefore suspicious at least.” + +“‘Let your good gifts be in secret, and your Heavenly Father who seeth +in secret will reward you openly,”’ answered Charley. “That, I believe, +is a principle you teach, Monsieur.” + +“At one time Monsieur the tailor was thought to have taken the cross,” + said the Seigneur suggestively. “Perhaps Monsieur was secretly doing +good with it?” he added. It vexed him that there should be a secret +between Rosalie and this man. + +“It had to do with me, not I with it,” he answered evenly. He must +travel wide at first to convince their narrow brains. “Mademoiselle did +a kind act when she nailed that cross on the church door again--to make +a dead man rest easier in his grave.” + +A hush fell upon the crowd. + +Rosalie looked at Charley in surprise; but she saw his meaning +presently--that what she did for him must seem to have been done for the +dead tailor only. Her heart beat hot with indignation, for she would, if +she but might, cry her love gladly from the hill-tops of the world. + +Alight began to break upon the Cure’s mind. “Will Monsieur speak +plainly?” he said. + +“I did not see Louis Trudel take the cross, but I know that he did.” + +“Louis Trudel! Louis Trudel!” interposed the Seigneur anxiously. “What +does this mean?” + +“Monsieur speaks the truth,” interposed Rosalie. The Cure recalled the +death-bed of Louis Trudel, and the dying man’s strange agitation. He +also recalled old Margot’s death, and her wish to confess some one +else’s wrong-doing. He was convinced that Charley was speaking the +truth. + +“It is true,” added Charley slowly; “but you may think none the worse of +him when you know all. He took the cross for temporary use, and before +he could replace it he died.” + +“How do you know what he meant, or did not mean?” said the Seigneur in +perplexity. “Did he take you into his confidence?” + +“The very closest,” answered Charley grimly. + +“Yet he looked upon you as an infidel, and said hard things of you on +his death-bed,” urged the Cure anxiously. He could not see the end of +the tale, and he was troubled for both the dead man and the living. + +“That was why he took me into his confidence. I will explain. I have +not the honour to have the fulness of your Christian faith, Monsieur le +Cure. I had asked him to show me a sign from heaven, and he showed it by +the little iron cross.” + +“I can’t make anything of that,” said the Seigneur peevishly. + +Rosalie sprang to her feet. “He will not tell the whole truth, +Messieurs, but I will. With that little cross Louis Trudel would have +killed Monsieur, had it not been for me.” + +A gasp of excitement went out from those who stood by. + +“But for you, Rosalie?” asked the Cure. + +“But for me. I saw Louis Trudel raise an iron against Monsieur that day +in the shop. It made me nervous--I thought he was mad. So I watched. +That night I saw a light in the tailor-shop late. I thought it strange. +I went over and peeped through the cracks of the shutters. I saw old +Louis at the fire with the little cross, red-hot. I knew he meant +trouble. I ran into the house. Old Margot was beside herself with +fear--she had seen also. I ran through the hall and saw old Louis +upstairs with the burning cross. I followed. He went into Monsieur’s +room. When I got to the door”--she paused, trembling, for she saw +Charley’s reproving eyes upon her--“I saw him with the cross--with the +cross raised over Monsieur.” + +“He meant to threaten me,” interposed Charley quickly. + +“We will have the truth!” said the Seigneur, in a husky voice. + +“The cross came down on Monsieur’s bare breast.” The grocer laughed +vindictively. + +“Silence!” growled the Seigneur. + +“Silence!” said Filion Lacasse, and dropped his hand on the grocer’s +shoulder. “I’ll baste you with a stirrup-strap.” + +“The rest is well known,” quickly interposed Charley. “The poor man was +mad. He thought it a pious act to mark an infidel with the cross.” + +Every eye was fixed upon him. The Cure remembered Louis Trudel’s last +words: “Look--look--I gave--him--the sign--of...!” Old Margot’s words +also kept ringing in his ears. He turned to the Seigneur. “Monsieur,” + said he, “we have heard the truth. That act of Louis Trudel was cruel +and murderous. May God forgive him! I will not say that mademoiselle did +well in keeping silent--” + +“God bless the darlin’!” cried Mrs. Flynn. + +“--but I will say that she meant to do a kind act for a man’s mortal +memory--perhaps at the expense of his soul.” + +“For Monsieur to take his injury in silence, to keep it secret, was +kind,” said the Seigneur. “It is what our Cure here might call bearing +his cross manfully.” + +“Seigneur,” said the Cure reproachfully, “Seigneur, it is no subject for +jest.” + +“Cure, our tailor here has treated it as a jest.” + +“Let him show his breast, if it’s true,” said the grocer, who, beneath +his smirking, was a malignant soul. + +The Cure turned on him sharply. Seldom had any one seen the Cure roused. + +“Who are you, Ba’tiste Maxime, that your base curiosity should be +satisfied--you, whose shameless tongue clattered, whose foolish soul +rejoiced over the scandal? Must we all wear the facts of our lives--our +joys, our sorrows, and our sins--for such eyes as yours to read? Bethink +you of the evil things that you would hide--aye, every one here!” he +added loudly. “Know, all of you, what goodness of heart towards a wicked +man lay behind the secret these two have kept, that old Margot carried +to her grave. When you go to your homes, pray for as much human kindness +in you as a man of no Church or faith can show. For this child”--he +turned to Rosalie-“honour her! Go now--go in peace!” + +“One moment,” said the Seigneur. “I fine Ba’tiste Maxime twenty dollars +for defamation of character. The money to go for the poor.” + +“You hear that, ould sand-in-the-sugar!” said Mrs. Flynn. “Will you let +me kiss ye, darlin’?” she added to Rosalie, and, waddling over, reached +out her hands. + +Rosalie’s eyes were wet as she warmly kissed the old Irishwoman, and +thereupon they entered into a friendship which was without end. + +The Seigneur drove the crowd from the shop, and shut the door. + +The Cure came to Charley. “Monsieur,” said he, “I have no words. When +I remember what agonies you suffered in those hours, how bravely you +endured them--ah, Monsieur!” he added, with moist eyes, “I shall always +feel that--that you are not far from the kingdom of God.” + +A silence fell upon them, for the Cure, the Seigneur, and Rosalie, as +they looked at Charley, thought of the scar like a red cross on his +breast. + +It touched Charley with a kind of awe. He smiled painfully. “Shall I +give you proof?” he said, making a motion to undo his waistcoat. + +“Monsieur!” said the Seigneur reprovingly, and holding out his hand. +“Monsieur! We are all gentlemen!” + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY + +Walking slowly, head bent, eyes unseeing, Charley was on his way to +Vadrome Mountain, with the knowledge that Jo Portugais had returned. + +The hunger for companionship was on him: to touch some mind that could +understand the deep loneliness which had settled on him since that scene +in the postoffice. It was the loneliness of a new and great separation. +He had wakened to it to-day. + +Once before, in the hut on Vadrome Mountain, he had wakened from a +grave, had been born again. Last night had come still another birth, had +come, as with Rosalie herself, knowledge, revelation, understanding. +To Rosalie the new vision had come with a vague pain of heart, without +shame, and with a wonderful happiness. Pain, shame, knowledge, and a +happiness that passed suddenly into a despairing sorrow, had come to +him. + +In finding love he had found conscience, and in finding conscience he +was on his way to another great discovery. + +Looking to where Jo Portugais’ house was set among the pines, Charley +remembered the day--he saw the scene in his mind’s eye--when Rosalie +entered with the letter addressed “To the sick man at the house of Jo +Portugais, at Vadrome Mountain,” and he saw again her clear, unsoiled +soul in the deep inquiring eyes. + +“If you but knew”--he turned and looked down at the village below--“if +you but knew!” he said, as though to all the world. “I have the sign +from heaven--I know it now. To-day I wake to know what life means, and +I see--Rosalie! I know now--but how? In taking all she had to give. What +does she get in return? Nothing--nothing. Because I love her, because +the whole world is nothing beside her, nor life, nor twenty lives, if +I had them to give, I must say to her now: ‘Rosalie, it was love that +brought you to my arms, it is love that says, Thus far and no farther. +Never again--never--never--never!’ Yesterday I could have left her--died +or vanished, without real hurt to her. She would have mourned and broken +her heart and mended it again; and I should have been only a memory--of +mystery, of tenderness. Then, one day she would have married, and no +sting from my going would have remained. She would have had happiness, +and I neither shame nor despair.... To-day it is all too late. We have +drunk too deep-alas! too deep. She cannot marry another man, for ghosts +will not lie for asking, and what is mine may not be another’s. She +cannot marry me, for what once was mine is mine still by ring and by +book, and I should always be haunted by a torturing shadow. Kathleen +has the right of way, not Rosalie. Ah, Rosalie, I dare not wrong you +further. Yet to marry you, even as things are, if that might be! To live +on here unrecognised? I am little like my old self, and year after year +I should grow less and less like Charley Steele.... But, no, it is not +possible!” + +He stopped short in his thoughts, and his lips tightened in bitterness. + +“God in heaven, what an impasse!” he said aloud. + +There was a sudden crackling of twigs as a man rose up from a log by the +wayside ahead of him. It was Jo Portugais, who had seen him coming, and +had waited for him. He had heard Charley’s words. + +“Do you call me an impasse, M’sieu’?” Charley grasped Portugais’ hand. + +“What has happened, M’sieu’?” Jo asked anxiously. There was a brief +silence, and then Charley told him of the events of the morning. + +“You know of the mark-here?” he asked, touching his breast. + +Jo nodded. “I saw, when you were ill.” + +“Yet you never asked!” + +“I studied it out--I knew old Louis Trudel. Also, I saw ma’m’selle nail +the cross to the church door. Two and two together in my mind did it. I +didn’t think Paulette Dubois would tell. I warned her.” + +“She quarrelled with mademoiselle. It was revenge. + +“She might have been less vindictive. She had had good luck herself +lately.” + +“What good luck had she, M’sieu’?” + +Charley told Jo the story of the Notary, the woman, and the child. + +Jo made no comment. They relapsed into silence. Arriving at the house, +they entered. Jo lighted his pipe, and smoked steadily for a time +without speaking. Buried in thought, Charley stood in the doorway +looking down at the village. At last he turned. + +“Where have you been these weeks past, Jo?” + +“To Quebec first, M’sieu’.” + +Charley looked curiously at Jo, for there was meaning in his tone. “And +where last?” + +“To Montreal.” + +Charley’s face became paler, his hands suddenly clinched, for he read +the look in Jo’s eyes. He knew that Jo had been looking at people and +places once so familiar; that he had seen--Kathleen. + +“Go on. Tell me all,” he said heavily. + +Portugais spoke in English. The foreign language seemed to make the +truth less naked and staring to himself. He had a hard story to tell. + +“It is not to say why I go to Montreal,” he began. “But I go. I have my +ears open; my eyes, she is not close. No one knows me--I am no account +of. Every one is forgot the man, Joseph Nadeau, who was try for +his life. Perhaps it is every one is forget the lawyer who save his +neck--perhaps? So I stand by the streetside. I say to a man as I look +up at sign-boards,’ ‘Where is that writing “M’sieu’ Charles Steele,” and +all the res’?’ ‘He is dead long ago,’ say the man to me. ‘A good thing +too, for he was the very devil.’ ‘I not understan’,’ I say. ‘I tink that +M’sieu’ Steele is a dam smart man back time.’ ‘He was the smartes’ man +in the country, that Beauty Steele,’ the man say. ‘He bamboozle the jury +hevery time. He cut up bad though.’” + +Charley raised his hand with a nervous gesture of misery and impatience. + +“‘Where have you been,’ that man say--‘where have you been all these +times not to know ‘bout Charley Steele, hein?’ ‘In the backwoods,’ I +say. ‘What bring you here now?’ he ask. ‘I have a case,’ I say. ‘What +is it?’ he ask. ‘It is a case of a man who is punish for another man,’ I +say. ‘That’s the thing for Charley Steele,’ he laugh. ‘He was great man +to root things out. Can’t fool Charley Steele, we use to say here. But +he die a bad death.’ ‘What was the matter with him?’ I say. ‘He drink +too much, he spend too much, he run after a girl at Cote Dorion, and +the river-drivers do for him one night. They say it was acciden’, but is +there any green on my eye? But he die trump--jus’ like him. He have no +fear of devil or man,’ so the man say. ‘But fear of God?’ I ask. ‘He was +hinfidel,’ he say. ‘That was behin’ all. He was crooked all roun’. He +rob the widow and horphan?’ ‘I think he too smart for that,’ I speak +quick. ‘I suppose it was the drink,’ he say. ‘He loose his grip.’ ‘He +was a smart man, an’ he would make you all sit up, if he come back,’ +I hanswer. ‘If he come back!’ The man laugh queer at that. ‘If he +comeback, there would be hell.’ ‘How is that?’ I say. ‘Look across the +street,’ he whisper. ‘That was his wife.’” + +Charley choked back a cry in his throat. Jo had no intention of cutting +his story short. He had an end in view. + +“I look across the street. There she is--’ Ah, that is a fine woman +to see! I have never seen but one more finer to look at--here in +Chaudiere.’ The man say: ‘She marry first for money, and break her +heart; now she marry for love. If Beauty Steele come back-eh! sacra! +that would be a mess. But he is at the bottom of the St Lawrence--the +courts say so, and the Church say so--and ghosts don’t walk here.’ ‘But +if that Beauty Steele come back alive, what would happen it?’ I speak. +‘His wife is marry, blockhead!’ he say. + +“‘But the woman is his,’ I hanswer. ‘Do you think she would go back to a +thief she never love from the man she love?’ he speak back. ‘She is not +marry to the other man,’ I say, ‘if Beauty Steele is...’ ‘He is dead as +a door,’ he swear. ‘You see that?’ he go on, nodding down the street. +‘Well, that is Billy.’ ‘Who is Billy?’ I ask. ‘The brother of her,’ he +say. ‘Charley, he spoil Billy. Billy, he has not been the same since +Charley’s death-he is so ashame of Charley. When he get drunk he talk of +nothing else. We all remember that Charley spoil him, and that make us +sorry for him.’ ‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘I think that Billy is a dam smart +man. He is smart as Charley Steele.’ ‘Charley was the smartes’ man in +the country,’ he say again. ‘I’ve got his practice now, but this town +will never be the same without him. Thief or no thief, I wish he is +alive here. By the Lord, I’d get drunk with him!’ He was all right, that +man,” Jo added finally. + +Charley’s agitation was hidden. His eyes were fixed on Jo intently. +“That was Larry Rockwell. Go on,” he said, in a hard metallic voice. + +“I see--her, the next night again. It is in the white stone house on the +hill. All the windows are open, an’ I can hear her to sing. I not know +that song. It begin, ‘Oft in the stilly night’--like that.” + +Charley stiffened. It was the song Kathleen sang for him the night they +became engaged. + +“It is a good voice-that. I see her face, for there is a candle on +the piano. I come close and closter to the house. There is big +maple-trees--I am well hid. A man is beside her. He lean hover her an’ +put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Sing it again, Kat’leen,’ he say. ‘I +cannot to get enough.’” + +“Stop!” said Charley, in a strained, harsh voice. “Not yet, M’sieu’,” + said Portugais. “It is good for you to hear what I say.” + +“‘Come, Kat’leen!’ the man say, an’ he blow hout the candle. I hear them +walk away, an’ the door shut behin’ them. Then I hear anudder voice--ah, +that is a baby--very young baby!” + +Charley quickly got to his feet. “Not another word!” he said. + +“Yes, yes, but there is one word more, M’sieu’,” said Jo, standing up +and facing him firmly. “You must go back. You are not a thief. The woman +is yours. You throw your life away. What is the man to you--or the man’s +brat of a child? It is all waiting for you. You mus’ go back. You not +steal the money, but that Billy--it is that Billy, I know. You can +forgive your wife, and take her back, or you can say to both, Go! You +can put heverything right and begin again.” + +Anger, wild words, seemed about to break from Charley’s lips, but he +conquered himself. + +The old life had been brought back to him with painful acuteness and +vividness. The streets of the town, the people in the street, Billy, the +mean scoundrel, who could not leave him alone in the grave of obscurity, +Kathleen--Fairing. The voice of the child--with her voice--was in his +ears. A child! If he had had a child, perhaps----He stopped short in +his thinking, his face all at once flooding with colour. For a moment he +stood looking out of the window down towards the village. He could see +the post-office like a toy house among toy houses. At last he turned to +Jo. + +“Never again while I live, speak of this to me: of the past, of going +back, or of--of anything else,” he said. “I cannot go back. I am dead +and shamed. Let the dust of forgetfulness come and cover the past. I’ve +begun life again here, and here I stay, and see it out. I shall work out +the problem here.” He dropped a hand on the other’s shoulder. “Jo,” said +he, “we are both shipwrecks. Let us see how long we can float.” + +“M’sieu’, is it worth it?” said Portugais, remembering his confession to +the Abbe, and seeing the end of it all to himself. + +“I don’t know, Jo. Let us wait and see how Fate will play us.” + +“Or God, M’sieu’?” + +“God or Fate--who knows” + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. “WHO WAS KATHLEEN?” + +The painful incidents of the morning weighed heavily upon Rosalie, and +she was glad when Madame Dugal came to talk with her father, who was +ailing and irritable, and when Mrs. Flynn drove her away with a kiss on +either cheek, saying: “Don’t come back, darlin’, till there’s roses in +both cheeks, for y’r eyes are ‘atin’ up yer face!” + +She had seen Charley take the path to Vadrome Mountain, and to the +Rest of the Flax-beaters she betook herself, in the blind hope that, +returning, he might pass that way. Under the influence of the fresh +air and the quiet of the woods her spirits rose, her pulse beat faster, +though a sense of foreboding and sorrow hovered round her. The two-miles +walk to her beloved retreat seemed a matter of minutes only, so busy +were her thoughts. + +Her mind was one luxurious confusion, through which travelled a ghostly +little sprite, who kept tumbling her thoughts about, sneering, smirking, +whispering--“You dare not go to confession--dare not go to confession. +You will never be the same again--never feel the same again--never think +the same again; your dreams are done! You can only love. And what will +this love do for you? What do you expect to happen--you dare not go to +confession!” + +Her reply had been the one iteration: “I love him--I love him--I love +him. We shall be together all our lives, till we are old and grey. I +shall watch him at his work, and listen to his voice. I shall read with +him and walk with him, and I shall grow to think like him a little--in +everything except religion. In everything except that. One day he will +come to think like me--to believe in God.” + +In the dreamy happiness of these thoughts the colour came to her cheeks, +the roses of light gathered in her eyes. In her tremulous ardour she +scarcely realised how time passed, and her reverie deepened as the +afternoon shadows grew and the sun made to its covert behind the hills. +She was roused by a man’s voice singing, just under the bluff where she +sat. To her this voice represented the battle-call, the home-call, the +life call of the universe. The song it sang was known to her. It was as +old as Rizzio. It had come from old France with Mary, had been merged +into English words and English music, and had voyaged to New France. +There it had been sung by lovers in fair vales, on wide rivers, and in +deep forests: + + “What is not mine I may not hold, + (Ah, hark the hunter’s horn!), + And what is thine may not be sold, + (My love comes through the corn!); + And none shall buy + And none shall sell + What Love works well?” + +In the walk back from Vadrome Mountain, a change--a fleeting change--had +passed over Charley’s mind and mood. The quiet of the woodland, the +song of the birds, the tumbling brook, the smell of the rich earth, +replenishing its strength from the gorgeous falling leaves, had soothed +him. Thoughts of Rosalie took a new form. Her image possessed him, +excluding the future, the perils that surrounded them. He had gone +through so much within the past twenty-four hours that the capacity for +suffering had almost exhausted itself, and in the reaction endearing +thoughts of Rosalie had dominion over him. It was the reassertion of +primitive man, the demands of the first element. The great problem was +still in the background. The picture of Kathleen and the other man was +pushed into the distance; thoughts of Billy and his infamy were thrust +under foot--how futile to think of them! There was Rosalie to be thought +of, the to-day and to-morrow of the new life. + +Rosalie was of to-day. How strong and womanly she had been this +morning, the girl whose life had been bounded by this Chaudiere, with +a metropolitan convent and hospital as her only glimpses of the busy +world. She would fit in anywhere--in the highest places, with her grace, +and her nobleness of mind, arcadian, passionate and beautiful. There +came upon him again the feeling of the evening before, when he saw +her standing in his doorway, the night about them, jealous affection, +undying love, in her eyes. It quickened his steps imperceptibly. He +passed a stream, and glanced down into a dark pool involuntarily. +It reflected himself clearly. He stopped short. “Is this you, Beauty +Steele?” he said, and he caught his brown beard in his hand. “Beauty +Steele had brains and no heart. You have heart, and your wits have gone +wool-gathering. No matter! + + What is not mine I may not hold, + (Ah, hark the hunter’s horn!)’” + +he sang, and came quickly along the stream where the flax-beaters worked +in harvest-time, then up the hill, then--Rosalie. + +She started to her feet. “I knew you would come--I knew you would!” she +said. + +“You have been waiting here for me?” he asked breathless, taking her +hand. + +“I felt you would come. I made you,” she added smiling, and, eagerly +answering the look in his eyes, threw her arms round his neck. In that +moment’s joy a fresh realisation of their fate came upon him with dire +force, and a bitter protest went up from his heart, that he and she +should be sacrificed. + +Yet the impasse was there, and what could remove it--what clear the way? + +He looked down at the girl whose head was buried in happy peace on his +shoulder. She clung to him, as though in him was everlasting +protection from the sprite that kept whispering: “You dare not go to +confession--your dreams are done--you can only love.” But she had no +fear now. + +As he looked down at her a swift change passed over him, and, almost for +the first time since he was a little child, his eyes filled with tears. +He hastily brushed them away, and drew her down on the seat beside him. +He was wondering how he should tell her that they must not meet like +this, that they must be apart. No matter what had happened, no matter +what love there was, it was better that they should die--that he should +die--than that they should meet like this. There was only one end to +secret meetings, and discovery was inevitable. Then, with discovery, +shame to her. For he must either marry her--how could he marry her?--or +die. For him to die would but increase her misery. + +The time had passed when it could be of any use. It passed that day in +the hut on Vadrome Mountain when she said that if he died, she would die +with him--“Where you are going you will be alone. There will be no one +to care for you, no one but me.” Last night it passed for ever. She had +put her life into his hands; henceforth, there could never be a +question of giving or taking, of withdrawing or advancing, for all was +irrevocable, sealed with the great seal. Yet she must be saved. But how? + +She suddenly looked up at him. “I can ask you anything I want now, can’t +I?” she said. + +“Anything, Rosalie.” + +“You know that when I ask, it is because I want to know what you know, +so that I may feel as you feel. You know that, don’t you? + +“I know it when you tell me, wonderful Rosalie.” What a revelation it +was, this transmuting power, which could change mortal dross into the +coin of immortal wealth! + +“I want to ask you,” she said, “who was Kathleen?” His blood seemed +to go cold in his veins, and he sat without answering, shocked and +dismayed. What could she know of Kathleen? + +“Can’t you tell me?” she asked anxiously yet fearfully. He looked +so strange that she thought she had offended him. “Please don’t mind +telling me. I should understand everything--everything. Was it some +one you loved--once?” It was hard for her to say it, but she said it +bravely. + +“No. I never loved any one in all the world, Rosalie--not till I loved +you.” + +She gave a happy sigh. “Oh, it is wonderful!” she said. “It is wonderful +and good! Did you--did you love me from the very first?” + +“I think I did, though I didn’t know it from the very first,” he +answered slowly. His heart beat hard, for he could not guess how she +should know of Kathleen. It was absurdly impossible that she should +know. “But many have loved you!” she said proudly. “They have not shown +it,” he answered grimly; then added quickly, and with aching anxiety: +“When did you hear of--of Kathleen?” + +“Oh, you are such a blind huntsman!” she laughed. “Don’t you know where +my little fox was hiding? Why, in the shop, when you held the note-paper +up to the light, and looked startled, and bought all the paper we had +that was water-marked Kathleen. Do you think that was clever of me? I +don’t.” + +“I think it was very clever,” he said. + +“Then she-Kathleen--doesn’t really matter?” she asked eagerly. “Of +course she can’t, if you don’t love her. But does she love you? Did she +ever love you?” “Never in her life.” + +“So of course it doesn’t matter,” she rejoined. “Hush!” she added +rapidly. “I see some one coming in the trees yonder. It may be some one +for me. Father knows I come here sometimes. Go quickly and hide behind +the rocks, please. I’ll stay and see who it is. Please go--dearest.” + +He kissed her, and, keeping out of sight, got to a place of safety a few +hundred feet away. + +He saw the new-comer run to Rosalie, speak to her, saw Rosalie half +turn in his own direction, then go hastily down the hillside with the +messenger. + +“It is her father!” he exclaimed, and followed at a distance. At the +village he learned that M. Evanturel had had another seizure. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. SIX MONTHS GO BY + +Spring again--budding trees and flowing sap; the earth banks removed +from the houses, and outside windows discarded; the ice tumbling and +crunching in the river; the dormant farmer raising his head to the +energy and delight of April. + +The winter had been long and hard. Never had there been severer frost or +deeper snow, and seldom had big game been so plentiful. In the snug warm +stables the cattle munched and chewed the cud; the idle, long-haired +horses grew as spirited in the keen air as in summer they were sluggish +with hard work; and the farm-hands were abroad in the dark of the early +mornings with lanterns, to feed the stock and take them out to water, +singing cheerfully. All morning spread the clamour of the flail and the +fanning-mill, the swish of the knife through the turnips and the beets, +and the sound of the saw and the axe, as the youngest man of the family, +muffled to the nose, sawed the wood into lengths or split the knots. + +Night brought the cutting and stringing of apples, the shelling of the +Indian corn, the making of rag carpets. On Saturday came the going to +market with grain, or pork, or beef, or fowls frozen like stones; the +gossip in the market-place. Then again sounded jingling sleigh-bells as, +on the return road, the habitant made for home, a glass of white whiskey +inside him, and black-eyed children in the doorway, swarming like bees +at the mouth of a hive. + +This particular winter in Chaudiere had been full of excitement and +expectation. At Easter-time there was to be the great Passion Play, +after the manner of that known as The Passion Play of Ober-Ammergau. Not +one in a hundred habitants had ever heard of Ober-Ammergau, but they had +all shared in picturesque processions of the Stations of the Cross to +some calvaire; and many had taken part in dramatic scenes arranged from +the life of Christ. Drama of a crude kind was deep in them; it showed in +gesture, speech, and temperament. + +In all the preparations Maximilian Cour was a conspicuous and useful +official. Gifted with the dramatic temperament to a degree rare in so +humble a man, he it was who really educated the people of Chaudiere in +the details of the Passion Play to be produced by the good Catholics of +the parish and the Indians of the reservation. He had gone to the Cure +every day, and the Cure had talked with him, and then had sent him to +the tailor, who had, during the past six months, withdrawn more and +more from the life about him, practically living with shut door. No one +ventured in unless on business, or were in need, or wished advice. These +he never turned empty away. + +Besides Portugais, Maximilian Cour was the one man received constantly +by the tailor. With patience and insight Charley taught the baker, by +drawings and careful explanations, the outlines of the representation, +and the baker grew proud of the association, though Charley’s face used +to haunt him in his sleep. Excitable, eager, there was an elemental +adaptability in the baker, as easily leading to Avernus as to Elysium. +This appealed to Charley, realising, as he did, that Maximilian Cour +was a reputable citizen by mere accident. The baker’s life had run in a +sentimental groove of religious duty; that same sentimentality would, +in other circumstances, have forced him with equal ardour into the broad +primrose path. + +In the evening hours and on Sunday Charley had worked at his drawings +for the scenery and costumes of the Play, and completed his translation +of the German text, but there had been days when he could not put pen to +paper. Life to him now was one aching emptiness--since that day at the +Rest of the Flax-beaters Rosalie had been absent. On the very morning +after their meeting by the river she had gone away with her father to +the great hospital at Montreal--not Quebec this time, on the advice of +the Seigneur--as the one chance of prolonging his life. There had +come but one letter from her since that hour when he saw her in the +Seigneur’s coach with her father, moving away in the still autumn air, a +piteous appeal in her eyes. The good-bye look she gave him then was with +him day and night. + +She had written him one letter, and he had written one in reply, and no +more. Though he was wholly reckless for himself, for her he was prudent +now--there was nothing else to do. To save her--if he could but save her +from himself! If he might only put back the clock! + +In his letter to her he had simply said that it were wiser not to +write, since the acting postmistress, the Cure’s sister, would note the +exchange of letters, and this would arouse suspicion. He could not +see what was best to do, what was right to do. To wait seemed the only +thing, and his one letter ended with the words: Rosalie, my life is +lived only in the thought of you. There is no hour but I think of you, +no moment but you are with me. The greatest proof of love that man can +give, I will give to you, in the hour fate wills--for us. But now, we +must wait--we must wait, Rosalie. Do not write to me, but know that if I +could go to you I would go; if I could say to you, Come, I would say it. +If the giving of my life would save you any pain or sorrow, I would give +it. + +Sitting on his bench at work, it seemed to Charley that sometimes she +was near him, and more than once he turned quickly round as though she +were, in very truth, standing beside him. He thought of her continually, +and often with an unbearable pain. He figured her in his mind as pale +and distressed, and always her eyes had the piteous terror of that last +look as she went away over the hills. + +But the weeks had worn on, then the Seigneur, who had been to Montreal, +came back with the news that Rosalie was looking as beautiful as a +picture. “Grown a woman in beauty and in stature; comely--comely as a +lady in a Watteau picture, my dear messieurs!” he had said to the Cure, +standing in the tailor’s shop. + +Replying, the Cure had said: “She is in good hands, with good people, +recommended to me by an abbe there; yet I am not wholly happy about her. +When her trouble comes to her”--Charley’s needle slipped and pierced +his finger to the bone--“when her father goes, as he must, I fear, there +will be no familiar face; she will hear no familiar voice.” + +“Faith, there you are wrong, my dear Cure” answered the Seigneur; +“there’ll be a face yonder she likes very well indeed, and a voice she’s +fond of too.” + +Charley’s back was on them at that moment, of which he was glad, for his +face was haggard with anxiety, and it seemed hours before the Cure said: +“Whom do you mean, Maurice?” and hours before the Seigneur replied: +“Mrs. Flynn, of course. I’m sending her tomorrow.” + +Mrs. Flynn had gone, and Charley had, in one sense, been made no happier +by that, for it seemed to him that Rosalie would rather that strangers’ +eyes were on her than the inquisitively friendly eye of Mary Flynn. + +Weeks had grown into months, and no news came--none save that which the +Cure let fall, or was brought by the irresponsible Notary, who heard all +gossip. Only the Cure’s scant news were authentic, however, and Charley +never saw the good priest but he had a secret hope of hearing him say +that Rosalie was coming back. Yet when she came back, what would, or +could, he do? There was always the crime for which he or Billy must +be punished. Concerning this crime his heart was growing harder--for +Rosalie’s sake. But there was Kathleen--and Rosalie was now in the +city where she lived, and they might meet! There was one solution--if +Kathleen should die! It sickened him that he could think of that with a +sense of relief, almost of hope. If Kathleen should die, then he would +be free to marry Rosalie--into what? He still could only marry her into +the peril and menace of the law? Again, even if Kathleen did not stand +in the way, neither the Cure nor any other priest would marry him to her +without his antecedents being certified. A Protestant minister would, +perhaps, but would Rosalie give up her faith? Following him without +the blessing of the Church, she would trample under foot every dear +tradition of her life, win the scorn of all of her religion, and destroy +her own peace; for the faith of her fathers was as the breath of her +nostrils. What cruelty to her! + +But was it, after all, even true that he had but to call and she would +come? In truth it well might be that she had learned to despise him; +to feel how dastardly he had been to take her love, given in blind +simplicity, bestowed like the song of the bird upon the listening +fields--to take the plenteous fulness of her life, and give nothing in +return save the empty hand, the hopeless hour, the secret sorrow. + +Nothing could quench his misery. The physical part of him craved without +ceasing for something to allay his distress. Again and again he fought +his old enemy with desperate resolve. To fall again, to touch liquor +once more, was to end all for ever. He fought on tenaciously and +gloomily, with little of the pride of life, with nothing of the +old stubborn self-will, but with a new-awakened sense. He had found +conscience at last--and more. + +The months went by and still M. Evanturel lingered on, and Rosalie did +not come. The strain became too great at last. In the week preceding +Easter, when all the parish was busy at Four Mountains, making costumes, +rehearsing, building, putting up seats, cutting down trees, and erecting +crosses and calvaries, Charley disclosed to Jo a new intention. + +In the earlier part of the winter Jo and he had met two or three times +a week, but now Jo had come to help him with his work in the shop--two +silent, devoted companions. They understood each other, and in that +understanding were life and death. For never did Jo forget that a year +from the day he had confessed his sins he meant to give himself up to +justice. This caused him no sleepless nights. He thought more of Charley +than of himself, and every month now he went to confession, and every +day he said his prayers. He was at his prayers when Charley went to tell +him of his purpose. Charley had often seen Jo on his knees of late, and +he had wondered, but not with the old pagan mind. “Jo,” he said, “I am +going away--to Montreal.” + +“To Montreal!” exclaimed Jo huskily. “You are going back--to stay?” + +“Not that. I am going--to see--Rosalie Evanturel.” Jo was troubled but +not dumfounded. It had slowly crept into his mind that Charley loved the +girl, though he had no real ground for suspicion. His will, however, +had been so long the slave of the other man’s that he had far-off +reflections of his thoughts. He made no reply in words, but nodded his +head. + +“I want you to stay here, Jo. If I don’t come back, and--and she does, +stand by her, Jo. I can trust you.” “You will come back, M’sieu’--but +you will come back, then?” Jo asked heavily. + +“If I can, Jo--if I can,” he answered. + +Long after he had gone, Jo wandered up and down among the trees on the +river-road, up which Charley had disappeared with Jo’s dogs and sled. He +kept shaking his head mournfully. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. THE FORGOTTEN MAN + +It was Easter morning, and the good sunrise of a perfect spring made +radiant the high hill above the town. Rosy-fingered morn touched with +magic colour the masts and scattered sails of the ships upon the great +river, and spires and towers quivered with rainbow light. The city was +waking cheerfully, though the only active life was in the pealing bells +and on the deep flowing rivers. The streets were empty yet, save for +an assiduous priest or the cart of a milkman. Here and there a window +opened and a drowsy head was thrust into the eager air. These saw a +bearded countryman with his team of six dogs and his little cart +going slowly up the street. It was plain the man had come a long +distance--from the mountains in the east or south, no doubt, where +horses were few, and dogs, canoes, and oxen the means of transportation. + +As the man moved slowly through the streets, his dogs still gallantly +full of life after their hard journey, he did not stare about him after +the manner of countrymen. His movements had intelligence and freedom. +He was an unusual figure for a woodsman or river-man--he did not wear +ear-rings or a waist-sash as did the river-men, and he did not turn +in his toes like a woodsman. Yet he was plainly a man from the far +mountains. + +The man with the dogs did not heed the few curious looks turned his way, +but held his head down as though walking in familiar places. Now and +then he spoke to his dogs, and once he stopped before a newspaper +office, which had a placard bearing these lines: + +The Coming Passion Play In the Chaudiere Valley. + +He looked at it mechanically, for, though he was concerned in the +Passion Play and the Chaudiere Valley, it was an abstraction to him at +this moment. His mind was absorbed by other things. + +Though he looked neither to right nor to left, he was deeply affected by +all round him. + +At last he came to a certain street, where he and his dogs travelled +more quickly. It opened into a square, where bells were booming in the +steeple of a church. Shops and offices in the street were shut, but +a saloon-door was open, and over the doorway was the legend: Jean +Jolicoeur, Licensed to sell Wine, Beer, and other Spirituous and +Fermented Liquors. + +Nearly opposite was a lawyer’s office, with a new-painted sign. It had +once read, in plain black letters, Charles Steele, Barrister, etc.; now +it read, in gold letters and many flourishes of the sign-painter’s art, +Rockwell and Tremblay, Barristers, Attorneys, etc. + +Here the man looked up with trouble in his eyes. He could see dimly the +desk and the window beside which he had sat for so many years, and on +the wall a map of the city glowed with the incoming sun. + +He moved on, passing the saloon with the open door. The landlord, in his +shirt-sleeves, was standing in the doorway. He nodded, then came out to +the edge of the board-walk. + +“Come a long way, M’sieu’?” he asked. + +“Four days’ journey,” answered the man gruffly through his beard, +looking the landlord in the eyes. If this landlord, who in the past had +seen him so often and so closely, did not recognise him, surely no one +else would. It was, however, a curious recurrence of habit that, as he +looked at the landlord, he instinctively felt for his eye-glass, which +he had discarded when he left Chaudiere. For an instant there was an +involuntary arrest of Jean Jolicoeur’s look, as though memory had been +roused, but this swiftly passed, and he said: + +“Fine dogs, them! We never get that kind hereabouts now, M’sieu’. Ever +been to the city before?” + +“I’ve never been far from home before,” answered the Forgotten Man. + +“You’d better keep your eyes open, my friend, though you’ve got a sharp +pair in your head--sharp as Beauty Steele’s almost. There’s rascals in +the river-side drinking-places that don’t let the left hand know what +the right does.” + +“My dogs and I never trust anybody,” said the Forgotten Man, as one of +the dogs snarled at the landlord’s touch. “So I can take care of myself, +even if I haven’t eyes as sharp as Beauty Steele’s, whoever he is.” + +The landlord laughed. “Beauty’s only skin-deep, they say. Charley Steele +was a lawyer; his office was over there”--he pointed across the street. +“He went wrong. He come here too often--that wasn’t my fault. He had an +eye like a hawk, and you couldn’t read it. Now I can read your eye like +a book. There’s a bit of spring in ‘em, M’sieu’. His eyes were hard +winter-ice five feet deep and no fishing under--froze to the bed. He had +a tongue like a cross-cut saw. He’s at the bottom of the St. Lawrence, +leaving a bad job behind him. + +“Have a drink--hein?” He jerked a finger backwards to the saloon door. +“It’s Sunday, but stolen waters are sweet, sure!” + +The Forgotten Man shook his head. “I don’t drink, thank you.” + +“It’d do you good. You’re dead beat. You’ve been travelling hard--eh?” + +“I’ve come a long way, and travelled all night.” + +“Going on?” + +“I am going back to-morrow.” + +“On business?” + +Charley nodded--he glanced involuntarily at the sign across the street. + +Jean Jolicoeur saw the look. “Lawyer’s business, p’r’aps?” + +“A lawyer’s business--yes.” + +“Ah, if Charley Steele was here!” + +“I have as good a lawyer as--” + +The landlord laughed scornfully. “They’re not made. He’d legislate the +devil out of the Pit. Where are you going to stay, M’sieu’?” + +“Somewhere cheap--along the river,” answered the Forgotten Man. + +Jolicoeur’s good-natured face became serious. “I’ll tell you a +place--it’s honest. It’s the next street, a few hundred yards down, on +the left. There’s a wooden fish over the door. It’s called The Black +Bass--that hotel. Say I sent you. Good luck to you, countryman! Ah, la; +la, there’s the second bell--I must be getting to Mass!” With a nod he +turned and went into the house. + +The Forgotten Man passed slowly up the street, into the side street, and +followed it till he came to The Black Bass, and turned into the small +stable-yard. A stable-man was stirring. He at once put his dogs into +a little pen set apart for them, saw them fed from the kitchen, and, +betaking himself to a little room behind the bar of the hotel, ordered +breakfast. The place was empty, save for the servant--the household were +at Mass. He looked round the room abstractedly. He was thinking of a +crippled man in a hospital, of a girl from a village in the Chaudiere +Valley. He thought with a shiver of a white house on the hill. He +thought of himself as he had never done before in his life. Passing +along the street, he had realised that he had no moral claim upon +anything or anybody within these precincts of his past life. The place +was a tomb to him. + +As he sat in the little back parlour of The Black Bass, eating his +frugal breakfast of eggs and bread and milk, the meaning of it all +slowly dawned upon him. Through his intellect he had known something of +humanity, but he had never known men. He had thought of men in the mass, +and despised them because of their multitudinous duplication, and their +typical weaknesses; but he had never known one man or one woman from the +subtler, surer divination of the heart. His intellect had made servants +and lures of his emotions and his heart, for even his every case in +court had been won by easy and selfish command of all those feelings in +mankind which make possible personal understanding. + +In this little back parlour it came to him with sudden force how, long +ago, he had cut himself off from any claim upon his fellows--not only by +his conduct, but by his merciless inhuman intelligence working upon the +merciful human life about him. He never remembered to have had any real +feeling till on that day with Kathleen--the day he died. The bitter +complaint of a woman he had wronged cruelly, by having married her, had +wrung from him his own first wail of life, in the one cry “Kathleen!” + +As he sat eating his simple meal his pulses were beating painfully. +Every nerve in his body seemed to pluck at the angry flesh. There +flashed across his mind in sympathetic sensation a picture. It was the +axe-factory on the river, before which he used to stand as a boy, and +watch the men naked to the waist, with huge hairy arms and streaming +faces, toiling in the red glare, the trip-hammers endlessly pounding +upon the glowing metal. In old days it had suggested pictures of gods +and demi-gods toiling in the workshops of the primeval world. So +the whole machinery of being seemed to be toiling in the light of an +awakened conscience, to the making of a man. It seemed to him that all +his life was being crowded into these hours. His past was here--its +posing, its folly, its pitiful uselessness, and its shame. Kathleen and +Billy were here, with all the problems that involved them. Rosalie was +here, with the great, the last problem. + +“Nothing matters but that--but Rosalie,” he said to himself as he turned +to look out of the window at the wrangling dogs gnawing bones. “Here she +is in the midst of all I once knew, and I know that I am no more a part +of it than she is. She and Kathleen may have met face to face in +these streets--who can tell! The world is large, but there’s a sort of +whipper-in of Fate, who drives the people wearing the same livery into +one corner in the end. If they met”--he rose and walked hastily up and +down--“what then? I have a feeling that Rosalie would recognise her as +plainly as though the word Kathleen were stitched on her breast.” + +There was a clock on the wall. He looked at it. “It will not be safe +to go out until evening. Then I can go to the hospital, and watch her +coming out.” He realised with satisfaction that many people coming from +Mass must pass the inn. There was a chance of his seeing Rosalie, if she +had gone to early Mass. This street lay in her way from the hospital. +“One look--ah, one look!” For this one look he had come. For this, and +to secure that which would save Rosalie from want always, if anything +should happen to him. This too had been greatly on his mind. There was a +way to give her what was his very own, which would rob no one and serve +her well indeed. + +Looking at his face in the mirror over the mantel, he said to himself + +“I might have had ten thousand friends, yet I have a thousand enemies, +who grin at the memory of the drunken fop down among the eels and the +cat-fish. Every chance was with me then. I come back here, and--and +Jolicoeur tells me the brutal truth. But if I had had ambition”--a wave +of the feeling of the old life passed over him--“if I had had ambition +as I was then, I should have been a monster. It was all so paltry that, +in sheer disgust, I should have kicked every ladder down that helped me +up. I should have sacrificed everything to myself.” + +He stopped short and stared, for, in the mirror, he saw a girl passing +through the stable-yard towards the quarrelling dogs in the kennel. He +clapped his hand to his mouth to stop a cry. It was Rosalie. + +He did not turn round but looked at her in the mirror, as though it were +the last look he might give on earth. + +He could hear her voice speaking to the dogs: “Ah, my friends, ah, my +dears! I know you every one. Jo Portugais is here. I know your bark, +you, Harpy, and you, Lazybones, and you, Cloud and London! I know you +every one. I heard you as I came from Mass, beauty dears. Ah, you know +me, sweethearts? Ah, God bless you for coming! You have come to bring us +home; you have come to fetch us home--father and me.” The paws of one of +the dogs was on her shoulder, and his nose was in her hair. + +Charley heard her words, for the window was open, and he listened and +watched now with an infinite relief in his look. Her face was half +turned towards him. It was pale-very pale and sad. It was Rosalie as of +old--thank God, as of old!--but more beautiful in the touching sadness, +the far-off longing, of her look. + +“I must go and see your master,” she said to the dogs. “Down--down, +Lazybones!” + +There was no time to lose--he must not meet her ere. He went into the +outer hall hastily. The servant was passing through. “If any one +asks for Jo Portugais,” he said, “say that I’ll be back to-morrow +morning--I’m going across the river to-day.” + +“Certainly, M’sieu’,” said the girl, and smiled because of the piece of +silver he put in her hand. + +As he heard the side door open he stepped through the front doorway into +the street, and disappeared round a corner. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. ONE WAS TAKEN AND THE OTHER LEFT + +Rosalie carried to the hospital that afternoon a lighter heart than she +had known for many a day. The sight of Jo Portugais’ dogs had roused +her out of the apathy which had been growing on her in this patient +but hopeless watching beside her father. She had always a smile and a +cheerful word for the poor man. A settled sorrow hung upon her face, +however, taking away its colour, but giving it a sweet gravity which +made her slave more than one young doctor of the hospital, for whom, +however, she showed no more than a friendly frankness, free from +self-consciousness. For hours she would sit in reverie beside her +sleeping father, her heart “over the water to Charley.” As in a trance, +she could see him sitting at his bench, bent over his work, now and +again lifting up his head to look across to the post-office, where +another hand than hers sorted letters now. + +Day by day her father weakened and faded away. All that was possible to +medical skill had been done. As the money left by her mother dwindled, +she had no anxiety, for she knew that the life she so tenderly cherished +would not outlast the gold which lengthened out the tenuous chain of +being. This last illness of her father’s had been the salvation of her +mind, the saving of her health. Maybe it had been the saving of her +soul; for at times a curious contempt of life came upon her--she who had +loved it so eagerly and fully. There descended on her then the bitter +conviction that never again would she see the man she loved. Then not +even Mrs. Flynn could call back “the fun o’ the world” to her step and +her tongue and her eye. At first there had been a timid shrinking, +but soon her father and herself were brighter and better for the old +Irishwoman’s presence, and she began to take comfort in Mrs. Flynn. + +Mrs. Flynn gave hopefulness to whatever life she touched, and Rosalie, +buoyant and hopeful enough by nature, responded to the living warmth and +the religion of life in the Irishwoman’s heart. + +“‘Tis worth the doin’, ivery bit of it, darlin’, the bither an’ the +swate, the hard an’ the aisy, the rough an’ the smooth, the good an’ the +bad,” said Mrs. Flynn to her this very Easter morning. “Even the avil +is worth doin’, if so be ‘twas not mint, an’ the good is in yer heart in +the ind, an’ ye do be turnip’ to the Almoighty, repentin’ an’ glad to +be aloive: provin’ to Him ‘twas worth while makin’ the world an’ you, to +want, an’ worry, an’ work, an’ play, an’ pick the flowers, an’ bleed o’ +the thorns, an’ dhrink the sun, an’ ate the dust, an’ be lovin’ all the +way! Ah, that’s it, darlin’,” persisted Mrs. Flynn, “‘tis lovin’ all the +way makes it aisier. There’s manny kinds o’ love. There’s lad an’ +lass, there’s maid an’ man. An’ that last is spring, an’ all the birds +singin’, an’ shtorms now an’ thin, an’ siparations, an’ misthrust, an’ +God in hivin bein’ that aisy wid ye for bein’ fools an’ children, an’ +bringin’ ye thegither in the ind, if so be ye do be lovin’ as man an’ +maid should love, wid all yer heart. Thin there’s the love o’ man an’ +wife. Shure, that’s the love that lasts, if it shtarts right. Shure, +it doesn’t always shtart wid the sun shinin.’ ‘Will ye marry me?’ says +Teddy Flynn to me. ‘I will,’ says I. ‘Then I’ll come back from Canaday +to futch ye,’ says he, wid a tear in his eye. + +“‘For what’s a man in ould Ireland that has a head for annything but +puttaties! There’s land free in Canaday, an’ I’m goin’ to make a home +for ye, Mary,’ says he, wavin’ a piece of paper in the air. ‘Are ye, +thin?’ says I. He goes away that night, an’ the next mornin’ I have a +lether from him, sayin’ he’s shtartin’ that day for Canaday. He hadn’t +the heart to tell me to me face. Fwaht do I do thin? I begs, borrers, +an’ stales, an’ I reached that ship wan minnit before she sailed. There +was no praste aboord, but we was married six weeks afther at Quebec. And +thegither we lived wid ups an’ downs--but no ups an’ downs to the love +of us for twenty years, blessed be God for all His mercies!” + +Rosalie had listened with eyes that hungrily watched every expression, +ears that weighed eagerly every inflection; for she was hearing the +story of another’s love, and it did not seem strange to her that a +woman, old, red-faced, and fat, should be telling it. + +Yet there were times when she wept till she was exhausted; when all her +girlhood was drowned in the overflow of her eyes; when there was a +sense of irrevocable loss upon her. Then it was, in her fear of soul +and pitiful loneliness, that her lover--the man she would have died +for--seemed to have deserted her. Then it was that a sudden hatred +against him rose up in her--to be swept away as swiftly as it came by +the memory of his broken tale of love, his passionate words: “I have +never loved any one but you in all my life, Rosalie.” And also, there +was that letter from Chaudiere, which said that in the hour when the +greatest proof of his love must be given he would give it. Reading +the letter again, hatred, doubt, even sorrow, passed from her, and her +imagination pictured the hour when, disguise and secrecy ended, he would +step forward before all the world and say: “I take Rosalie Evanturel to +be my wife.” Despite the gusts of emotion that swayed her at times, in +the deepest part of her being she trusted him completely. + +When she reached the hospital this Sunday afternoon her step was quick, +her smile bright--though she had not been to confession as was her duty +on Easter day. The impulse towards it had been great, but her secret was +not her own, and the passionate desire to give relief to her full heart +was overborne by thought of the man. Her soul was her own, but this +secret of their love was his as well as hers. She knew that she was the +only just judge between. + +Soon after she entered the ward, the chief surgeon said that all that +could be done for her father had now been done, and that as M. Evanturel +constantly asked to be taken back to Chaudiere (he never said to die, +though they knew what was in his mind), he might now make the journey, +partly by river, partly by land. It seemed to the delighted and excited +Rosalie that Jo Portugais had been sent to her as a surprise, and that +his team of dogs was to take her father back. + +She sat by her father’s bed this beautiful, wonderful Sunday afternoon, +and talked cheerfully, and laughed a little, and told M. Evanturel of +the dogs, and together they looked out of the window to the far-off +hills, in their golden purple, beyond which, in the valley of the +Chaudiere, was their little home. With her father’s hand in hers the +girl dreamed dreams again, and it seemed to her that she was the very +Rosalie Evanturel of old, whose thoughts were bounded by a river and a +hill, a post-office and a church, a catechism and a few score of books. +Here in the crowded city she had come to be a woman who, bitterly shaken +in soul, knew life’s sufferings; who had, during the past few months, +read with avidity history, poetry, romance, fiction, and the drama, +English and French; for in every one she found something that said: “You +have felt that.” In these long months she had learned more than she had +known or learned in all her previous life. + +As she sat looking out into the eastern sky she became conscious +of voices, and of a group of people who came slowly down the ward, +sometimes speaking to the sick and crippled. It was not a general +visitors’ day, but one reserved for the few to come and say a kindly +word to the suffering, to bring some flowers and distribute books. +Rosalie had always been absent at this hour before, for she shrank from +strangers; but to-day she had stayed on unthinking. It mattered nothing +to her who came and went. Her heart was over the hills, and the only tie +she had here was with this poor cripple whose hand she held. If she +did not resent the visit of these kindly strangers, she resolutely held +herself apart from the object of their visit with a sense of distance +and cold dignity. If she had given Charley something of herself, she +had in turn taken something from him, something unlike her old self, +delicately non-intime. Knowledge of life had rationalised her emotions +to a definite degree, had given her the pride of self-repression. She +had had need of it in these surroundings, where her beauty drew not +a little dangerous attention, which she had held at arm’s-length--her +great love for one man made her invulnerable. + +Now, as the visitors came near, she did not turn towards them, but still +sat, her chin on her hand, looking out across the hills, in resolute +abstraction. She felt her father’s fingers press hers, as if to draw her +attention, for he, weak man, was ever ready to open his hand and heart +to any friendly soul. She took no notice, but held his hand firmly, as +though to say that she had no wish to see. + +She was conscious now that they were beside her father’s bed. She hoped +that they would pass. But no, the feet stopped, there was whispering, +and then she heard a voice say, “Rather rude!” then another, “Not +wanted, that’s plain!”--the first a woman’s, the second a man’s. Then +another voice, clear and cold, and well modulated, said to her father: +“They tell me you have been here a long time, and have had much pain. +You will be glad to go, I am sure.” + +Something in the voice startled her. Some familiar sound or inflection +struck upon her ear with a far-off note, some lost tone she knew. Of +what, of whom, did this voice remind her? She turned round quickly and +caught two cold blue eyes looking at her. The face was older than her +own, handsome and still, and happy in a placid sort of way. Few gusts of +passion or of pain had passed across that face. The figure was shapely +to the newest fashion, the bonnet was perfect, the hand which held two +books was prettily gloved. Polite charity was written in her manner and +consecrated every motion. On the instant, Rosalie resented this fine +epitome of convention, this dutiful charity-monger, herself the centre +of an admiring quartet. She saw the whispering, she noted the well-bred +disguise of interest, and she met the visitor’s gaze with cold courtesy. +The other read the look in her face, and a slightly pacifying smile +gathered at her lips. + +“We are glad to hear that your father is better. He has been ill a long +time?” + +Rosalie started again, for the voice perplexed her--rather, not the +voice, but the inflection, the deliberation. + +She bowed, and set her lips, but, chancing to glance at her father, she +saw that he was troubled by her manner. Flashing a look of love at him, +she adjusted the pillow under his head, and said to her questioner in a +low voice: “He is better now, thank you.” + +Encouraged, the other rejoined: “May I leave one or two books for him +to read--or for you to read to him?” Then added hastily, for she saw a +curious look in Rosalie’s eyes: “We can have mutual friends in books, +though we cannot be friends with each other. Books are the go-betweens +of humanity.” + +Rosalie’s heart leapt, she flushed, then grew slightly pale, for it +was not tone or inflection alone that disturbed her now, but words +themselves. A voice from over the hills seemed to say these things to +her. A haunting voice from over the hills had said them to her--these +very words. + +“Friends need no go-betweens,” she said quietly, “and enemies should not +use them.” + +She heard a voice say, “By Jove!” in a tone of surprise, as though it +were wonderful the girl from Chaudiere should have her wits about her. +So Rosalie interpreted it. + +“Have you many friends here?” asked the cold voice, meant to be kindly +and pacific. It was schooled to composure, because it gave advantage in +life’s intercourse, not from any inner urbanity. + +“Some need many friends, some but a few. I come from a country where one +only needs a few.” + +“Where is your country, I wonder?” said the cold echo of another voice. + +Charley had passed out of Kathleen’s life--he was dead to her, his +memory scorned and buried. She loved the man to whom she supposed she +was married; she was only too glad to let the dust of death and time +cover every trace of Charley from her gaze; she would have rooted out +every particle of association: yet his influence on her had been so +great that she had unconsciously absorbed some of his idiosyncrasies--in +the tone of his voice, in his manner of speaking. To-day she had even +repeated phrases he had used. + +“Beyond the hills,” said Rosalie, turning away. + +“Is it not strange?” said the voice. “That is the title of one of the +books I have just brought--‘Beyond the Hills’. It is by an English +writer. This other book is French. May I leave them?” + +Rosalie inclined her head. It would make her own position less dignified +if she refused them. “Books are always welcome to my father,” she said. + +There was an instant’s pause, as though the fashionable lady would offer +her hand; but their eyes met, and they only bowed. The lady moved on +with a smile, leaving a perfume of heliotrope behind her. + +“Where is your country, I wonder?”--the voice of the lady rang in +Rosalie’s ears. As she sat at the window again, long after the visitors +had disappeared, the words, “I wonder--I wonder--I wonder!” kept beating +in her brain. It was absurd that this woman should remind her of the +tailor of Chaudiere. + +Suddenly she was roused by her father’s voice. “This is beautiful--ah, +but beautiful, Rosalie!” + +She turned towards him. He was reading the book in his hand--‘Beyond the +Hills’. “Listen,” he said, and he read, in English: “‘Compensation +is the other name for God. How often is it that those whom disease or +accident has robbed of active life find greater inner rejoicing and a +larger spiritual itinerary! It would seem that withdrawal from the ruder +activities gives a clearer seeing. Also for these, so often, is granted +a greater love, which comes of the consecration of other lives to +theirs. And these too have their reward, for they are less encompassed +by the vanities of the world, having the joy of self-sacrifice.’” He +looked at Rosalie with an unnatural brightness in his eyes, and she +smiled at him now and stroked his hand. + +“It has been all compensation to me,” he said, after a moment. “You have +been a good daughter to me, Rosalie.” + +She shook her head and smiled. “Good fathers think they have good +daughters,” she answered, choking back a sob. + +He closed the book and let it lie upon the coverlet. “I will sleep now,” + he said, and turned on his side. She arranged his pillow, and adjusted +the bedclothes to his comfort. + +“Good-night,” he said, as, with a faint hand, he drew her head down and +kissed her. “Good girl! Goodnight!” + +She patted his hand. “It is not night yet, father.” + +He was already half asleep. “Good-night!” he said again, and fell into a +deep sleep. + +She sat down by the window, in her hand the book he had laid down. A +hundred thoughts were busy in her brain--of her father; of the woman who +had just left; of her lover over the hills. The woman’s voice came +to her again--a far-off mockery. She opened the book mechanically and +turned over the pages. Presently her eyes were riveted to a page. On it +was written the word Kathleen. + +For a moment she sat transfixed. The word Kathleen and the haunting +voice became one, and her mind ran back to the day when she had said to +Charley: “Who is Kathleen?” + +She sprang to her feet. What should she do? Follow the woman? Find out +who and what she was? Go to the young surgeon who had accompanied them, +ask him who she was, and so learn the clue to the mystery concerning her +lover? + +In the midst of her confusion she became sharply conscious of two +things: the approach of Mrs. Flynn, and her father’s heavy breathing. +Dropping the book, she leaned over her father’s bed and looked closely +at him. Then she turned to the frightened and anxious Mrs. Flynn. + +“Go for the priest,” she said. “He is dying.” + +“I’ll send some one. I’m stayin’ here by you, darlin’,” said the old +woman, and hurried to the room of the young surgeon for a messenger. + +As the sun went down, the cripple went out upon a long journey alone. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. “WHERE THE TREE OF LIFE IS BLOOMING--” + +As Charley walked the bank of the great river by the city where his old +life lay dead, he struggled with the new life which--long or short--must +henceforth belong to the village of the woman he loved.... But as he +fought with himself in the long night-watch it was borne in upon him +that though he had been shown the Promised Land, he might never find +there a habitation and a home. The hymn he had mockingly sung the night +he had been done to death at the Cote Dorion sang in his senses now, an +ever-present mockery: + + “On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you. + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you.” + +In the uttermost corner of his intelligence he felt with sure prescience +that, however befalling, the end of all was not far off. In the exercise +of new faculties, which had more to do with the soul than with reason, +he now believed what he could not see, and recognised what was not +proved. Labour of the hand, trouble, sorrow, and perplexity, charity +and humanity, had cleared and simplified his life, had sweetened his +intelligence, and taken the place of ambition. He saw life now through +the lens of personal duty, which required that the thing nearest to +one’s hand should be done first. + +But as foreboding pressed upon him there came the thought of what should +come after--to Rosalie. His thoughts took a practical form--her good +was uppermost in his mind. All Rosalie had to live on was her salary as +postmistress, for it was in every one’s knowledge that the little else +she had was being sacrificed to her father’s illness. Suppose, then, +that through illness or accident she lost her position, what could she +do? He might leave her what he had--but what had he? Enough to keep her +for a year or two--no more. All his earnings had gone to the poor and +the suffering of Chaudiere. + +There was one way. It had suggested itself to him so often in Chaudiere, +and had been one of the two reasons for bringing him here. There were +his dead mother’s pearls and one thousand dollars in notes behind a +secret panel in the white house on the hill, in this very city where +he was. The pearls were worth over ten thousand dollars--in all, there +would be eleven thousand, enough to secure Rosalie from poverty. What +should Kathleen do with his mother’s pearls, even if they were found by +her? What should she do with his money did she not loathe his memory? +Had not all his debts been paid? These pearls and this money were all +his own. + +But to get them. To go now to the white house on the hill; to face that +old life even for an hour, a knocking at the door of a haunted house--he +shrank from the thought. He would have to enter the place like a thief +in the night. + +Yet for Rosalie he must take the risk--he must go. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. THE OPEN GATE + +It was a still night, and the moon, delicately bright, gave forth that +radiance which makes spiritual to the eye the coarsest thing. Inside +the white house on the hill all was dark. Sleep had settled on it long +before midnight, for, on the morrow, its master and mistress hoped to +make a journey to the valley of the Chaudiere, where the Passion Play +was being performed by habitants and Indians. The desire to see the +play had become an infatuation in the minds of the two, eager for some +interest to relieve the monotony of a happy life. + +But as all slept, a figure in the dress of a habitant moved through the +passages of the house stealthily, yet with an assurance unusual in the +thief or housebreaker. In the darkest passages his step was sure, and +his hand fastened on latch or door-knob with perfect precision. He came +at last into a large hallway flooded by the moon, pale, watchful, +his beard frosted by the light. In the stillness of his tread and the +composed sorrow of his face he seemed like one long dead who “revisits +the glimpses of the moon.” + +At last he entered a room the door of which stood wide open. In this +room had been begotten, or had had exercise, whatever of him was worth +approving in the days before he died. It was a place of books and +statues and tapestry, and the dark oak was nobly smutched of Time. This +sombre oaken wall had been handed down through four generations from +the man’s great-grandfather: the breath of generations had steeped it in +human association. + +Entering, he turned for an instant with clinched hands to look at +another door across the hall. Behind that door were two people who +despised his memory, who conspired to forget his very name. This house +was the woman’s, for he had given it to her the day he died. But that +she could live there with all the old associations, with memories that, +however bitter, however shaming, had a sort of sacredness, struck +into his soul with a harrowing pain. There she was whom he had +spared--himself; whose happiness had lain in his hands, and he had given +it to her. Yet her very existence robbed himself of happiness, and made +sorrowful a life dearer than his own. + +Kathleen lay asleep in that room--he fancied he could hear her +breathing; and, by the hospital on the hill, up beyond the point of +pines, in a little cottage which he could see from the great window, lay +Rosalie with sleepless eyes and wan cheeks, longing for morning and the +stir of life to help her to forget. + +For Rosalie he had come to this house once more. For her sake he was +revisiting this torture-chamber, from which he knew he must go again, +blanched and shaken, as a man goes from a tomb where his dead lie +unforgiving. + +He shut his teeth, went swiftly across the room, and beside a great +carved oak table touched a hidden spring in the side of it. The spring +snapped; the panel creaked a little and drew back. It seemed to him that +the noise he made must be heard in every part of the house, so sensitive +was his ear, so deep was the silence on which the sounds had broken. He +turned round to the doorway to listen before he put his hand within the +secret place. + +There was no sound. He turned his attention to the table. Drawing forth +two packets with a gasp of relief, he put them in his pocket, and, with +extreme care, proceeded to close the panel. By rubbing the edges of the +wood with grease from a candle on the table, he was able to readjust +the panel in silence. But, as the spring came home, he became suddenly +conscious of a presence in the room. A shiver passed through him. +He turned round-softly, quickly. He was in the shadow and near great +window-curtains, and his fingers instinctively clutched them as he saw +a figure in white at the door of the room. Slowly, strangely deliberate, +the figure moved further into the room. + +Charley’s breath stopped. He felt his face flush, and a strange weakness +came on him. There before him stood Kathleen. + +She was in her night-gown, and she stood still, as though listening; +yet, as Charley looked closer, he realised that it was an unconscious, +passive listening, and that she did not know he was there. + +Her mind only was listening. She was asleep. Was it possible that his +very presence in the house had touched some old note of memory, +which, automatically responding, had carried her from her bed in this +somnambulistic trance? That subtle telegraphy between our subconscious +selves which we cannot reduce to a law, yet alarming us at times, +announced to Kathleen’s mind, independent of the waking senses, the +presence once familiar to this house for so many years. In her sleep she +had involuntarily responded to the call of Charley’s approach. + +Once, in the past, the night her uncle died, she had walked in her +sleep, and the memory of this flashed upon Charley now. Silently he came +closer to her. The moonlight shone on her face. He could see plainly +she was asleep. His position was painful and perilous. If she waked, the +shock to herself would be great; if she waked and saw him, what disaster +might not occur! + +Yet he had no agitation now, only clearness of mind and a curious sense +of confusion that he should see her en dishabille--the old fastidious +sense mingling with the feeling that she was now a stranger to him, and +that, waking, she would fly embarrassed from his presence, as he was +ready to fly from hers. He was about to steal to the door and escape +before she waked, but she turned round, moved through the doorway, and +glided down the hall. He followed silently. + +She moved to the staircase, then slowly down it, and through a passage +to a morning-room, where, opening a pair of French windows, she passed +out onto the lawn. He followed, not more than a dozen paces behind her. +His safety lay in getting outside, where he could easily hide among the +bushes, should someone else appear and an alarm be raised. + +She crossed the lawn swiftly, a white, ghostlike figure. In the middle +of the lawn she stopped short once as if in doubt what to do--as a +thought-reader pauses in his search for the mental scent again, ere he +rushes upon the object of his search with the certainty of instinct. + +Presently she moved on, going directly towards a gate that opened out +on the cliff above the river. In Charley’s day this gate had been often +used, for it gave upon four steep wooden steps leading to a narrow shelf +of rock below. From the edge of this cliff a rope-ladder dropped fifty +feet to the river. For years he had used this rope-ladder to get down to +his boat, and often, when they were first married, Kathleen used to +come and watch him descend, and sometimes, just at the very first, would +descend also. As he stole into the grounds this evening he had noticed, +however, that the rope-ladder was gone, and that new steps were being +built. He had also mechanically observed that the gate was open. + +For an instant he watched her slowly moving towards the gate. At first +he did not realise the situation. Suddenly her danger flashed upon him. +Passing through the gateway, she must fall over the cliff. + +Her life was in his hands. + +He could rush forward swiftly and close the gate, then, raising an +alarm, get away before he was seen; or--he could escape now. + +What had he to do with her? A weird, painful suggestion crept into his +brain: he was not responsible for her, and he was responsible for +a woman up there by the hospital, whose home was the valley of the +Chaudiere! + +If Kathleen were gone, what barrier would there be between him and +Rosalie? What had he to do with this strange disposition of events? +Kathleen was never absent from her church twice on Sundays; she was +devoted to work of all sorts for the church on week-days--where was +her intervening personal Providence? If Providence permitted her to +die?--well, she had had two years of happiness with the man she loved, +at some expense to himself--was it not fair that Rosalie should have +her share? Had he the right to call upon Rosalie for constant +self-sacrifice, when, by shutting his eyes now, by being dead to +Kathleen and her need, as he was dead to the world he once knew, the way +would be clear to marry Rosalie? + +Dead--he was dead to the world and to Kathleen! Should his ghost +interpose between her and the death now within two-score feet of her? +Who could know? It was grim, it was awful, but was it not a wild kind +of justice? Who could blame? It was the old Charley Steele, the Charley +Steele of the court-room, who argued back humanity and the inherent +rightness of things. + +But it was only a moment’s pause. The thoughts flashed by like the +lightning impressions of a dream, and a voice said in his ear, the voice +of the new Charley with a conscience: + +“Save her--save her!” + +Even as he was conscious of another presence on the lawn, he rushed +forward noiselessly. Stealing between Kathleen and the gate-she was +within five feet of it he closed and locked it. Then, with a quick +glance at her sleeping face-it was engraven on his memory ever +after like a dead face in a coffin--he ran along the fence among the +shrubbery. A man not fifty feet away called to him. + +“Hush--she is asleep!” Charley whispered, and disappeared. + +It was Fairing himself who saw this deed which saved Kathleen’s life. +Awaking, and not finding her, he had glanced towards the window, and +had seen her on the lawn. He had rushed down to her, in time to see her +saved by a strange bearded man in habitant dress. His one glance at the +man’s face, as it turned towards him, produced an extraordinary +effect upon his mind, not soon to be dispelled--a haunting, ghostlike +apparition, which kept reminding him of something or somebody, he could +not tell what or whom. The whispering voice and the breathless words, +“Hush--she is asleep!” repeated themselves over and over again in his +brain, as, taking Kathleen’s hand, he led her, unresisting, and still +sleeping, back to her room. In agitated thankfulness he resolved not to +speak of the event to Kathleen, or to any one else, lest it should come +to her ears and frighten her. + +He would, however, keep a sharp lookout for the man who had saved her +life, and would reward him duly. The face of the bearded habitant came +between him and his sleep. + +Meanwhile this disturber of a woman’s dreams and a man’s sleep was +hurrying to an inn in the town by the waterside, where he met another +habitant with a team of dogs--Jo Portugais. Jo had not been able to bear +the misery of suspense and anxiety, and had come seeking him. There was +little speech between them. + +“You have not been found out, M’sieu’?” was Jo’s anxious question. + +“No, no, but I have had a bad night, Jo. Get the dogs together.” + +A little later, as Charley made ready to go back to Chaudiere, Jo said: + +“You look as if you’d had a black dream, M’sieu’.” With the river +rustling by, and the trees stirring in the first breath of dawn, Charley +told Jo what had happened. + +For a moment the murderer did not speak or stir, for a struggle was +going on in his breast also; then he stooped quickly, caught his +companion’s hand, and kissed it. + +“I could not have done it, M’sieu’,” he said hoarsely. They parted, +Jo to remain behind as they had agreed, to be near Rosalie if needed; +Charley to return to the valley of the Chaudiere. + + + + +CHAPTER L. THE PASSION PLAY AT CHAUDIERE + +For the first time in its history Chaudiere was becoming notable in the +eyes of the outside world. + +“We’ll have more girth after this,” said Filion Lacasse the saddler +to the wife of the Notary, as, in front of the post-office, they stood +watching a little cavalcade of habitants going up the road towards Four +Mountains to rehearse the Passion Play. + +“If Dauphin’s advice had been taken long ago, we’d have had a hotel at +Four Mountains, and the city folk would be coming here for the summer,” + said Madame Dauphin, with a superior air. + +“Pish!” said a voice behind them. It was the Seigneur’s groom, with a +straw in his mouth. He had a gloomy mind. + +“There isn’t a house but has two or three boarders. I’ve got three,” + said Filion Lacasse. “They come tomorrow.” + +“We’ll have ten at the Manor. But no good will come of it,” said the +groom. + +“No good! Look at the infidel tailor!” said Madame Dauphin. “He +translated all the writing. He drew all the dresses, and made a hundred +pictures--there they are at the Cure’s house.” + +“He should have played Judas,” said the groom malevolently. “That’d be +right for him.” + +“Perhaps you don’t like the Passion Play,” said Madame Dauphin +disdainfully. + +“We ain’t through with it yet,” said the death’s-head groom. + +“It is a pious and holy mission,” said Madame Dauphin. “Even that Jo +Portugais worked night and day till he went away to Montreal, and he +always goes to Mass now. He’s to take Pontius Pilate when he comes +back. Then look at Virginie Morrissette, that put her brother’s eyes out +quarrelling--she’s to play Mary Magdalene.” + +“I could fit the parts better,” said the groom. + +“Of course. You’d have played St. John,” said the saddler--“or, maybe, +Christus himself!” + +“I’d have Paulette Dubois play Mary the sinner.” + +“Magdalene repented, and knelt at the foot of the cross. She was sorry +and sinned no more,” said the Notary’s wife in querulous reprimand. + +“Well, Paulette does all that,” said the stolid, dark-visaged groom. + +Filion Lacasse’s ears pricked up. “How do you know--she hasn’t come +back?” + +“Hasn’t she, though! And with her child too--last night.” + +“Her child!” Madame Dauphin was scandalised and amazed. + +The groom nodded. “And doesn’t care who knows it. Seven years old, and +as fine a child as ever was!” + +“Narcisse--Narcisse!” called Madame Dauphin to her husband, who was +coming up the street. She hastily repeated the groom’s news to him. + +The Notary stuck his hand between the buttons of his waistcoat. “Well, +well, my dear Madame,” he said consequentially, “it is quite true.” + +“What do you know about it--whose child is it?” she asked, with curdling +scorn. + +“‘Sh-’sh!” said the Notary. Then, with an oratorical wave of his free +hand: “The Church opens her arms to all--even to her who sinned much +because she loved much, who, through woful years, searched the world for +her child and found it not--hidden away, as it was, by the duplicity +of sinful man”--and so on through tangled sentences, setting forth in +broken terms Paulette Dubois’s life. + +“How do you know all about it?” asked the saddler. “I’ve known it for +years,” said the Notary grandly--stoutly too, for he would freely risk +his wife’s anger that the vain-glory of the moment might be enlarged. + +“And you keep it even from madame!” said the saddler, with a smile too +broad to be sarcastic. “Tiens! if I did that, my wife’d pick my eyes out +with a bradawl.” + +“It was a professional secret,” said the Notary, with a desperate +resolve to hold his position. + +“I’m going home, Dauphin--are you coming?” questioned his wife, with an +air. + +“You will remain, and hear what I’ve got to say. This Paulette +Dubois--she should play Mary Magdalene, for--” + +“Look--look, what’s that?” said the saddler. He pointed to a wagon +coming slowly up the road. In front of it a team of dogs drew a cart. +It carried some thing covered with black. “It’s a funeral! There’s the +coffin. It’s on Jo Portugais’ little cart,” added Filion Lacasse. + +“Ah, God be merciful, it’s Rosalie Evanturel and Mrs. Flynn! And M’sieu’ +Evanturel in the coffin!” said Madame Dauphin, running to the door of +the postoffice to call the Cure’s sister. + +“There’ll be use enough for the baker’s Dead March now,” remarked M. +Dauphin sadly, buttoning up his coat, taking off his hat, and going +forward to greet Rosalie. As he did so, Charley appeared in the doorway +of his shop. + +“Look, Monsieur,” said the Notary. “This is the way Rosalie Evanturel +comes home with her father.” + +“I will go for the Cure” Charley answered, turning white. He leaned +against the doorway for a moment to steady himself, then hurried up the +street. He did not dare meet Rosalie, or go near her yet. For her sake +it was better not. + +“That tailor infidel has a heart. His eyes were leaking,” said the +Notary to Filion Lacasse, and went on to meet the mournful cavalcade. + + + + +CHAPTER LI. FACE TO FACE + +“If I could only understand!”--this was Rosalie’s constant cry in these +weeks wherein she lay ill and prostrate after her father’s burial. Once +and once only had she met Charley alone, though she knew that he was +keeping watch over her. She had first seen him the day her father was +buried, standing apart from the people, his face sorrowful, his eyes +heavy, his figure bowed. + +The occasion of their meeting alone was the first night of her return, +when the Notary and Charley had kept watch beside her father’s body. + +She had gone into the little hallway, and had looked into the room of +death. The Notary was sound asleep in his arm-chair, but Charley sat +silent and moveless, his eyes gazing straight before him. She murmured +his name, and though it was only to herself, not even a whisper, he got +up quickly and came to the hall, where she stood grief-stricken, yet +with a smile of welcome, of forgiveness, of confidence. As she put out +her hand to him, and his swallowed it, she could not but say to him--so +contrary is the heart of woman, so does she demand a Yes by asserting a +No, and hunger for the eternal assurance--she could not but say: + +“You do not love me--now.” + +It was but a whisper, so faint and breathless that only the heart of +love could hear it. There was no answer in words, for some one was +stirring beyond Rosalie in the dark, and a great figure heaved through +the kitchen doorway, but his hand crushed hers in his own; his heart +said to her, “My love is an undying light; it will not change for time +or tears”--the words they had read together in a little snuff-coloured +book on the counter in the shop one summer day a year ago. The words +flashed into his mind, and they were carried to hers. Her fingers +pressed his, and then Charley said, over her shoulder, to the +approaching Mrs. Flynn: “Do not let her come again, Madame. She should +get some sleep,” and he put her hand in Mrs. Flynn’s. “Be good to her, +as you know how, Mrs. Flynn,” he added gently. + +He had won the heart of Mrs. Flynn that moment, and it may be she had a +conviction or an inspiration, for she said, in a softer voice than she +was wont to use to any one save Rosalie: + +“I’ll do by her as you’d do by your own, sir,” and tenderly drew Rosalie +to her own room. + +Such had been their first meeting after her return. Afterwards she was +taken ill, and the torture of his heart drove him out into the night, +to walk the road and creep round her house like a sentinel, Mrs. Flynn’s +words ringing in his ears to reproach him--“I’ll do by her as you would +do by your own, sir.” Night after night it was the same, and Rosalie +heard his footsteps and listened and was less sorrowful, because she +knew that she was ever in his thoughts. But one day Mrs. Flynn came to +him in his shop. + +“She’s wantin’ a word with ye on business,” she said, and gestured +towards the little house across the way. “‘Tis few words ye do be +shpakin’ to annybody, but if y’ have kind words to shpake and good +things to say, y’ naidn’t be bitin’ yer tongue,” she added in response +to his nod, and left him. + +Charley looked after her with a troubled face. On the instant it seemed +to him that Mrs. Flynn knew all. But his second thought told him that +it was only an instinct on her part that there was something between +them--the beginning of love, maybe. + +In another half-hour he was beside Rosalie’s chair. “Perhaps you are +angry,” she said, as he came towards her where she sat in the great +arm-chair. She did not give him time to answer, but hurried on. “I +wanted to tell you that I have heard you every night outside, and that I +have been glad, and sorry too--so sorry for us both.” + +“Rosalie! Rosalie” he said hoarsely, and dropped on a knee beside her +chair, and took her hand and kissed it. He did not dare do more. + +“I wanted to say to you,” she said, dropping a hand on his shoulder, +“that I do not blame you for anything--not for anything. Yet I want you +to be sorry too. I want you to feel as sorry for me as I feel sorry for +you.” + +“I am the worst man and you the best woman in the world.” + +She leaned over him with tears in her eyes. “Hush!” she said. “I want to +help you--Charles. You are wise. You know ten thousand things more than +I; but I know one thing you do not understand.” + +“You know and do whatever is good,” he said brokenly. + +“Oh, no, no, no! But I know one thing, because I have been taught, and +because it was born with me. Perhaps much was habit with me in the past, +but now I know that one thing is true. It is God.” + +She paused. “I have learned so much since--since then.” + +He looked up with a groan, and put a finger on her lips. “You are +feeling bitterly sorry for me,” she said. “But you must let me +speak--that is all I ask. It is all love asks. I cannot bear that you +should not share my thoughts. That is the thing that has hurt--hurt so +all these months, these long hard months, when I could not see you, and +did not know why I could not. Don’t shake so, please! Hear me to the +end, and we shall both be the better after. I felt it all so cruelly, +because I did not--and I do not--understand. I rebelled, but not against +you. I rebelled against myself, against what you called Fate. Fate +is one’s self, what one brings on one’s self. But I had faith in +you--always--always, even when I thought I hated you.” + +“Ah, hate me! Hate me! It is your loving that cuts me to the quick,” he +said. “You have the magnanimity of God.” + +Her eyes leapt up. “‘Of God’--you believe in God!” she said eagerly. +“God is God to you? He is the one thing that has come out of all this +to me.” She reached out her hand and took her Bible from a table. +“Read that to yourself,” she said, and, opening the Book, pointed to a +passage. He read it: + + And they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in + the cool of the day: and Adam and his wife hid themselves from the + presence of the Lord God amongst the trees of the garden. + + And the Lord God called unto Adam, and said unto him, Where art + thou? + + And he said, I heard Thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, + because I was naked; and I hid myself. + + And He said, Who told thee that thou wart naked? Hast thou eaten of + the tree whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat? + +Closing the Book, Charley said: “I understand--I see.” + +“Will you say a prayer with me?” she urged. “It is all I ask. It is the +only--the only thing I want to hurt you, because it may make you happier +in the end. What keeps us apart, I do not know. But if you will say one +prayer with me, I will keep on trusting, I will never complain, and I +will wait--wait.” + +He kissed both her hands, but the look in his eyes was that of a man +being broken on the wheel. She slipped to the floor, her rosary in her +fingers. “Let us pray,” she said simply, and in a voice as clear as a +child’s, but with the anguish of a woman’s struggling heart behind. + +He did not move. She looked at him, caught his hands in both of hers, +and cried: “But you will not deny me this! Haven’t I the right to ask +it? Haven’t I a right to ask of you a thousand times as much?” + +“You have the right to ask all that is mine to give life, honour, my +body in pieces inch by inch, the last that I can call my own. But, +Rosalie, this is not mine to give! How can I pray, unless I believe!” + +“You do--oh, you do believe in God,” she cried passionately. + +“Rosalie--my life,” he urged, hoarse misery in his voice, “the only +thing I have to give you is the bare soul of a truthful man--I am that +now at least. You have made me so. If I deceived the whole world, if I +was as the thief upon the cross, I should still be truthful to you. You +open your heart to me--let me open mine to you, to see it as it is. +Once my soul was like a watch, cased and carried in the pocket of life, +uncertain, untrue, because it was a soul made, not born. I must look at +the hands to know the time, and because it varied, because the working +did not answer to the absolute, I said: ‘The soul is a lie.’ You--you +have changed all that, Rosalie. My soul now is like a dial to the sun. +But the clouds are there above, and I do not know what time it is in +life. When the clouds break--if they ever break--and the sun shines, the +dial will speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth--” + +He paused, confused, for he had repeated the words of a witness taking +the oath in court. + +“‘So help me God!”’ she finished the oath for him. Then, with a sudden +change of manner, she came to her feet with a spring. She did not quite +understand. She was, however, dimly conscious of the power she had over +his chivalrous mind: the power of the weak over the strong--the tyranny +of the defended over the defender. She was a woman tortured beyond +bearing; and she was fighting for her very life, mad with anguish as she +struggled. + +“I do not understand you,” she cried, with flashing eyes. “One minute +you say you do not believe in anything, and the next you say, ‘So help +me God!’” + +“Ah, no, you said that, Rosalie,” he interposed gently. + +“You said I was as magnanimous as God. You were laughing at me then, +mocking me, whose only fault is that I loved and trusted you. In the +wickedness of your heart you robbed me of happiness, you--” + +“Don’t--don’t! Rosalie! Rosalie!” he exclaimed in shrinking protest. + +That she had spoken to him as her deepest heart abhorred only increased +her agitated denunciation. “Yes, yes, in your mad selfishness, you did +not care for the poor girl who forgot all, lost all, and now--” + She stopped short at the sight of his white, awe stricken face. His +eye-glass seemed like a frost of death over an eye that looked upon +some shocking scene of woe. Yet he appeared not to see, for his fingers +fumbled on his waistcoat for the monocle--fumbled--vaguely, helplessly. +It was the realisation of a soul cast into the outer darkness. Her +abrupt silence came upon him like the last engulfing wave to a drowning +man--the final assurance of the end, in which there is quiet and the +deadly smother. + +“Now--I know-the truth!” he said, in a curious even tone, different +from any she had ever heard from him. It was the old Charley Steele who +spoke, the Charley Steele in whom the intellect was supreme once more. +The judicial spirit, the inveterate intelligence which put justice +before all, was alive in him, almost rejoicing in its regained +governance. The new Charley was as dead as the old had been of late, and +this clarifying moment left the grim impression behind that the old law +was not obsolete. He felt that in the abandonment of her indignation she +had mercilessly told the truth; and the irreducible quality of mind in +him which in the old days made for justice, approved. There was a new +element now, however--that conscience which never possessed him fully +until the day he saw Rosalie go travelling over the hills with her +crippled father. That picture of the girl against the twilight, her +figure silhouetted in the clear air, had come to him in sleeping and +waking dreams, the type and sign of an everlasting melancholy. As he +looked at her blindly now, he saw, not herself, but that melancholy +figure. Out of the distance his own voice said again: + +“Now--I know-the truth!” + +She had struck with a violence she did not intend, which, she knew, must +rend her own heart in the future, which put in the dice-box the last +hopes she had. But she could not have helped it--she could not have +stayed the words, though a suspended sword were to fall with the +saying. It was the cry of tradition and religion, and every home-bred, +convent-nurtured habit, the instinct of heredity, the wail of woman, for +whom destiny, or man, or nature, has arranged the disproportionate share +of life’s penalties. It was the impotent rebellion against the first +curse, that man in his punishment should earn his bread by the sweat of +his brow--which he might do with joy--while the woman must work out her +ordained sentence “in sorrow all the days of her life.” + +In her bitter words was the inherent revolt of the race of woman. But +now she suddenly felt that she had flung him an infinite distance from +her; that she had struck at the thing she most cherished--his belief +that she loved him; that even if she had told the truth--and she felt +she had not--it was not the truth she wished him most to feel. + +For an instant she stood looking at him, shocked and confounded, then +her changeless love rushed back on her, the maternal and protective +spirit welled up, and with a passionate cry she threw herself in the +chair again in very weakness, with outstretched hands, saying: + +“Forgive me--oh, forgive me! I did not mean it--oh, forgive your +Rosalie!” + +Stooping over her, he answered: + +“It is good for me to know the whole truth. What hurts you may give me +will pass--for life must end, and my life cannot be long enough to pay +the price of the hurts I have given you. I could bear a thousand--one +for every hour--if they could bring back the light to your eye, the joy +to your heart. Could prayer, do you think, make me sorrier than I am? I +have hurt what I would have spared from hurt at the cost of my life--and +all the lives in all the world!” he added fiercely. + +“Forgive me--oh, forgive your Rosalie!” she pleaded. “I did not know +what I was saying--I was mad.” + +“It was all so sane and true,” he said, like one who, on the brink of +death, finds a satisfaction in speaking the perfect truth. “I am glad to +hear the truth--I have been such a liar.” + +She looked up startled, her tears blinding her. “You have not deceived +me?” she asked bitterly. “Oh, you have not deceived me--you have loved +me, have you not?” It was that which mattered, that only. Moveless and +eager, she looked--looked at him, waiting, as it were, for sentence. + +“I never lied to you, Rosalie--never!” he answered, and he touched her +hand. + +She gave a moan of relief at his words. “Oh, then, oh, then... “ she +said, in a low voice, and the tears in her eyes dried away. + +“I meant that until I knew you, I kept deceiving myself and others all +my life--” + +“But without knowing it?” she said eagerly. + +“Perhaps, without quite knowing it.” + +“Until you knew me?” she asked, in quick, quivering tones. + +“Till I knew you,” he answered. + +“Then I have done you good--not ill?” she asked, with painful +breathlessness. + +“The only good there may be in me is you, and you only,” he said, and +he choked something rising in his throat, seeing the greatness of her +heart, her dear desire to have entered into his life to his own good. He +would have said that there was no good in him at all, but that he wished +to comfort her. + +A little cry of joy broke from her lips. “Oh, that--that!” she cried, +with happy tears. “Won’t you kiss me now?” she added softly. + +He clasped her in his arms, and though his eyes were dry, his heart wept +tears of blood. + + + + +CHAPTER LII. THE COMING OF BILLY + +Chaudiere had made--and lost--a reputation. The Passion Play in the +valley had become known to a whole country--to the Cure’s and the +Seigneur’s unavailing regret. They had meant to revive the great story +for their own people and the Indians--a homely, beautiful object-lesson, +in an Eden--like innocence and quiet and repose; but behold the world +had invaded them! The vanity of the Notary had undone them. He had +written to the great papers of the province, telling of the advent of +the play, and pilgrimages had been organised, and excursions had been +made to the spot, where a simple people had achieved a crude but noble +picture of the life and death of the Hero of Christendom. The Cure +viewed with consternation the invasion of their quiet. It was no longer +his own Chaudiere; and when, on a Sunday, his dear people were jostled +from the church to make room for strangers, his gentle eloquence seemed +to forsake him, he spoke haltingly, and his intoning of the Mass lacked +the old soothing simplicity. + +“Ah, my dear Seigneur!” he said, on the Sunday before the playing was to +end, “we have overshot the mark.” + +The Seigneur nodded and turned his head away. “There is an English play +which says, ‘I have shot mine arrow o’er the house and hurt my brother.’ +That’s it--that’s it! We began with religion, and we end with greed, and +pride, and notoriety.” + +“What do we want of fame! The price is too high, Maurice. Fame is not +good for the hearts and minds of simple folk.” + +“It will soon be over.” + +“I dread a sordid reaction.” + +The Seigneur stood thinking for a moment. “I have an idea,” he said at +last. “Let us have these last days to ourselves. The mission ends next +Saturday at five o’clock. We will announce that all strangers must leave +the valley by Wednesday night. Then, during those last three days, while +yet the influence of the play is on them, you can lead your own people +back to the old quiet feelings.” + +“My dear Maurice--it is worthy of you! It is the way. We will announce +it to-day. And see now.... For those three days we will change the +principals; lest those who have taken the parts so long have lost the +pious awe which should be upon them. We will put new people in their +places. I will announce it at vespers presently. I have in my mind who +should play the Christ, and St. John, and St. Peter--the men are not +hard to find; but for Mary the Mother and Mary Magdalene--” + +The eyes of the two men suddenly met, a look of understanding passed +between them. + +“Will she do it?” said the Seigneur. + +The Cure nodded. “Paulette Dubois has heard the word, ‘Go and sin no +more’; she will obey.” + +Walking through the village as they talked, the Cure shrank back +painfully several times, for voices of strangers, singing festive songs, +rolled out upon the road. “Who can they be?” he said distressfully. + +Without a word the Seigneur went to the door of the inn whence the +sounds proceeded, and, without knocking, entered. A moment afterwards +the voices stopped, but broke out again, quieted, then once more broke +out, and presently the Seigneur issued from the door, white with anger, +three strangers behind him. All were intoxicated. + +One was violent. It was Billy Wantage, whom the years had not improved. +He had arrived that day with two companions--an excursion of curiosity +as an excuse for a “spree.” + +“What’s the matter with you, old stick-in-the-mud?” he shouted. “Mass is +over, isn’t it? Can’t we have a little guzzle between prayers?” + +By this time a crowd had gathered, among them Filion Lacasse. At a +motion from the Seigneur, and a whisper that went round quickly, a dozen +habitants swiftly sprang on the three men, pinioned their arms, and +carrying them bodily to the pump by the tavern, held them under it, one +by one, till each was soaked and sober. Then their horses and wagon were +brought, and they were given five minutes to leave the village. + +With a devilish look in his eye, and drenched and furious, Billy +was disposed to resist the command, but the faces around him were +determined, and, muttering curses, the three drove away towards the next +parish. + + + + +CHAPTER LIII. THE SEIGNEUR AND THE CURE HAVE A SUSPICION + +Presently the Seigneur and the Cure stood before the door of the +tailor-shop. The Cure was about to knock, when the Seigneur laid a hand +upon his arm. + +“There is no use; he has been gone several days,” he said. + +“Gone--gone!” said the Cure. + +“I came to see him yesterday, and not finding him, I asked at the +post-office.” M. Rossignol’s voice lowered. “He told Mrs. Flynn he was +going into the hills, so Rosalie says.” + +The Cure’s face fell. “He went away also just before the play began. I +almost fear that--that we get no nearer. His mind prompts him to do good +and not evil, and yet--and yet.... I have dreamed a good dream, Maurice, +but I sometimes fear I have dreamed in vain.” + +“Wait-wait!” + +M. Loisel looked towards the post-office musingly. “I have thought +sometimes that what man’s prayers may not accomplish a woman’s love +might do. If--but, alas, what do we know of his past! Nothing. What +do we know of his future? Nothing. What do we know of the human heart? +Nothing--nothing!” + +The Seigneur was astounded. The Cure’s meaning was plain. “What do you +mean?” he asked, almost gruffly. + +“She--Rosalie--has changed--changed.” In his heart he dwelt sorrowfully +upon the fact that she had not been to confession to him for many, many +months. + +“Since her father’s death--since her illness?” + +“Since she went to Montreal seven months ago. Even while she was so ill +these past weeks, she never asked for me; and when I came... Ah, if it +is that her heart has gone out to the man, and his does not respond!” + +“A good thing, too!” said the other gloomily. “We don’t know where he +came from, and we do know that he is a pagan.” + +“Yet there she sits now, hour after hour, day after day--so changed.” + +“She has lost her father,” urged M. Rossignol anxiously. + +“I know the grief of children--this is not such a grief. There is +something more. But I cannot ask. If she were a sinner--but she is +without fault. Have we not watched her grow up here, mirthful, brave, +pure-souled--” + +“Fitted for any station,” interposed the Seigneur huskily. Presently +he laid a hand upon the Cure’s arm. “Shall I ask her again?” he said, +breathing hard. “Do you think she has found out her mistake?” + +The Cure was so taken aback that at first he could not speak. When +he realised, however, he could scarce suppress a smile at the other’s +simple vanity. But he mastered himself, and said: “It is not that, +Maurice. It is not you.” + +“How did you know I had asked her?” asked his friend querulously. + +“You have just told me.” + +M. Rossignol felt a kind of reproval in the Cure’s tone. It made him +a little nervous. “I’m an old fool, but she needed some one,” he +protested. “At least I am a gentleman, and she would not be thrown +away.” + +“Dear Maurice!” said the Cure, and linked his arm in the other’s. “In +all respects save one, it would have been to her advantage. But youth is +the only comrade for youth. All else is evasion of life’s laws.” + +The Seigneur pressed his arm. “I thought you less worldly-wise than +myself; I find you more,” he said. + +“Not worldly-wise. Life is deeper than the world or worldly wisdom. +Come, we will both go and see Rosalie.” + +M. Rossignol suddenly stopped at the post-office door, and half turned +towards the tailor-shop. “He is young. Suppose that he drew her love his +way, but gave her nothing in return, and--” + +“If it were so”--the Cure paused, and his face darkened--“if it were so, +he should leave her forever; and so my dream would end.” + +“And Rosalie?” + +“Rosalie would forget. To remember, youth must see and touch and be +near, else it wears itself out in excess of feeling. Youth feels more +deeply than age, but it must bear daily witness.” + +“Upon my honour, Cure, you shall write your little philosophies for the +world,” said M. Rossignol, and then knocked at the door. + +“I will go in alone, Maurice,” the Cure urged. “Good-you are right,” + answered the other. “I will go write the proclamation denying strangers +the valley after Wednesday. I will enforce it, too,” he added, with +vigour, and, turning, walked up the street, as Mrs. Flynn admitted the +Cure to the post-office. + +A half-hour later M. Loisel again appeared at the post-office door, a +pale, beautiful face at his shoulder. + +He had not been brave enough to say what was on his mind. But as he bade +her good-bye, he plucked up needful courage. + +“Forgive me, Rosalie,” he said, “but I have sometimes thought that you +have more griefs than one. I have thought”--he paused, then went on +bravely--“that there might be--there might be unwelcomed love, or love +deceived.” + +A mist came before her eyes, but she quietly and firmly answered: “I +have never been deceived in love, Monsieur Loisel.” + +“There, there!” he hurriedly and gently rejoined. “Do not be hurt, my +child. I only want to help you.” A moment afterwards he was gone. + +As the door closed behind him, she drew herself proudly up. + +“I have never been deceived,” she said aloud. “I love him--love +him--love him.” + + + + +CHAPTER LIV. M. ROSSIGNOL SLIPS THE LEASH + +It was the last day of the Passion Play, and the great dramatic mission +was drawing to a close. The confidence of the Cure and the Seigneur was +restored. The prohibition against strangers had had its effect, and for +three whole days the valley had been at rest again. Apparently there was +not a stranger within its borders, save the Seigneur’s brother, the Abbe +Rossignol, who had come to see the moving spectacle. + +The Abbe, on his arrival, had made inquiries concerning the tailor of +Chaudiere and Jo Portugais, as persistently about the one as the other. +Their secrets had been kept inviolate by him. + +It was disconcerting to hear the tales people told of the tailor’s +charity and wisdom. It was all dangerous, for what was, accidentally, +no evil in this particular instance, might be the greatest disaster +in another case. Principle was at stake. He heard in stern silence the +Cure’s happy statement that Jo Portugais had returned to the bosom of +the Church, and attended Mass regularly. + +“So it may be, my dear Abbe,” said M. Loisel, “that the friendship +between him and our ‘infidel’ has been the means of helping Portugais. I +hope their friendship will go on unbroken for years and years.” + +“I have no idea that it will,” said the Abbe grimly. “That rope of +friendship may snap untimely.” + +“Upon my soul, you croak like a raven!” testily broke in M. Rossignol, +who was present. “I didn’t know there was so much in common between you +and my surly-jowled groom. He gets his pleasure out of croaking. ‘Wait, +wait, you’ll see--you’ll see! Death, death, death--every man must die! +The devil has you by the hair--death--death--death!’ Bah! I’m heartily +sick of croakers. I suppose, like my grunting groom, you’ll say about +the Passion Play, ‘No good will come of it--wait--wait--wait!’ Bah!” + +“It may not be an unmixed good,” answered the ascetic. + +“Well, and is there any such thing on earth as an unmixed good? The +play yesterday was worth a thousand sermons. It was meant to serve Holy +Church, and it will serve it. Was there ever anything more real--and +touching--than Paulette Dubois as Mary Magdalene yesterday?” + +“I do not approve of such reality. For that woman to play the part is to +destroy the impersonality of the scene.” + +“You would demand that the Christus should be a good man, and the St. +John blameless--why shouldn’t the Magdalene be a repentant woman?” + +“It might impress the people more, if the best woman in your parish were +to play the part. The fall of virtue, the ruin of innocence, would be +vividly brought home. It does good to make the innocent feel the +terror and shame of sin. That is the price the good pay for the fall of +man--sorrow and shame for those who sin.” The Seigneur, rising quickly +from the table, and kicking his chair back, said angrily: “Damn +your theories!” Then, seeing the frozen look on his brother’s face, +continued, more excitedly: “Yes, damn, damn, damn your theories! You +always took the crass view. I beg your pardon, Cure--I beg your pardon.” + +He then went to the window, threw it open, and called to his groom. + +“Hi, there, coffin-face,” he said, “bring round the horses--the quietest +one in the stable for my brother--you hear? He can’t ride,” he added +maliciously. + +This was his fiercest stroke, for the Abbe’s secret vanity was the +belief that he looked well on a horse, and rode handsomely. + + + + +CHAPTER LV. ROSALIE PLAYS A PART + +From a tree upon a little hill rang out a bell--a deep-toned bell, +bought by the parish years before for the missions held at this very +spot. Every day it rang for an instant at the beginning of each of the +five acts. It also tolled slowly when the curtain rose upon the scene of +the Crucifixion. In this act no one spoke save the abased Magdalene, who +knelt at the foot of the cross, and on whose hair red drops fell when +the Roman soldier pierced the side of the figure on the cross. This had +been the Cure’s idea. The Magdalene should speak for mankind, for the +continuing world. She should speak for the broken and contrite heart in +all ages, should be the first-fruits of the sacrifice, a flower of the +desert earth, bedewed by the blood of the Prince of Peace. + +So, in the long nights of the late winter and early spring, the Cure had +thought and thought upon what the woman should say from the foot of the +cross. At last he put into her mouth that which told the whole story of +redemption and deliverance, so far as his heart could conceive it--the +prayer for all sorts and conditions of men and the general thanksgiving +of humanity. + +During the last three days Paulette Dubois had taken the part of Mary +Magdalene. As Jo Portugais had confessed to the Abbe that notable day in +the woods at Vadrome Mountain, so she had confessed to the Cure after +so many years of agony--and the one confession fitted into the other: Jo +had once loved her, she had treated him vilely, then a man had wronged +her, and Jo had avenged her--this was the tale in brief. She it was who +laughed in the gallery of the court-room the day that Joseph Nadeau was +acquitted. + +It had pained and shocked the Cure more than any he had ever heard, but +he urged for her no penalty as Portugais had set for himself with the +austere approval of the Abbe. Paulette’s presence as the Magdalene had +had a deep effect upon the people, so that she shared with Mary the +Mother the painfully real interest of the vast audience. + +Five times had the bell rung out in the perfect spring air, upon which +the balm of the forest and the refreshment of the ardent sun were +poured. The quick anger of M. Rossignol had passed away long before the +Cure, the Abbe, and himself had reached the lake and the great plateau. +Between the acts the two brothers walked up and down together, at peace +once more, and there was a suspicious moisture in the Seigneur’s eyes. +The demeanour of the people had been so humble and rapt that the place +and the plateau and the valley seemed alone in creation with the lofty +drama of the ages. + +The Cure’s eyes shone when he saw on a little knoll in the trees, apart +from the worshippers and spectators, Charley and Jo Portugais. His cup +of content was now full. He had felt convinced that if the tailor had +but been within these bounds during the past three days, a work were +begun which should end only at the altar of their parish church. To-day +the play became to him the engine of God for the saving of a man’s soul. +Not long before the last great tableau was to appear he went to his own +little tent near the hut where the actors prepared to go upon the stage. +As he entered, some one came quickly forward from the shadow of the +trees and touched him on the arm. + +“Rosalie!” he cried in amazement, for she wore the costume of Mary +Magdalene. + +“It is I, not Paulette, who will appear,” she said, a deep light in her +eyes. + +“You, Rosalie?” he asked dumfounded. “You are distrait. Trouble and +sorrow have put this in your mind. You must not do it.” + +“Yes, I am going there,” she said, pointing towards the great stage. +“Paulette has given me these to wear”--she touched the robe--“and I only +ask your blessing now. Oh, believe, believe me, I can speak for those +who are innocent and those who are guilty; for those who pray and those +who cannot pray; for those who confess and those who dare not! I can +speak the words out of my heart with gladness and agony, Monsieur,” she +urged, in a voice vibrating with feeling. + +A luminous look came into the Cure’s face. A thought leapt up in his +heart. Who could tell!--this pure girl, speaking for the whole sinful, +unbelieving, and believing world, might be the one last conquering +argument to the man. + +He could not read the agony of spirit which had driven Rosalie to +this--to confess through the words of Mary Magdalene her own woe, to say +it out to all the world, and to receive, as did Paulette Dubois, every +day after the curtain came down, absolution and blessing. She longed for +the old remembered peace. + +The Cure could not read the struggle between her love for a man and the +ineradicable habit of her soul; but he raised his hand, made the sacred +gesture over leer, and said: “Go, my child, and God be with you.” + +He could not see her for tears as she hurried away to where Paulette +Dubois awaited her--the two at peace now. At the hands of the lately +despised and injurious woman Rosalie was made ready to play the part +in the last act, none knowing save the few who appeared in the final +tableau, and they at the last moment only. + +The bell began to toll. + +A thousand people fell upon their knees, and with fascinated yet abashed +and awe-struck eyes saw the great tableau of Christendom: the three +crosses against the evening sky, the Figure in the centre, the Roman +populace, the trembling Jews, the pathetic groups of disciples. A cloud +passed across the sky, the illusion grew, and hearts quivered in piteous +sympathy. There was no music now--not a sound save the sob of some +overwrought woman. The woe of an oppressed world absorbed them. Even the +stolid Indians, as Roman soldiers, shrank awe-stricken from the sacred +tragedy. Now the eyes of all were upon the central Figure, then they +shifted for a moment to John the Beloved, standing with the Mother. + +“Pauvre Mere! Pauvre Christ!” said a weeping woman aloud. + +A Roman soldier raised a spear and pierced the side of the Hero of the +World. Blood flowed, and hundreds gasped. Then there was silence--a +strange hush as of a prelude to some great event. + +“It is finished. Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,” said the +Figure. + +The hush was broken by such a sound as one hears in a forest when a +wind quivers over the earth, flutters the leaves, and then sinks +away--neither having come nor gone, but only lived and died. + +Again there was silence, and then all eyes were fixed upon the figure at +the foot of the cross-Mary the Magdalene. + +Day after day they had seen this figure rise, come forward a step, and +speak the epilogue to this moving miracle-drama. For the last three days +Paulette Dubois had turned a sorrowful face upon them, and with one +hand upraised had spoken the prayer, the prophecy, the thanksgiving, the +appeal of humanity and the ages. They looked to see the same figure now, +and waited. But as the Magdalene turned, there was a great stir in the +multitude, for the face bent upon them was that of Rosalie Evanturel. +Awe and wonder moved the people. + +Apart from the crowd, under a clump of trees, knelt a woodsman from +Vadrome Mountain, and the tailor of Chaudiere stood beside him. + +When Charley, touched by the heavy scene, saw the figure of the +Magdalene rise, he felt a curious thrill of fascination. When she +turned, and he saw the face of Rosalie, the blood rushed to his face; +then his heart seemed to stand still. Pain and shame travelled to the +farthest recesses of his nature. Jo Portugais rose to his feet with a +startled exclamation. + +Rosalie began to speak. “This is the day of which the hours shall never +cease--in it there shall be no night. He whom ye have crucified hath +saved you from the wrath to come. He hath saved others, Himself He +would not save. Even for such as I, who have secretly opened, who have +secretly entered, the doors of sin--” + +With a gasp of horror and a mad desire to take her away from the sight +of this gaping, fascinated crowd, Charley made to rush forward, but Jo +Portugais held him back. + +“Be still. You will ruin her, M’sieu’!” said Jo. + +“--even for such as I am,” the beautiful voice went on, “hath He died. +And in the ages to come, women such as I, and all women who sorrow, and +all men who err and are deceived, and all the helpless world, will +know that this was the Friend of the human soul.” Not a gesture, not a +movement, only that slight, pathetic figure, with pale, agonised face, +and eyes that looked--looked--looked beyond them, over their heads to +the darkening east, the clouded light of evening behind her. Her voice +rang out now valiant and clear, now searching and piteous, yet reaching +to where the farthermost person knelt, and was lost upon the lake and in +the spreading trees. + +“What ye have done may never be undone; what He hath said shall never +be unsaid. His is the Word which shall unite all languages, when ye that +are Romans shall be no more Romans, and ye that are Jews shall still be +Jews, reproached and alone. No longer shall men faint in the glare--the +shadow of the Cross shall screen them. No more shall woman bear her +black sorrows, alone; the Light of the World shall cheer her.” + +As she spoke, the cloud drew back from the sunset, and the saffron glow +behind lighted the cross, and shone upon her hair, casting her face in +a gracious shadow. Her voice rose higher. “I, the Magdalene, am the +first-fruits of this sacrifice: from the foot of the cross I come. I +have sinned more than all. I have shamed all women. But I have confessed +my sin, and He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to +cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” + +Her voice now became lower, but clear and even, pathetically exulting: + +“O world, forgive, as He hath forgiven you! Fall, dark curtain, and hide +this pain, and rise again upon forgiven sin and a redeemed people!” + +She stood still, with her eyes upraised, and the curtain came slowly +down. + +For a long time no one in all the gathered multitude stirred. Far over +under the trees a man sat upon the ground, his head upon his arms, and +his arms upon his knees, in a misery unmeasurable. Beside him stood a +woodsman, who knew of no word to say that might comfort him. + +A girl, in the garb of the Magdalene, entered the tent of the Cure, and, +speaking no word, knelt and received absolution of her sins. + + + + +CHAPTER LVI. MRS. FLYNN SPEAKS + +CHARLEY left Jo Portugais behind, and went home alone. He watched at a +window till he saw Rosalie return. As she passed quickly down the street +with Mrs. Flynn to her own door, he observed that her face was happier +than he had seen it for many a day. Her step was lighter, there was a +freedom in her air, a sense of confidence in her carriage. + +She bore herself as one who had done a thing which relaxed a painful +tension. There was a curious glow in her eyes and face, and this became +deeper as, showing himself at the door, she saw him, smiled, and stood +still. He came across the street and took her hand. + +“You have been away,” she said softly. “For a few days,” he answered. + +“Far?” + +“At Vadrome Mountain.” + +“You have missed these last days of the Passion Play,” she said, a +shadow in her eyes. + +“I was present to-day,” he answered. + +She turned away her head quickly, for the look in his eyes told her more +than any words could have done, and Mrs. Flynn said: + +“‘Tis a day for everlastin’ mimory, sir. For the part she played this +day, the darlin’, only such as she could play! ‘Tis the innocent takin’ +the shame o’ the guilty, and the tears do be comin’ to me eyes. ‘Tis +not ould Widdy Flynn’s eyes alone that’s wet this day, but hearts do be +weepin’ for the love o’ God.” + +Rosalie suddenly opened the door, and, without another look at Charley, +entered the house. + +“‘Tis one in a million!” said Mrs. Flynn, in a confidential tone, for +she had a fixed idea that Rosalie loved Charley and that he loved her, +and that the only thing that stood in the way of their marriage was +religion. From the first Charley had conquered Mrs. Flynn. That he was a +tailor was a pity and a shame, but love was love, and the man had a head +on him and a heart in him; and love was love! So Mrs. Flynn said: + +“‘Tis one that a man that’s a man should do annything for, was it havin’ +the heart cut out uv him, or givin’ the last drop uv his blood. Shure, +for such as her, murder, or false witness, or givin’ up the last wish or +thought a man hugged to his boosom, would be as aisy as aisy.” + +Charley laughed to himself, her purpose was so obvious, but his heart +went out to her, for she was a friend, and, whatever came to him, +Rosalie would not be alone. + +“I believe every word of yours,” he said, shaking her hand, “and we’ll +see, you and I, that no man marries her who isn’t ready to do what you +say.” + +“Would you do it yourself--if it was you?” she asked, flushing for her +boldness. + +“I would,” he answered. + +“Then do it,” she said, and fled inside the house and shut the door. + +“Mrs. Flynn--good Mrs. Flynn!” he said, and went back sadly to his +house, and shut himself up with his thoughts. When night drew on he went +to bed, but he could not sleep. He got up after a time, and taking pen +and paper, wrote for a long time. Having finished, he took what he had +written, and placing it with the two packets-of money and pearls--which +he had brought from his old home, he addressed it to the Cure, and going +to the safe in the wall of the shop, placed them inside and locked the +door. + +Then he went to bed, and slept soundly--the deep sleep of the just. + + + + +CHAPTER LVII. A BURNING FIERY FURNACE + +Every man within the limits of the parish was in his bed, save one. He +was a stranger who, once before, had visited Chaudiere for one brief +day, when he had been saved from death at the Red Ravine, and had fled +the village that night because, as he thought, he had heard the voice of +his old friend’s ghost in the trees. Since that time he had travelled +in many parishes, healing where he could, entertaining where he might, +earning money as the charlatan. He was now on his way back through the +parishes to Montreal, and his route lay through Chaudiere. He had +hoped to reach Chaudiere before nightfall--he remembered with fear the +incident from which he had fled many months before; but his horse had +broken its leg on a corduroy bridge, a few miles out from the parish in +the hills, and darkness came upon him before he could hide his wagon +in the woods and proceed afoot to Chaudiere. He had shot his horse, and +rolled it into the swift torrent beneath the bridge. + +Travelling the lonely road, he drank freely from the whiskey-horn he +carried, to keep his spirits up, so that by the time he came to the +outskirts of Chaudiere he was in a state of intoxication, and reeled +impudently along with the “Dutch courage” the liquor had given +him. Arrived at the first cluster of houses in the place, he paused +uncertain. Should he knock here or go on to the tavern? He shivered at +thought of the tavern, for it was near it he had heard Charley Steele’s +voice calling to him out of the trees. If he knocked here, would the +people admit him in his present state?--he had sense enough to know that +he was very drunk. As he shook his head in owlish gravity, he saw the +church on the hill not far away. He chuckled to himself. The carpet in +the chancel and the hassocks at the altar would make a good bed. No fear +of Charley’s ghost coming inside the church--it wouldn’t be that kind of +a ghost. As he travelled the intervening space, shrugging his shoulders, +staggering serenely, he told himself in confidence that he would leave +the church at dawn, go to the tavern, purchase a horse as soon as might +be, and get back to his wagon. + +The church door was unlocked, and he entered and made his way to the +chancel, found surplices in the vestry and put a hassock inside one for +a pillow. Then he sat down and drew the loose rug of the chancel-floor +over him, and took another drink from the whiskey horn. Lighting his +pipe, he smoked for a while, but grew drowsy, and his pipe fell into his +lap. With eyes nearly shut he struck another match, made to light his +pipe again, but threw the match away, still burning. As he did so +the pipe dropped again from his mouth, and he fell back on the +hassock-pillow he had made. + +The lighted match fell on a surplice which had dropped from his arms +as he came from the vestry, and set it afire. In five minutes the whole +chancel was burning, and the sleeping man waked in the midst of smoke +and flame. He staggered to his feet with a terror-stricken cry, stumbled +down the aisle, through the front door, and out into the night. Reaching +the road, he turned his face again to the hill where his wagon lay hid. +If he could reach that, he would be safe; nobody would suspect him. +He clutched the whiskey-horn tight and broke into a run. As he passed +beyond the village his excited imagination heard Charley Steele’s ghost +calling after him. He ran harder. The voice kept calling from Chaudiere. + +Not Charley’s voice, but the voices of many people in Chaudiere were +calling. Some wakeful person had seen the glare in the church windows +and had given the alarm, and now there rang through the streets the +call-“Fire! Fire! Fire!” + +Charley and Jo were among the last to wake, for both had slept soundly, +but Jo was roused by a handful of gravel thrown at his window and a +warning cry, and a few moments later he and Charley were in the street +with a hurrying crowd. Over all the village was a red glare, lighting up +the sky, burnishing the trees. The church was a mass of flames. + +Charley was as pale as the rest of the crowd; for he thought of the +Cure, he thought of this people to whom their church meant more than +home and vastly more than friend and fortune. His heart was with them +all: not because it was their church that was burning, but because it +was something dear to them. + +Reaching the hill, he saw the Cure coming from the vestry of the burning +church, bearing some vessels of the altar. Depositing them in the arms +of his weeping sister, he turned again towards the door. People clung to +him, and would not let him go. + +“See, it is all inflames,” they cried. “Your cassock is singed. You +shall not go.” + +At that moment Charley and Portugais came up. A hurried question to the +Cure from Charley, a key handed over, a nod from Jo, and before the Cure +could prevent them the two men had rushed through the smoke and flame +into the vestry, Portugais holding Charley’s hand. + +The crowd outside waited in a terrible anxiety. The timbers of the +chancel portion of the building seemed about to fall, and still the two +men did not appear. The people called; the Cure clinched his hands at +his side--he was too fearful even to pray. + +But now the two men appeared, loaded with the few treasures of the +church. They were scorched and singed, and the beards of both were +burned, but, stumbling and exhausted, they brought their loads to the +eager arms of the waiting habitants. + +Then from the other end of the church came a cry: “The little cross--the +little iron cross!” Then another cry: “Rosalie Evanturel! Rosalie +Evanturel!” Some one came running to the Cure. + +“Rosalie Evanturel has gone inside for the little cross on the pillar. +She is in the flames; the door has fallen in. She can’t get out again.” + +With a hoarse cry, Charley darted back inside the vestry door. A cry of +horror went up. + +It was only a minute and a half, but it seemed like years, and then a +man in flames appeared in the fiery porch--and not alone. He carried +a girl in his arms. He wavered even at the threshold with the timbers +swaying overhead, but, with a last effort, he plunged forward through +the furnace, and was caught by eager hands on the margin of endurable +heat. The two were smothered in quilts brought from the Cure’s house, +and carried swiftly to the cool safety of the grass and trees beyond. +The woman had fainted in the flame of the church; the man dropped +insensible as they caught her from his arms. + +As they tore away Charley’s coat muffling his face, and opened his +shirt, they stared in awe. The cross which Rosalie had torn from the +pillar, Charley had thrust into his bosom, and there it now lay on the +red scar made by itself in the hands of Louis Trudel. + +M. Loisel waved the people back. He raised Charley’s head. The Abbe +Rossignol, who had just arrived with the Seigneur, lifted the cross from +the insensible man’s breast. + +He started when he saw the scar. Then he remembered the tale he had +heard. He turned away gravely to his brother. “Was it the cross or the +woman he went for?” he asked. + +“Great God--do you ask!” the Seigneur said indignantly. “And he deserves +her,” he muttered under his breath. + +Charley opened his eyes. “Is she safe?” he asked, starting up. + +“Unscathed, my son,” the Cure said. + +Was this tailor-man not his son? Had he not thirsted for his soul as a +hart for the water-brooks? + +“I am very sorry for you, Monsieur,” said Charley. + +“It is God’s will,” was the reply, in a choking voice. “It will be years +before we have another church--many, many years.” + +The roof gave way with a crash, and the spire shot down into the flaming +debris. + +The people groaned. + +“It will cost sixty thousand dollars to build it up again,” said Filion +Lacasse. + +“We have three thousand dollars from the Passion Play,” said the Notary. +“That could go towards it.” + +“We have another two thousand in the bank,” said Maximilian Cour. + +“But it will take years,” said the saddler disconsolately. + +Charley looked at the Cure, mournful and broken but calm. He saw the +Seigneur, gloomy and silent, standing apart. He saw the people in +scattered groups, looking more homeless than if they had no homes. Some +groups were silent; others discussed angrily the question, who was the +incendiary--that it had been set on fire seemed certain. + +“I said no good would come of the play-acting,” said the Seigneur’s +groom, and was flung into the ditch by Filion Lacasse. + +Presently Charley staggered to his feet, purpose in his face. These +people, from the Cure and Seigneur to the most ignorant habitant, were +hopeless and inert. The pride of their lives was gone. + +“Gather the people together,” he said to the Notary and Filion Lacasse. +Then he turned to the Cure and the Seigneur. + +“With your permission, messieurs,” he said, “I will do a harder thing +than I have ever done. I will speak to them all.” + +Wondering, M. Loisel added his voice to the Notary’s, and the word went +round. Slowly they all made their way to a spot the Cure indicated. + +Charley stood on the embankment above the road, the notables of the +parish round him. + +Rosalie had been taken to the Cure’s house. In that wild moment in the +church when she had fallen insensible in Charley’s arms, a new feeling +had sprung up in her. She loved him in every fibre, but she had a +strange instinct, a prescience, that she was lying on his breast for +the last time. She had wound her arms round his neck, and, as his lips +closed on hers, she had cried: “We shall die together--together.” + +As she lay in the Cure’s house, she thought only of that moment. + +“What are they cheering for?” she asked, as a great noise came to her +through the window. + +“Run and see,” said the Cure’s sister to Mrs. Flynn, and the fat woman +hurried away. + +Rosalie raised herself so that she could look out of the window. “I can +see him,” she cried. + +“See whom?” asked the Cure’s sister. + +“Monsieur,” she answered, with a changed voice. “He is speaking. They +are cheering him.” + +Ten minutes later, the Cure and the Notary entered the room. M. Loisel +came forward to Rosalie, and took her hands in his. + +“You should not have done it,” he said. + +“I wanted to do something,” she replied. “To get the cross for you +seemed the only payment I could make for all your goodness to me.” + +“It nearly cost you your life--and the life of another,” he said, +shaking his head reproachfully. + +Cheering came again from the burning church. “Why do they cheer?” she +asked. + +“Why do they cheer? Because the man we have feared, Monsieur Mallard--” + +“I never feared him,” said Rosalie, scarcely above her breath. + +“Because he has taught them the way to a new church again--and at once, +at once, my child.” + +“A remarkable man!” said Narcisse Dauphin. “There never was such a +speech. Never in any courtroom was there such an appeal.” + +“What did he do?” asked Mademoiselle Loisel, her hand in Rosalie’s. + +“Everything,” answered the Cure. “There he stood in his tattered +clothes, the beard burnt to his chin, his hands scorched, his eyes +bloodshot, and he spoke--” + +“‘With the tongues of men and of angels,’” said M. Dauphin +enthusiastically. + +The Cure frowned and continued: “‘You look on yonder burning walls,’ he +said, ‘and wonder when they will rise again on this hill made sacred +by the burial of your beloved, by the christening of your children, the +marriages which have given you happy homes, and the sacraments which +are to you the laws of your lives. You give one-twentieth of your income +yearly towards your church--then give one-fortieth of all you possess +today, and your church will be begun in a month. Before a year goes +round you will come again to this venerable spot and enter another +church here. Your vows, your memories, and your hopes will be purged +by fire. All that you possess will be consecrated by your free-will +offerings.’--Ah, if I could but remember what came afterwards! It was +all eloquence, and generous and noble thought.” + +“He spoke of you,” said the Notary--“he spoke the truth; and the people +cheered. He said that the man outside the walls could sometimes tell +the besieged the way relief would come. Never again shall I hear such a +speech.” + +“What are they going to do?” asked Rosalie, and withdrew her trembling +hand from that of Madame Dugal. + +“This very day, at my office, they will bring their offerings, and we +will begin at once,” answered M. Dauphin. “There is no man in Chaudiere +but will take the stocking from the hole, the bag from the chest, the +credit from the bank, the grain from the barn for the market, or make +the note of hand to contribute one-fortieth of all he is worth for the +rebuilding of the church.” + +“Notes of hand are not money,” said the Cure’s sister, the practical +sense ever uppermost. + +“They shall all be money--hard cash,” said the Notary. “The Seigneur is +going to open a sort of bank, and take up the notes of hand, and give +bank-bills in return. To-day I go with his steward to Quebec to get the +money.” + +“What does the Abbe Rossignol say?” said the Cure’s sister. + +“Our church and parish are our own,” interposed the Cure proudly. “We do +our duty and fear no abbe.” + +“Voila!” said M. Dauphin, “he never can keep hands off. I saw him go to +Jo Portugais a little while ago. ‘Remember!’ he said--I can’t make out +what he was after. We have enough to remember to-day, for sure.” + +“Good may come of it, perhaps,” said M. Loisel, looking sadly out upon +the ruins of his church. + +“See, ‘tis the sunrise!” said Mrs. Flynn’s voice from the corner, her +face towards the eastern window. + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII. WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL. + +In four days ten thousand dollars in notes and gold had been brought to +the office of the Notary by the faithful people of Chaudiere. All day +in turn M. Loisel and M. Rossignol sat in the office and received that +which represented one-fortieth of the value of each man’s goods, estate, +and wealth--the fortieth value of a woodsawyer’s cottage, or a widow’s +garden. They did it impartially for all, as the Cure and three of the +best-to-do habitants had done for the Seigneur, whose four thousand +dollars had been paid in first of all. + +Charley had been confined to his room for three days, because of his +injuries and a feverish cold he had caught, and the habitants did not +disturb his quiet. But Mrs. Flynn took him broth made by Rosalie’s +hands, and Rosalie fought with her desire to go to him and nurse him. +She was not, however, the Rosalie of the old impulse and impetuous +resolve--the arrow had gone too deep; she waited till she could see +his face again and look into his eyes. Not apathy, but a sense of the +inevitable was upon her, and pale and fragile, but with a calm spirit, +she waited for she knew not what. + +She felt that the day of fate was closing down. She must hold herself +ready for the hour when he would need her most. At first, when the +conviction had come to her that the end of all was near, she had +revolted. She had had impulse to go to him at all hazards, to say to +him: “Come away--anywhere, anywhere!” But that had given place to the +deeper thing in her, and something of Charley’s spirit of stoic waiting +had come upon her. + +She watched the people going to the Notary’s office with their tributes +and free-will offerings, and they seemed like people in a play--these +days she lived no life which was theirs. It was a dream, unimportant and +temporary. She was feeling what was behind all life, and permanent. +It could not last, but there it was; and she could not return to the +transitory till this cloud of fate was lifted. She was much too young to +suffer so, but the young ever suffer most. + +On the fourth day she saw Charley. He came from his shop and went to the +Notary’s office. At first she was startled, for he was clean-shaven--the +fire had burned his beard to the skin. She saw a different man, far +removed from this life about them both--individual, singular. He was +pale, and his eye-glass, with the cleanshaven face, gave an impression +of refined separateness. She did not know that the same look was in both +their faces. She watched him till he entered the Notary’s shop, then she +was called away to her duties. + +Charley had come to give his one-fortieth with the rest. When he entered +the Notary’s office, the Seigneur and M. Dauphin stood up to greet him. +They congratulated him on his recovery, while feeling also that the +change in his personal appearance somehow affected their relations. +A crowd gathered round the door of the shop. When Charley made his +offering, with a statement of his goods and income, the Seigneur and +Notary did not know what to do. They were disposed to decline it, for +since Monsieur was no Catholic, it was not his duty to help. At this +moment of delicate anxiety M. Loisel entered. With a swift bright flush +to his cheek he saw the difficulty, and at once accepted freely. + +“God bless you,” he said, as he took the money, and Charley left. “It +shall build the doorway of my church.” + +Later in the day the Cure sent for Charley. There were grave matters +to consider, and his counsel was greatly needed. They had all come to +depend on the soundness of his judgment. It had never gone astray in +Chaudiere, they said. They owed to him this extraordinary scheme, which +would be an example to all modern Christianity. They told him so. He +said nothing in reply. + +In an hour he had planned for them a scheme for the consideration of +contractors; had drawn, with the help of M. Loisel, an architect’s +rough plan of the new church, and, his old professional instincts keenly +alive, had lucidly suggested the terms and safeguards of the contracts. + +Then came the question of the money contributed. The day before, M. +Dauphin and the Seigneur’s steward had arrived in safety from Quebec +with twenty thousand dollars in bank-bills. These M. Rossignol had +exchanged for the notes of hand of such of the habitants as had not +ready cash to give. All of this twenty thousand dollars had been paid +over. They had now thirty thousand dollars in cash, besides three +thousand which the Cure had at his house, the proceeds of the Passion +Play. It was proposed to send this large sum to the bank in Quebec in +another two days, when the whole contributions should be complete. + +As to the safety of the money, the timid M. Dauphin did not care to take +responsibility. Strangers were still arriving, ignorant of the fact that +the Passion Play had ceased, and some of them must be aware that this +large sum of money was in the parish--no doubt also knew that it was in +his house. It was therefore better, he urged, that M. Rossignol or the +Cure should take charge of it. M. Loisel urged that secrecy as to the +resting-place of the money was important. It was better that it should +be deposited in the most unlikely place, and with some unofficial person +who might not be supposed to have it in charge. + +“I have it!” said the Seigneur. “The money shall be placed in old Louis +Trudel’s safe in the wall of the tailor-shop.” + +It was so arranged, after Charley’s protests of unwillingness, and +counter-appeals from the others. That evening at sundown thirty-three +thousand dollars was deposited in the safe in the old stone wall of the +tailorshop, and the lock was sealed with the parish seal. + +But the Notary’s wife had wormed the secret from her husband, and she +found it hard to keep. She told it to Maximilian Cour, and he kept it. +She told it to her cousin, the wife of Filion Lacasse, and she did not +keep it. Before twenty-four hours went round, a dozen people knew it. + +The evening of the second day, another two thousand dollars was added +to the treasure, and the lock was again sealed--with the utmost secrecy. +Charley and Jo Portugais, the infidel and the murderer, were thus +the sentries to the peace of a parish, the bankers of its gifts, the +security for the future of the church of Chaudiere. Their weapons of +defence were two old pistols belonging to the Seigneur. + +“Money is the master of the unexpected,” the Seigneur had said as he +handed them over. He chuckled for hours afterwards as he thought of his +epigram. That night, as he turned over in bed for the third time, as was +his custom before going to sleep, another epigram came to him--“Money is +the only fox hunted night and day.” He kept repeating it over and over +again with vain pride. + +The truth of M. Rossignol’s aphorisms had been demonstrated several days +before. On his return from Quebec with the twenty thousand dollars +of the Seigneur’s money, M. Dauphin had dwelt with great pride on +the discretion and energy he and the steward had shown; had told +dramatically of the skill which had enabled them to make a journey of +such importance so secretly and safely; had covered himself with blushes +for his own coolness and intrepidity. Fortune had, however, favoured his +reputation and his intrepidity, for he had been pursued from the hour he +and his companion left Quebec. A taste for the picturesque had impelled +him to arrange for two relays of horses, and this fact saved him and the +twenty thousand dollars he carried. Two hours after he had left Quebec, +four determined men had got upon his trail, and had only been prevented +from overtaking him by the freshness of the horses which his dramatic +foresight had provided. + +The leader of these four pursuers was Billy Wantage, who had come to +know of the curious action of the Seigneur of Chaudiere from an intimate +friend, a clerk in the bank. Billy’s fortunes were now in a bad way, +and, in desperate straits for money, he had planned this bold attempt +at the highwayman’s art with two gamblers, to whom he owed money, and a +certain notorious horse-trader of whom he had made a companion of late. +Having escaped punishment for a crime once before, through Charley’s +supposed death, the immunity nerved him to this later and more dangerous +enterprise. The four rode as hard as their horses would permit, but M. +Dauphin and his companion kept always an hour or more ahead, and, from +the high hills overlooking the village, Billy and his friends saw the +two enter it safely in the light of evening. + +His three friends urged Billy to turn back, since they were out of +provisions and had no shelter. It was unwise to go to a tavern or a +farmer’s house, where they must certainly be suspected. Billy, however, +determined to make an effort to find the banking-place of the money, and +refused to turn back without a trial. He therefore proposed that they +should separate, going different directions, secure accommodation for +the night, rest the following day, and meet the next night at a point +indicated. This was agreed upon, and they separated. + +When the four met again, Billy had nothing to communicate, as he had +been taken ill during the night before, and had been unable to go +secretly into Chaudiere village. They separated once more. When they met +the next night Billy was accompanied by an old confederate. As he was +entering Chaudiere the previous evening, he had met John Brown, with his +painted wagon and a new mottled horse. John Brown had news of importance +to give; for, in the stable-yard of the village tavern, he had heard one +habitant confide to another that the money for the new church was kept +in the safe of the tailor-shop. John Brown was as ready to share in +Billy’s second enterprise as he had been to incite him to his first +crime. + +So it was that as the Seigneur made his epigram and gloated over it, +the five men, with horses at a convenient distance, armed to the teeth, +broke stealthily into Charley’s house. + +They entered silently through the kitchen window, and made their way +into the little hall. Two stood guard at the foot of the stairs, and +three crept into the shop. + +This night Jo Portugais was sleeping up-stairs, while Charley lay +upon the bench in the tailor-shop. Charley heard the door open, heard +unfamiliar steps, seized his pistol, and, springing up, with his back to +the safe, called out loudly to Jo. As he dimly saw men rush at him, +he fired. The bullet reached its mark, and one man fell dead. At that +moment a dark-lantern was turned full on Charley, and a pistol was fired +pointblank at him. + +As he fell, shot through the breast, the man who had fired dropped +the lantern with a shriek of terror. He had seen the ghost of his +brother-in-law-Charley Steele. + +With a quaking cry of warning to the others, Billy bolted from the +house, followed by his companions, two of whom were struggling with Jo +Portugais on the stairway. These now also broke and ran. + +Jo rushed into the shop, and saw, as he thought, Charley lying dead--saw +the robber dead upon the floor. His master and friend gone, the +conviction seized him that his own time had come. He would give himself +to justice now--but to God’s justice, not to man’s. The robbers were +four to one, and he would avenge his master’s death and give his own +life to do it! It was all the thought of a second. He rushed out after +the robbers, shouting as he ran, to awake the villagers. He heard the +marauders ahead of him, and, fleet of foot, rushed on. Reaching them +as they mounted, he fired, and brought down his man--a shivering +quack-doctor, who, like his leader, had seen a sight in the tailor-shop +that struck terror to his soul. Two of the others then fired at Jo, who +had caught a horse by the head. He fell without a sound, and lay upon +his face--he did not hear the hoofs of the escaping horses nor any +other sound. He had fallen without a pang beside the quackdoctor, whose +medicines would never again quicken a pulse in his own body or any +other. + +Behind, in the village, frightened people flocked about the tailor-shop. +Within, Mrs. Flynn and the Notary crudely but tenderly bound up the +dreadful wound in Charley’s side, while Rosalie pillowed his head on her +bosom. + +With a strange quietness Rosalie gave orders to the Notary and Mrs. +Flynn. There was a light in her eyes--an unnatural light--of strength +and presence of mind. Her hand was steady, and as gently as a mother +with a child she wiped the moist forehead, and poured a little brandy +between the set teeth. + +“Stand back--give him air,” she said, in a voice of authority to those +who crowded round. + +People fell back in awe, for, amid tears and excitement and fear, this +girl had a strange convincing calm. By the time Charley’s wound was +stopped, messengers were on the way to the Cure and the Seigneur. +By Rosalie’s instructions the dead body of the robber was removed, +Charley’s bed up-stairs was prepared for him, a fire was lighted, and +twenty hands were ready to do accurately her will. Now and again she +felt his pulse, and she watched his face intently. In her bitter sorrow +her heart had a sort of thankfulness, for his head was on her breast, +he was in her arms. It had been given her once more to come first to +his rescue, and with one wild cry, unheard by any one, to call out his +beloved name. + +The world of Chaudiere, roused by the shooting, had then burst in upon +them; but that one moment had been hers, no matter what came after. She +had no illusions--she knew that the end was near: the end of all for him +and for them both. + +The Cure entered and hurried forward. There was the seal of the parish +intact on the door of the safe, but at what cost! + +“He has given his life for the church,” he said, then commanded all to +leave, save those needed to carry the wounded man up-stairs. + +Still it was Rosalie that directed the removal. She held his hand; she +saw that he was carefully laid down; she raised his head to a proper +height; she moistened his lips and fanned him. Meanwhile the Cure fell +upon his knees, and the noise of talk and whispering ceased in the +house. + +But presently there was loud murmuring and shuffling of feet outside +again, and Rosalie left the room hurriedly and went below to stop it. +She met the men who were bringing the body of Jo Portugais into the +shop. + +Up-stairs the Cure’s voice prayed: “Of Thy mercy, O Lord, hear our +prayer. Grant that he be brought into Thy Church ere his last hour come. +Forgive, O Lord--” + +Charley stirred and opened his eyes. He saw the Cure bowed in prayer; he +heard the trembling voice. He touched the white head with his hand. + + + + +CHAPTER LIX. IN WHICH CHARLEY MEETS A STRANGER + +The Cure came to his feet with a joyful cry. “Monsieur--my son,” he +said, bending over him. + +“Is it all over?” Charley asked calmly, almost cheerfully. Death now was +the only solution of life’s problems, and he welcomed it from the void. + +The Cure went to the door and locked it. The deepest desire of his life +must here be uttered, his great aspiration be realised. + +“My son,” he said, as he came softly to the bedside again, “you have +given to us all you had--your charity, your wisdom, your skill. You have +“--it was hard, but the man’s wound was mortal, and it must be said “you +have consecrated our new church with your blood. You have given all to +us; we will give all to you--” + +There was a soft knocking at the door. He went and opened it a very +little. “He is conscious, Rosalie,” he whispered. “Wait--wait--one +moment.” + +Then came the Seigneur’s voice saying that Jo was gone, and that all the +robbers had escaped, save the two disposed of by Charley and Jo. + +The Cure turned to the bed once more. “What did he say about Jo?” + Charley asked. + +“He is dead, my son, and the quack-doctor also. The others have +escaped.” + +Charley turned his face away. “Au revoir, Jo,” he said into the great +distance. + +Then there was silence for a moment, while outside the door a girl +prayed, with an old woman’s arm around her. + +The Cure leaned over Charley again. “Shall not the sacraments of the +Church comfort you in your last hours?” he said. “It is the way, the +truth, and the life. It is the Voice that says: ‘Peace’ to the vexed +mind. Human intellect is vanity; only the soul survives. Will you not +hear the Voice? Will you not give us who love and honour you the right +to make you ours for ever? Will you not come to the bosom of that Church +for which you have given all?” + +“Tell them so,” Charley said, and he motioned towards the window, under +which the people were gathered. + +With a glad exclamation the Cure hastened to the window, and, in a voice +of sorrowful exultation, spoke to the people below. + +Charley reckoned swiftly with his fate. What was there now to do? If his +wound was not mortal, what tragedy might now come! For Billy’s hand--the +hand of Kathleen’s brother--had brought him low. If the robbers and +murderers were captured, he must be dragged into the old life, and +to what an issue--all the old problems carried into more terrible +conditions. And Rosalie--in his half-consciousness he had felt her near +him; he felt her near him now. Rosalie--in any case, what could there +be for her? Nothing. He had heard the Cure whisper her name at the door. +She was outside-praying for him. He stretched out a hand as though he +saw her, and his lips framed her name. In his weakness and fading life +he had no anguish in the thought of her. Life and Love were growing +distant though he loved her as few love and live. She would be removed +from want by him--there were the pearls and the money in the safe with +the money of the Church; there was the letter to the Cure, his last +testament, leaving all to her. He, sleeping, would fear no foe; she, +awake in the living world, would hold him in dear remembrance. Death +were the better thing for all. Then Kathleen in her happiness would +be at peace; and even Billy might go unmolested, for, who was there to +recognise Billy, now that Portugais was dead? + +He heard the Cure’s voice at the window--“Oh, my dear people, God has +given him to us at last. I go now to prepare him for his long journey, +to--” + +Charley realised and shuddered. Receive the sacraments of the Church? +Be made ready by the priest for his going hence--end all the soul’s +interrogations, with the solving of his own mortal problems? Say “I +believe,” confess his sins, and, receiving absolution, lie down in +peace. + +He suddenly raised himself on his elbow, flinging his body over. The +bandage of his wound was displaced, and blood gushed out upon the white +clothes of the bed. “Rosalie!” he gasped. “Rosalie, my love! +God keep...” + +As he sank back he heard the priest’s anguished voice above him, calling +for help. He smiled. + +“Rosalie--” he whispered. The priest ran and unlocked the door, and +Rosalie entered, followed by the Seigneur and Mrs. Flynn. + +“Quick! Quick!” said the priest. “The bandage slipped.” + +The bandage slipped--or was it slipped? Who knows! + +Blind with agony, and as in a direful dream, Rosalie made her way to the +bed. The sight of his ensanguined body roused her, and, murmuring his +name--continually murmuring his name--she assisted Mrs. Flynn to bind +up the wound again. Standing where she stood when she had stayed Louis +Trudel’s arm long ago, with an infinite tenderness she touched the +scar-the scar of the cross--on his breast. Terrible as was her grief, +her heart had its comfort in the thought--who could rob her of that for +ever?--that he would die a martyr. It did not matter now who knew the +story of her love. It could not do him harm. She was ready to proclaim +it to all the world. And those who watched knew that they were in the +presence of a great human love. + +The priest made ready to receive the unconscious man into the Church. +Had Charley not said, “Tell them so?” Was it not now his duty to say the +sacred offices over a son of the Church in his last bitter hour? So it +was done while he lay unconscious. + +For hours he lay still, and then the fevered blood, poisoned by +the bullet which had brought him down, made him delirious, gave him +hallucinations--open-eyed illusions. All the time Rosalie knelt at the +foot of the bed, her piteous tearless eyes for ever fixed on his face. + +Towards evening, with an unnatural strength, he sat up in bed. + +“See,” he whispered, “that woman in the corner there. She has come +to take me, but I will not go.” Fantasy after fantasy possessed +him-fantasy, strangely mixed with facts of his own past. Now it was +Kathleen, now Billy, now Jo Portugais, now John Brown, now Suzon +Charlemagne at the Cote Dorion, again Jo Portugais. In strange, touching +sentences he spoke to them, as though they were present before him. At +length he stopped abruptly, and gazed straight before him--over the head +of Rosalie into the distance. + +“See,” he said, pointing, “who is that? Who? I can’t see his face--it +is covered. So tall-so white! He is opening his arms to me. He is +coming--closer--closer. Who is it?” + +“It is Death, my son,” said the priest in his ear, with a pitying +gentleness. + +The Cure’s voice seemed to calm the agitated sense, to bring it back to +the outer precincts of understanding. There was an awe-struck silence +as the dying man fumbled, fumbled, over his breast, found his eye-glass, +and, with a last feeble effort, raised it to his eye, shining now with +an unearthly fire. The old interrogation of the soul, the elemental +habit outlived all else in him. The idiosyncrasy of the mind +automatically expressed itself. + +“I beg--your--pardon,” he whispered to the imagined figure, and the +light died out of his eyes, “have I--ever--been--introduced--to you?” + +“At the hour of your birth, my son,” said the priest, as a sobbing cry +came from the foot of the bed. + +But Charley did not hear. His ears were for ever closed to the voices of +life and time. + + + + +CHAPTER LX. THE HAND AT THE DOOR + +The eve of the day of the memorable funeral two belated visitors to the +Passion Play arrived in the village, unknowing that it had ended, and of +the tragedy which had set a whole valley mourning; unconscious that they +shared in the bitter fortunes of the tailor-man, of whom men and women +spoke with tears. Affected by the gloom of the place, the two visitors +at once prepared for their return journey, but the manner of the +tailorman’s death arrested their sympathies, touched the humanity in +them. The woman was much impressed. + +They asked to see the body of the man. They were taken to the door of +the tailor-shop, while their horses were being brought round. Within +the house itself they were met by an old Irishwoman, who, in response to +their wish “to see the brave man’s body,” showed them into a room where +a man lay dead with a bullet through his heart. It was the body of +Jo Portugais, whose master and friend lay in another room across the +hallway. The lady turned back in disappointment--the dead man was little +like a hero. + +The Irishwoman had meant to deceive her, for at this moment a girl who +loved the tailor was kneeling beside his body, and, if possible, Mrs. +Flynn would have no curious eyes look upon that scene. + +When the visitors came into the hall again, the man said: “There was +another; Kathleen--a woodsman.” But standing by the nearly closed door, +behind which lay the dead tailor of Chaudiere--they could see the +holy candles flickering within--Kathleen whispered “We’ve seen the +tailor--that’s enough. It’s only the woodsman there. I prefer not, Tom.” + +With his fingers at the latch, the man hesitated, even as Mrs. Flynn +stepped apprehensively forward; then, shrugging a shoulder, he responded +to Kathleen’s hand on his arm. They went down the stairs together, and +out to their carriage. + +As they drove away, Kathleen said: “It’s strange that men who do such +fine things should look so commonplace.” + +“The other one might have been more uncommon,” he replied. + +“I wonder!” she said, with a sigh of relief, as they passed the bounds +of the village. Then she caught herself flushing, for she suddenly +realised that the exclamation was one so often on the lips of a dead, +disgraced man whose name she once had borne. + +If the door of the little room upstairs had opened to the fingers of the +man beside her, the tailor of Chaudiere, though dead, would have been +dearly avenged. + + + + +CHAPTER LXI. THE CURE SPEAKS + +The Cure stood with his back to the ruins of the church, at his feet two +newly made graves, and all round, with wistful faces, crowds of reverent +habitants. A benignant sorrow made his voice in perfect temper with +the pensive striving of this latest day of spring. At the close of his +address he said: + +“I owe you much, my people. I owe him more, for it was given him, who +knew not God, to teach us how to know Him better. For his past, it is +not given you to know. It is hidden in the bosom of the Church. Sinner +he once was, criminal never, as one can testify who knows all”--he +turned to the Abbe Rossignol, who stood beside him, grave and +compassionate--“and his sins were forgiven him. He is the one sheaf +which you and I may carry home rejoicing from the pagan world of +unbelief. What he had in life he gave to us, and in death he leaves +to our church all that he has not left to a woman he loved--to Rosalie +Evanturel.” + +There was a gasping murmur among the people, but they stilled again, and +strained to hear. + +“He leaves her a little fortune, and to us all else he had. Let us +pray for his soul, and let us comfort her who, loving deeply, reaped no +harvest of love. + +“The law may never reach his ruthless murderers, for there is none to +recognise their faces; and were they ten times punished, how should +it avail us now! Let us always remember that, in his grave, our friend +bears on his breast the little iron cross we held so dear. That is +all we could give--our dearest treasure. I pray God that, scarring his +breast in life, it may heal all his woes in death, and be a saving image +on his bosom in the Presence at the last.” + +He raised his hands in benediction. + + + + +EPILOGUE + +Never again was there a Passion Play in the Chaudiere Valley. +Spring-times and harvests and long winters came and went, and a blessing +seemed to be upon the valley, for men prospered, and no untoward things +befel the people. So it was for twenty years, wherein there had been +going and coming in quiet. Some had gone upon short mortal journeys and +had come back, some upon long immortal voyages, and had never returned. +Of the last were the Seigneur and a woman once a Magdalene; but in a +house beside a beautiful church, with a noble doorway, lived the Cure, +M. Loisel, aged and serene. There never was a day, come rain or shine, +in which he was not visited by a beautiful woman, whose life was one +with the people of the valley. + +There was no sorrow in the parish which the lady did not share, with the +help of an old Irishwoman called Mrs. Flynn. Was there sickness in the +parish, her hand smoothed the pillow and soothed the pain. Was there +trouble anywhere, her face brought light to the door way. Did any suffer +ill-repute, her word helped to restore the ruined name. They did not +know that she forgave so much in all the world, because she thought she +had so much in herself to forgive. + +She was ever called “Madame Rosalie,” and she cherished the name, and +gave commands that when her grave came to be made near to a certain +other grave, Madame Rosalie should be carved upon the stone. +Cheerfulness and serenity were ever with her, undisturbed by wish to +probe the mystery of the life which had once absorbed her own. She never +sought to know whence the man came; it was sufficient to know whither +he had gone, and that he had been hers for a brief dream of life. It +was better to have lived the one short thrilling hour with all its pain, +than never to have known what she knew or felt what she had felt. The +mystery deepened her romance, and she was even glad that the ruffians +who slew him were never brought to justice. To her mind they were but +part of the mystic machinery of fate. + +For her the years had given many compensations, and so she told the +Cure, one midsummer day, when she brought to visit him the orphaned +son of Paulette Dubois, graduated from his college in France and making +ready to go to the far East. + +“I have had more than I deserve--a thousand times,” she said. + +The Cure smiled, and laid a gentle hand upon her own. “It is right for +you to think so,” he said, “but after a long life, I am ready to say +that, one way or another, we earn all the real happiness we have. I mean +the real happiness--the moments, my child. I once had a moment full of +happiness.” + +“May I ask?” she said. + +“When my heart first went out to him”--he turned his face towards the +churchyard. + +“He was a great man,” she said proudly. + +The Cure looked at her benignly: she was a woman, and she had loved +the man. He had, however, come to a stage of life where greatness alone +seemed of little moment. He forbore to answer her, but he pressed her +hand. + + + ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: + + A left-handed boy is all right in the world + Always hoping the best from the worst of us + Damnable propinquity + Good fathers think they have good daughters + Have not we all something to hide--with or without shame? + He has wheeled his nuptial bed into the street + He left his fellow-citizens very much alone + He had had acquaintances, but never friendships, and never loves + Hugging the chain of denial to his bosom + I have a good memory for forgetting + I am only myself when I am drunk + I should remember to forget it + Importunity with discretion was his motto + In all secrets there is a kind of guilt + Is the habit of good living mere habit and mere acting + It is good to live, isn’t it? + Know how bad are you, and doesn’t mind + Liquor makes me human + Nervous legs at a gallop + Pathetically in earnest + Shure, if we could always be ‘about the same,’ we’d do + So say your prayers, believe all you can, don’t ask questions + Strike first and heal after--“a kick and a lick” + Suspicion, the bane of sick old age + Things that once charmed charm less + Was not civilisation a mistake + Who knows! + Youth is the only comrade for youth + Youth is the only comrade for youth + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Right of Way, Complete, by Gilbert Parker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIGHT OF WAY, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 6249-0.txt or 6249-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/4/6249/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’ WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. + +The Foundation’s principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation’s web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/6249-0.zip b/6249-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9ee6b6e --- /dev/null +++ b/6249-0.zip diff --git a/6249-h.zip b/6249-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6a6a084 --- /dev/null +++ b/6249-h.zip diff --git a/6249-h/6249-h.htm b/6249-h/6249-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..973cc05 --- /dev/null +++ b/6249-h/6249-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16686 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Right of Way, by Gilbert Parker + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd7; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Right of Way, Complete, by Gilbert Parker + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Right of Way, Complete + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: October 18, 2006 [EBook #6249] +Last Updated: August 27, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIGHT OF WAY, COMPLETE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <h1> + THE RIGHT OF WAY + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Gilbert Parker + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2H_4_0002"> NOTE </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>THE + RIGHT OF WAY</b> </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> THE + WAY TO THE VERDICT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> WHAT + CAME OF THE TRIAL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> AFTER + FIVE YEARS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> CHARLEY + MAKES A DISCOVERY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> THE + WOMAN IN HELIOTROPE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> THE + WIND AND THE SHORN LAMB <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. + </a> "PEACE, PEACE, AND THERE IS NO PEACE”’ <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> THE COST OF THE + ORNAMENT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> OLD + DEBTS FOR NEW <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> THE + WAY IN AND THE WAY OUT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. + </a> THE RAISING OF THE CURTAIN <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> THE COMING OF ROSALIE + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> HOW + CHARLEY WENT ADVENTURING AND WHAT HE FOUND <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> ROSALIE, CHARLEY, AND + THE MAN THE WIDOW PLOMONDON JILTED <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015"> + CHAPTER XV. </a> THE MARK IN THE PAPER <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> MADAME DAUPHIN HAS A + MISSION <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> THE + TAILOR MAKES A MIDNIGHT FORAY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0018"> + CHAPTER XVIII. </a> THE STEALING OF THE CROSS <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> THE SIGN FROM HEAVEN + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a> THE + RETURN OF THE TAILOR <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. + </a> THE CURE HAS AN INSPIRATION <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a> THE WOMAN WHO SAW + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a> THE + WOMAN WHO DID NOT TELL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. + </a> THE SEIGNEUR TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a> THE COLONEL TELLS HIS + STORY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a> A + SONG, A BOTTLE, AND A GHOST <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER + XXVII. </a> OUT ON THE OLD TRAIL <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. </a> THE SEIGNEUR GIVES + A WARNING <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. </a> THE + WILD RIDE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. </a> ROSALIE + WARNS CHARLEY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. </a> CHARLEY + STANDS AT BAY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII. </a> JO + PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER + XXXIII. </a> THE EDGE OF LIFE <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV. </a> IN AMBUSH <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV. </a> THE COMING OF + MAXIMILIAN COUR AND ANOTHER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER + XXXVI. </a> BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII. </a> THE CHALLENGE OF + PAULETTE DUBOIS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII. + </a> THE CURE AND THE SEIGNEUR VISIT THE + TAILOR <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX. </a> THE + SCARLET WOMAN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL. </a> AS + IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLI. + </a> IT WAS MICHAELMAS DAY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0042"> + CHAPTER XLII. </a> A TRIAL AND A VERDICT <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XLIII. </a> JO PORTUGAIS TELLS + A STORY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV. </a> "WHO + WAS KATHLEEN?” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER XLV. </a> SIX + MONTHS GO BY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XLVI. </a> THE + FORGOTTEN MAN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XLVII. </a> ONE + WAS TAKEN AND THE OTHER LEFT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER + XLVIII. </a> "WHERE THE TREE OF LIFE IS BLOOMING—” + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER XLIX. </a> THE + OPEN GATE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER L. </a> THE + PASSION PLAY AT CHAUDIERE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER + LI. </a> FACE TO FACE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0052"> + CHAPTER LII. </a> THE COMING OF BILLY <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0053"> CHAPTER LIII. </a> THE SEIGNEUR AND THE + CURE HAVE A SUSPICION <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0054"> CHAPTER LIV. + </a> M. ROSSIGNOL SLIPS THE LEASH <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0055"> CHAPTER LV. </a> ROSALIE PLAYS A PART + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0056"> CHAPTER LVI. </a> MRS. + FLYNN SPEAKS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0057"> CHAPTER LVII. </a> A + BURNING FIERY FURNACE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0058"> CHAPTER LVIII. + </a> WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0059"> CHAPTER LIX. </a> IN WHICH CHARLEY + MEETS A STRANGER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0060"> CHAPTER LX. </a> THE + HAND AT THE DOOR <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0061"> CHAPTER LXI. </a> THE + CURE SPEAKS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_EPIL"> EPILOGUE. </a> + <br /><br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + In a book called ‘The House of Harper’, published in this year, 1912, + there are two letters of mine, concerning ‘The Right of Way’, written to + Henry M. Alden, editor of Harper’s Magazine. To my mind those letters + should never have been published. They were purely personal. They were + intended for one man’s eyes only, and he was not merely an editor but a + beloved and admired personal friend. Only to him and to W. E. Henley, as + editors, could I ever have emptied out my heart and brain; and, as may be + seen by these two letters, one written from London and the other from a + place near Southampton, I uncovered all my feelings, my hopes and my + ambitions concerning The Right of Way. Had I been asked permission to + publish them I should not have granted it. I may wear my heart upon my + sleeve for my friend, but not for the universe. + </p> + <p> + The most scathing thing ever said in literature was said by Robert + Buchanan on Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s verses—“He has wheeled his + nuptial bed into the street.” Looking at these letters I have a great + shrinking, for they were meant only for the eyes of an aged man for whom I + cared enough to let him see behind the curtain. But since they have been + printed, and without a “by your leave,” I will use one or two passages in + them to show in what mood, under what pressure of impulse, under what + mental and, maybe, spiritual hypnotism it was written. I first planned it + as a story of twenty-five thousand words, even as ‘Valmond’ was planned as + a story of five thousand words, and ‘A Ladder of Swords’ as a story of + twenty thousand words; but I had not written three chapters before I saw + what the destiny of the tale was to be. I had gone to Quebec to start the + thing in the atmosphere where Charley Steele belonged, and there it was + borne in upon me that it must be a three-decker novel, not a novelette. I + telegraphed to Harper & Brothers to ask them whether it would suit + them just as well if I made it into a long novel. They telegraphed their + assent at once; so I went on. At that time Mr. F. N. Doubleday was a sort + of director of Harper’s firm. To him I had told the tale in a railway + train, and he had carried me off at once to Henry M. Alden, to whom I also + told it, with the result that Harper’s Magazine was wide open to it, and + there in Quebec, soon after my interview with Mr. Alden and Mr. Doubleday, + the book was begun. + </p> + <p> + The first of the letters published in The House of Harper, however, was + apparently written immediately after my return to London when the novel + was well on its way. Evidently the first paragraph of the letter was an + apology for having suddenly announced the development of the book from a + long short story to a long novel; for I used these words: + </p> + <p> + “Yet if you really take an interest in the working of the human mind in + its relation to the vicissitudes of life, you will appreciate what I am + going to tell you, and will recognise that there is only stability in + evolution which the vulgar call chance.... Now, sir, perpend. Charley + Steele is going to be a novel of one hundred thousand words or one hundred + and twenty thousand—a real bang-up heartful of a novel.” + </p> + <p> + Then there follows the confidence of a friend to a friend. As I look at + the words I am not sorry that I wrote them. They were a part of me. They + were the inveterate truth, but I would not willingly have uncovered my + inner self to any except the man to whom the words were written. But here + is what I wrote: + </p> + <p> + “I am a bit of a fool over this book. It catches me at every tender corner + of my nature. It has aroused all the old ardent dreams of youth and + springtime puissance. I cannot lay it down, and I cannot shorten it, for + story, character, soul and reflection, imagination, observation are + dragging me along after them.... This novel will make me or break me—prove + me human and an artist, or an affected literary bore. If you want it you + must take the risk. But, my dear Alden, you will be investing in a man’s + heart—which may be a fortune or a folly. Why, I ought to have seen—and + far back in my brain I did see—that the character of Charley Steele + was a type, an idiosyncrasy of modern life, a resultant of forces all + round us, and that he would demand space in which to live and tell his + story to the world.... And behold with what joy I follow him, not only + lovingly but sternly and severely, noting him down as he really is, + condoning naught, forgiving naught, but above all else, understanding him—his + wilful mystification of the world, his shameless disdain of it, but the + old law of interrogation, of sad yet eager inquiry and wonder and ‘non + possumus’ with him to the end.” + </p> + <p> + This letter was evidently written in December, 1899, and the other went to + Mr. Alden on the 7th August, 1900; therefore, eight or nine months later. + The work had gone well. Week after week, month after month it had unfolded + itself with an almost unpardonable ease. Evidently, the very ease with + which the book was written troubled me, because I find that in this letter + of the 7th August, 1900, to Mr. Alden, I used these words: + </p> + <p> + “A kind of terror has seized me, and instead of sending a dozen more + chapters to you as I proposed to do, I am setting to to break this love + story anew under the stones of my most exacting criticism and troubled + regard. I go to bury myself at a solitary little seaside place” (it was + Mablethorpe in Lincolnshire), “there to live alone with Rosalie and + Charley, and if I do not know them hereafter, never ask me to write for + ‘Harper’s’ again.... This book has been written out of something vital in + me—I do not mean the religious part of it, I mean the humanity that + becomes one’s own and part of one’s self, by observation, experience, and + understanding got from dead years.” + </p> + <p> + Anyhow that shows the spirit in which the book was written, and there must + have been something in it that rang true, because not only did it have an + enormous sale and therefore a multitude of readers, but I received + hundreds of letters from people who in one way or another were deeply + interested in the story. + </p> + <p> + The majority of them were inquisitive letters. A great many of them said + that the writer had shared in controversy as to what the relations of + Charley and Rosalie were, and asked me to set for ever queries and + controversies at rest by declaring either that the relations of these two + were what, in the way of life’s stern conventions, they ought not to be, + or that Rosalie passed unscathed through the fire. I had foreseen all + this, though I could not have foreseen the passionately intense interest + which my readers would take in the life-story of these unhappy yet happy + people. I had, however, only one reply. It was that all I had meant to say + concerning Charley and Rosalie had been said in the book, to the last + word. All I had meant not to say would not be said after the book was + written. I asked them to take exactly the same view of Charley and Rosalie + as they would in real life regarding two human beings with whom they were + acquainted, and concerning whom, to their minds, there was sufficient + evidence, or not sufficient evidence, to come to a conclusion as to what + their relations were. I added that, as in real life we used our judgment + upon such things with a reasonable amount of accuracy, I asked them to + apply that judgment to Charley Steele and Rosalie Evanturel. They and + their story were there for eyes to see and read, and when I had ended my + manuscript in the year 1900 I had said the last word I ever meant to say + as to their history. The controversy therefore continues, for the book + still makes its appeal to an ever increasing congregation of new readers. + </p> + <p> + But another kind of letter came to me—the letter of some man who had + just such a struggle as Charley Steele, or whose father or brother or + friend had had such a struggle. Letters came from clergymen who had + preached concerning the book; from men who told me in brief their own life + problems and tragedies. These letters I prize; most of them had the real + thing in them, the human truth. + </p> + <p> + That the book drew wide attention to the Dominion of Canada, particularly + to French Canada, and crystallised something of the life of that dear + Province, was a deep pleasure to me; and I was glad that I had been able + to culminate my efforts to portray the life of the French-Canadian as I + saw it, by a book which arrested the attention of so comprehensive a + public. + </p> + <p> + I have seen many statements as to the original of Charley Steele, but I + have never seen a story which was true. Many people have told me that they + had seen the original of Charley Steele in an American lawyer. They knew + he was the original, because he himself had said so. The gentleman was + mistaken; I have never seen him. As with the purple cow, I never hope to + see him. Whoever he is or whatever he is, the original Charley was an + abler and a more striking man. I knew him as a boy, and he died while I + was yet a boy, taking with him, save in the memory of a few, a rare and + wonderful, if not wholly lovable personality. For over twenty years I had + carried him in my mind, wondering whether, and when, I should-make use of + him. Again and again I was tempted, but was never convinced that his time + had come; yet through all the years he was gaining strength, securing + possession of my mind, and gathering to him, magnet-like, the thousand + observations which my experience sent in his direction. In my mind his + life-story ended with his death at the Cote Dorion. For years and years I + saw his ending there. Yet it all seemed to me so futile, despite the + wonder of his personality, that I could make nothing of him, and though + always fascinated by his character I was held back from exploiting it, + because of the hopelessness of it all. It led nowhere. It was the ‘quid + refert’ of the philosopher, and I could not bring myself to get any + further than an interrogation mark at the end of a life which was all + scepticism, mind and matter, and nothing more. + </p> + <p> + There came a day, however, when that all ended, when the doors were flung + wide to a new conception of the man, and of what he might have become. I + was going to America, and I paid an angry and reluctant visit to my London + tailor thirty-six hours before I was to start. A suit of clothes had been + sent home which, after an effective trying-on, was a monstrosity. I went + straight to my tailor, put on the clothes and bade him look at them. He + was a great tailor-he saw exactly what I saw, and what I saw was bad; and + when a tailor will do that, you may be quite sure he is a good and a great + man. He said the clothes were as bad as they could be, but he added: “You + shall have them before you sail, and they shall be exactly as you want + them. I’ll have the foreman down.” He rang a bell. Presently the door + swung open and in stepped a man with an eyeglass in his eye. There, with a + look at once reflective and penetrating, with a figure at once slovenly + and alert, was a caricature of Charley Steele as I had known him, and of + all his characteristics. There was such a resemblance as an ugly child in + a family may have to his handsome brother. It was Charley Steele with a + twist—gone to seed. Looking at him in blank amazement, I burst out: + “Good heavens, so you didn’t die, Charley Steele! You became a tailor!” + </p> + <p> + All at once the whole new landscape of my story as it eventually became, + spread out before me. I was justified in waiting all the years. My + discontent with the futile end of the tale as I originally knew it and saw + it was justified. Charley Steele, brilliant, enigmatic and epigrammatic, + did not die at the Cote Dorion, but lived in that far valley by Dalgrothe + Mountain, and became a tailor! So far as I am concerned he became much + more. He was the beginning of a new epoch in my literary life. I had got + into subtler methods, reached more intimate understandings, had come to a + place where analysis of character had shaken itself free—but + certainly not quite free—from a natural yet rather dangerous + eloquence. + </p> + <p> + As a play The Right of Way, skilfully and sympathetically dramatised by + Mr. Eugene Presbery, has had a career extending over several years, and + still continues to make its appearance. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + NOTE + </h2> + <p> + It should not be assumed that the “Chaudiere” of this story is the real + Chaudiere of Quebec province. The name is characteristic, and for this + reason alone I have used it. + </p> + <p> + I must also apologise to my readers for appearing to disregard a statement + made in ‘The Lane that Had no Turning’, that that tale was the last I + should write about French Canada. In explanation I would say that ‘The + Lane that Had no Turning’ was written after the present book was finished. + G. F. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + THE RIGHT OF WAY + </h1> + <h3> + By Gilbert Parker + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “They had lived and loved, and walked and worked in their own way, + and the world went by them. Between them and it a great gulf was + fixed: and they met its every catastrophe with the Quid Refert? of + the philosophers.” + + “I want to talk with some old lover’s ghost, + Who lived before the god of love was born.” + + “There are, it may be, so many kinds of voices in the world, and + none of them is without signification.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. THE WAY TO THE VERDICT + </h2> + <h3> + “Not guilty, your Honour!” + </h3> + <p> + A hundred atmospheres had seemed pressing down on the fretted people in + the crowded court-room. As the discordant treble of the huge foreman of + the jury squeaked over the mass of gaping humanity, which had twitched at + skirts, drawn purposeless hands across prickling faces, and kept nervous + legs at a gallop, the smothering weights of elastic air lifted suddenly, a + great suspiration of relief swept through the place like a breeze, and in + a far corner of the gallery a woman laughed outright. + </p> + <p> + The judge looked up reprovingly at the gallery; the clerk of the court + angrily called “Silence!” towards the offending corner, and seven or eight + hundred eyes raced between three centres of interest—the judge, the + prisoner, and the prisoner’s counsel. Perhaps more people looked at the + prisoner’s counsel than at the prisoner, certainly far more than looked at + the judge. + </p> + <p> + Never was a verdict more unexpected. If a poll had been taken of the + judgment of the population twenty-four hours before, a great majority + would have been found believing that there was no escape for the prisoner, + who was accused of murdering a wealthy timber merchant. The minority would + have based their belief that the prisoner had a chance of escape, not on + his possible innocence, not on insufficient evidence, but on a curious + faith in the prisoner’s lawyer. This minority would not have been composed + of the friends of the lawyer alone, but of outside spectators, who, + because Charley Steele had never lost a criminal case, attached to him a + certain incapacity for bad luck; and of very young men, who looked upon + him as the perfect pattern of the person good to see and hard to + understand. + </p> + <p> + During the first two days of the trial the case had gone wholly against + the prisoner, who had given his name as Joseph Nadeau. Witnesses had heard + him quarrelling with the murdered man, and the next day the body of the + victim had been found by the roadside. The prisoner was a stranger in the + lumber-camp where the deed was done, and while there had been morose and + lived apart; no one knew him; and he refused to tell even his lawyer + whence he came, or what his origin, or to bring witnesses from his home to + speak for his character. + </p> + <p> + One by one the points had been made against him—with no perceptible + effect upon Charley Steele, who seemed the one cool, undisturbed person in + the courtroom. + </p> + <p> + Indifferent as he seemed, seldom speaking to the prisoner, often looking + out of the windows to the cool green trees far over on the hill, absorbed + and unbusinesslike, yet judge and jury came to see, before the second day + was done, that he had let no essential thing pass, that the questions he + asked had either a pregnant aptness, opened up new avenues of + deliberation, or were touched with mystery—seemed to have a longer + reach than the moment or the hour. + </p> + <p> + Before the end of this second day, however, more attention was upon him + than upon the prisoner, and nine-tenths of the people in the court-room + could have told how many fine linen handkerchiefs he used during the + afternoon, how many times he adjusted his monocle to look at the judge + meditatively. Probably no man, for eight hours a day, ever exasperated and + tried a judge, jury, and public, as did this man of twenty-nine years of + age, who had been known at college as Beauty Steele, and who was still so + spoken of familiarly; or was called as familiarly, Charley Steele, by + people who never had attempted to be familiar with him. + </p> + <p> + The second day of the trial had ended gloomily for the prisoner. The coil + of evidence had drawn so close that extrication seemed impossible. That + the evidence was circumstantial, that no sign of the crime was upon the + prisoner, that he was found sleeping quietly in his bed when he was + arrested, that he had not been seen to commit the deed, did not weigh in + the minds of the general public. The man’s guilt was freely believed; not + even the few who clung to the opinion that Charley Steele would yet get + him off thought that he was innocent. There seemed no flaw in the + evidence, once granted its circumstantiality. + </p> + <p> + During the last two hours of the sitting the prisoner had looked at his + counsel in despair, for he seemed perfunctorily conducting the case: was + occupied in sketching upon the blotting-pad before him, looking out of the + window, or turning his head occasionally towards a corner where sat a + half-dozen well-dressed ladies, and more particularly towards one lady who + watched him in a puzzled way—more than once with a look of + disappointment. Only at the very close of the sitting did he appear to + rouse himself. Then, for a brief ten minutes, he cross-examined a friend + of the murdered merchant in a fashion which startled the court-room, for + he suddenly brought out the fact that the dead man had once struck a woman + in the face in the open street. This fact, sharply stated by the + prisoner’s counsel, with no explanation and no comment, seemed uselessly + intrusive and malicious. His ironical smile merely irritated all + concerned. The thin, clean-shaven face of the prisoner grew more pinched + and downcast, and he turned almost pleadingly towards the judge. The judge + pulled his long side-whiskers nervously, and looked over his glasses in + severe annoyance, then hastily adjourned the sitting and left the bench, + while the prisoner saw with dismay his lawyer leave the court-room with + not even a glance towards him. + </p> + <p> + On the morning of the third day Charley Steele’s face, for the first time, + wore an expression which, by a stretch of imagination, might be called + anxious. He also took out his monocle frequently, rubbed it with his + handkerchief, and screwed it in again, staring straight before him much of + the time. But twice he spoke to the prisoner in a low voice, and was + hurriedly answered in French as crude as his own was perfect. When he + spoke, which was at rare intervals, his voice was without feeling, + concise, insistent, unappealing. It was as though the business before him + was wholly alien to him, as though he were held there against his will, + but would go on with his task bitterly to the bitter end. + </p> + <p> + The court adjourned for an hour at noon. During this time Charley refused + to see any one, but sat alone in his office with a few biscuits and an + ominous bottle before him, till the time came for him to go back to the + court-house. Arrived there he entered by a side door, and was not seen + until the court opened once more. + </p> + <p> + For two hours and a half the crown attorney mercilessly made out his case + against the prisoner. When he sat down, people glanced meaningly at each + other, as though the last word had been said, then looked at the prisoner, + as at one already condemned. + </p> + <p> + Yet Charley Steele was to reply. He was not now the same man that had + conducted the case during the past two days and a half. Some great change + had passed over him. There was no longer abstraction, indifference, or + apparent boredom, or disdain, or distant stare. He was human, intimate and + eager, yet concentrated and impelling: he was quietly, unnoticeably drunk. + </p> + <p> + He assured the prisoner with a glance of the eye, with a word scarce above + a whisper, as he slowly rose to make his speech for the defence. + </p> + <p> + His first words caused a new feeling in the courtroom. He was a new + presence; the personality had a changed significance. At first the public, + the jury, and the judge were curiously attracted, surprised into a fresh + interest. The voice had an insinuating quality, but it also had a measured + force, a subterranean insistence, a winning tactfulness. Withal, a logical + simplicity governed his argument. The flaneur, the poseur—if such he + was—no longer appeared. He came close to the jurymen, leaned his + hands upon the back of a chair—as it were, shut out the public, even + the judge, from his circle of interest—and talked in a + conversational tone. An air of confidence passed from him to the amazed + yet easily captivated jury; the distance between them, so gaping during + the last two days, closed suddenly up. The tension of the past + estrangement, relaxing all at once, surprised the jury into an almost + eager friendliness, as on a long voyage a sensitive traveller finds in + some exciting accident a natural introduction to an exclusive + fellow-passenger, whom he discovers as human as he had thought him + offensively distant. + </p> + <p> + Charley began by congratulating the crown attorney on his statement of the + case. He called it masterly; he said that in its presentations it was + irrefutable; as a precis of evidence purely circumstantial it was—useful + and interesting. But, speech-making aside, and ability—and rhetoric—aside, + and even personal conviction aside, the case should stand or fall by its + total, not its comparative, soundness. Since the evidence was purely + circumstantial, there must be no flaw in its cable of assumption, it must + be logically inviolate within itself. Starting with assumption only, there + must be no straying possibilities, no loose ends of certainty, no invading + alternatives. Was this so in the case of the man before them? They were + faced by a curious situation. So far as the trial was concerned, the + prisoner himself was the only person who could tell them who he was, what + was his past, and, if he committed the crime, what was—the motive of + it: out of what spirit—of revenge, or hatred—the dead man had + been sent to his account. Probably in the whole history of crime there + never was a more peculiar case. Even himself the prisoner’s counsel was + dealing with one whose life was hid from him previous to the day the + murdered man was discovered by the roadside. The prisoner had not sought + to prove an alibi; he had done no more than formally plead not guilty. + There was no material for defence save that offered by the prosecution. He + had undertaken the defence of the prisoner because it was his duty as a + lawyer to see that the law justified itself; that it satisfied every + demand of proof to the last atom of certainty; that it met the final + possibility of doubt with evidence perfect and inviolate if + circumstantial, and uncontradictory if eye-witness, if tell-tale incident, + were to furnish basis of proof. + </p> + <p> + Judge, jury, and public riveted their eyes upon Charley Steele. He had now + drawn a little farther away from the jury-box; his eye took in the judge + as well; once or twice he turned, as if appealingly and confidently, to + the people in the room. It was terribly hot, the air was sickeningly + close, every one seemed oppressed—every one save a lady sitting not + a score of feet from where the counsel for the prisoner stood. This lady’s + face was not one that could flush easily; it belonged to a temperament as + even as her person was symmetrically beautiful. As Charley talked, her + eyes were fixed steadily, wonderingly upon him. There was a question in + her gaze, which never in the course of the speech was quite absorbed by + the admiration—the intense admiration—she was feeling for him. + Once as he turned with a concentrated earnestness in her direction his + eyes met hers. The message he flashed her was sub-conscious, for his mind + never wavered an instant from the cause in hand, but it said to her: + </p> + <p> + “When this is over, Kathleen, I will come to you.” For another quarter of + an hour he exposed the fallacy of purely circumstantial evidence; he + raised in the minds of his hearers the painful responsibility of the law, + the awful tyranny of miscarriage of justice; he condemned prejudice + against a prisoner because that prisoner demanded that the law should + prove him guilty instead of his proving himself innocent. If a man chose + to stand to that, to sternly assume this perilous position, the law had no + right to take advantage of it. He turned towards the prisoner and traced + his possible history: as the sensitive, intelligent son of godly Catholic + parents from some remote parish in French Canada. He drew an imaginary + picture of the home from which he might have come, and of the parents and + brothers and sisters who would have lived weeks of torture knowing that + their son and brother was being tried for his life. It might at first + glance seem quixotic, eccentric, but was it unnatural that the prisoner + should choose silence as to his origin and home, rather than have his + family and friends face the undoubted peril lying before him? Besides, + though his past life might have been wholly blameless, it would not be + evidence in his favour. It might, indeed, if it had not been blameless, + provide some element of unjust suspicion against him, furnish some fancied + motive. The prisoner had chosen his path, and events had so far justified + him. It must be clear to the minds of judge and jury that there were + fatally weak places in the circumstantial evidence offered for the + conviction of this man. + </p> + <p> + There was the fact that no sign of the crime, no drop of blood, no weapon, + was found about him or near him, and that he was peacefully sleeping at + the moment the constable arrested him. + </p> + <p> + There was also the fact that no motive for the crime had been shown. It + was not enough that he and the dead man had been heard quarrelling. Was + there any certainty that it was a quarrel, since no word or sentence of + the conversation had been brought into court? Men with quick tempers might + quarrel over trivial things, but exasperation did not always end in bodily + injury and the taking of life; imprecations were not so uncommon that they + could be taken as evidence of wilful murder. The prisoner refused to say + what that troubled conversation was about, but who could question his + right to take the risk of his silence being misunderstood? + </p> + <p> + The judge was alternately taking notes and looking fixedly at the + prisoner; the jury were in various attitudes of strained attention; the + public sat open mouthed; and up in the gallery a woman with white face and + clinched hands listened moveless and staring. Charley Steele was holding + captive the emotions and the judgments of his hearers. All antipathy had + gone; there was a strange eager intimacy between the jurymen and himself. + People no longer looked with distant dislike at the prisoner, but began to + see innocence in his grim silence, disdain only in his surly defiance. + </p> + <p> + But Charley Steele had preserved his great stroke for the psychological + moment. He suddenly launched upon them the fact, brought out in evidence, + that the dead man had struck a woman in the face a year ago; also that he + had kept a factory girl in affluence for two years. Here was motive for + murder—if motive were to govern them—far greater than might be + suggested by excited conversation which listeners who could not hear a + word construed into a quarrel—listeners who bore the prisoner at the + bar ill-will because he shunned them while in the lumber-camp. If the + prisoner was to be hanged for motive untraceable, why should not these two + women be hanged for motive traceable! + </p> + <p> + Here was his chance. He appeared to impeach subtly every intelligence in + the room for having had any preconviction about the prisoner’s guilt. He + compelled the jury to feel that they, with him, had made the discovery of + the unsound character of the evidence. The man might be guilty, but their + personal guilt, the guilt of the law, would be far greater if they + condemned the man on violable evidence. With a last simple appeal, his + hands resting on the railing before the seat where the jury sat, his voice + low and conversational again, his eyes running down the line of faces of + the men who had his client’s life in their hands, he said: + </p> + <p> + “It is not a life only that is at stake, it is not revenge for a life + snatched from the busy world by a brutal hand that we should heed to-day, + but the awful responsibility of that thing we call the State, which, + having the power of life and death without gainsay or hindrance, should + prove to the last inch of necessity its right to take a human life. And + the right and the reason should bring conviction to every honest human + mind. That is all I have to say.” + </p> + <p> + The crown attorney made a perfunctory reply. The judge’s charge was brief, + and, if anything, a little in favour of the prisoner—very little, a + casuist’s little; and the jury filed out of the room. They were gone but + ten minutes. When they returned, the verdict was given: “Not guilty, your + Honour!” + </p> + <p> + Then it was that a woman laughed in the gallery. Then a whispering voice + said across the railing which separated the public from the lawyers: + “Charley! Charley!” + </p> + <p> + Though Charley turned and looked at the lady who spoke, he made no + response. + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later, outside the court, as he walked quickly away, again + inscrutable and debonair, the prisoner, Joseph Nadeau, touched him on the + arm and said: + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’, M’sieu’, you have saved my life—I thank you, M’sieu’!” + </p> + <p> + Charley Steele drew his arm away with disgust. “Get out of my sight! + You’re as guilty as hell!” he said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. WHAT CAME OF THE TRIAL + </h2> + <p> + “When this is over, Kathleen, I will come to you.” So Charley Steele’s + eyes had said to a lady in the court room on that last day of the great + trial. The lady had left the court-room dazed and exalted. She, with + hundreds of others, had had a revelation of Charley Steele; had had also + the great emotional experience of seeing a crowd make the ‘volte face’ + with their convictions; looking at a prisoner one moment with eyes of + loathing and anticipating his gruesome end, the next moment seeing him as + the possible martyr to the machinery of the law. She whose heart was used + to beat so evenly had felt it leap and swell with excitement, awaiting the + moment when the jury filed back into the court-room. Then it stood still, + as a wave might hang for an instant at its crest ere it swept down to beat + upon the shore. + </p> + <p> + With her as with most present, the deepest feeling in the agitated + suspense was not so much that the prisoner should go free, as that the + prisoner’s counsel should win his case. It was as if Charley Steele were + on trial instead of the prisoner. He was the imminent figure; it was his + fate that was in the balance—such was the antic irony of suggestion. + And the truth was, that the fates of both prisoner and counsel had been + weighed in the balance that sweltering August day. + </p> + <p> + The prisoner was forgotten almost as soon as he had left the court-room a + free man, but wherever men and women met in Montreal that day, one name + was on the lips of all-Charley Steele! In his speech he had done two + things: he had thrown down every barrier of reserve—or so it seemed—and + had become human and intimate. “I could not have believed it of him,” was + the remark on every lip. Of his ability there never had been a moment’s + doubt, but it had ever been an uncomfortable ability, it had tortured foes + and made friends anxious. No one had ever seen him show feeling. If it was + a mask, he had worn it with a curious consistency: it had been with him as + a child, at school, at college, and he had brought it back again to the + town where he was born. It had effectually prevented his being popular, + but it had made him—with his foppishness and his originality—an + object of perpetual interest. Few men had ventured to cross swords with + him. He left his fellow-citizens very much alone. He was uniformly if + distantly courteous, and he was respected in his own profession for his + uncommon powers and for an utter indifference as to whether he had cases + in court or not. + </p> + <p> + Coming from the judge’s chambers after the trial he went to his office, + receiving as he passed congratulations more effusively offered than, as + people presently found, his manner warranted. + </p> + <p> + For he was again the formal, masked Charley Steele, looking calmly through + the interrogative eye-glass. By the time he reached his office, greetings + became more subdued. His prestige had increased immensely in a few short + hours, but he had no more friends than before. Old relations were soon + re-established. The town was proud of his ability as it had always been, + irritated by his manner as it had always been, more prophetic of his + future than it had ever been, and unconsciously grateful for the fact that + he had given them a sensation which would outlast the summer. + </p> + <p> + All these things concerned him little. Once the business of the court-room + was over, a thought which had quietly lain in waiting behind the strenuous + occupations of his brain leaped forward to exclude all others. + </p> + <p> + As he entered his office he was thinking of that girl’s face in the + court-room, with its flush of added beauty which he and his speech had + brought there. “What a perfect loveliness!” he said to himself as he + bathed his face and hands, and prepared to go into the street again. “She + needed just such a flush to make her supreme Kathleen!” He stood, looking + out into the square, out into the green of the trees where the birds + twittered. “Faultless—faultless in form and feature. She was so as a + child, she is so as a woman.” He lighted a cigarette, and blew away little + clouds of smoke. “I will do it. I will marry her. She will have me: I saw + it in her eye. Fairing doesn’t matter. Her uncle will never consent to + that, and she doesn’t care enough for him. She cares, but she doesn’t care + enough.... I will do it.” + </p> + <p> + He turned towards a cupboard into which he had put a certain bottle before + he went to the court-room two hours before. He put the key in the lock, + then stopped. “No, I think not!” he said. “What I say to her shall not be + said forensically. What a discovery I’ve made! I was dull, blank, all iron + and ice; the judge, the jury, the public, even Kathleen, against me; and + then that bottle in there—and I saw things like crystal! I had a + glow in my brain, I had a tingle in my fingers; and I had success, and”—his + face clouded—“He was as guilty as hell!” he added, almost bitterly, + as he put the key of the cupboard into his pocket again. + </p> + <p> + There was a knock at the door, and a youth of about nineteen entered. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” he said. “I say, sir, but that speech of yours struck us all + where we couldn’t say no. Even Kathleen got in a glow over it. Perhaps + Captain Fairing didn’t, for he’s just left her in a huff, and she’s + looking—you remember those lines in the school-book: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘A red spot burned upon her cheek, + Streamed her rich tresses down—‘” + </pre> + <p> + He laughed gaily. “I’ve come to ask you up to tea,” he added. “The + Unclekins is there. When I told him that Kathleen had sent Fairing away + with a flea in his ear, he nearly fell off his chair. He lent me twenty + dollars on the spot. Are you coming our way?” he continued, suddenly + trying to imitate Charley’s manner. Charley nodded, and they left the + office together and moved away under a long avenue of maples to where, in + the shade of a high hill, was the house of the uncle of Kathleen Wantage, + with whom she and her brother Billy lived. They walked in silence for some + time, and at last Billy said, ‘a propos’ of nothing: + </p> + <p> + “Fairing hasn’t a red cent.” + </p> + <p> + “You have a perambulating mind, Billy,” said Charley, and bowed to a young + clergyman approaching them from the opposite direction. + </p> + <p> + “What does that mean?” remarked Billy, and said “Hello!” to the young + clergyman, and did not wait for Charley’s answer. + </p> + <p> + The Rev. John Brown was by no means a conventional parson. He was smoking + a cigarette, and two dogs followed at his heels. He was certainly not a + fogy. He had more than a little admiration for Charley Steele, but he + found it difficult to preach when Charley was in the congregation. He was + always aware of a subterranean and half-pitying criticism going on in the + barrister’s mind. John Brown knew that he could never match his + intelligence against Charley’s, in spite of the theological course at + Durham, so he undertook to scotch the snake by kindness. He thought that + he might be able to do this, because Charley, who was known to be frankly + agnostical, came to his church more or less regularly. + </p> + <p> + The Rev. John Brown was not indifferent to what men thought of him. He had + a reputation for being “independent,” but his chief independence consisted + in dressing a little like a layman, posing as the athletic parson of the + new school, consorting with ministers of the dissenting denominations when + it was sufficiently effective, and being a “good fellow” with men easily + bored by church and churchmen. He preached theatrical sermons to societies + and benevolent associations. He wanted to be thought well of on all hands, + and he was shrewd enough to know that if he trimmed between ritualism on + one hand and evangelicism on the other, he was on a safe road. He might + perforate old dogmatical prejudices with a good deal of freedom so long as + he did not begin bringing “millinery” into the service of the church. He + invested his own personal habits with the millinery. He looked a + picturesque figure with his blond moustache, a little silk-lined brown + cloak thrown carelessly over his shoulder, a gold-headed cane, and a brisk + jacket half ecclesiastical, half military. + </p> + <p> + He had interested Charley Steele, also he had amused him, and sometimes he + had surprised him into a sort of admiration; for Brown had a temperament + capable of little inspirations—such a literary inspiration as might + come to a second-rate actor—and Charley never belittled any man’s + ability, but seized upon every sign of knowledge with the appreciation of + the epicure. + </p> + <p> + John Brown raised his hat to Charley, then held out a hand. + “Masterly-masterly!” he said. “Permit my congratulations. It was the one + thing to do. You couldn’t have saved him by making him an object of pity, + by appealing to our sympathies.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you take to be the secret, then?” asked Charley, with a look half + abstracted, half quizzical. “Terror—sheer terror. You startled the + conscience. You made defects in the circumstantial evidence, the imminent + problems of our own salvation. You put us all on trial. We were under the + lash of fear. If we parsons could only do that from the pulpit!” + </p> + <p> + “We will discuss that on our shooting-trip next week. Duck-shooting gives + plenty of time for theological asides. You are coming, eh?” + </p> + <p> + John Brown scarcely noticed the sarcasm, he was so delighted at the + suggestion that he was to be included in the annual duck-shoot of the + Seven, as the little yearly party of Charley and his friends to Lake + Aubergine was called. He had angled for this invitation for two years. + </p> + <p> + “I must not keep you,” Charley said, and dismissed him with a bow. “The + sheep will stray, and the shepherd must use his crook.” + </p> + <p> + Brown smiled at the badinage, and went on his way rejoicing in the fact + that he was to share the amusements of the Seven at Lake Aubergine—the + Lake of the Mad Apple. To get hold of these seven men of repute and + position, to be admitted into this good presence!—He had a pious + exaltation, but whether it was because he might gather into the fold + erratic and agnostical sheep like Charley Steele, or because it pleased + his social ambitions, he had occasion to answer in the future. He gaily + prepared to go to the Lake of the Mad Apple, where he was fated to eat of + the tree of knowledge. + </p> + <p> + Charley Steele and Billy Wantage walked on slowly to the house under the + hill. + </p> + <p> + “He’s the right sort,” said Billy. “He’s a sport. I can stand that kind. + Did you ever hear him sing? No? Well, he can sing a comic song fit to make + you die. I can sing a bit myself, but to hear him sing ‘The Man Who + Couldn’t Get Warm’ is a show in itself. He can play the banjo too, and the + guitar—but he’s best on the banjo. It’s worth a dollar to listen to + his Epha-haam—that’s Ephraim, you know—Ephahaam Come Home,’ + and ‘I Found Y’ in de Honeysuckle Paitch.’” + </p> + <p> + “He preaches, too!” said Charley drily. + </p> + <p> + They had reached the door of the house under the hill, and Billy had no + time for further remark. He ran into the drawing-room, announcing Charley + with the words: “I say, Kathleen, I’ve brought the man that made the judge + sit up.” + </p> + <p> + Billy suddenly stopped, however, for there sat the judge who had tried the + case, calmly munching a piece of toast. The judge did not allow himself + the luxury of embarrassment, but bowed to Charley with a smile, which he + presently turned on Kathleen, who came as near being disconcerted as she + had ever been in her life. + </p> + <p> + Kathleen had passed through a good deal to look so unflurried. She had + been on trial in the court-room as well as the prisoner. Important things + had been at stake with her. She and Charley Steele had known each other + since they were children. To her, even in childhood, he had been a + dominant figure. He had judicially and admiringly told her she was + beautiful—when he was twelve and she five. But he had said it + without any of those glances which usually accompanied the same sentiments + in the mouths of other lads. He had never made boy-love to her, and she + had thrilled at the praise of less splendid people than Charley Steele. He + had always piqued her, he was so superior to the ordinary enchantments of + youth, beauty, and fine linen. + </p> + <p> + As he came and went, growing older and more characteristic, more and more + “Beauty Steele,” accompanied by legends of wild deeds and days at college, + by tales of his fopperies and the fashions he had set, she herself had + grown, as he had termed it, more “decorative.” He had told her so, not in + the least patronisingly, but as a simple fact in which no sentiment + lurked. He thought her the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, but he + had never regarded her save as a creation for the perfect pleasure of the + eye; he thought her the concrete glory of sensuous purity, no more capable + of sentiment than himself. He had said again and again, as he grew older + and left college and began the business of life after two years in Europe, + that sentiment would spoil her, would scatter the charm of her perfect + beauty; it would vitalise her too much, and her nature would lose its + proportion; she would be decentralised! She had been piqued at his + indifference to sentiment; she could not easily be content without + worship, though she felt none. This pique had grown until Captain Tom + Fairing crossed her path. + </p> + <p> + Fairing was the antithesis of Charley Steele. Handsome, poor, + enthusiastic, and none too able, he was simple and straightforward, and + might be depended on till the end of the chapter. And the end of it was, + that in so far as she had ever felt real sentiment for anybody, she felt + it for Tom Fairing of the Royal Fusileers. It was not love she felt in the + old, in the big, in the noble sense, but it had behind it selection and + instinct and natural gravitation. + </p> + <p> + Fairing declared his love. She would give him no answer. For as soon as + she was presented with the issue, the destiny, she began to look round her + anxiously. The first person to fill the perspective was Charley Steele. As + her mind dwelt on him, her uncle gave forth his judgment, that she should + never have a penny if she married Tom Fairing. This only irritated her, it + did not influence her. But there was Charley. He was a figure, was already + noted in his profession because of a few masterly successes in criminal + cases, and if he was not popular, he was distinguished, and the world + would talk about him to the end. He was handsome, and he was well-to-do-he + had a big unoccupied house on the hill among the maples. How many people + had said, What a couple they would make-Charley Steele and Kathleen + Wantage! + </p> + <p> + So, as Fairing presented an issue to her, she concentrated her thoughts as + she had never done before on the man whom the world set apart for her, in + a way the world has. + </p> + <p> + As she looked and looked, Charley began to look also. He had not been + enamoured of the sordid things of the world; he had been merely curious. + He thought vice was ugly; he had imagination and a sense of form. Kathleen + was beautiful. Sentiment had, so he thought, never seriously disturbed + her; he did not think it ever would. It had not affected him. He did not + understand it. He had been born non-intime. He had had acquaintances, but + never friendships, and never loves or love. But he had a fine sense of the + fitting and the proportionate, and he worshipped beauty in so far as he + could worship anything. The homage was cerebral, intellectual, + temperamental, not of the heart. As he looked out upon the world half + pityingly, half ironically, he was struck with wonder at the disproportion + which was engendered by “having heart,” as it was called. He did not find + it necessary. + </p> + <p> + Now that he had begun to think of marriage, who so suitable as Kathleen? + He knew of Fairing’s adoration, but he took it as a matter of course that + she had nothing to give of the same sort in return. Her beauty was still + serene and unimpaired. He would not spoil it by the tortures of emotion. + He would try to make Kathleen’s heart beat in harmony with his own; it + should not thunder out of time. He had made up his mind that he would + marry her. + </p> + <p> + For Kathleen, with the great trial, the beginning of the end had come. + Charley’s power over her was subtle, finely sensuous, and, in deciding, + there were no mere heart-impulses working for Charley. Instinct and + impulse were working in another direction. She had not committed her mind + to either man, though her heart, to a point, was committed to Fairing. + </p> + <p> + On the day of the trial, however, she fell wholly under that influence + which had swayed judge, jury, and public. To her the verdict of the jury + was not in favour of the prisoner at the bar—she did not think of + him. It was in favour of Charley Steele. + </p> + <p> + And so, indifferent as to who heard, over the heads of the people in front + of her, to the accused’s counsel inside the railings, she had called, + softly: “Charley! Charley!” + </p> + <p> + Now, in the house under the hill, they were face to face, and the end was + at hand: the end of something and the beginning of something. + </p> + <p> + There was a few moments of casual conversation, in which Billy talked as + much as anybody, and then Kathleen said: + </p> + <p> + “What do you suppose was the man’s motive for committing the murder?” + </p> + <p> + Charley looked at Kathleen steadily, curiously, through his monocle. It + was a singular compliment she paid him. Her remark took no heed of the + verdict of the jury. He turned inquiringly towards the judge, who, though + slightly shocked by the question, recovered himself quickly. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think it was, sir?” Charley asked quietly. + </p> + <p> + “A woman—and revenge, perhaps,” answered the judge, with a + matter-of-course air. + </p> + <p> + A few moments afterwards the judge was carried off by Kathleen’s uncle to + see some rare old books; Billy, his work being done, vanished; and + Kathleen and Charley were left alone. + </p> + <p> + “You did not answer me in the court-room,” Kathleen said. “I called to + you.” + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to hear you say them here,” he rejoined. “Say what?” she asked, + a little puzzled by the tone of his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Your congratulations,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + She held out a hand to him. “I offer them now. It was wonderful. You were + inspired. I did not think you could ever let yourself go.” + </p> + <p> + He held her hand firmly. “I promise not to do it again,” he said + whimsically. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Have I not your congratulations?” His hand drew her slightly towards him; + she rose to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “That is no reason,” she answered, confused, yet feeling that there was a + double meaning in his words. + </p> + <p> + “I could not allow you to be so vain,” he said. “We must be companionable. + Henceforth I shall congratulate myself—Kathleen.” + </p> + <p> + There was no mistaking now. “Oh, what is it you are going to say to me?” + she asked, yet not disengaging her hand. + </p> + <p> + “I said it all in the court-room,” he rejoined; “and you heard.” + </p> + <p> + “You want me to marry you—Charley?” she asked frankly. + </p> + <p> + “If you think there is no just impediment,” he answered, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + She drew her hand away, and for a moment there was a struggle in her mind—or + heart. He knew of what she was thinking, and he did not consider it of + serious consequence. Romance was a trivial thing, and women were prone to + become absorbed in trivialities. When the woman had no brains, she might + break her life upon a trifle. But Kathleen had an even mind, a serene + temperament. Her nerves were daily cooled in a bath of nature’s perfect + health. She had never had an hour’s illness in her life. + </p> + <p> + “There is no just or unjust impediment, Kathleen,” he added presently, and + took her hand again. + </p> + <p> + She looked him in the eyes clearly. “You really think so?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I know so,” he answered. “We shall be two perfect panels in one picture + of life.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. AFTER FIVE YEARS + </h2> + <h3> + “You have forgotten me?” + </h3> + <p> + Charley Steele’s glance was serenely non-committal as he answered drily: + </p> + <p> + “I cannot remember doing so.” + </p> + <p> + The other man’s eyelids drew down with a look of anger, then the humour of + the impertinence worked upon him, and he gave a nervous little laugh and + said: “I am John Brown.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’m sure my memory is not at fault,” remarked Charley, with an + outstretched hand. “My dear Brown! Still preaching little sermons?” + </p> + <p> + “Do I look it?” There was a curious glitter in John Brown’s eyes. “I’m not + preaching little sermons, and you know it well enough.” He laughed, but it + was a hard sort of mirth. “Perhaps you forgot to remember that, though,” + he sneeringly added. “It was the work of your hands.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s why I should remember to forget it—I am the child of + modesty.” Charley touched the corners of his mouth with his tongue, as + though his lips were dry, and his eyes wandered to a saloon a little + farther down the street. + </p> + <p> + “Modesty is your curse,” rejoined Brown mockingly. + </p> + <p> + “Once when you preached at me you said that beauty was my curse.” Charley + laughed a curt, distant little laugh which was no more the spontaneous + humour lying for ever behind his thoughts than his eye-glass was the real + sight of his eyes, though since childhood this laugh and his eye-glass + were as natural to all expression of himself as John Brown’s outward and + showy frankness did not come from the real John Brown. + </p> + <p> + John Brown looked him up and down quickly, then fastened his eyes on the + ruddy cheeks of his old friend. “Do they call you Beauty now as they used + to?” he asked, rather insolently. + </p> + <p> + “No. They only say, ‘There goes Charley Steele!’” The tongue again touched + the corners of the mouth, and the eyes wandered to the doorway down the + street, over which was written in French: “Jean Jolicoeur, Licensed to + sell wine, beer, and other spirituous and fermented liquors.” + </p> + <p> + Just then an archdeacon of the cathedral passed them, bowed gravely to + Charley, glanced at John Brown, turned colour slightly, and then with a + cold stare passed on too quickly for dignity. + </p> + <p> + “I’m thinking of Bunyan,” said the aforetime friend of Charley Steele. + “I’ll paraphrase him and say: ‘There, but for beauty and a monocle, walks + John Brown.’” + </p> + <p> + Under the bitter sarcasm of the man, who, five years ago, had gone down at + last beneath his agnostic raillery, Charley’s blue eye did not waver, not + a nerve stirred in his face, as he replied: “Who knows!” + </p> + <p> + “That was what you always said—who knows! That did for John Brown.” + </p> + <p> + Charley seemed not to hear the remark. “What are you doing now?” he asked, + looking steadily at the face whence had gone all the warmth of manhood, + all that courage of life which keeps men young. The lean parchment visage + had the hunted look of the incorrigible failure, had written on it + self-indulgence, cunning, and uncertainty. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing much,” John Brown replied. + </p> + <p> + “What last?” + </p> + <p> + “Floated an arsenic-mine on Lake Superior.” + </p> + <p> + “Failed?” + </p> + <p> + “More or less. There are hopes yet. I’ve kept the wolf from the door.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t know—nothing, perhaps; I’ve not the courage I had.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d have thought you might find arsenic a good thing,” said Charley, + holding out a silver cigarette-case, his eyes turning slowly from the + startled, gloomy face of the man before him, to the cool darkness beyond + the open doorway of that saloon on the other side of the street. + </p> + <p> + John Brown shivered—there was something so cold-blooded in the + suggestion that he might have found arsenic a good thing. The metallic + glare of Charley’s eye-glass seemed to give an added cruelty to the words. + Charley’s monocle was the token of what was behind his blue eye-one + ceaseless interrogation. It was that everlasting questioning, the + ceaseless who knows! which had in the end unsettled John Brown’s mind, and + driven him at last from the church and the possible gaiters of a dean into + the rough business of life, where he had been a failure. Yet as Brown + looked at Charley the old fascination came on him with a rush. His hand + suddenly caught Charley’s as he took a cigarette, and he said: “Perhaps + I’ll find arsenic a good thing yet.” + </p> + <p> + For reply Charley laid a hand on his arm-turned him towards the shade of + the houses opposite. Without a word they crossed the street, entered the + saloon, and passed to a little back room, Charley giving an unsympathetic + stare to some men at the bar who seemed inclined to speak to him. + </p> + <p> + As the two passed into the small back room with the frosted door, one of + the strangers said to the other: “What does he come here for, if he’s too + proud to speak! What’s a saloon for! I’d like to smash that eye-glass for + him!” + </p> + <p> + “He’s going down-hill fast,” said the other. “He drinks steady—steady.” + </p> + <p> + “Tiens—tiens!” interposed Jean Jolicoeur, the landlord. “It is not + harm to him. He drink all day, an’ he walk a crack like a bee-line.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s got the handsomest wife in this city. If I was him, I’d think more + of myself,” answered the Englishman. + </p> + <p> + “How you think more—hein? You not come down more to my saloon?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I wouldn’t come to your saloon, and I wouldn’t go to Theophile + Charlemagne’s shebang at the Cote Dorion.” + </p> + <p> + “You not like Charlemagne’s hotel?” said a huge black-bearded pilot, + standing beside the landlord. “Oh, I like Charlemagne’s hotel, and I like + to talk to Suzon Charlemagne, but I’m not married, Rouge Gosselin—” + </p> + <p> + “If he go to Charlemagne’s hotel, and talk some more too mooch to dat + Suzon Charlemagne, he will lose dat glass out of his eye,” interrupted + Rouge Gosselin. + </p> + <p> + “Who say he been at dat place?” said Jean Jolicoeur. “He bin dere four + times las’ month, and dat Suzon Charlemagne talk’bout him ever since. When + dat Narcisse Bovin and Jacques Gravel come down de river, he better keep + away from dat Cote Dorion,” sputtered Rouge Gosselin. “Dat’s a long story + short, all de same for you—bagosh!” + </p> + <p> + Rouge Gosselin flung off his glass of white whiskey, and threw after it a + glass of cold water. + </p> + <p> + “Tiens! you know not M’sieu’ Charley Steele,” said Jean Jolicoeur, and + turned on his heel, nodding his head sagely. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. CHARLEY MAKES A DISCOVERY + </h2> + <p> + A hot day a month later Charley Steele sat in his office staring before + him into space, and negligently smoking a cigarette. Outside there was a + slow clacking of wheels, and a newsboy was crying “La Patrie! La Patrie! + All about the War in France! All about the massacree!” Bells—wedding-bells—were + ringing also, and the jubilant sounds, like the call of the newsboy, were + out of accord with the slumberous feeling of the afternoon. Charley Steele + turned his head slowly towards the window. The branches of a maple-tree + half crossed it, and the leaves moved softly in the shadow they made. His + eye went past the tree and swam into the tremulous white heat of the + square, and beyond to where in the church-tower the bells were ringing-to + the church doors, from which gaily dressed folk were issuing to the + carriages, or thronged the pavement, waiting for the bride and groom to + come forth into a new-created world—for them. + </p> + <p> + Charley looked through his monocle at the crowd reflectively, his head + held a little to one side in a questioning sort of way, on his lips the + ghost of a smile—not a reassuring smile. Presently he leaned forward + slightly and the monocle dropped from his eye. He fumbled for it, raised + it, blew on it, rubbed it with his handkerchief, and screwed it carefully + into his eye again, his rather bushy brow gathering over it strongly, his + look sharpened to more active thought. He stared straight across the + square at a figure in heliotrope, whose face was turned to a man in + scarlet uniform taller than herself two glowing figures towards whom many + other eyes than his own were directed, some curiously, some disdain fully, + some sadly. But Charley did not see the faces of those who looked on; he + only saw two people—one in heliotrope, one in scarlet. + </p> + <p> + Presently his white firm hand went up and ran through his hair nervously, + his comely figure settled down in the chair, his tongue touched the + corners of his red lips, and his eyes withdrew from the woman in + heliotrope and the man in scarlet, and loitered among the leaves of the + tree at the window. The softness of the green, the cool health of the + foliage, changed the look of his eye from something cold and curious to + something companionable, and scarcely above a whisper two words came from + his lips: + </p> + <p> + “Kathleen! Kathleen!” + </p> + <p> + By the mere sound of the voice it would have been hard to tell what the + words meant, for it had an inquiring cadence and yet a kind of distant + doubt, a vague anxiety. The face conveyed nothing—it was smooth, + fresh, and immobile. The only point where the mind and meaning of the man + worked according to the law of his life was at the eye, where the monocle + was caught now as in a vise. Behind this glass there was a troubled depth + which belied the self-indulgent mouth, the egotism speaking loudly in the + red tie, the jewelled finger, the ostentatiously simple yet sumptuous + clothes. + </p> + <p> + At last he drew in a sharp, sibilant breath, clicked his tongue—a + sound of devil-may-care and hopelessness at once—and turned to a + little cupboard behind him. The chair squeaked on the floor as he turned, + and he frowned, shivered a little, and kicked it irritably with his heel. + </p> + <p> + From the cupboard he took a bottle of liqueur, and, pouring out a small + glassful, drank it off eagerly. As he put the bottle away, he said again, + in an abstracted fashion, “Kathleen!” + </p> + <p> + Then, seating himself at the table, as if with an effort towards energy, + he rang a bell. A clerk entered. “Ask Mr. Wantage to come for a moment,” + he said. “Mr. Wantage has gone to the church—to the wedding,” was + the reply. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very well. He will be in again this afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure to, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Just so. That will do.” + </p> + <p> + The clerk retired, and Charley, rising, unlocked a drawer, and taking out + some books and papers, laid them on the table. Intently, carefully, he + began to examine them, referring at the same time to a letter which had + lain open at his hand while he had been sitting there. For a quarter of an + hour he studied the books and papers, then, all at once, his fingers + fastened on a point and stayed. Again he read the letter lying beside him. + A flush crimsoned his face to his hair—a singular flush of shame, of + embarrassment, of guilt—a guilt not his own. His breath caught in + his throat. + </p> + <p> + “Billy!” he gasped. “Billy, by God!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. THE WOMAN IN HELIOTROPE + </h2> + <p> + The flush was still on Charley’s face when the door opened slowly, and a + lady dressed in heliotrope silk entered, and came forward. Without a word + Charley rose, and, taking a step towards her, offered a chair; at the same + time noticing her heightened colour, and a certain rigid carriage not in + keeping with her lithe and graceful figure. There was no mistaking the + quiver of her upper lip—a short lip which did not hide a wonderfully + pretty set of teeth. + </p> + <p> + With a wave of the hand she declined the seat. Glancing at the books and + papers lying on the table, she flashed an inquiry at his flushed face, + and, misreading the cause, with slow, quiet point, in which bitterness or + contempt showed, she said meaningly: + </p> + <p> + “What a slave you are!” + </p> + <p> + “Behold the white man work!” he said good-naturedly, the flush passing + slowly from his face. With apparent negligence he pushed the letter and + the books and papers a little to one side, but really to place them beyond + the range of her angry eyes. She shrugged her shoulders at his action. + </p> + <p> + “For ‘the fatherless children and widows, and all that are desolate and + oppressed?’” she said, not concealing her malice, for at the wedding she + had just left all her married life had rushed before her in a swift + panorama, and the man in scarlet had fixed the shooting pictures in her + mind. + </p> + <p> + Again a flush swept up Charley’s face and seemed to blur his sight. His + monocle dropped the length of its silken tether, and he caught it and + slowly adjusted it again as he replied evenly: + </p> + <p> + “You always hit the nail on the head, Kathleen.” There was a kind of + appeal in his voice, a sort of deprecation in his eye, as though he would + be friends with her, as though, indeed, there was in his mind some secret + pity for her. + </p> + <p> + Her look at his face was critical and cold. It was plain that she was not + prepared for any extra friendliness on his part—there seemed no + reason why he should add to his usual courtesy a note of sympathy to the + sound of her name on his lips. He had not fastened the door of the + cupboard from which he had taken the liqueur, and it had swung open a + little, disclosing the bottle and the glass. She saw. Her face took on a + look of quiet hardness. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you not come to the wedding? She was your cousin. People asked + where you were. You knew I was going.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you need me?” he asked quietly, and his eyes involuntarily swept to + the place where he had seen the heliotrope and scarlet make a glow of + colour on the other side of the square. “You were not alone.” + </p> + <p> + She misunderstood him. Her mind had been overwrought, and she caught + insinuation in his voice. “You mean Tom Fairing!” Her eyes blazed. “You + are quite right—I did not need you. Tom Fairing is a man that all + the world trusts save you.” + </p> + <p> + “Kathleen!” The words were almost a cry. “For God’s sake! I have never + thought of ‘trusting’ men where you are concerned. I believe in no man”—his + voice had a sharp bitterness, though his face was smooth and unemotional—“but + I trust you, and believe in you. Yes, upon my soul and honour, Kathleen.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke she turned quickly and stepped towards the window, an + involuntary movement of agitation. He had touched a chord. But even as she + reached the window and glanced down to the hot, dusty street, she heard a + loud voice below, a reckless, ribald sort of voice, calling to some one + to, “Come and have a drink.” + </p> + <p> + “Billy!” she said involuntarily, and looked down, then shrank back + quickly. She turned swiftly on her husband. “Your soul and honour, + Charley!” she said slowly. “Look at what you’ve made of Billy! Look at the + company he keeps—John Brown, who hasn’t even decency enough to keep + away from the place he disgraced. Billy is always with him. You ruined + John Brown, with your dissipation and your sneers at religion and + your-’I-wonder-nows!’ Of what use have you been, Charley? Of what use to + anyone in the world? You think of nothing but eating, and drinking, and + playing the fop.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced down involuntarily, and carefully flicked some cigarette-ash + from his waistcoat. The action arrested her speech for a moment, and then, + with a little shudder, she continued: “The best they can say of you is, + ‘There goes Charley Steele!’” + </p> + <p> + “And the worst?” he asked. He was almost smiling now, for he admired her + anger, her scorn. He knew it was deserved, and he had no idea of making + any defence. He had said all in that instant’s cry, “Kathleen!”—that + one awakening feeling of his life so far. She had congealed the word on + his lips by her scorn, and now he was his old debonair, dissipated self, + with the impertinent monocle in his eye and a jest upon his tongue. + </p> + <p> + “Do you want to know the worst they say?” she asked, growing pale to the + lips. “Go and stand behind the door of Jolicoeur’s saloon. Go to any + street corner, and listen. Do you think I don’t know what they say? Do you + think the world doesn’t talk about the company you keep? Haven’t I seen + you going into Jolicoeur’s saloon when I was walking on the other side of + the street? Do you think that all the world, and I among the rest, are + blind? Oh, you fop, you fool, you have ruined my brother, you have ruined + my life, and I hate and despise you for a cold-blooded, selfish coward!” + </p> + <p> + He made a deprecating gesture and stared—a look of most curious + inquiry. They had been married for five years, and during that time they + had never been anything but persistently courteous to each other. He had + never on any occasion seen her face change colour, or her manner show + chagrin or emotion. Stately and cold and polite, she had fairly met his + ceaseless foppery and preciseness of manner. But people had said of her, + “Poor Kathleen Steele!” for her spotless name stood sharply off from his + negligence and dissipation. They called her “Poor Kathleen Steele!” in + sympathy, though they knew that she had not resisted marriage with the + well-to-do Charley Steele, while loving a poor captain in the Royal + Fusileers. She preserved social sympathy by a perfect outward decorum, + though the man of the scarlet coat remained in the town and haunted the + places where she appeared, and though the eyes of the censorious world + were watching expectantly. No voice was raised against her. Her cold + beauty held the admiration of all women, for she was not eager for men’s + company, and she kept her poise even with the man in scarlet near her, + glacially complacent, beautifully still, disconcertingly emotionless. They + did not know that the poise with her was to an extent as much a pose as + Charley’s manner was to him. + </p> + <p> + “I hate you and despise you for a cold-blooded, selfish coward!” So that + was the way Kathleen felt! Charley’s tongue touched his lips quickly, for + they were arid, and he slowly said: + </p> + <p> + “I assure you I have not tried to influence Billy. I have no remembrance + of his imitating me in anything. Won’t you sit down? It is very fatiguing, + this heat.” + </p> + <p> + Charley was entirely himself again. His words concerning Billy Wantage + might have been either an impeachment of Billy’s character and, by + deduction, praise of his own, or it may have been the insufferable egoism + of the fop, well used to imitators. The veil between the two, which for + one sacred moment had seemed about to lift, was fallen now, leaded and + weighted at the bottom. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you would say the same about John Brown! It is disconcerting at + least to think that we used to sit and listen to Mr. Brown as he waved his + arms gracefully in his surplice and preached sentimental sermons. I + suppose you will say, what we have heard you say before, that you only + asked questions. Was that how you ruined the Rev. John Brown—and + Billy?” + </p> + <p> + Charley was very thirsty, and because of that perhaps, his voice had an + unusually dry tone as he replied: “I asked questions of John Brown; I + answer them to Billy. It is I that am ruined!” + </p> + <p> + There was that in his voice she did not understand, for though long used + to his paradoxical phrases and his everlasting pose—as it seemed to + her and all the world—there now rang through his words a note she + had never heard before. For a fleeting instant she was inclined to catch + at some hidden meaning, but her grasp of things was uncertain. She had + been thrown off her balance, or poise, as Charley had, for an unwonted + second, been thrown off his pose, and her thought could not pierce beneath + the surface. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you will be flippant at Judgment Day,” she said with a bitter + laugh, for it seemed to her a monstrous thing that they should be such an + infinite distance apart. + </p> + <p> + “Why should one be serious then? There will be no question of an alibi, or + evidence for the defence—no cross-examination. A cut-and-dried + verdict!” + </p> + <p> + She ignored his words. “Shall you be at home to dinner?” she rejoined + coldly, and her eyes wandered out of the window again to that spot across + the square where heliotrope and scarlet had met. + </p> + <p> + “I fancy not,” he answered, his eyes turned away also—towards the + cupboard containing the liqueur. “Better ask Billy; and keep him in, and + talk to him—I really would like you to talk to him. He admires you + so much. I wish—in fact I hope you will ask Billy to come and live + with us,” he added half abstractedly. He was trying to see his way through + a sudden confusion of ideas. Confusion was rare to him, and his senses, + feeling the fog, embarrassed by a sudden air of mystery and a cloud of + futurity, were creeping to a mind-path of understanding. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be absurd,” she said coldly. “You know I won’t ask him, and you + don’t want him.” + </p> + <p> + “I have always said that decision is the greatest of all qualities—even + when the decision is bad. It saves so much worry, and tends to health.” + Suddenly he turned to the desk and opened a tin box. “Here is further + practice for your admirable gift.” He opened a paper. “I want you to sign + off for this building—leaving it to my absolute disposal.” He spread + the paper out before her. + </p> + <p> + She turned pale and her lips tightened. She looked at him squarely in the + eyes. “My wedding-gift!” she said. Then she shrugged her shoulders. A + moment she hesitated, and in that moment seemed to congeal. “You need it?” + she asked distantly. + </p> + <p> + He inclined his head, his eye never leaving hers. With a swift angry + motion she caught the glove from her left hand, and, doubling it back, + dragged it off. A smooth round ring came off with it and rolled upon the + floor. + </p> + <p> + Stooping, he picked up the ring, and handed it back to her, saying: + “Permit me.” It was her wedding-ring. She took it with a curious + contracted look and put it on the finger again, then pulled off the other + glove quietly. “Of course one uses the pen with the right hand,” she said + calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Involuntary act of memory,” he rejoined slowly, as she took the pen in + her hand. “You had spoken of a wedding, this was a wedding-gift, and—that’s + right, sign there!” + </p> + <p> + There was a brief pause, in which she appeared to hesitate, and then she + wrote her name in a large firm hand, and, throwing down the pen, caught up + her gloves, and began to pull them on viciously. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks. It is very kind of you,” he said. He put the document in the tin + box, and took out another, as without a word, but with a grave face in + which scorn and trouble were mingled, she now turned towards the door. + </p> + <p> + “Can you spare a minute longer?” he said, and advanced towards her, + holding the new document in his hand. “Fair exchange is no robbery. Please + take this. No, not with the right hand; the left is better luck—the + better the hand, the better the deed,” he added with a whimsical squint + and a low laugh, and he placed the paper in her left hand. “Item No. 2 to + take the place of item No. 1.” + </p> + <p> + She scrutinised the paper. Wonder filled her face. “Why, this is a deed of + the homestead property—worth three times as much!” she said. “Why—why + do you do this?” + </p> + <p> + “Remember that questions ruin people sometimes,” he answered, and stepped + to the door and turned the handle, as though to show her out. She was + agitated and embarrassed now. She felt she had been unjust, and yet she + felt that she could not say what ought to be said, if all the rules were + right. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” she said simply. “Did you think of this when—when you + handed me back the ring?” + </p> + <p> + “I never had an inspiration in my life. I was born with a plan of + campaign.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I ought to—kiss you!” she said in some little confusion. + </p> + <p> + “It might be too expensive,” he answered, with a curious laugh. Then he + added lightly: “This was a fair exchange”—he touched the papers—“but + I should like you to bear witness, madam, that I am no robber!” He opened + the door. Again there was that curious penetrating note in his voice, and + that veiled look. She half hesitated, but in the pause there was a loud + voice below and a quick foot on the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “It’s Billy!” she said sharply, and passed out. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. THE WIND AND THE SHORN LAMB + </h2> + <p> + A half-hour later Charley Steele sat in his office alone with Billy + Wantage, his brother-in-law, a tall, shapely fellow of twenty-four. Billy + had been drinking, his face was flushed, and his whole manner was + indolently careless and irresponsible. In spite of this, however, his grey + eyes were nervously fixed on Charley, and his voice was shaky as he said, + in reply to a question as to his finances: “That’s my own business, + Charley.” + </p> + <p> + Charley took a long swallow from the tumbler of whiskey and soda beside + him, and, as he drew some papers towards him, answered quietly: “I must + make it mine, Billy, without a doubt.” + </p> + <p> + The tall youth shifted in his chair and essayed to laugh. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve never been particular about your own business. Pshaw, what’s the + use of preaching to me!” + </p> + <p> + Charley pushed his chair back, and his look had just a touch of surprise, + a hint of embarrassment. This youth, then, thought him something of a + fool: read him by virtue of his ornamentations, his outer idiosyncrasy! + This boy, whose iniquity was under his finger on that table, despised him + for his follies, and believed in him less than his wife—two people + who had lived closer to him than any others in the world. Before he + answered he lifted the glass beside him and drank to the last drop, then + slowly set it down and said, with a dangerous smile: + </p> + <p> + “I have always been particular about other people’s finances, and the + statement that you haven’t isn’t preaching, it’s an indictment—so it + is, Billy.” + </p> + <p> + “An indictment!” Billy bit his finger-nails now, and his voice shook. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what the jury would say, and the judge would do the preaching. You + have stolen twenty-five thousand dollars of trust-moneys!” + </p> + <p> + For a moment there was absolute silence in the room. From outside in the + square came the Marche-t’en! of a driver, and the loud cackling laugh of + some loafer at the corner. Charley’s look imprisoned his brother-in-law, + and Billy’s eyes were fixed in a helpless stare on Charley’s finger, which + held like a nail the record of his infamy. + </p> + <p> + Billy drew himself back with a jerk of recovery, and said with bravado, + but with fear in look and motion: “Don’t stare like that. The thing’s + done, and you can’t undo it, and that’s all there is about it.” Charley + had been staring at the youth-staring and not seeing him really, but + seeing his wife and watching her lips say again: “You are ruining Billy!” + He was not sober, but his mind was alert, his eccentric soul was getting + kaleidoscopic glances at strange facts of life as they rushed past his + mind into a painful red obscurity. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, it can be undone, and it’s not all there is about it!” he + answered quietly. + </p> + <p> + He got up suddenly, went to the door, locked it, put the key in his + pocket, and, coming back, sat down again beside the table. + </p> + <p> + Billy watched him with shrewd, hunted eyes. What did Charley mean to do? + To give him in charge? To send him to jail? To shut him out from the world + where he had enjoyed himself so much for years and years? Never to go + forth free among his fellows! Never to play the gallant with all the + pretty girls he knew! Never to have any sports, or games, or tobacco, or + good meals, or canoeing in summer, or tobogganing in winter, or + moose-hunting, or any sort of philandering! + </p> + <p> + The thoughts that filled his mind now were not those of regret for his + crime, but the fears of the materialist and sentimentalist, who revolted + at punishment and all the shame and deprivation it would involve. + </p> + <p> + “What did you do with the money?” said Charley, after a minute’s silence, + in which two minds had travelled far. + </p> + <p> + “I put it into mines.” + </p> + <p> + “What mines?” + </p> + <p> + “Out on Lake Superior.” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of mines?” + </p> + <p> + “Arsenic.” + </p> + <p> + Charley’s eye-glass dropped, and rattled against the gold button of his + white waistcoat. + </p> + <p> + “In arsenic-mines!” He put the monocle to his eye again. “On whose + advice?” + </p> + <p> + “John Brown’s.” + </p> + <p> + “John Brown’s!” Charley Steele’s ideas were suddenly shaken and scattered + by a man’s name, as a bolting horse will crumple into confusion a crowd of + people. So this was the way his John Brown had come home to roost. He + lifted the empty whiskey-glass to his lips and drained air. He was + terribly thirsty; he needed something to pull himself together. Five years + of dissipation had not robbed him of his splendid native ability, but it + had, as it were, broken the continuity of his will and the sequence of his + intellect. + </p> + <p> + “It was not investment?” he asked, his tongue thick and hot in his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “No. What would have been the good?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. Speculation—you bought heavily to sell on an expected + rise?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + There was something so even in Charley’s manner and tone that Billy + misinterpreted it. It seemed hopeful that Charley was going to make the + best of a bad job. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” Billy said eagerly, “it seemed dead certain. He showed me the + way the thing was being done, the way the company was being floated, how + the market in New York was catching hold. It looked splendid. I thought I + could use the money for a week or so, then put it back, and have a nice + little scoop, at no one’s cost. I thought it was a dead-sure thing—and + I was hard up, and Kathleen wouldn’t lend me any more. If Kathleen had + only done the decent thing—” + </p> + <p> + A sudden flush of anger swept over Charley’s face—never before in + his life had that face been so sensitive, never even as a child. Something + had waked in the odd soul of Beauty Steele. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be a sweep—leave Kathleen out of it!” he said, in a sharp, + querulous voice—a voice unnatural to himself, suggestive of little + use, as though he were learning to speak, using strange words stumblingly + through a melee of the emotions. It was not the voice of Charley Steele + the fop, the poseur, the idlest man in the world. + </p> + <p> + “What part of the twenty-five thousand went into the arsenic?” he said, + after a pause. There was no feeling in the voice now; it was again even + and inquiring. + </p> + <p> + “Nearly all.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t lie. You’ve been living freely. Tell the truth, or—or I’ll + know the reason why, Billy.” + </p> + <p> + “About two-thirds-that’s the truth. I had debts, and I paid them.” + </p> + <p> + “And you bet on the races?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And lost?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. See here, Charley; it was the most awful luck—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, for the fatherless children and widows, and all that are oppressed!” + </p> + <p> + Charley’s look again went through and beyond the culprit, and he recalled + his wife’s words and his own reply. A quick contempt and a sort of + meditative sarcasm were in the tone. It was curious, too, that he could + smile, but the smile did not encourage Billy Wantage now. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all gone, I suppose?” he added. + </p> + <p> + “All but about a hundred dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you have had your game; now you must pay for it.” + </p> + <p> + Billy had imagination, and he was melodramatic. He felt danger ahead. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go and shoot myself!” he said, banging the table with his fist so + that the whiskey-tumbler shook. + </p> + <p> + He was hardly prepared for what followed. Charley’s nerves had been + irritated; his teeth were on edge. This threat, made in such a cheap, + insincere way, was the last thing in the world he could bear to hear. He + knew that Billy lied; that if there was one thing Billy would not do, + shooting himself was that one thing. His own life was very sweet to Billy + Wantage. Charley hated him the more at that moment because he was + Kathleen’s brother. For if there was one thing he knew of Kathleen, it was + that she could not do a mean thing. Cold, unsympathetic she might be, + cruel at a pinch perhaps, but dishonourable—never! This weak, + cowardly youth was her brother! No one had ever seen such a look on + Charley Steele’s face as came upon it now—malicious, vindictive. He + stooped over Billy in a fury. + </p> + <p> + “You think I’m a fool and an ass—you ignorant, brainless, lying cub! + You make me a thief before all the world by forging my name, and stealing + the money for which I am responsible, and then you rate me so low that you + think you’ll bamboozle me by threats of suicide. You haven’t the courage + to shoot yourself—drunk or sober. And what do you think would be + gained by it? Eh, what do you think would be gained? You can’t see that + you’d insult your sister as well as—as rob me.” + </p> + <p> + Billy Wantage cowered. This was not the Charley Steele he had known, not + like the man he had seen since a child. There was something almost uncouth + in this harsh high voice, these gauche words, this raw accent; but it was + powerful and vengeful, and it was full of purpose. Billy quivered, yet his + adroit senses caught at a straw in the words, “as rob me!” Charley was + counting it a robbery of himself, not of the widows and orphans! That gave + him a ray of hope. In a paroxysm of fear, joined to emotional excitement, + he fell upon his knees, and pleaded for mercy—for the sake of one + chance in life, for the family name, for Kathleen’s sake, for the sake of + everything he had ruthlessly dishonoured. Tears came readily to his eyes, + real tears—of excitement; but he could measure, too, the strength of + his appeal. + </p> + <p> + “If you’ll stand by me in this, I’ll pay you back every cent, Charley,” he + cried. “I will, upon my soul and honour! You shan’t lose a penny, if + you’ll only see me through. I’ll work my fingers off to pay it back till + the last hour of my life. I’ll be straight till the day I die—so + help me God!” + </p> + <p> + Charley’s eyes wandered to the cupboard where the liqueurs were. If he + could only decently take a drink! But how could he with this boy kneeling + before him? His breath scorched his throat. + </p> + <p> + “Get up!” he said shortly. “I’ll see what I can do—to-morrow. Go + away home. Don’t go out again to-night. And come here at ten o’clock in + the morning.” + </p> + <p> + Billy took up his hat, straightened his tie, carefully brushed the dust + from his knees, and, seizing Charley’s hand, said: “You’re the best fellow + in the world, Charley.” He went towards the door, dusting his face of + emotion as he had dusted his knees. The old selfish, shrewd look was again + in his eyes. Charley’s gaze followed him gloomily. Billy turned the handle + of the door. It was locked. + </p> + <p> + Charley came forward and unlocked it. As Billy passed through, Charley, + looking sharply in his face, said hoarsely: “By Heaven, I believe you’re + not worth it!” Then he shut the door again and locked it. + </p> + <p> + He almost ran back and opened the cupboard. Taking out the bottle of + liqueur, he filled a glass and drank it off. Three times he did this, then + seated himself at the table with a sigh of relief and no emotion in his + face. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. “PEACE, PEACE, AND THERE IS NO PEACE”’ + </h2> + <p> + The sun was setting by the time Charley was ready to leave his office. + Never in his life had he stayed so late in “the halls of industry,” as he + flippantly called his place of business. The few cases he had won so + brilliantly since the beginning of his career, he had studied at night in + his luxurious bedroom in the white brick house among the maples on the + hill. In every case, as at the trial of Joseph Nadeau, the man who + murdered the timber-merchant, the first prejudice of judge and jury had + given way slowly before the deep-seeing mind, which had as rare a power of + analysis as for generalisation, and reduced masses of evidence to phrases; + and verdicts had been given against all personal prejudice—to be + followed outside the court by the old prejudice, the old look askance at + the man called Beauty Steele. + </p> + <p> + To him it had made no difference at any time. He cared for neither praise + nor blame. In his actions a materialist, in his mind he was a watcher of + life, a baffled inquirer whose refuge was irony, and whose singular habits + had in five years become a personal insult to the standards polite society + and Puritan morality had set up. Perhaps the insult had been intended, for + irregularities were committed with an insolent disdain for appearances. He + did nothing secretly; his page of life was for him who cared to read. He + played cards, he talked agnosticism, he went on shooting expeditions which + became orgies, he drank openly in saloons, he whose forefathers had been + gentlemen of King George, and who sacrificed all in the great American + revolution for honour and loyalty—statesmen, writers, politicians, + from whom he had direct inheritance, through stirring, strengthening + forces, in the building up of laws and civilisation in a new land. Why he + chose to be what he was—if he did choose—he alone could + answer. His personality had impressed itself upon his world, first by its + idiosyncrasies and afterwards by its enigmatical excesses. + </p> + <p> + What was he thinking of as he laid the papers away in the tin box in a + drawer, locked it, and put the key in his pocket? He had found to the + smallest detail Billy’s iniquity, and he was now ready to shoulder the + responsibility, to save the man, who, he knew, was scarce worth the + saving. But Kathleen—there was what gave him pause. As he turned to + the window and looked out over the square he shuddered. He thought of the + exchange of documents he had made with her that day, and he had a sense of + satisfaction. This defalcation of Billy’s would cripple him, for money had + flown these last few years. He had had heavy losses, and he had dug deep + into his capital. Down past the square ran a cool avenue of beeches to the + water, and he could see his yacht at anchor. On the other side of the + water, far down the shore, was a house which had been begun as a summer + cottage, and had ended in being a mansion. A few Moorish pillars, brought + from Algiers for the decoration of the entrance, had necessitated the + raising of the roof, and then all had to be in proportion, and the cottage + became like an appanage to a palace. So it had gone, and he had cared so + little about it all, and for the consequences. He had this day secured + Kathleen from absolute poverty, no matter what happened, and that had its + comfort. His eyes wandered among the trees. He could see the yellow + feathers of the oriole and catch the note of the whippoorwill, and from + the great church near the voices of the choir came over. He could hear the + words “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to + thy word.” + </p> + <p> + Depart in peace—how much peace was there in the world? Who had it? + The remembrance of what Kathleen said to him at the door—“I suppose + I ought to kiss you”—came to him, was like a refrain in his ears. + </p> + <p> + “Peace is the penalty of silence and inaction,” he said to himself + meditatively. “Where there is action there is no peace. If the brain and + body fatten, then there is peace. Kathleen and I have lived at peace, I + suppose. I never said a word to her that mightn’t be put down in large + type and pasted on my tombstone, and she never said a word to me—till + to-day—that wasn’t like a water-colour picture. Not till to-day, in + a moment’s strife and trouble, did I ever get near her. And we’ve lived in + peace. Peace? Where is the right kind of peace? Over there is old Sainton. + He married a rich woman, he has had the platter of plenty before him + always, he wears ribbons and such like baubles given by the Queen, but his + son had to flee the country. There’s Herring. He doesn’t sleep because his + daughter is going to marry an Italian count. There’s Latouche. His place + in the cabinet is begotten in corruption, in the hotbed of faction war. + There’s Kenealy. His wife has led him a dance of deep damnation. There’s + the lot of them—every one, not an ounce of peace among them, except + with old Casson, who weighs eighteen stone, lives like a pig, grows + stuffier in mind and body every day, and drinks half a bottle of whiskey + every night. There’s no one else—yes, there is!” + </p> + <p> + He was looking at a small black-robed figure with clean-shaven face, white + hair, and shovel-hat, who passed slowly along the wooden walk beneath, + with meditative content in his face. + </p> + <p> + “There’s peace,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve known Father Hallon for + twenty-five years, and no man ever worked so hard, ever saw more trouble, + ever shared other people’s bad luck mere than he; ever took the bit in his + teeth, when it was a matter of duty, stronger than he; and yet there’s + peace; he has it; a peace that passes all understanding—mine anyhow. + I’ve never had a minute’s real peace. The World, or Nature, or God, or It, + whatever the name is, owes me peace. And how is It to give it? Why, by + answering my questions. Now it’s a curious thing that the only person I + ever met who could answer any questions of mine—answer them in the + way that satisfies—is Suzon. She works things down to phrases. She + has wisdom in the raw, and a real grip on life, and yet all the men she + has known have been river-drivers and farmers, and a few men from town who + mistook the sort of Suzon she is. Virtuous and straight, she’s a born + child of Aphrodite too—by nature. She was made for love. A thousand + years ago she would have had a thousand loves! And she thinks the world is + a magnificent place, and she loves it, and wallows—fairly wallows—in + content. Now which is right: Suzon or Father Hallon—Aphrodite or the + Nazarene? Which is peace—as the bird and the beast of the field get + it—the fallow futile content, or—” + </p> + <p> + He suddenly stopped, hiccoughed, then hurriedly drawing paper before him, + he sat down. For an hour he wrote. It grew darker. He pushed the table + nearer the window, and the singing of the choir in the church came in upon + him as his pen seemed to etch words into the paper, firm, eccentric, + meaning. What he wrote that evening has been preserved, and the yellow + sheets lie loosely in a black despatch-box which contains the few records + Charley Steele left behind him. What he wrote that night was the note of + his mind, the key to all those strange events through which he began to + move two hours after the lines were written: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Over thy face is a veil of white sea-mist, + Only thine eyes shine like stars; bless or blight me, + I will hold close to the leash at thy wrist, + O Aphrodite! + + Thou in the East and I here in the West, + Under our newer skies purple and pleasant: + Who shall decide which is better—attest, + Saga or peasant? + + Thou with Serapis, Osiris, and Isis, + I with Jehovah, in vapours and shadows; + Thou with the gods’ joy-enhancing devices, + Sweet-smelling meadows! + + What is there given us?—Food and some raiment, + Toiling to reach to some Patmian haven, + Giving up all for uncertain repayment, + Feeding the raven! + + Striving to peer through the infinite azure, + Alternate turning to earthward and falling, + Measuring life with Damastian measure, + Finite, appalling. + + What does it matter! They passed who with Homer + Poured out the wine at the feet of their idols: + Passing, what found they? To-come a misnomer, + It and their idols? + + Sacristan, acolyte, player, or preacher, + Each to his office, but who holds the key? + Death, only Death—thou, the ultimate teacher + Wilt show it to me. + + And when the forts and the barriers fall, + Shall we then find One the true, the almighty, + Wisely to speak with the worst of us all— + Ah, Aphrodite! + + Waiting, I turn from the futile, the human, + Gone is the life of me, laughing with youth + Steals to learn all in the face of a woman, + Mendicant Truth! +</pre> + <p> + Rising with a bitter laugh, and murmuring the last lines, he thrust the + papers into a drawer, locked it, and going quickly from the room, he went + down-stairs. His horse and cart were waiting for him, and he got in. + </p> + <p> + The groom looked at him inquiringly. “The Cote Dorion!” he said, and they + sped away through the night. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. THE COST OF THE ORNAMENT + </h2> + <p> + One, two, three, four, five, six miles. The sharp click of the iron hoofs + on the road; the strong rush of the river; the sweet smell of the maple + and the pungent balsam; the dank rich odour of the cedar swamp; the cry of + the loon from the water; the flaming crane in the fishing-boat; the + fisherman, spear in hand, staring into the dark waters tinged with sombre + red; the voice of a lonely settler keeping time to the ping of the axe as, + lengthening out his day to nightly weariness, he felled a tree; + river-drivers’ camps spotted along the shore; huge cribs or rafts which + had swung down the great stream for scores of miles, the immense oars + motionless, the little houses on the timbers blinking with light; and from + cheerful raftsmen coming the old familiar song of the rivers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “En roulant, ma boule roulant, + En roulant ma boule!” + </pre> + <p> + Not once had Charley Steele turned his head as the horse sped on. His face + was kept straight along the line of the road; he seemed not to see or to + hear, to be unresponsive to sound or scene. The monocle at his eye was + like a veil to hide the soul, a defence against inquiry, itself the + unceasing question, a sort of battery thrown forward, a kind of + field-casemate for a lonely besieged spirit. + </p> + <p> + It was full of suggestion. It might have been the glass behind which + showed some mediaeval relic, the body of some ancient Egyptian king whose + life had been spent in doing wonders and making signs—the primitive, + anthropomorphic being. He might have been a stone man, for any motion that + he made. Yet looking at him closely you would have seen discontent in the + eye, a kind of glaze of the sardonic over the whole face. + </p> + <p> + What is the good! the face asked. What is there worth doing? it said. What + a limitless futility! it urged, fain to be contradicted too, as the grim + melancholy of the figure suggested. + </p> + <p> + “To be an animal and soak in the world,” he thought to himself—“that + is natural; and the unnatural is civilisation, and the cheap adventure of + the mind into fields of baffling speculation, lighted by the flickering + intelligences of dead speculators, whose seats we have bought in the + stock-exchange of mortality, and exhaust our lives in paying for. To eat, + to drink, to lie fallow, indifferent to what comes after, to roam like the + deer, and to fight like the tiger—” + </p> + <p> + He came to a dead stop in his thinking. “To fight like the tiger!” He + turned his head quickly now to where upon a raft some river-drivers were + singing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And when a man in the fight goes down, + Why, we will carry him home!” + </pre> + <p> + “To fight like the tiger!” Ravage—the struggle to possess from all + the world what one wished for one’s self, and to do it without mercy and + without fear-that was the clear plan in the primitive world, where action + was more than speech and dominance than knowledge. Was not civilisation a + mistake, and religion the insinuating delusion designed to cover it up; + or, if not designed, accepted by the original few who saw that humanity + could not turn back, and must even go forward with illusions, lest in mere + despair all men died and the world died with them? + </p> + <p> + His eyes wandered to the raft where the men were singing, and he + remembered the threat made: that if he came again to the Cote Dorion he + “would get what for!” He remembered the warning of Rouge Gosselin conveyed + by Jolicoeur, and a sinister smile crossed over his face. The + contradictions of his own thoughts came home to him suddenly, for was it + not the case that his physical strength alone, no matter what his skill, + would be of small service to him in a dark corner of contest? Primitive + ideas could only hold in a primitive world. His real weapon was his brain, + that which civilisation had given him in lieu of primitive prowess and the + giant’s strength. + </p> + <p> + They had come to a long piece of corduroy-road, and the horse’s hoofs + struck rumbling hollow sounds from the floor of cedar logs. There was a + swamp on one side where fire-flies were flickering, and there flashed into + Charley Steele’s mind some verses he had once learned at school: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “They made her a grave too cold and damp + For a soul so warm and true—” + </pre> + <p> + It kept repeating itself in his brain in a strange dreary monotone. + </p> + <p> + “Stop the horse. I’ll walk the rest of the way,” he said presently to the + groom. “You needn’t come for me, Finn; I’ll walk back as far as the + Marochal Tavern. At twelve sharp I’ll be there. Give yourself a drink and + some supper”—he put a dollar into the man’s hand—“and no white + whiskey, mind: a bottle of beer and a leg of mutton, that’s the thing.” He + nodded his head, and by the light of the moon walked away smartly down the + corduroy-road through the shadows of the swamp. Finn the groom looked + after him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if he ain’t a queer dick! A reg’lar ‘centric—but a reg’lar + brick, cutting a wide swathe as he goes. He’s a tip-topper; and he’s a + sort of tough too—a sort of a kind of a tough. Well, it’s none of my + business. Get up!” he added to the horse, and turning round in the road + with difficulty, he drove back a mile to the Tavern Marochal for his beer + and mutton—and white whiskey. + </p> + <p> + Charley stepped on briskly, his shining leather shoes, straw hat, and + light cane in no good keeping with his surroundings. He was thinking that + he had never been in such a mood for talk with Suzon Charlemagne. + Charlemagne’s tavern of the Cote Dorion was known over half a province, + and its patrons carried news of it half across a continent. Suzon + Charlemagne—a girl of the people, a tavern-girl, a friend of + sulking, coarse river-drivers! But she had an alert precision of brain, an + instinct that clove through wastes of mental underbrush to the tree of + knowledge. Her mental sight was as keen and accurate as that which runs + along the rifle-barrel of the great hunter with the red deer in view. + Suzon Charlemagne no company for Charley Steele? What did it matter! He + had entered into other people’s lives to-day, had played their games with + them and for them, and now he would play his own game, live his own life + in his own way through the rest of this day. He thirsted for some sort of + combat, for the sharp contrasts of life, for the common and the base; he + thirsted even for the white whiskey against which he had warned his groom. + He was reckless—not blindly, but wilfully, wildly reckless, caring + not at all what fate or penalty might come his way. + </p> + <p> + “What do I care!” he said to himself. “I shall never squeal at any + penalty. I shall never say in the great round-up that I was weak and I + fell. I’ll take my gruel expecting it, not fearing it—if there is to + be any gruel anywhere, or any round-up anywhere!” + </p> + <p> + A figure suddenly appeared coming round the bend of the road before him. + It was Rouge Gosselin. Rouge Gosselin was inclined to speak. Some satanic + whim or malicious foppery made Charley stare him blankly in the face. The + monocle and the stare stopped the bon soir and the friendly warning on + Rouge Gosselin’s tongue, and the pilot passed on with a muttered oath. + </p> + <p> + Gosselin had not gone far, however, before he suddenly stopped and laughed + outright, for at the bottom he had great good-nature, in keeping with his + “six-foot” height, and his temper was friendly if quick. It seemed so + absurd, so audacious, that a man could act like Charley Steele, that he at + once became interested in the phenomenon, and followed slowly after + Charley, saying as he went: “Tiens, there will be things to watch + to-night!” + </p> + <p> + Before Charley was within five hundred yards of the tavern he could hear + the laughter and song coming from the old seigneury which Theophile + Charlemagne called now the Cote Dorion Hotel, after the name given to the + point on which the house stood. Low and wide-roofed, with dormer windows + and a wide stoop in front, and walls three feet thick, behind, on the + river side, it hung over the water, its narrow veranda supported by piles, + with steps down to the water-side. Seldom was there an hour when boats + were not tied to these steps. Summer and winter the tavern was a place of + resort. Inside, the low ceiling, the broad rafters, the great fireplace, + the well-worn floor, the deep windows, the wooden cross let into the wall, + and the varied and picturesque humanity frequenting this great room, gave + it an air of romance. Yet there were people who called the tavern a + “shebang”—slander as it was against Suzon Charlemagne, which every + river-driver and woodsman and habitant who frequented the place would have + resented with violence. It was because they thought Charley Steele + slandered the girl and the place in his mind, that the river-drivers had + sworn they would make it hot for him if he came again. Charley was the + last man in the world to undeceive them by words. + </p> + <p> + When he coolly walked into the great room, where a half-dozen of them were + already assembled, drinking white “whiskey-wine,” he had no intention of + setting himself right. He raised his hat cavalierly to Suzon and shook + hands with her. + </p> + <p> + He took no notice of the men around him. “Brandy, please!” he said. “Why + do I drink, do you say?” he added, as Suzon placed the bottle and glass + before him. + </p> + <p> + She was silent for an instant, then she said gravely: “Perhaps because you + like it; perhaps because something was left out of you when you were made, + and—” + </p> + <p> + She paused and went no further, for a red-shirted river-driver with brass + rings in his ears came close to them, and called gruffly for whiskey. He + glowered at Charley, who looked at him indolently, then raised his glass + towards Suzon and drank the brandy. + </p> + <p> + “Pish!” said Red Shirt, and, turning round, joined his comrades. It was + clear he wanted a pretext to quarrel. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps because you like it; perhaps because something was left out of + you when you were made—” Charley smiled pleasantly as Suzon came + over to him again. “You’ve answered the question,” he said, “and struck + the thing at the centre. Which is it? The difficulty to decide which has + divided the world. If it’s only a physical craving, it means that we are + materialists naturally, and that the soil from which the grape came is the + soil that’s in us; that it is the body feeding on itself all the time; + that like returns to like, and we live a little together, and then mould + together for ever and ever, amen. If it isn’t a natural craving—like + to like—it’s a proof of immortality, for it represents the wild wish + to forget the world, to be in another medium. + </p> + <p> + “I am only myself when I am drunk. Liquor makes me human. At other times + I’m merely Charley Steele! Now isn’t it funny, this sort of talk here?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know about that,” she answered, “if, as you say, it’s natural. + This tavern’s the only place I have to think in, and what seems to you + funny is a sort of ordinary fact to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Right again, ma belle Suzon. Nothing’s incongruous. I’ve never felt so + much like singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs as when I’ve been + drinking. I remember the last time I was squiffy I sang all the way home + that old nursery hymn: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you. + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!’” + </pre> + <p> + “I should have liked to hear you sing it—sure!” said Suzon, + laughing. + </p> + <p> + Charley tossed off a quarter-tumbler of brandy, which, instead of flushing + the face, seemed only to deepen the whiteness of the skin, showing up more + brightly the spots of colour in the cheeks, that white and red which had + made him known as Beauty Steele. With a whimsical humour, behind which was + the natural disposition of the man to do what he listed without thinking + of the consequences, he suddenly began singing, in a voice shaken a little + now by drink, but full of a curious magnetism: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “On the other side of Jordan—” + </pre> + <p> + “Oh, don’t; please don’t!” said the girl, in fear, for she saw two + river-drivers entering the door, one of whom had sworn he would do for + Charley Steele if ever he crossed his path. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t—M’sieu’ Charley!” she again urged. The “Charley” caught + his ear, and the daring in his eye brightened still more. He was ready for + any change or chance to-night, was standing on the verge of any adventure, + the most reckless soul in Christendom. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you!” + </pre> + <p> + What more incongruous thing than this flaneur in patent leathers and red + tie, this “hell-of-a-fellow with a pane of glass in his eye,” as Jake + Hough, the horse-doctor, afterwards said, surrounded by red and + blue-shirted river-men, woodsmen, loafers, and toughs, singing a sacred + song with all the unction of a choir-boy; with a magnetism, too, that did + its work in spite of all prejudice? It was as if he were counsel in one of + those cases when, the minds and sympathies of judge and jury at first + arrayed against him, he had irresistibly cloven his way to their judgment—not + stealing away their hearts, but governing, dominating their intelligences. + Whenever he had done this he had been drinking hard, was in a mental world + created by drink, serene, clear-eyed, in which his brain worked like an + invincible machine, perfect and powerful. Was it the case that, as he + himself suggested, he was never so natural as when under this influence? + That then and only then the real man spoke, that then and only then the + primitive soul awakened, that it supplied the thing left out of him at + birth? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!” + </pre> + <p> + One, two verses he sang as the men, at first snorting and scornful, + shuffled angrily; then Jake Hough, the English horse-doctor, roared in the + refrain: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!” + </pre> + <p> + Upon which, carried away, every one of them roared, gurgled, or shouted + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!” + </pre> + <p> + Rouge Gosselin, who had entered during the singing, now spoke up quickly + in French: + </p> + <p> + “A sermon now, M’sieu’!” + </p> + <p> + Charley took his monocle out of his eye and put it back again. Now each + man present seemed singled out for an attack by this little battery of + glass. He did not reply directly to Rouge Gosselin, but standing perfectly + still, with one hand resting on the counter at which Suzon stood, he + prepared to speak. + </p> + <p> + Suzon did not attempt to stop him now, but gazed at him in a sort of awe. + These men present were Catholics, and held religion in superstitious + respect, however far from practising its precepts. Many of them had been + profane and blasphemous in their time; may have sworn “sacre bapteme!” one + of the worst oaths of their race; but it had been done in the wildness of + anger, and they were little likely to endure from Charley Steele any word + that sounded like blasphemy. Besides, the world said that he was an + infidel, and that was enough for bitter prejudice. + </p> + <p> + In the pause—very short—before Charley began speaking, Suzon’s + fingers stole to his on the counter and pressed them quickly. He made no + response; he was scarcely aware of it. He was in a kind of dream. In an + even, conversational tone, in French at once idiomatic and very simple, he + began: + </p> + <p> + “My dear friends, this is a world where men get tired. If they work they + get tired, and if they play they get tired. If they look straight ahead of + them they walk straight, but then they get blind by-and-by; if they look + round them and get open-eyed, their feet stumble and they fall. It is a + world of contradictions. If a man drinks much he loses his head, and if he + doesn’t drink at all he loses heart. If he asks questions he gets into + trouble, and if he doesn’t ask them he gets old before his time. Take the + hymn we have just sung: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you!’ +</pre> + <p> + “We all like that, because we get tired, and it isn’t always summer, and + nothing blooms all the year round. We get up early and we work late, and + we sleep hard, and when the weather is good and wages good, and there’s + plenty in the house, we stay sober and we sadly sing, ‘On the other side + of Jordan’; but when the weather’s heavy and funds scarce, and the pork + and molasses and bread come hard, we get drunk, and we sing the comic + chanson ‘Brigadier, vows avez raison!’ We’ve been singing a sad song + to-night when we’re feeling happy. We didn’t think whether it was sad or + not, we only knew it pleased our ears, and we wanted those sweet fields of + Eden, and the blooming tree of life, and the rest under the tree. But ask + a question or two. Where is the other side of Jordan? Do you go up to it, + or down to it? And how do you go? And those sweet fields of Eden, what do + they look like, and how many will they hold? Isn’t it clear that the + things that make us happiest in this world are the things we go for + blind?” + </p> + <p> + He paused. Now a dozen men came a step or two nearer, and crowded close + together, looking over each others’ shoulders at him with sharp, wondering + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t that so?” he continued. “Do you realise that no man knows where + that Jordan and those fields are, and what the flower of the tree of life + looks like? Let us ask a question again. Why is it that the one being in + all the world who could tell us anything about it, the one being who had + ever seen Jordan or Eden or that tree of life-in fact, the one of all + creation who could describe heaven, never told? Isn’t it queer? Here he + was—that one man-standing just as I am among you, and round him were + the men who followed him, all ordinary men, with ordinary curiosity. And + he said he had come down from heaven, and for years they were with him, + and yet they never asked him what that heaven was like: what it looked + like, what it felt like, what sort of life they lived there, what manner + of folk were the angels, what was the appearance of God. Why didn’t they + ask, and why didn’t he answer? People must have kept asking that question + afterwards, for a man called John answered it. He described, as only an + oriental Jew would or could, a place all precious stones and gold and + jewels and candles, in oriental language very splendid and auriferous. But + why didn’t those twelve men ask the One Man who knew, and why didn’t the + One answer? And why didn’t the One tell without being asked?” + </p> + <p> + He paused again, and now there came a shuffling and a murmuring, a curious + rumble, a hard breathing, for Charley had touched with steely finger the + tender places in the natures of these Catholics, who, whatever their + lives, held fast to the immemorial form, the sacredness of Mother Church. + They were ever ready to step into the galley which should bear them all + home, with the invisible rowers of God at the oars, down the wild rapids, + to the haven of St. Peter. There was savagery in their faces now. + </p> + <p> + He saw, and he could not refrain from smiling as he stretched out his hand + to them again with a little quieting gesture, and continued soothingly: + </p> + <p> + “But why should we ask? There’s a thing called electricity. Well, you know + that if you take a slice out of anything, less remains behind. We can take + the air out of this room, and scarcely leave any in it. + </p> + <p> + “We take a drink out of a bottle, and certainly there isn’t as much left + in it! But the queer thing is that with this electricity you take it away + and just as much remains. It goes out from your toe, rushes away to + Timbuctoo, and is back in your toe before you can wink. Why? No one knows. + What’s the good of asking? You can’t see it: you can only see what it + does. What good would it do us if we knew all about it? There it is, and + it’s going to revolutionise the world. It’s no good asking—no one + knows what it is and where it comes from, or what it looks like. It’s + better to go it blind, because you feel the power, though you can’t see + where it comes from. You can’t tell where the fields of Eden are, but you + believe they’re somewhere, and that you’ll get to them some day. So say + your prayers, believe all you can, don’t ask questions, and don’t try to + answer ‘em; and remember that Charley Steele preached to you the fear of + the Lord at the Cote Dorion, and wound up the service with the fine old + hymn: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘I’ll away, I’ll away, to the promised land—‘” + </pre> + <p> + A whole verse of this camp-meeting hymn he sang in an ominous silence now, + for it had crept into their minds that the hymn they had previously sung + so loudly was a Protestant hymn, and that this was another Protestant hymn + of the rankest sort. When he stopped singing and pushed over his glass for + Suzon to fill it, the crowd were noiseless and silent for a moment, for + the spell was still on them. They did not recover themselves until they + saw him lift his glass to Suzon, his back on them, again insolently + oblivious of them all. They could not see his face, but they could see the + face of Suzon Charlemagne, and they misunderstood the light in her eye, + the flush on her cheek. They set it down to a personal interest in Charley + Steele. + </p> + <p> + Charley had, however, thrown a spell over her in another fashion. In her + eye, in her face, was admiration, the sympathy of a strong intelligence, + the wonder of a mind in the presence of its master, but they thought they + saw passion, love, desire, in her face—in the face of their Suzon, + the pride of the river, the flower of the Cote Dorion. Not alone because + Charley had blasphemed against religion did they hate him at this moment, + but because every heart was scorched with envy and jealousy—the + black unreasoning jealousy which the unlettered, the dull, the crude, + feels for the lettered, the able and the outwardly refined. + </p> + <p> + Charley was back again in the unfriendly climate of his natural life. + Suzon felt the troubled air round them, saw the dark looks on the faces of + the men, and was at once afraid and elated. She loved the glow of + excitement, she had a keen sense of danger, but she also felt that in any + possible trouble to-night the chances of escape would be small for the man + before her. + </p> + <p> + He pushed out his glass again. She mechanically poured brandy into it. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve had more than enough,” she said, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Every man knows his own capacity, Suzon. Love me little, love me long,” + he added, again raising his glass to her, as the men behind suddenly moved + forward upon the bar. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t—for God’s sake!” she whispered hastily. “Do go—or + there’ll be trouble!” + </p> + <p> + The black face of Theophile Charlemagne was also turned anxiously in + Charley’s direction as he pushed out glasses for those who called for + liquor. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do, do go—like a good soul!” Suzon urged. Charley laughed + disdainfully. “Like a good soul!” Had it come to this, that Suzon pleaded + with him as if he were a foolish, obstreperous child! + </p> + <p> + “Faithless and unbelieving!” he said to Suzon in English. “Didn’t I play + my game well a minute ago—eh—eh—eh, Suzon?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, yes, M’sieu’,” she replied in English; “but now you are + differen’ and so are they. You must goah, so, you must!” + </p> + <p> + He laughed again, a queer sardonic sort of laugh, yet he put out his hand + and touched the girl’s arm lightly with a forefinger. “I am a Quaker born; + I never stir till the spirit moves me,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He scented conflict, and his spirits rose at the thought. Some reckless + demon of adventure possessed him; some fatalistic courage was upon him. So + far as the eye could see, the liquor he had drunk had done no more than + darken the blue of his eye, for his hand was steady, his body was well + poised, his look was direct; there seemed some strange electric force in + leash behind his face, a watchful yet nonchalant energy of spirit, joined + to an indolent pose of body. As the girl looked at him something of his + unreckoning courage passed into her. Somehow she believed in him, felt + that by some wild chance he might again conquer this truculent element now + almost surrounding him. She spoke quickly to her step-father. “He won’t + go. What can we do?” + </p> + <p> + “You go, and he’ll follow,” said Theophile, who didn’t want a row—a + dangerous row-in his house. + </p> + <p> + “No, he won’t,” she said; “and I don’t believe they’d let him follow me.” + </p> + <p> + There was no time to say more. The crowd were insistent and restless now. + They seemed to have a plan of campaign, and they began to carry it out. + First one, then another, brushed roughly against Charley. Cool and + collected, he refused to accept the insults. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon,” he said, in each case; “I am very awkward.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled all the time; he seemed waiting. The pushing and crowding became + worse. “Don’t mention it,” he said. “You should learn how to carry your + liquor in your legs.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he changed from apology to attack. He talked at them with a + cheerful scorn, a deprecating impertinence, as though they were children; + he chided them with patient imprecations. This confused them for a moment + and cleared a small space around him. There was no defiance in his aspect, + no aggressiveness of manner; he was as quiet as though it were a + drawing-room and he a master of monologues. He hurled original epithets at + them in well-cadenced French, he called them what he listed, but in + language which half-veiled the insults—the more infuriating to his + hearers because they did not perfectly understand. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a low-set fellow, with brass rings in his ears, pulled off his + coat and threw it on the floor. “I’ll eat your heart,” he said, and rolled + up blue sleeves along a hairy arm. + </p> + <p> + “My child,” said Charley, “be careful what you eat. Take up your coat + again, and learn that it is only dogs that delight to bark and bite. Our + little hands were never made to tear each other’s eyes.” + </p> + <p> + The low-set fellow made a rush forward, but Rouge Gosselin held him back. + “No, no, Jougon,” he said. “I have the oldest grudge.” + </p> + <p> + Jougon struggled with Rouge Gosselin. “Be good, Jougon,” said Charley. + </p> + <p> + As he spoke a heavy tumbler flew from the other side of the room. Charley + saw the missile thrown and dodged. It missed his temple, but caught the + rim of his straw hat, carrying it off his head, and crashed into a lantern + hanging against the wall, putting out the light. The room was only lighted + now by another lantern on the other side of the room. Charley stooped, + picked up his hat, and put it on his head again coolly. + </p> + <p> + “Stop that, or I’ll clear the bar!” cried Theophile Charlemagne, taking + the pistol Suzon slipped into his hand. The sight of the pistol drove the + men wild, and more than one snatched at the knife in his belt. + </p> + <p> + At that instant there pushed forward into the clear space beside Charley + Steele the great figure of Jake Hough, the horse-doctor, the strongest + man, and the most popular Englishman on the river. He took his stand by + Charley, raised his great hand, smote him in the small of his back, and + said: + </p> + <p> + “By the Lord, you have sand, and I’ll stand by you!” Under the friendly + but heavy stroke the monocle shot from Charley’s eye the length of the + string. Charley lifted it again, put it up, and staring hard at Jake, + coolly said: + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon—but have I ever—been introduced to you?” + </p> + <p> + What unbelievable indifference to danger, what disdain to friendliness, + made Charley act as he did is a matter for speculation. It was throwing + away his one chance; it was foppery on the scaffold—an incorrigible + affectation or a relentless purpose. + </p> + <p> + Jake Hough strode forward into the crowd, rage in his eye. “Go to the + devil, then, and take care of yourself!” he said roughly. + </p> + <p> + “Please,” said Charley. + </p> + <p> + They were the last words he uttered that night, for suddenly the other + lantern went out, there was a rush and a struggle, a muffled groan, a + shrill woman’s voice, a scramble and hurrying feet, a noise of a something + splashing heavily in the water outside. When the lights were up again the + room was empty, save for Theophile Charlemagne, Jake Hough, and Suzon, who + lay in a faint on the floor with a nasty bruise on her forehead. + </p> + <p> + A score of river-drivers were scattering into the country-side, and + somewhere in the black river, alive or dead, was Charley Steele. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. OLD DEBTS FOR NEW + </h2> + <p> + Jo Portugtais was breaking the law of the river—he was running a + little raft down the stream at night, instead of tying up at sundown and + camping on the shore, or sitting snugly over cooking-pot by the little + wooden caboose on his raft. But defiance of custom and tradition was a + habit with Jo Portugais. He had lived in his own way many a year, and he + was likely to do so till the end, though he was a young man yet. He had + many professions, or rather many gifts, which he practised as it pleased + him. He was river-driver, woodsman, hunter, carpenter, guide, as whim or + opportunity came to him. On the evening when Charley Steele met with his + mishap he was a river-driver—or so it seemed. He had been up + nor’west a hundred and fifty miles, and he had come down-stream alone with + his raft-which in the usual course should take two men to guide it—through + slides, over rapids, and in strong currents. Defying the code of the + river, with only one small light at the rear of his raft, he voyaged the + swift current towards his home, which, when he arrived opposite the Cote + Dorion, was still a hundred miles below. He had watched the lights in the + river-drivers’ camps, had seen the men beside the fires, and had drifted + on, with no temptation to join in the songs floating out over the dark + water, to share the contents of the jugs raised to boisterous lips, or to + thrust his hand into the greasy cooking-pot for a succulent bone. + </p> + <p> + He drifted on until he came opposite Charlemagne’s tavern. Here the + current carried him inshore. He saw the dim light, he saw dark figures in + the bar-room, he even got a glimpse of Suzon Charlemagne. He dropped the + house behind quickly, but looked back, leaning on the oar and thinking how + swift was the rush of the current past the tavern. His eyes were on the + tavern door and the light shining through it. Suddenly the light + disappeared, and the door vanished into darkness. He heard a scuffle, and + then a heavy splash. + </p> + <p> + “There’s trouble there,” said Jo Portugais, straining his eyes through the + night, for a kind of low roar, dwindling to a loud whispering, and then a + noise of hurrying feet, came down the stream, and he could dimly see dark + figures running away into the night by different paths. + </p> + <p> + “Some dirty work, very sure,” said Jo Portugais, and his eyes travelled + back over the dark water like a lynx’s, for the splash was in his ear, and + a sort of prescience possessed him. He could not stop his raft. It must go + on down the current, or be swerved to the shore, to be fastened. + </p> + <p> + “God knows, it had an ugly sound,” said Jo Portugais, and again strained + his eyes and ears. He shifted his position and took another oar, where the + raft-lantern might not throw a reflection upon the water. He saw a light + shine again through the tavern doorway, then a dark object block the + light, and a head thrust forward towards the river as though listening. + </p> + <p> + At this moment he fancied he saw something in the water nearing him. He + stretched his neck. Yes, there was something. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a man. God save us—was it murder?” said Jo Portugais, and + shuddered. “Was it murder?” + </p> + <p> + The body moved more swiftly than the raft. There was a hand thrust up—two + hands. + </p> + <p> + “He’s alive!” said Jo Portugais, and, hurriedly pulling round his waist a + rope tied to a timber, jumped into the water. + </p> + <p> + Three minutes later, on the raft, he was examining a wound in the head of + an insensible man. + </p> + <p> + As his hand wandered over the body towards the heart, it touched something + that rattled against a button. He picked it up mechanically and held it to + the light. It was an eye-glass. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” said Jo Portugais, and peered into the man’s face. “It’s him.” + Then he remembered the last words the man had spoken to him—“Get out + of my sight. You’re as guilty as hell!” But his heart yearned towards the + man nevertheless. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. THE WAY IN AND THE WAY OUT + </h2> + <p> + In his own world of the parish of Chaudiere Jo Portugais was counted a + widely travelled man. He had adventured freely on the great rivers and in + the forests, and had journeyed up towards Hudson’s Bay farther than any + man in seven parishes. + </p> + <p> + Jo’s father and mother had both died in one year—when he was + twenty-five. That year had turned him from a clean-shaven cheerful boy + into a morose bearded man who looked forty, for it had been marked by his + disappearance from Chaudiere and his return at the end of it, to find his + mother dead and his father dying broken-hearted. What had driven Jo from + home only his father knew; what had happened to him during that year only + Jo himself knew, and he told no one, not even his dying father. + </p> + <p> + A mystery surrounded him, and no one pierced it. He was a figure apart in + Chaudiere parish. A dreadful memory that haunted him, carried him out of + the village, which clustered round the parish church, into Vadrome + Mountain, three miles away, where he lived apart from all his kind. It was + here he brought the man with the eye-glass one early dawn, after two + nights and two days on the river, pulling him up the long hill in a low + cart with his strong faithful dogs, hitching himself with them and toiling + upwards through the dark. In his three-roomed hut he laid his charge down + upon a pile of bear-skins, and tended him with a strange gentleness, + bathing the wound in the head and binding it again and again. + </p> + <p> + The next morning the sick man opened his eyes heavily. He then began + fumbling mechanically on his breast. At last his fingers found his + monocle. He feebly put it to his eye, and looked at Jo in a strange, + questioning, uncomprehending way. + </p> + <p> + “I beg—your pardon,” he said haltingly, “have I ever—been + intro—” Suddenly his eyes closed, a frown gathered on his forehead. + After a minute his eyes opened again, and he gazed with painful, pathetic + seriousness at Jo. This grew to a kind of childish terror; then slowly, as + a shadow passes, the perplexity, anxiety and terror cleared away, and left + his forehead calm, his eyes unvexed and peaceful. The monocle dropped, and + he did not heed it. At length he said wearily, and with an incredibly + simple dependence: + </p> + <p> + “I am thirsty now.” + </p> + <p> + Jo lifted a wooden bowl to his lips, and he drank, drank, drank to + repletion. When he had finished he patted Jo’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “I am always thirsty,” he said. “I shall be hungry too. I always am.” + </p> + <p> + Jo brought him some milk and bread in a bowl. When the sick man had eaten + and drunk the bowlful to the last drop and crumb, he lay back with a sigh + of content, but trembling from weakness and the strain, though Jo’s hand + had been under his head, and he had been fed like a little child. + </p> + <p> + All day he lay and watched Jo as he worked, as he came and went. Sometimes + he put his hand to his head and said to Jo: “It hurts.” Then Jo would cool + the wound with fresh water from the mountain spring, and he would drag + down the bowl to drink from it greedily. + </p> + <p> + It was as though he could never get enough water to drink. So the first + day in the hut at Vadrome Mountain passed without questioning on the part + of either Charley Steele or his host. + </p> + <p> + With good reason. Jo Portugais saw that memory was gone; that the past was + blotted out. He had watched that first terrible struggle of memory to + reassert itself, as the eyes mechanically looked out upon new and strange + surroundings, but it was only the automatic habit of the sight, the + fumbling of the blind soul in its cell-fumbling for the latch which it + could not find, for the door which would not open. The first day on the + raft, as Charley had opened his eyes upon the world again after that awful + night at the Cote Dorion, Jo. had seen that same blank uncomprehending + look—as it were, the first look of a mind upon the world. This time + he saw, and understood what he saw, and spoke as men speak, but with no + knowledge or memory behind it—only the involuntary action of muscle + and mind repeated from the vanished past. + </p> + <p> + Charley Steele was as a little child, and having no past, and + comprehending in the present only its limited physical needs and motions, + he had no hope, no future, no understanding. In three days he was upon his + feet, and in four he walked out of doors and followed Jo into the woods, + and watched him fell a tree and do a woodsman’s work. Indoors he regarded + all Jo did with eager interest and a pleased, complacent look, and readily + did as he was told. He seldom spoke—not above three or four times a + day, and then simply and directly, and only concerning his wants. From + first to last he never asked a question, and there was never any inquiry + by look or word. A hundred and twenty miles lay between him and his old + home, between him and Kathleen and Billy and Jean Jolicoeur’s saloon, but + between him and his past life the unending miles of eternity intervened. + He was removed from it as completely as though he were dead and buried. + </p> + <p> + A month went by. Sometimes Jo went down to the village below, and then, at + first, he locked the door of the house behind him upon Charley. Against + this Charley made no motion and said no word, but patiently awaited Jo’s + return. So it was that, at last, Jo made no attempt to lock the door, but + with a nod or a good-bye left him alone. When Charley saw him returning he + would go to meet him, and shake hands with him, and say “Good-day,” and + then would come in with him and help him get supper or do the work of the + house. + </p> + <p> + Since Charley came no one had visited the house, for there were no paths + beyond it, and no one came to the Vadrome Mountain, save by chance. But + after two months had gone the Cure came. Twice a year the Cure made it a + point to visit Jo in the interests of his soul, though the visits came to + little, for Jo never went to confession, and seldom to mass. On this + occasion the Cure arrived when Jo was out in the woods. He discovered + Charley. Charley made no answer to his astonished and friendly greeting, + but watched him with a wide-eyed anxiety till the Cure seated himself at + the door to await Jo’s coming. Presently, as he sat there, Charley, who + had studied his face as a child studies the unfamiliar face of a stranger, + brought him a bowl of bread and milk and put it in his hands. The Cure + smiled and thanked him, and Charley smiled in return and said: “It is very + good.” + </p> + <p> + As the Cure ate, Charley watched him with satisfaction, and nodded at him + kindly. + </p> + <p> + When Jo came he lied to the Cure. He said he had found Charley wandering + in the woods, with a wound in his head, and had brought him home with him + and cared for him. Forty miles away he had found him. + </p> + <p> + The Cure was perplexed. What was there to do? He believed what Jo said. So + far as he knew, Jo had never lied to him before, and he thought he + understood Jo’s interest in this man with the look of a child and no + memory: Jo’s life was terribly lonely; he had no one to care for, and no + one cared for him; here was what might comfort him! Through this helpless + man might come a way to Jo’s own good. So he argued with himself. + </p> + <p> + What to do? Tell the story to the world by writing to the newspaper at + Quebec? Jo pooh-poohed this. Wait till the man’s memory came back? Would + it come back—what chance was there of its ever coming back? Jo said + that they ought to wait and see—wait awhile, and then, if his memory + did not return, they would try to find his friends, by publishing his + story abroad. + </p> + <p> + Chaudiere was far from anywhere: it knew little of the world, and the + world knew naught of it, and this was a large problem for the Cure. + Perhaps Jo was right, he thought. The man was being well cared for, and + what more could be wished at the moment? The Cure was a simple man, and + when Jo urged that if the sick man could get well anywhere in the world it + would be at Vadrome Mountain in Chaudiere, the Cure’s parochial pride was + roused, and he was ready to believe all Jo said. He also saw reason in + Jo’s request that the village should not be told of the sick man’s + presence. Before he left, the Cure knelt down and prayed, “for the good of + this poor mortal’s soul and body.” + </p> + <p> + As he prayed, Charley knelt down also, and kept his eyes-calm unwondering + eyes-full fixed on the good M. Loisel, whose grey hair, thin peaceful + face, and dark brown eyes made a noble picture of patience and devotion. + </p> + <p> + When the Cure shook him by the hand, murmuring in good-bye, “God be + gracious to thee, my son,” Charley nodded in a friendly way. He watched + the departing figure till it disappeared over the crest of the hill. + </p> + <p> + This day marked an epoch in the solitude of the hut on Vadrome Mountain. + Jo had an inspiration. He got a second set of carpenter’s tools, and + straightway began to build a new room to the house. He gave the extra set + of tools to Charley with an encouraging word. For the first time since he + had been brought here, Charley’s face took on a look of interest. In + half-an-hour he was at work, smiling and perspiring, and quickly learning + the craft. He seldom spoke, but he sometimes laughed a mirthful, natural + boy’s laugh of good spirits and contentment. From that day his interest in + things increased, and before two months went round, while yet it was late + autumn, he looked in perfect health. He ate moderately, drank a great deal + of water, and slept half the circle of the clock each day. His skin was + like silk; the colour of his face was as that of an apple; he was more + than ever Beauty Steele. The Cure came two or three times, and Charley + spoke to him but never held conversation, and no word concerning the past + ever passed his tongue, nor did he have memory of what was said to him + from one day to the next. A hundred ways Jo had tried to rouse his memory. + But the words Cote Dorion had no meaning to him, and he listened blankly + to all names and phrases once so familiar. Yet he spoke French and English + in a slow, passive, involuntary way. All was automatic, mechanical. + </p> + <p> + The weeks again wore on, and autumn became winter, and then at last one + day the Cure came, bringing his brother, a great Parisian surgeon lately + arrived from France on a short visit. The Cure had told his brother the + story, and had been met by a keen, astonished interest in the unknown man + on Vadrome Mountain. A slight pressure on the brain from accident had + before now produced loss of memory—the great man’s professional + curiosity was aroused: he saw a nice piece of surgical work ready to his + hand; he asked to be taken to Vadrome Mountain. + </p> + <p> + Now the Cure had lived long out of the world, and was not in touch with + the swift-minded action and adventuring intellects of such men as his + brother, Marcel Loisel. Was it not tempting Providence, a surgical + operation? He was so used to people getting ill and getting well without a + doctor—the nearest was twenty miles distant—or getting ill and + dying in what seemed a natural and preordained way, that to cut open a + man’s head and look into his brain, and do this or that to his skull, + seemed almost sinful. Was it not better to wait and see if the poor man + would not recover in God’s appointed time? + </p> + <p> + In answer to his sensitively eager and diverse questions, Marcel Loisel + replied that his dear Cure was merely mediaeval, and that he had + sacrificed his mental powers on the altar of a simple faith, which might + remove mountains but was of no value in a case like this, where, clearly, + surgery was the only providence. + </p> + <p> + At this the Cure got to his feet, came over, laid his hand on his + brother’s shoulder, and said, with tears in his eyes: + </p> + <p> + “Marcel, you shock me. Indeed you shock me!” + </p> + <p> + Then he twisted a knot in his cassock cords, and added “Come then, Marcel. + We will go to him. And may God guide us aright!” + </p> + <p> + That afternoon the two grey-haired men visited Vadrome Mountain, and there + they found Charley at work in the little room that the two men had built. + Charley nodded pleasantly when the Cure introduced his brother, but showed + no further interest at first. He went on working at the cupboard under his + hand. His cap was off and his hair was a little rumpled where the wound + had been, for he had a habit of rubbing the place now and then—an + abstracted, sensitive motion—although he seemed to suffer no pain. + The surgeon’s eyes fastened on the place, and as Charley worked and his + brother talked, he studied the man, the scar, the contour of the head. At + last he came up to Charley and softly placed his fingers on the scar, + feeling the skull. Charley turned quickly. + </p> + <p> + There was something in the long, piercing look of the surgeon which seemed + to come through limitless space to the sleeping and imprisoned memory of + Charley’s sick mind. A confused, anxious, half-fearful look crept into the + wide blue eyes. It was like a troubled ghost, flitting along the + boundaries of sight and sense, and leaving a chill and a horrified wonder + behind. The surgeon gazed on, and the trouble in Charley’s eye passed to + his face, stayed an instant. Then he turned away to Jo Portugais. “I am + thirsty now,” he said, and he touched his lips in the way he was wont to + do in those countless ages ago, when, millions upon millions of miles + away, people said: “There goes Charley Steele!” + </p> + <p> + “I am thirsty now,” and that touch of the lip with the tongue, were a + revelation to the surgeon. + </p> + <p> + A half-hour later he was walking homeward with the Cure. Jo accompanied + them for a distance. As they emerged into the wider road-paths that began + half-way down the mountain, the Cure, who had watched his brother’s face + for a long time in silence, said: + </p> + <p> + “What is in your mind, Marcel?” The surgeon turned with a half-smile. + </p> + <p> + “He is happy now. No memory, no conscience, no pain, no responsibility, no + trouble—nothing behind or before. Is it good to bring him back?” + </p> + <p> + The Cure had thought it all over, and he had wholly changed his mind since + that first talk with his brother. “To save a mind, Marcel!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Then to save a soul?” suggested the surgeon. “Would he thank me?” + </p> + <p> + “It is our duty to save him.” + </p> + <p> + “Body and mind and soul, eh? And if I look after the body and the mind?” + </p> + <p> + “His soul is in God’s hands, Marcel.” + </p> + <p> + “But will he thank me? How can you tell what sorrows, what troubles, he + has had? What struggles, temptations, sins? He has none now, of any sort; + not a stain, physical or moral.” + </p> + <p> + “That is not life, Marcel.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, you have changed. This morning it was I who would, and you + hesitated.” + </p> + <p> + “I see differently now, Marcel.” + </p> + <p> + The surgeon put a hand playfully on his brother’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Did you think, my dear Prosper, that I should hesitate? Am I a + sentimentalist? But what will he say? + </p> + <p> + “We need not think of that, Marcel.” + </p> + <p> + “But yet suppose that with memory come again sin and shame—even + crime?” + </p> + <p> + “We will pray for him.” + </p> + <p> + “But if he isn’t a Catholic?” + </p> + <p> + “One must pray for sinners,” said the Curb, after a silence. + </p> + <p> + This time the surgeon laid a hand on the shoulder of his brother + affectionately. “Upon my soul, dear Prosper, you almost persuade me to be + reactionary and mediaeval.” + </p> + <p> + The Curb turned half uneasily towards Jo, who was following at a little + distance. This seemed hardly the sort of thing for him to hear. + </p> + <p> + “You had better return now, Jo,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “As you wish, M’sieu’,” Jo answered, then looked inquiringly at the + surgeon. + </p> + <p> + “In about five days, Portugais. Have you a steady hand and a quick eye?” + </p> + <p> + Jo spread out his hands in deprecation, and turned to the Curb, as though + for him to answer. + </p> + <p> + “Jo is something of a physician and surgeon too, Marcel. He has a gift. He + has cured many in the parish with his herbs and tinctures, and he has set + legs and arms successfully.” + </p> + <p> + The surgeon eyed Jo humorously, but kindly. “He is probably as good a + doctor as some of us. Medicine is a gift, surgery is a gift and an art. + You shall hear from me, Portugais.” He looked again keenly at Jo. “You + have not given him ‘herbs and tinctures’?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, M’sieu’.” + </p> + <p> + “Very sensible. Good-day, Portugais.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-day, my son,” said the priest, and raised his fingers in + benediction, as Jo turned and quickly retraced his steps. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you ask him if he had given the poor man any herbs or tinctures, + Marcel?” said the priest. + </p> + <p> + “Because those quack tinctures have whiskey in them.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Whiskey in any form would be bad for him,” the surgeon answered + evasively. + </p> + <p> + But to himself he kept saying: “The man was a drunkard—he was a + drunkard.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. THE RAISING OF THE CURTAIN + </h2> + <p> + M. Marcel Loisel did his work with a masterly precision, with the aid of + his brother and Portugais. The man under the instruments, not wholly + insensible, groaned once or twice. Once or twice, too, his eyes opened + with a dumb hunted look, then closed as with an irresistible weariness. + When the work was over, and every stain or sign of surgery removed, sleep + came down on the bed—a deep and saturating sleep, which seemed to + fill the room with peace. For hours the surgeon sat beside the couch, now + and again feeling the pulse, wetting the hot lips, touching the forehead + with his palm. At last, with a look of satisfaction, he came forward to + where Jo and the Cure sat beside the fire. + </p> + <p> + “It is all right,” he said. “Let him sleep as long as he will.” He turned + again to the bed. “I wish I could stay to see the end of it. Is there no + chance, Prosper?” he added to the priest. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible, Marcel. You must have sleep. You have a seventy-mile drive + before you to-morrow, and sixty the next day. You can only reach the port + now by starting at daylight to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + So it was that Marcel Loisel, the great surgeon, was compelled to leave + Chaudiere before he knew that the memory of the man who had been under his + knife had actually returned to him. He had, however, no doubt in his own + mind, and he was confident that there could be no physical harm from the + operation. Sleep was the all-important thing. In it lay the strength for + the shock of the awakening—if awakening of memory there was to be. + </p> + <p> + Before he left he stooped over Charley and said musingly: “I wonder what + you will wake up to, my friend?” Then he touched the wound with a light + caressing finger. “It was well done, well done,” he murmured proudly. + </p> + <p> + A moment afterwards he was hurrying down the hill to the open road, where + a cariole awaited the Cure and himself. + </p> + <p> + For a day and a half Charley slept, and Jo watched him with an + affectionate solicitude. Once or twice, becoming anxious, because of the + heavy breathing and the motionless sleep, he had forced open the teeth, + and poured a little broth between. + </p> + <p> + Just before dawn on the second morning, worn out and heavy with slumber, + Jo lay down by the piled-up fire and dropped into a sleep that wrapped him + like a blanket, folding him away into a drenching darkness. + </p> + <p> + For a time there was a deep silence, troubled only by Jo’s deep breathing, + which seemed itself like the pulse of the silence. Charley appeared not to + be breathing at all. He was lying on his back, seemingly lifeless. + Suddenly on the snug silence there was a sharp sound. A tree outside + snapped with the frost. + </p> + <p> + Charley awoke. The body seemed not to awake, for it did not stir, but the + eyes opened wide and full, looking straight before them—straight up + to the brown smoke-stained rafters, along which were ranged guns and + fishing-tackle, axes and bear-traps. Full clear blue eyes, healthy and + untired as a child’s fresh from an all-night’s drowse, they looked and + looked. Yet, at first, the body did not stir; only the mind seemed to be + awakening, the soul creeping out from slumber into the day. Presently, + however, as the eyes gazed, there stole into them a wonder, a trouble, an + anxiety. For a moment they strained at the rafters and the crude weapons + and implements there, then the body moved, quickly, eagerly, and turned to + see the flickering shadows made by the fire and the simple order of the + room. + </p> + <p> + A minute more, and Charley was sitting on the side of his couch, dazed and + staring. This hut, this fire, the figure by the hearth in a sound + sleep-his hand went to his head: it felt the bandage there! + </p> + <p> + He remembered now! Last night at the Cote Dorion! Last night he had talked + with Suzon Charlemagne at the Cote Dorion; last night he had drunk harder + than he had ever drunk in his life, he had defied, chaffed, insulted the + river-drivers. The whole scene came back: the faces of Suzon and her + father; Suzon’s fingers on his for an instant; the glass of brandy beside + him; the lanterns on the walls; the hymn he sang; the sermon he preached—he + shuddered a little; the rumble of angry noises round him; the tumbler + thrown; the crash of the lantern, and only one light left in the place! + Then Jake Hough and his heavy hand, the flying monocle, and his + disdainful, insulting reply; the sight of the pistol in the hand of + Suzon’s father; then a rush, a darkness, and his own fierce plunge towards + the door, beyond which were the stars and the cool night and the dark + river. Curses, hands that battered and tore at him, the doorway reached, + and then a blow on the head and—falling, falling, falling, and + distant noises growing more distant, and suddenly and sweetly—absolute + silence. + </p> + <p> + Again he shuddered. Why? He remembered that scene in his office yesterday + with Kathleen, and the one later with Billy. A sensitive chill swept all + over him, making his flesh creep, and a flush sped over his face from chin + to brow. To-day he must pick up all these threads again, must make things + right for Billy, must replace the money he had stolen, must face Kathleen + again he shuddered. Was he at the Cote Dorion still? He looked round him. + No, this was not the sort of house to be found at the Cote Dorion. Clearly + this was the hut of a hunter. Probably he had been fished out of the river + by this woodsman and brought here. He felt his head. The wound was fresh + and very sore. He had played for death, with an insulting disdain, yet + here he was alive. + </p> + <p> + Certainly he was not intended to be drowned or knifed—he remembered + the knives he saw unsheathed—or kicked or pummelled into the + hereafter. It was about ten o’clock when he had had his “accident”—he + affected a smile, yet somehow he did not smile easily—it must be now + about five, for here was the morning creeping in behind the deer-skin + blind at the window. + </p> + <p> + Strange that he felt none the worse for his mishap, and his tongue was as + clean and fresh as if he had been drinking milk last night, and not very + doubtful brandy at the Cote Dorion. No fever in his hands, no headache, + only the sore skull, so well and tightly bandaged but a wonderful thirst, + and an intolerable hunger. He smiled. When had he ever been hungry for + breakfast before? Here he was with a fine appetite: it was like coals of + fire heaped on his head by Nature for last night’s business at the Cote + Dorion. How true it was that penalties did not always come with—indiscretions. + Yet, all at once, he flushed again to the forehead, for a curious sense of + shame flashed through his whole being, and one Charley Steele—the + Charley Steele of this morning, an unknown, unadventuring, onlooking + Charley Steele—was viewing with abashed eyes the Charley Steele who + had ended a doubtful career in the coarse and desperate proceedings of + last night. With a nervous confusion he sought refuge in his eye-glass. + His fingers fumbled over his waistcoat, but did not find it. The weapon of + defence and attack, the symbol of interrogation and incomprehensibility, + was gone. Beauty Steele was under the eyes of another self, and neither + disdain, nor contempt, nor the passive stare, were available. He got + suddenly to his feet, and started forward, as though to find refuge from + himself. + </p> + <p> + The abrupt action sent the blood to his head, and feeling a blindness come + over him, he put both hands up to his temples, and sank back on the couch, + dizzy and faint. + </p> + <p> + His motions waked Jo Portugais, who scrambled from the floor, and came + towards him. + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’,” he said, “you must not. You are faint.” He dropped his hands + supportingly to Charley’s shoulders. + </p> + <p> + Charley nodded, but did not yet look up. His head throbbed sorely. “Water—please!” + he said. + </p> + <p> + In an instant Jo was beside him again, with a bowl of fresh water at his + lips. He drank, drank, drank, until the great bowl was drained to the last + drop. + </p> + <p> + “Whew! That was good!” he said, and looked up at Jo with a smile. “Thank + you, my friend; I haven’t the honour of your acquaintance, but—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped suddenly and stared at Jo. Inquiry, mystification, were in his + look. + </p> + <p> + “Have I ever seen you before?” he said. “Who knows, M’sieu’!” + </p> + <p> + Since Jo had stood before Charley in the dock near six years ago he had + greatly changed. The marks of smallpox, a heavy beard, grey hair, and + solitary life had altered him beyond Charley’s recognition. + </p> + <p> + Jo could hardly speak. His legs were trembling under him, for now he knew + that Charley Steele was himself again. He was no longer the simple, quiet + man-child of three days ago, and of these months past, but the man who had + saved him from hanging, to whom he owed a debt he dare not acknowledge. + Jo’s brain was in a muddle. Now that the great crisis was over, now that + the expected thing had come, and face to face with the cure, he had + neither tongue, nor strength, nor wit. His words stuck in his throat where + his heart was, and for a minute his eyes had a kind of mist before them. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Charley’s eyes were upon him, curious, fixed, abstracted. + </p> + <p> + “Is this your house?” + </p> + <p> + “It is, M’sieu’.” + </p> + <p> + “You fished me out of the river by the Cote Dorion?” He still held his + head with his hands, for it throbbed so, but his eyes were intent on his + companion. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, M’sieu’.” + </p> + <p> + Charley’s hand mechanically fumbled for his monocle. Jo turned quickly to + the wall, and taking it by its cord from the nail where it had been for + these long months, handed it over. Charley took it and mechanically put it + in his eye. “Thank you, my friend,” he said. “Have I been conscious at all + since you rescued me last night?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “In a way, M’sieu’.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well, I can’t remember, but it was very kind of you—I do thank + you very much. Do you think you could find me something to eat? I beg your + pardon—it isn’t breakfast-time, of course, but I was never so hungry + in my life!” + </p> + <p> + “In a minute, M’sieu’—in one minute. But lie down, you must lie down + a little. You got up too quick, and it makes your head throb. You have had + nothing to eat.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, since yesterday noon, and very little then. I didn’t eat + anything at the Cote Dorion, I remember.” He lay back on the couch and + closed his eyes. The throbbing in his head presently stopped, and he felt + that if he ate something he could go to sleep again, it was so restful in + this place—a whole day’s sleep and rest, how good it would be after + last night’s racketing! Here was primitive and material comfort, the + secret of content, if you liked! Here was this poor hunter-fellow, with + enough to eat and to drink, earning it every day by every day’s labour, + and, like Robinson Crusoe no doubt, living in a serene self-sufficiency + and an elysian retirement. Probably he had no responsibilities in the + world, with no one to say him nay, himself only to consider in all the + universe: a divine conception of adequate life. Yet himself, Charley + Steele, an idler, a waster, with no purpose in life, with scarcely the + necessity to earn his bread-never, at any rate, until lately—was the + slave of the civilisation to which he belonged. Was civilisation worth the + game? + </p> + <p> + His hand involuntarily went to his head. It changed the course of his + thoughts. He must go back to-day to put Billy’s crime right, to replace + the trust-moneys Billy had taken by forging his brother-in-law’s name. Not + a moment must be lost. No doubt he was within driving distance of his + office, and, bandaged head or no bandaged head, last night’s disgraceful + doings notwithstanding, it was his duty to face the wondering eyes—what + did he care for wondering eyes? hadn’t he been making eyes wonder all his + life?—face the wondering eyes in the little city, and set a crooked + business straight. Fool and scoundrel certainly Billy was, but there was + Kathleen! + </p> + <p> + His lips tightened; he had a strange anxious flutter of the heart. When + had his heart fluttered like this? When had he ever before considered + Kathleen’s feelings as to his personal conduct so delicately? Well, since + yesterday he did feel it, and a sudden sense of pity sprang up in him—vague, + shamefaced pity, which belied the sudden egotistical flourish with which + he put his monocle to his eye and tried futilely to smile in the old way. + </p> + <p> + He had lain with his eyes closed. They opened now, and he saw his host + spreading a newspaper as a kind of cloth on a small rough table, and + putting some food upon it-bread, meat, and a bowl of soup. It was + thoughtful of this man to make his soup overnight-he saw Jo lift it from + beside the fire where it had been kept hot. A good fellow-an excellent + fellow, this woodsman. + </p> + <p> + His head did not throb now, and he drew himself up slowly on his + elbow-then, after a moment, lifted himself to a sitting posture. + </p> + <p> + “What is your name, my friend?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Jo Portugais, M’sieu’,” Jo answered, and brought a candle and put it on + the table, then lifted the tin-plate from over the bowl of savoury soup. + </p> + <p> + Never before had Charley Steele sat down to such a breakfast. A roll and a + cup of coffee had been enough, and often too much, for him. Yet now he + could not wait to eat the soup with a spoon, but lifted the bowl and took + a long draught of it, and set it down with a sigh of content. Then he + broke bread into the soup—large pieces of black oat bread—until + the bowl was a mass of luscious pulp. This he ate almost ravenously, his + eye wandering avidly the while to the small piece of meat beside the bowl. + What meat was it? It looked like venison, yet summer was not the time for + venison. What did it matter! Jo sat on a bench beside the fire, his face + turned towards his guest, dreading the moment when the man he had nursed + and cared for, with whom he had eaten and drunk for so long, should know + the truth about himself. He could not tell him all there was to tell, he + was taking another means of letting him know. + </p> + <p> + Charley did not speak. Hunger was a new sensation, a delicious thing, too + good to be broken by talking. He ate till he had cleared away the last + crumbs of bread and meat and drunk the last drop of soup. He looked at the + woodsman as though wondering if he would bring more. Jo evidently thought + he had had enough, for he did not move. Charley’s glance withdrew from Jo, + and busied itself with the few crumbs remaining upon the table. He saw a + little piece of bread on the floor. He picked it up and ate it with + relish, laughing to himself. + </p> + <p> + “How long will it take us to get to town? Can we do it this morning?” + </p> + <p> + “Not this morning, M’sieu’,” said Jo, in a sort of hoarse whisper. + </p> + <p> + “How many hours would it take?” + </p> + <p> + He was gathering the last crumbs of his feast with his hand, and looking + casually down at the newspaper spread as a table-cloth. + </p> + <p> + All at once his hand stopped, his eyes became fixed on a spot in the + paper. He gave a hoarse, guttural cry, like an animal in agony. His lips + became dry, his hand wiped a blinding mist from his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Jo watched him with an intense alarm and a horrified curiosity. He felt a + base coward for not having told Charley what this paper contained. Never + had he seen such a look as this. He felt his beads, and told them over and + over again, as Charley Steele, in a dry, croaking sort of whisper, read, + in letters that seemed monstrous symbols of fire, a record of himself: + </p> + <p> + “To-day, by special license from the civil and ecclesiastical courts [the + paragraph in the paper began], was married, at St. Theobald’s Church, Mrs. + Charles Steele, daughter of the late Hon. Julien Wantage, and niece of the + late Eustace Wantage, Esq., to Captain Thomas Fairing, of the Royal + Fusileers—” + </p> + <p> + Charley snatched at the top of the paper and read the date “Tenth of + February, 18-!” It was August when he was at the Cote Dorion, the 5th + August, 18-, and this paper was February 10th, 18-. He read on, in the + month-old paper, with every nerve in his body throbbing now: a fierce + beating that seemed as if it must burst the heart and the veins: + </p> + <p> + “—Captain Thomas Fairing, of the Royal Fusileers, whose career in + our midst has been marked by an honourable sense of public and private + duty. Our fellow-citizens will unite with us in congratulating the bride, + whose previous misfortunes have only increased the respect in which she is + held. If all remember the obscure death of her first husband (though the + body was not found, there has never been a doubt of his death), and the + subsequent discovery that he had embezzled trust-moneys to the extent of + twenty-five thousand dollars, thereby setting the final seal of shame upon + a misspent life, destined for brilliant and powerful uses, all have + conspired to forget the association of our beautiful and admired + townswoman with his career. It is painful to refer to these circumstances, + but it is only within the past few days that the estate of the misguided + man has been wound up, and the money he embezzled restored to its rightful + owners; and it is better to make these remarks now than repeat them in the + future, only to arouse painful memories in quarters where we should least + desire to wound. + </p> + <p> + “In her new life, blessed by a romantic devotion known and admired by all, + Mrs. Fairing and her husband will be followed by the affectionate good + wishes of the whole community.” + </p> + <p> + The man on the hearth-stone shrank back at the sight of the still, white + face, in which the eyes were like sparks of fire. His impulse had been to + go over and offer the hand of sympathy to the stricken man, but his simple + mind grasped the fact that no one might, with impunity, invade this awful + quiet. Charley was frozen in body, but his brain was awake with the heat + of “a burning fiery furnace.” + </p> + <p> + Seven months of unconscious life-seven months of silence—no sight, + no seeing, no knowing; seven months of oblivion, in which the world had + buried him out of ken in an unknown grave of infamy! Seven months—and + Kathleen was married again to the man she had always loved. To the world + he himself was a rogue and thief. Billy had remained silent—Billy, + whom he had so befriended, had let decent men heap scorn and reproaches on + his memory. Here was what the world thought of him—he read the lines + over again, his eyes scorching, but his finger steady, as it traced the + lines slowly: “the obscure death...” “embezzled trustmoneys...” “the final + seal of shame upon a misspent life!” + </p> + <p> + These were the epitaphs on the tombstone of Charley Steele; dead and + buried, out of sight, out of repute, soon to be out of mind and out of + memory, save as a warning to others—an old example raked out of the + dust-bin of time by the scavengers of morality, to toss at all who trod + the paths of dalliance. + </p> + <p> + What was there to do? Go back? Go back and knock at Kathleen’s door, + another Enoch Arden, and say: “I have come to my own again?” Return and + tell Tom Fairing to go his way and show his face no more? Break up this + union, this marriage of love in which these two rejoiced? Summon Kathleen + out of her illegal intercourse with the man who had been true to her all + these years? + </p> + <p> + To what end? What had he ever done for her that he might destroy her now? + What sort of Spartan tragedy was this, that the woman who had been the + victim of circumstances, who had been the slave to a tie he never felt, + yet which had been as iron-bound to her, should now be brought out to be + mangled body and soul for no fault of her own? What had she done? What had + she ever done to give him right to touch so much as a hair of her head? + </p> + <p> + Go back, and bring Billy to justice, and clear his own name? Go back, and + send Kathleen’s brother, the forger, to jail? What an achievement in + justice! Would not the world have a right to say that the only decent + thing he could do was to eliminate himself from the equation? What profit + for him in the great summing-up, that he was technically innocent of this + one thing, and that to establish his innocence he broke a woman’s heart + and destroyed a boy’s life? To what end! It was the murderer coming back + as a ghost to avenge himself for being hanged. Suppose he went back—the + death’s-head at the feast—what would there be for himself + afterwards; for any one for whom he was responsible? Living at that price? + </p> + <p> + To die and end it all, to disappear from this petty life where he had done + so little, and that little ill? To die? + </p> + <p> + No. There was in him some deep, if obscure, fatalism after all. If he had + been meant to die now, why had he not gone to the bottom of the river that + yesterday at the Cote Dorion? Why had he been saved by this yokel at the + fire, and brought here to lie in oblivion in this mountain hut, wrapped in + silence and lost to the world? Why had his brain and senses lain fallow + all these months, a vacuous vegetation, an empty consciousness? Was it + fate? Did it not seem probable that the Great Machine had, in its + automatic movement, tossed him up again on the shores of Time because he + had not fallen on the trap-door predestined for his eternal exit? + </p> + <p> + It was clear to him that death by his own hand was futile, and that if + there were trap-doors set for him alone, it were well to wait until he + trod upon them and fell through in his appointed hour in the movement of + the Great Machine. + </p> + <p> + What to do—where to live—how to live? + </p> + <p> + He got slowly to his feet and took a step forward half blindly. The man on + the bench stirred. Crossing the room he dropped a hand on the man’s + shoulder. “Open the blind, my friend.” + </p> + <p> + Jo Portugais got to his feet quickly, eyes averted—he did not dare + look into Charley’s face—and went over and drew back the deer-skin + blind. The clear, crisp sunlight of a frosty morning broke gladly into the + room. Charley turned and blew out the candle on the table where he had + eaten, then walked feebly to the window. Standing on the crest of the + mountain the hut looked down through a clearing, flanked by forest trees. + </p> + <p> + It was a goodly scene. The green and frosted foliage of the pines and + cedars; the flowery tracery of frost hanging like cobwebs everywhere; the + poudre sparkle in the air; the hills of silver and emerald sloping down to + the valley miles away, where the village clustered about the great old + parish church; the smoke from a hundred chimneys, in purple spirals, + rising straight up in the windless air; over all peace and a perfect + silence. + </p> + <p> + Charley mechanically fixed his eye-glass and stood with hands resting on + the window-sill, looking, looking out upon a new world. + </p> + <p> + At length he turned. + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything I can do for you, M’sieu’?” said Jo huskily. + </p> + <p> + Charley held out his hand and clasped Jo’s. “Tell me about all these + months,” he said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. THE COMING OF ROSALIE + </h2> + <p> + Charley Steele saw himself as he had been through the eyes of another. He + saw the work that he had done in the carpentering shed, and had no memory + of it. The real Charley Steele had been enveloped in oblivion for seven + months. During that time a mild phantom of himself had wandered, as it + were in a somnambulistic dream, through the purlieus of life. Open-eyed, + but with the soul asleep, all idiosyncrasy laid aside, all acquired + impressions and influences vanished, he had been walking in the world with + no more complexity of mind than a new-born child, nothing intervening + between the sight of the eyes and the original sense. + </p> + <p> + Now, when the real Charley Steele emerged again, the folds of mind and + soul unrolling to the million-voiced creation and touched by the antenna + of a various civilisation, the phantom Charley was gone once more into + obscurity. The real Charley could remember naught of the other, could feel + naught, save, as in the stirring industrious day, one remembers that he + has dreamed a strange dream the night before, and cannot recall it, though + the overpowering sense of it remains. + </p> + <p> + He saw the work of his hands, the things he had made with adze and plane, + with chisel and hammer, but nothing seemed familiar save the smell of the + glue pot, which brought back in a cloudy impression curious unfamiliar + feelings. Sights, sounds, motions, passed in a confused way through his + mind as the smell of the glue crept through his nostrils; and he struggled + hard to remember. But no—seven months of his life were gone for + ever. Yet he knew and felt that a vast change had gone over him, had + passed through him. While the soul had lain fallow, while the body had + been growing back to childlike health again, and Nature had been pouring + into his sick senses her healing balm; while the medicaments of peace and + sleep and quiet labour had been having their way with him, he had been + reorganised, renewed, flushed of the turgid silt of dissipation. For his + sins and weaknesses there had been no gall and vinegar to drink. + </p> + <p> + As Charley stood looking round the workshop, Jo entered, shaking the snow + from his moccasined feet. “The Cure, M’sieu’ Loisel, has come,” he said. + Charley turned, and, without a word, followed Jo into the house. There, + standing at the window and looking down at the village beneath, was the + Cure. As Charley entered, M. Loisel came forward with outstretched hand. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to see you well again, Monsieur,” he said, and his cool thin + hand held Charley’s for a moment, as he looked him benignly in the eye. + </p> + <p> + With a kind of instinct as to the course he must henceforth pursue, + Charley replied simply, dropping his eye-glass as he met that clear + soluble look of the priest—such a well of simplicity he had never + before seen. Only naked eye could meet that naked eye, imperfect though + his own sight was. + </p> + <p> + “It is good of you to feel so, and to come and tell me so,” he answered + quietly. “I have been a great trouble, I know.” + </p> + <p> + There was none of the old pose in his manner, none of the old cryptic + quality in his words. + </p> + <p> + “We were anxious for your sake—and for the sake of your friends, + Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + Charley evaded the suggestion. “I cannot easily repay your kindness and + that of Jo Portugais, my good friend here,” he rejoined. + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’,” replied Jo, his face turned away, and his foot pushing a log on + the fire, “you have repaid it.” + </p> + <p> + Charley shook his head. “I am in a conspiracy of kindness,” he said. “It + is all a mystery to me. For why should one expect such treatment from + strangers, when, besides all, one can never make any real return, not even + to pay for board and lodging!” + </p> + <p> + “‘I was a stranger and ye took me in,”’ said the Cure, smiling by no means + sentimentally. “So said the Friend of the World.” + </p> + <p> + Charley looked the Curb steadily in the eyes. He was thinking how simply + this man had said these things; as if, indeed, they were part of his life; + as though it were usual speech with him, a something that belonged, not an + acquired language. There was the old impulse to ask a question, and he put + the monocle to his eye, but his lips did not open, and the eye-glass fell + again. He had seen familiarity with sacred names and things in the + uneducated, in excited revivalists, worked up to a state clairvoyant and + conversational with the Creator; but he had never heard an educated man + speak as this man did. + </p> + <p> + At last Charley said: “Your brother—Portugais tells me that your + brother, the surgeon, has gone away. I should have liked to thank him—if + no more.” + </p> + <p> + “I have written him of your good recovery. He will be glad, I know. But my + brother, from one stand-point—a human stand-point—had + scruples. These I did not share, but they were strong in him, Monsieur. + Marcel asked himself—” He stopped suddenly and looked towards Jo. + </p> + <p> + Charley saw the look, and said quickly: “Speak plainly. Portugais is my + friend.” + </p> + <p> + Jo turned slowly towards him, and a light seemed to come to his eyes—a + shining something that resolved itself into a dog-like fondness, an utter + obedience, a strange intense gratitude. + </p> + <p> + “Marcel asked himself,” the Cure continued, “whether you would thank him + for bringing you back to—to life and memory. I fear he was trying to + see what I should say—I fear so. Marcel said, ‘Suppose that he + should curse me for it? Who knows what he would be brought back to—to + what suffering and pain, perhaps?’ Marcel said that.” + </p> + <p> + “And you replied, Monsieur le Cure?” + </p> + <p> + “I replied that Nature required you to answer that question for yourself, + and whether bitterly or gladly, it was your duty to take up your life and + live it out. Besides, it was not you alone that had to be considered. One + does not live alone or die alone in this world. There were your friends to + consider.” + </p> + <p> + “And because I had no friends here, you were compelled to think for me!” + answered Charley calmly. “Truth is, it was not a question of my friends, + for what I was during those seven months, or what I am now, can make no + difference to them.” + </p> + <p> + He looked the Cure in the eyes steadily, and as though he would convey his + intentions without words. The Curb understood. The habit of listening to + the revelations of the human heart had given him something of that + clairvoyance which can only be pursued by the primitive mind, unvexed by + complexity. + </p> + <p> + “It is, then, as though you had not come to life again? It is as though + you had no past, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “It is that, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + Jo suddenly turned and left the room, for he heard a step on the frosty + snow without. + </p> + <p> + “You will remain here, Monsieur?” said the Cure. “I cannot tell.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure had the bravery of simple souls with a duty to perform. He + fastened his eyes on Charley. “Monsieur, is there any reason why you + should not stay here? I ask it now, man to man—not as a priest of my + people, but as man to man.” + </p> + <p> + Charley did not answer for a moment. He was wondering how he should put + his reply. But his look did not waver, and the Cure saw the honesty of the + gaze. At length he replied: “If you mean, have I committed any crime which + the law may punish?—I answer no, Monsieur. If you mean, have I + robbed or killed, or forged—or wronged a woman as men wrong women? + No. These, I take it, are the things that matter first. For the rest, you + can think of me as badly as you will, or as well, for what I do henceforth + is the only thing that really concerns the world, Monsieur le Cure.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure came forward and put out his hand with a kindly gesture. + “Monsieur, you have suffered,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Never, never at all, Monsieur. Never for a moment, until I was dropped + down here like a stone from a sling. I had life by the throat; now it has + me there—that is all.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not a Catholic, Monsieur?” asked the priest, almost pleadingly, + and as though the question had been much on his mind. + </p> + <p> + “No, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure made no rejoinder. If he was not a Catholic, what matter what he + was? If he was not a Catholic, were he Buddhist, pagan, or Protestant, the + position for them personally was the same. “I am very sorry,” he said + gently. “I might have helped you had you been a Catholic.” + </p> + <p> + The eye-glass came like lightning to the eye, and a caustic, questioning + phrase was on the tongue, but Charley stopped himself in time. For, apart + from all else, this priest had been his friend in calamity, had acted with + a charming sensibility. The eye-glass troubled the Cure, and the look on + Charley’s face troubled him still more, but it passed as Charley said, in + a voice as simple as the Cure’s own: + </p> + <p> + “You may still help me as you have already done. I give you my word, too”—strange + that he touched his lips with his tongue as he did in the old days when + his mind turned to Jean Jolicoeur’s saloon—“that I will do nothing + to cause regret for your humanity and—and Christian kindness.” Again + the tongue touched the lips—a wave of the old life had swept over + him, the old thirst had rushed upon him. Perhaps it was the force of this + feeling which made him add, with a curious energy, “I give you my word, + Monsieur le Cure.” At that moment the door opened and Jo entered. + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’,” he said to Charley, “a registered parcel has come for you. It + has been brought by the postmaster’s daughter. She will give it to no one + but yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Charley’s face paled, and the Cure’s was scarcely less pale. In Charley’s + mind was the question, Who had discovered his presence here? Was he not, + then, to escape? Who should send him parcels through the post? + </p> + <p> + The Cure was perturbed. Was he, then, to know who this man was—his + name and history? Was the story of his life now to be told? + </p> + <p> + Charley broke the silence. “Tell the girl to come in.” Instantly + afterwards the postmaster’s daughter entered. The look of the girl’s face, + at once delicate and rosy with health, almost put the question of the + letter out of his mind for an instant. Her dark eyes met his as he came + forward with outstretched hand. + </p> + <p> + “This is addressed, as you will see, ‘To the Sick Man at the House of Jo + Portugais, at Vadrome Mountain.’ Are you that person, Monsieur?” she + asked. + </p> + <p> + As she handed the parcel, Charley’s eyes scanned her face quickly. How did + this habitant girl come by this perfect French accent, this refined + manner? He did not know the handwriting on the parcel; he hastily tore it + open. Inside were a few dozen small packets. Here also was a sheet of + paper. He opened and read it quickly. It said: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Monsieur, I am not sure that you have recovered your memory and your + health, and I am also not sure that in such case you will thank me + for my work. If you think I have done you an injury, pray accept my + profound apologies. Monsieur, you have been a drunkard. If you + would reverse the record now, these powders, taken at opportune + moments, will aid you. Monsieur, with every expression of my good- + will, and the hope that you will convey to me without reserve your + feelings on this delicate matter, I append my address in Paris, and + I have the honour to subscribe myself, with high consideration, + Monsieur, yours faithfully, + MARCEL LOISEL. +</pre> + <p> + The others looked at him with varied feelings as he read. Curiosity, + inquiry, expectation, were common to them all, but with each was a + different personal feeling. The Cure’s has been described. Jo Portugais’ + mind was asking if this meant that the man who had come into his life must + now go out of it; and the girl was asking who was this mysterious man, + like none she had ever seen or known. + </p> + <p> + Without hesitation Charley handed over the letter to the Cure, who took it + with surprise, read it with amazement, and handed it back with a flush on + his face. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Charley to the girl. “It is good of you to bring it all + this way. May I ask—” + </p> + <p> + “She is Mademoiselle Rosalie Evanturel,” said the Cure smiling. + </p> + <p> + “I am Charles Mallard,” said Charley slowly. “Thank you. I will go now, + Monsieur Mallard,” the girl said, lifting her eyes to his face. He bowed. + As she turned and went towards the door her eyes met his. She blushed. + </p> + <p> + “Wait, Mademoiselle; I will go back with you,” said the Cure kindly. He + turned to Charley and held out his hand. “God be with you, Monsieur—Charles,” + he said. “Come and see me soon.” Remembering that his brother had written + that the man was a drunkard, his eyes had a look of pity. This was the + man’s own secret and his. It was a way to the man’s heart; he would use + it. + </p> + <p> + As the two went out of the door, the girl looked back. Charley was putting + the surgeon’s letter into the fire, and did not see her; yet she blushed + again. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. HOW CHARLEY WENT ADVENTURING AND WHAT HE FOUND + </h2> + <p> + A week passed. Charley’s life was running in a tiny circle, but his mind + was compassing large revolutions. The events of the last few days had cut + deep. His life had been turned upside down. All his predispositions had + been suddenly brought to check, his habits turned upon the flank and + routed, his mental postures flung into confusion. He had to start life + again; but it could not be in the way of any previous travel of mind or + body. The line of cleavage was sharp and wide, and the only connection + with the past was in the long-reaching influence of evil habits, which + crept from their coverts, now and again, to mock him as his old self had + mocked life—to mock him and to tempt him. Through seven months of + healthy life for his body, while brain and will were sleeping, the whole + man had made long strides towards recreation. But with the renewal of will + and mind the old weaknesses, roused by memory, began to emerge + intermittently, as water rises from a spring. There was something terrible + in this repetition of sensation—the law of habit answering to the + machine-like throbbing of memory, as, a kaleidoscope turning, turning, its + pictures pass a certain point at fixed intervals—an automatic + recurrence. He found himself at times touching his lips with his tongue, + and with this act came the dry throat, the hot eye, the restless hand + feeling for a glass that eluded his fingers. + </p> + <p> + Twice in one week did this fever surge up in him, and it caught him in + those moments when, exhausted by the struggle of his mind to adapt itself + to the new conditions, his senses were delicately susceptible. Visions of + Jolicoeur’s saloon came to his mind’s eye. With a singular separateness, a + new-developed dual sense, he saw himself standing in the summer heat, + looking over to the cool dark doorway of the saloon, and he caught again + the smell of the fresh-drawn beer. He was conscious of watching himself do + this and that, of seeing himself move here and there. He began to look + upon Charley Steele as a man he had known—he, Charles Mallard, had + known—while he had to suffer for what Charley Steele had done. Then, + all at once, as he was thinking and dreaming and seeing, there would seize + upon him the old appetite, coincident with the seizure of his brain by the + old sense of cynicism at its worst—such a worst as had made him + insult Jake Hough when the rough countryman was ready to take his part + that wild night at the Cote Dorion. + </p> + <p> + At such moments life became a conflict—almost a terror—for as + yet he had not swung into line with the new order of things. In truth, + there was no order of things; for one life was behind him and the new one + was not yet decided upon, save that here he would stay—here out of + the world, out of the game, far from old associations, cut off, and to be + for ever cut off, from all that he had ever known or seen or felt or + loved!... Loved! When did he ever love? If love was synonymous with + unselfishness, with the desire to give greater than the desire to get, + then he had never known love. He realised now that he had given Kathleen + only what might be given across a dinner-table—the sensuous tribute + of a temperament, passionate without true passion or faith or friendship. + Kathleen had known that he gave her nothing worth the having; for in some + meagre sense she knew what love was, and had given it meagrely, after her + nature, to another man, preserving meanwhile the letter of the law, + respecting that bond which he had shamed by his excesses. + </p> + <p> + Kathleen was now sitting at another man’s table—no, probably at his + own table—his, Charley Steele’s own table in his own house—the + house he had given her by deed of gift the day he died. Tom Fairing was + sitting where he used to sit, talking across the table—not as he + used to talk—looking into Kathleen’s face as he had never looked. He + was no more to them than a dark memory. “Well, why should I be more?” he + asked himself. “I am dead, if not buried. They think me down among the + fishes. My game is done; and when she gets older and understands life + better, Kathleen will say, ‘Poor Charley—he might have been + anything!’ She’ll be sure to say that some day, for habit and memory go + round in a circle and pass the same point again and again. For me—they + take me by the throat—” He put his hand up as if to free his throat + from a grip, his tongue touched his lips, his hands grew restless. + </p> + <p> + “It comes back on me like a fit of ague, this miserable thirst. If I were + within sight of Jolicoeur’s saloon, I should be drinking hard this minute. + But I’m here, and—” His hand felt his pocket, and he took out the + powders the great surgeon had sent him. + </p> + <p> + “He knew—how did he know that I was a drunkard? Does a man carry in + his face the tale he would not tell? Jo says I didn’t talk of the past, + that I never had delirium, that I never said a word to suggest who I was, + or where I came from. Then how did the doctor—man know? I suppose + every particular habit carries its own signal, and the expert knows the + ciphers.” He opened the paper containing the powders, and looked round for + water, then paused, folded the paper up, and put it in his pocket again. + He went over to the window and looked out. His shoulders set square. “No, + no, no, not a speck on my tongue!” he said. “What I can’t do of my own + will is not worth doing. It’s too foolish, to yield to the shadow of an + old appetite. I play this game alone—here in Chaudiere.” + </p> + <p> + He looked out and down. The sweet sun of early spring was shining hard, + and the snow was beginning to pack, to hang like a blanket on the + branches, to lie like a soft coverlet over all the forest and the fields. + Far away on the frozen river were saplings stuck up to show where the ice + was safe—a long line of poles from shore to shore—and carioles + were hurrying across to the village. Being market-day, the place was alive + with the cheerful commerce of the habitant. The bell of the parish church + was ringing. The sound of it came up distantly and peacefully. Charley + drew a long breath, turned away to a pail of water, filled a dipper half + full, and drank it off gaspingly. Then he returned to the window with a + look of relief. + </p> + <p> + “That does it,” he said. “The horrible thing is gone again—out of my + brain and out of my throat.” + </p> + <p> + As he stood there, Jo came up the hill with a bundle in his arms. Charley + watched him for a moment, half whimsically, half curiously. Yet he sighed + once too as Portugais opened the door and came into the room. “Well done, + Jo!” said he. “You have ‘em?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, M’sieu’. A good suit, and I believe they’ll fit. Old Trudel says + it’s the best suit he’s made in a year. I’m afraid he’ll not make many + more suits, old Trudel. + </p> + <p> + “He’s very bad. When he goes there’ll be no tailor—ah, old Trudel + will be missed for sure, M’sieu’!” + </p> + <p> + Jo spread the clothes out on the table—a coat, waistcoat, and + trousers of fulled cloth, grey and bulky, and smelling of the loom and the + tailor’s iron. Charley looked at them interestedly, then glanced at the + clothes he had on, the suit that had belonged to him last year—grave-clothes. + </p> + <p> + He drew himself up as though rousing from a dream. “Come, Jo, clear out, + and you shall have your new habitant in a minute,” he said. Portugais left + the room, and when he came back, Charley was dressed in the suit of grey + fulled cloth. It was loose, but comfortable, and save for the refined face—on + which a beard was growing now—and the eye-glass, he might easily + have passed for a farmer. When he put on the dog-skin fur cap and a small + muffler round his neck, it was the costume of the habitant complete. + </p> + <p> + Yet it was no disguise, for it was part of the life that Charles Mallard, + once Charley Steele, should lead henceforth. + </p> + <p> + He turned to the door and opened it. “Good-bye, Portugais,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Jo was startled. “Where are you going, M’sieu’?” + </p> + <p> + “To the village.” + </p> + <p> + “What to do, M’sieu’?” + </p> + <p> + “Who knows?” + </p> + <p> + “You will come back?” Jo asked anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Before sundown, Jo. Good-bye!” + </p> + <p> + This was the first long walk he had taken since he had become himself + again. The sweet, cold air, with a bracing wind in his face, gave peace to + the nerves but now strained and fevered in the fight with appetite. His + mind cleared, and he drank in the sunny air and the pungent smell of the + balsams. His feet light with moccasins, he even ran a distance, enjoying + the glow from a fast-beating pulse. + </p> + <p> + As he came into the high-road, people passed him in carioles and sleighs. + Some eyed him curiously. What did he mean to do? What object had he in + coming to the village? What did he expect? As he entered the village his + pace slackened. He had no destination, no object. He was simply aware that + his new life was beginning. + </p> + <p> + He passed a little house on which was a sign, “Narcisse Dauphin, Notary.” + It gave him a curious feeling. It was the old life before him. “Charles + Mallard, Notary?”—No, that was not for him. Everything that reminded + him of the past, that brought him in touch with it, must be set aside. He + moved on. Should he go to the Cure? No; one thing at a time, and today he + wanted his thoughts for himself. More people passed him, and spoke of him + to each other, though there was no coarse curiosity—the habitant has + manners. + </p> + <p> + Presently he passed a low shop with a divided door. The lower half was + closed, the upper open, and the winter sun was shining full into the room, + where a bright fire burned. + </p> + <p> + Charley looked up. Over the door was painted, in straggling letters: + “Louis Trudel, Tailor.” He looked inside. There, on a low table, bent over + his work, with a needle in his hand, sat Louis Trudel the tailor. Hearing + footsteps, feeling a shadow, he looked up. Charley started at the look of + the shrunken, yellow face; for if ever death had set his seal, it was on + that haggard parchment. The tailor’s yellow eyes ran from Charley’s face + to his clothes. + </p> + <p> + “I knew they’d fit,” he said, with a snarl. “Drove me hard, too!” + </p> + <p> + Charley had an inspiration. He opened the halfdoor, and entered. + </p> + <p> + “Do you want help?” he said, fixing his eyes on the tailor’s, steady and + persistent. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the good of wanting—I can’t get it,” was the irritable + reply, as he uncrossed his legs. + </p> + <p> + Charley took the iron out of his hand. “I’ll press, if you’ll show me + how,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want a fiddling ten-minutes’ help like that.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t fiddling. I’m going to stay, if you think I’ll do.” + </p> + <p> + “You are going to stop-every day?” The old man’s voice quavered a little. + </p> + <p> + “Precisely that.” Charley wetted a seam with water as he had often seen + tailors do. He dropped the hot iron on the seam, and sniffed with + satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” said the tailor. + </p> + <p> + “A man who wants work. The Cure knows. It’s all right. Shall I stay?” + </p> + <p> + The tailor nodded, and sat down with a colour in his face. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. ROSALIE, CHARLEY, AND THE MAN THE WIDOW PLOMONDON JILTED + </h2> + <p> + From the moment there came to the post-office the letter addressed to “The + Sick Man at the House of Jo Portugais at Vadrome Mountain,” Rosalie + Evanturel dreamed dreams. Mystery, so fascinating a thing in all the + experiences of life, took hold of her. The strange man in the lonely hut + on the hill, the bandaged head, the keen, piercing blue eyes, the monocle, + like a masked battery of the mind, levelled at her—all appealed to + that life she lived apart from the people with whom she had daily + commerce. Her world was a world of books and dreams, and simple, practical + duties of life. Most books were romance to her, for most were of a life to + which she had not been educated. Even one or two purely Protestant books + of missionary enterprise, found in a box in her dead mother’s room, had + had all the charms of poetry and adventure. It was all new, therefore all + delightful, even when the Protestant sentiments shocked her as being not + merely untrue, but hurting that aesthetic sense never remote from the mind + of the devout Catholic. + </p> + <p> + She had blushed when monsieur had first looked at her, in the hut on + Vadrome Mountain, not because there was any soft sentiment about him in + her heart—how could there be for a man she had but just seen!—but + because her feelings, her imagination, were all at high temperature; + because the man compelled attention. The feeling sprang from a deep + sensibility, a natural sense, not yet made incredulous by the ironies of + life. These had never presented themselves to her in a country, in a + parish, where people said of fortune and misfortune, happiness and sorrow, + “C’est le bon Dieu!”—always “C’est le bon Dieu!” + </p> + <p> + In some sense it was a pity that she had brains above the ordinary, that + she had had a good education and nice tastes. It was the cultivation of + the primitive and idealistic mind, which could not rationalise a sense of + romance, of the altruistic, by knowledge of life. As she sat behind the + post-office counter she read all sorts of books that came her way. When + she learned English so as to read it almost as easily as she read French, + her greatest joy was to pore over Shakespeare, with a heart full of + wonder, and, very often, eyes full of tears—so near to the eyes of + her race. Her imagination inhabited Chaudiere with a different folk, + living in homes very unlike these wide, sweeping-roofed structures, with + double windows and clean-scrubbed steps, tall doors, and wide, uncovered + stoops. Her people—people of bright dreaming—were not + quarrelsome, or childish, or merely traditional, like the habitants. They + were picturesque and able and simple, doing good things in disguise, + succouring distress, yielding their lives without thought for a cause, or + a woman, and loving with an undying love. + </p> + <p> + Charley was of these people—from the first instant she saw him. The + Cure, the Avocat, and the Seigneur were also of them, but placidly, + unimportantly. “The Sick Man at Jo Portugais’ House” came out of a + mysterious distance. Something in his eyes said, “I have seen, I have + known,” told her that when he spoke she would answer freely, that they + were kinsfolk in some hidden way. Her nature was open and frank; she lived + upon the house-tops, as it were, going in and out of the lives of the + people of Chaudiere with neighbourly sympathy and understanding. Yet she + knew that she was not of them, and they knew that, poor as she was, in her + veins flowed the blood of the old nobility of France. For this the Cure + could vouch. Her official position made her the servant of the public, and + she did her duty with naturalness. + </p> + <p> + She had been a figure in the parish ever since the day she returned from + the convent at Quebec, and took her dead mother’s place in the home and + the parish. She had a quick temper, but there was not a cheerless note in + her nature, and there was scarce a dog or a horse in the parish but knew + her touch, and responded to it. Squirrels ate out of her hand, she had + even tamed two partridges, and she kept in her little garden a bear she + had brought up from a cub. Her devotion to her crippled father was in + keeping with her quick response to every incident of sorrow or joy in the + parish—only modified by wilful prejudices scarcely in keeping with + her unselfishness. + </p> + <p> + As Mrs. Flynn, the Seigneur’s Irish cook, said of her: “Shure, she’s not + made all av wan piece, the darlin’! She’ll wear like silk, but she’s not + linen for everybody’s washin’.” And Mrs. Flynn knew a thing or two, as was + conceded by all in Chaudiere. No gossip was Mrs. Flynn, but she knew well + what was going on in the parish, and she had strong views upon all + subjects, and a special interest in the welfare of two people in + Chaudiere. One of these was the Seigneur, who, when her husband died, + leaving behind him a name for wit and neighbourliness, and nothing else, + proposed that she should come to be his cook. In spite of her protest that + what was “fit for Teddy was not fit for a gintleman of quality,” the + Seigneur had had his way, never repenting of his choice. Mrs. Flynn’s + cooking was not her only good point. She had the rarest sense and an + unfailing spring of good-nature—life bubbled round her. It was she + that had suggested the crippled M. Evanturel to the Seigneur when the + office of postmaster became vacant, and the Seigneur had acted on her + suggestion, henceforth taking greater interest in Rosalie. + </p> + <p> + It was Mrs. Flynn who gave Rosalie information concerning Charley’s + arrival at the shop of Louis Trudel the tailor. The morning after Charley + came, Mrs. Flynn had called for a waistcoat of the Seigneur, who was + expected home from a visit to Quebec. She found Charley standing at a + table pressing seams, and her quick eye took him in with knowledge and + instinct. She was the one person, save Rosalie, who could always divert + old Louis, and this morning she puckered his sour face with amusement by + the story of the courtship of the widow Plomondon and Germain Boily the + horse-trainer, whose greatest gift was animal-training, and greatest + weakness a fondness for widows, temporary and otherwise. Before she left + the shop, with the stranger’s smile answering to her nod, she had made up + her mind that Charley was a tailor by courtesy only. So she told Rosalie a + few moments afterwards. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis a man, darlin’, that’s seen the wide wurruld. ‘Tis himisperes he + knows, not parrishes. Fwhat’s he doin’ here, I dun’no’. Fwhere’s he come + from, I dun’no’. French or English, I dun’no’. But a gintleman born, I + know. ‘Tis no tailor, darlin’, but tailorin’ he’ll do as aisy as he’ll do + a hunderd other things anny day. But how he shlipped in here, an’ when he + shlipped in here, an’ what’s he come for, an’ how long he’s stayin’, an’ + meanin’ well, or doin’ ill, I dun’no’, darlin’, I dun’ no’.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think he’ll do ill, Mrs. Flynn,” said Rosalie, in English. + </p> + <p> + “An’ if ye haven’t seen him, how d’ye know?” asked Mrs. Flynn, taking a + pinch of snuff. + </p> + <p> + “I have seen him—but not in the tailor-shop. I saw him at Jo + Portugais’ a fortnight ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Aisy, aisy, darlin’. At Jo Portugais’—that’s a quare place for a + stranger. ‘Tis not wid Jo’s introducshun I’d be comin’ to Chaudiere.” + </p> + <p> + “He comes with the Cure’s introduction.” + </p> + <p> + “An’ how d’ye know that, darlin’?” + </p> + <p> + “The Curb was at Jo Portugais’ with monsieur when I went there.” + </p> + <p> + “You wint there!” + </p> + <p> + “To take him a letter—the stranger.” “What’s his name, darlin’?” + </p> + <p> + “The letter I took him was addressed, ‘To the Sick Man at Jo Portugais’ + House at Vadrome Mountain.’” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, thin, the Cure knows. ‘Tis some rich man come to get well, and plays + at bein’ tailor. But why didn’t the letther come to his name, I wander + now? That’s what I wander.” + </p> + <p> + Rosalie shook her head, and looked reflectively through the window towards + the tailor-shop. + </p> + <p> + “How manny times have ye seen him?” + </p> + <p> + “Only once;” answered Rosalie truthfully. She did not, however, tell Mrs. + Flynn that she had thrice walked nearly to Vadrome Mountain in the hope of + seeing him again; and that she had gone to her favourite resort, the Rest + of the Flax-Beaters, lying in the way of the riverpath from Vadrome + Mountain, on the chance of his passing. She did not tell Mrs. Flynn that + there had scarcely been a waking hour when she had not thought of him. + </p> + <p> + “What Portugais knows, he’ll not be tellin’,” said Mrs. Flynn, after a + moment. “An’ ‘tis no business of ours, is it, darlin’? Shure, there’s Jo + comin’ out of the tailor-shop now!” + </p> + <p> + They both looked out of the window, and saw Jo encounter Filion Lacasse + the saddler, and Maximilian Cour the baker. The three stood in the middle + of the street for a minute, Jo talking freely. He was usually morose and + taciturn, but now he spoke as though eager to unburden his mind—Charley + and he had agreed upon what should be said to the people of Chaudiere. + </p> + <p> + The sight of the confidences among the three was too much for Mrs. Flynn. + She opened the door of the post office and called to Jo. “Like three crows + shtandin’ there!” she said. “Come in—ma’m’selle says come in, and + tell your tales here, if they’re fit to hear, Jo Portugais. Who are you to + say no when ma’m’selle bids!” she added. + </p> + <p> + Very soon afterwards Jo was inside the post-office, telling his tale with + the deliberation of a lesson learned by heart. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right, as ma’m’selle knows,” he said. “The Cure was there when + ma’m’selle brought a letter to M’sieu’ Mallard. The Cure knows all. + M’sieu’ come to my house sick-and he stayed there. There is nothing like + the pine-trees and the junipers to cure some things. He was with me very + quiet some time. The Cure come and come. He knows. When m’sieu’ got well, + he say, ‘I will not go from Chaudiere; I will stay. I am poor, and I will + earn my bread here.’ At first, when he is getting well, he is + carpent’ring. He makes cupboards and picture-frames. The Cure has one of + the cupboards in the sacristy; the frames he puts on the Stations of the + Cross in the church.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s good enough for me!” said Maximilian Cour. “Did he make them for + nothing?” asked Filion Lacasse solemnly. + </p> + <p> + “Not one cent did he ask. What’s more, he’s working for Louis Trudel for + nothing. He come through the village yesterday; he see Louis old and sick + on his bench, and he set down and go to work.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s good enough for me,” said the saddler. “If a man work for the + Church for nothing, he is a Christian. If he work for Louis Trudel for + nothing, he is a fool—first-class—or a saint. I wouldn’t work + for Louis Trudel if he give me five dollars a day.” + </p> + <p> + “Tiens! the man that work for Louis Trudel work for the Church, for all + old Louis makes goes to the Church in the end—that is his will. The + Notary knows,” said Maximilian Cour. + </p> + <p> + “See there, now,” interposed Mrs. Flynn, pointing across the street to the + tailor-shop. “Look at that grocer-man stickin’ in his head; and there’s + Magloire Cadoret and that pig of a barber, Moise Moisan, starin’ through + the dure, an’—” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke, the barber and his companion suddenly turned their faces to + the street, and started forward with startled exclamations, the grocer + following. They all ran out from the post-office. Not far up the street a + crowd was gathering. Rosalie locked the office-door and followed the + others quickly. + </p> + <p> + In front of the Hotel Trois Couronnes a painful thing was happening. + Germain Boily, the horse-trainer, fresh from his disappointment with the + widow Plomondon, had driven his tamed moose up to the Trois Couronnes, and + had drunk enough whiskey to make him ill-tempered. He had then begun to + “show off” the animal, but the savage instincts of the moose being roused, + he had attacked his master, charging with wide-branching horns, and + striking with his feet. Boily was too drunk to fight intelligently. He + went down under the hoofs of the enraged animal, as his huge boar-hound, + always with him, fastened on the moose’s throat, dragged him to the + ground, and tore gaping wounds in his neck. + </p> + <p> + It was all the work of a moment. People ran from the doorways and + sidewalks, but stayed at a comfortable distance until the moose was + dragged down; then they made to approach the insensible man. Before any + one could reach him, however, the great hound, with dripping fangs, rushed + to his master’s body, and, standing over it, showed his teeth savagely. + The hotel-keeper approached, but the bristles of the hound stood up, he + prepared to attack, and the landlord drew back in haste. Then M. Dauphin, + the Notary, who had joined the crowd, held out a hand coaxingly, and with + insinuating rhetoric drew a little nearer than the landlord had done; but + he retreated precipitously as the hound crouched back for a spring. Some + one called for a gun, and Filion Lacasse ran into his shop. The animal had + now settled down on his master’s body, his bloodshot eyes watching in + menace. The one chance seemed to be to shoot him, and there must be no + bungling, lest his prostrate master suffer at the same time. The crowd had + melted away into the houses, and were now standing at doorways and + windows, ready for instant retreat. + </p> + <p> + Filion Lacasse’s gun was now at disposal, but who would fire it? Jo + Portugais was an expert shot, and he reached out a hand for the weapon. + </p> + <p> + As he did so, Rosalie Evanturel cried: “Wait, oh, wait!” Before any one + could interfere she moved along the open space to the mad beast, speaking + soothingly, and calling his name. + </p> + <p> + The crowd held their breath. A woman fainted. Some wrung their hands, and + Jo Portugais, with blanched face, stood with gun half raised. With assured + kindness of voice and manner, Rosalie walked deliberately over to the + hound. At first the animal’s bristles came up, and he prepared to spring, + but murmuring to him, she held out her hand, and presently laid it on his + huge head. With a growl of subjection, the dog drew from the body of his + master, and licked Rosalie’s fingers as she knelt beside Boily and felt + his heart. She put her arm round the dog’s neck, and said to the crowd, + “Some one come—only one—ah, yes, you, Monsieur!” she added, as + Charley, who had just arrived on the scene, came forward. “Only you, if + you can lift him. Take him to my house.” + </p> + <p> + Her arm still round the dog, she talked to him, as Charley came forward, + and, lifting up the body of the little horse-trainer, drew him across his + shoulder. The hound at first resented the act, but under Rosalie’s touch + became quiet, and followed at their heels towards the post-office, licking + the wounded man’s hands as they hung down. Inside M. Evanturel’s house the + injured man was laid upon a couch. Charley examined his wounds, and, + finding them severe, advised that the Cure be sent for, while he and Jo + Portugais set about restoring him to consciousness. Jo had skill of a + sort, and his crude medicaments were efficacious. + </p> + <p> + When the Cure came, the injured man was handed over to his care, and he + arranged that in the evening Boily should be removed to his house, to + await the arrival of the doctor from the next parish. + </p> + <p> + This was Charley’s public introduction to the people of Chaudiere, and it + was his second meeting with Rosalie Evanturel. + </p> + <p> + The incident brought him into immediate prominence. Before he left the + post-office, Filion Lacasse, Maximilian Cour, and Mrs. Flynn had given + forth his history, as related by Jo Portugais. The village was agog with + excitement. + </p> + <p> + But attention was not centred on himself, for Rosalie’s courage had set + the parish talking. When the Notary stood on the steps of the saddler’s + shop, and with fine rhetoric proposed a vote of admiration for the girl, + the cheering could be heard inside the post-office, and it brought Mrs. + Flynn outside. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis for her, the darlin’—for Ma’m’selle Rosalie—they’re + splittin’ their throats!” she said to Charley as he was making his way + from the sick man’s room to the street door. “Did ye iver see such an eye + an’ hand? That avil baste that’s killed two Injins already—an’ all + the men o’ the place sneakin’ behind dures, an’ she walkin’ up cool as + leaf in mornin’ dew, an’ quietin’ the divil’s own! Did ye iver see + annything like it, sir—you that’s seen so much?” + </p> + <p> + “Madame, it is not touch of hand alone, or voice alone,” answered Charley. + </p> + <p> + “Shure, ‘tis somethin’ kin in baste an’ maid, you’re manin’ thin?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “Simple like, an’ understandin’ what Noah understood in that ark av his—for + talk to the bastes he must have, explainin’ what was for thim to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Like that, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “Thrue for you, sir, ‘tis as you say. There’s language more than tongue of + man can shpake. But listen, thin, to me”—her voice got lower—“for + ‘tis not the furst time, a thing like that, the lady she is—granddaughter + of a Seigneur, and descinded from nobility in France! ‘Tis not the furst + time to be doin’ brave things. Just a shlip of a girl she was, three years + ago, afther her mother died, an’ she was back from convint. A woman come + to the parish an’ was took sick in the house of her brother—from + France she was. Small-pox they said at furst. ‘Twas no small-pox, but + plague, got upon the seas. Alone she was in the house—her brother + left her alone, the black-hearted coward. The people wouldn’t go near the + place. The Cure was away. Alone the woman was—poor soul! Who wint—who + wint and cared for her? Who do ye think, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Mademoiselle?” + </p> + <p> + “None other. ‘Go tell Mrs. Flynn,’ says she, ‘to care for my father till I + come back,’ an’ away she wint to the house of plague. A week she stayed, + an’ no one wint near her. Alone she was with the woman and the plague. + ‘Lave her be,’ said the Cure when he come back; ‘‘tis for the love of God. + God is with her—lave her be, and pray for her,’ says he. An’ he wint + himself, but she would not let him in. ‘‘Tis my work,’ says she. ‘‘Tis + God’s work for me to do,’ says she. ‘An’ the woman will live if ‘tis God’s + will,’ says she. ‘There’s an agnus dei on her breast,’ says she. ‘Go an’ + pray,’ says she. Pray the Cure did, an’ pray did we all, but the woman + died of the plague. All alone did Rosalie draw her to the grave on a + stone-boat down the lane, an’ over the hill, an’ into the churchyard. An’ + buried her with her own hands at night, no one knowin’ till the mornin’, + she did. So it was. An’ the burial over, she wint back an’ burned the + house to the ground—sarve the villain right that lave the sick woman + alone! An’ her own clothes she burned, an’ put on the clothes I brought + her wid me own hand. An’ for that thing she did, the love o’ God in her + heart, is it for Widdy Flynn or Cure or anny other to forgit? Shure the + Cure was for iver broken-hearted, for that he was sick abed for days an’ + could not go to the house when the woman died, an’ say to Rosalie, ‘Let me + in for her last hour.’ But the word of Rosalie—shure ‘twas as good + as the words of a praste, savin’ the Cure prisince wheriver he may be!” + </p> + <p> + This was the story of Rosalie which Mrs. Flynn told Charley, as he stood + at the street door of the post-office. When she had finished, Charley went + back into the room where Rosalie sat beside the sick man’s couch, the + hound at her feet. She came forward, surprised, for he had bade her + good-bye but a few minutes before. + </p> + <p> + “May I sit and watch for an hour longer, Mademoiselle?” he said. “You will + have your duties in the post-office.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur—it is good of you,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + For two hours Charley watched her going in and out, whispering directions + to Mrs. Flynn, doing household duty, bringing warmth in with her, and + leaving light behind her. + </p> + <p> + It was afternoon when he returned to his bench in the tailor-shop, and was + received by old Louis Trudel in peevish silence. For an hour they worked + in silence, and then the tailor said: + </p> + <p> + “A brave girl—that. We will work till nine to-night!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. THE MARK IN THE PAPER + </h2> + <p> + Chaudiere was nearing the last of its nine-days’ wonder. It had filed past + the doorway of the tailor-shop; it had loitered on the other side of the + street; it had been measured for more clothes than in three months past—that + it might see Charley at work in the shop, cross-legged on a bench, or + wielding the goose, his eye glass in his eye. Here was sensation indeed, + for though old M. Rossignol, the Seigneur, had an eye-glass, it was held + to his eye—a large bone-bound thing with a little gold handle; but + no one in Chaudiere had ever worn a glass in his eye like that. Also, no + one in Chaudiere had ever looked quite like “M’sieu’”—for so it was + that, after the first few days (a real tribute to his importance and sign + of the interest he created) Charley came to be called “M’sieu’,” and the + Mallard was at last entirely dropped. + </p> + <p> + Presently people came and stood at the tailor’s door and talked, or + listened to Louis Trudel and M’sieu’ talking. And it came to be noised + abroad that the stranger talked as well as the Cure and better than the + Notary. By-and-by they associated his eye-glass with his talent, so that + it seemed, as it were, to be the cause of it. Yet their talk was ever of + simple subjects, of everyday life about them, now and then of politics, + occasionally of the events of the world filtered to them through vast + tracts of country. There was one subject which, however, was barred; + perhaps because there was knowledge abroad that M’sieu’ was not a + Catholic, perhaps because Charley himself adroitly changed the + conversation when it veered that way. + </p> + <p> + Though the parish had not quite made up its mind about him, there were a + number of things in his favour. In the first place, the Cure seemed + satisfied; secondly, he minded his own business. Also, he was working for + Louis Trudel for nothing. These things Jo Portugais diligently impressed + on the minds of all who would listen. + </p> + <p> + From above the frosted part of the windows of the post-office, in the + corner where she sorted letters, Rosalie could look over at the tailor’s + shop at an angle; could sometimes even see M’sieu’ standing at the long + table with a piece of chalk, a pair of shears, or a measure. She watched + the tailor-shop herself, but it annoyed her when she saw any one else do + so. She resented—she was a woman and loved monopoly—all + inquiry regarding M’sieu’, so frequently addressed to her. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon, as Charley came out, on his way to the house on Vadrome + Mountain, she happened to be outside. He saw her, paused, lifted his fur + cap, and crossed the street to her. + </p> + <p> + “Have you, perhaps, paper, pens, and ink for sale, Mademoiselle?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, oh yes; come in, Monsieur Mallard.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, it is nice of you to remember me,” he answered. “I see you every day—often,” + she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, we are neighbours,” he responded. “The man—the + horse-trainer—is quite well again?” + </p> + <p> + “He has gone home almost well,” she answered. She placed pens, paper, and + ink before him. “Will these do?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly,” he answered mechanically, and laid a few pens and a bottle of + ink beside the paper. + </p> + <p> + “You were very brave that day,” he said—they had not talked together + since, though seeing each other so often. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no; I knew he would make friends with me—the hound.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” he rejoined. + </p> + <p> + “We should show animals that we trust them,” she said, in some confusion, + for being near him made her heart throb painfully. + </p> + <p> + He did not answer. Presently his eye glanced at the paper again, and was + arrested. He ran his fingers over it, and a curious look flashed across + his face. He held the paper up to the light quickly, and looked through + it. It was thin, half-foreign paper, without lines, and there was a + water-mark in it-large, shadowy, filmy—Kathleen. + </p> + <p> + It was paper made in the mills which had belonged to Kathleen’s uncle. + This water-mark was made to celebrate their marriage-day. Only for one + year had this paper been made, and then the trade in it was stopped. It + had gone its ways down the channels of commerce, and here it was in his + hand, a reminder, not only of the old life, but, as it were, the parchment + for the new. There it was, a piece of plain good paper, ready for pen and + ink and his letter to the Cure’s brother in Paris—the only letter he + would ever write, ever again until he died, so he told himself; but hold + it up to the light and there was the name over which his letter must be + written—Kathleen, invisible but permanent, obscured, but brought to + life by the raising of a hand. + </p> + <p> + The girl caught the flash of feeling in his face, saw him holding the + paper up to the light, and then, with an abstracted air, calmly lay it + down. + </p> + <p> + “That will do, thank you,” he said. “Give me the whole packet.” She + wrapped it up for him without a word, and he laid down a two-dollar note, + the last he had in the world. + </p> + <p> + “How much of this paper have you?” he asked. The girl looked under the + counter. “Six packets,” she said. “Six, and a few sheets over.” + </p> + <p> + “I will take it all. But keep it for me, for a week, or perhaps a + fortnight, will you?” He did not need all this paper to write letters + upon, yet he meant to buy all the paper of this sort that the shop + contained. But he must get money from Louis Trudel—he would speak + about it to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur does not want me to sell even the loose sheets?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I like the paper, and I will take it all.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + Her heart was beating hard. All this man did had peculiar significance to + her. His look seemed to say: “Do not fear. I will tell you things.” + </p> + <p> + She gave him the parcel and the change, and he turned to go. “You read + much?” he asked, almost casually, yet deeply interested in the charm and + intelligence of her face. + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, Monsieur,” she answered quickly. “I am always reading.” + </p> + <p> + He did not speak at once. He was wondering whether, in this primitive + place, such a mind and nature would be the wiser for reading; whether it + were not better to be without a mental aspiration, which might set up + false standards. + </p> + <p> + “What are you reading now?” he asked, with his hand on the door. + </p> + <p> + “Antony and Cleopatra, also Enoch Arden,” she answered, in good English, + and without accent. + </p> + <p> + His head turned quickly towards her, but he did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “Enoch Arden is terrible,” she added eagerly. “Don’t you think so, + Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “It is very painful,” he answered. “Good-night.” He opened the door and + went out. + </p> + <p> + She ran to the door and watched him go down the street. For a little she + stood thinking, then, turning to the counter, and snatching up a sheet of + the paper he had bought, held it up to the light. She gave a cry of + amazement. + </p> + <p> + “Kathleen!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + She thought of the start he gave when he looked at the water-mark; she + thought of the look on his face when he said he would buy all this paper + she had. + </p> + <p> + “Who was Kathleen?” she whispered, as though she was afraid some one would + hear. “Who was Kathleen!” she said again resentfully. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. MADAME DAUPHIN HAS A MISSION + </h2> + <p> + One day Charley began to know the gossip of the village about him from a + source less friendly than Jo Portugais. The Notary’s wife, bringing her + boy to be measured for a suit of broadcloth, asked Charley if the things + Jo had told about him were true, and if it was also true that he was a + Protestant, and perhaps an Englishman. As yet, Charley had been asked no + direct questions, for the people of Chaudiere had the consideration of + their temperament; but the Notary’s wife was half English, and being a + figure in the place, she took to herself more privileges than did old + Madame Dugal, the Cure’s sister. + </p> + <p> + To her ill-disguised impertinence in English, as bad as her French and as + fluent, Charley listened with quiet interest. When she had finished her + voluble statement she said, with a simper and a sneer-for, after all, a + Notary’s wife must keep her position—“And now, what is the truth + about it? And are you a Protestant?” + </p> + <p> + There was a sinister look in old Trudel’s eyes as, cross-legged on his + table, he listened to Madame Dauphin. He remembered the time, twenty-five + years ago, when he had proposed to this babbling woman, and had been + rejected with scorn—to his subsequent satisfaction; for there was no + visible reason why any one should envy the Notary, in his house or out of + it. Already Trudel had a respect for the tongue of M’sieu’. He had not + talked much the few days he had been in the shop, but, as the old man had + said to Filion Lacasse the saddler, his brain was like a pair of shears—it + went clip, clip, clip right through everything. He now hoped that his new + apprentice, with the hand of a master-workman, would go clip, clip through + madame’s inquisitiveness. He was not disappointed, for he heard Charley + say: + </p> + <p> + “One person in the witness-box at a time, Madame. Till Jo Portugais is + cross-examined and steps down, I don’t see what I can do!” + </p> + <p> + “But you are a Protestant!” said the woman snappishly. This man was only a + tailor, dressed in fulled cloth, and no doubt his past life would not bear + inspection; and she was the Notary’s wife, and had said to people in the + village that she would find out the man’s history from himself. + </p> + <p> + “That is one good reason why I should not go to confession,” he replied + casually, and turned to a table where he had been cutting a waistcoat—for + the first time in his life. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I’m going to stand your impertinence? Do you know who I am?” + </p> + <p> + Charley calmly put up his monocle. He looked at the foolish little woman + with so cruel a flash of the eye that she shrank back. + </p> + <p> + “I should know you anywhere,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Stephan,” she said nervously to her boy, and pulled him towards the + door. + </p> + <p> + On the instant Charley’s feeling changed. Was he then going to carry the + old life into the new, and rebuke a silly garish woman whose faults were + generic more than personal? He hurried forward to the door and courteously + opened it for her. + </p> + <p> + “Permit me, Madame,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She saw that there was nothing ironical in this politeness. She had a + sudden apprehension of an unusual quality called “the genteel,” for no + storekeeper in Chaudiere ever opened or shut a shop-door for anybody. She + smiled a vacuous smile; she played “the lady” terribly, as, with a curious + conception of dignity, she held her body stiff as a ramrod, and with a + prim merci sailed into the street. + </p> + <p> + This gorgeous exit changed her opinion of the man she had been unable to + catechise. Undoubtedly he had snubbed her—that was the word she used + in her mind—but his last act had enabled her, in the sight of + several habitants and even of Madame Dugal, “to put on airs,” as the + charming Madame Dugal said afterwards. + </p> + <p> + Thinking it better to give the impression that she had had a successful + interview, she shook her head mysteriously when asked about M’sieu’, and + murmured, “He is quite the gentleman!” which she thought a socially + distinguished remark. + </p> + <p> + When she had gone, Charley turned to old Louis. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to turn your customers away,” he said quietly, “but there it + is! I don’t need to answer questions as a part of the business, do I?” + </p> + <p> + There was a sour grin on the face of old Trudel. He grunted some inaudible + answer, then, after a pause, added: “I’d have been hung for murder, if + she’d answered the question I asked her once as I wanted her to.” + </p> + <p> + He opened and shut his shears with a sardonic gesture. + </p> + <p> + Charley smiled, and went to the window. For a minute he stood watching + Madame Dauphin and Rosalie at the post-office door. The memory of his talk + with Rosalie was vivid to him at the moment. He was thinking also that he + had not a penny in the world to pay for the rest of the paper he had + bought. He turned round and put on his coat slowly. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing that for?” asked the old man, with a kind of snarl, + yet with trepidation. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I’ll work any more to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Not work! Smoke of the devil, isn’t Sunday enough to play in? You’re not + put out by that fool wife of Dauphin’s?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no—not that! I want an understanding about wages.” + </p> + <p> + To Louis the dread crisis had come. He turned a little green, for he was + very miserly-for the love of God. + </p> + <p> + He had scarcely realised what was happening when Charley first sat down on + the bench beside him. He had been taken by surprise. Apart from the + excitement of the new experience, he had profited by the curiosity of the + public, for he had orders enough to keep him busy until summer, and he had + had to give out work to two extra women in the parish, though he had never + before had more than one working for him. But his ruling passion was + strong in him. He always remembered with satisfaction that once when the + Cure was absent and he was supposed to be dying, a priest from another + parish came, and, the ministrations over, he had made an offering of a + gold piece. When the young priest hesitated, his fingers had crept back to + the gold piece, closed on it, and drawn it back beneath the coverlet + again. He had then peacefully fallen asleep. It was a gracious memory. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t need much, I don’t want a great deal,” continued Charley when the + tailor did not answer, “but I have to pay for my bed and board, and I + can’t do it on nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “How have you done it so far?” peevishly replied the tailor. + </p> + <p> + “By working after hours at carpentering up there”—he made a gesture + towards Vadrome Mountain. “But I can’t go on doing that all the time, or + I’ll be like you too soon.” + </p> + <p> + “Be like me!” The voice of the tailor rose shrilly. + </p> + <p> + “Be like me! What’s the matter with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Only that you’re in a bad way before your time, and that you mayn’t get + out of this hole without stepping into another. You work too hard, + Monsieur Trudel.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want—wages?” + </p> + <p> + Charley inclined his head. “If you think I’m worth them.” + </p> + <p> + The tailor viciously snipped a piece of cloth. “How can I pay you wages, + if you stand there doing nothing?” “This is my day for doing nothing,” + Charley answered pleasantly, for the tailor-man amused him, and the + whimsical mental attitude of his past life was being brought to the + surface by this odd figure, with big spectacles pushed up on a yellow + forehead, and shrunken hands viciously clutching the shears. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean to say you’re not going to work to-day, and this suit of + clothes promised for to-morrow night—for the Manor House too!” + </p> + <p> + With a piece of chalk Charley idly made heads on brown paper. “After all, + why should clothes be the first thing in one’s mind—when they are + some one else’s! It’s a beautiful day outside. I’ve never felt the sun so + warm and the air so crisp and sweet—never in all my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Then where have you lived?” snapped out the tailor with a sneer. “You + must be a Yankee—they have only what we leave over down there!”—he + jerked his head southward. “We don’t stop to look at weather here. I + suppose you did where you come from?” + </p> + <p> + Charley smiled in a distant sort of way. “Where I came from, when we + weren’t paid for our work we always stopped to consider our health—and + the weather. I don’t want a great deal. I put it to you honestly. Do you + want me? If you do, will you give me enough to live on—enough to buy + a suit of clothes a year, to pay for food and a room? If I work for you + for nothing, I have to live on others for nothing, or kill myself as + you’re doing.” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer at once, and Charley went on: “I came to you because I + saw you wanted help badly. I saw that you were hard-pushed and sick—” + </p> + <p> + “I wasn’t sick,” interrupted the tailor with a snarl. + </p> + <p> + “Well, overworked, which is the same thing in the end. I did the best I + could: I gave you my hands—awkward enough they were at first, I + know, but—” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a lie. They weren’t awkward,” churlishly cut in the tailor. + </p> + <p> + “Well, perhaps they weren’t so awkward, but they didn’t know quite what to + do—” + </p> + <p> + “You knew as well as if you’d been taught,” came back in a growl. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, I wasn’t awkward, and I had a knack for the work. What was + more, I wanted work. I wanted to work at the first thing that appealed to + me. I had no particular fancy for tailoring—you get bowlegged in + time!”—the old spirit was fighting with the new—“but here you + were at work, and there I was idle, and I had been ill, and some one who + wasn’t responsible for me—a stranger-worked for me and cared for me. + Wasn’t it natural, when you were playing the devil with yourself, that I + should step in and give you a hand? You’ve been better since—isn’t + that so?” The tailor did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “But I can’t go on as we are, though I want only enough to keep me going,” + Charley continued. + </p> + <p> + “And if I don’t give you what you want, you’ll leave?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I’m never going to leave you. I’m going to stay here, for you’ll + never get another man so cheap; and it suits me to stay—you need + some one to look after you.” + </p> + <p> + A curious soft look suddenly flashed into the tailor’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Will you take on the business after I’m gone?” he asked at last. “It’s + along time to look ahead, I know,” he added quickly, for not in words + would he acknowledge the possibility of the end. + </p> + <p> + “I should think so,” Charley answered, his eyes on the bright sun and the + soft snow on the trees beyond the window. + </p> + <p> + The tailor snatched up a pattern and figured on it for a moment. Then he + handed it to Charley. “Will that do?” he asked with anxious, acquisitive + look, his yellow eyes blinking hard. + </p> + <p> + Charley looked at it musingly, then said “Yes, if you give me a room + here.” + </p> + <p> + “I meant board and lodging too,” said Louis Trudel with an outburst of + eager generosity, for, as it was, he had offered about one-half of what + Charley was worth to him. + </p> + <p> + Charley nodded. “Very well, that will do,” he said, and took off his coat + and went to work. For a long time they worked silently. The tailor was in + great good-humour; for the terrible trial was over, and he now had an + assistant who would be a better tailor than himself. There would be more + profit, more silver nails for the church door, and more masses for his + soul. + </p> + <p> + “The Cure says you are all right.... When will you come here?” he said at + last. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow night I shall sleep here,” answered Charley. + </p> + <p> + So it was arranged that Charley should come to live in the tailor’s house, + to sleep in the room which the tailor had provided for a wife twenty-five + years before—even for her that was now known as Madame Dauphin. + </p> + <p> + All morning the tailor chuckled to himself. When they sat down at noon to + a piece of venison which Charley had prepared himself—taking the + frying-pan out of the hands of Margot Patry, the old servant, and cooking + it to a turn—Louis Trudel saw his years lengthen to an indefinite + period. He even allowed himself to nervously stand up, bow, shake + Charley’s hand jerkingly, and say: + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’, I care not what you are or where you come from, or even if + you’re a Protestant, perhaps an Englishman. You’re a gentleman and a + tailor, and old Louis Trudel will not forget you. It shall be as you said + this morning—it is no day for work. We will play, and the clothes + for the Manor can go to the devil. Smoke of hell-fire, I will go and have + a pipe with that, poor wretch the Notary!” + </p> + <p> + So, a wonderful thing happened. Louis Trudel, on a week-day and a + market-day, went to smoke a pipe with Narcisse Dauphin, and to tell him + that M. Mallard was going to stay with him for ever, at fine wages. He + also announced that he had paid this whole week’s wages in advance; but he + did not tell what he did not know—that half the money had already + been given to old Margot, whose son lay ill at home with a broken leg, and + whose children were living on bread and water. Charley had slowly drawn + from the woman the story of her life as he sat by the kitchen fire and + talked to her, while her master was talking to the Notary. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. THE TAILOR MAKES A MIDNIGHT FORAY + </h2> + <p> + Since the day Charley had brought home the paper bought at the + post-office, and water-marked Kathleen, he had, at odd times, written down + his thoughts, and promptly torn the paper up again or put it in the fire. + In the repression of the new life, in which he must live wholly alone, so + far as all past habits of mind were concerned, it was a relief to record + his passing reflections, as he had been wont to do when the necessity for + it was less. Writing them here was like the bursting of an imprisoned + stream; it was relaxing the ceaseless eye of vigilance; freeing an + imprisoned personality. This personality was not yet merged into that + which must take its place, must express itself in the involuntary acts + which tell of a habit of mind and body—no longer the imitative and + the histrionic, but the inherent and the real. + </p> + <p> + On the afternoon of the day that old Louis agreed to give him wages, and + went to smoke a pipe with the Notary, Charley scribbled down his thoughts + on this matter of personality and habit. + </p> + <p> + “Who knows,” he wrote, “which is the real self? A child comes into the + world gin-begotten, with the instinct for liquor in his brain, like the + scent of the fox in the nostrils of the hound. And that seems the real. + But the same child caught up on the hands of chance is carried into + another atmosphere, is cared for by ginhating minds and hearts: habit + fastens on him—fair, decent, and temperate habit—and he grows + up like the Cure yonder, a brother of Aaron. Which is the real? Is the + instinct for the gin killed, or covered? Is the habit of good living mere + habit and mere acting, in which the real man never lives his real life, or + is it the real life? + </p> + <p> + “Who knows! Here am I, born with a question in my mouth, with the + ever-present ‘non possumus’ in me. Here am I, to whom life was one poor + futility; to whom brain was but animal intelligence abnormally developed; + to whom speechless sensibility and intelligence was the only reality; to + whom nothing from beyond ever sent a flash of conviction, an intimation, + into my soul—not one. To me God always seemed a being of dreams, the + creation of a personal need and helplessness, the despairing cry of the + victims of futility—And here am I flung like a stone from a sling + into this field where men believe in God as a present and tangible being; + who reply to all life’s agonies and joys and exultations with the words + ‘C’est le bon Dieu.’ And what shall I become? Will habit do its work, and + shall I cease to be me? Shall I, in the permanency of habit, become like + unto this tailor here, whose life narrows into one sole cause; whose only + wish is to have the Church draw the coverlet of forgiveness and safety + over him; who has solved all questions in a blind belief or an inherited + predisposition—which? This stingy, hard, unhappy man—how + should he know what I am denied! Or does he know? Is it all illusion? If + there is a God who receives such devotion, to the exclusion of natural + demand and spiritual anxieties, why does not this tailor ‘let his light so + shine before men that they may see his good works, and glorify his Father + which is in heaven?’ That is it. Therefore, wherefore, tailor-man? + Therefore, wherefore, God? Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!” + </p> + <p> + Seated on his bench in the shop, with his eyes ever and anon raised + towards the little post-office opposite, he wrote these words. Afterwards + he sat and thought till the shadows deepened, and the tailor came in to + supper. Then he took up the pieces of paper, and, going to the fire, which + was still lighted of an evening, thrust them inside. + </p> + <p> + Louis Trudel saw the paper burning, and, glancing down, he noticed that + one piece—the last—had slipped to the floor and was lying + under the table. He saw the pencil still in Charley’s hand. Forthwith his + natural suspicion leaped up, and the cunning of the monomaniac was upon + him. With all his belief in le bon Dieu and the Church, Louis Trudel + trusted no one. One eye was ever open to distrust man, while the other was + ever closed with blind belief in Heaven. + </p> + <p> + As Charley stooped to put wood in the fire, the tailor thrust a foot + forward and pushed the piece of paper further under the table. + </p> + <p> + That night the tailor crept down into the shop, felt for the paper in the + dark, found it, and carried it away to his room. All kinds of thoughts had + raged through his diseased mind. It was a letter, perhaps, and if a + letter, then he would gain some facts about the man’s life. But if it was + a letter, why did he burn it? It was said that he never received a letter + and never sent one, therefore it was little likely to be a letter if not a + letter, then what could it be? Perhaps the man was English and a spy of + the English government, for was there not disaffection in some of the + parishes? Perhaps it was a plan of robbery. To such a state of + hallucination did his weakened mind come, that he forgot the kindly + feeling he had had for this stranger who had worked for him without pay. + Suspicion, the bane of sick old age, was hot on him. He remembered that + M’sieu’ had put an arm through his when they went upstairs, and that now + increased suspicion. Why should the man have been so friendly? To lull him + into confidence, perhaps, and then to rob and murder him in his sleep. + Thank God, his ready money was well hid, and the rest was safe in the bank + far away! He crept back to his room with the paper in his hand. It was the + last sheet of what Charley had written, and had been accidentally brushed + off on the floor. It was in French, and, holding the candle close, he + slowly deciphered the crabbed, characteristic handwriting. + </p> + <p> + His eyes dilated, his yellow cheeks took on spots of unhealthy red, his + hand trembled. Anger seized him, and he mumbled the words over and over + again to himself. Twice or thrice, as the paper lay in one hand, he struck + it with the clinched fist of the other, muttering and distraught. + </p> + <p> + “This tailor here.... This stingy, hard, unhappy man.... If there is a + God!... Therefore, wherefore, tailor-man?... Therefore, wherefore, God?... + Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!” + </p> + <p> + Hatred of himself, blasphemy, the profane and hellish humour of—of + the infidel! A Protestant heretic—he was already damned; a robber—you + could put him in jail; a spy—you could shoot him or tar and feather + him; a murderer—you could hang him. But an infide—this was a + deadly poison, a black danger, a being capable of all crimes. An infidel—“Therefore, + wherefore, tailor-man?... Therefore, wherefore, God?... Show me a sign + from Heaven, tailor-man!” + </p> + <p> + The devil laughing—the devil incarnate come to mock a poor tailor, + to sow plague through a parish where all were at peace in the bosom of the + Church. The tailor had three ruling passions—cupidity, vanity, and + religion. Charley had now touched the three, and the whole man was alive. + His cupidity had been flattered by the unpaid service of a capable + assistant, but now he saw that he was paying the devil a wage. His vanity + was overwhelmed by a satanic ridicule. His religion and his God had been + assaulted in so shameful a way that no punishment could be great enough + for the man of hell. In religion he was a fanatic; he was a demented + fanatic now. + </p> + <p> + He thrust the paper into his pocket, then crept out into the hall and to + the door of Charley’s bedroom. He put his ear to the door. After a moment + he softly raised the latch, and opened the door and listened again. + ‘M’sieu’ was in a deep sleep. + </p> + <p> + Louis Trudel scarcely knew why he had listened, why he had opened the door + and stood looking at the figure in the bed, barely definable in the + semi-darkness of the room. If he had meant harm to the helpless man, he + had brought no weapon; if he had been curious, there the man was + peacefully sleeping! + </p> + <p> + His sick, morbid imagination was so alive, that he scarcely knew what he + did. As he stood there listening, hatred and horror in his heart, a voice + said to him: “Thou shalt do no murder.” The words kept ringing in his + ears. Yet he had not thought of murder. The fancied command itself was his + first temptation towards such a deed. He had thought of raising the + parish, of condign punishment of many sorts, but not this. As he closed + the door softly, killing entered his mind and stayed there. “Thou shalt + not” had been the first instigation to “Thou shalt.” + </p> + <p> + It haunted him as he returned to his room, undressed himself, and went to + bed. He could not sleep. “Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!” The + challenge had been to himself. He must respond to it. The duty lay with + him; he must answer this black infidel for the Church, for faith, for God. + </p> + <p> + The more he thought of it, the more Charley’s face came before him, with + the monocle shining and hard in the eye. The monocle haunted him. That was + the infidel’s sign. “Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!” What sign + should he show? + </p> + <p> + Presently he sat up straight in bed. In another minute he was out and + dressing. Five minutes later he was on his way to the parish church. When + he reached it he took a tool from his pocket and unscrewed a small iron + cross from the front door. It was a cross which had been blessed by the + Pope, and had been brought to Chaudiere by the beloved mother of the Cure, + now dead. + </p> + <p> + “When I have done with it I will put it back,” he said, as he thrust it + inside his shirt, and hurried stealthily back to his house. As he got into + bed he gave a noiseless, mirthless laugh. All night he lay with his yellow + eyes wide open, gazing at the ceiling. He was up at dawn, hovering about + the fire in the shop. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. THE STEALING OF THE CROSS + </h2> + <p> + If Charley had been less engaged with his own thoughts, he would have + noticed the curious baleful look in the eyes of the tailor; but he was + deeply absorbed in a struggle that had nothing to do with Louis Trudel. + </p> + <p> + The old fever of thirst and desire was upon him. All morning the door of + Jolicoeur’s saloon was opening and shutting before his mind’s eye, and + there was a smell of liquor everywhere. It was in his nostrils when the + hot steam rose from the clothes he was pressing, in the thick odour of the + fulled cloth, in the melting snow outside the door. + </p> + <p> + Time and again he felt that he must run out of the shop and away to the + little tavern where white whiskey was sold to unwise habitants. But he + fought on. Here was the heritage of his past, the lengthening chain of + slavery to his old self—was it his real self? Here was what would + prevent him from forgetting all that he had been and not been, all the + happiness he might have had, all that he had lost—the ceaseless + reminder. He was still the victim to a poison which gave not only a + struggle of body, but a struggle of soul—if he had a soul. + </p> + <p> + “If he had a soul!” The phrase kept repeating itself to him even as he + fought the fever in his throat, resisting the temptation to take that + medicine which the Curb’s brother had sent him. + </p> + <p> + “If he had a soul!” The thinking served as an antidote, for by the + ceaseless iteration his mind was lulled into a kind of drowse. Again and + again he went to the pail of water that stood on the window-sill, and + lifting it to his lips, drank deep and full, to quench the wearing thirst. + </p> + <p> + “If he had a soul!” He looked at Louis Trudel, silent and morose, the + clammy yellow of a great sickness in his face and hands, but his mind only + intent on making a waistcoat—and the end of all things very near! + The words he had written the night before came to him: “Therefore, + wherefore, tailor-man? Therefore, wherefore, God?... Show me a sign from + Heaven, tailor-man!” As if in reply to his thoughts there came the sound + of singing, and of bells ringing in the parish church. + </p> + <p> + A procession with banners was coming near. It was a holy day, and + Chaudiere was mindful of its duties. The wanderers of the parish had come + home for Easter. All who belonged to Chaudiere and worked in the woods or + shanties, or lived in big cities far away, were returned—those who + could return—to take the holy communion in the parish church. + Yesterday the parish had been alive with a pious hilarity. The great + church had been crowded beyond the doors, the streets had been full of + cheerily dressed habitants. There had, however, come a sudden chill to the + seemly rejoicings—the little iron cross blessed by the Pope had been + stolen from the door of the church! + </p> + <p> + The fact had been told to the Cure as he said the Mass, and from the altar + steps, before going to the pulpit, he referred to the robbery with + poignant feeling; for the relic had belonged to a martyr of the Church, + who, two centuries before, had laid down his life for the Master on the + coast of Africa. + </p> + <p> + Louis Trudel had heard the Cure’s words, and in his place at the rear of + the church he smiled sourly to himself. In due time the little cross + should be returned, but it had work to do first. He did not take the holy + communion this Easter day, or go to confession as was his wont. Not, + however, until a certain day later did the Cure realise this, though for + thirty years the tailor had never omitted his Easter-time duties. + </p> + <p> + The people guessed and guessed, but they knew not on whom to cast + suspicion at first. No sane Catholic of Chaudiere could possibly have + taken the holy thing. Presently a murmur crept about that M’sieu’ might + have been the thief. He was not a Catholic, and—who could tell? Who + knew where he came from? Who knew what he had been? Perhaps a + jail-bird-robber-murderer! Charley, however, stitched on, intent upon his + own struggle. + </p> + <p> + The procession passed the doorway: men bearing banners with sacred texts, + acolytes swinging censers, a figure of the Saviour carved in wood borne + aloft, the Cure under a silk canopy, and a long line of habitants + following with sacred song. People fell upon their knees in the street as + the procession passed, and the Cure’s face was bent here and there, his + hand raised in blessing. + </p> + <p> + Old Louis got up from his bench, and, putting on a coat over his wool + jacket, hastened to the doorway, knelt down, made the sign of the cross, + and said a prayer. Then he turned quickly towards Charley, who, looking at + the procession, then at the tailor, then back again at the procession, + smiled. + </p> + <p> + Charley was hardly conscious of what he did. His mind had ranged far + beyond this scene to the large issues which these symbols represented. Was + it one universal self-deception? Was this “religion” the pathetic, the + soul-breaking make-believe of mortality? So he smiled—at himself, at + his own soul, which seemed alone in this play, the skeleton in armour, the + thing that did not belong. His own words written that fateful day before + he died at the Cote Dorion came to him: + </p> + <p> + “Sacristan, acolyte, player, or preacher, Each to his office, but who + holds the key? Death, only Death, thou, the ultimate teacher, Wilt show it + to me!” + </p> + <p> + He was suddenly startled from his reverie, through which the procession + was moving—a cloud of witnesses. It was the voice of Louis Trudel, + sharp and piercing: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you believe in God and the Son of God?” + </p> + <p> + “God knows!” answered Charley slowly in reply—an involuntary + exclamation of helplessness, an automatic phrase deflected from its first + significance to meet a casual need of the mind. Yet it seemed like satire, + like a sardonic, even vulgar, humour. So it struck Louis Trudel, who + snatched up a hot iron from the fire and rushed forward with a snarl. So + astounded was Charley that he did not stir. He was not prepared for the + sudden onslaught. He did not put up his hand even, but stared at the + tailor, who, within a foot of him, stopped short with the iron poised. + </p> + <p> + Louis Trudel repented in time. With the cunning of the monomaniac he + realised that an attack now might frustrate his great stroke. It would + bring the village to his shop door, precipitate the crisis upon the wrong + incident. + </p> + <p> + As it chanced, only one person in Chaudiere saw the act. That was Rosalie + Evanturel across the way. She saw the iron raised, and looked for M’sieu’ + to knock the tailor down; but, instead, she beheld the tailor go back and + put the iron on the fire again. She saw also that M’sieu’ was speaking, + though she could hear no words. + </p> + <p> + Charley’s words were simple enough. “I beg your pardon, Monsieur,” he said + across the room to old Louis; “I meant no offence at all. I was trying to + think it out in a human sort of way. I suppose I wanted a sign from Heaven—wanted + too much, no doubt.” + </p> + <p> + The tailor’s lips twitched, and his hand convulsively clutched the shears + at his side. + </p> + <p> + “It is no matter now,” he answered shortly. “I have had signs from Heaven; + perhaps you will have one too!” + </p> + <p> + “It would be worth while,” rejoined Charley musingly. Charley wondered + bitterly if he had made an irreparable error in saying those ill-chosen + words. This might mean a breach between them, and so make his position in + the parish untenable. He had no wish to go elsewhere—where could he + go? It mattered little what he was, tinker or tailor. He had now only to + work his way back to the mind of the peasant; to be an animal with + intelligence; to get close to mother earth, and move down the declivity of + life with what natural wisdom were possible. It was his duty to adapt + himself to the mind of such as this tailor; to acquire what the tailor and + his like had found—an intolerant belief and an inexpensive security, + to be got through yielding his nature to the great religious dream. And + what perfect tranquillity, what smooth travelling found therein. + </p> + <p> + Gazing across the street towards the little post-office, he saw Rosalie + Evanturel at the window. He fell to thinking about her. Rosalie, on her + part, kept wondering what old Louis’ violence meant. + </p> + <p> + Presently she saw a half-dozen men come quickly down the street, and, + before they reached the tailorshop, stand in a group talking excitedly. + Afterwards one came forward from the others quickly—Filion Lacasse + the saddler. He stopped short at the tailor’s door. Looking at Charley, he + exclaimed roughly: + </p> + <p> + “If you don’t hand out the cross you stole from the church door, we’ll tar + and feather you, M’sieu’.” Charley looked up, surprised. It had never + occurred to him that they could associate him with the theft. “I know + nothing of the cross,” he said quietly. “You’re the only heretic in the + place. You’ve done it. Who are you? What are you doing here in Chaudiere?” + </p> + <p> + “Working at my trade,” was Charley’s quiet answer. He looked towards Louis + Trudel, as though to see how he took this ugly charge. + </p> + <p> + Old Louis responded at once. “Get away with you, Filion Lacasse,” he + croaked. “Don’t come here with your twaddle. M’sieu’ hasn’t stole the + cross. What does he want with a cross? He’s not a Catholic.” + </p> + <p> + “If he didn’t steal the cross, why, he didn’t,” answered the saddler; “but + if he did, what’ll you say for yourself, Louis? You call yourself a good + Catholic—bah!—when you’ve got a heretic living with you.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that to you?” growled the tailor, and reached out a nervous hand + towards the iron. “I served at the altar before you were born. Sacre! I’ll + make your grave-clothes yet, and be a good Catholic when you’re in the + churchyard. Be off with you. Ach,” he sharply added, when Filion did not + move, “I’ll cut your hair for you!” He scrambled off the bench with his + shears. + </p> + <p> + Filion Lacasse disappeared with his friends, and the old man settled back + on his bench. + </p> + <p> + Charley, looking up quietly from his work, said “Thank you, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + He did not notice what an evil look was in Louis Trudel’s face as it + turned towards him, but Rosalie Evanturel, standing outside, saw it; and + she stole back to the post-office ill at ease and wondering. + </p> + <p> + All that day she watched the tailor’s shop, and even when the door was + shut in the evening, her eyes were fastened on the windows. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. THE SIGN FROM HEAVEN + </h2> + <p> + The agitation and curiosity possessing Rosalie all day held her in the + evening when the wooden shutters of the tailor’s shop were closed and only + a flickering light showed through the cracks. She was restless and uneasy + during supper, and gave more than one unmeaning response to the remarks of + her crippled father, who, drawn up for supper in his wheel-chair, was more + than usually inclined to gossip. + </p> + <p> + Damase Evanturel’s mind was stirred concerning the loss of the iron cross; + the threat made by Filion Lacasse and his companions troubled him. The one + person beside the Cure, Jo Portugais, and Louis Trudel, to whom M’sieu’ + talked much, was the postmaster, who sometimes met him of an evening as he + was taking the air. More than once he had walked behind the wheel-chair + and pushed it some distance, making the little crippled man gossip of + village matters. + </p> + <p> + As the two sat at supper the postmaster was inclined to take a serious + view of M’sieu’s position. He railed at Filion Lacasse; he called the + suspicious habitants clodhoppers, who didn’t know any better—which + was a tribute to his own superior birth; and at last, carried away by a + feverish curiosity, he suggested that Rosalie should go and look through + the cracks in the shutters of the tailor-shop and find out what was going + on within. This was indignantly rejected by Rosalie, but the more she + thought, the more uneasy she became. She ceased to reply to her father’s + remarks, and he at last relapsed into gloom, and said that he was tired + and would go to bed. Thereupon she wheeled him inside his bedroom, bade + him good-night, and left him to his moodiness, which, however, was soon + absorbed in a deep sleep, for the mind of the little grey postmaster could + no more hold trouble or thought than a sieve. + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Rosalie began to be tortured. What were they doing in the + house opposite? + </p> + <p> + Go and look through the windows? But she had never spied on people in her + life! Yet would it be spying? Would it not be pardonable? In the interest + of the man who had been attacked in the morning by the tailor, who had + been threatened by the saddler, and concerning whom she had seen a signal + pass between old Louis and Filion Lacasse, would it not be a humane thing + to do? It might be foolish and feminine to be anxious, but did she not + mean well, and was it not, therefore, honourable? + </p> + <p> + The mystery inflamed her imagination. Charley’s passiveness when he was + assaulted by old Louis and afterwards threatened by the saddler seemed to + her indifference to any sort of danger—the courage of the hopeless + life, maybe. Instantly her heart overflowed with sympathy. Monsieur was + not a Catholic perhaps? Well, so much the more he should be befriended, + for he was so much the more alone and helpless. If a man was born a + Protestant—or English—he could not help it, and should not be + punished in this world for it, since he was sure to be punished in the + next. + </p> + <p> + Her mind became more and more excited. The postoffice had been long since + closed, and her father was asleep—she could hear him snoring. It was + ten o’clock, and there was still a light in the tailor’s shop. Usually the + light went out before nine o’clock. She went to the post-office door and + looked out. The streets were empty; there was not a light burning + anywhere, save in the house of the Notary. Down towards the river a sleigh + was making its way over the thin snow of spring, and screeching on the + stones. Some late revellers, moving homewards from the Trois Couronnes, + were roaring at the top of their voices the habitant chanson, ‘Le Petit + Roger Bontemps’: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For I am Roger Bontemps, + Gai, gai, gai! + With drink I am full and with joy content, + Gai, gaiment!” + </pre> + <p> + The chanson died away as she stood there, and still the light was burning + in the shop opposite. A thought suddenly came to her. She would go over + and see if the old housekeeper, Margot Patry, had gone to bed. Here was + the solution to the problem, the satisfaction of modesty and propriety. + </p> + <p> + She crossed the street quickly, hurried round the corner of the house, and + was passing the side-window of the shop, when a crack in the shutters + caught her eye. She heard something fall on the floor within. Could it be + that the tailor and M’sieu’ were working at so late an hour? She had an + irresistible impulse, and glued her eye to the crack. + </p> + <p> + But presently she started back with a smothered cry. There by the great + fireplace stood Louis Trudel picking up a red-hot cross with a pair of + pincers. Grasping the iron firmly just below the arms of the cross, the + tailor held it up again. He looked at it with a wild triumph, yet with a + malignancy little in keeping with the object he held—the holy relic + he had stolen from the door of the parish church. The girl gave a low cry + of dismay. + </p> + <p> + She saw old Louis advance stealthily towards the door of the shop leading + into the house. In bewilderment, she stood still an instant, then, with a + sudden impulse, she ran to the kitchen-door and tried it softly. It was + not locked. She opened it, entered quickly, and found old Margot standing + in the middle of the room in her night-dress. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Rosalie, Rosalie!” cried the old woman, “something’s going to happen. + M’sieu’ Trudel has been queer all evening. I peeped in the key-hole of the + shop just now, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, I’ve seen too. Come!” said Rosalie, and going quickly to the + door, opened it, and passed through to another room. Here she opened + another door, leading into the hall between the shop and the house. + Entering the hall, she saw a glimmer of light above. It was the reddish + glow of the iron cross held by old Louis. She crept softly up the stone + steps. She heard a door open very quietly. She hurried now, and came to + the landing. She saw the door of Charley’s room open—all the village + knew what room he slept in—and the moonlight was streaming in at the + window. + </p> + <p> + She saw the sleeping man on the bed, and the tailor standing over him. + Charley was lying with one arm thrown above his head; the other lay over + the side of the bed. + </p> + <p> + As she rushed forward, divining old Louis’ purpose, the fiery cross + descended, and a voice cried: “‘Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!’” + </p> + <p> + This voice was drowned by that of another, which, gasping with agony out + of a deep sleep, as the body sprang upright, cried: “God-oh God!” + Rosalie’s hand grasped old Louis’ arm too late. The tailor sprang back + with a horrible laugh, striking her aside, and rushed out to the landing. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!” cried Rosalie, and, snatching a scarf from her + bosom, thrust it in upon the excoriated breast, as Charley, hardly + realising what had happened, choked back moans of pain. + </p> + <p> + “What did he do?” he gasped. + </p> + <p> + “The iron cross from the church door!” she answered. “A minute, one + minute, Monsieur!” + </p> + <p> + She rushed out upon the landing in time to see the tailor stumble on the + stairs and fall head forwards to the bottom, at the feet of Margot Patry. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie paid no heed to the fallen man. “Oil! flour! Quick!” she cried. + “Quick! Quick!” She stepped over the body of the tailor, snatched at + Margot’s arm, and dragged her into the kitchen. “Quick-oil and flour!” + </p> + <p> + The old woman showed her where they were, moaning and whining. + </p> + <p> + “He tried to kill Monsieur,” cried Rosalie, “burned him on the breast with + the holy cross!” + </p> + <p> + With oil and flour she hurried back, over the body of the tailor, up the + stairs, and into Charley’s room. Charley was now out of bed and half + dressed, though choking with pain, and preserving consciousness only by a + great effort. + </p> + <p> + “Good Mademoiselle!” he said. + </p> + <p> + She took the scarf off gently, soaked it in oil and splashed it with + flour, and laid it quickly back on the burnt flesh. + </p> + <p> + Margot came staggering into the room. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot rouse him. I cannot rouse him. He is dead! He is dead!” she + whimpered. + </p> + <p> + “He—” + </p> + <p> + Charley swayed forward towards the woman, recovered himself, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Now not a word of what he did to me, remember. Not one word, or you will + go to jail with him. If you keep quiet, I’ll say nothing. He didn’t know + what he was doing.” He turned to Rosalie. “Not a word of this, please,” he + moaned. “Hide the cross.” + </p> + <p> + He moved towards the door. Rosalie saw his purpose, and ran out ahead of + him and down the stairs to where the tailor lay prone on his face, one + hand still holding the pincers. The little iron cross lay in a dark + corner. Stooping, she lifted up the tailor’s head, then felt his heart. + </p> + <p> + “He is not dead,” she cried. “Quick, Margot, some water,” she added, to + the whimpering woman. Margot tottered away, and came again presently with + the water. + </p> + <p> + “I will go for some one to help,” Rosalie said, rising to her feet, as she + saw Charley come slowly down the staircase, his face white with misery. + She ran and took his arm to help him down. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, dear Mademoiselle,” he said; “I shall be all right presently. You + must get help to carry him up stairs. Bring the Notary; he and I can carry + him up.” + </p> + <p> + “You, Monsieur! You—it would kill you! You are terribly hurt.” + </p> + <p> + “I must help to carry him, else people will be asking questions,” he + answered painfully. “He is going to die. It must not be known—you + understand!” His eyes searched the floor until they found the cross. + Rosalie picked it up with the pincers. “It must not be known what he did + to me,” Charley said to the muttering and weeping old woman. He caught her + shoulder with his hand, for she seemed scarcely to heed. + </p> + <p> + She nodded. “Yes, yes, M’sieu’, I will never speak.” Rosalie was standing + in the door. “Go quickly, Mademoiselle,” he said. She disappeared with the + iron cross, and flying across the street, thrust it inside the + post-office, then ran to the house of the Notary. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. THE RETURN OF THE TAILOR + </h2> + <p> + Twenty minutes later the tailor was lying in his bed, breathing, but still + unconscious, the Notary, M’sieu’, and the doctor of the next parish, who + by chance was in Chaudiere, beside him. Charley’s face was drawn and + haggard with pain, for he had helped to carry old Louis to bed, though + every motion of his arms gave him untold agony. In the doorway stood + Rosalie and Margot Patry. + </p> + <p> + “Will he live?” asked the Notary. + </p> + <p> + The doctor shook his head. “A few hours, perhaps. He fell downstairs?” + </p> + <p> + Charley nodded. There was silence for some time, as the doctor went on + with his ministrations, and the Notary sat drumming his fingers on the + little table beside the bed. The two women stole away to the kitchen, + where Rosalie again pressed secrecy on Margot. In the interest of the + cause she had even threatened Margot with a charge of complicity. She had + heard the phrase “accessory before the fact,” and she used it now with + good effect. + </p> + <p> + Then she took some fresh flour and oil, and thrust them inside the bedroom + door where Charley now sat clinching his hands and fighting down the pain. + Careful as ever of his personal appearance, however, he had brushed every + speck of flour from his clothes, and buttoned his coat up to the neck. + </p> + <p> + Nearly an hour passed, and then the Cure appeared. When he entered the + sick man’s room, Charley followed, and again Rosalie and old Margot came + and stood within the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Peace be to this house!” said the Cure. He had a few minutes of whispered + conversation with the doctor, and then turned to Charley. + </p> + <p> + “He fell down-stairs, Monsieur? You saw him fall?” + </p> + <p> + “I was in my room—I heard him fall, Cure.” + </p> + <p> + “Had he been ill during the day?” + </p> + <p> + “He appeared to be feeble, and he seemed moody.” + </p> + <p> + “More than usual, Monsieur?” The Cure had heard of the incident of the + morning when Filion Lacasse accused Charley of stealing the cross. + </p> + <p> + “Rather more than usual, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure turned towards the door. “You, Mademoiselle Rosalie, how came you + to know?” + </p> + <p> + “I was in the kitchen with Margot, who was not well.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure looked at Margot, who tearfully nodded. “I was ill,” she said, + “and Rosalie was here with me. She helped M’sieu’ and me. Rosalie is a + good girl, and kind to me,” she whimpered. + </p> + <p> + The Cure seemed satisfied, and after looking at the sick man for a moment, + he came close to Charley. “I am deeply pained at what happened to-day,” he + said courteously. “I know you have had nothing to do with the beloved + little cross.” + </p> + <p> + The Notary tried to draw near and listen, but the Cure’s look held him + back. The doctor was busy with his patient. + </p> + <p> + “You are only just, Monsieur,” said Charley in response, wishing that + these kind eyes were fixed anywhere than on his face. + </p> + <p> + All at once the Cure laid a hand upon his arm. “You are ill,” he said + anxiously. “You look very ill indeed. See, Vaudrey,” he added to the + doctor, “you have another patient here!” + </p> + <p> + The friendly, oleaginous doctor came over and peered into Charley’s face. + “Ill-sure enough!” he said. “Look at this sweat!” he pointed to the drops + of perspiration on Charley’s forehead. “Where do you suffer?” + </p> + <p> + “Severe pains all through my body,” Charley answered simply, for it seemed + easier to tell the truth, as near as might be. + </p> + <p> + “I must look to you,” said the doctor. “Go and lie down, and I will come + to you.” + </p> + <p> + Charley bowed, but did not move. Just then two things drew the attention + of all: the tailor showed returning consciousness, and there was noise of + many voices outside the house and the tramping of feet below-stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Go and tell them no one must come up,” said the doctor to the Notary, and + the Cure made ready to say the last offices for the dying. + </p> + <p> + Presently the noise below-stairs diminished, and the priest’s voice rose + in the office, vibrating and touching. The two women sank to their knees, + the doctor followed, his eyes still fixed on the dying man. Presently, + however, Charley did the same; for something penetrating and reasonable in + the devotion touched him. + </p> + <p> + All at once Louis Trudel opened his eyes. Staring round with acute + excitement, his eyes fell on the Cure, then upon Charley. + </p> + <p> + “Stop—stop, M’sieu’ le Cure!” he cried. “There’s other work to do.” + He gasped and was convulsed, but the pallor of his face was alive with + fire from the distempered eyes. He snatched from his breast the paper + Charley had neglected to burn. He thrust it into the Curb’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “See—see!” he croaked. “He is an infidel—black infidel—from + hell!” His voice rose in a kind of shriek, piercing to every corner of the + house. He pointed at Charley with shaking finger. + </p> + <p> + “He wrote it there—on that paper. He doesn’t—believe in God.” + </p> + <p> + His strength failed him, his hand clutched tremblingly at the air. He + laughed, a dry, crackling laugh, and his mouth opened twice or thrice to + speak, but gasping breaths only came forth. With a last effort, however—as + the priest, shocked, stretched out his hand and said: “Have done, have + done, Trudel!”—he cried, in a voice that quavered shrilly: + </p> + <p> + “He asked—tailor-man—sign—from—Heaven. Look-look!” + He pointed wildly at Charley. “I—gave him—sign of—” + </p> + <p> + But that was the end. With a shudder the body collapsed in a formless + heap, and the tailor-man was gone to tell of the work he had done for his + faith on earth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. THE CURE HAS AN INSPIRATION + </h2> + <p> + White and malicious faces peered through the doorway. There was an ugly + murmur coming up the staircase. Many habitants had heard Louis Trudel’s + last words, and had passed them on with vehement exaggeration. + </p> + <p> + Chaudiere had been touched in its most superstitious corner. Protestantism + was a sin, but atheism was a crime against humanity. The Protestant might + be the victim of a mistake, but the atheist was the deliberate son of + darkness, the source of fearful dangers. An atheist in their midst was + like a scorpion in a flower-bed—no one could tell when and where he + would sting. Rough misdemeanours among them had been many, there had once + been a murder in the parish, but the undefined horrors of infidelity were + more shameful than crimes the eye could see. + </p> + <p> + To the minds of these excited people the tailor-man’s death was due to the + infidel before them. They were ready to do all that might become a + Catholic intent to avenge the profaned honour of the Church and the faith. + Bodily harm was the natural form for their passion to take. + </p> + <p> + “Bring him out—let us have him!” they cried with fierce gestures, to + which Rosalie Evanturel turned a pained, indignant face. + </p> + <p> + As the Curb stood with the paper in his hand, his face set and bitter, + Rosalie made a step forward. She meant to tell the truth about Louis + Trudel, and show how good this man was, who stood charged with an + imaginary crime. But she met the warning eye of the man himself, calm and + resolute, she saw the suffering in the face, endured with what composure! + and she felt instantly that she must obey him, and that—who could + tell?—his plan might be the best in the end. She looked at the Cure + anxiously. What would he say and do? In the Cure’s heart and mind a great + struggle was going on. All his inherent prejudice, the hereditary + predisposition of centuries, the ingrain hatred of atheism, were alive in + him, hardening his mind against the man before him. His first impulse was + to let Charley take his fate at the hands of the people of Chaudiere, + whatever it might be. But as he looked at the man, as he recalled their + first meeting, and remembered the simple, quiet life he had lived among + them—charitable, and unselfish—the barriers of creed and habit + fell down, and tears unbidden rushed into his eyes. + </p> + <p> + The Cure had, all at once, the one great inspiration of his life—its + one beautiful and supreme imagining. For thus he reasoned swiftly: + </p> + <p> + Here he was, a priest who had shepherded a flock of the faithful passed on + to him by another priest before him, who again had received them from a + guardian of the fold—a family of faithful Catholics whose thoughts + never strayed into forbidden realms. He had done no more than keep them + faithful and prevent them from wandering—counselling, admonishing, + baptising, and burying, giving in marriage and blessing, sending them on + their last great journey with the cachet of Holy Church upon them. But + never once, never in all his life, had he brought a lost soul into the + fold. If he died to-night, he could not say to St. Peter, when he arrived + at Heaven’s gate: “See, I have saved a soul!” Before the Throne he could + not say to Him who cried: “Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel + to every creature”—he could not say: “Lord, by Thy grace I found + this soul in the wilderness, in the dark and the loneliness, having no God + to worship, denial and rebellion in his heart; and behold, I took him to + my breast, and taught him in Thy name, and led him home to Thy haven, the + Church!” + </p> + <p> + Thus it was that the Cure dreamed a dream. He would set his life to saving + this lost soul. He would rescue him from the outer darkness. + </p> + <p> + His face suffused, he handed the paper in his hand back to the man who had + written the words upon it. Then he lifted his hand against the people at + the door and the loud murmuring behind them. + </p> + <p> + “Peace—peace!” he said, as though from the altar. “Leave this room + of death, I command you. Go at once to your homes. This man”—he + pointed to Charley—“is my friend. Who seeks to harm him, would harm + me. Go hence and pray. Pray for yourselves, pray for him, and for me; and + pray for the troubled soul of Louis Trudel. Go in peace.” + </p> + <p> + Soon afterwards the house was empty, save for the Cure, Charley, old + Margot, and the Notary. + </p> + <p> + That night Charley sat in the tailor’s bedroom, rigid and calm, though + racked with pain, and watched the candles flickering beside the dead body. + He was thinking of the Cure’s last words to the people. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder—I wonder,” he said, and through his eyeglass he stared at + the crucifix that threw a shadow on the dead man’s face. Morning found him + there. As dawn crept in he rose to his feet. “Whither now?” he said, like + one in a dream. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. THE WOMAN WHO SAW + </h2> + <p> + Up to the moment of her meeting with Charley, Rosalie Evanturel’s life had + been governed by habit, which was lightly coloured by temperament. Since + the eventful hour on Vadrome Mountain it had become a life of temperament, + in which habit was involuntary and mechanical. She did her daily duties + with a good heart, but also with a sense superior to the practical action. + This grew from day to day, until, in the tragical days wherein she had + secretly played a great part, she moved as in a dream, but a dream so + formal that no one saw any change taking place in her, or associated her + with the events happening across the way. + </p> + <p> + She had been compelled to answer many questions, for it was known she was + in the tailor’s house when Louis Trudel fell down-stairs, but what more + was there to tell than that she had run for the Notary, and sent word to + the Cure, and that she was present when the tailor died, charging M’sieu’ + with being an infidel? At first she was ill disposed to answer any + questions, but she soon felt that attitude would only do harm. For the + first time in her life she was face to face with moral problems—the + beginning of sorrow, of knowledge, and of life. + </p> + <p> + In all secrets there is a kind of guilt, however beautiful or joyful they + may be, or for what good end they may be set to serve. Secrecy means + evasion, and evasion means a problem to the moral mind. To the primitive + mind, with its direct yes and no, there is danger of it becoming a + tragical problem ere it is realised that truth is various and diverse. + Perhaps even with that Mary who hid the matter in her heart—the + exquisite tragedy and glory of Christendom—there was a delicate + feeling of guilt, the guilt of the hidden though lofty and beautiful + thing. + </p> + <p> + If secrecy was guilt, then Charley and Rosalie were bound together by a + bond as strong as death: Rosalie held the key to a series of fateful days + and doings. + </p> + <p> + In ordinary course, they might have known each other for five years and + not have come to this sensitive and delicate association. With one great + plunge she had sprung into the river of understanding. In the moment that + she had thrust her scarf into his scorched breast, in that little upper + room, the work of years had been done. + </p> + <p> + As long as he lived, that mark must remain on M’sieu’s breast—the + red, smooth scar of a cross! She had seen the sort of shining scar a bad + burn makes, and at thought of it she flushed, trembled, and turned her + head away, as though some one were watching her. Even in the night she + flushed and buried her face in the pillow when the thought flashed through + her mind; though when she had soaked the scarf in oil and flour and laid + it on the angry wound she had not flushed at all, was determined, quiet, + and resourceful. + </p> + <p> + That incident had made her from a girl into a woman, from a child of the + convent into a child of the world. She no longer thought and felt as she + had done before. What she did think or feel could not easily have been set + down, for her mind was one tremulous confusion of unusual thoughts, her + heart was beset by new feelings, her imagination, suddenly finding itself, + was trying its wings helplessly. The past was full of wonder and event, + the present full of surprises. + </p> + <p> + There was M’sieu’ established already in Louis Trudel’s place, having been + granted a lease of the house and shop by the Curte, on the part of the + parish, to which the property had been left; receiving also a gift of the + furniture and of old Margot, who remained where she had been so many + years. She could easily see Charley at work—pale and suffering still—for + the door was generally open in the sweet April weather, with the birds + singing, and the trees bursting into blossom. Her wilful imagination + traced the cross upon his breast—it almost seemed as if it were + outside upon his clothes, exposed to every eye, a shining thing all fire, + not a wound inside, for which old Margot prepared oiled linen now. + </p> + <p> + The parish was as perturbed as her own mind, for the mystery of the stolen + cross had never been cleared up, and a few still believed that M’sieu’ had + taken it. They were of those who kept hinting at dark things which would + yet be worked upon the infidel in the tailor’s shop. These were they to + whom the Curb’s beautiful ambition did not appeal. He had said that if the + man were an infidel, then they must pray that he be brought into the fold; + but a few were still suspicious, and they said in Rosalie’s presence: + “Where is the little cross? M’sieu’ knows.” + </p> + <p> + He did know. That was the worst of it. The cross was in her possession. + Was it not necessary, then, to quiet suspicion for his sake? She had + locked the relic away in a cupboard in her bedroom, and she carried the + key of it always in her pocket. Every day she went and looked at it, as at + some ghostly token. To her it was a symbol, not of supernatural things, + but of life in its new reality to her. It was M’sieu’, it was herself, it + was their secret—she chafed inwardly that Margot should share a part + of that secret. If it were only between their two selves—between + M’sieu’ and herself! If Margot—she paused suddenly, for she was + going to say, If Margot would only die! She was not wicked enough to wish + that; yet in the past few weeks she had found herself capable of thinking + things beyond the bounds of any past experience. + </p> + <p> + She found a solution at last. She would go to-night secretly and nail the + cross again on the church door, and so stop the chatter of evil tongues. + The moon set very early now, and as every one in Chaudiere was supposed to + be in bed by ten o’clock, the chances of not being seen were in her + favour. She received the final impetus to her resolution by a quarrelsome + and threatening remark of Jo Portugais to some sharp-tongued gossip in the + post-office. She was glad that Jo should defend M’sieu’, but she was + jealous of his friendship for the tailor. Besides, did there not appear to + be a secret between Jo and M’sieu’? Was it not possible that Jo knew where + M’sieu’ came from, and all about him? Of late Jo had come in and gone out + of the shop oftener than in the past, had even brought her bunches of + mosses for her flower-pots, the first budding lilacs, and some maple-sugar + made from the trees on Vadrome Mountain. She remembered that when she was + a girl at school, years ago—ten years ago—Jo Portugais, then + scarcely out of his teens, a cheerful, pleasant, quick-tempered lad, had + brought her bunches of the mountain-ash berry; that once he had mended the + broken runner of her sled; and yet another time had sent her a birch-bark + valentine at the convent, where it was confiscated by the Mother Superior. + Since those days he had become a dark morose figure, living apart from + men, never going to confession, seldom going to Mass, unloving and + unlovable. + </p> + <p> + There was only one other person in the parish more unloved. That was the + woman called Paulette Dubois, who lived in the little house at the outer + gate of the Manor. Paulette Dubois had a bad name in the parish—so + bad that all women shunned her, and few men noticed her. Yet no one could + say that at the present time she did not live a careful life, justifying, + so far as eye could see, the protection of the Seigneur, M. Rossignol, a + man of queer habits and queerer dress, a dabbler in physical science, a + devout Catholic, and a constant friend of the Cure. He it was who, when an + effort was made to drive Paulette out of the parish, had said that she + should not go unless she wished; that, having been born in Chaudiere, she + had a right to live there and die there; and if she had sinned there, the + parish was in some sense to blame. Though he had no lodge-gates, and + though the seigneury was but a great wide low-roofed farmhouse, with an + observatory, and a chimney-piece dating from the time of Louis the + Fourteenth, the Seigneur gave Paulette Dubois a little hut at his outer + gate, which had been there since the great Count Frontenac visited + Chaudiere. Probably Rosalie spoke to Paulette Dubois more often than did + any one else in the parish, but that was because the woman came for little + things at the shop, and asked for letters, and every week sent one—to + a man living in Montreal. She sent these letters, but not more than once + in six months did she get a reply, and she had not had one in a whole + year. Yet every week she asked, and Rosalie found it hard to answer her + politely, and sometimes showed it. + </p> + <p> + So it was that the two disliked each other without good cause, save that + they were separated by a chasm as wide as a sea. The one disliked the + other because she must recognise her; the other chafed because she could + be recognised by Rosalie officially only. + </p> + <p> + The late afternoon of the day in which Rosalie decided to nail the cross + on the church door again, Paulette arrived to ask for letters at the + moment that the office wicket was closed, and Rosalie had answered that it + was after office hours, and had almost closed the door in her face. As she + turned away Jo Portugais came out of the tailor-shop opposite. He saw + Paulette, and stood still an instant. She did the same. A strange look + passed across the face of each, then they turned and went in opposite + directions. + </p> + <p> + Never in her life had time gone so slowly with Rosalie. She watched the + clock. A dozen times she went to the front door and looked out. She tried + to read—it was no use; she tried to spin-her fingers trembled; she + sorted the letters in the office again, and rearranged every letter and + parcel and paper in its little pigeonhole—then did it all over + again. She took out again the letter Paulette had dropped in the + letter-box; it was addressed in the name of the man at Montreal. She + looked at it in a kind of awe, as she had ever done the letters of this + woman who was without the pale. They had a sense of mystery, an air of + forbidden imagination. + </p> + <p> + She put the letter back, went to the door again, and looked out. It was + now time to go. Drawing a hood over her head, she stepped out into the + night. There was a little frost, though spring was well forward, and the + smell of the rich earth and the budding trees was sweet to the sense. The + moon had just set, but the stars were shining, and here and there patches + of snow on the hillside and in the fields added to the light. Yet it was + not bright enough to see far, and as Rosalie moved down the street she did + not notice a figure at a little distance behind, walking on the + new-springing grass by the roadside. All was quiet at the tavern; there + was no light in the Notary’s house—as a rule, he sat up late, + reading; and even the fiddle of Maximilian Cour, the baker, was silent. + The Cure’s windows were dark, and the church with its white tin spire + stood up sentinel-like above the village. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie had the fateful cross in her hand as she softly opened the gate of + the churchyard and approached the great oak doors. Taking a screw-driver + and some screws from her pocket, she felt with a finger for the old + screw-holes in the door. Then she began her work, looking fearfully round + once or twice at first. Presently, however, because the screws were larger + than the old ones, it became much harder; the task called forth more + strength, and drove all thought of being seen out of her mind for a space. + At last, however, she gave the final turn to the handle, and every screw + was in its place, its top level and smooth with the iron of the cross. She + stopped and looked round again with an uneasy feeling. She could see no + one, hear no one, but she began to tremble, and, overcome, she fell on her + knees before the door, and, with her fingers on the foot of the little + cross, prayed passionately; for herself, for Monsieur. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she heard footsteps inside the church. They were coming towards + the doorway, nearer and nearer. At first she was so struck with terror + that she could not move. Then with a little cry she sprang to her feet, + rushed to the gate, threw it open, ran out into the road, ind wildly on + towards home. She did not stop for at least three hundred yards. Turning + and looking back she saw at the church door a pale round light. With + another cry she sped on, and did not pause till she reached the house. + Then, bursting in and locking the door, she hurried to her room, undressed + quickly, got into bed without saying her prayers, and buried her face in + the pillow, shivering and overwrought. + </p> + <p> + The footsteps she had heard were those of the Cure and Jo Portugais. The + Cure had sent for Jo to do some last work upon a little altar, to be used + the next day for the first time. The carpenter and the carver in wood who + were responsible for the work had fallen victims to white whiskey on the + very last day of their task, and had been driven from the church by the + Cure, who then sent for Jo. Rosalie had not seen the light at the shrine, + as it was on the side of the church farthest from the village. + </p> + <p> + Their labour finished, the two came towards the front door, the Cure’s + lantern in his hand. Opening the door, Jo heard the sound of footsteps and + saw a figure flying down the road. As the Cure came out abstractedly, he + glanced sorrowfully towards the place where the little cross was used to + be. He gave a wondering cry, and almost dropped the lantern. + </p> + <p> + “See, see, Portugais,” he said, “our little cross again!” Jo nodded. “So + it seems, Monsieur,” he said. + </p> + <p> + At that instant he saw a hood lying on the ground, and as the Cure held up + the lantern, peering at the little cross, he hastily picked it up and + thrust it inside his coat. + </p> + <p> + “Strange—very strange!” said the Cure. “It must have been done while + we were inside. It was not there when we entered.” + </p> + <p> + “We entered by the vestry door,” said Jo. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, true-true,” responded the Cure. + </p> + <p> + “It comes as it went,” said Jo. “You can’t account for some things.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure turned and looked at Jo curiously. “Are you then so + superstitious, Jo? Nonsense; it is the work of human hands—very + human hands,” he added sadly. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing to show,” said the Cure, seeing Jo’s glance round. + </p> + <p> + “As you see, M’sieu’ le Cure.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it is a mystery which time no doubt will clear up. Meanwhile, let + us be thankful to God,” said the Cure. + </p> + <p> + They parted, the Cure going through a side-gate into his own garden, Jo + passing out of the churchyard-gate through which Rosalie had gone. He + looked down the road towards the village. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” said a voice in his ear. Paulette Dubois stood before him. + </p> + <p> + “It was you, then,” he said, with a glowering look. “What did you want + with it?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want with the hood in your coat there?” She threw her head + back with a spiteful laugh. “Whose do you think it is?” he said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “You and the schoolmaster made verses about her once.” + </p> + <p> + “It was Rosalie Evanturel?” he asked, with aggravating composure. + </p> + <p> + “You have the hood-look at it! You saw her running down the road; I saw + her come, watched her, and saw her go. She is a thief—pretty Rosalie—thief + and postmistress! No doubt she takes letters too.” + </p> + <p> + “The ones you wait for, and that never come—eh?” Her face darkened + with rage and hatred. “I will tell the world she’s a thief,” she sneered. + </p> + <p> + “Who will believe you?” + </p> + <p> + “You will.” She was hard and fierce, and looked him in the eyes squarely. + “You’ll give evidence quick enough, if I ask you.” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t do anything you asked me to-nothing, if it was to save my + life.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll prove her a thief without you. She can’t deny it.” + </p> + <p> + “If you try it, I’ll—” He stopped, husky and shaking. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll kill me, eh? You killed him, and you didn’t hang. Oh no, you + wouldn’t kill me, Jo,” she added quickly, in a changed voice. “You’ve had + enough of that kind of thing. If I’d been you, I’d rather have hung—ah, + sure!” She suddenly came close to him. “Do you hate me so bad, Jo?” she + said anxiously. “It’s eight years—do you hate me so bad as then?” + </p> + <p> + “You keep your tongue off Rosalie Evanturel,” he said, and turned on his + heel. + </p> + <p> + She caught his arm. “We’re both bad, Jo. Can’t we be friends?” she said + eagerly, her voice shaking. + </p> + <p> + He did not reply. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t drive a woman too hard,” she said between her teeth. + </p> + <p> + “Threats! Pah!” he rejoined. “What do you think I’m made of?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll find that out,” she said, and, turning on her heel, ran down the + road towards the Manor House. “What had Rosalie to do with the cross?” Jo + said to himself. “This is her hood.” He took it out and looked at it. + “It’s her hood—but what did she want with the cross?” + </p> + <p> + He hurried on, and as he neared the post-office he saw the figure of a + woman in the road. At first he thought it might be Rosalie, but as he came + nearer he saw it was not. The woman was muttering and crying. She wandered + to and fro bewilderedly. He came up, caught her by the arm, and looked + into her face. + </p> + <p> + It was old Margot Patry. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. THE WOMAN WHO DID NOT TELL. + </h2> + <p> + “Oh, M’sieu’, I am afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid of what, Margot?” + </p> + <p> + “Of the last moment, M’sieu’ le Cure.” + </p> + <p> + “There will be no last moment to your mind—you will not know it when + it comes, Margot.” + </p> + <p> + The woman trembled. “I am not sorry to die. But I am afraid; it is so + lonely, M’sieu’ le Cure.” + </p> + <p> + “God is with us, Margot.” + </p> + <p> + “When we are born we do not know. It is on the shoulders of others. When + we die we know, and we have to answer.” + </p> + <p> + “Is the answering so hard, Margot?” + </p> + <p> + The woman shook her head feebly and sadly, but did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “You have been a good mother, Margot.” She made no sign. + </p> + <p> + “You have been a good neighbour; you have done unto others as you would be + done by.” + </p> + <p> + She scarcely seemed to hear. + </p> + <p> + “You have been a good servant—doing your duty in season and out of + season; honest and just and faithful.” + </p> + <p> + The woman’s fingers twitched on the coverlet, and she moved her head + restlessly. + </p> + <p> + The Curb almost smiled, for it seemed as if Margot were finding herself + wanting. Yet none in Chaudiere but knew that she had lived a blameless + life—faithful, friendly, a loving and devoted mother, whose health + had been broken by sleepless attendance at sick-beds by night, while doing + her daily work at the house of the late Louis Trudel. + </p> + <p> + “I will answer for the way you have done your duty, Margot,” said the + Cure. “You have been a good daughter of the Church.” + </p> + <p> + He paused a minute, and in the pause some one rose from a chair by the + window and looked out on the sunset sky. It was Charley. The woman heard, + and turned her eyes towards him. “Do you wish him to go?” asked the Cure. + </p> + <p> + “No, no—oh no, M’sieu’!” she said eagerly. She had asked all day + that either Rosalie or M’sieu’ should be in the room with her. It would + seem as though she were afraid she had not courage enough to keep the + secret of the cross without their presence. Charley had yielded to her + request, while he shrank from granting it. Yet, as he said to himself, the + woman was keeping his secret—his and Rosalie’s—and she had + some right to make demand. + </p> + <p> + When the Cure asked the question of old Margot, he turned expectantly, and + with a sense of relief. He thought it strange that the Cure should wish + him to remain. The Cure, on his part, was well pleased to have him in the + influence of a Christian death-bed. A time must come when the last + confidences of the dying woman could be given to no ears but his own, but + meanwhile it was good that M’sieu’ should be there. + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’ le Cure,” said the dying woman, “must I tell all?” + </p> + <p> + “All what, Margot?” + </p> + <p> + “All that is sin?” + </p> + <p> + “There is no must, Margot.” + </p> + <p> + “If you should ask me, M’sieu’—” + </p> + <p> + She paused, and the man at the window turned and looked curiously at her. + He saw the problem in the woman’s mind: had she the right to die with the + secret of another’s crime upon her mind? + </p> + <p> + “The priest does not ask, Margot: it is you who confess your sins. That is + between you and God.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure spoke firmly, for he wanted the man at the window to clearly + understand. + </p> + <p> + “But if there are the sins of others, and you know, and they trouble your + soul, M’sieu’?” + </p> + <p> + “You have nothing to do with the sins of others; it is enough to repent of + your own sins. The priest has nothing to do with any sins but those + confessed by the sinner to himself. Your own sins are your sole concern + to-night, Margot.” + </p> + <p> + The woman’s face seemed to clear a little, and her eyes wandered to the + man at the window with less anxiety. Charley was wondering whether, after + all, she would have the courage to keep her word, whether spiritual terror + would surmount the moral attitude of honour. He was also wondering how + much right he had to put the strain upon the woman in her desperate hour. + “How long did the doctor say I could live?” the woman asked presently. + </p> + <p> + “Till morning, perhaps, Margot.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to live till sunrise,” she answered, “till after breakfast. + Rosalie makes good tea,” she added musingly. + </p> + <p> + The Cure almost smiled. “There is the Living Bread, my daughter.” + </p> + <p> + She nodded. “But I should like to see the sunrise and have Rosalie bring + me tea,” she persisted. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Margot. We will ask God for that.” + </p> + <p> + Her mind flew back again to the old question. + </p> + <p> + “Is it wrong to keep a secret?” she asked, her face turned away from the + man at the window. + </p> + <p> + “If it is the secret of a sin, and the sin is your own—yes, Margot.” + </p> + <p> + “And if the sin is not your own?” + </p> + <p> + “If you share the sin, and if the secret means injury to others, and a + wrong is being done, and the law can right that wrong, then you must go to + the law, not to your priest.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure’s look was grave, even anxious, for he saw that the old woman’s + mind was greatly disturbed. But her face cleared now, and stayed so. “It + has all been a mix and a muddle,” she answered; “and it hurt my poor head, + M’sieu’ le Cure, but now I think I under stand. I am not afraid; I will + confess.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure had made it clear to her that she could carry to her grave the + secret of the little cross and the work it had done, and so keep her word + and still not injure her chances of salvation. She was content. She no + longer needed the helpful presence of M’sieu’ or Rosalie. Charley + instinctively felt what was in her mind, and came towards the bed. + </p> + <p> + “I will tell Mademoiselle Rosalie about the tea,” he said to her. + </p> + <p> + She looked up at him, almost smiling. “Thank you, good M’sieu’,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I will confess now, M’sieu’ le Cure” she continued. Charley left the + room. + </p> + <p> + Towards morning Margot waked out of a brief sleep, and found the Cure and + his sister and others about her bed. + </p> + <p> + “Is it near sunrise?” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “It is just sunrise. See; God has been good,” answered the Cure, drawing + open the blind and letting in the first golden rays. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie entered the room with a cup of tea, and came towards the bed. + </p> + <p> + Old Margot looked at the girl, at the tea, and then at the Cure. + </p> + <p> + “Drink the tea for me, Rosalie,” she whispered. Rosalie did as she was + asked. + </p> + <p> + She looked round feebly; her eyes were growing filmy. “I never gave—so + much—trouble—before,” she managed to say. “I never had—so + much—attention.... I can keep—a secret too,” she said, setting + her lips feebly with pride. “But I—never—had—so much—attention—before; + have I—Rosalie?” + </p> + <p> + Rosalie did not need to answer, for the woman was gone. The crowning + interest of her life had come all at the last moment, as it were, and she + had gone away almost gladly and with a kind of pride. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie also had a hidden pride: the secret was now her very own—hers + and M’sieu’s. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. THE SEIGNEUR TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME + </h2> + <p> + It was St. Jean Baptiste’s day, and French Canada was en fete. Every + seigneur, every cure, every doctor, every notary—the chief figures + in a parish—and every habitant was bent for a happy holiday, dressed + in his best clothes, moved in his best spirits, in the sweet summer + weather. + </p> + <p> + Bells were ringing, flags were flying, every road and lane was filled with + caleches and wagons, and every dog that could draw a cart pulled big and + little people, the old and the blind and the mendicant, the happy and the + sour, to the village, where there were to be sports and speeches, races + upon the river, and a review of the militia, arranged by the member of the + Legislature for the Chaudiere-half of the county. French soldiers in + English red coats and carrying British flags were straggling along the + roads to join the battalion at the volunteers’ camp three miles from the + town, and singing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Brigadier, respondez Pandore— + Brigadier, vous avez raison.” + </pre> + <p> + It was not less incongruous and curious when one group presently broke out + into ‘God save the Queen’, and another into the ‘Marseillaise’, and + another still into ‘Malbrouck s’en va t’en guerre’. At last songs and + soldiers were absorbed in the battalion at the rendezvous, and the long + dusty march to the village gave a disciplined note to the gaiety of the + militant habitant. + </p> + <p> + At high noon Chaudiere was filled to overflowing. There were booths and + tents everywhere—all sorts of cheap-jacks vaunted their wares, + merry-go-rounds and swings and shooting-galleries filled the usual spaces + in the perspective. The Cure, M. Rossignol the Seigneur, and the Notary + stood on the church steps viewing the scene and awaiting the approach of + the soldier-citizens. The Seigneur and the Cure had ceased listening to + the babble of M. Dauphin, who seemed not to know that his audience closed + its ears and found refuge in a “Well, well!” or “Think of that!” or an + abstracted “You surprise me!” + </p> + <p> + The Notary talked on with eager gesture and wreathing smile, shaking back + his oiled ringlets as though they trespassed on his smooth, somewhat + jaundiced cheeks, until it began to dawn upon him that there was no coin + of real applause to be got at this mint. Fortune favoured him at the + critical juncture, for the tailor walked slowly past them, looking neither + to right nor to left, his eyes cast upon the ground, apparently oblivious + to all round him. Almost opposite the church door, however, Charley was + suddenly stopped by Filion Lacasse, who ran out from a group before the + tavern, and, standing in front of him with outstretched hand, said loudly: + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’, it’s all right. What you said done it, sure! I’m a thousand + dollars richer to-day. You may be an infidel, but you have a head, and you + save me money, and you give away your own, and that’s good enough for me,”—he + wrung Charley’s hand,—“and I don’t care who knows it—sacre!” + </p> + <p> + Charley did not answer him, but calmly withdrew his hand, smiled, raised + his hat at the lonely cheer the saddler raised, and passed on, scarce + conscious of what had happened. Indeed he was indifferent to it, for he + had a matter on his mind this day which bitterly absorbed him. + </p> + <p> + But the Notary was not indifferent. “Look there, what do you think of + that?” he asked querulously. “I am glad to see that Lacasse treats + Monsieur well,” said the Cure. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of that, Monsieur?” repeated the Notary excitedly to + the Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur put his large gold-handled glass to his eye and looked + interestedly after Charley for a moment, then answered: “Well, Dauphin, + what?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s been giving Filion Lacasse advice about the old legacy business, and + Filion’s taken it; and he’s got a thousand dollars; and now there’s all + that fuss. And four months ago Filion wanted to tar and feather him for + being just what he is to-day—an infidel—an infidel!” + </p> + <p> + He was going to say something else, but he did not like the look the Cure + turned on him, and he broke off short. + </p> + <p> + “Do you regret that he gave Lacasse good advice?” asked the Cure. + </p> + <p> + “It’s taking bread out of other men’s mouths.” + </p> + <p> + “It put bread into Filion’s mouth. Did you ever give Lacasse advice? The + truth now, Dauphin!” said the Seigneur drily. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Monsieur, and sound advice too, within the law-precedent and code + and every legal fact behind.” The Seigneur was a man of laconic speech. + “Tut, tut, Dauphin; precedent and code and legal fact are only good when + there’s brain behind ‘em. The tailor yonder has brains.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but what does he know about the law?” answered Dauphin, with + acrimonious voice but insinuating manner, for he loved to stand well with + the Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + “Enough for the saddler evidently,” sharply rejoined the Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + Dauphin was fighting for his life, as it were. His back was to the wall. + If this man was to be allowed to advise the habitants of Chaudiere on + their disputes and “going to law,” where would his own prestige be? His + vanity had been deeply wounded. + </p> + <p> + “It’s guesswork with him. Let him stick to his trade as I stick to mine. + That sort of thing only does harm.” + </p> + <p> + “He puts a thousand dollars into the saddler’s pocket: that’s a positive + good. He may or may not take thereby ten dollars out of your pocket: + that’s a negative injury. In this case there was no injury, for you had + already cost Lacasse—how much had you cost him, Dauphin?” continued + the Seigneur, with a half-malicious smile. “I’ve been out of Chaudiere for + near a year; I don’t know the record—how much, eh, Dauphin?” + </p> + <p> + The Notary was too offended to answer. He shook his ringlets back angrily, + and a scarlet spot showed on each straw-coloured cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Twenty dollars is what Lacasse paid our dear Dauphin,” said the Cure + benignly, “and a very proper charge. Lacasse probably gave Monsieur there + quite as much, and Monsieur will give it to the first poor man he meets, + or send it to the first sick person of whom he hears.” + </p> + <p> + “My own opinion is, he’s playing some game here,” said the Notary. + </p> + <p> + “We all play games,” said the Seigneur. “His seems to give him hard work + and little luxury. Will you bring him to see me at the Manor, my dear + Cure?” he added. “He will not go. I have asked him.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I shall visit him at his tailor-shop,” said the Seigneur. “I need a + new suit.” + </p> + <p> + “But you always had your clothes made in Quebec, Monsieur,” said the + Notary, still carping. + </p> + <p> + “We never had such a tailor,” answered the Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll hear more of him before we’re done with him,” obstinately urged the + Notary. + </p> + <p> + “It would give Dauphin the greatest pleasure if our tailor proved to be a + murderer or a robber. I suppose you believe that he stole our little cross + here,” the Cure added, turning to the church door, where his eye lingered + lovingly on the relic, hanging on a pillar just inside, whither he had had + it removed. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sure yet he hadn’t something to do with it,” was the stubborn + response. + </p> + <p> + “If he did, may it bring him peace at last!” said the Cure piously. “I + have set my heart on nailing him to our blessed faith as that cross is + fixed to the pillar yonder—‘I will fasten him like a nail in a sure + place,’ says the Book. I take it hard that my friend Dauphin will not help + me on the way. Suppose the man were evil, then the Church should try to + snatch him like a brand from the burning. But suppose that in his past + there was no wrong necessary to be hidden in the present—and this I + believe with all my heart; suppose that he was wronged, not wronging: then + how much more should the Church strive to win him to the light! Why, man, + have you no pride in Holy Church? I am ashamed of you, Dauphin, with your + great intelligence, your wide reading. With our knowledge of the world we + should be broader.” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur’s eyes were turned away, for there was in them at once humour + and a suspicious moisture. Of all men in the world he most admired the + Cure, for his utter truth and nobility; but he could not help smiling at + his enthusiasm—his dear Cure turned evangelist like any “Methody”!—and + at the appeal of the Notary on the ground of knowledge of the world. He + was wise enough to count himself an old fogy, a provincial, and “a + simon-pure habitant,” but of the three he only had any knowledge of life. + As men of the world the Cure and the Notary were sad failures, though they + stood for much in Chaudiere. Yet this detracted nothing from the fine + gentlemanliness of the Cure or the melodramatic courtesy of the Notary. + </p> + <p> + Amused and touched as the Seigneur had been at the Cure’s words, he turned + now and said: “Always on the weaker side, Cure; always hoping the best + from the worst of us.” + </p> + <p> + “I am only following an example at my door—you taught us all charity + and justice,” answered M. Loisel, looking meaningly at the Seigneur. There + was silence a little while, for all three were thinking of the woman of + the hut, at the gate of the Seigneur’s manor. + </p> + <p> + On this topic M. Dauphin was not voluble. His original kindness to the + woman had given him many troubled hours at home, for Madame Dauphin had + construed his human sympathy into the dark and carnal desires of the + heart, and his truthful eloquence had made his case the worse. A miserable + sentimentalist, the Notary was likely to be misunderstood for ever, and + one or two indiscretions of his extreme youth had been a weapon against + him through the long years of a blameless married life. + </p> + <p> + He heaved a sigh of sympathy with the Cure now. “She has not come back + yet?” he said to the Seigneur. “No sign of her. She locked up and stepped + out, so my housekeeper says, about the time—” + </p> + <p> + “The day of old Margot’s funeral,” interposed the Notary. “She’d had a + letter that day, a letter she’d been waiting for, and abroad she went—alas! + the flyaway—from bad to worse, I fear—ah me!” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur turned sharply on him. “Who told you she had a letter that + day, for which she had been waiting?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Evanturel.” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur’s face became sterner still. “What business had he to know + that she received a letter that day?” + </p> + <p> + “He is postmaster,” innocently replied the Notary. “He is the devil!” said + the Seigneur tartly. “I beg your pardon, Cure; but it is Evanturel’s + business not to know what letters go to and fro in that office. He should + be blind and dumb, so far as we all are concerned.” + </p> + <p> + “Remember that Evanturel is a cripple,” the Cure answered gently. “I am + glad, very glad it was not Rosalie.” + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie has more than usual sense for her sex,” gruffly but kindly + answered the Seigneur, a look of friendliness in his eyes. “I shall talk + to her about her father; I can’t trust myself to speak to the man.” + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie is down there with Madame Dauphin,” said the Notary, pointing. + “Shall I ask her to come?” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur nodded. He was magistrate and magnate, and he was the + guarantor of the post-office, and of Rosalie and her father. His eyes + fixed in reverie on Rosalie; he and the Cure passively waited her + approach. + </p> + <p> + She came over, pale and a little anxious, but with a courageous look. She + had a vague sense of trouble, and she feared it might be the little cross, + that haunting thing of all these months. + </p> + <p> + When she came near, the Cure greeted her courteously, and then, taking the + Notary by the arm, led him away. + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur and Rosalie being left alone, the girl said: “You wish to + speak with me, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur scrutinised her sharply. Though her colour came and went, her + look was frank and fearless. She had had many dark hours since that + fateful month of April. At night, trying to sleep, she had heard the + ghostly footsteps in the church, which had sent her flying homeward. Then, + there was the hood. She had waited on and on, fearing word would come that + it had been found in the churchyard, and that she had been seen putting + the cross back upon the church door. As day after day passed she had come + at length to realise that, whatever had happened to the hood, she was not + suspected. Yet the whole train of circumstances had a supernatural air, + for the Cure and Jo Portugais had not made public their experience on the + eventful night; she had been educated in a land of legend and + superstition, and a deep impression had been made upon her mind, giving to + her other new emotions a touch of pathos, of imagination, and adding + character to her face. The old Seigneur stroked his chin as he looked at + her. He realised that a change had come upon her, that she had developed + in some surprising way. + </p> + <p> + “What has happened—who has happened, Mademoiselle Rosalie?” he + asked. He had suddenly made up his mind about that look in her face—he + thought it the woman in her which answers to the call of man, not perhaps + any particular man, but man the attractive influence, the complement. + </p> + <p> + Her eyes dropped, then raised frankly to his. “I don’t know,”—adding, + with a quick humour, for he had been very friendly with her, and joked + with her in his dry way all her life; “do you, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + He pulled his nose with a quick gesture habitual to him, and answered + slowly and meaningly: “The government’s a good husband and pays regular + wages, Mademoiselle. I’d stick to government.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not asking for a divorce, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + He pulled his nose again delightedly—so many people were + pathetically in earnest in Chaudiere—even the Cure’s humour was too + mediaeval and obvious. He had never before thought Rosalie so separate + from them all. All at once he had a new interest in her. His cheek flushed + a little, his eye kindled, humour relaxed his lips. + </p> + <p> + “No other husband would intrude so little,” he rejoined. + </p> + <p> + “True, there’s little love lost between us, Monsieur.” She felt + exhilaration in talking with him, a kind of joy in measuring word against + word; yet a year ago she would have done no more than smile respectfully + and give a demure reply if the Seigneur had spoken to her like this. + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur noted the mixed emotions in her face and the delicate + alertness of expression. As a man of the world, he was inclined to believe + that only one kind of experience can bring such looks to a woman’s face. + He saw in her the awakening of the deeper interests of life, the tremulous + apprehension of nascent emotions and passions which, at some time or + other, give beauty and importance to the nature of every human being. It + did not occur to him that the tailor—the mysterious figure in the + parish—might be responsible. He was observant, but not imaginative; + he was moved by what he saw, in a quiet, unexplainable manner. + </p> + <p> + “The government is the best sort of husband. From the other sort you would + get more kisses and less ha’pence,” he continued. + </p> + <p> + “That might be a satisfactory balance-sheet, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “Take care, Mademoiselle Rosalie,” he rejoined, half seriously, “that you + don’t miss the ha’pence before you get the kisses.” + </p> + <p> + She turned pale in very fear. What was he going to say? Was the + post-office to be taken from them? She came straight to the point. + </p> + <p> + “What have I done wrong, Monsieur? I’ve never kept the mail-stage waiting; + I’ve never left the mailbag unlocked; I’ve never been late in opening the + wicket; I’ve never been careless, and no one’s ever complained of a lost + letter.” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur saw her agitation, and was sorry for her. He came to the + point as she had done: + </p> + <p> + “We will have you made postmistress—you alone, Rosalie Evanturel. + I’ve made up my mind to that. But you’ll promise not to get married—eh? + Anyhow, there’s no one in the parish for you to marry. You’re too + well-born and you’ve been too well educated for a habitant’s wife—and + the Cure or I can’t marry you.” + </p> + <p> + He was not taken back to see her flush deeply, and it pleased him to see + this much life rising to his own touch, this much revelation to give his + mind a new interest. He had come to that age when the mind is surprised to + find that the things that once charmed charm less, and the things once + hated are less acutely repulsive. He saw her embarrassment. He did not + know that this was the first time that she had ever thought of marriage + since it ceased to be a dream of girlhood, and, by reason of thinking much + on a man, had become a possibility, which, however, she had never + confessed to herself. Here she was faced by it now in the broad open day: + a plain, hard statement, unrelieved by aught save the humour of the shrewd + eyes bent upon her. + </p> + <p> + She did not answer him at once. “Do you promise not to marry so useless a + thing as man, and to remain true to the government?” he continued. + </p> + <p> + “If I wished to marry a man, I should not let the government stand in my + way,” she said, in brave confusion. + </p> + <p> + “But do you wish to marry any man?” he asked abruptly, even petulantly. + </p> + <p> + “I have not asked myself that question, Monsieur, and—should you ask + it, unless—” she said, and paused with as pretty and whimsical a + glance of merriment as could well be. + </p> + <p> + He burst out laughing at the swift turn she had given her reply, and at + the double suggestion. Then he suddenly changed. A curious expression + filled his eyes. A smile, almost beautiful, came to his lips. + </p> + <p> + “‘Pon my honour,” he said, in a low tone, “you have me caught! And I beg + to say—I beg to say,” he added, with a flush mounting in his own + face, a sudden inspiration in his look, “that if you do not think me too + old and crabbed and ugly, and can endure me, I shall be profoundly happy + if you will marry me, Rosalie.” + </p> + <p> + He stood upright, holding himself very hard, for this idea had shot into + his mind all in an instant, though, unknown to himself, it had been + growing for years, cherished by many a kind act to her father and by a + simple gratitude on her part. He had spoken without feeling the absurdity + of the proposal. He had never married, and he was unprepared to make any + statement on such a theme; but now, having made it somehow, he would stand + by it, in spite of any and all criticism. He had known Rosalie since her + birth, her education was as good as a convent could secure, she was the + granddaughter of a notable seigneur, and here she was, as fine a type of + health, beauty and character as man could wish—and he was only + fifty! Life was getting lonelier for him every day, and, after all, why + should he leave distant relations and the Church his worldly goods? All + this flashed through his mind as he waited for her answer. Now it seemed + to him that he had meant to say this thing for many years. He had seen an + awakening in her—he had suddenly been awakened himself. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, Monsieur,” she said in a bewildered way, “do not amuse yourself + at my expense.” + </p> + <p> + “Would it be that, then?” he said, with a smile, behind which there was + determination and self-will. “I want you to marry me; I do with all my + heart. You shall have those ha’pence, and the kisses too, if so be you + will take them—or not, as you will, Rosalie.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” she gasped, for something caught her in the throat, and the + tears started to her eyes, “ask me to forget that you have ever said those + words. Oh, Monsieur, it is not possible, it never could be possible! I am + only the postmaster’s daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “You are my wife, if you will but say the word,” he answered, “and I as + proud a husband as the land holds!” + </p> + <p> + “You were always kind to me, Monsieur,” she rejoined, her lips trembling; + “won’t you be so still?” + </p> + <p> + “I am too old?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, it is not that,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + “You have as good manners as my mother had. You need not fear comparison + with any lady in the land. Have I not known you all your life? I know the + way you have come, and your birth is as good as mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, it is not that, Monsieur!” + </p> + <p> + “I give you my word that I do not come to you because no one else would + have me,” he said with a curious simplicity. “I never asked a woman to + marry me—never! You are the first. There was talk once—but it + was all false. I never meant to ask any one to marry me. But I have the + wish now which I never had in my youth. I thought best of myself always; + now, I think—I think better of you than—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Monsieur, I beg of you, no more! I cannot; oh, I cannot—” + </p> + <p> + “You—but no; I will not ask you, Mademoiselle. If you have some one + else in your heart, or want some one else there, that is your affair, not + mine—undoubtedly. I would have tried to make you happy; you would + have had peace and comfort all your life; you could have trusted me—but + there it is....” He felt all at once that he was unfair to her, that he + had thrust upon her too hard a problem in too troubled an hour. + </p> + <p> + “I could trust you with my life, Monsieur Rossignol,” she replied. “And I + love you in a way that a man may be loved to no one’s harm or sorrow: it + is true that!” She raised her eyes to his simply, trustingly. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her steadily for a moment. “If you change your mind—” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head sadly. + </p> + <p> + “Good, then,” he went on, for he thought it wise not to press her now, + though he had no intention of taking her no as final. “I’ll keep an eye on + you. You’ll need me some day soon; I can do things that the Cure can’t, + perhaps.” His manner changed still more. “Now to business,” he continued. + “Your father has been talking about letters received and sent from the + post-office. That is punishable. I am responsible for you both, and if it + is reported, if the woman were to report it—you know the letter I + mean—there would be trouble. You do not talk. Now I am going to ask + the government to make you sole postmistress, with full responsibility. + Then you must govern your father—he hasn’t as much sense as you.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, we owe you so much! I am deeply grateful, and, whatever you do + for us, you may rely on me to do my duty.” + </p> + <p> + They could scarcely hear each other speak now, for the soldiers were + coming nearer, and the fife-and-drum bands were screeching, ‘Louis the + King was a Soldier’. + </p> + <p> + “Then you will keep the government as your husband?” he asked, with forced + humour, as he saw the Cure and the Notary approaching. + </p> + <p> + “It is less trouble, Seigneur,” she answered, with a smile of relief. + </p> + <p> + M. Rossignol turned to the Cure and the Notary. “I have just offered + Mademoiselle a husband she might rule in place of a government that rules + her, and she has refused,” he said in the Cure’s ear, with a dry laugh. + </p> + <p> + “She’s a sensible girl, is Rosalie,” said the Cure, not apprehending. + </p> + <p> + The soldiers were now opposite the church, and riding at their head was + the battalion Colonel, also member of the Legislature. + </p> + <p> + They all moved down, and Rosalie disappeared in the crowd. As the Seigneur + and the Cure greeted the Colonel, the latter said: + </p> + <p> + “At luncheon I’ll tell you one of the bravest things ever seen. Happened + half-hour ago at the Red Ravine. Man who did it wore an eye-glass—said + he was a tailor.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. THE COLONEL TELLS HIS STORY + </h2> + <p> + The Colonel had lunched very well indeed. He had done justice to every + dish set before him; he had made a little speech, congratulating himself + on having such a well-trained body of men to command, and felicitating + Chaudiere from many points of view. He was in great good-humour with + himself, and when the Notary asked him—it was at the Manor, with the + soldiers resting on the grass without—about the tale of bravery he + had promised them, he brought his fist down on the table with great + intensity but little noise, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Chaudiere may well be proud of it. I shall refer to it in the Legislature + on the question of roads and bridges—there ought to be a stone fence + on that dangerous road by the Red Ravine—Have I your attention?” + </p> + <p> + He stood up, for he was an excitable and voluble Colonel, and he loved + oration as a cat does milk. With a knife he drew a picture of the locale + on the table cloth. “Here I was riding on my sorrel, all my noble fellows + behind, the fife and drums going as at Louisburg—that day! Martial + ardour united to manliness and local pride—follow me? Here we were, + Red Ravine left, stump fences and waving fields of grain right. From + military point of view, bad position—ravine, stump fence, brave + soldiers in the middle, food for powder—catch it?—see?” + </p> + <p> + He emptied his glass, drew a long breath, and again began, the + carving-knife cutting a rhetorical path before him. “I was engaged upon + the military problem—demonstration in force, no scouts ahead, no + rearguard, ravine on the right, stump fence on the left, red coats, + fife-and-drum band, concealed enemy—follow me? Observant mind always + sees problems everywhere—unresting military genius accustoms + intelligence to all possible contingencies—‘stand what I mean?” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur took a pinch of snuff, and the Cure, whose mind was + benevolent, listened with the gravest interest. + </p> + <p> + “At the juncture when, in my mind’s eye, I saw my gallant fellows + enfiladed with a terrible fire, caught in a trap, and I, despairing, + spurring on to die at their head—have I your attention?—just + at that moment there appeared between the ravine and the road ahead a man. + He wore an eye-glass; he seemed an unconcerned spectator of our movements—so + does the untrained, unthinking eye look out upon destiny! Not far away was + a wagon, in it a man. Wagon bisecting our course from a cross-road—” + </p> + <p> + He drew a line on the table-cloth with the carvingknife, and the Notary + said: “Yes, yes, the concession road.” + </p> + <p> + “So, Messieurs. There were we, a battalion and a fife-and-drum band; there + was the man with the eyeglass, the indifferent spectator, yet the engine + of fate; there was the wagon, a mottled horse, and a man driving—catch + it? The mottled horse took fright at our band, which at that instant + strikes up ‘The Chevalier Drew his Sabre’. He shies from the road with a + leap, the man falls backwards into the wagon, and the reins drop. The + horse dashes from the road into the open, and rushes on to the ravine. + What good now to stop the fifes and drums-follow me? What can we, an armed + force, bandoleered, knapsacked, sworded, rifled, impetuous, brave, what + can we do before this tragedy? The man in the wagon senseless, the flying + horse, the ravine, death! How futile the power of man—‘stand what I + mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t your battalion shoot the horse?” said the Seigneur drily, + taking a pinch of snuff. “Monsieur,” said the Colonel, “see the irony, the + implacable irony of fate—we had only blank cartridge! But see you, + here was this one despised man with an eye-glass, a tailor—takes + nine tailors to make a man!—between the ravine and the galloping + tragedy. His spirit arrayed itself like an army with banners, prepared to + wrestle with death as Jacob wrestled with his shadow all the night ‘sieur + le Cure!” + </p> + <p> + The Cure bowed; the Notary shook back his oiled locks in excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Awoke a whole man—nine-ninths, as in Adam—in the obscure soul + of the tailor, and, rushing forward, he seized the mottled horse by the + bridle as he galloped upon the chasm: The horse dragged him on—dragged + him on—on—on. We, an army, so to speak, stood and watched the + Tailor and the Tragedy! All seemed lost, but, by the decree of fate—” + </p> + <p> + “The will of God,” said the Cure softly. + </p> + <p> + “By the great decree, the man was able to stop the horse, not a half-dozen + feet from the ravine. The horse and the insensible driver were spared + death—death. So, Messieurs, does bravery come from unexpected places—see?” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur, the Cure, and even the Notary clapped their hands, and + murmured praises of the tailor-man. But the Colonel did not yet take his + seat. + </p> + <p> + “But now, mark the sequel,” he said. “As I galloped over, I saw the tailor + look into the wagon, and turn away quickly. He waited by the horse till I + came near, and then walked off without a word. I rode up, and tapped him + with my sword upon the shoulder. ‘A noble deed, my good man,’ said I. ‘I + approve of your conduct, and I will remember it in the Legislature when I + address the committee of the whole house on roads and bridges.’ What do + you think was his reply to my affable words? When I tapped him approvingly + on the shoulder a second time, he screwed his eye-glass in his eye, and, + with no emotion, though my own eyes were full of tears, he said, in a tone + of affront, ‘Look after the man there, constable,’ and pointed to the + wagon. Constable—mon Dieu! Gross manners even for a tailor!” + </p> + <p> + “I had not thought his manners bad,” said the Cure, as the Colonel sat + down, gulped a glass of brandy-and-water, and mopped his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “A most remarkable tailor,” said the Seigneur, peering into his snuff-box. + </p> + <p> + “And the driver of the mottled horse?” asked the Notary. + </p> + <p> + “Knocked senseless. One of my captains soon restored him. He followed us + into the village. He is a quack-doctor. I suppose he is now selling + tinctures, pulling teeth, and driving away rheumatics. He gave me his + card. I told him he should leave one on the tailor.” + </p> + <p> + With a flourish he threw a professional card upon the table, before the + Cure. + </p> + <p> + The Cure picked it up and read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + JOHN BROWN, B.A., M.D., + + Healer of Ailments that Defy the Ordinary Skill of Ordinary + Medical Men. Rheumatism, Sciatica, Headache, Toothache, + Asthma, Ague, Pleurisy, Gout, and all Chronic Diseases Yield + Instantly to the Power of his Medicines. + + Dr. Brown will publicly treat the most stubborn cases, laying + himself open to the derision of mankind if he does not instantly + give relief and benefit. His whole career has been a blessing to + his fellows, and his journey now through this country, fresh from + his studies in the Orient, is to introduce his remedies to a + suffering world, for the conquest of malady, not for personal + profit. + + JOHN BROWN, B.A., M.D., + + Specialist in Chronic Diseases and General Practitioner. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI. A SONG, A BOTTLE, AND A GHOST + </h2> + <p> + All day John Brown, ex-clergyman and quack-doctor, harangued the people of + Chaudiere from his gaily-painted wagon. He had the perfect gift of the + charlatan, and he had discovered his metier. Inclined to the picturesque + by nature, melodramatic and empirical, his earlier career had been the due + fruit of habit and education. As a dabbler in mines he had been out of his + element. He lacked the necessary reticence, and arsenic had not availed + him, though it had tempted Billy Wantage to forgery; and because Billy hid + himself behind the dismal opportunity of silence, had ruined the name of a + dead man called Charley Steele. Since Charley’s death John Brown had never + seen Billy: he had left the town one woful day an hour after Billy had + told him of the discovery Charley had made. From a far corner of the + country he had read the story of Charley’s death; of the futile trial of + the river-drivers afterwards, ending in acquittal, and the subsequent + discovery of the theft of the widows’ and orphans’ trust-moneys. + </p> + <p> + On this St. Jean Baptiste’s day he was thinking of anything and everything + else but Charley Steele. Nothing could have been a better advertisement + for him than the perilous incident at the Red Ravine. Falling backwards + when the horse suddenly bolted, his head had struck the medicine-chest, + and he had lain insensible till brought back to consciousness by the good + offices of the voluble Colonel. He had not, therefore, seen Charley. It + was like him that his sense of gratitude to the unknown tailor should be + presently lost in exploiting the interest he created in the parish. His + piebald horse, his white “plug” hat, his gaily painted wagon, his + flamboyant manner, and, above all, the marvellous tale of his escape from + death, were more exciting to the people of Chaudiere than the militia, the + dancing-bears, the shooting-galleries, or the boat-races. He could sing + extremely well—had he not trained his own choir when he was a + parson? had not Billy approved his comic songs?—and these comic + songs, now sandwiched between his cures and his sales, created much + laughter. He cured headaches, toothaches, rheumatism, and all sorts of + local ailments “with despatch.” He miraculously juggled away pains by what + he called his Pain Paint, and he stopped a cough by a laugh and a dose of + his Golden Pectoral. In the exuberance of trade, which steadily increased + till sundown, he gave no thought to the tailor, to whom, however, he had + sent by a messenger a two-dollar bill and two bottles of Pain Paint, with + the lordly announcement that he would call in the evening and “present his + compliments and his thanks.” The messenger left the Pain Paint on the + door-step of the tailor-shop, and the two dollars he promptly spent at the + Trois Couronnes. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie Evanturel rescued the bottles from the doorstep and awaited + Charley’s return to his shop, that she might take them over to him, and so + have an excuse to speak with him; for to-day her heart and mind were full + of him. He had done a brave thing for the medicine-man, and had then fled + from public gaze as a brave man should. There was no one to compare with + him. Not even the Cure was his superior in ability, and certainly he was a + greater man—though seemingly only a tailor—than M. Rossignol. + M. Rossignol—she flushed. Who could have believed that the Seigneur + would say those words to her this morning—to her, Rosalie Evanturel, + who hadn’t five hundred dollars to her name? That she should be asked to + be Madame Rossignol! Confusion mingled with her simple pride, and she ran + out into the street, to where her father sat listening to the medicine-man + singing, in doubtful French: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am a waterman bold, + Oh, I’m a waterman bold: + But for my lass I have great fear, + Yes, in the isles I have great fear, + For she is young, and I am old, + And she is bien gentille!” + </pre> + <p> + It was night now. The militia had departed, their Colonel roaring commands + at them out of a little red drill-book; the older people had gone to their + homes, but festive youth hovered round the booths and sideshows, the + majority enjoying themselves at some expense in the medicine-man’s + encampment. + </p> + <p> + As Rosalie ran towards the crowd she turned a wistful glance to the + tailor-shop. Not a sign of life there! She imagined M’sieu’ to be at + Vadrome Mountain, until, glancing round the crowd at the quack-doctor’s + wagon, she saw Jo Portugais gloomily watching the travelling tinker of + human bodies. Evidently M’sieu’ was not at Vadrome Mountain. + </p> + <p> + He was not far from her. At the side of the road, under a huge maple-tree + with wide-spreading branches, Charley stood and watched John Brown + performing behind the flaring oil-lights stuck on poles round his wagon, + his hat now on, now off; now singing a comic song in English—-’I + found Y’ in de Honeysuckle Paitch;’ now a French chanson—‘En + Revenant de St. Alban;’ now treating a stiff neck or a bent back, or + giving momentary help to the palsy of an old man, or again making a + speech. + </p> + <p> + Charley was in touch again with the old life, but in a kind of fantasy + only—a staring, high-coloured dream. This man—John Brown—had + gone down before his old ironical questioning, had been, indirectly, the + means of disgracing his name. A step forward to that wagon, a word + uttered, a look, and he would have to face again the life he had put by + for ever, would have to meet a hard problem and settle it—to what + misery and tragedy, who might say? Under this tree he was M. Mallard, the + infidel tailor, whose life was slowly entering into the life of this place + called Chaudiere, slowly being acted upon by habit, which, automatically + repeated, at length becomes character. Out in that red light, before that + garish wagon, he would be Charley Steele, barrister, ‘flaneur’, and fop, + who, according to the world, had misused a wife, misled her brother, + robbed widows and orphans, squandered a fortune, become drunkard and + wastrel, and at last had lost his life in a disorderly tavern at the Cote + Dorion. This man before him had contributed to his disgrace; but once he + had contributed to John Brown’s disgrace; and to-day he had saved John + Brown’s life. They were even. + </p> + <p> + All the night before, all this morning, he had fought a fierce battle with + his past—with a raging thirst. The old appetite had swept over him + fiercely. All day he had moved in a fevered conflict, which had lifted him + away from the small movements of everyday life into a region where only + were himself and one strong foe, who tirelessly strove with him. In his + old life he had never had a struggle of any sort. His emotions had been + cloaked, his soul masked, there had been a film before his eyes, he had + worn an armour of selfishness on a life which had no deep problems, + because it had no deep feelings—a life never rising to the + intellectual prowess for which it was fitted, save when under the stimulus + of liquor. + </p> + <p> + From the moment he had waked from a long seven months’ sleep in the hut on + Vadrome Mountain, new deep feelings had come to him as he faced problems + of life. Fighting had begun from that hour—a fighting which was + putting his nature through bitter mortal exercises, yet, too, giving him a + sense of being he had never known. He had now the sweetness of earning + daily bread by the work of his hands; of giving to the poor, the needy, + and the afflicted; of knowing for the first time in his life that he was + not alone in the world. Out of the grey dawn of life a woman’s voice had + called to him; the look of her face had said to him: “Viens ici! Viens + ici!”—“Come to me! Come to me!” + </p> + <p> + But with that call there was the answer of his soul, the desolating cry of + the dispossessed Lear—“—never—never—never—never!” + </p> + <p> + He had not questioned himself concerning Rosalie—had dared not to do + so. But now, as he stood under the great tree, within hand-touch of the + old life, in imminent danger of being thrust back into it, the question of + Rosalie came upon him with all the force of months of feeling behind it. + Thus did he argue with himself: + </p> + <p> + “Do I love her? And if I love her, what is to be done? Marry her, with a + wife living? Marry her while charged with a wretched crime? Would that be + love? But suppose I never were discovered, and we might live here for + ever, I as ‘Monsieur Mallard,’ in peace and quiet all the days of our + life? Would that be love?... Could there be love with a vital secret, + like, a cloud between, out of which, at any hour, might spring discovery? + Could I build our life upon a silence which must be a lie? Would I not + have to face the question, Does any one know cause or just impediment why + this woman should not be married to this man? Tell Rosalie all, and let + the law separate myself and Kathleen? That would mean Billy’s ruin and + imprisonment, and Kathleen’s shame, and it might not bring Rosalir. She is + a Catholic, and her Church would not listen to it. Would I have the right + to bring trouble into her life? To wrong one woman should seem enough for + one lifetime!” + </p> + <p> + At that instant Rosalie, who had been on the outskirts of the crowd, moved + into his line of vision. The glare from the lights fell on her face as she + stood by her father’s chair, looking curiously at the quack-doctor who, + having sold many bottles of his medicines, noy picked up a guitar and + began singing an old dialect chanson of Saintonge: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Voici, the day has come + When Rosette leaves her home! + With fear she walks in the sun, + For Raoul is ninety year, + And she not twenty-one. + La petit’ Rosette, + She is not twenty-one. + + “He takes her by the hand, + And to the church they go; + By parents ‘twas well meant, + But is Rosette content? + ‘Tis gold and ninety year + She walks in the sun with fear, + La petit’ Rosette, + Not twenty-one as yet!” + </pre> + <p> + Charley’s eyes, which had watched her these months past, noted the + deepening colour of the face, the glow in the eyes, the glances of keen + but agitated interest towards the singer. He could not translate her + looks; and she, on her part, had she been compelled to do so, could only + have set down a confusion of sensations. + </p> + <p> + In Rosette she saw herself, Rosalie Evanturel; in the man “de + quatre-vingt-dix ans,” who was to marry this Rosette of Saintonge, she saw + M. Rossignol. Disconcerting pictures of a possible life with the Seigneur + flitted before her mind. She beheld herself, young, fresh-cheeked, with + life beating high and all the impulses of youth panting to use, sitting at + the head of the seigneury table. She saw herself in the great pew at Mass, + stiff with dignity, old in the way of manorial pride—all laughter + dead in her, all spring-time joy overshadowed by the grave decorum of the + Manor, all the imagination of her dreaming spirit chilled by the presence + of age, however kindly and quaint and cheerful. + </p> + <p> + She shuddered, and dropped her eyes upon the ground, as, to the laughter + and giggling of old and young gathered round the wagon, the medicine-man + sang: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He takes her by the hand, + And to her chamber fair—” + </pre> + <p> + Then, suddenly turning, she vanished into the night, followed by the + feeble inquiry of her father’s eyes, the anxious look in Charley’s. + </p> + <p> + Charley could not read her tale. He had, however, a hot impulse to follow + and ask her if she would vanish from the scene if the medicine-man should + sing of Rosette and a man of thirty, not ninety, years. The fight he had + had all day with his craving for drink had made him feverish, and all his + emotions—unregulated, under the command of his will only—were + in high temperature. A reckless feeling seized him. He would go to + Rosalie, look into her eyes, and tell her that he loved her, no matter + what the penalty of fate. He had never loved a human being, and the sudden + impulse to cry out in the new language was driving him to follow the girl + whose spirit for ever called to him. + </p> + <p> + He made a step forward to follow her, but stopped short, recalled to + caution and his danger by the voice of the medicine-man: + </p> + <p> + “I had a friend once—good fellow, bad fellow, cleverest chap I ever + knew. Tremendous fop—ladies loved him—cheeks like roses—tongue + like sulphuric acid. Beautiful to look at. Clothes like a fashion-plate—got + any fashion-plates in Chaudiere? ‘who’s your tailor?’” he added, in the + slang of the hour, with a loud laugh, then stopped suddenly and took off + his hat. “I forgot,” he added, with upturned eyes and a dramatic + seriousness, “your tailor saved my life to-day-henceforth I am the friend + of all tailors. Well, to continue. My friend that was—I call him my + friend, though he ruined me and ruined others,—didn’t mean to, but + he did just the same,—he came to a bad end. But he was a great man + while he lived. And what I’m coming to is this, the song he used to sing + when, in youthful exuberance, we went on the war-path like our young + friend over there”—he pointed to a young habitant farmer, who was + trying hard to preserve equilibrium—“Brown’s Golden Pectoral will + cure that cough, my friend!” he added, as the young man, gloomily ashamed + of the laughter of the crowd, hiccoughed and turned away to the tree under + which Charley Steele stood. “Well,” he went on, “I was going to say that + my friend’s name was Charley, and the song he used to sing when the + roosters waked the morn was called ‘Champagne Charlie.’ He was called + ‘Champagne Charlie’—till he came to a bad end.” + </p> + <p> + He twanged his guitar, cleared his throat, winked at Maximilian Cour the + baker, and began: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The way I gained my title’s by a hobby which I’ve got + Of never letting others pay, however long the shot; + Whoever drinks at my expense is treated all the same; + Whoever calls himself my friend, I make him drink champagne. + Some epicures like Burgundy, Hock, Claret, and Moselle, + But Moet’s vintage only satisfies this champagne swell. + What matter if I go to bed and head is muddled thick, + A bottle in the morning sets me right then very quick. + Champagne Charlie is my name; + Champagne Charlie is my name. + Who’s the man with the heart so young, + Who’s the man with the ginger tongue? + Champagne Charlie is his name!” + </pre> + <p> + Under the tree, Charley Steele listened to this jaunty epitaph on his old + self. At the first words of the coarse song there rushed on him the + dreaded thirst. He felt his veins beating with desire, with anger, + disgust, and shame; for there was John Brown, to the applause of the + crowd, imitating his old manner, his voice, his very look. He started + forward, but the drunken young habitant lurched sideways under the tree + and collapsed upon the ground, a bottle of whiskey falling out of his + pocket and rolling almost to his own feet. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Champagne Charlie is my name,” + </pre> + <p> + sang the medicine-man. All Charley’s old life surged up in him as dyked + water suddenly bursts bounds and spreads destruction. He had an + uncontrollable impulse. As a starving animal snatches at the first food + offered it, he stooped, with a rattle in his throat, seized the bottle, + uncorked it, put it to his lips, and drank—drank—drank. + </p> + <p> + Then he turned and plunged away into the trees. The sound of the song + followed him. It came to him, the last refrain, sung loudly to the + laughter of the crowd, in imitation of his own voice as it used to be—it + had been a different voice during this past year. He turned with headlong + intention, and, as the last notes of the song and the applause that + followed it, died away, threw back his head and sang out of the darkness: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Champagne Charlie is my name—” + </pre> + <p> + With a shrill laugh, like the half-mad cry of an outcast soul, he flung + away farther into the trees. + </p> + <p> + There was a sudden silence. The crowd turned with half-apprehensive + laughter to the trees. Upon John Brown the effect was startling. His face + blanched, his eyes grew large with terror, his mouth opened in helpless + agitation. Charley Steele was lying under the waters of the great river, + his bones rotting there for a year, yet here was his voice coming out of + the night, in response to his own grotesque imitation of the dead man. + Seeing his agitation, women turned pale, men felt their flesh creep, + imagination gave a thrilling coldness to the air. For a moment the silence + was unbroken. Then John Brown stretched out his hand and said, in a hoarse + whisper: + </p> + <p> + “It was his voice—Charley’s voice, and he’s been dead a year!” + </p> + <p> + Within half-an-hour, in utter collapse and fright, he was being driven to + the next parish by two young habitants whom he paid to accompany him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII. OUT ON THE OLD TRAIL. + </h2> + <p> + There was one person in the crowd surrounding the medicine-man’s wagon who + had none of that superstitious thrill which had scattered the habitants + into little awe-stricken groups, and then by twos and threes to their + homes; none of that fear which had reduced the quack-doctor to such + nervous collapse that he would not spend the night in the village. Jo + Portugais had recognised the voice—that of Charley Steele the lawyer + who had saved him from hanging years ago. It was little like the voice of + M’sieu’! There was that in it which frightened him. He waited until he had + seen the quackdoctor start for the next parish, then he went slowly down + the street. There were people still about, so he walked on towards the + river. When he returned, the street was empty. Keeping in the shadow of + the trees, he went to Charley’s house. There was a light in a window. He + went to the back door and tried it. It was not locked, and, without + knocking, he stepped inside the kitchen. Here was no light, and he passed + into the hallway and on to a little room opening from the tailorshop. He + knocked; then, not waiting for response, opened the door and entered. + </p> + <p> + Charley was standing before a mirror, holding a pair of scissors. He + turned abruptly, and said forbiddingly: “I am at my toilet!” + </p> + <p> + Then, turning again to the mirror, with a shrug of the shoulders, he + raised the shears to his beard. Before he could use them, Jo’s hand was on + his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Stop that, M’sieu’!” he said huskily. + </p> + <p> + Charley had drunk nearly a whole bottle of cheap whiskey within an hour. + He was intoxicated, but, as had ever been the case with him, his brain was + working clearly, his hand was steady; he was in that wide dream of + clear-seeing and clear-knowing which, in old days, had given him glimpses + of the real life from which, in the egotism of the non-intime, he had been + shut out. Looking at Jo now, he was possessed by a composed intoxication + like that in which he had moved during that last night at the Cote Dorion. + </p> + <p> + But now, with the baleful crust of egotism gone, with every nerve of life + exposed, with conscience struggling to its feet from the torpor of + thirty-odd vacant years, he was as two men in one, with different lives + and different souls, yet as inseparable in their misery as those poor + victims of Gallic tyranny, chained back to back and thrown into the Seine. + </p> + <p> + Jo’s words, insistent and eager, suddenly roused in him some old memory, + which stayed his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Why should I stop?” he asked quietly, and smiling that smile which had + infuriated the river-drivers at the Cote Dorion. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going back, M’sieu?” + </p> + <p> + “Back where?” Charley’s eyes were fixed on Jo with a penetrating + intensity, heightened to a strange abstraction, as though he saw not Jo + alone, but something great distances beyond. + </p> + <p> + Jo did not answer this question directly. “Some one came to-day—he + is gone; some one may come to-morrow—and stay,” he said meaningly. + </p> + <p> + Charley went over to the fire and sat down on a bench, opening and + shutting the scissors mechanically. Jo was in the light, and Charley’s + eyes again studied him hard. + </p> + <p> + His memory was industriously feeling its way into the baffling distance. + </p> + <p> + “What if some one did come-and stay?” he urged quietly. + </p> + <p> + “You might be recognised without the beard.” + </p> + <p> + “What difference would it make?” Charley’s memory was creeping close to + the hidden door. It was feeling-feeling for the latch. + </p> + <p> + “You know best, M’sieu’.” + </p> + <p> + “But what do you know?” Charley’s face now had a strained look, and he + touched his lips with his tongue. “What John Brown knows, M’sieu’.” + </p> + <p> + There flashed across Charley’s mind the fatal newspaper he had read on the + day he awakened to memory again in the but on Vadrome Mountain. He + remembered that he had put it in the fire. But Jo might have read it + before it was spread upon the bench-put it there of purpose for him to + read. Yet what reason could Jo have for being silent, for hiding his + secret? + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a space, in which Charley’s eyes were like unmoving + sparks of steel. He did not see Jo’s face—it was in a mist—he + was searching, searching, searching. All at once he felt the latch of the + hidden door under his finger; he saw a court-room, a judge and jury, and + hundreds of excited faces, himself standing in the midst. He saw twelve + men file slowly into the room and take their seats-all save one, who stood + still in his place and said: “Not guilty, your Honour!” He saw the + prisoner leave the box and step down a free man. He saw himself coming out + into the staring summer day. He watched the prisoner come to him and touch + his arm, and say: “Thank you, M’sieu’. You have saved my life.” He saw + himself turn to this man: + </p> + <p> + He roused from his trance, he staggered to his feet, the shears rattled to + the floor. Lurching forward, he caught Jo Portugais by the throat, and + said, as he had said outside the court-room years ago: + </p> + <p> + “Get out of my sight. You’re as guilty as hell!” + </p> + <p> + His grip tightened—tightened on Jo’s throat. Jo did not move, though + his face grew black. Then, suddenly, the hands relaxed, a bluish paleness + swept over the face, and Charley fell sidewise to the floor before Jo + could catch him. + </p> + <p> + All night, alone, the murderer struggled with death over the body of the + lawyer who had saved his life. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII. THE SEIGNEUR GIVES A WARNING + </h2> + <p> + Rosalie had watched a shut door for five days—a door from which, for + months past, had come all the light and glow of her life. It framed a + figure which had come to represent to her all that meant hope and soul and + conscience-and love. The morning after St. Jean Baptiste’s day she had + awaited the opening door, but it had remained closed. Ensued watchful + hours, and then from Jo Portugais she had learned that M’sieu’ had been + ill and near to death. She had been told the weird story of the + medicine-man and the ghostly voice, and, without reason, she took the + incident as a warning, and associated it with the man across the way. She + was come of a superstitious race, and she herself had heard and seen + things of which she never had been able to speak—the footsteps in + the church the night she had screwed the little cross to the door again; + the tiny round white light by the door of the church; the hood which had + vanished into the unknown. One mystery fed another. It seemed to her as if + some dreadful event were forward; and all day she kept her eyes fixed on + the tailor’s door. + </p> + <p> + Dead—if M’sieu’ should die! If M’sieu’ should die—it needed + all her will to prevent herself from going over and taking things in her + own hands, being his nurse, his handmaid, his slave. Duty—to the + government, to her father? Her heart cried out that her duty lay where all + her life was eddying to one centre. What would the world say? She was not + concerned for that, save for him. What, then, would M’sieu’ say? That gave + her pause. The Seigneur’s words the day before had driven her back upon a + tide of emotions which carried her far out upon that sea where reason and + life’s conventions are derelicts, where Love sails with reckless courage + down the shoreless main. + </p> + <p> + “If I could only be near him!” she kept saying to herself. “It is my + right. I would give my life, my soul for his. I was with him before when + his life was in danger. It was my hand that saved him. It was my love that + tended him. It was my soul that kept his secret. It was my faith that + spoke for him. It was my heart that ached for him. It is my heart that + aches for him now as none other in all the world can. No one on earth + could care as I care. Who could there be?” Something whispered in her ear, + “Kathleen!” The name haunted her, as the little cross had done. Misery and + anger possessed her, and she fought on with herself through dark hours. + </p> + <p> + Thus five days had gone, until at last a wagon was brought to the door of + the tailor-shop, and M’sieu’ came out, leaning on the arm of Jo Portugais. + There were several people in the street at the time, and they kept + whispering that M’sieu’ had been at death’s door. He was pale and haggard, + with dark hollows under the eyes. Just as he got into the wagon the Cure + came up. They shook hands. The Cure looked him earnestly in the face, his + lips moved, but no one could have told what he said. As the wagon started, + Charley looked across to the post-office. Rosalie was standing a little + back from the door, but she stepped forward now. Their eyes met. Her heart + beat faster, for there was a look in his eyes she had never seen before—a + look of human helplessness, of deep anxiety. It was meant for her—for + herself alone. She could not trust herself to go and speak to him. She + felt that she must burst into tears. So, with a look of pity and pain, she + watched the wagon go down the street. + </p> + <p> + Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!—the Seigneur’s gold-headed cane rattled on the + front door of the tailor-shop. It was plain to be seen his business was + urgent. + </p> + <p> + Madame Dauphin came hurrying from the postoffice, followed by Maximilian + Cour and Filion Lacasse. “Ah, M’sieu’, the tailor will not answer. There’s + no use knocking—not a bit, M’sieu’ Rossignol,” said Madame. + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur turned querulously upon the Notary’s wife, yet with a glint + of hard humour in his eye. He had no love for Madame Dauphin. He thought + she took unfair advantages of M. Dauphin, whom also he did not love, but + whose temperament did him credit. + </p> + <p> + “How should Madame know whether or no the gentleman will answer? Does + Madame share the gentleman’s confidence, perhaps?” he remarked. + </p> + <p> + Madame did not reply at once. She turned on the saddler and the baker. “I + hope you’ll learn a lesson,” she cried triumphantly. “I’ve always said the + tailor was quite the gentleman; and now you see how your betters call him. + No, M’sieu’, the gentleman will not answer,” she added to the Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + “He is in bed yet, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “His bed is empty there, M’sieu’,” she said, impressively, and pointing. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I should trust you in this matter; I suppose you should know. + But, Dauphin—what does Dauphin say?” + </p> + <p> + The saddler laughed outright. Maximilian Cour suddenly blushed in sympathy + with Madame Dauphin, who now saw the drift of the Seigneur’s remarks, and + was sensibly agitated, as the Seigneur had meant her to be. Had she not + turned Dauphin’s human sympathies into a crime? Had not the Notary + supported the Seigneur in his friendly offices to Paulette Dubois; and had + not Madame troubled her husband’s life because of it? Madame bridled up + now—with discretion, for it was not her cue to offend the Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + “All the village knows his bed’s empty there, M’sieu’,” she said, with + tightening lips. + </p> + <p> + “I am subtracted from the total, then?” he asked drily. + </p> + <p> + “You have been away for the last five days—” + </p> + <p> + “Come, now, how did you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “Everybody knows it. You went away with the Colonel and the soldiers on + St. Jean Baptiste’s day. Since then M’sieu’ the tailor has been ill. I + should think Mrs. Flynn would have told you that, M’sieu’.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m! Would you? Well, Mrs. Flynn has been away too—and you didn’t + know that! What is the matter with Monsieur Mallard?” + </p> + <p> + “Some kind of fever. On St. Jean Baptiste’s day he was taken ill, and that + animal Portugais took care of him all night—I wonder how M’sieu’ can + have the creature about! That St. Jean Baptiste’s night was an awful + night. Have you heard of what happened, M’sieu’? Ghost or no ghost—” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, I want to know about the tailor, not of ghosts,” impatiently + interrupted the Seigneur. “Tiens! M’sieu’, the tailor was ill for three + days here, and he would let no one except the Cure and Jo Portugais near + him. I went myself to clean up and make some broth, but that toad of a + Portugais shut the door in my face. The Cure told us to go home and leave + M’sieu’ with Portugais. He must be very sick to have that black sheep + about him—and no doctor either.” + </p> + <p> + The saddler spoke up now. “I took him a bottle of good brandy and some + buttermilk-pop and seed cake—I would give him a saddle if he had a + horse—he got my thousand dollars for me! Well, he took them, but + what do you think? He sent them right off to the shantyman, Gugon, who has + a broken leg. Infidel or no, I’m on his side for sure. And God blesses a + cheerful giver, I’m told.” + </p> + <p> + It was the baker’s chance, and he took it. “I played ‘The Heart Bowed + Down’-it is English-under his window, two nights ago, and he sent word for + me to come and play it again in the kitchen. Ah, that is a good song, ‘The + Heart Bowed Down.’” + </p> + <p> + “You’d be a better baker if you fiddled less,” said Madame Dauphin, + annoyed at being dropped out of the conversation. + </p> + <p> + “The soul must be fed, Madame,” rejoined the baker, with asperity. + </p> + <p> + “Where is the tailor now?” said the Seigneur shortly. “At Portugais’s on + Vadrome Mountain. They say he looked like a ghost when he went. Rosalie + Evanturel saw him, but she has no tongue in her head this morning,” added + Madame. + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur moved away. “Good-bye to you—I am obliged to you, + Madame. Good-bye, Lacasse. Come and fiddle to me some night, Cour.” + </p> + <p> + He bowed to the obsequious three, and then bent his steps towards the + post-office. They seemed about to follow him, but he stopped them with a + look. The men raised their bonnets-rouges, the woman bowed low, and the + Seigneur entered the post-office door. + </p> + <p> + From the shadows of the office Rosalie had watched the little group before + the door of the tailor-shop. She saw the Seigneur coming across the + street. Suddenly she flushed deeply, for there came to her mind the song + the quack-doctor sang: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Voila, the day has come + When Rosette leaves her home! + With fear she walks in the sun, + For Raoul is ninety year, + And she not twenty-one.” + </pre> + <p> + As M. Rossignol’s figure darkened the doorway, she pretended to be busy + behind the wicket, and not to see him. He was not sure, but he thought it + quite possible that she had seen him coming, and he put her embarrassment + down to shyness. Naturally the poor child was not given the chance every + day to receive an offer of marriage from a seigneur. He had made up his + mind that she would be sure to accept him if he asked her a second time. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Ma’m’selle Rosalie,” he said gaily, “what have you to say that you + should not come before a magistrate at once?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, if Monsieur Rossignol is to be the magistrate,” she replied, + with forced lightness. + </p> + <p> + “Good!” He looked at her quizzically through his gold-handled glass. “I + can’t frighten you, I see. Well, you must wait a little; you shall be + sworn in postmistress in three days.” His voice lowered, became more + serious. “Tell me,” he said, “do you know what is the matter with the + gentleman across the way?” Turning, he looked across to the tailor-shop, + as though he expected “the gentleman” to appear, and he did not see her + turn pale. When his look fell on her again, she was self-controlled. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “You have been opposite him here these months past—did you ever see + anything not—not as it should be?” + </p> + <p> + “With him, Monsieur? Never.” + </p> + <p> + “It is as though the infidel behaved like a good Catholic and a + Christian?” + </p> + <p> + “There are good Catholics in Chaudiere who do not behave like Christians.” + </p> + <p> + “What would you say, for instance, about his past?” + </p> + <p> + “What should I say about his past, Monsieur? What should I know?” + </p> + <p> + “You should know more than any one else in Chaudiere. The secrets of his + breast might well be bared to you.” + </p> + <p> + She started and crimsoned. Before her eyes there came a mist obscuring the + Seigneur, and for an instant shutting out the world. The secrets of his + breast—what did he mean? Did he know that on Monsieur’s breast was + the red scar which... + </p> + <p> + M. Rossignol’s voice seemed coming from an infinite distance, and as it + came, the mist slowly passed from her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You will know, Mademoiselle Rosalie,” he was saying, “that while I + suggested that the secrets of his breast might well be bared to you, I + meant that as an honest lady and faithful postmistress they were not. It + was my awkward joke—a stupid gambolling by an old man who ought to + know better.” + </p> + <p> + She did not answer, and he continued: + </p> + <p> + “You know that you are trusted. Pray accept my apologies.” + </p> + <p> + She was herself again. “Monsieur,” she said quietly; “I know nothing of + his past. I want to know nothing. It does not seem to me that it is my + business. The world is free for a man to come and go in, if he keeps the + law and does no ill—is it not? But, in any case, I know nothing. + Since you have said so much, I shall say this, and betray no ‘secrets of + his breast’—that he has received no letter through this office since + the day he first came from Vadrome Mountain.” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur smiled. “A wonderful tailor! How does he carry on business + without writing letters?” + </p> + <p> + “There was a large stock of everything left by Louis Trudel, and not long + ago a commercial traveller was here with everything.” + </p> + <p> + “You think he has nothing to hide, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Have not we all something to hide—with or without shame?” she asked + simply. + </p> + <p> + “You have more sense than any woman in Chaudiere, Mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, yet she raised her eyes gratefully to him. + </p> + <p> + “I put faith in what you say,” he continued. “Now listen. My brother, the + Abbe, chaplain to the Archbishop, is coming here. He has heard of ‘the + infidel’ of our parish. He is narrow and intolerant—the Abbe. He is + going to stir up trouble against the tailor. We are a peaceful people + here, and like to be left alone. We are going on very well as we are. So I + wanted to talk to Monsieur to-day. I must make up my own mind how to act. + The tailor-shop is the property of the Church. An infidel occupies it, so + it is said; the Abbe does not like that. I believe there are other curious + suspicions about Monsieur: that he is a robber, or incendiary, or + something of the sort. The Abbe may take a stand, and the Cure’s position + will be difficult. What is more, my brother has friends here, fanatics + like himself. He has been writing to them. They are men capable of doing + unpleasant things—the Abbe certainly is. It is fair to warn the + tailor. Shall I leave it to you? Do not frighten him. But there is no + doubt he should be warned—fair play, fair play! I hear nothing but + good of him from those whose opinions I value. But, you see, every man’s + history in this parish and in every parish of the province is known. This + man, for us, has no history. The Cure even admits there are some grounds + for calling him an infidel, but, as you know, he would keep the man here, + not drive him out from among us. I have not told the Cure about the Abbe + yet. I wished first to talk with you. The Abbe may come at any moment. I + have been away, and only find his letters to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “You wish me to tell Monsieur?” interrupted Rosalie, unable to hold + silence any longer. More than once during the Seigneur’s disclosure she + had felt that she must cry out and fiercely repel the base insinuations + against the man she loved. + </p> + <p> + “You would do it with discretion. You are friendly with him, are you not?—you + talk with him now and then?” + </p> + <p> + She inclined her head. “Very well, Monsieur. I will go to Vadrome Mountain + to-morrow,” she said quietly. Anger, apprehension, indignation, possessed + her, but she held herself firmly. The Seigneur was doing a friendly thing; + and, in any case, she could have no quarrel with him. There was danger to + the man she loved, however, and every faculty was alive. + </p> + <p> + “That’s right. He shall have his chance to evade the Abbe if he wishes,” + answered M. Rossignol. + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a moment, in which she was scarcely conscious of his + presence; then he leaned over the counter towards her, and spoke in a low + voice. + </p> + <p> + “What I said the other day I meant. I do not change my mind—I am too + old for that. Yet I’m young enough to know that you may change yours.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot change, Monsieur,” she said tremblingly. + </p> + <p> + “But you will change. I knew your mother well, I know how anxious she was + for your future. I told her once that I should keep an eye on you always. + Her father was my father’s good friend. I knew you when you were in the + cradle—a little brown-haired babe. I watched you till you went to + the convent. I saw you come back to take up the duties which your mother + laid down, alas!—” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur—!” she said choking, and with a troubled little gesture. + </p> + <p> + “You must let me speak, Rosalie. We got your father this post-office. It + is a poor living, but it keeps a roof over your head. You have never + failed us you have always fulfilled our hopes. But the best years of your + life are going, and your education and your nature have not their chance. + Oh, I’ve not watched you all these years for nothing. I never meant to ask + you to marry me. It came to me, though, all at once, and I know that it + has been in my mind all these years—far back in my mind. I don’t ask + you for my own sake alone. Your father may grow very ill—who can + tell what may happen!” + </p> + <p> + “I should be postmistress still,” she said sadly. + </p> + <p> + “As a young girl you could not have the responsibility here alone. And you + should not waste your life it is a fine, full spirit; let the lean, the + poor-spirited, go singly. You should be mated. You can’t marry any of the + young farmers of Chaudiere. ‘Tis impossible. I can give you enough for any + woman’s needs—the world may be yours to see and use to your heart’s + content. I can give, too”—he drew himself up proudly—“the + unused emotions of a lifetime.” This struck him as a very fine and + important thing to say. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Monsieur, that is not enough,” she responded. + </p> + <p> + “What more can you want?” + </p> + <p> + She looked up with a tearful smile. “I will tell you one day, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “What day?” + </p> + <p> + “I have not picked it out in the calendar.” + </p> + <p> + “Fix the day, and I will wait till then. I will not open my mouth again + till then.” + </p> + <p> + “Michaelmas day, then, Monsieur,” she answered mechanically and at + haphazard, but with an urged gaiety, for a great depression was on her. + </p> + <p> + “Good. Till Michaelmas day, then!” He pulled his long nose, laughing + silently.... “I leave the tailor in your hands. Give every man his chance, + I say. The Abbe is a hard man, but our hearts are soft—eh, eh, very + soft!” He raised his hat and turned to the door. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX. THE WILD RIDE + </h2> + <p> + There had been a fierce thunder-storm in the valley of the Chaudiere. It + had come suddenly from the east, had shrieked over the village, levelling + fences, carrying away small bridges, and ending in a pelting hail, which + whitened the ground with pebbles of ice. It had swept up to Vadrome + Mountain, and had marched furiously through the forest, carrying down + hundreds of trees, drowning the roars of wild animals and the crying and + fluttering of birds. One hour of ravage and rage, and then, spent and + bodiless, the storm crept down the other side of the mountain and into the + next parish, whither the affrighted quack-doctor had betaken himself. + After, a perfect calm, a shining sun, and a sweet smell over all the land, + which had thirstily drunk the battering showers. + </p> + <p> + In the house on Vadrome Mountain the tailor of Chaudiere had watched the + storm with sympathetic interest. It was in accord with his own feelings. + He had had a hard fight for months past, and had gone down in the storm of + his emotions one night when a song called Champagne Charlie had had a + weird and thrilling antiphonal. There had been a subsequent debacle for + himself, and then a revelation concerning Jo Portugais. Ensued hours and + days, wherein he had fought a desperate fight with the present—with + himself and the reaction from his dangerous debauch. + </p> + <p> + The battle for his life had been fought for him by this gloomy woodsman + who henceforth represented his past, was bound to him by a measureless + gratitude, almost a sacrament—of the damned. Of himself he had + played no conscious part in it till the worst was over. On the one side + was the Cure, patient, gentle, friendly, never pushing forward the Faith + which the good man dreamed should give him refuge and peace; on the other + side was the murderer, who typified unrest, secretiveness, an awful + isolation, and a remorse which had never been put into words or acts of + restitution. For six days the tailor-shop and the life at Chaudiere had + been things almost apart from his consciousness. Ever-recurring memories + of Rosalie Evanturel were driven from his mind with a painful persistence. + In the shadows where his nature dwelt now he would not allow her good + innocence and truth to enter. His self-reproach was the more poignant + because it was silent. + </p> + <p> + Watching the tempest-swept valley, the tortured forest, where wild life + was in panic, there came upon him the old impulse to put his thoughts into + words, “and so be rid of them,” as he was wont to say in other days. + Taking from his pocket some slips of paper, he laid them on the table + before him. Three or four times he leaned over the paper to write, but the + noise of the storm again and again drew his look to the window. The + tempest ceased almost as suddenly as it had come, and, as the first + sunlight broke through the flying clouds, he mechanically lifted a sheet + of the paper and held it up to the light. It brought to his eyes the large + water-mark, Kathleen! + </p> + <p> + A sombre look passed over his face, he shifted in his chair, then bent + over the paper and began to write. Words flowed from his pen. The lines of + his face relaxed, his eyes lightened; he was lost in a dream. He thought + of the present, and he wrote: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Wave walls to seaward, + Storm-clouds to leeward, + Beaten and blown by the winds of the West; + Sail we encumbered + Past isles unnumbered, + But never to greet the green island of Rest.” + </pre> + <p> + He thought of Father Loisel. He had seen the good man’s lips tremble at + some materialistic words he had once used in their many talks, and he + wrote: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Lips that now tremble, + Do you dissemble + When you deny that the human is best?— + Love, the evangel, + Finds the Archangel? + Is that a truth when this may be a jest? + + “Star-drifts that glimmer + Dimmer and dimmer, + What do ye know of my weal or my woe? + Was I born under + The sun or the thunder? + What do I come from? and where do I go? + + “Rest, shall it ever + Come? Is endeavour + But a vain twining and twisting of cords? + Is faith but treason; + Reason, unreason, + But a mechanical weaving of words?” + </pre> + <p> + He thought of Louis Trudel, in his grave, and his own questioning: “Show + me a sign from Heaven, tailorman!” and he wrote: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “What is the token, + Ever unbroken, + Swept down the spaces of querulous years, + Weeping or singing + That the Beginning + Of all things is with us, and sees us, and hears?” + </pre> + <p> + He made an involuntary motion of his hand to his breast, where old Louis + Trudel had set a sign. So long as he lived, it must be there to read: a + shining smooth scar of excoriation, a sacred sign of the faith he had + never been able to accept; of which he had never, indeed, been able to + think, so distant had been his soul, until, against his will, his heart + had answered to the revealing call in a woman’s eyes. He felt her fingers + touch his breast as they did that night the iron seared him; and out of + this first intimacy of his soul he wrote: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “What is the token? + Bruised and broken, + Bend I my life to a blossoming rod? + Shall then the worst things + Come to the first things, + Finding the best of all, last of all, God?” + </pre> + <p> + Like the cry of his “Aphrodite,” written that last afternoon of the old + life, this plaint ended with the same restless, unceasing question. But + there was a difference. There was no longer the material, distant note of + a pagan mind; there was the intimate, spiritual note of a mind finding a + foothold on the submerged causeway of life and time. + </p> + <p> + As he folded up the paper to put it into his pocket, Jo Portugais entered + the room. He threw in a corner the wet bag which had protected his + shoulders from the rain, hung his hat on a peg of the chimney-piece, + nodded to Charley, and put a kettle on the little fire. + </p> + <p> + “A big storm, M’sieu’,” Jo said presently as he put some tea into a pot. + </p> + <p> + “I have never seen a great storm in a forest before,” answered Charley, + and came nearer to the window through which the bright sun streamed. + </p> + <p> + “It always does me good,” said Jo. “Every bird and beast is awake and + afraid and trying to hide, and the trees fall, and the roar of it like the + roar of the chasse-galerie on the Kimash River.” + </p> + <p> + “The Kimash River—where is it?” + </p> + <p> + Jo shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows!” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a legend, then?” + </p> + <p> + “It is a river.” + </p> + <p> + “And the chasse-galerie?” + </p> + <p> + “That is true, M’sieu’, no matter what any one thinks. I know; I have seen—I + have seen with my own eyes.” Jo was excited now. + </p> + <p> + “I am listening.” He took a cup of tea from Portugais and drank eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “The Kimash River, M’sieu’, that is the river in the air. On it is the + chasse-galerie. You sell your soul to the devil; you ask him to help you; + you deny God. You get into a canoe and call on the devil. You are lifted + up, canoe and all, and you rush on down rapids, over falls, on the Kimash + River in the air. The devil stands behind you and shouts, and you sing, + ‘V’la! l’bon vent! V’la l’joli vent!’ On and on you go, faster and faster, + and you forget the world, and you forget yourself, and the devil is with + you in the air—in the chasse-galerie on the Kimash River.” + </p> + <p> + “Jo,” said Charley Steele, “do you honestly think there’s a river like + that?” + </p> + <p> + ‘M’sieu’, I know it. I saw Ignace Latoile, who robbed a priest and got + drunk on the communion wine—I saw him with the devil in the Black + Canoe at the Saguenay. I could see Ignace; I could see the devil; I could + see the Kimash River. I shall ride myself some day. + </p> + <p> + “Ride where?” + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter where?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should you ride?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you ride fast with the devil.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the good of riding fast?” + </p> + <p> + “In the rush a man forget.” + </p> + <p> + “What does he forget, my friend?” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause, in which a man with a load of crime upon his soul dwelt + upon the words my friend, coming from the lips of one who knew the fulness + of his iniquity. Then he answered: + </p> + <p> + “In the noise he forget that a voice is calling in his ear, ‘You did It!’ + He forget what he see in his dreams. He forget the hand that touch him on + the arm when he walk in the woods alone, or lie down to sleep at night, no + one near. He forget that some one wait—wait—wait, till he has + suffer long enough, or till, one day, he think he is happy again, and the + Thing he did is far off like a dream—to drag him out to the death he + did not die. He forget that he is alone—all alone in the world, for + ever and ever and ever.” + </p> + <p> + He suddenly sank upon the floor beside Charley, and a groan burst from his + lips. “To have no friend—ah, it is so awful!” he said. “Never to see + a face that look into yours, and know how bad are you, and doesn’t mind. + For five years I have live like that. I cannot let any one be my friend + because I was that! They seem to know—everything, everybody—what + I am. The little children when I pass them run away to hide. I have wake + in the night and cry out in fear, it is so lonely. I have hear voices + round me in the woods, and I run and run and run from them, and not leave + them behind. Three times I go to the jails in Quebec to see the prisoners + behind the bars, and watch the pains on their faces, to understand what I + escape. Five times have I go to the courts to listen to murderers tried, + and watch them when the Jury say Guilty! and the Judge send them to death—that + I might know. Twice have I go to see murderers hung. Once I was helper to + the hangman, that I might hear and know what the man said, what he felt. + When the arms were bound, I felt the straps on my own; when the cap come + down, I gasp for breath; when the bolt is shot, I feel the wrench and the + choke, and shudder go through myself—feel the world jerk out in the + dark. When the body is bundled in the pit, I see myself lie still under + the quick-lime with the red mark round my throat.” + </p> + <p> + Charley touched him on the shoulder. “Jo—poor Jo, my friend!” he + said. Jo raised his eyes, red with an unnatural fire, deep with gratitude. + </p> + <p> + “As I sit at my dinner, with the sun shining and the woods green and glad, + and all the world gay, I have see what happened all over again. I have see + his strong hands; his bad face laugh at my words; I have see him raise his + riding-whip and cut me across the head. I have see him stagger and fall + from the blows I give him with the knife—the knife which never was + found—why, I not know, for I throw it on the ground beside him! + There, as I sit in the open day, a thousand times I have see him shiver + and fall, staring, staring at me as if he see a dreadful thing. Then I + stand up again and strike at him—at his ghost!—as I did that + day in the woods. Again I see him lie in his blood, straight and white—so + large, so handsome, so still! I have shed tears—but what are tears! + Blind with tears I have call out for the devils of hell to take me with + them. I have call on God to give me death. I have prayed, and I have + cursed. Twice I have travelled to the grave where he lies. I have knelt + there and have beg him to tell the truth to God, and say that he torture + me till I kill him. I have beg him to forgive me and to haunt me no more + with his bad face. But never—never—never—have I one + quiet hour until you come, M’sieu’; nor any joy in my heart till I tell + you the black truth—M’sieu’! M’sieu!” + </p> + <p> + He buried his face between Charley’s feet, and held them with his hands. + </p> + <p> + Charley laid a hand on the shaggy head as though it were that of a child. + “Be still—be still, Jo,” he said gently. + </p> + <p> + Since that night of St. Jean Baptiste’s festival, no word of the past, of + the time when Charley turned aside the revanche of justice from a man + called Joseph Nadeau, had been spoken between them. Out of the delirium of + his drunken trance had come Charley’s recognition of the man he knew now + as Jo Portugais. But the recognition had been sent again into the + obscurity whence it came, and had not been mentioned since. To outward + seeming they had gone on as before. As Charley saw the knotted brows, the + staring eyes, the clinched hands, the figure of the woodsman rigid in its + agony of remorse, he said to himself: “What right had I to save this man’s + life? To have paid for his crime would have been easier for him. I knew he + was guilty. Perhaps it was my duty to see that every condition, to the + last shade of the law, was satisfied, but was it justice to the poor devil + himself? There he sits with a load on him that weighs him down every hour + of his life. I called him back; I gave him life; but I gave him memory and + remorse, and the ghosts that haunt him: the voice in his ear, the touch on + his arm, the some one that is ‘waiting—waiting—waiting!’ That + is what I did, and that is what the brother of the Cure did for me. He + drew me back. He knew I was a drunkard, but he drew me back. I might have + been a murderer like Portugais. The world says I was a thief, and a thief + I am until I prove to the world I am innocent—and wreck three lives! + How much of Jo’s guilt is guilt? How much remorse should a man suffer to + pay the debt of a life? If the law is an eye for an eye and a tooth for a + tooth, how much hourly remorse and torture, such as Jo’s, should balance + the eye or the tooth or the life? I wonder, now!” + </p> + <p> + He leaned over, and, helping Jo to his feet, gently forced him down upon a + bench near. “All right, Jo, my friend,” he said. “I understand. We’ll + drink the gall together.” + </p> + <p> + They sat and looked at each other in silence. + </p> + <p> + At length Charley leaned over and touched Jo on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you want to save yourself?” he said. + </p> + <p> + At that instant there was a knock at the door, and a voice said: + “Monsieur!—Monsieur!” + </p> + <p> + Jo sprang to his feet with a sharp exclamation, then went heavily to the + door and threw it open. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX. ROSALIE WARNS CHARLEY + </h2> + <p> + Charley’s eyes met Rosalie’s with a look the girl had never seen in them + before. It gave a glow to his haggard face. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie turned to Jo and greeted him with a friendlier manner than was her + wont towards him. The nearer she was to Charley, the farther away from + him, to her mind, was Portugais, and she became magnanimous. + </p> + <p> + Jo nodded’ awkwardly and left the room. Looking after the departing + figure, Rosalie said: “I know he has been good to you, but—but do + you trust him, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Does not everybody in Chaudiere trust him?” + </p> + <p> + “There is one who does not, though perhaps that’s of no consequence.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you not trust him?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. I never knew him do a bad thing; I never heard of a bad + thing he has done; and—he has been good to you.” + </p> + <p> + She paused, flushing as she felt the significance of her words, and + continued: “Yet there is—I cannot tell what. I feel something. It is + not reasonable to go upon one’s feelings; but there it is, and so I do not + trust him.” + </p> + <p> + “It is the way he lives, here in these lonely woods—the mystery + around him.” + </p> + <p> + A change passed over her. With the first glow of meeting the object of her + visit had receded, though since her last interview with the Seigneur she + had not rested a moment, in her anxiety to warn him of his danger. “Oh, + no,” she said, lifting her eyes frankly to his: “oh, no, Monsieur! It is + not that. There is mystery about you!” She felt her heart beating hard. It + almost choked her, but she kept on bravely. “People say strange and bad + things about you. No one knows”—she trembled under the painful + inquiry of his eyes. Then she gained courage and went on, for she must + make it clear she trusted him, that she took him at his word, before she + told him of the peril before him—“No one knows where you came + from... and it is nobody’s business. Some people do not believe in you. + But I believe in you—I should believe in you if every one doubted; + for there is no feeling in me that says, ‘He has done some wicked thing + that stands-between us.’ It isn’t the same as with Portugais, you see—naturally, + it could not be the same.” + </p> + <p> + She seemed not to realise that she was telling more of her own heart than + she had ever told. It was a revelation, having its origin in an honesty + which impelled a pure outspokenness to himself. Reserve, of course, there + had been elsewhere, for did not she hold a secret with him? Had she not + hidden things, equivocated else where? Yet it had been at his wish, to + protect the name of a dead man, for the repose of whose soul masses were + now said, with expensive candles burning. For this she had no repentance; + she was without logic where this man’s good was at stake. + </p> + <p> + Charley had before him a problem, which he now knew he never could evade + in the future. He could solve it by none of the old intellectual means, + but by the use of new faculties, slowly emerging from the unexplored + fastnesses of his nature. + </p> + <p> + “Why should you believe in me?” he asked, forcing himself to smile, yet + acutely alive to the fact that a crisis was impending. “You, like all down + there in Chaudiere, know nothing of my past, are not sure that I haven’t + been a hundred times worse than you think poor Jo there. I may have been + anything. You may be harbouring a man the law is tracking down.” + </p> + <p> + In all that befell Rosalie Evanturel thereafter, never could come such + another great resolute moment. There was nothing to support her in the + crisis but her own faith. It needed high courage to tell this man who had + first given her dreams, then imagination, hope, and the beauty of doing + for another’s well-being rather than for her own—to tell this man + that he was a suspected criminal. Would he hate her? Would his kindness + turn to anger? Would he despise her for even having dared to name the + suspicion which was bringing hither an austere Abbe and officers of the + law? + </p> + <p> + “We are harbouring a man the law is tracking down,” she said with an + infinite appeal in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + He did not quite understand. He thought that perhaps she meant Jo, and he + glanced towards the door; but she kept her eyes on him, and they told him + that she meant himself. He chilled, as though ether were being poured + through his veins. + </p> + <p> + Did the world know, then, that Charley Steele was alive? Was the law + sending its officers to seize the embezzler, the ruffian who had robbed + widow and orphan? + </p> + <p> + If it were so.... To go back to the world whence he came, with the injury + he must do to others, and the punishment also that he must suffer, if he + did not tell the truth about Billy! And Chaudiere, which, in spite of all, + was beginning to have a real belief in him—where was his contempt + for the world now!... And Rosalie, who trusted him—this new element + rapidly grew dominant in his thoughts-to be the common criminal in her + eyes! + </p> + <p> + His paleness gave way to a flush as like her own as could be. + </p> + <p> + “You mean me?” he asked quietly. + </p> + <p> + She had thought that his flush meant anger, and she was surprised at the + quiet tone. She nodded assent. “For what crime?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “For stealing.” + </p> + <p> + His heart seemed to stand still. Then, it had come in spite of all it had + come. Here was his resurrection, and the old life to face. + </p> + <p> + “What did I steal?” he asked with dull apathy. “The gold vessels from the + Catholic Cathedral of Quebec, after—after trying to blow up + Government House with gunpowder.” + </p> + <p> + His despair passed. His face suddenly lighted. He smiled. It was so + absurd. “Really!” he said. “When was the place blown up?” + </p> + <p> + “Two days before you came here last year—it was not blown up; an + attempt was made.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I did not know. Why was the attempt made to blow it up?” + </p> + <p> + “Some Frenchman’s hatred of the English, they say.” + </p> + <p> + “But I am not French.” + </p> + <p> + “They do not know. You speak French as perfectly as English—ah, + Monsieur, Monsieur, I believe you are whatever you say.” Pain and appeal + rang from her lips. + </p> + <p> + “I am only an honest tailor,” he answered gently. He ruled his face to + calmness, for he read the agony in the girl’s face, and troubled as he + was, he wished to show her that he had no fear. + </p> + <p> + “It is for what you were they will arrest you,” she said helplessly, and + as though he needed to have all made clear to him. “Oh, Monsieur,” she + continued, in a broken voice, “it would shame me so to have you made a + prisoner in Chaudiere—before all these silly people, who turn with + the wind. I should not lift my head—but yes, I should lift my head!” + she added hurriedly. “I should tell them all they lied—every one—the + idiots! The Seigneur—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what of the Seigneur-Rosalie?” + </p> + <p> + Her own name on his lips—the sound of it dimmed her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Rossignol does not know you. He neither believes nor + disbelieves. He said to me that if you wanted consideration, to command + him, for in Chaudiere he had heard nothing but good of you. If you stayed, + he would see that you had justice—not persecution. I saw him two + hours ago.” + </p> + <p> + She said the last words shyly, for she was thinking why the Seigneur had + spoken as he did—that he had taken her opinion of Monsieur as his + guide, and she had not scrupled to impress him with her views. The + Seigneur was in danger of becoming prejudiced by his sentiments. + </p> + <p> + A wave of feeling passed over Charley, a rushing wave of sympathy for this + simple girl, who, out of a blind confidence, risked so much for him. Risk + there certainly was, if she—if she cared for him. It was cruelty not + to reassure her. + </p> + <p> + Touching his breast, he said gravely: “By this sign here, I am not guilty + of the crime for which they come to seek me, Rosalie. Nor of any other + crime for which the law might punish me—dear, noble friend.” + </p> + <p> + He did so little to get such rich return. Her eyes leaped up to brighter + degrees of light, her face shone with a joy it had never reflected before, + her blood rushed to her finger-tips. She abruptly sat down in a chair and + buried her face in her hands, trembling. Then, lifting her head slowly, + after a moment she spoke in a tone that told him her faith, her gratitude—not + for reassurance, but for confidence, which is as water in a thirsty land + to a woman. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Monsieur, I thank you, I thank you from the depth of my heart; and my + heart is deep indeed, very, very deep—I cannot find what lies lowest + in it! I thank you, because you trust me, because you make it so easy to—to + be your friend; to say ‘I know’ when any one might doubt you. One has no + right to speak for another till—till the other has given confidence, + has said you may. Ah, Monsieur, I am so happy!” + </p> + <p> + In very abandonment of heart she clasped her hands and came a step nearer + to him, but abruptly stopped still; for, realising her action, timidity + and embarrassment rushed upon her. + </p> + <p> + Charley understood, and again his impulse was to say what was in his heart + and dare all; but resolution possessed him, and he said quickly: + </p> + <p> + “Once, Rosalie, you saved me—from death perhaps. Once your hands + helped my pain—here.” He touched his breast. “Your words now, and + what you do, they still help me—here... but in a different way. The + trouble is in my heart, Rosalie. You are glad of my confidence? Well, I + will give you more.... I cannot go back to my old life. To do so would + injure others—some who have never injured me and some who have. That + is why. That is why I do not wish to be taken to Quebec now on a false + charge. That is all I can say. Is it enough?” + </p> + <p> + She was about to answer, but Jo Portugais entered, exclaiming. “M’sieu’,” + he cried, “men are coming with the Seigneur and Cure.” + </p> + <p> + Charley nodded at Jo, then turned to Rosalie. “You need not be seen if you + go out by the back way, Mademoiselle.” He held aside the bear-skin curtain + of the door that led into the next room. + </p> + <p> + There was a frightened look in her face. “Do not fear for me,” he + continued. “It will come right—somehow. You have done more for me + than any one has ever done or ever will do. I will remember till the last + moment of my life. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + He laid a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her from the room. + </p> + <p> + “God protect you! The Blessed Virgin speak for you! I will pray for you,” + she whispered. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI. CHARLEY STANDS AT BAY + </h2> + <p> + Charley turned quickly to the woodsman. “Listen,” he said, and he told Jo + how things stood. + </p> + <p> + “You will not hide, M’sieu’? There is time,” Jo asked. + </p> + <p> + “I will not hide, Jo.” + </p> + <p> + “What will you do?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll decide when they come.” + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a moment, then the sound of voices on the hill-side. + </p> + <p> + Charley’s soul rose up in revolt against the danger that faced him—not + against personal peril, but the danger of being dragged back again into + the life he had come from, with all that it involved—the futility of + this charge against him! To be the victim of an error—to go to the + bar of justice with the hand of injustice on his arm! + </p> + <p> + All at once the love of this new life welled up in him, as a spring of + water overflows its bounds. A voice kept ringing in his ears, “I will pray + for you.” Subconsciously his mind kept saying, “Rosalie—Rosalie—Rosalie!” + There was nothing now that he would not do to avert his being taken away + upon this ridiculous charge. Mistaken identity? To prove that, he must at + once prove himself—who he was, whence he came. Tell the Cure, and + make it a point of honour for his secret to be kept? But once told, the + new life would no longer stand by itself as the new life, cut off from all + contact with the past. Its success, its possibility, must lie in its + absolute separateness, with obscurity behind—as though he had come + out of nothing into this very room, on that winter morning when memory + returned. + </p> + <p> + It was clear that he must, somehow, evade the issue. He glanced at Jo, + whose eyes, strained and painful, were fixed upon the door. Here was a man + who suffered for his sake.... He took a step forward, as though with + sudden resolve, but there came a knocking, and, pausing, he motioned Jo to + open the door. Then, turning to a shelf, he took something from it + hastily, and kept it in his hand. + </p> + <p> + Jo roused himself with an effort, and opened to the knocking. + </p> + <p> + Three people entered: the Seigneur, the Cure, and the Abbe Rossignol, an + ascetic, severe man, with a face of intolerance and inflexibility. Two + constables in plain clothes followed; one stolid, one alert, one English + and one French, both with grim satisfaction in their faces—the + successful exercise of his trade is pleasant to every craftsman. When they + entered, Charley was standing with his back to the fireplace, his + eye-glass adjusted, one hand stroking his beard, the other held behind his + back. + </p> + <p> + The Cure came forward and shook hands in an eager friendly way. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Monsieur,” said he, “I hope that you are better.” + </p> + <p> + “I am quite well, thank you, Monsieur le Cure,” answered Charley. “I shall + get back to work on Monday, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, that is good,” responded the Cure, and seemed confused. He + turned uneasily to the Seigneur. “You have come to see my friend + Portugais,” Charley remarked slowly, almost apologetically. “I will take + my leave.” He made a step forward. The two constables did the same, and + would have laid their hands upon his shoulder but that the Seigneur said + tartly: + </p> + <p> + “Stand off, Jack-in-boxes!” + </p> + <p> + The two stood aside, and looked covertly at the Seigneur, whose temper + seemed unusually irascible. Charley’s face showed no surprise, but he + looked inquiringly at the Cure. + </p> + <p> + “If they wish to be measured for uniforms—or manners—I will + see them at my shop,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur chuckled. Charley stepped again towards the door. The two + constables stood before it. Again he turned inquiringly, this time towards + the Cure. The Cure did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “It is you we wish to see, tailor,” said the Abbe Rossignol. + </p> + <p> + Soft-tongued irony leaped to Charley’s lips: “Have I, then, the honour of + including Monsieur among my customers? I cannot recall Monsieur’s figure. + I think I should not have forgotten it.” + </p> + <p> + It was now the old Charley Steele, with the new body, the new spirit, but + with the old skilful mind, aggravatingly polite, non-intime—the + intolerant face of this father of souls irritated him. + </p> + <p> + “I never forget a figure which has idiosyncrasy,” he added, with a bland + eye wandering over the priest’s gaunt form. It was his old way to strike + first and heal after—“a kick and a lick,” as old Paddy Wier, whom he + once saved from prison, said of him. It was like bygone years of another + life to appear in defence when the law was tightening round a victim. The + secret spring had been touched, the ancient machinery of his mind was + working almost automatically. + </p> + <p> + The illusion was considerable, for the Seigneur had taken the only + arm-chair in the room, a little apart, as it were, filling the place of + judge. The priest-brother, cold and inveterate, was like the attorney for + the crown. The Cure was the clerk of the court, who could only echo the + decisions of the Judge. The constables were the machinery of the Law, and + Jo Portugais was the unwilling witness, whose evidence would be the crux + of the case. The prisoner—he himself was prisoner and prisoner’s + counsel. + </p> + <p> + A good struggle was forward. + </p> + <p> + He had enraged the Abbe as much as he had delighted the Abbe’s brother; + for nothing gave the Seigneur such pleasure as the discomfiture of the + Abbe Rossignol, chaplain and ordinary to the Archbishop of Quebec. The + genial, sympathetic nature of the Seigneur could not even be patient with + the excessive piety of the churchman, who, in rigid righteousness, had + thrashed him cruelly as a boy. At Charley’s words upon the Abbe’s figure, + gaunt and precise as a swaddled ramrod, he pulled his nose with a grunt of + satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + The Cure, the peace-maker, intervened. The tailor’s meaning was + sufficiently clear: if they had come to see him personally, then it was + natural for him to wish to know the names and stations of his guests, and + their business. The Seigneur was aware that the tailor did know, and he + enjoyed the ‘sang-froid’ with which he was meeting the situation. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” said the Cure, in a mollifying voice, “I have ventured to + bring the Seigneur of Chaudiere”—the Seigneur stood up and bowed + gravely—“and his brother, the Abbe Rossignol, who would speak with + you on private business”—he ignored the presence of the constables. + </p> + <p> + Charley bowed to the Seigneur and the Abbe, then turned inquiringly + towards the two constables. “Friends of my brother the Abbe,” said the + Seigneur maliciously. + </p> + <p> + “Their names, Monsieur?” asked Charley. + </p> + <p> + “They have numbers,” answered the Seigneur whimsically—to the Cure’s + pain, for levity seemed improper at such a time. + </p> + <p> + “Numbers of names are legally suspicious, numbers for names are + suspiciously legal,” rejoined Charley. “You have pierced the disguise of + discourtesy,” said the Seigneur, and, on the instant, he made up his mind + that whatever the tailor might have been, he was deserving of respect. + </p> + <p> + “You have private business with me, Monsieur?” asked Charley of the Abbe. + </p> + <p> + The Abbe shook his head. “The business is not private, in one sense. These + men have come to charge you with having broken into the cathedral at + Quebec and stolen the gold vessels of the altar; also with having tried to + blow up the Governor’s residence.” + </p> + <p> + One of the constables handed Charley the warrant. He looked at it with a + curious smile. It was so natural, yet so unnatural, to be thus in touch + with the habits of far-off times. + </p> + <p> + “On what information is this warrant issued?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “That is for the law to show in due course,” said the priest. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me; it is for the law to show now. I have a right to know.” + </p> + <p> + The constables shifted from one foot to the other, looked at each other + meaningly, and instinctively felt their weapons. + </p> + <p> + “I believe,” said the Seigneur evenly, “that—” The Abbe interrupted. + “He can have information at his trial.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, but the warrant has my endorsement,” said the Seigneur, “and, + as the justice most concerned, I shall give proper information to the + gentleman under suspicion.” He waved a hand at the Abbe, as at a fractious + child, and turned courteously to Charley. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” he said, “on the tenth of August last the cathedral at Quebec + was broken into, and the gold altar-vessels were stolen. You are + suspected. The same day an attempt was made to blow up the Governor’s + residence. You are suspected.” + </p> + <p> + “On what ground, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “You appeared in this vicinity three days afterwards with an injury to the + head. Now, the incendiary received a severe blow on the head from a + servant of the Governor. You see the connection, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Where is the servant of the Governor, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Dead, unfortunately. He told the story so often, to so much hospitality, + that he lost his footing on Mountain Street steps—you remember + Mountain Street steps possibly, Monsieur?—and cracked his head on + the last stone.” + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a moment. If the thing had not been so serious, + Charley must have laughed outright. If he but disclosed his identity, how + easy to dispose of this silly charge! He did not reply at once, but looked + calmly at the Abbe. In the pause, the Seigneur added “I forgot to add that + the man had a brown beard. You have a brown beard, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “I had not when I arrived here.” + </p> + <p> + Jo Portugais spoke. “That is true, M’sieu’; and what is more, I know a + newly shaved face when I see it, and M’sieu’s was tanned with the sun. It + is foolish, that!” + </p> + <p> + “This is not the place for evidence,” said the Abbe sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Abbe,” said his brother; “if Monsieur wishes to have a + preliminary trial here, he may. He is in my seigneury; he is a tenant of + the Church here—” + </p> + <p> + “It is a grave offence that an infidel, dropping down here from, who knows + where—that an acknowledged infidel should be a tenant of the + Church!” + </p> + <p> + “The devil is a tenant of the Almighty, if creation is the Almighty’s,” + said Charley. + </p> + <p> + “Satan is a prisoner,” snapped the Abbe. + </p> + <p> + “With large domains for exercise,” retorted Charley, “and in successful + opposition to the Church. If it is true that the man you charge is an + infidel, how does that warrant suspicion?” + </p> + <p> + “Other thefts,” answered the Abbe. “A sacred iron cross was stolen from + the door of the church of Chaudiere. I have no doubt that the thief of the + gold vessels of the cathedral was the thief of the iron cross.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not true,” sullenly broke in Jo Portugais. + </p> + <p> + “What proof have you?” said the Seigneur. Charley waved a deprecating hand + towards Jo. + </p> + <p> + “I shall not call Portugais as evidence,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You are conducting your own case?” asked the Seigneur, with a grim smile. + </p> + <p> + “It is dangerous, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “I will take my chances,” answered Charley. “Will you tell me what object + the criminal could have in stealing the gold vessels from the cathedral?” + he added, turning to the Abbe. + </p> + <p> + “They were gold!” + </p> + <p> + “And for taking the cross from the door of the church in Chaudiere?” + </p> + <p> + “It was sacred, and he was an infidel, and hated it.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not see the logic of the argument. He stole the vessels because they + were valuable, and the iron cross because he was an infidel! Now how do + you know that the suspected criminal was an infidel, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “It is well known.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he ever said so?” + </p> + <p> + “He does not deny it.” + </p> + <p> + “If you were charged with being an opium-eater, does it follow that you + are one because you do not deny it? There was a Man who was said to + blaspheme, to have all ‘the crafts and assaults of the devil’—was it + His duty to deny it? Suppose you were accused of being a highwayman, would + you be less a highwayman if you denied it? Or would you be less guilty if + you denied it?” + </p> + <p> + “That is beside the case,” said the priest with acerbity. + </p> + <p> + “Faith, I think it is the case itself,” said the Seigneur with a satisfied + pull of his nose. + </p> + <p> + “But do you seriously suggest that only infidels rob churches?” Charley + persisted. + </p> + <p> + “I am not here to be cross-examined,” answered the Abbe harshly. “You are + charged with robbing the cathedral and trying to blow up the Governor’s + residence. Arrest him!” he added, turning to the constables. + </p> + <p> + “Stand where you are, men,” sharply threatened the Seigneur. “There are no + lettres de cachet nowadays, Francois,” he added tartly to his brother. + </p> + <p> + “If it is the exclusive temptation of an infidel to rob a church, has + infidelity also an inherent penchant for arson? Is it a patent? Why did + the infidel blow up the Governor’s residence?” continued Charley. + </p> + <p> + “He did not blow it up, he only tried,” interposed the Cure softly. + </p> + <p> + “I was not aware,” said Charley. “Well, did the man who stole the patens + from the altar—” + </p> + <p> + “They were chalices,” again interrupted the Cure, with a faint smile. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I was not aware!” again rejoined Charley. “I repeat, what reason had + the person who stole the chalices to try to blow up the Governor’s + residence? Is it a sign of infidelity, or—” + </p> + <p> + “You can answer for that yourself,” angrily interposed the Abbe. The + strain was telling on his nerves. + </p> + <p> + “It is fair to give reasons for the suspicion,” urged the Seigneur acidly. + </p> + <p> + “As I said before, Francois, this is not the fifteenth century.” + </p> + <p> + “He hated the English government,” said the Abbe. “I do not understand,” + responded Charley. “Am I then to suppose that the alleged criminal was a + Frenchman as well as an infidel?” + </p> + <p> + There was silence, and Charley continued. “It is an unusual thing for a + French Abbe to be so concerned for the safety of an English Protestant’s + life and housing... the Governor is a Protestant—eh? That is, + indeed, a zeal almost Christian—or millennial.” + </p> + <p> + The Abby turned to the Seigneur. “Are you going to interfere longer with + the process of the law?” + </p> + <p> + “I think Monsieur has not quite finished his argument,” said the Seigneur, + with a twist of the mouth. + </p> + <p> + “If the man was a Frenchman, why do you suspect the tailor of Chaudiere?” + asked Charley softly. “Of course I understand the reason behind all: you + have heard that the tailor is an infidel; you have protested to the good + Cure here, and the Cure is a man who has a sense of justice, and will not + drive a poor man from his parish by Christian persecution—without + cause. Since certain dates coincide and impulses urge, you suspect the + tailor. Again, according to your mind, a man who steals holy vessels must + needs be an infidel; therefore a tailor in Chaudiere, suspected of being + an infidel, stole the holy chalices. It might seem a fair case for a grand + jury of clericals. But it breaks down in certain places. Your criminal is + a Frenchman; the tailor of Chaudiere is an Englishman.” + </p> + <p> + The Abbe’s face was contracted with stubborn annoyance, though he held his + tongue from violence. “Do you deny that you are French?” he asked tartly. + </p> + <p> + “I could almost endure the suspicion because of the compliment to my + command of your charming language.” + </p> + <p> + “Prove that you are an Englishman. No one knows where you came from; no + one knows what you are. You are a fair subject for suspicion, apart from + the evidence shown,” said the Abbe, trying now to be as polite as the + tailor. + </p> + <p> + “This is a free country. So long as the law is obeyed, one can go where + one wills without question, I take it.” + </p> + <p> + “There is a law of vagrancy.” + </p> + <p> + “I am a householder, a tenant of the Church, not a vagrant.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, you can have your choice of proving these things here or in + Quebec,” said the Abbe, with angry impatience again. + </p> + <p> + “I may not be compelled to prove anything. It is the privilege of the law + to prove the crime against me.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a very remarkable tailor,” said the Abbe sarcastically. + </p> + <p> + “I have not had the honour of making you even a cassock, I think. Monsieur + le Cure, I believe, approves of those I make for him. He has a good + figure, however.” + </p> + <p> + “You refuse to identify yourself?” asked the Abbe, with asperity. + </p> + <p> + “I am not aware that you possess any right to ask me to do so.” + </p> + <p> + The Abbe’s thin lips clipped-to like shears. He turned again towards the + officers. + </p> + <p> + “It would relieve the situation,” interposed the Seigneur, “if Monsieur + could find it possible to grant the Abbe’s demand.” + </p> + <p> + Charley bowed to the Seigneur. “I do not know why I should be taken for a + Frenchman or an infidel. I speak French well, I presume, but I spoke it + from the cradle. I speak English with equally good accent,” he added, with + the glimmer of a smile; for there was a kind of exhilaration in the little + contest, even with so much at stake. This miserable, silly charge had that + behind it which might open up a grave, make its dead to walk, fright folk + from their senses, and destroy their peace for ever. Yet he was cool and + thinking clearly. He measured up the Abbe in his mind, analysed him, found + the vulnerable spot in his nature, the avenue to the one place lighted by + a lamp of humanity. He leaned a hand upon the ledge of the chimney where + he stood, and said, in a low voice: + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur l’Abbe, it is sometimes the misfortune of just men to be + terribly unjust. ‘For conscience sake’ is another name for prejudice—for + those antipathies which, natural to us, are, at the same time, trap-doors, + for our just intentions. You, Monsieur, have a radical antipathy to those + men who are unable to see or to feel what you were privileged to see and + feel from the time of your birth. You know that you are right. Do you + think that those who do not see as you do are wicked because they were not + given what you were given? If you are right, may they, poor folk! not be + the victims of their blindness of heart—of the darkness born with + them, or of the evils that overtake them? For conscience sake, you would + crush out evil. To you an infidel—so called—is an evil-doer, a + peril to the peace of God. You drive him out from among the faithful. You + heard that a tailor of Chaudiere was an infidel. You did not prove him + one, but you, for conscience sake, are trying to remove him, by fixing on + him a crime of which he may, with slight show of reason, be suspected. But + I ask you, would you have taken the same deep interest in setting the law + upon this suspected man did you not believe him to be an infidel?” + </p> + <p> + He paused. The Abbe made no reply. The Cure was bending forward eagerly; + the Seigneur sat with his hands over the top of his cane, his chin on his + hands, never taking his eyes from him, save to glance once or twice at his + brother. Jo Portugais was crouched on the bench, watching. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know what makes an infidel,” Charley went on. “Is it an honest + mind, a decent life, an austerity of living as great as that of any + priest, a neighbourliness that gives and takes in fairness—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, no,” interposed the Cure eagerly. “So you have lived here, + Monsieur; I can vouch for that. Charity and a good heart have gone with + you always.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that a man is an infidel because he cannot say, as Louis + Trudel said to me, ‘Do you believe in God?’ and replies, as I replied, + ‘God knows!’ Is that infidelity? If God is God, He alone knows when the + mind or the tongue can answer in the terms of that faith which you + profess. He knows the secret desires of our hearts, and what we believe, + and what we do not believe; He knows better than we ourselves know—if + there is a God. Does a man conjure God, if he does not believe in God? + ‘God knows!’ is not a statement of infidelity. With me it was a phrase—no + more. You ask me to bare my inmost soul. I have not learned how to + confess. You ask me to lay bare my past, to prove my identity. For + conscience sake you ask that, and I for conscience sake say I will not, + Monsieur. You, when you enter your priestly life, put all your past behind + you. It is dead for ever: all its deeds and thoughts and desires, all its + errors—sins. I have entered on a life here which is to me as much a + new life as your priesthood is to you. Shall I not have the right to say, + that may not be disinterred? Have I not the right to say, Hands off? For + the past I am responsible, and for the past I will speak from the past; + but for the deeds of the present I will speak only from the present. I am + not a Frenchman; I did not steal the little cross from the church door + here, nor the golden chalices in Quebec; nor did I seek to injure the + Governor’s residence. I have not been in Quebec for three years.” + </p> + <p> + He ceased speaking, and fixed his eyes on the Abbe, who now met his look + fairly. + </p> + <p> + “In the way of justice, there is nothing hidden that shall not be + revealed, nor secret that shall not be made known,” answered the Abbe. + “Prove that you were not in Quebec on the day the robbery was committed.” + There was silence. The Abbe’s pertinacity was too difficult. The Seigneur + saw the grim look in Charley’s face, and touched the Abbe on the arm. “Let + us walk a little outside. Come, Cure” he added. “It is right that Monsieur + should have a few minutes alone. It is a serious charge against him, and + reflection will be good for us all.” + </p> + <p> + He motioned the constables from the room. The Abby passed through the door + into the open air, and the Cure and the Seigneur went arm in arm together, + talking earnestly. The Cure turned in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Courage, Monsieur!” he said to Charley, and bowed himself out. Jo + Portugais followed. + </p> + <p> + One officer took his place at the front door and the other at the back + door, outside. + </p> + <p> + The Abby, by himself, took to walking backward and forward under the + trees, buried in gloomy reflection. Jo Portugais caught his sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “Come with me for a moment, M’sieu’,” he said. “It is important.” + </p> + <p> + The Abby followed him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII. JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY + </h2> + <p> + Jo Portugais had fastened down a secret with clasps heavier than iron, and + had long stood guard over it. But life is a wheel, and natures move in + circles, passing the same points again and again, the points being distant + or near to the sense as the courses of life have influenced the nature. + Confession was an old principle, a light in the way, a rest-house for Jo + and all his race, by inheritance, by disposition, and by practice. Again + and again Jo had come round to the rest-house since one direful day, but + had not, found his way therein. There were passwords to give at the door, + there was the tale of the journey to tell to the door-keeper. And this + tale he had not been ready to tell. But the man who knew of the terrible + thing he had done, who had saved him from the consequences of that + terrible thing, was in sore trouble, and this broke down the gloomy guard + he had kept over his dread secret. He fought the matter out with himself, + and, the battle ended, he touched the door-keeper on the arm, beckoned him + to a lonely place in the trees, and knelt down before him. + </p> + <p> + “What is it you seek?” asked the door-keeper, whose face was set and + forbidding. + </p> + <p> + “To find peace,” answered the man; yet he was thinking more of another’s + peril than of his own soul. “What have I to do with the peace of your + soul? Yonder is your shepherd and keeper,” said the doorkeeper, pointing + to where two men walked arm in arm under the trees. + </p> + <p> + “Shall the sinner not choose the keeper of his sins?” said the man + huskily. + </p> + <p> + “Who has been the keeper all these years? Who has given you peace?” + </p> + <p> + “I have had no keeper; I have had no peace these many years.” + </p> + <p> + “How many years?” The Abbe’s voice was low and even, and showed no + feeling, but his eyes were keenly inquiring and intent. + </p> + <p> + “Seven years.” + </p> + <p> + “Is the sin that held you back from the comfort of the Church a great + one?” + </p> + <p> + “The greatest, save one.” + </p> + <p> + “What would be the greatest?” + </p> + <p> + “To curse God.” + </p> + <p> + “The next?” + </p> + <p> + “To murder.” + </p> + <p> + The other’s whole manner changed on the instant. He was no longer the + stern Churchman, the inveterate friend of Justice, the prejudiced priest, + rigid in a pious convention, who could neither bend nor break. The sin of + an infidel breaker of the law, that was one thing; the crime of a son of + the Church, which a human soul came to relate in its agony, that was + another. He had a crass sense of justice, but there was in him a deeper + thing still: the revelation of the human soul, the responsibility of + speaking to the heart which has dropped the folds of secrecy, exposing the + skeleton of truth, grim and staring, to the eye of a secret earthly + mentor. + </p> + <p> + “If it has been hidden all these years, why do you tell it now, my son?” + </p> + <p> + “It is the only way.” + </p> + <p> + “Why was it hidden?” + </p> + <p> + “I have come to confess,” answered the man bitterly. The priest looked at + him anxiously. “You have spoken rightly, my son. I am not here to ask, but + to receive.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, but it is my crime I would speak of now. I choose this moment + that another should not suffer for what he did not do.” + </p> + <p> + The priest thought of the man they had left in the little house, and the + crime with which he was charged, and wondered what the sinner before him + was going to say. + </p> + <p> + “Tell your story, my son, and God give your tongue the very spirit of + truth, that nothing be forgotten and nothing excused.” + </p> + <p> + There was a fleeting pause, in which the colour left the priest’s face, + and, as he opened the door of his mind—of the Church, secret and + inviolate—he had a pain at his heart; for beneath his arrogant + churchmanship there was a fanatical spirituality of a mediaeval kind. His + sense of responsibility was painful and intense. The same pain possessed + him always, were the sin that of a child or a Borgia. + </p> + <p> + As he listened to the broken tale, the forest around was vocal, the + chipmunks scampered from tree to tree, the woodpecker’s tap-tap, tap-tap, + went on over their heads, the leaves rustled and gave forth their divine + sweetness, as though man and nature were at peace, and there were no + storms in sky above or soul beneath, or in the waters of life that are + deeper than “the waters under the earth.” + </p> + <p> + It was only a short time, but to the door-keeper and the wayfarer it + seemed hours, for the human soul travels far and hard and long in moments + of pain and revelation. The priest in his anxiety suffered as much as the + man who did the wicked thing. When the man had finished, the priest said: + </p> + <p> + “Is this all?” + </p> + <p> + “It is the great sin of my life.” He shuddered, and continued: “I have no + love of life; I have no fear of death; but there is the man who saved me + years ago, who got me freedom. He has had great sorrow and trouble, and I + would live for his sake—because he has no friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is the man?” + </p> + <p> + The other pointed to where the little house was hidden among the trees. + The priest almost gasped his amazement, but waited. + </p> + <p> + Thereupon the woodsman told the whole truth concerning the tailor of + Chaudiere. + </p> + <p> + “To save him, I have confessed my own sin. To you I might tell all in + confession, and the truth about him would be buried for ever. I might not + confess at all unless I confessed my own sin. You will save him, father?” + he asked anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “I will save him,” was the reply of the priest. + </p> + <p> + “I want to give myself to justice; but he has been ill, and he may be ill + again, and he needs me.” He told of the tailor’s besetting weakness, of + his struggles against it, of his fall a few days before, and the cause of + it... told all to the man of silence. + </p> + <p> + “You wish to give yourself to justice?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall have no peace unless.” + </p> + <p> + There was something martyr-like in the man’s attitude. It appealed to some + stern, martyr-like quality in the priest. If the man would win eternal + peace so, then so be it. His grim piety approved. He spoke now with the + authority of divine justice. + </p> + <p> + “For one year longer go on as you are, then give yourself to justice—one + year from to-day, my son. Is it enough?” + </p> + <p> + “It is enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Absolvo te!” said the priest. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIII. THE EDGE OF LIFE + </h2> + <p> + Meantime Charley was alone with his problem. The net of circumstances + seemed to have coiled inextricably round him. Once, at a trial in court in + other days, he had said in his ironical way: “One hasn’t to fear the + penalties of one’s sins, but the damnable accident of discovery.” + </p> + <p> + To try to escape now, or, with the assistance of Jo Portugais, when en + route to Quebec in charge of the constables, and find refuge and seclusion + elsewhere? There was nothing he might ask of Portugais which he would not + do. To escape—and so acknowledge a guilt not his own! Well, what did + it matter! Who mattered? He knew only too well. The Cure mattered—that + good man who had never intruded his piety on him; who had been from the + first a discreet friend, a gentleman,—a Christian gentleman, if + there was such a sort of gentleman apart from all others. Who mattered? + The Seigneur, whom he had never seen before, yet who had showed that day a + brusque sympathy, a gruff belief in him? Who mattered? + </p> + <p> + Above all, Rosalie mattered. To escape, to go from Rosalie’s presence by a + dark way, as it were, like a thief in the night—was that possible? + His escape would work upon her mind. She would first wonder, then doubt, + and then believe at last that he was a common criminal. She was the one + who mattered in that thought of escape escape to some other parish, to + some other province, to some other country—to some other world! + </p> + <p> + To some other world? He looked at a little bottle he held in the palm of + his hand. + </p> + <p> + A hand held aside the curtain of the door entering on the next room, and a + girl’s troubled face looked in, but he did not see. + </p> + <p> + Escape to some other world? And why not, after all? On the day his memory + came back he had resisted the idea in this very room. As the fatalist he + had resisted it then. Now how poor seemed the reasons for not having ended + it all that day! If his appointed time had been come, the river would have + ended him then—that had been his argument. Was that argument not + belief in Somebody or Something which governed his going or staying? Was + it not preordination? Was not fatalism, then, the cheapest sort of belief + in an unchangeable Somebody or Something, representing purpose and law and + will? Attribute to anything power, and there was God, whatever His + qualities, personality, or being. + </p> + <p> + The little phial of laudanum was in his hand to loosen life into + knowledge. Was it not his duty to eliminate himself, rather than be an + unsolvable quantity in the problem of many lives? It was neither vulgar + nor cowardly to pass quietly from forces making for ruin, and so avert + ruin and secure happiness. To go while yet there was time, and smooth for + ever the way for others by an eternal silence—that seemed well. + Punishment thereafter, the Cure would say. But was it not worth while + being punished, even should the Cure’s fond belief in the noble fable be + true, if one saved others here? Who—God or man—had the right + to take from him the right to destroy himself, not for fear, not through + despair, but for others’ sake? Had he not the right to make restitution to + Kathleen for having given her nothing but himself, whom she had learned to + despise? If he were God, he would say, Do justice and fear not. And this + was justice. Suppose he were in a battle, with all these things behind + him, and put himself, with daring and great results, in some forlorn hope—to + die; and he died, ostensibly a hero for his country, but, in his heart of + hearts, to throw his life away to save some one he loved, not his country, + which profited by his sacrifice—suppose that were the case, what + would the world say? + </p> + <p> + “He saved others, himself he could not save”—flashed through his + mind, possessed him. He could save others; but it was clear he could not + save himself. It was so simple, so kind, and so decent. And he would be + buried here in quiet, unconsecrated ground, a mystery, a tailor who, + finding he could not mend the garment of life, cast it away, and took on + himself the mantle of eternal obscurity. No reproaches would follow him; + and he would not reproach himself, for Kathleen and Billy and another + would be safe and free to live their lives. + </p> + <p> + Far, far better for Rosalie! She too would be saved—free from the + peril of his presence. For where could happiness come to her from him? He + might not love her; he might not marry her; and it were well to go now, + while yet love was not a habit, but an awakening, a realisation of life. + His death would settle this sad question for ever. To her he would be a + softening memory as time went on. + </p> + <p> + The girl who had watched by the curtain stepped softly inside the room ... + she divined his purpose. He was so intent he did not hear. + </p> + <p> + “I will do it,” he said to himself. “It is better to go than to stay. I + have never done a good thing for love of any human being. I will do one + now.” + </p> + <p> + He turned towards the window through which the sunlight streamed. Stepping + forward into the sun, he uncorked the bottle. + </p> + <p> + There was a quick step behind him, and the girl’s voice said clearly: + </p> + <p> + “If you go, I go also.” + </p> + <p> + He turned swiftly, cold with amazement, the blood emptied from his heart. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie stood a little distance from him, her face pale, her hands held + hard to her side. + </p> + <p> + “I understand all. I could not go outside, I stayed there”—she + pointed to the other room—“and I know why you would die. You would + die to save others.” + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie!” he protested in a hoarse voice, and could say nothing more. + </p> + <p> + “You think that I will stay, if you go! No, no, no—I will not. You + taught me how to live, and I will follow you now.” + </p> + <p> + He saw the strange determination of her look. It startled him; he knew not + what to say. “Your father, Rosalie—” + </p> + <p> + “My father will be cared for. But who will care for you in the place where + you are going? You will have no friends there. You shall not go alone. You + will need me—in the dark.” + </p> + <p> + “It is good that I go,” he said. “It would be wicked, it would be + dreadful, for you to go.” + </p> + <p> + “I go if you go,” she urged. “I will lose my soul to be with you; you will + want me—there!” + </p> + <p> + There was no mistaking her intention. Footsteps sounded outside. The + others were coming back. To die here before her face? To bring her to + death with him? He was sick with despair. + </p> + <p> + “Go into the next room quickly,” he said. “No matter what comes, I will + not—on my honour!” + </p> + <p> + She threw him a look of gratitude, and, as the bearskin curtain dropped + behind her, he put the phial of laudanum in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + The door opened, and the Abbe Rossignol entered, followed by the Seigneur, + the Cure, and Jo Portugais. Charley faced them calmly, and waited. + </p> + <p> + The Abbe’s face was still cold and severe, but his voice was human as he + said quickly: “Monsieur, I have decided to take you at your word. I am + assured you are not the man who committed the crime. You probably have + reasons for not establishing your identity.” + </p> + <p> + Had Charley been a prisoner in the dock, he could not have had a moment of + deeper amazement—even if after the jury had said Guilty, a piece of + evidence had been handed in, proving innocence, averting the death + sentence. A wave of excitement passed over him, leaving him cold and + still. In the other room a girl put her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry + of joy. + </p> + <p> + Charley bowed. “You made a mistake, Monsieur—pray do not apologise,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIV. IN AMBUSH + </h2> + <p> + Weeks went by. Summer was done, autumn was upon the land. Harvest-home had + gone, and the “fall” ploughing was forward. The smell of the burning + stubble, of decaying plant and fibre, was mingling with the odours of the + orchards and the balsams of the forest. The leafy hill-sides, far and + near, were resplendent in scarlet and saffron and tawny red. Over the + decline of the year flickered the ruined fires of energy. + </p> + <p> + It had been a prosperous summer in the valley. Harvests had been reaped + such as the country had not known for years—and for years there had + been great harvests. There had not been a death in the parish all summer, + and births had occurred out of all usual proportion. + </p> + <p> + When Filion Lacasse commented thereon, and mentioned the fact that even + the Notary’s wife had had the gift of twins as the crowning fulness of the + year, Maximilian Cour, who was essentially superstitious, tapped on the + table three times, to prevent a turn in the luck. + </p> + <p> + The baker was too late, however, for the very next day the Notary was + brought home with a nasty gunshot wound in his leg. He had been lured into + duck-hunting on a lake twenty miles away, in the hills, and had been + accidentally shot on an Indian reservation, called Four Mountains, where + the Church sometimes held a mission and presented a primitive sort of + passion-play. From there he had been brought home by his comrades, and the + doctor from the next parish summoned. The Cure assisted the doctor at + first, but the task was difficult to him. At the instant when the case was + most critical the tailor of Chaudiere set his foot inside the Notary’s + door. A moment later he relieved the Cure and helped to probe for shot, + and care for an ugly wound. + </p> + <p> + Charley had no knowledge of surgery, but his fingers were skilful, his eye + was true, and he had intuition. The long operation over, the rural + physician and surgeon washed his hands and then studied Charley with + curious admiration. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Monsieur,” he said, as he dried his hands on a towel. “I + couldn’t have done it without you. It’s a pretty good job; and you share + the credit.” + </p> + <p> + Charley bowed. “It’s a good thing not to halloo till you’re out of the + woods,” he said. “Our friend there has a bad time before him—hein?” + </p> + <p> + “I take you. It is so.” The man of knives and tinctures pulled his + side-whiskers with smug satisfaction as he looked into a small mirror on + the wall. “Do you chance to know if madame has any cordials or spirits?” + he added, straightening his waistcoat and adjusting his cravat. + </p> + <p> + “It is likely,” answered Charley, and moved away to the window looking + upon the street. + </p> + <p> + The doctor turned in surprise. He was used to being waited on, and he had + expected the tailor to follow the tradition. + </p> + <p> + “We might—eh?” he said suggestively. “It is usually the custom to + provide refreshment, but the poor woman, madame, has been greatly occupied + with her husband, and—” + </p> + <p> + “And the twins,” Charley put in drily—“and a house full of work, and + only one old crone in the kitchen to help. Still, I have no doubt she has + thought of the cordials too. Women are the slaves of custom—ah, here + they are, as I said, and—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped short, for in the doorway, with a tray, stood Rosalie + Evanturel. The surgeon was so intent upon at once fortifying himself that + he did not see the look which passed between Rosalie and the tailor. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie had been absent for two months. Her father had been taken + seriously ill the day after the critical episode in the but at Vadrome + Mountain, and she had gone with him to the hospital at Quebec, for an + operation. The Abbe Rossignol had undertaken to see them safely to the + hospital, and Jo Portugais, at his own request, was permitted to go in + attendance upon M. Evanturel. + </p> + <p> + There had been a hasty leave-taking between Charley and Rosalie, but it + was in the presence of others, and they had never spoken a word privately + together since the day she had said to him that where he went she would + go, in life or out of it. + </p> + <p> + “You have been gone two months,” Charley said now, after their touch of + hands and voiceless greeting. “Two months yesterday,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “At sundown,” he replied, in an even voice. + </p> + <p> + “The Angelus was ringing,” she answered calmly, though her heart was + leaping and her hands were trembling. The doctor, instantly busy with the + cordial, had not noticed what they said. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you join me?” he asked, offering a glass to Charley. + </p> + <p> + “Spirits do not suit me,” answered Charley. “Matter of constitution,” + rejoined the doctor, and buttoned up his coat, preparing to depart. He + came close to Charley. “Now, I don’t want to put upon you, Monsieur,” he + said, “but this sick man is valuable in the parish—you take me? + Well, it’s a difficult, delicate case, and I’d be glad if I could rely on + you for a few days. The Cure would do, but you are young, you have a sense + of things—take me? Half the fees are yours if you’ll keep a sharp + eye on him—three times a day, and be with him at night a while. + Fever is the thing I’m afraid of—temperature—this way, + please!” He went to the window, and for a minute engaged Charley in + whispered conversation. “You take me?” he said cheerily at last, as he + turned again towards Rosalie. + </p> + <p> + “Quite, Monsieur,” answered Charley, and drew away, for he caught the + odour of the doctor’s breath, and a cold perspiration broke out over him. + He felt the old desire for drink sweeping through him. “I will do what I + can,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Come, my dear,” the doctor said to Rosalie. “We will go and see your + father.” + </p> + <p> + Charley’s eyes had fastened on the bottles avidly. As Rosalie turned to + bid him good-bye, he said to her, almost hoarsely: “Take the tray back to + Madame Dauphin—please.” + </p> + <p> + She flashed a glance of inquiry at him. She was puzzled by the fire in his + eyes. With her soul in her face as she lifted the tray, out of the + warm-beating life in her, she said in a low tone: + </p> + <p> + “It is good to live, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded and smiled, and the trouble slowly passed from his eyes. The + woman in her had conquered his enemy. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXV. THE COMING OF MAXIMILIAN COUR AND ANOTHER + </h2> + <p> + “It is good to live, isn’t it?” In the autumn weather when the air drank + like wine, it seemed so indeed, even to Charley, who worked all day in his + shop, his door wide open to the sunlight, and sat up half the night with + Narcisse Dauphin, sometimes even taking a turn at the cradle of the twins, + while madame sat beside her husband’s bed. + </p> + <p> + To Charley the answer to Rosalie’s question lay in the fact that his eyes + had never been so keen, his face so alive, or his step so buoyant as in + this week of double duty. His mind was more hopeful than it had ever been + since the day he awoke with memory restored in the silence of a mountain + hut. + </p> + <p> + He had found the antidote to his great temptation, to the lurking, + relentless habit which had almost killed him the night John Brown had sung + Champagne Charlie from behind the flaring lights. From a determination to + fight his own fight with no material aids, he had never once used the + antidote sent him by the Cure’s brother. + </p> + <p> + On St. Jean Baptiste’s day his proud will had failed him; intellectual + force, native power of mind, had broken like reeds under the weight of a + cruel temptation. But now a new force had entered into him. As his fingers + were about to reach for the spirit-bottle in the house of the Notary, and + he had, for the first time in his life, made an appeal for help, a woman’s + voice had said, “It is good to live, isn’t it?” and his hand was stayed. A + woman’s look had stilled the strife. Never before in his life had he + relied on a moral or a spiritual impulse in him. What of these existed in + him were in unseen quantities—for which there was neither multiple + nor measure—had been primitive and hereditary, flowing in him like a + feeble tincture diluted to inefficacy. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie had resolved him back to the original elements. The quiet days he + had spent in Chaudiere, the self-sacrifice he had been compelled to make, + the human sins, such as those of Jo Portugais and Louis Trudel, with which + he had had to do, the simplicity of the life around him—the + uncomplicated lie and the unvarnished truth, the obvious sorrow and the + patent joy, the childish faith, and the rude wickedness so pardonable + because so frankly brutal—had worked upon him. The elemental spirit + of it all had so invaded his nature, breaking through the crust of old + habit to the new man, that, when he fell before his temptation, and his + body became saturated with liquor, the healthy natural being and the + growing natural mind were overpowered by the coarse onslaught, and death + had nearly followed. + </p> + <p> + It was his first appeal to a force outside himself, to an active principle + unfamiliar to the voluntary working of his nature, and the answer had been + immediate and adequate. Yet what was it? He did not ask; he had not got + beyond the mere experience, and the old questioning habit was in abeyance. + Each new and great emotion has its dominating moment, its supreme + occasion, before taking its place in the modulated moral mechanism. He was + touched with helplessness. + </p> + <p> + As he sat beside Narcisse Dauphin’s bedside, one evening, the sick man on + his way to recovery, there came to him the text of a sermon he had once + heard John Brown preach: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man + lay down his life for his friend.” He had been thinking of Rosalie and + that day at Vadrome Mountain. She would not only have died with him, but + she would have died for him, if need had been. What might he give in + return for what she gave? + </p> + <p> + The Notary interrupted his thoughts. He had lain watching Charley for a + long time, his brow drawn down with thought. At last he said: + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, you have been good to me.” Charley laid a hand on the sick + man’s arm. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see that. But if you won’t talk, I’ll believe you think so.” + </p> + <p> + The Notary shook his head. “I’ve not been talking for an hour, I’ve no + fever, and I want to say some things. When I’ve said them, I’ll feel + better—voila! I want to make the amende honorable. I once thought + you were this and that—I won’t say what I thought you. I said you + interfered—giving advice to people, as you did to Filion Lacasse, + and taking the bread out of my mouth. I said that!” + </p> + <p> + He paused, raised himself on his elbow, smoothed back his grizzled hair + behind his ears, looked at himself in the mirror opposite with + satisfaction, and added oracularly: “But how prone is the mind of man to + judge amiss! You have put bread into my mouth—no, no, Monsieur, you + shall hear me! As well as doing your own work, you have done my business + since my accident as well as a lawyer could do it; and you’ve given every + penny to my wife.” + </p> + <p> + “As for the work I’ve done,” answered Charley, “it was nothing—you + notaries have easy times. You may take your turn with my shears and needle + one day.” + </p> + <p> + With a dash of patronage true to his nature, “You are wonderful for a + tailor,” the Notary rejoined. Charley laughed—seldom, if ever, had + he laughed since coming to Chaudiere. It was, however, a curious fact that + he took a real pleasure in the work he did with his hands. In making + clothes for habitant farmers, and their sons and their sons’ sons, and + jackets for their wives and daughters, he had had the keenest pleasure of + his life. + </p> + <p> + He had taken his earnings with pride, if not with exultation. He knew the + Notary did not mean that he was wonderful as a tailor, but he answered to + the suggestion. + </p> + <p> + “You liked that last coat I made for you, then,” he said drily; “I believe + you wore it when you were shot. It was the thing for your figure, man.” + </p> + <p> + The Notary looked in the large mirror opposite with sad content. “Ah, it + was a good figure, the first time I went to that hut at Four Mountains!” + </p> + <p> + “We can’t always be young. You have a waist yet, and your chest-barrel + gives form to a waistcoat. Tut, tut! Think of the twins in the way of + vainglory and hypocrisy.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Twins’ and ‘hypocrisy’; there you have struck the nail on the head, + tailor. There is the thing I’m going to tell you about.” + </p> + <p> + After a cautious glance at the door and the window, Dauphin continued in + quick, broken sentences: “It wasn’t an accident at Four Mountains—not + quite. It was Paulette Dubois—you know the woman that lives at the + Seigneur’s gate? Twelve years ago she was a handsome girl. I fell in love + with her, but she left here. There were two other men. There was a + timber-merchant,—and there was a lawyer after. The timber-merchant + was married; the lawyer wasn’t. She lived at first with the + timber-merchant. He was killed—murdered in the woods.” + </p> + <p> + “What was the timber-merchant’s name?” interrupted Charley in an even + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Turley—but that doesn’t matter!” continued the Notary. “He was + murdered, and then the lawyer came on the scene. He lived with her for a + year. She had a child by him. One day he sent the child away to a safe + place and told her he was going to turn over a new leaf—he was going + to stand for Parliament, and she must go. She wouldn’t go without the + child. At last he said the child was dead; and showed her the certificate + of death. Then she came back here, and for a while, alas! she disgraced + the parish. But all at once she changed—she got a message that her + child was alive. To her it was like being born again. It was at this time + they were going to drive her from the parish. But the Seigneur and then + the Cure spoke for her, and so did I—at last.” + </p> + <p> + He paused and plaintively admired himself in the mirror. He was grateful + that he had been clean-shaved that morning, and he was content to catch + the citrine odour of the bergamot upon his hair. + </p> + <p> + New phases of the most interesting case Charley had ever defended spread + out before him—the case which had given him his friend Jo Portugais, + which had turned his own destiny. Yet he could not quite trace in it the + vital association of this vain Notary now in the confessional mood. + </p> + <p> + “You behaved very well,” said Charley tentatively. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you say that, knowing so little! What will you say when you know all—ah! + That I should take a stand also was important. Neither the Seigneur nor + the Cure was married; I was. I have been long-suffering for a cause. My + marital felicity has been bruised—bruised—but not broken.” + </p> + <p> + “There are the twins,” said Charley, with a half-closed eye. + </p> + <p> + “Could woman ask greater proof?” urged the Notary seriously, for the + other’s voice had been so well masked that he did not catch its satire. + “But see my peril, and mark the ground of my interest in this poor wanton! + Yet a woman—a woman-frail creatures, as we know, and to be pitied, + not made more pitiable by the stronger sex.... But, see now! Why should I + have perilled mine own conjugal peace, given ground for suspicion even—for + I am unfortunate, unfortunate in the exterior with which Dame Nature has + honoured me!” Again he looked in the mirror with sad complacency. + </p> + <p> + On these words his listener offered no comment, and he continued: + </p> + <p> + “For this reason I lifted my voice for the poor wanton. It was I who wrote + the letter to her that her child was alive. I did it with high purpose—I + foresaw that she would change her ways if she thought her child was + living. Was I mistaken? No. I am an observer of human nature. Intellect + conquered. ‘Io triumphe’. The poor fly-away changed, led a new life. Ever + since then she has tried to get the man—the lawyer—to tell her + where her child is. He has not done so. He has said the child is dead—always. + When she seemed to give up belief, then would come another letter to her, + telling her the child was living—but not where. So she would keep on + writing to the man, and sometimes she would go away searching—searching. + To what end? Nothing! She had a letter some months ago, for she had got + restless, and a young kinsman of the Seigneur had come to visit at the + seigneury for a week, and took much notice of her. There was danger. + Voila, another letter.” + </p> + <p> + “From you?” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, of course! Will you keep a secret—on your sacred honour?” + </p> + <p> + “I can keep a secret without sacred honour.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes, of course! You have a secret of your own—pardon me, I am + only saying what every one says. Well, this is the secret of the woman + Paulette Dubois. My cousin, Robespierre Dauphin, a notary in Quebec, is + the agent of the lawyer, the father of the child. He pities the poor + woman. But he is bound in professional honour to the lawyer fellow, not to + betray. When visiting Robespierre once I found out the truth-by accident. + </p> + <p> + “I told him what I intended. He gave permission to tell the woman her + child was alive; and, if need be for her good, to affirm it over and over + again—no more.” + </p> + <p> + “And this?” said Charley, pointing to the injured leg, for he now + associated the accident with the secret just disclosed. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you apprehend! You have an avocat’s mind—almost. It was at Four + Mountains. Paulette is superstitious; so not long ago she went to live + there alone with an old half-breed woman who has second-sight. Monsieur, + it is a gift unmistakably. For as soon as the hag clapped eyes on me in + the hut, she said: ‘There is the man that wrote you the letters.’ Well—what! + Paulette Dubois came down on me like an avalanche—Monsieur, like an + avalanche! She believed the old witch; and there was I lying with an + unconvincing manner”—he sighed—“lying requires practice, alas! + She saw I was lying, and in a rage snatched up my gun. It went off by + accident, and brought me down. Did she relent? Not so. She helped to bind + me up, and the last words she said to me were: ‘You will suffer; you will + have time to think. I am glad. You have kept me on the rack. I shall only + be sorry if you die, for then I shall not be able to torture you till you + tell me where my child is!’ Monsieur, I lied to the last, lest she should + come here and make a noise; but I’m not sure it wouldn’t have been better + to break faith with Robespierre, and tell the poor wanton where her child + is. What would you do, Monsieur? I cannot ask the Cure or the Seigneur—I + have reasons. But you have the head of a lawyer—almost—and you + have no local feelings, no personal interest—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “I should tell the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “Your reasons, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Because the lawyer is a scoundrel. Your betrayal of his secret is not a + thousandth part so bad as one lie told to this woman, whose very life is + her child. Is it a boy or a girl?” + </p> + <p> + “A boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Good! What harm can be done? A left-handed boy is all right in the world. + Your wife has twins—then think of the woman, the one ewe lamb of + ‘the poor wanton.’ If you do not tell her, you will have her here making a + noise, as you say. I wonder she has not been here on your door-step.” + </p> + <p> + “I had a letter from her to-day. She is coming-ah, mon dieu!” + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + There was a tap at the window. The Notary started. “Ah, Heaven, here she + is!” he gasped, and drew over to the wall. + </p> + <p> + A voice came from outside. “Shall I play for you, Dauphin? It is as good + as medicine.” + </p> + <p> + The Notary recovered himself at once. His volatile nature sprang back to + its pose. He could forget Paulette Dubois for the moment. + </p> + <p> + “It is Maximilian Cour in the garden,” he said happily. Then he raised his + voice. “Play on, baker; but something for convalescence—the return + of spring, the sweet assonance of memory.” + </p> + <p> + “A September air, and a gush of spring,” said the baker, trying to crane + his long neck through the window. “Ah, there you are, Dauphin! I shall + give you a sleep to-night like a balmy eve.” He nodded to the tailor. + “M’sieu’, you shall judge if sentiment be dead. + </p> + <p> + “I have racked my heart to play this time. I have called it, ‘The Baffled + Quest of Love’. I have taken the music of the song of Alsace, ‘Le Jardin + d’Amour’, and I have made variations on it, keeping the last verse of the + song in my mind. You know the song, M’sieu’: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘Quand je vais au jardin, Jardin d’amour, + Je crois entendu des pas, + Je veux fuir, et n’ose pas. + Voici la fin du jour... + Je crains et j’hesite, + Mon coeur bat plus vite + En ce sejour... + Quand je vais an jardin, jardin d’amour.’” + </pre> + <p> + The baker sat down on a stool he had brought, and began to tune his + fiddle. From inside came the voice of the Notary. + </p> + <p> + “Play ‘The Woods are Green’ first,” he said. “Then the other.” + </p> + <p> + The Notary possessed the one high-walled garden in the village, and though + folk gathered outside and said that the baker was playing for the sick + man, there was no one in the garden save the fiddler himself. Once or + twice a lad appeared on the top of the wall, looking over, but vanished at + once when he saw Charley’s face at the window. Long ere the baker had + finished, the song was caught up from outside, and before the last notes + of the violin had died away, twenty voices were singing it in the street, + and forty feet marched away with it into the dusk. + </p> + <p> + Darkness comes quickly in this land of brief twilight. Presently out of + the soft shadowed stillness, broken by the note of a vagrant whippoorwill, + crept out from Maximilian Cour’s old violin the music of ‘The Baffled + Quest of Love’. + </p> + <p> + The baker was not a great musician, but he had a talent, a rare gift of + pathos, and an imagination untrammelled by rigorous rules of harmony and + construction. Whatever there was in his sentimental bosom he poured into + this one achievement of his life. It brought tears to the eyes of Narcisse + Dauphin. It opened a gate of the garden wall, and drew inside a girl’s + face, shining with feeling. + </p> + <p> + Maximilian Cour spoke for more than himself that night. His philandering + spirit had, at middle age, begotten a desire to house itself in a quiet + place, where the blinds could be drawn close, and the room of life made + ready with all the furniture of love. So he had spoken to his violin, and + it had answered as it had never done before. The soul of the lean baker + touched the heart of a man whose life had been but a baffled quest, and + the spirit of a girl whose love was her sun by day, her moon by night, and + the starlight of her dreams. + </p> + <p> + From the shade of the window the man the girl loved watched her as she + sank upon the ground and clasped her hands before her in abandonment to + the music. He watched her when the baker, at last, overcome by his own + feelings—and ashamed of them—got up and stole swiftly out of + the garden. He watched her till he saw her drop her face in her hands; + then, opening the door and stealing out, he came and laid a hand upon her + shoulder, and she heard him say: + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVI. BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY + </h2> + <p> + Rosalie came to her feet, gasping with pleasure. She had been unhappy ever + since she had returned from Quebec, for though she had sometimes been + brought in contact with Charley in the Notary’s house since the day of the + operation, nothing had passed between them save the necessary commonplaces + of a sick-room, given a little extra colour, perhaps, by the sense of + responsibility which fell upon them both, and by that importance which + hidden sentiment gives to every motion. The twins had been troublesome and + ill, and Madame Dauphin had begged Rosalie to come in for a couple of + hours every evening. Thus the tailor and the girl who, by every rule of + wisdom, should have been kept as far apart as the poles, were played into + each other’s hands by human kindness and damnable propinquity. The man, + manlike, felt no real danger, because nothing was said—after + everything had been said for all time at the hut on Vadrome Mountain. He + had not realised the true situation, because of late her voice, like his, + had been even and her hand cool and steady. He had not noticed that her + eyes were like hungry fires, eating up her face—eating away its + roundness, and leaving a pathetic beauty behind. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to him that because there was silence—neither the written + word nor the speaking look—that all was well. He was hugging the + chain of denial to his bosom, as though to say, “This way is safety”; he + was hiding his face from the beacon-lights of her eyes, which said: “This + way is home.” + </p> + <p> + Home? Pictures of home, of a home such as Maximilian Cour painted in his + music, had passed before him now and then since that great day on Vadrome + Mountain. A simple fireside, with frugal but comfortable fare; a few + books; the study of the fields and woods; the daily humble task over which + he could meditate as his hands worked mechanically; the happy face of a + happy woman near—he had thought of home; and he had put it from him. + No matter what the temptation, his must be, perhaps for ever, the bed and + board unshared. He had had his chance in the old days, and he had thrown + it away with insolent indifference, and an unpardonable contempt for the + opinion of the world. + </p> + <p> + Now, with a blind fatuousness which had nothing to do with his old + intellectual power, but was evidence of a primitive life of feeling, had + vaguely imagined that because there were no clinging hands, or stolen + looks, or any vow or promise, that all might go on as at present—upon + the surface. With a curious absence of his old accuracy of observation he + was treating the immediate past—his and Rosalie’s past—as if + it did not actually exist; as if only the other and farther past was a + tragedy, and this nearer one a dream. + </p> + <p> + But the film fell from his eyes as Maximilian Cour played his ‘Baffled + Quest’, with its quaint, searching pathos; and as he saw the figure of the + girl alone in the shade of the great rose-bushes, past and present became + one, and the whole man was lost in that one word “Rosalie!” which called + her to her feet with outstretched hands. + </p> + <p> + The tears sprang to her eyes; her face upturned to his was a mute appeal, + a speechless ‘Viens ici’. + </p> + <p> + Past, present, future, duty, apprehension, consequences, suddenly fell + away from Charley’s mind like a garment slipping from the shoulders, and + the new man, swept off his feet by the onrush of unused and ungoverned + emotions, caught the girl to his arms with a desperate joy. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do you care, then—for me?” wept the girl, and hid her face in + his breast. + </p> + <p> + A voice came from inside the house: “Monsieur, Monsieur—ah, come, if + you please, tailor!” + </p> + <p> + The girl drew back quickly, looked up at him for one instant with a + triumphant happy daring, then, suddenly covered with confusion, turned, + ran to the gate, opened it, passed swiftly out, and was swallowed up in + the dusk. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVII. THE CHALLENGE OF PAULETTE DUBOIS + </h2> + <p> + “Monsieur, Monsieur!” came the voice from inside the house, querulously + and anxiously. Charley entered the Notary’s bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” said the Notary excitedly, “she is here—Paulette is + here. My wife is asleep, thank God! but old Sophie has just told me that + the woman asks to see me. Ah, Heaven above, what shall I do?” + </p> + <p> + “Will you leave it to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “You will do exactly as I say?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, most sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Keep still. I will see her first. Trust to me.” He turned and + left the room. + </p> + <p> + Charley found the woman in the Notary’s office, which, while partly + detached from the house, did duty as sitting-room and library. When + Charley entered, the room was only lighted by two candles, and Paulette’s + face was hidden by a veil, but Charley observed the tremulousness of the + figure and the nervous decision of manner. He had seen her before several + times, and he had always noticed the air, half bravado, half shrinking, + marking her walk and movements, as though two emotions were fighting in + her. She was now dressed in black, save for one bright red ribbon round + her throat, incongruous and garish. + </p> + <p> + When she saw Charley she started, for she had expected the servant with a + message from the Notary—her own message had been peremptory. + </p> + <p> + “I wish to see the Notary,” she said defiantly. + </p> + <p> + “He is not able to come to you.” + </p> + <p> + “What of that?” + </p> + <p> + “Did you expect to go to his bedroom?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” She was abrupt to discourtesy. + </p> + <p> + “You are neither physician, nor relative.” + </p> + <p> + “I have important business.” + </p> + <p> + “I transact his business for him, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a tailor.” + </p> + <p> + “I learned that; I am learning to be a notary.” + </p> + <p> + “My business is private.” + </p> + <p> + “I transact his private business too—that which his wife cannot do. + Would you prefer his wife to me? It must be either the one or the other.” + </p> + <p> + The woman started towards the door in a rage. He stepped between. “You + cannot see the Notary.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll see his wife, then—” + </p> + <p> + “That would only put the fat in the fire. His wife would not listen to + you. She is quick-tempered, and she fancies she has reasons for not liking + you.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s a fool. I haven’t been always particular, but as for Narcisse + Dauphin—” + </p> + <p> + “He has been a good friend to you at some expense, the world says.” + </p> + <p> + The woman struggled with herself. “The world lies!” she said at last. + </p> + <p> + “But he doesn’t. The village was against you once. That was when the + Notary, with the Seigneur, was for you—it has cost him something + ever since, I’m told. You’ve never thanked him.” + </p> + <p> + “He has tortured me for years, the oily, smirking, lying—” + </p> + <p> + “He has been your best friend,” he interrupted. “Please sit down, and + listen to me for a moment.” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated, then did as he asked. + </p> + <p> + “He tells me that years ago he was in love with you. Hasn’t he behaved + better than some who said they loved you?” + </p> + <p> + The woman half started up, her eyes flashing, but met a deprecating motion + of his hand and sat down again. + </p> + <p> + “He thought that if you knew your child lived, you would think better of + life—and of yourself. He has his good points, the Notary.” + </p> + <p> + “Why doesn’t he tell me where my child is?” + </p> + <p> + “The Notary is in bed—you shot him! Don’t you think it is doing you + a good turn not to have you arrested?” + </p> + <p> + “It was an accident.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, it wasn’t! You couldn’t make a jury believe that. And if you were + in prison, how could you find your child? You see, you have treated the + Notary very badly.” + </p> + <p> + She was silent, and he added, slowly: “He had good reasons for not telling + you. It wasn’t his own secret, and he hadn’t come by it in a strictly + professional way. Your child was being well cared for, and he told you + simply that it was alive—for your own sake. But he has changed his + mind at last, and—” + </p> + <p> + The woman sprang from her seat. “He will tell me—he will tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “I will tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur-Monsieur—ah, my God, but you are kind! How should you know—what + do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “I give you my word that by to-morrow evening you shall know where your + child is.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment she was bewildered and overcome, then a look of gratitude, of + luminous hope, covered her face, softening the hardness of its contour, + and she fell on her knees beside the table, dropped her head in her arms, + and sobbed as if her heart would break. + </p> + <p> + “My little lamb, my little, little lamb-my own dearest!” she sobbed. “I + shall have you again. I shall have you again—all my own!” + </p> + <p> + He stood and watched her meditatively. He was wondering why it was that + grief like this had never touched him so before. His eyes were moist. + Though he had been many things in his life, he had never been abashed; but + a curious timidity possessed him now. + </p> + <p> + He leaned over and touched her shoulder with a kindly abruptness, a + friendly awkwardness. “Cheer up,” he said. “You shall have your child, if + Dauphin can help you to it.” + </p> + <p> + “If he ever tries to take him from me”—she sprang to her feet, her + face in a fury—“I will—” + </p> + <p> + For an instant her overpowering passion possessed her, and she stood + violent and wilful; then, under his fixed, exacting gaze, her rage ceased; + she became still and grey and quiet. + </p> + <p> + “I shall know to-morrow evening, Monsieur? Where?” Her voice was weak and + distant. + </p> + <p> + He thought for a time. “At my house-at nine o’clock,” he answered at last. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” she said, in a choking voice, “if I get my child again, I will + bless you to my dying day.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no; it will be Dauphin you must bless,” he said, and opened the door + for her. As she disappeared into the dusk and silence he adjusted his + eye-glass, and stared musingly after her, though there was nothing to see + save the summer darkness, nothing to hear save the croak of the frogs in + the village pond. He was thinking of the trial of Joseph Nadeau, and of a + woman in the gallery, who laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, Monsieur,” called the voice of the Notary from the bedroom. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE CURE AND THE SEIGNEUR VISIT THE TAILOR + </h2> + <p> + It had been a perfect September day. The tailor of Chaudiere had been + busier than usual, for winter was within hail, and careful habitants were + renewing their simple wardrobes. The Seigneur and the Cure arrived + together, each to order the making of a greatcoat of the Irish frieze + which the Seigneur kept in quantity at the Manor. The Seigneur was in rare + spirits. And not without reason; for this was Michaelmas eve, and tomorrow + would be Michaelmas day, and there was a promise to be redeemed on + Michaelmas day! He had high hopes of its redemption according to his own + wishes; for he was a vain Seigneur, and he had had his way in all things + all his life, as everybody knew. Importunity with discretion was his + motto, and he often vowed to the Cure that there was no other motto for + the modern world. + </p> + <p> + The Cure’s visit to the tailor’s shop on this particular day had unusual + interest, for it concerned his dear ambition, the fondest aspiration of + his life: to bring the infidel tailor (they could not but call a man an + infidel whose soul was negative—the word agnostic had not then + become usual) from the chains of captivity into the freedom of the Church. + The Cure had ever clung to his fond hope; and it was due to his patient + confidence that there were several parishioners who now carried Charley’s + name before the shrine of the blessed Virgin, and to the little calvaries + by the road-side. The wife of Filion Lacasse never failed to pray for him + every day. The thousand dollars gained by the saddler on the tailor’s + advice had made her life happier ever since, for Filion had become saving + and prudent, and had even got her a “hired girl.” There were at least a + half-dozen other women, including Madame Dauphin, who did the same. + </p> + <p> + That he might listen again to the good priest on his holy hobby, inflamed + with this passion of missionary zeal, the Seigneur, this morning, had + thrown doubt upon the ultimate success of the Cure’s efforts. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Cure” said the Seigneur, “it is true, I think, what the tailor + suggested to my brother—on my soul, I wonder the Abbe gave in, for a + more obstinate fellow I never knew!—that a man is born with the + disbelieving maggot in his brain, or the butterfly of belief, or whatever + it may be called. It’s constitutional—may be criminal, but + constitutional. It seems to me you would stand more chance with the Jew, + Greek, or heretic, than our infidel. He thinks too much—for a + tailor, or for nine tailors, or for one man.” + </p> + <p> + He pulled his nose, as if he had said a very good thing indeed. They were + walking slowly towards the village during this conversation, and the Cure, + stopping short, brought his stick emphatically down in his palm several + times, as he said: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you will not see! You will not understand. With God all things are + possible. Were it the devil himself in human form, I should work and pray + and hope, as my duty is, though he should still remain the devil to the + end. What am I? Nothing. But what the Church has done, the Church may do. + Think of Paul and Augustine, and Constantine!” + </p> + <p> + “They were classic barbarians to whom religion was but an emotion. This + man has a brain which must be satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “I must count him as a soul to be saved through that very intelligence, as + well as through the goodness of his daily life, which, in its charity, + shames us all. He gives all he earns to the sick and needy. He lives on + fare as poor as the poorest of our people eat; he gives up his hours of + sleep to nurse the sick. Dauphin might not have lived but for him. His + heart is good, else these things were impossible. He could not act them.” + </p> + <p> + “But that’s just it, Cure. Doesn’t he act them? Isn’t it a whim? What more + likely than that, tired of the flesh-pots of Egypt, he comes here to live + in the desert—for a sensation? We don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “We do know. The man has had sorrow and the man has had sin. Yes, believe + me, there is none of us that suffers as this man has suffered. I have had + many, many talks with him. Believe me, Maurice, I speak the truth. My + heart bleeds for him. I think I know the thing that drove him here amongst + us. It is a great temptation, which pursues him here—even here, + where his life is so commendable. I have seen him fighting it. I have seen + his torture, the piteous, ignoble yielding, and the struggle, with more + than mortal energy, to be master of himself.” + </p> + <p> + “It is—” the Seigneur said, then paused. + </p> + <p> + “No, no; do not ask me. He has not confessed to me, Maurice-naturally, + nothing like that. But I know. I know and pity—ah, Maurice, I almost + love. You argue, and reason, but I know this, my friend, that something + was left out of this man when he was made, and it is that thing that we + must find, or he will die among us a ruined soul, and his gravestone will + be the monument of our shame. If he can once trust the Church, if he can + once say, ‘Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,’ then his temptation + will vanish, and I shall bring him in—I shall lead him home.” + </p> + <p> + For an instant the Seigneur looked at him in amazement, for this was a + Cure he had never known. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Cure, you are not your old self,” he said gently. + </p> + <p> + “I am not myself—yes, that is it, Maurice. I am not the old humdrum + Cure you knew. The whole world is my field now. I have sorrowed for sin, + within the bounds of this little Chaudiere. Now I sorrow for unbelief. + Through this man, through much thinking on him, I have come to feel the + woe of all the world. I have come to hear the footsteps of the Master + near. My friend, it is not a legend, not a belief now, it is a presence. I + owe him much, Maurice. In bringing him home, I shall understand what it + all means—the faith that we profess. I shall in truth feel that it + is all real. You see how much I may yet owe to him—to this infidel + tailor. I only hope I have not betrayed him,” he added anxiously. “I would + keep faith with him—ah, yes, indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “I only remember that you have said the man suffers. That is no betrayal.” + </p> + <p> + They entered the village in silence. Presently, however, the sound of + Maximilian Cour’s violin, as they passed the bakery, set the Seigneur’s + tongue wagging again, and it wagged on till they came to the tailor’s + shop. + </p> + <p> + “Good-day to you, Monsieur,” he said, as they entered. + </p> + <p> + “Have you a hot goose for me?” + </p> + <p> + “I have, but I will not press it on you,” replied Charley. + </p> + <p> + “Should you so take my question—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Should you so take my ‘anser’?” + </p> + <p> + The pun was new to the Seigneur, and he turned to the Cure chuckling. + “Think of that, Cure! He knows the classics.” He laughed till the tears + came into his eyes. + </p> + <p> + The next few moments Charley was busy measuring the two potentates for + greatcoats. As it was his first work for them, it was necessary for the + Cure to write down the Seigneur’s measurements, as the tailor called them + off, while the Seigneur did the same when the Cure was being measured. So + intent were the three it might have been a conference of war. The Seigneur + ventured a distant but self-conscious smile when the measurement of his + waist was called, for he had by two inches the advantage of the Cure, + though they were the same age, while he was one inch better in the chest. + The Seigneur was proud of his figure, and, unheeding the passing of + fashions, held to the knee-breeches and silk stockings long after they had + disappeared from the province. To the Cure he had often said that the only + time he ever felt heretical was when in the presence of the gaitered + calves of a Protestant dean. He wore his sleeves tight and his stock high, + as in the days when William the Sailor was king in England, and his long + gold-topped Prince Regent cane was the very acme of dignity. + </p> + <p> + The measurement done, the three studied the fashion plates—mostly + five years old—as Von Moltke and Bismarck might have studied the + field of Gravelotte. The Seigneur’s remarks were highly critical, till, + with a few hasty strokes on brown paper, Charley sketched in his figure + with a long overcoat in style much the same as his undercoat, stately and + flowing and confined at the waist. + </p> + <p> + “Admirable, most admirable!” said the Seigneur. “The likeness is + astonishing”—he admired the carriage of his own head in Charley’s + swift lines—“the garment in perfect taste. Form—there is + nothing like form and proportion in life. It is almost a religion.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear friend!” said the Cure, in amazement. + </p> + <p> + “I know when I am in the presence of an artist and his work. Louis Trudel + had rule and measure, shears and a needle. Our friend here has eye and + head, sense of form and creative gift. Ah, Cure, Cure, if I were + twenty-five, with the assistance of Monsieur, I would show the bucks in + Fabrique Street how to dress. What style is this called, Monsieur?” he + suddenly asked, pointing to the drawing. + </p> + <p> + “Style a la Rossignol, Seigneur,” said the tailor. + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur was flattered out of all reason. He looked across at the + post-office, where he could see Rosalie dimly moving in the shade of the + shop. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, if I had but ordered this coat sooner!” he said regretfully. He was + thinking that to-morrow was Michaelmas day, when he was to ask Rosalie for + her answer again, and he fancied himself appearing before her in the + gentle cool of the evening, in this coat, lightly thrown back, disclosing + his embroidered waistcoat, seals, and snowy linen. “Monsieur, I am highly + complimented, believe me,” he said. “Observe, Cure, that this coat is + invented for me on the spot.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure nodded appreciatively. “Wonderful! Wonderful! But do you not + think,” he added, a little wistfully—for, was he not a Frenchman, + susceptible like all his race to the appearance of things?—“do you + not think it might be too fashionable for me?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a whit—not a whit,” replied the Seigneur generously. “Should + not a Cure look distinguished—be dignified? Consider the length, the + line, the eloquence of design! Ah, Monsieur, once again, you are an + artist! The Cure shall wear it—indeed but he shall! Then I shall + look like him, and perhaps get credit for some of his perfections.” + </p> + <p> + “And the Cure?” said Charley. + </p> + <p> + “The Cure?—the Cure? Tiens, a little of my worldliness will do him + good. There are no contrasts in him. He must wear the coat.” He waved his + walking-stick complacently, for he was thinking that the Cure’s less + perfect figure would set off his own well as they walked together. “May I + have the honour to keep this as a souvenir?” he added, picking up the + sketch. + </p> + <p> + “With pleasure,” answered Charley. “You do not need it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure looked a little disappointed, and Charley, seeing, immediately + sketched on brown paper the priestly figure in the new-created coat, a la + Rossignol. On this drawing he was a little longer engaged, with the result + that the Cure was reproduced with a singular fidelity—in face, + figure, and expression a personality gentle yet important. + </p> + <p> + “On my soul, you shall not have it!” said the Seigneur. “But you shall + have me, and I shall have you, lest we both grow vain by looking at + ourselves.” He thrust the sketch of himself into the Cure’s hands, and + carefully rolled up that of his friend. + </p> + <p> + The Cure was amazed at this gift of the tailor, and delighted with the + picture of himself—his vanity was as that of a child, without guile + or worldliness. He was better pleased, however, to have the drawing of his + friend by him, that vanity might not be too companionable. He thanked + Charley with a beaming face, and then the two friends bowed and moved + towards the door. Suddenly the Cure stopped. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Maurice,” said he, “we have forgotten the important thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Think of that—we two old babblers!” said the Seigneur. He nodded + for the Cure to begin. “Monsieur,” said the Cure to Charley, “you maybe + able to help us in a little difficulty. For a long time we have intended + holding a great mission with a kind of religious drama like that performed + at Ober-Ammergau, and called The Passion Play. You know of it, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Very well through reading, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “Next Easter we propose having a Passion Play in pious imitation of the + famous drama. We will hold it at the Indian reservation of Four Mountains, + thus quickening our own souls and giving a good object-lesson of the great + History to the Indians.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure paused rather anxiously, but Charley did not speak. His eyes were + fixed inquiringly on the Cure, and he had a sudden suspicion that some + devious means were forward to influence him. He dismissed the thought, + however, for this Cure was simple as man ever was made, straightforward as + the most heretical layman might demand. + </p> + <p> + The Cure, taking heart, again continued: “Now I possess an authentic + description of the Ober-Ammergau drama, giving details of its presentation + at different periods, and also a book of the play. But there is no one in + the parish who reads German, and it occurred to the Seigneur and myself + that, understanding French so well, by chance you may understand German + also, and would, perhaps, translate the work for us.” + </p> + <p> + “I read German easily and speak it fairly,” Charley answered, relieved; + “and you are welcome to my services.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure’s pale face flushed with pleasure. He took the little German book + from his pocket, and handed it over. + </p> + <p> + “It is not so very long,” he said; “and we shall all be grateful.” Then an + inspiration came to him; his eyes lighted. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” he said, “you will notice that there are no illustrations in + the book. It is possible that you might be able to make us a few drawings—if + we do not ask too much? It would aid greatly in the matter of costume, and + you might use my library—I have a fair number of histories.” The + Cure was almost breathless, his heart thumped as he made the request. + After a slight pause he added, hastily: “You are always doing for others. + It is hardly kind to ask you; but we have some months to spare; there need + be no haste.” Charley hastened to relieve the Cure’s anxiety. “Do not + apologise,” he said. “I will do what I can when I can. But as for drawing, + Monsieur, it will be but amateurish.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” interposed the Seigneur promptly, “if you’re not an artist, + I’m damned!” + </p> + <p> + “Maurice!” murmured the Cure reproachfully. “Can’t help it, Cure. I’ve + held it in for an hour. It had to come; so there it is exploded. I see no + damage either, save to my own reputation. Monsieur,” he added to Charley, + “if I had gifts like yours, nothing would hold me. I should put on more + airs than Beauty Steele.” + </p> + <p> + It was fortunate that, at that instant, Charley’s face was turned away, or + the Seigneur would have seen it go white and startled. Charley did not + dare turn his head for the moment. He could not speak. What did the + Seigneur know of Beauty Steele? + </p> + <p> + To hide his momentary confusion, he went over to the drawer of a cupboard + in the wall, and placed the book inside. It gave him time to recover + himself. When he turned round again his face was calm, his manner + composed. + </p> + <p> + “And who, may I ask, is Beauty Steele?” he said. “Faith I do not know,” + answered the Seigneur, taking a pinch of snuff. “It’s years since I first + read the phrase in a letter a scamp of a relative of mine wrote me from + the West. He had met a man of the name, who had a reputation as a clever + fop, a very handsome fellow. So I thought it a good phrase, and I’ve used + it ever since on occasions. ‘More airs than Beauty Steele.’—It has a + sound; it’s effective, I fancy, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Decidedly effective,” answered Charley quietly. He picked up his shears. + “You will excuse me,” he said grimly, “but I must earn my living. I cannot + live on my reputation.” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur and the Cure lifted their hats—to the tailor. + </p> + <p> + “Au revoir, Monsieur,” they both said, and Charley bowed them out. + </p> + <p> + The two friends turned to each other a little way up the street. + “Something will come of this, Cure,” said the Seigneur. The Cure, whose + face had a look of happiness, pressed his arm in reply. + </p> + <p> + Inside the tailor-shop, a voice kept saying, “More airs than Beauty + Steele!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIX. THE SCARLET WOMAN + </h2> + <p> + Since the evening in the garden when she had been drawn into Charley’s + arms, and then fled from them in joyful confusion, Rosalie had been in a + dream. She had not closed her eyes all night, or, if she closed them, they + still saw beautiful things flashing by, to be succeeded by other beautiful + things. It was a roseate world. To her simple nature it was not so + important to be loved as to love. Selfishness was as yet the minor part of + her. She had been giving all her life—to her mother, as a child; to + sisters at the convent who had been kind to her; to the poor and the sick + of the parish; to her father, who was helpless without her; to the tailor + across the way. In each case she had given more than she had got. A nature + overflowing with impulsive affection, it must spend itself upon others. + The maternal instinct was at the very core of her nature, and care for + others was as much a habit as an instinct with her. She had love to give, + and it must be given. It had been poured like the rain from heaven on the + just and the unjust; on animals as on human beings, and in so far as her + nature, in the first spring—the very April—of its powers, + could do. + </p> + <p> + Till Charley had come to Chaudiere, it had all been the undisciplined + ardour of a girl’s nature. A change had begun in the moment when she had + tearfully thrust the oil and flour in upon his excoriated breast. Later + came real awakening, and a riotous outpouring of herself in sympathy, in + observation, in a reckless kindness which must have done her harm but that + her clear intelligence balanced her actions, and because secrecy in one + thing helped to restrain her in all. Yet with all the fresh overflow of + her spirit, which, assisted by her new position as postmistress, made her + a conspicuous and popular figure in the parish, where officialdom had rare + honour and little labour, she had prejudices almost unworthy of her, due + though they were to radical antipathy. These prejudices, one against Jo + Portugais and the other against Paulette Dubois, she had never been able + entirely to overcome, though she had honestly tried. On the way to the + hospital at Quebec, however, Jo had been so careful of her father, so + respectful when speaking of M’sieu’, so regardful of her own comfort, that + her antagonism to him was lulled. But the strong prejudice against + Paulette Dubois remained, casting a shadow on her bright spirit. + </p> + <p> + All this day she had moved about in a mellow dream, very busy, scarcely + thinking. New feelings dominated her, and she was too primitive to analyse + them and too occupied with them to realise acutely the life about her. + Work was an abstraction, resting rather than tiring her. + </p> + <p> + Many times she had looked across at the tailor-shop, only seeing Charley + once. She did not wish to speak with him now, nor to be near him yet; she + wanted this day for herself only. + </p> + <p> + So it was that, soon after the Cure and the Seigneur had bade good-bye to + Charley, she left the post-office and went quickly through the village to + a spot by the river, where was a place called the Rest of the Flaxbeaters. + It was an overhanging rock which made a kind of canopy over a sweet + spring, where, in the days when their labours sounded through the valley, + the flaxbeaters from the level below came to eat their meals and to rest. + </p> + <p> + This had always been a resort for her in the months when the flax-beaters + did not use it. Since a child she had made the place her own. To this day + it is called Rosalie’s Dell; for are not her sorrows and joys still told + by those who knew and loved her? and is not the parish still fragrant with + her name? Has not her history become a living legend a thousand times + told? + </p> + <p> + Leaving the village behind her, Rosalie passed down the high-road till she + came to a path that led off through a grove of scattered pines. There + would be yet a half-hour’s sun and then a short twilight, and the river + and the woods and the Rest of the Flax-beaters would be her own; and she + could think of the wonderful thing come upon her. She had brought with her + a book of English poems, and as she went through the grove she opened it, + and in her pretty English repeated over and over to herself: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My heart is thine, and soul and body render + Faith to thy faith; I give nor hold in thrall: + Take all, dear love! thou art my life’s defender; + Speak to my soul! Take life and love; take all!” + </pre> + <p> + She was lifted up by the abandonment of the verse, by the fulness of her + own feelings, which had only needed a touch of beauty to give it + exaltation. The touch had come. + </p> + <p> + She went on abstractedly to the place where she had trysted with her + thoughts only, these many years, and, sitting down, watched the sun sink + beyond the trees, the shades of evening fall. All that had happened since + Charley came to the parish she went over in her mind. She remembered the + day he had said this, the day he had said that; she brought back the night—it + was etched upon her mind!—when he had said to her, “You have saved + my life, Mademoiselle!” She recalled the time she put the little cross + back on the church-door, the ghostly footsteps in the church, the light, + the lost hood. A shudder ran through her now, for the mystery of that hood + had never been cleared up. But the words on the page caught her eye again: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My heart is thine, and soul and body render + Faith to thy faith...” + </pre> + <p> + It swallowed up the moment’s agitation. Never till this day, never till + last night, had she dared to say to herself, He loves me. He seemed so far + above her—she never had thought of him as a tailor!—that she + had given and never dared hope to receive, had lived without anticipation + lest there should come despair. Even that day at Vadrome Mountain she had + not thought he meant love, when he had said to her that he would remember + to the last. When he had said that he would die for love’s sake, he had + not meant her, but others—some one else whom he would save by his + death. Kathleen, that name which had haunted her—ah, whoever + Kathleen was, or whatever Kathleen had to do with him or his life, she had + no reason to fear Kathleen now. She had no reason to fear any one; for had + she not heard his words of love as he clasped her in his arms last night? + Had she not fled from that enfolding, because her heart was so full in the + hour of her triumph that she could not bear more, could not look longer + into the eyes to which she had told her love before his was spoken? + </p> + <p> + In the midst of her thoughts she heard footsteps. She started up. Paulette + Dubois suddenly appeared in the path below. She had taken the river-path + down from Vadrome Mountain, where she had gone to see Jo Portugais, who + had not yet returned from Quebec. Paulette’s face was agitated, her manner + nervous. For nights she had not slept, and her approaching meeting with + the tailor had made her tremble all day. Excited as she was, there was a + wild sort of beauty in her face, and her figure was lithe and supple. She + dressed always a little garishly, but now there was only that band of + colour round the throat, worn last night in the talk with Charley. + </p> + <p> + To both women this meeting was as a personal misfortune, a mutual affront. + Each had a natural antipathy. To Rosalie the invasion of her beloved + retreat was as hateful as though the woman had purposely intruded. + </p> + <p> + For a moment they confronted each other without speaking, then Rosalie’s + natural courtesy, her instinctive good-heartedness, overcame her + irritation, and she said quietly: + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not Madame, and you know it,” answered the woman harshly. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry. Good-evening, Mademoiselle,” rejoined Rosalie evenly. + </p> + <p> + “You wanted to insult me. You knew I wasn’t Madame.” + </p> + <p> + Rosalie shook her head. “How should I know? You have not always lived in + Chaudiere, you have lived in Montreal, and people often call you Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “You know better. You know that letters come to me from Montreal addressed + Mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + Rosalie turned as if to go. “I do not recall what letters pass through the + post-office. I have a good memory for forgetting. Good-evening,” she + added, with an excess of courtesy. Paulette read the placid scorn in the + girl’s face; she did not see and would not understand that Rosalie did not + scorn her for what she had ever done, but for something that she was. + </p> + <p> + “You think I am the dirt under your feet,” she said, now white, now red, + and mad with anger. “I’m not fit to speak with you—I’m a rag for the + dust pile!” + </p> + <p> + “I have never thought so,” answered Rosalie. “I have not liked you, but I + am sorry for you, and I never thought those things.” + </p> + <p> + “You lie!” was the rejoinder; and Rosalie, turning away quickly with + trouble in her face, put her hands to her ears, and, hastening down the + hillside, did not hear the words the woman called after her. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow every one shall know you are a thief. Run, run, run! You can + hear what I say, white-face! They shall know about the little cross + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + She followed Rosalie at a distance, her eyes blazing. As fate would have + it, she met on the highroad the least scrupulous man in the parish, an + inveterate gossip, the keeper of the general store, whose only opposition + in business was the post-office shop. He was the centre of the village + tittle-tattle, and worse. With malicious speed Paulette told him how she + had seen Rosalie Evanturel nailing the little cross on the church door of + a certain night. If he wanted proof of what she said, let him ask Jo + Portugais. + </p> + <p> + Having spat out her revenge, she went on to the village, and through it to + her house, where she prepared to visit the shop of the tailor. Her sense + of retaliation satisfied, Rosalie passed from her mind; her child only + occupied it. In another hour she would know where her child was—the + tailor had promised that she should. Then perhaps she would be sorry for + the accident to the Notary; for it was an accident, in spite of + appearances. + </p> + <p> + It was dark when Paulette entered the door of the tailor’s house. When she + came out, a half-hour later, with elation in her carriage, and tears of + joy running down her face, she did not look about her; she did not care + whether or not any one saw her: she was possessed with only one thought—her + child! She passed like a swift wind down the street, making for home and + for her departure to the hiding-place of her child. + </p> + <p> + She had not seen a figure in the shadow of a tree near by as she came from + the tailor’s door. She had not heard a smothered cry behind her. She was + not aware that in unspeakable agony another woman knocked softly at the + door of the tailor’s house, and, not waiting for an answer, opened it and + entered. It was Rosalie Evanturel. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XL. AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING + </h2> + <p> + The kitchen was empty, but light fell through the door of the shop opening + upon the little hall between. Rosalie crossed the hall and stood in the + doorway of the shop, a figure of concentrated indignation, despair, and + shame. Leaning on his elbow Charley was bending over a book in the light + of a candle on the bench be side him. He was reading aloud, translating + into English the German text of the narrative the Cure had given him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And because of this divine interposition, consequent upon their + faithful prayers and their oblations, they did perform these holy + scenes from season to season, with solemn proof of piety and godly + living, so that it seemed the life of the Lord our Shepherd was ever + present with them, as though, indeed, Ober-Ammergau were Nazareth or + Jerusalem. And the hearts of all in the land did answer daily to + that sweet and lively faith, insomuch that even in times of war the + zeal of the people became an holy zeal, and their warfare noble; so + that they did accept both victory and defeat with equal humbleness. + Because there was no war in their hearts, but peace, and they did + fight to defend and not to acquire, they buried their foe with tears + and their own with singleness of heart and quiet joy, for that they + did rest from their labours. In this manner was the great tragedy + and glory of the world made to the people a present thing, + transforming them to the body of the Life that hath neither spot nor + blemish nor...” + </pre> + <p> + Charley had not heard Rosalie enter, nor her footsteps in the hall. But + now there ran through his reading a thread of something not of himself or + of it. He had thrilled to the archaic but clear-hearted style of the old + German chronicler, and the warmth he felt had passed into his voice, so + that it became louder. + </p> + <p> + As Rosalie listened to his reading, a hundred thoughts rushed through her + mind. Paulette Dubois, the wanton woman, had just left his doorway + secretly, yet there he was, instantly after, calmly reading a pious book! + Her mind was in tumult. She could not reason, she could not rule her + judgment. She only knew that the woman had come from this house, and + hurried guiltily away into the dark. She only knew that the man the woman + had left here was the man she loved—loved more than her life, for he + embodied all her past; all her present—she knew that she could not + live without him; all her future—for where he went she would go, + whatever the fate. + </p> + <p> + Her judgment had been swept from its moorings. She had been carried on the + wave of her heart’s fever into this room, not daring to think this or + that, not planning this or that, not accusing, not reproaching, not + shaming herself and him by black suspicion, but blindly, madly demanding + to see him, to look into his eyes, to hear his voice, to know him, + whatever he was—man, lover, or devil. She was a child-woman—a + child in her primitive feelings that threw aside all convention, because + there was no wrong in her heart; a woman, because she was possessed by a + jealousy which shamed and angered her, because its very existence put him + on trial, condemned him. Her soul was the sport of emotions and passions + stronger than herself, because the heritage, the instinct, of all the race + of women, the eternal predisposition. At the moment her will was not + sufficient to rule them to obedience. She was in the first subservience to + that power which feeds the streams of human history. + </p> + <p> + As she now listened to Charley reading, a sudden revulsion of feeling came + over her. Some note in his voice reassured her heart—if it needed + reassuring. The quiet force of his presence stilled the tumult in her, so + that her eyes could see without mist, her heart beat without agony; but + every pulse in her was throbbing, every instinct was alive. Presently + there rushed upon her the words that had rung in her ears and chimed in + her heart at the Rest of the Flax-beaters: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Take all, dear love! thou art my life’s defender; + Speak to my soul! Take life and love; take all.” + </pre> + <p> + Feelings lying beneath the mad conflict of emotion which had sent her into + this room in such unmaidenly fashion—feelings that were her deepest + self-welled up. Her breath came hard and broken. + </p> + <p> + As Charley read on, a breathing seemed to answer his own. It became + quicker than his own, it pierced the stillness, it filled the room with + feeling, it came calling to him out of the silence. He swung round, and + saw the girl in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie!” he cried, and sprang to his feet. + </p> + <p> + With a piteously pathetic cry, she flung herself on her knees beside the + tailor’s bench where he worked every day, and, burying her face in her + arms as they rested on the bench, wept bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie!” he said anxiously, leaning over her. “What is the matter? What + has happened?” + </p> + <p> + She wept more bitterly still; she made a despairing gesture. His hand + touched her hair; he dropped on a knee beside her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I am so ashamed, ashamed! I have been so wicked,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie, what has happened?” he urged gently. His own heart was beating + hard, his own eyes were responding to hers. The new feelings alive in him, + the forces his love had awakened, which, last night, had kept him + sleepless, and had been upon him like a dream all day—they were at + height in him now. He knew not how to command them. + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie, dearest, tell me all!” he persisted. + </p> + <p> + “I shall never—I have been—oh—you will never forgive + me!” she said brokenly. “I knew it wasn’t true, but I couldn’t help it. I + saw her—the woman—come from your house, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush! For God’s sake, hush!” he broke in almost harshly. Then a better + understanding came upon him, and it made him gentle with her. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Rosalie, you did not think! But—but it was natural you should + wish to see me....” + </p> + <p> + “But, as soon as I saw you, I knew that—that—” She broke down + again and wept. + </p> + <p> + “I will tell you about her, Rosalie—” His fingers stroked her hair, + and, bending over her, his face was near her hands. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, tell me nothing—oh, if you tell me!—” + </p> + <p> + “She came to hear from me what she ought to have heard from the Notary. + She has had great trouble—the man—her child—and I have + helped her, told her—” His face was so near now that his breath was + on her hair. She suddenly raised her head and clasped his face in her + hands. + </p> + <p> + “I knew—oh, I knew, I knew...!” she wept, and her eyes drank his. + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie, my life!” he cried, clasping her in his arms. + </p> + <p> + The love that was in him, new-born and but half understood, poured itself + out in broken words like her own. For him there was no outside world; no + past, no Kathleen, no Billy; no suspicion, or infidelity, or unfaith; no + fear of disaster; no terrors of the future. Life was Now to him and to + her: nothing brooded behind, nothing lay before. The candle spluttered and + burnt low in the socket. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLI. IT WAS MICHAELMAS DAY + </h2> + <p> + Not a cloud in the sky, and, ruling all, a sweet sun, liberal in warmth + and eager in brightness as its distance from the northern world decreased. + As Mrs. Flynn entered the door of the post-office she sang out to + Maximilian Cour, with a buoyant lilt: “Oh, isn’t it the fun o’ the world + to be alive!” + </p> + <p> + The tailor over the way heard it, and lifted his head with a smile; + Rosalie Evanturel, behind the postal wicket, heard it, and her face swam + with colour. Rosalie busied herself with the letters and papers for a + moment before she answered Mrs. Flynn’s greeting, for there were ringing + in her ears the words she herself had said a few days before: “It is good + to live, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + To-day it was so good to live that life seemed an endless being and a + tireless happy doing—a gift of labour, an inspiring daytime, and a + rejoicing sleep. Exaltation, a painful joy, and a wide embarrassing + wonderment possessed her. She met Mrs. Flynn’s face at the wicket with + shining eyes and a timid smile. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, there y’are, darlin’!” said Mrs. Flynn. “And how’s the dear father + to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “He seems about the same, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that’s foine. Shure, if we could always be ‘about the same,’ we’d do. + True for you, darlin’, ‘tis as you say. If ould Mary Flynn could be always + ‘‘bout the same,’ the clods o’ the valley would never cover her bones. But + there ‘tis—we’re here to-day, and away tomorrow. Shure, though, I am + not complainin’. Not I—not Mary Flynn. Teddy Flynn used to say to + me, says he: ‘Niver born to know distress! Happy as worms in a garden av + cucumbers. Seventeen years in this country, Mary,’ says he, ‘an’ nivir in + the pinitintiary yet.’ There y’are. Ah, the birds do be singin’ to-day! + ‘Tis good! ‘Tis good, darlin’! You’ll not mind Mary Flynn callin’ you + darlin’, though y’are postmistress, an’ ‘ll be more than that—more + than that wan day—or Mary Flynn’s a fool. Aye, more than that y’ll + be, darlin’, and y’re eyes like purty brown topazzes and y’re cheeks like + roses-shure, is there anny lether for Mary Flynn, darlin’?” she hastily + added as she saw the Seigneur standing in the doorway. He had evidently + been listening. + </p> + <p> + “Ye didn’t hear what y’re ould fool of a cook was sayin’,” she added to + the Seigneur, as Rosalie shook her head and answered: “No letters, Madame—dear.” + Rosalie timidly added the dear, for there was something so great-hearted + in Mrs. Flynn that she longed to clasp her round the neck, longed as she + had never done in her life to lay her head upon some motherly breast and + pour out her heart. But it was not to be now. Secrecy was her duty still. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t ye speak to y’re ould fool of a cook, sir?” Mrs. Flynn said again, + as the Seigneur made way for her to leave the shop. + </p> + <p> + “How did you guess?” he said to her in a low voice, his sharp eyes peering + into hers. + </p> + <p> + “By the looks in y’re face these past weeks, and the look in hers,” she + whispered, and went on her way rejoicing. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll wind thim both round me finger like a wisp o’ straw,” she said, + going up the road with a light step, despite her weight, till she was + stopped by the malicious grocer-man of the village, whose tongue had been + wagging for hours upon an unwholesome theme. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, in the post-office, the Seigneur and Rosalie were face to face. + </p> + <p> + “It is Michaelmas day,” he said. “May I speak with you, Mademoiselle?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at the clock. It was on the stroke of noon. The shop always + closed from twelve till half-past twelve. + </p> + <p> + “Will you step into the parlour, Monsieur?” she said, and coming round the + counter, locked the shop-door. She was trembling and confused, and entered + the little parlour shyly. Yet her eyes met the Seigneur’s bravely. “Your + father, how is he?” he said, offering her a chair. The sunlight streaming + in the window made a sort of pathway of light between them, while they + were in the shade. + </p> + <p> + “He seems no worse, and to-day he is wheeling himself about.” + </p> + <p> + “He is stronger, then—that’s good. Is there any fear that he must go + to the hospital again?” + </p> + <p> + She inclined her head. “The doctor says he may have to go any moment. It + may be his one chance. The Cure is very kind, and says that, with your + permission, his sister will keep the office here, if—if needed.” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur nodded briskly. “Of course, of course. But have you not + thought that we might secure another postmistress?” + </p> + <p> + Her face clouded a little; her heart beat hard. She knew what was coming. + She dreaded it, but it was better to have it over now. + </p> + <p> + “We could not live without it,” she said helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “What we have saved is not enough. The little my mother had must pay for + the visits to the hospital. I have kept it for that. You see, I need the + place here.” + </p> + <p> + “But you have thought, just the same. Do you not know the day?” he asked + meaningly. + </p> + <p> + She was silent. + </p> + <p> + “I have come to ask you to marry me—this is Michaelmas day, + Rosalie.” + </p> + <p> + She did not speak. He had hopes from her silence. “If anything happened to + your father, you could not live here alone—but a young girl! Your + father may be in the hospital for a long time. You cannot afford that. If + I were to offer you money, you would refuse. If you marry me, all that I + have is yours to dispose of at your will: to make others happy, to take + you now and then from this narrow place, to see what’s going on in the + world.” + </p> + <p> + “I am happy here,” she said falteringly. + </p> + <p> + “Chaudiere is the finest place in the world,” he replied proudly, and as a + matter of fact. “But, for the sake of knowledge, you should see what the + rest of the world is. It helps you to understand Chaudiere better. I ask + you to be my wife, Rosalie.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head sorrowfully. + </p> + <p> + “You said before, it was not because I am old, not because I am rich, not + because I am Seigneur, not because I am I, that you refused me.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled at him now. “That is true,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Then what reason can you have? None, none. ‘Pon honour, I believe you are + afraid of marriage because it’s marriage. By my life, there’s naught to + dread. A little giving here and taking there, and it’s easy. And when a + woman is all that’s good, to a man, it can be done without fear or + trembling. Even the Cure would tell you that.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I know, I know,” she said, in a voice half painful, half joyous. “I + know that it is so. But, oh, dear Monsieur, I cannot marry you—never—never.” + </p> + <p> + He hung on bravely. “I want to make life easy and happy for you. I want + the right to do so. When trouble comes upon you—” + </p> + <p> + “When it does I will turn to you—ah, yes, I would turn to you + without fear, dear Monsieur,” she said, and her heart ached within her, + for a premonition of sorrow came upon her and filled her eyes, and made + her heart like lead within her breast. “I know how true a gentleman you + are,” she added. “I could give you everything but that which is life to + me, which is being, and soul, and the beginning and the end.” + </p> + <p> + The weight of the revealing hour of her life, its wonder, its agony, its + irrevocability, was upon her. It was giving new meanings to + existence-primitive woman, child of nature as she was. All morning she had + longed to go out into the woods and bury herself among the ferns and + bracken, and laugh and weep for very excess of feeling, downright joy and + vague woe possessing her at once. She looked the Seigneur in the eyes with + consuming earnestness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it is not because I am young,” she said, in a low voice, “for I am + old—indeed, I am very old. It is because I cannot love you, and + never can love you in the one great way; and I will not marry without + love. My heart is fixed on that. When I marry, it will be when I love a + man so much that I cannot live without him. If he is so poor that each + meal is a miracle, it will make no difference. Oh, can’t you see, can’t + you feel, what I mean, Monsieur—you who are so wise and learned, and + know the world so well?” + </p> + <p> + “Wise and learned!” he said, a little roughly, for his voice was husky + with emotion. “‘Pon honour, I think I am a fool! A bewildered fool, that + knows no more of woman than my cook knows Sanscrit. Faith, a hundred times + less! For Mary Flynn’s got an eye to see, and, without telling, she knew I + had a mind set on you. But Mary Flynn thought more than that, for she has + an idea that you’ve a mind set on some one, Rosalie. She thought it might + be me.” + </p> + <p> + “A woman is not so easily read as a man,” she replied, half smiling, but + with her eyes turned to the street. A few people were gathering in front + of the house—she wondered why. + </p> + <p> + “There is some one else—that is it, Rosalie. There is some one else. + You shall tell me who it is. You shall—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped short, for there was a loud knocking at the shop-door, and the + voice of M. Evanturel calling: “Rosalie! Rosalie! Rosalie! Ah, come + quickly—ah, my Rosalie!” + </p> + <p> + Without a look at the Seigneur, Rosalie rushed into the shop and opened + the front door. Her father was deathly pale, and was trembling violently. + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie, my bird,” he cried indignantly, “they’re saying you stole the + cross from the church door.” + </p> + <p> + He was now wheeled inside the shop, and people gathered round, looking at + him and Rosalie, some covertly, some as friends, some in a half-frightened + way, as though strange things were about to happen. + </p> + <p> + “Shure, ‘tis a lie, or me name’s not Mary Flynn—the darlin’!” said + the Seigneur’s cook, with blazing face. “Who makes this charge?” roared an + angry voice. No one had seen the Seigneur enter from the little room + beside the shop, and at the sound of the sharp voice the people fell back, + for he was as free with his stick as his tongue. + </p> + <p> + “I do,” said the grocer, to whom Paulette Dubois had told her story. + </p> + <p> + “Ye shall be tarred and feathered before y’are a day older,” said Mary + Flynn. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie was very pale. + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur was struck by this and by the strangeness of her look. + </p> + <p> + “Clear the room,” he said to Filion Lacasse, who was now a constable of + the parish. + </p> + <p> + “Not yet!” said a voice at the doorway. “What is the trouble?” It was the + Cure, who had already heard rumours of the scandal, and had come at once + to Rosalie. M. Evanturel tried to speak, and could not. But Mary Flynn + did, with a face like a piece of scarlet bunting. Having finished with a + flourish, she could scarce keep her hands off the cowardly grocer. + </p> + <p> + The Cure turned to Rosalie. “It is absurd,” he said. “Forgive me,” he + added to the Seigneur. “It is better that Rosalie should answer this + charge. If she gives her word of honour, I will deny communion to whoever + slanders her hereafter.” + </p> + <p> + “She did it,” said the grocer stubbornly. “She can’t deny it.” + </p> + <p> + “Answer, Rosalie,” said the Cure firmly. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me; I will answer,” said a voice at the door. The tailor of + Chaudiere made his way into the shop, through the fast-gathering crowd. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLII. A TRIAL AND A VERDICT + </h2> + <p> + “What right have you to answer for mademoiselle?” said the Seigneur, with + a sudden rush of jealousy. Was not he alone the protector of Rosalie + Evanturel? Yet here was mystery, and it was clear the tailor had something + important to say. M. Rossignol offered the Cure a chair, seated himself on + a small bench, and gently drew Rosalie down beside him. + </p> + <p> + “I will make this a court,” said he. “Advance, grocer.” + </p> + <p> + The grocer came forward smugly. + </p> + <p> + “On what information do you make this charge against mademoiselle?” + </p> + <p> + The grocer volubly related all that Paulette Dubois had said. As he told + his tale the Cure’s face was a study, for the night the cross was restored + came back to him, and the events, so far as he knew them, were in keeping + with the grocer’s narrative. He looked at Rosalie anxiously. Monsieur + Evanturel moaned, for he remembered he had heard Rosalie come in very late + that night. Yet he fixed his eyes on her in dog-like faith. + </p> + <p> + “Mademoiselle will admit that this is true, I presume,” said Charley. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie looked at him intently, as though to read his very heart. It was + clear that he wished her to say yes; and what he wished was law. + </p> + <p> + “It is quite true,” answered Rosalie calmly, and all fear passed from her. + </p> + <p> + “But she did not steal the cross,” continued Charley, in a louder voice, + that all might hear, for people were gathering fast. + </p> + <p> + “If she didn’t steal it, why was she putting it back on the church door in + the dark?” said the grocer. “Ah, hould y’r head, ould sand-in-the-sugar!” + said Mrs. Flynn, her fingers aching to get into his hair. “Silence!” said + the Seigneur severely, and looked inquiringly at Rosalie. Rosalie looked + at Charley. + </p> + <p> + “It is not a question of why mademoiselle put the cross back,” he said. + “It is a question of who took the cross away, is it not? Suppose it was + not a theft. Suppose that the person who took the relic thought to do a + pious act—for your Church, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not see,” the Cure answered helplessly. “It was a secret act, + therefore suspicious at least.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Let your good gifts be in secret, and your Heavenly Father who seeth in + secret will reward you openly,”’ answered Charley. “That, I believe, is a + principle you teach, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “At one time Monsieur the tailor was thought to have taken the cross,” + said the Seigneur suggestively. “Perhaps Monsieur was secretly doing good + with it?” he added. It vexed him that there should be a secret between + Rosalie and this man. + </p> + <p> + “It had to do with me, not I with it,” he answered evenly. He must travel + wide at first to convince their narrow brains. “Mademoiselle did a kind + act when she nailed that cross on the church door again—to make a + dead man rest easier in his grave.” + </p> + <p> + A hush fell upon the crowd. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie looked at Charley in surprise; but she saw his meaning presently—that + what she did for him must seem to have been done for the dead tailor only. + Her heart beat hot with indignation, for she would, if she but might, cry + her love gladly from the hill-tops of the world. + </p> + <p> + Alight began to break upon the Cure’s mind. “Will Monsieur speak plainly?” + he said. + </p> + <p> + “I did not see Louis Trudel take the cross, but I know that he did.” + </p> + <p> + “Louis Trudel! Louis Trudel!” interposed the Seigneur anxiously. “What + does this mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur speaks the truth,” interposed Rosalie. The Cure recalled the + death-bed of Louis Trudel, and the dying man’s strange agitation. He also + recalled old Margot’s death, and her wish to confess some one else’s + wrong-doing. He was convinced that Charley was speaking the truth. + </p> + <p> + “It is true,” added Charley slowly; “but you may think none the worse of + him when you know all. He took the cross for temporary use, and before he + could replace it he died.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know what he meant, or did not mean?” said the Seigneur in + perplexity. “Did he take you into his confidence?” + </p> + <p> + “The very closest,” answered Charley grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Yet he looked upon you as an infidel, and said hard things of you on his + death-bed,” urged the Cure anxiously. He could not see the end of the + tale, and he was troubled for both the dead man and the living. + </p> + <p> + “That was why he took me into his confidence. I will explain. I have not + the honour to have the fulness of your Christian faith, Monsieur le Cure. + I had asked him to show me a sign from heaven, and he showed it by the + little iron cross.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t make anything of that,” said the Seigneur peevishly. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie sprang to her feet. “He will not tell the whole truth, Messieurs, + but I will. With that little cross Louis Trudel would have killed + Monsieur, had it not been for me.” + </p> + <p> + A gasp of excitement went out from those who stood by. + </p> + <p> + “But for you, Rosalie?” asked the Cure. + </p> + <p> + “But for me. I saw Louis Trudel raise an iron against Monsieur that day in + the shop. It made me nervous—I thought he was mad. So I watched. + That night I saw a light in the tailor-shop late. I thought it strange. I + went over and peeped through the cracks of the shutters. I saw old Louis + at the fire with the little cross, red-hot. I knew he meant trouble. I ran + into the house. Old Margot was beside herself with fear—she had seen + also. I ran through the hall and saw old Louis upstairs with the burning + cross. I followed. He went into Monsieur’s room. When I got to the door”—she + paused, trembling, for she saw Charley’s reproving eyes upon her—“I + saw him with the cross—with the cross raised over Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “He meant to threaten me,” interposed Charley quickly. + </p> + <p> + “We will have the truth!” said the Seigneur, in a husky voice. + </p> + <p> + “The cross came down on Monsieur’s bare breast.” The grocer laughed + vindictively. + </p> + <p> + “Silence!” growled the Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + “Silence!” said Filion Lacasse, and dropped his hand on the grocer’s + shoulder. “I’ll baste you with a stirrup-strap.” + </p> + <p> + “The rest is well known,” quickly interposed Charley. “The poor man was + mad. He thought it a pious act to mark an infidel with the cross.” + </p> + <p> + Every eye was fixed upon him. The Cure remembered Louis Trudel’s last + words: “Look—look—I gave—him—the sign—of...!” + Old Margot’s words also kept ringing in his ears. He turned to the + Seigneur. “Monsieur,” said he, “we have heard the truth. That act of Louis + Trudel was cruel and murderous. May God forgive him! I will not say that + mademoiselle did well in keeping silent—” + </p> + <p> + “God bless the darlin’!” cried Mrs. Flynn. + </p> + <p> + “—but I will say that she meant to do a kind act for a man’s mortal + memory—perhaps at the expense of his soul.” + </p> + <p> + “For Monsieur to take his injury in silence, to keep it secret, was kind,” + said the Seigneur. “It is what our Cure here might call bearing his cross + manfully.” + </p> + <p> + “Seigneur,” said the Cure reproachfully, “Seigneur, it is no subject for + jest.” + </p> + <p> + “Cure, our tailor here has treated it as a jest.” + </p> + <p> + “Let him show his breast, if it’s true,” said the grocer, who, beneath his + smirking, was a malignant soul. + </p> + <p> + The Cure turned on him sharply. Seldom had any one seen the Cure roused. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you, Ba’tiste Maxime, that your base curiosity should be + satisfied—you, whose shameless tongue clattered, whose foolish soul + rejoiced over the scandal? Must we all wear the facts of our lives—our + joys, our sorrows, and our sins—for such eyes as yours to read? + Bethink you of the evil things that you would hide—aye, every one + here!” he added loudly. “Know, all of you, what goodness of heart towards + a wicked man lay behind the secret these two have kept, that old Margot + carried to her grave. When you go to your homes, pray for as much human + kindness in you as a man of no Church or faith can show. For this child”—he + turned to Rosalie-“honour her! Go now—go in peace!” + </p> + <p> + “One moment,” said the Seigneur. “I fine Ba’tiste Maxime twenty dollars + for defamation of character. The money to go for the poor.” + </p> + <p> + “You hear that, ould sand-in-the-sugar!” said Mrs. Flynn. “Will you let me + kiss ye, darlin’?” she added to Rosalie, and, waddling over, reached out + her hands. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie’s eyes were wet as she warmly kissed the old Irishwoman, and + thereupon they entered into a friendship which was without end. + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur drove the crowd from the shop, and shut the door. + </p> + <p> + The Cure came to Charley. “Monsieur,” said he, “I have no words. When I + remember what agonies you suffered in those hours, how bravely you endured + them—ah, Monsieur!” he added, with moist eyes, “I shall always feel + that—that you are not far from the kingdom of God.” + </p> + <p> + A silence fell upon them, for the Cure, the Seigneur, and Rosalie, as they + looked at Charley, thought of the scar like a red cross on his breast. + </p> + <p> + It touched Charley with a kind of awe. He smiled painfully. “Shall I give + you proof?” he said, making a motion to undo his waistcoat. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur!” said the Seigneur reprovingly, and holding out his hand. + “Monsieur! We are all gentlemen!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIII. JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY + </h2> + <p> + Walking slowly, head bent, eyes unseeing, Charley was on his way to + Vadrome Mountain, with the knowledge that Jo Portugais had returned. + </p> + <p> + The hunger for companionship was on him: to touch some mind that could + understand the deep loneliness which had settled on him since that scene + in the postoffice. It was the loneliness of a new and great separation. He + had wakened to it to-day. + </p> + <p> + Once before, in the hut on Vadrome Mountain, he had wakened from a grave, + had been born again. Last night had come still another birth, had come, as + with Rosalie herself, knowledge, revelation, understanding. To Rosalie the + new vision had come with a vague pain of heart, without shame, and with a + wonderful happiness. Pain, shame, knowledge, and a happiness that passed + suddenly into a despairing sorrow, had come to him. + </p> + <p> + In finding love he had found conscience, and in finding conscience he was + on his way to another great discovery. + </p> + <p> + Looking to where Jo Portugais’ house was set among the pines, Charley + remembered the day—he saw the scene in his mind’s eye—when + Rosalie entered with the letter addressed “To the sick man at the house of + Jo Portugais, at Vadrome Mountain,” and he saw again her clear, unsoiled + soul in the deep inquiring eyes. + </p> + <p> + “If you but knew”—he turned and looked down at the village below—“if + you but knew!” he said, as though to all the world. “I have the sign from + heaven—I know it now. To-day I wake to know what life means, and I + see—Rosalie! I know now—but how? In taking all she had to + give. What does she get in return? Nothing—nothing. Because I love + her, because the whole world is nothing beside her, nor life, nor twenty + lives, if I had them to give, I must say to her now: ‘Rosalie, it was love + that brought you to my arms, it is love that says, Thus far and no + farther. Never again—never—never—never!’ Yesterday I + could have left her—died or vanished, without real hurt to her. She + would have mourned and broken her heart and mended it again; and I should + have been only a memory—of mystery, of tenderness. Then, one day she + would have married, and no sting from my going would have remained. She + would have had happiness, and I neither shame nor despair.... To-day it is + all too late. We have drunk too deep-alas! too deep. She cannot marry + another man, for ghosts will not lie for asking, and what is mine may not + be another’s. She cannot marry me, for what once was mine is mine still by + ring and by book, and I should always be haunted by a torturing shadow. + Kathleen has the right of way, not Rosalie. Ah, Rosalie, I dare not wrong + you further. Yet to marry you, even as things are, if that might be! To + live on here unrecognised? I am little like my old self, and year after + year I should grow less and less like Charley Steele.... But, no, it is + not possible!” + </p> + <p> + He stopped short in his thoughts, and his lips tightened in bitterness. + </p> + <p> + “God in heaven, what an impasse!” he said aloud. + </p> + <p> + There was a sudden crackling of twigs as a man rose up from a log by the + wayside ahead of him. It was Jo Portugais, who had seen him coming, and + had waited for him. He had heard Charley’s words. + </p> + <p> + “Do you call me an impasse, M’sieu’?” Charley grasped Portugais’ hand. + </p> + <p> + “What has happened, M’sieu’?” Jo asked anxiously. There was a brief + silence, and then Charley told him of the events of the morning. + </p> + <p> + “You know of the mark-here?” he asked, touching his breast. + </p> + <p> + Jo nodded. “I saw, when you were ill.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet you never asked!” + </p> + <p> + “I studied it out—I knew old Louis Trudel. Also, I saw ma’m’selle + nail the cross to the church door. Two and two together in my mind did it. + I didn’t think Paulette Dubois would tell. I warned her.” + </p> + <p> + “She quarrelled with mademoiselle. It was revenge. + </p> + <p> + “She might have been less vindictive. She had had good luck herself + lately.” + </p> + <p> + “What good luck had she, M’sieu’?” + </p> + <p> + Charley told Jo the story of the Notary, the woman, and the child. + </p> + <p> + Jo made no comment. They relapsed into silence. Arriving at the house, + they entered. Jo lighted his pipe, and smoked steadily for a time without + speaking. Buried in thought, Charley stood in the doorway looking down at + the village. At last he turned. + </p> + <p> + “Where have you been these weeks past, Jo?” + </p> + <p> + “To Quebec first, M’sieu’.” + </p> + <p> + Charley looked curiously at Jo, for there was meaning in his tone. “And + where last?” + </p> + <p> + “To Montreal.” + </p> + <p> + Charley’s face became paler, his hands suddenly clinched, for he read the + look in Jo’s eyes. He knew that Jo had been looking at people and places + once so familiar; that he had seen—Kathleen. + </p> + <p> + “Go on. Tell me all,” he said heavily. + </p> + <p> + Portugais spoke in English. The foreign language seemed to make the truth + less naked and staring to himself. He had a hard story to tell. + </p> + <p> + “It is not to say why I go to Montreal,” he began. “But I go. I have my + ears open; my eyes, she is not close. No one knows me—I am no + account of. Every one is forgot the man, Joseph Nadeau, who was try for + his life. Perhaps it is every one is forget the lawyer who save his neck—perhaps? + So I stand by the streetside. I say to a man as I look up at sign-boards,’ + ‘Where is that writing “M’sieu’ Charles Steele,” and all the res’?’ ‘He is + dead long ago,’ say the man to me. ‘A good thing too, for he was the very + devil.’ ‘I not understan’,’ I say. ‘I tink that M’sieu’ Steele is a dam + smart man back time.’ ‘He was the smartes’ man in the country, that Beauty + Steele,’ the man say. ‘He bamboozle the jury hevery time. He cut up bad + though.’” + </p> + <p> + Charley raised his hand with a nervous gesture of misery and impatience. + </p> + <p> + “‘Where have you been,’ that man say—‘where have you been all these + times not to know ‘bout Charley Steele, hein?’ ‘In the backwoods,’ I say. + ‘What bring you here now?’ he ask. ‘I have a case,’ I say. ‘What is it?’ + he ask. ‘It is a case of a man who is punish for another man,’ I say. + ‘That’s the thing for Charley Steele,’ he laugh. ‘He was great man to root + things out. Can’t fool Charley Steele, we use to say here. But he die a + bad death.’ ‘What was the matter with him?’ I say. ‘He drink too much, he + spend too much, he run after a girl at Cote Dorion, and the river-drivers + do for him one night. They say it was acciden’, but is there any green on + my eye? But he die trump—jus’ like him. He have no fear of devil or + man,’ so the man say. ‘But fear of God?’ I ask. ‘He was hinfidel,’ he say. + ‘That was behin’ all. He was crooked all roun’. He rob the widow and + horphan?’ ‘I think he too smart for that,’ I speak quick. ‘I suppose it + was the drink,’ he say. ‘He loose his grip.’ ‘He was a smart man, an’ he + would make you all sit up, if he come back,’ I hanswer. ‘If he come back!’ + The man laugh queer at that. ‘If he comeback, there would be hell.’ ‘How + is that?’ I say. ‘Look across the street,’ he whisper. ‘That was his + wife.’” + </p> + <p> + Charley choked back a cry in his throat. Jo had no intention of cutting + his story short. He had an end in view. + </p> + <p> + “I look across the street. There she is—’ Ah, that is a fine woman + to see! I have never seen but one more finer to look at—here in + Chaudiere.’ The man say: ‘She marry first for money, and break her heart; + now she marry for love. If Beauty Steele come back-eh! sacra! that would + be a mess. But he is at the bottom of the St Lawrence—the courts say + so, and the Church say so—and ghosts don’t walk here.’ ‘But if that + Beauty Steele come back alive, what would happen it?’ I speak. ‘His wife + is marry, blockhead!’ he say. + </p> + <p> + “‘But the woman is his,’ I hanswer. ‘Do you think she would go back to a + thief she never love from the man she love?’ he speak back. ‘She is not + marry to the other man,’ I say, ‘if Beauty Steele is...’ ‘He is dead as a + door,’ he swear. ‘You see that?’ he go on, nodding down the street. ‘Well, + that is Billy.’ ‘Who is Billy?’ I ask. ‘The brother of her,’ he say. + ‘Charley, he spoil Billy. Billy, he has not been the same since Charley’s + death-he is so ashame of Charley. When he get drunk he talk of nothing + else. We all remember that Charley spoil him, and that make us sorry for + him.’ ‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘I think that Billy is a dam smart man. He is + smart as Charley Steele.’ ‘Charley was the smartes’ man in the country,’ + he say again. ‘I’ve got his practice now, but this town will never be the + same without him. Thief or no thief, I wish he is alive here. By the Lord, + I’d get drunk with him!’ He was all right, that man,” Jo added finally. + </p> + <p> + Charley’s agitation was hidden. His eyes were fixed on Jo intently. “That + was Larry Rockwell. Go on,” he said, in a hard metallic voice. + </p> + <p> + “I see—her, the next night again. It is in the white stone house on + the hill. All the windows are open, an’ I can hear her to sing. I not know + that song. It begin, ‘Oft in the stilly night’—like that.” + </p> + <p> + Charley stiffened. It was the song Kathleen sang for him the night they + became engaged. + </p> + <p> + “It is a good voice-that. I see her face, for there is a candle on the + piano. I come close and closter to the house. There is big maple-trees—I + am well hid. A man is beside her. He lean hover her an’ put his hand on + her shoulder. ‘Sing it again, Kat’leen,’ he say. ‘I cannot to get + enough.’” + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” said Charley, in a strained, harsh voice. “Not yet, M’sieu’,” said + Portugais. “It is good for you to hear what I say.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Come, Kat’leen!’ the man say, an’ he blow hout the candle. I hear them + walk away, an’ the door shut behin’ them. Then I hear anudder voice—ah, + that is a baby—very young baby!” + </p> + <p> + Charley quickly got to his feet. “Not another word!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, but there is one word more, M’sieu’,” said Jo, standing up and + facing him firmly. “You must go back. You are not a thief. The woman is + yours. You throw your life away. What is the man to you—or the man’s + brat of a child? It is all waiting for you. You mus’ go back. You not + steal the money, but that Billy—it is that Billy, I know. You can + forgive your wife, and take her back, or you can say to both, Go! You can + put heverything right and begin again.” + </p> + <p> + Anger, wild words, seemed about to break from Charley’s lips, but he + conquered himself. + </p> + <p> + The old life had been brought back to him with painful acuteness and + vividness. The streets of the town, the people in the street, Billy, the + mean scoundrel, who could not leave him alone in the grave of obscurity, + Kathleen—Fairing. The voice of the child—with her voice—was + in his ears. A child! If he had had a child, perhaps——He + stopped short in his thinking, his face all at once flooding with colour. + For a moment he stood looking out of the window down towards the village. + He could see the post-office like a toy house among toy houses. At last he + turned to Jo. + </p> + <p> + “Never again while I live, speak of this to me: of the past, of going + back, or of—of anything else,” he said. “I cannot go back. I am dead + and shamed. Let the dust of forgetfulness come and cover the past. I’ve + begun life again here, and here I stay, and see it out. I shall work out + the problem here.” He dropped a hand on the other’s shoulder. “Jo,” said + he, “we are both shipwrecks. Let us see how long we can float.” + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’, is it worth it?” said Portugais, remembering his confession to + the Abbe, and seeing the end of it all to himself. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, Jo. Let us wait and see how Fate will play us.” + </p> + <p> + “Or God, M’sieu’?” + </p> + <p> + “God or Fate—who knows” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIV. “WHO WAS KATHLEEN?” + </h2> + <p> + The painful incidents of the morning weighed heavily upon Rosalie, and she + was glad when Madame Dugal came to talk with her father, who was ailing + and irritable, and when Mrs. Flynn drove her away with a kiss on either + cheek, saying: “Don’t come back, darlin’, till there’s roses in both + cheeks, for y’r eyes are ‘atin’ up yer face!” + </p> + <p> + She had seen Charley take the path to Vadrome Mountain, and to the Rest of + the Flax-beaters she betook herself, in the blind hope that, returning, he + might pass that way. Under the influence of the fresh air and the quiet of + the woods her spirits rose, her pulse beat faster, though a sense of + foreboding and sorrow hovered round her. The two-miles walk to her beloved + retreat seemed a matter of minutes only, so busy were her thoughts. + </p> + <p> + Her mind was one luxurious confusion, through which travelled a ghostly + little sprite, who kept tumbling her thoughts about, sneering, smirking, + whispering—“You dare not go to confession—dare not go to + confession. You will never be the same again—never feel the same + again—never think the same again; your dreams are done! You can only + love. And what will this love do for you? What do you expect to happen—you + dare not go to confession!” + </p> + <p> + Her reply had been the one iteration: “I love him—I love him—I + love him. We shall be together all our lives, till we are old and grey. I + shall watch him at his work, and listen to his voice. I shall read with + him and walk with him, and I shall grow to think like him a little—in + everything except religion. In everything except that. One day he will + come to think like me—to believe in God.” + </p> + <p> + In the dreamy happiness of these thoughts the colour came to her cheeks, + the roses of light gathered in her eyes. In her tremulous ardour she + scarcely realised how time passed, and her reverie deepened as the + afternoon shadows grew and the sun made to its covert behind the hills. + She was roused by a man’s voice singing, just under the bluff where she + sat. To her this voice represented the battle-call, the home-call, the + life call of the universe. The song it sang was known to her. It was as + old as Rizzio. It had come from old France with Mary, had been merged into + English words and English music, and had voyaged to New France. There it + had been sung by lovers in fair vales, on wide rivers, and in deep + forests: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “What is not mine I may not hold, + (Ah, hark the hunter’s horn!), + And what is thine may not be sold, + (My love comes through the corn!); + And none shall buy + And none shall sell + What Love works well?” + </pre> + <p> + In the walk back from Vadrome Mountain, a change—a fleeting change—had + passed over Charley’s mind and mood. The quiet of the woodland, the song + of the birds, the tumbling brook, the smell of the rich earth, + replenishing its strength from the gorgeous falling leaves, had soothed + him. Thoughts of Rosalie took a new form. Her image possessed him, + excluding the future, the perils that surrounded them. He had gone through + so much within the past twenty-four hours that the capacity for suffering + had almost exhausted itself, and in the reaction endearing thoughts of + Rosalie had dominion over him. It was the reassertion of primitive man, + the demands of the first element. The great problem was still in the + background. The picture of Kathleen and the other man was pushed into the + distance; thoughts of Billy and his infamy were thrust under foot—how + futile to think of them! There was Rosalie to be thought of, the to-day + and to-morrow of the new life. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie was of to-day. How strong and womanly she had been this morning, + the girl whose life had been bounded by this Chaudiere, with a + metropolitan convent and hospital as her only glimpses of the busy world. + She would fit in anywhere—in the highest places, with her grace, and + her nobleness of mind, arcadian, passionate and beautiful. There came upon + him again the feeling of the evening before, when he saw her standing in + his doorway, the night about them, jealous affection, undying love, in her + eyes. It quickened his steps imperceptibly. He passed a stream, and + glanced down into a dark pool involuntarily. It reflected himself clearly. + He stopped short. “Is this you, Beauty Steele?” he said, and he caught his + brown beard in his hand. “Beauty Steele had brains and no heart. You have + heart, and your wits have gone wool-gathering. No matter! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What is not mine I may not hold, + (Ah, hark the hunter’s horn!)’” + </pre> + <p> + he sang, and came quickly along the stream where the flax-beaters worked + in harvest-time, then up the hill, then—Rosalie. + </p> + <p> + She started to her feet. “I knew you would come—I knew you would!” + she said. + </p> + <p> + “You have been waiting here for me?” he asked breathless, taking her hand. + </p> + <p> + “I felt you would come. I made you,” she added smiling, and, eagerly + answering the look in his eyes, threw her arms round his neck. In that + moment’s joy a fresh realisation of their fate came upon him with dire + force, and a bitter protest went up from his heart, that he and she should + be sacrificed. + </p> + <p> + Yet the impasse was there, and what could remove it—what clear the + way? + </p> + <p> + He looked down at the girl whose head was buried in happy peace on his + shoulder. She clung to him, as though in him was everlasting protection + from the sprite that kept whispering: “You dare not go to confession—your + dreams are done—you can only love.” But she had no fear now. + </p> + <p> + As he looked down at her a swift change passed over him, and, almost for + the first time since he was a little child, his eyes filled with tears. He + hastily brushed them away, and drew her down on the seat beside him. He + was wondering how he should tell her that they must not meet like this, + that they must be apart. No matter what had happened, no matter what love + there was, it was better that they should die—that he should die—than + that they should meet like this. There was only one end to secret + meetings, and discovery was inevitable. Then, with discovery, shame to + her. For he must either marry her—how could he marry her?—or + die. For him to die would but increase her misery. + </p> + <p> + The time had passed when it could be of any use. It passed that day in the + hut on Vadrome Mountain when she said that if he died, she would die with + him—“Where you are going you will be alone. There will be no one to + care for you, no one but me.” Last night it passed for ever. She had put + her life into his hands; henceforth, there could never be a question of + giving or taking, of withdrawing or advancing, for all was irrevocable, + sealed with the great seal. Yet she must be saved. But how? + </p> + <p> + She suddenly looked up at him. “I can ask you anything I want now, can’t + I?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Anything, Rosalie.” + </p> + <p> + “You know that when I ask, it is because I want to know what you know, so + that I may feel as you feel. You know that, don’t you? + </p> + <p> + “I know it when you tell me, wonderful Rosalie.” What a revelation it was, + this transmuting power, which could change mortal dross into the coin of + immortal wealth! + </p> + <p> + “I want to ask you,” she said, “who was Kathleen?” His blood seemed to go + cold in his veins, and he sat without answering, shocked and dismayed. + What could she know of Kathleen? + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you tell me?” she asked anxiously yet fearfully. He looked so + strange that she thought she had offended him. “Please don’t mind telling + me. I should understand everything—everything. Was it some one you + loved—once?” It was hard for her to say it, but she said it bravely. + </p> + <p> + “No. I never loved any one in all the world, Rosalie—not till I + loved you.” + </p> + <p> + She gave a happy sigh. “Oh, it is wonderful!” she said. “It is wonderful + and good! Did you—did you love me from the very first?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I did, though I didn’t know it from the very first,” he answered + slowly. His heart beat hard, for he could not guess how she should know of + Kathleen. It was absurdly impossible that she should know. “But many have + loved you!” she said proudly. “They have not shown it,” he answered + grimly; then added quickly, and with aching anxiety: “When did you hear of—of + Kathleen?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you are such a blind huntsman!” she laughed. “Don’t you know where my + little fox was hiding? Why, in the shop, when you held the note-paper up + to the light, and looked startled, and bought all the paper we had that + was water-marked Kathleen. Do you think that was clever of me? I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it was very clever,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Then she-Kathleen—doesn’t really matter?” she asked eagerly. “Of + course she can’t, if you don’t love her. But does she love you? Did she + ever love you?” “Never in her life.” + </p> + <p> + “So of course it doesn’t matter,” she rejoined. “Hush!” she added rapidly. + “I see some one coming in the trees yonder. It may be some one for me. + Father knows I come here sometimes. Go quickly and hide behind the rocks, + please. I’ll stay and see who it is. Please go—dearest.” + </p> + <p> + He kissed her, and, keeping out of sight, got to a place of safety a few + hundred feet away. + </p> + <p> + He saw the new-comer run to Rosalie, speak to her, saw Rosalie half turn + in his own direction, then go hastily down the hillside with the + messenger. + </p> + <p> + “It is her father!” he exclaimed, and followed at a distance. At the + village he learned that M. Evanturel had had another seizure. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLV. SIX MONTHS GO BY + </h2> + <p> + Spring again—budding trees and flowing sap; the earth banks removed + from the houses, and outside windows discarded; the ice tumbling and + crunching in the river; the dormant farmer raising his head to the energy + and delight of April. + </p> + <p> + The winter had been long and hard. Never had there been severer frost or + deeper snow, and seldom had big game been so plentiful. In the snug warm + stables the cattle munched and chewed the cud; the idle, long-haired + horses grew as spirited in the keen air as in summer they were sluggish + with hard work; and the farm-hands were abroad in the dark of the early + mornings with lanterns, to feed the stock and take them out to water, + singing cheerfully. All morning spread the clamour of the flail and the + fanning-mill, the swish of the knife through the turnips and the beets, + and the sound of the saw and the axe, as the youngest man of the family, + muffled to the nose, sawed the wood into lengths or split the knots. + </p> + <p> + Night brought the cutting and stringing of apples, the shelling of the + Indian corn, the making of rag carpets. On Saturday came the going to + market with grain, or pork, or beef, or fowls frozen like stones; the + gossip in the market-place. Then again sounded jingling sleigh-bells as, + on the return road, the habitant made for home, a glass of white whiskey + inside him, and black-eyed children in the doorway, swarming like bees at + the mouth of a hive. + </p> + <p> + This particular winter in Chaudiere had been full of excitement and + expectation. At Easter-time there was to be the great Passion Play, after + the manner of that known as The Passion Play of Ober-Ammergau. Not one in + a hundred habitants had ever heard of Ober-Ammergau, but they had all + shared in picturesque processions of the Stations of the Cross to some + calvaire; and many had taken part in dramatic scenes arranged from the + life of Christ. Drama of a crude kind was deep in them; it showed in + gesture, speech, and temperament. + </p> + <p> + In all the preparations Maximilian Cour was a conspicuous and useful + official. Gifted with the dramatic temperament to a degree rare in so + humble a man, he it was who really educated the people of Chaudiere in the + details of the Passion Play to be produced by the good Catholics of the + parish and the Indians of the reservation. He had gone to the Cure every + day, and the Cure had talked with him, and then had sent him to the + tailor, who had, during the past six months, withdrawn more and more from + the life about him, practically living with shut door. No one ventured in + unless on business, or were in need, or wished advice. These he never + turned empty away. + </p> + <p> + Besides Portugais, Maximilian Cour was the one man received constantly by + the tailor. With patience and insight Charley taught the baker, by + drawings and careful explanations, the outlines of the representation, and + the baker grew proud of the association, though Charley’s face used to + haunt him in his sleep. Excitable, eager, there was an elemental + adaptability in the baker, as easily leading to Avernus as to Elysium. + This appealed to Charley, realising, as he did, that Maximilian Cour was a + reputable citizen by mere accident. The baker’s life had run in a + sentimental groove of religious duty; that same sentimentality would, in + other circumstances, have forced him with equal ardour into the broad + primrose path. + </p> + <p> + In the evening hours and on Sunday Charley had worked at his drawings for + the scenery and costumes of the Play, and completed his translation of the + German text, but there had been days when he could not put pen to paper. + Life to him now was one aching emptiness—since that day at the Rest + of the Flax-beaters Rosalie had been absent. On the very morning after + their meeting by the river she had gone away with her father to the great + hospital at Montreal—not Quebec this time, on the advice of the + Seigneur—as the one chance of prolonging his life. There had come + but one letter from her since that hour when he saw her in the Seigneur’s + coach with her father, moving away in the still autumn air, a piteous + appeal in her eyes. The good-bye look she gave him then was with him day + and night. + </p> + <p> + She had written him one letter, and he had written one in reply, and no + more. Though he was wholly reckless for himself, for her he was prudent + now—there was nothing else to do. To save her—if he could but + save her from himself! If he might only put back the clock! + </p> + <p> + In his letter to her he had simply said that it were wiser not to write, + since the acting postmistress, the Cure’s sister, would note the exchange + of letters, and this would arouse suspicion. He could not see what was + best to do, what was right to do. To wait seemed the only thing, and his + one letter ended with the words: Rosalie, my life is lived only in the + thought of you. There is no hour but I think of you, no moment but you are + with me. The greatest proof of love that man can give, I will give to you, + in the hour fate wills—for us. But now, we must wait—we must + wait, Rosalie. Do not write to me, but know that if I could go to you I + would go; if I could say to you, Come, I would say it. If the giving of my + life would save you any pain or sorrow, I would give it. + </p> + <p> + Sitting on his bench at work, it seemed to Charley that sometimes she was + near him, and more than once he turned quickly round as though she were, + in very truth, standing beside him. He thought of her continually, and + often with an unbearable pain. He figured her in his mind as pale and + distressed, and always her eyes had the piteous terror of that last look + as she went away over the hills. + </p> + <p> + But the weeks had worn on, then the Seigneur, who had been to Montreal, + came back with the news that Rosalie was looking as beautiful as a + picture. “Grown a woman in beauty and in stature; comely—comely as a + lady in a Watteau picture, my dear messieurs!” he had said to the Cure, + standing in the tailor’s shop. + </p> + <p> + Replying, the Cure had said: “She is in good hands, with good people, + recommended to me by an abbe there; yet I am not wholly happy about her. + When her trouble comes to her”—Charley’s needle slipped and pierced + his finger to the bone—“when her father goes, as he must, I fear, + there will be no familiar face; she will hear no familiar voice.” + </p> + <p> + “Faith, there you are wrong, my dear Cure” answered the Seigneur; + “there’ll be a face yonder she likes very well indeed, and a voice she’s + fond of too.” + </p> + <p> + Charley’s back was on them at that moment, of which he was glad, for his + face was haggard with anxiety, and it seemed hours before the Cure said: + “Whom do you mean, Maurice?” and hours before the Seigneur replied: “Mrs. + Flynn, of course. I’m sending her tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Flynn had gone, and Charley had, in one sense, been made no happier + by that, for it seemed to him that Rosalie would rather that strangers’ + eyes were on her than the inquisitively friendly eye of Mary Flynn. + </p> + <p> + Weeks had grown into months, and no news came—none save that which + the Cure let fall, or was brought by the irresponsible Notary, who heard + all gossip. Only the Cure’s scant news were authentic, however, and + Charley never saw the good priest but he had a secret hope of hearing him + say that Rosalie was coming back. Yet when she came back, what would, or + could, he do? There was always the crime for which he or Billy must be + punished. Concerning this crime his heart was growing harder—for + Rosalie’s sake. But there was Kathleen—and Rosalie was now in the + city where she lived, and they might meet! There was one solution—if + Kathleen should die! It sickened him that he could think of that with a + sense of relief, almost of hope. If Kathleen should die, then he would be + free to marry Rosalie—into what? He still could only marry her into + the peril and menace of the law? Again, even if Kathleen did not stand in + the way, neither the Cure nor any other priest would marry him to her + without his antecedents being certified. A Protestant minister would, + perhaps, but would Rosalie give up her faith? Following him without the + blessing of the Church, she would trample under foot every dear tradition + of her life, win the scorn of all of her religion, and destroy her own + peace; for the faith of her fathers was as the breath of her nostrils. + What cruelty to her! + </p> + <p> + But was it, after all, even true that he had but to call and she would + come? In truth it well might be that she had learned to despise him; to + feel how dastardly he had been to take her love, given in blind + simplicity, bestowed like the song of the bird upon the listening fields—to + take the plenteous fulness of her life, and give nothing in return save + the empty hand, the hopeless hour, the secret sorrow. + </p> + <p> + Nothing could quench his misery. The physical part of him craved without + ceasing for something to allay his distress. Again and again he fought his + old enemy with desperate resolve. To fall again, to touch liquor once + more, was to end all for ever. He fought on tenaciously and gloomily, with + little of the pride of life, with nothing of the old stubborn self-will, + but with a new-awakened sense. He had found conscience at last—and + more. + </p> + <p> + The months went by and still M. Evanturel lingered on, and Rosalie did not + come. The strain became too great at last. In the week preceding Easter, + when all the parish was busy at Four Mountains, making costumes, + rehearsing, building, putting up seats, cutting down trees, and erecting + crosses and calvaries, Charley disclosed to Jo a new intention. + </p> + <p> + In the earlier part of the winter Jo and he had met two or three times a + week, but now Jo had come to help him with his work in the shop—two + silent, devoted companions. They understood each other, and in that + understanding were life and death. For never did Jo forget that a year + from the day he had confessed his sins he meant to give himself up to + justice. This caused him no sleepless nights. He thought more of Charley + than of himself, and every month now he went to confession, and every day + he said his prayers. He was at his prayers when Charley went to tell him + of his purpose. Charley had often seen Jo on his knees of late, and he had + wondered, but not with the old pagan mind. “Jo,” he said, “I am going away—to + Montreal.” + </p> + <p> + “To Montreal!” exclaimed Jo huskily. “You are going back—to stay?” + </p> + <p> + “Not that. I am going—to see—Rosalie Evanturel.” Jo was + troubled but not dumfounded. It had slowly crept into his mind that + Charley loved the girl, though he had no real ground for suspicion. His + will, however, had been so long the slave of the other man’s that he had + far-off reflections of his thoughts. He made no reply in words, but nodded + his head. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to stay here, Jo. If I don’t come back, and—and she + does, stand by her, Jo. I can trust you.” “You will come back, M’sieu’—but + you will come back, then?” Jo asked heavily. + </p> + <p> + “If I can, Jo—if I can,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + Long after he had gone, Jo wandered up and down among the trees on the + river-road, up which Charley had disappeared with Jo’s dogs and sled. He + kept shaking his head mournfully. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVI. THE FORGOTTEN MAN + </h2> + <p> + It was Easter morning, and the good sunrise of a perfect spring made + radiant the high hill above the town. Rosy-fingered morn touched with + magic colour the masts and scattered sails of the ships upon the great + river, and spires and towers quivered with rainbow light. The city was + waking cheerfully, though the only active life was in the pealing bells + and on the deep flowing rivers. The streets were empty yet, save for an + assiduous priest or the cart of a milkman. Here and there a window opened + and a drowsy head was thrust into the eager air. These saw a bearded + countryman with his team of six dogs and his little cart going slowly up + the street. It was plain the man had come a long distance—from the + mountains in the east or south, no doubt, where horses were few, and dogs, + canoes, and oxen the means of transportation. + </p> + <p> + As the man moved slowly through the streets, his dogs still gallantly full + of life after their hard journey, he did not stare about him after the + manner of countrymen. His movements had intelligence and freedom. He was + an unusual figure for a woodsman or river-man—he did not wear + ear-rings or a waist-sash as did the river-men, and he did not turn in his + toes like a woodsman. Yet he was plainly a man from the far mountains. + </p> + <p> + The man with the dogs did not heed the few curious looks turned his way, + but held his head down as though walking in familiar places. Now and then + he spoke to his dogs, and once he stopped before a newspaper office, which + had a placard bearing these lines: + </p> + <p> + The Coming Passion Play In the Chaudiere Valley. + </p> + <p> + He looked at it mechanically, for, though he was concerned in the Passion + Play and the Chaudiere Valley, it was an abstraction to him at this + moment. His mind was absorbed by other things. + </p> + <p> + Though he looked neither to right nor to left, he was deeply affected by + all round him. + </p> + <p> + At last he came to a certain street, where he and his dogs travelled more + quickly. It opened into a square, where bells were booming in the steeple + of a church. Shops and offices in the street were shut, but a saloon-door + was open, and over the doorway was the legend: Jean Jolicoeur, Licensed to + sell Wine, Beer, and other Spirituous and Fermented Liquors. + </p> + <p> + Nearly opposite was a lawyer’s office, with a new-painted sign. It had + once read, in plain black letters, Charles Steele, Barrister, etc.; now it + read, in gold letters and many flourishes of the sign-painter’s art, + Rockwell and Tremblay, Barristers, Attorneys, etc. + </p> + <p> + Here the man looked up with trouble in his eyes. He could see dimly the + desk and the window beside which he had sat for so many years, and on the + wall a map of the city glowed with the incoming sun. + </p> + <p> + He moved on, passing the saloon with the open door. The landlord, in his + shirt-sleeves, was standing in the doorway. He nodded, then came out to + the edge of the board-walk. + </p> + <p> + “Come a long way, M’sieu’?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Four days’ journey,” answered the man gruffly through his beard, looking + the landlord in the eyes. If this landlord, who in the past had seen him + so often and so closely, did not recognise him, surely no one else would. + It was, however, a curious recurrence of habit that, as he looked at the + landlord, he instinctively felt for his eye-glass, which he had discarded + when he left Chaudiere. For an instant there was an involuntary arrest of + Jean Jolicoeur’s look, as though memory had been roused, but this swiftly + passed, and he said: + </p> + <p> + “Fine dogs, them! We never get that kind hereabouts now, M’sieu’. Ever + been to the city before?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never been far from home before,” answered the Forgotten Man. + </p> + <p> + “You’d better keep your eyes open, my friend, though you’ve got a sharp + pair in your head—sharp as Beauty Steele’s almost. There’s rascals + in the river-side drinking-places that don’t let the left hand know what + the right does.” + </p> + <p> + “My dogs and I never trust anybody,” said the Forgotten Man, as one of the + dogs snarled at the landlord’s touch. “So I can take care of myself, even + if I haven’t eyes as sharp as Beauty Steele’s, whoever he is.” + </p> + <p> + The landlord laughed. “Beauty’s only skin-deep, they say. Charley Steele + was a lawyer; his office was over there”—he pointed across the + street. “He went wrong. He come here too often—that wasn’t my fault. + He had an eye like a hawk, and you couldn’t read it. Now I can read your + eye like a book. There’s a bit of spring in ‘em, M’sieu’. His eyes were + hard winter-ice five feet deep and no fishing under—froze to the + bed. He had a tongue like a cross-cut saw. He’s at the bottom of the St. + Lawrence, leaving a bad job behind him. + </p> + <p> + “Have a drink—hein?” He jerked a finger backwards to the saloon + door. “It’s Sunday, but stolen waters are sweet, sure!” + </p> + <p> + The Forgotten Man shook his head. “I don’t drink, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “It’d do you good. You’re dead beat. You’ve been travelling hard—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve come a long way, and travelled all night.” + </p> + <p> + “Going on?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going back to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “On business?” + </p> + <p> + Charley nodded—he glanced involuntarily at the sign across the + street. + </p> + <p> + Jean Jolicoeur saw the look. “Lawyer’s business, p’r’aps?” + </p> + <p> + “A lawyer’s business—yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, if Charley Steele was here!” + </p> + <p> + “I have as good a lawyer as—” + </p> + <p> + The landlord laughed scornfully. “They’re not made. He’d legislate the + devil out of the Pit. Where are you going to stay, M’sieu’?” + </p> + <p> + “Somewhere cheap—along the river,” answered the Forgotten Man. + </p> + <p> + Jolicoeur’s good-natured face became serious. “I’ll tell you a place—it’s + honest. It’s the next street, a few hundred yards down, on the left. + There’s a wooden fish over the door. It’s called The Black Bass—that + hotel. Say I sent you. Good luck to you, countryman! Ah, la; la, there’s + the second bell—I must be getting to Mass!” With a nod he turned and + went into the house. + </p> + <p> + The Forgotten Man passed slowly up the street, into the side street, and + followed it till he came to The Black Bass, and turned into the small + stable-yard. A stable-man was stirring. He at once put his dogs into a + little pen set apart for them, saw them fed from the kitchen, and, + betaking himself to a little room behind the bar of the hotel, ordered + breakfast. The place was empty, save for the servant—the household + were at Mass. He looked round the room abstractedly. He was thinking of a + crippled man in a hospital, of a girl from a village in the Chaudiere + Valley. He thought with a shiver of a white house on the hill. He thought + of himself as he had never done before in his life. Passing along the + street, he had realised that he had no moral claim upon anything or + anybody within these precincts of his past life. The place was a tomb to + him. + </p> + <p> + As he sat in the little back parlour of The Black Bass, eating his frugal + breakfast of eggs and bread and milk, the meaning of it all slowly dawned + upon him. Through his intellect he had known something of humanity, but he + had never known men. He had thought of men in the mass, and despised them + because of their multitudinous duplication, and their typical weaknesses; + but he had never known one man or one woman from the subtler, surer + divination of the heart. His intellect had made servants and lures of his + emotions and his heart, for even his every case in court had been won by + easy and selfish command of all those feelings in mankind which make + possible personal understanding. + </p> + <p> + In this little back parlour it came to him with sudden force how, long + ago, he had cut himself off from any claim upon his fellows—not only + by his conduct, but by his merciless inhuman intelligence working upon the + merciful human life about him. He never remembered to have had any real + feeling till on that day with Kathleen—the day he died. The bitter + complaint of a woman he had wronged cruelly, by having married her, had + wrung from him his own first wail of life, in the one cry “Kathleen!” + </p> + <p> + As he sat eating his simple meal his pulses were beating painfully. Every + nerve in his body seemed to pluck at the angry flesh. There flashed across + his mind in sympathetic sensation a picture. It was the axe-factory on the + river, before which he used to stand as a boy, and watch the men naked to + the waist, with huge hairy arms and streaming faces, toiling in the red + glare, the trip-hammers endlessly pounding upon the glowing metal. In old + days it had suggested pictures of gods and demi-gods toiling in the + workshops of the primeval world. So the whole machinery of being seemed to + be toiling in the light of an awakened conscience, to the making of a man. + It seemed to him that all his life was being crowded into these hours. His + past was here—its posing, its folly, its pitiful uselessness, and + its shame. Kathleen and Billy were here, with all the problems that + involved them. Rosalie was here, with the great, the last problem. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing matters but that—but Rosalie,” he said to himself as he + turned to look out of the window at the wrangling dogs gnawing bones. + “Here she is in the midst of all I once knew, and I know that I am no more + a part of it than she is. She and Kathleen may have met face to face in + these streets—who can tell! The world is large, but there’s a sort + of whipper-in of Fate, who drives the people wearing the same livery into + one corner in the end. If they met”—he rose and walked hastily up + and down—“what then? I have a feeling that Rosalie would recognise + her as plainly as though the word Kathleen were stitched on her breast.” + </p> + <p> + There was a clock on the wall. He looked at it. “It will not be safe to go + out until evening. Then I can go to the hospital, and watch her coming + out.” He realised with satisfaction that many people coming from Mass must + pass the inn. There was a chance of his seeing Rosalie, if she had gone to + early Mass. This street lay in her way from the hospital. “One look—ah, + one look!” For this one look he had come. For this, and to secure that + which would save Rosalie from want always, if anything should happen to + him. This too had been greatly on his mind. There was a way to give her + what was his very own, which would rob no one and serve her well indeed. + </p> + <p> + Looking at his face in the mirror over the mantel, he said to himself + </p> + <p> + “I might have had ten thousand friends, yet I have a thousand enemies, who + grin at the memory of the drunken fop down among the eels and the + cat-fish. Every chance was with me then. I come back here, and—and + Jolicoeur tells me the brutal truth. But if I had had ambition”—a + wave of the feeling of the old life passed over him—“if I had had + ambition as I was then, I should have been a monster. It was all so paltry + that, in sheer disgust, I should have kicked every ladder down that helped + me up. I should have sacrificed everything to myself.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped short and stared, for, in the mirror, he saw a girl passing + through the stable-yard towards the quarrelling dogs in the kennel. He + clapped his hand to his mouth to stop a cry. It was Rosalie. + </p> + <p> + He did not turn round but looked at her in the mirror, as though it were + the last look he might give on earth. + </p> + <p> + He could hear her voice speaking to the dogs: “Ah, my friends, ah, my + dears! I know you every one. Jo Portugais is here. I know your bark, you, + Harpy, and you, Lazybones, and you, Cloud and London! I know you every + one. I heard you as I came from Mass, beauty dears. Ah, you know me, + sweethearts? Ah, God bless you for coming! You have come to bring us home; + you have come to fetch us home—father and me.” The paws of one of + the dogs was on her shoulder, and his nose was in her hair. + </p> + <p> + Charley heard her words, for the window was open, and he listened and + watched now with an infinite relief in his look. Her face was half turned + towards him. It was pale-very pale and sad. It was Rosalie as of old—thank + God, as of old!—but more beautiful in the touching sadness, the + far-off longing, of her look. + </p> + <p> + “I must go and see your master,” she said to the dogs. “Down—down, + Lazybones!” + </p> + <p> + There was no time to lose—he must not meet her ere. He went into the + outer hall hastily. The servant was passing through. “If any one asks for + Jo Portugais,” he said, “say that I’ll be back to-morrow morning—I’m + going across the river to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, M’sieu’,” said the girl, and smiled because of the piece of + silver he put in her hand. + </p> + <p> + As he heard the side door open he stepped through the front doorway into + the street, and disappeared round a corner. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVII. ONE WAS TAKEN AND THE OTHER LEFT + </h2> + <p> + Rosalie carried to the hospital that afternoon a lighter heart than she + had known for many a day. The sight of Jo Portugais’ dogs had roused her + out of the apathy which had been growing on her in this patient but + hopeless watching beside her father. She had always a smile and a cheerful + word for the poor man. A settled sorrow hung upon her face, however, + taking away its colour, but giving it a sweet gravity which made her slave + more than one young doctor of the hospital, for whom, however, she showed + no more than a friendly frankness, free from self-consciousness. For hours + she would sit in reverie beside her sleeping father, her heart “over the + water to Charley.” As in a trance, she could see him sitting at his bench, + bent over his work, now and again lifting up his head to look across to + the post-office, where another hand than hers sorted letters now. + </p> + <p> + Day by day her father weakened and faded away. All that was possible to + medical skill had been done. As the money left by her mother dwindled, she + had no anxiety, for she knew that the life she so tenderly cherished would + not outlast the gold which lengthened out the tenuous chain of being. This + last illness of her father’s had been the salvation of her mind, the + saving of her health. Maybe it had been the saving of her soul; for at + times a curious contempt of life came upon her—she who had loved it + so eagerly and fully. There descended on her then the bitter conviction + that never again would she see the man she loved. Then not even Mrs. Flynn + could call back “the fun o’ the world” to her step and her tongue and her + eye. At first there had been a timid shrinking, but soon her father and + herself were brighter and better for the old Irishwoman’s presence, and + she began to take comfort in Mrs. Flynn. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Flynn gave hopefulness to whatever life she touched, and Rosalie, + buoyant and hopeful enough by nature, responded to the living warmth and + the religion of life in the Irishwoman’s heart. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis worth the doin’, ivery bit of it, darlin’, the bither an’ the swate, + the hard an’ the aisy, the rough an’ the smooth, the good an’ the bad,” + said Mrs. Flynn to her this very Easter morning. “Even the avil is worth + doin’, if so be ‘twas not mint, an’ the good is in yer heart in the ind, + an’ ye do be turnip’ to the Almoighty, repentin’ an’ glad to be aloive: + provin’ to Him ‘twas worth while makin’ the world an’ you, to want, an’ + worry, an’ work, an’ play, an’ pick the flowers, an’ bleed o’ the thorns, + an’ dhrink the sun, an’ ate the dust, an’ be lovin’ all the way! Ah, + that’s it, darlin’,” persisted Mrs. Flynn, “‘tis lovin’ all the way makes + it aisier. There’s manny kinds o’ love. There’s lad an’ lass, there’s maid + an’ man. An’ that last is spring, an’ all the birds singin’, an’ shtorms + now an’ thin, an’ siparations, an’ misthrust, an’ God in hivin bein’ that + aisy wid ye for bein’ fools an’ children, an’ bringin’ ye thegither in the + ind, if so be ye do be lovin’ as man an’ maid should love, wid all yer + heart. Thin there’s the love o’ man an’ wife. Shure, that’s the love that + lasts, if it shtarts right. Shure, it doesn’t always shtart wid the sun + shinin.’ ‘Will ye marry me?’ says Teddy Flynn to me. ‘I will,’ says I. + ‘Then I’ll come back from Canaday to futch ye,’ says he, wid a tear in his + eye. + </p> + <p> + “‘For what’s a man in ould Ireland that has a head for annything but + puttaties! There’s land free in Canaday, an’ I’m goin’ to make a home for + ye, Mary,’ says he, wavin’ a piece of paper in the air. ‘Are ye, thin?’ + says I. He goes away that night, an’ the next mornin’ I have a lether from + him, sayin’ he’s shtartin’ that day for Canaday. He hadn’t the heart to + tell me to me face. Fwaht do I do thin? I begs, borrers, an’ stales, an’ I + reached that ship wan minnit before she sailed. There was no praste + aboord, but we was married six weeks afther at Quebec. And thegither we + lived wid ups an’ downs—but no ups an’ downs to the love of us for + twenty years, blessed be God for all His mercies!” + </p> + <p> + Rosalie had listened with eyes that hungrily watched every expression, + ears that weighed eagerly every inflection; for she was hearing the story + of another’s love, and it did not seem strange to her that a woman, old, + red-faced, and fat, should be telling it. + </p> + <p> + Yet there were times when she wept till she was exhausted; when all her + girlhood was drowned in the overflow of her eyes; when there was a sense + of irrevocable loss upon her. Then it was, in her fear of soul and pitiful + loneliness, that her lover—the man she would have died for—seemed + to have deserted her. Then it was that a sudden hatred against him rose up + in her—to be swept away as swiftly as it came by the memory of his + broken tale of love, his passionate words: “I have never loved any one but + you in all my life, Rosalie.” And also, there was that letter from + Chaudiere, which said that in the hour when the greatest proof of his love + must be given he would give it. Reading the letter again, hatred, doubt, + even sorrow, passed from her, and her imagination pictured the hour when, + disguise and secrecy ended, he would step forward before all the world and + say: “I take Rosalie Evanturel to be my wife.” Despite the gusts of + emotion that swayed her at times, in the deepest part of her being she + trusted him completely. + </p> + <p> + When she reached the hospital this Sunday afternoon her step was quick, + her smile bright—though she had not been to confession as was her + duty on Easter day. The impulse towards it had been great, but her secret + was not her own, and the passionate desire to give relief to her full + heart was overborne by thought of the man. Her soul was her own, but this + secret of their love was his as well as hers. She knew that she was the + only just judge between. + </p> + <p> + Soon after she entered the ward, the chief surgeon said that all that + could be done for her father had now been done, and that as M. Evanturel + constantly asked to be taken back to Chaudiere (he never said to die, + though they knew what was in his mind), he might now make the journey, + partly by river, partly by land. It seemed to the delighted and excited + Rosalie that Jo Portugais had been sent to her as a surprise, and that his + team of dogs was to take her father back. + </p> + <p> + She sat by her father’s bed this beautiful, wonderful Sunday afternoon, + and talked cheerfully, and laughed a little, and told M. Evanturel of the + dogs, and together they looked out of the window to the far-off hills, in + their golden purple, beyond which, in the valley of the Chaudiere, was + their little home. With her father’s hand in hers the girl dreamed dreams + again, and it seemed to her that she was the very Rosalie Evanturel of + old, whose thoughts were bounded by a river and a hill, a post-office and + a church, a catechism and a few score of books. Here in the crowded city + she had come to be a woman who, bitterly shaken in soul, knew life’s + sufferings; who had, during the past few months, read with avidity + history, poetry, romance, fiction, and the drama, English and French; for + in every one she found something that said: “You have felt that.” In these + long months she had learned more than she had known or learned in all her + previous life. + </p> + <p> + As she sat looking out into the eastern sky she became conscious of + voices, and of a group of people who came slowly down the ward, sometimes + speaking to the sick and crippled. It was not a general visitors’ day, but + one reserved for the few to come and say a kindly word to the suffering, + to bring some flowers and distribute books. Rosalie had always been absent + at this hour before, for she shrank from strangers; but to-day she had + stayed on unthinking. It mattered nothing to her who came and went. Her + heart was over the hills, and the only tie she had here was with this poor + cripple whose hand she held. If she did not resent the visit of these + kindly strangers, she resolutely held herself apart from the object of + their visit with a sense of distance and cold dignity. If she had given + Charley something of herself, she had in turn taken something from him, + something unlike her old self, delicately non-intime. Knowledge of life + had rationalised her emotions to a definite degree, had given her the + pride of self-repression. She had had need of it in these surroundings, + where her beauty drew not a little dangerous attention, which she had held + at arm’s-length—her great love for one man made her invulnerable. + </p> + <p> + Now, as the visitors came near, she did not turn towards them, but still + sat, her chin on her hand, looking out across the hills, in resolute + abstraction. She felt her father’s fingers press hers, as if to draw her + attention, for he, weak man, was ever ready to open his hand and heart to + any friendly soul. She took no notice, but held his hand firmly, as though + to say that she had no wish to see. + </p> + <p> + She was conscious now that they were beside her father’s bed. She hoped + that they would pass. But no, the feet stopped, there was whispering, and + then she heard a voice say, “Rather rude!” then another, “Not wanted, + that’s plain!”—the first a woman’s, the second a man’s. Then another + voice, clear and cold, and well modulated, said to her father: “They tell + me you have been here a long time, and have had much pain. You will be + glad to go, I am sure.” + </p> + <p> + Something in the voice startled her. Some familiar sound or inflection + struck upon her ear with a far-off note, some lost tone she knew. Of what, + of whom, did this voice remind her? She turned round quickly and caught + two cold blue eyes looking at her. The face was older than her own, + handsome and still, and happy in a placid sort of way. Few gusts of + passion or of pain had passed across that face. The figure was shapely to + the newest fashion, the bonnet was perfect, the hand which held two books + was prettily gloved. Polite charity was written in her manner and + consecrated every motion. On the instant, Rosalie resented this fine + epitome of convention, this dutiful charity-monger, herself the centre of + an admiring quartet. She saw the whispering, she noted the well-bred + disguise of interest, and she met the visitor’s gaze with cold courtesy. + The other read the look in her face, and a slightly pacifying smile + gathered at her lips. + </p> + <p> + “We are glad to hear that your father is better. He has been ill a long + time?” + </p> + <p> + Rosalie started again, for the voice perplexed her—rather, not the + voice, but the inflection, the deliberation. + </p> + <p> + She bowed, and set her lips, but, chancing to glance at her father, she + saw that he was troubled by her manner. Flashing a look of love at him, + she adjusted the pillow under his head, and said to her questioner in a + low voice: “He is better now, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + Encouraged, the other rejoined: “May I leave one or two books for him to + read—or for you to read to him?” Then added hastily, for she saw a + curious look in Rosalie’s eyes: “We can have mutual friends in books, + though we cannot be friends with each other. Books are the go-betweens of + humanity.” + </p> + <p> + Rosalie’s heart leapt, she flushed, then grew slightly pale, for it was + not tone or inflection alone that disturbed her now, but words themselves. + A voice from over the hills seemed to say these things to her. A haunting + voice from over the hills had said them to her—these very words. + </p> + <p> + “Friends need no go-betweens,” she said quietly, “and enemies should not + use them.” + </p> + <p> + She heard a voice say, “By Jove!” in a tone of surprise, as though it were + wonderful the girl from Chaudiere should have her wits about her. So + Rosalie interpreted it. + </p> + <p> + “Have you many friends here?” asked the cold voice, meant to be kindly and + pacific. It was schooled to composure, because it gave advantage in life’s + intercourse, not from any inner urbanity. + </p> + <p> + “Some need many friends, some but a few. I come from a country where one + only needs a few.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is your country, I wonder?” said the cold echo of another voice. + </p> + <p> + Charley had passed out of Kathleen’s life—he was dead to her, his + memory scorned and buried. She loved the man to whom she supposed she was + married; she was only too glad to let the dust of death and time cover + every trace of Charley from her gaze; she would have rooted out every + particle of association: yet his influence on her had been so great that + she had unconsciously absorbed some of his idiosyncrasies—in the + tone of his voice, in his manner of speaking. To-day she had even repeated + phrases he had used. + </p> + <p> + “Beyond the hills,” said Rosalie, turning away. + </p> + <p> + “Is it not strange?” said the voice. “That is the title of one of the + books I have just brought—‘Beyond the Hills’. It is by an English + writer. This other book is French. May I leave them?” + </p> + <p> + Rosalie inclined her head. It would make her own position less dignified + if she refused them. “Books are always welcome to my father,” she said. + </p> + <p> + There was an instant’s pause, as though the fashionable lady would offer + her hand; but their eyes met, and they only bowed. The lady moved on with + a smile, leaving a perfume of heliotrope behind her. + </p> + <p> + “Where is your country, I wonder?”—the voice of the lady rang in + Rosalie’s ears. As she sat at the window again, long after the visitors + had disappeared, the words, “I wonder—I wonder—I wonder!” kept + beating in her brain. It was absurd that this woman should remind her of + the tailor of Chaudiere. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she was roused by her father’s voice. “This is beautiful—ah, + but beautiful, Rosalie!” + </p> + <p> + She turned towards him. He was reading the book in his hand—‘Beyond + the Hills’. “Listen,” he said, and he read, in English: “‘Compensation is + the other name for God. How often is it that those whom disease or + accident has robbed of active life find greater inner rejoicing and a + larger spiritual itinerary! It would seem that withdrawal from the ruder + activities gives a clearer seeing. Also for these, so often, is granted a + greater love, which comes of the consecration of other lives to theirs. + And these too have their reward, for they are less encompassed by the + vanities of the world, having the joy of self-sacrifice.’” He looked at + Rosalie with an unnatural brightness in his eyes, and she smiled at him + now and stroked his hand. + </p> + <p> + “It has been all compensation to me,” he said, after a moment. “You have + been a good daughter to me, Rosalie.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head and smiled. “Good fathers think they have good + daughters,” she answered, choking back a sob. + </p> + <p> + He closed the book and let it lie upon the coverlet. “I will sleep now,” + he said, and turned on his side. She arranged his pillow, and adjusted the + bedclothes to his comfort. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night,” he said, as, with a faint hand, he drew her head down and + kissed her. “Good girl! Goodnight!” + </p> + <p> + She patted his hand. “It is not night yet, father.” + </p> + <p> + He was already half asleep. “Good-night!” he said again, and fell into a + deep sleep. + </p> + <p> + She sat down by the window, in her hand the book he had laid down. A + hundred thoughts were busy in her brain—of her father; of the woman + who had just left; of her lover over the hills. The woman’s voice came to + her again—a far-off mockery. She opened the book mechanically and + turned over the pages. Presently her eyes were riveted to a page. On it + was written the word Kathleen. + </p> + <p> + For a moment she sat transfixed. The word Kathleen and the haunting voice + became one, and her mind ran back to the day when she had said to Charley: + “Who is Kathleen?” + </p> + <p> + She sprang to her feet. What should she do? Follow the woman? Find out who + and what she was? Go to the young surgeon who had accompanied them, ask + him who she was, and so learn the clue to the mystery concerning her + lover? + </p> + <p> + In the midst of her confusion she became sharply conscious of two things: + the approach of Mrs. Flynn, and her father’s heavy breathing. Dropping the + book, she leaned over her father’s bed and looked closely at him. Then she + turned to the frightened and anxious Mrs. Flynn. + </p> + <p> + “Go for the priest,” she said. “He is dying.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll send some one. I’m stayin’ here by you, darlin’,” said the old + woman, and hurried to the room of the young surgeon for a messenger. + </p> + <p> + As the sun went down, the cripple went out upon a long journey alone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVIII. “WHERE THE TREE OF LIFE IS BLOOMING—” + </h2> + <p> + As Charley walked the bank of the great river by the city where his old + life lay dead, he struggled with the new life which—long or short—must + henceforth belong to the village of the woman he loved.... But as he + fought with himself in the long night-watch it was borne in upon him that + though he had been shown the Promised Land, he might never find there a + habitation and a home. The hymn he had mockingly sung the night he had + been done to death at the Cote Dorion sang in his senses now, an + ever-present mockery: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you. + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you.” + </pre> + <p> + In the uttermost corner of his intelligence he felt with sure prescience + that, however befalling, the end of all was not far off. In the exercise + of new faculties, which had more to do with the soul than with reason, he + now believed what he could not see, and recognised what was not proved. + Labour of the hand, trouble, sorrow, and perplexity, charity and humanity, + had cleared and simplified his life, had sweetened his intelligence, and + taken the place of ambition. He saw life now through the lens of personal + duty, which required that the thing nearest to one’s hand should be done + first. + </p> + <p> + But as foreboding pressed upon him there came the thought of what should + come after—to Rosalie. His thoughts took a practical form—her + good was uppermost in his mind. All Rosalie had to live on was her salary + as postmistress, for it was in every one’s knowledge that the little else + she had was being sacrificed to her father’s illness. Suppose, then, that + through illness or accident she lost her position, what could she do? He + might leave her what he had—but what had he? Enough to keep her for + a year or two—no more. All his earnings had gone to the poor and the + suffering of Chaudiere. + </p> + <p> + There was one way. It had suggested itself to him so often in Chaudiere, + and had been one of the two reasons for bringing him here. There were his + dead mother’s pearls and one thousand dollars in notes behind a secret + panel in the white house on the hill, in this very city where he was. The + pearls were worth over ten thousand dollars—in all, there would be + eleven thousand, enough to secure Rosalie from poverty. What should + Kathleen do with his mother’s pearls, even if they were found by her? What + should she do with his money did she not loathe his memory? Had not all + his debts been paid? These pearls and this money were all his own. + </p> + <p> + But to get them. To go now to the white house on the hill; to face that + old life even for an hour, a knocking at the door of a haunted house—he + shrank from the thought. He would have to enter the place like a thief in + the night. + </p> + <p> + Yet for Rosalie he must take the risk—he must go. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIX. THE OPEN GATE + </h2> + <p> + It was a still night, and the moon, delicately bright, gave forth that + radiance which makes spiritual to the eye the coarsest thing. Inside the + white house on the hill all was dark. Sleep had settled on it long before + midnight, for, on the morrow, its master and mistress hoped to make a + journey to the valley of the Chaudiere, where the Passion Play was being + performed by habitants and Indians. The desire to see the play had become + an infatuation in the minds of the two, eager for some interest to relieve + the monotony of a happy life. + </p> + <p> + But as all slept, a figure in the dress of a habitant moved through the + passages of the house stealthily, yet with an assurance unusual in the + thief or housebreaker. In the darkest passages his step was sure, and his + hand fastened on latch or door-knob with perfect precision. He came at + last into a large hallway flooded by the moon, pale, watchful, his beard + frosted by the light. In the stillness of his tread and the composed + sorrow of his face he seemed like one long dead who “revisits the glimpses + of the moon.” + </p> + <p> + At last he entered a room the door of which stood wide open. In this room + had been begotten, or had had exercise, whatever of him was worth + approving in the days before he died. It was a place of books and statues + and tapestry, and the dark oak was nobly smutched of Time. This sombre + oaken wall had been handed down through four generations from the man’s + great-grandfather: the breath of generations had steeped it in human + association. + </p> + <p> + Entering, he turned for an instant with clinched hands to look at another + door across the hall. Behind that door were two people who despised his + memory, who conspired to forget his very name. This house was the woman’s, + for he had given it to her the day he died. But that she could live there + with all the old associations, with memories that, however bitter, however + shaming, had a sort of sacredness, struck into his soul with a harrowing + pain. There she was whom he had spared—himself; whose happiness had + lain in his hands, and he had given it to her. Yet her very existence + robbed himself of happiness, and made sorrowful a life dearer than his + own. + </p> + <p> + Kathleen lay asleep in that room—he fancied he could hear her + breathing; and, by the hospital on the hill, up beyond the point of pines, + in a little cottage which he could see from the great window, lay Rosalie + with sleepless eyes and wan cheeks, longing for morning and the stir of + life to help her to forget. + </p> + <p> + For Rosalie he had come to this house once more. For her sake he was + revisiting this torture-chamber, from which he knew he must go again, + blanched and shaken, as a man goes from a tomb where his dead lie + unforgiving. + </p> + <p> + He shut his teeth, went swiftly across the room, and beside a great carved + oak table touched a hidden spring in the side of it. The spring snapped; + the panel creaked a little and drew back. It seemed to him that the noise + he made must be heard in every part of the house, so sensitive was his + ear, so deep was the silence on which the sounds had broken. He turned + round to the doorway to listen before he put his hand within the secret + place. + </p> + <p> + There was no sound. He turned his attention to the table. Drawing forth + two packets with a gasp of relief, he put them in his pocket, and, with + extreme care, proceeded to close the panel. By rubbing the edges of the + wood with grease from a candle on the table, he was able to readjust the + panel in silence. But, as the spring came home, he became suddenly + conscious of a presence in the room. A shiver passed through him. He + turned round-softly, quickly. He was in the shadow and near great + window-curtains, and his fingers instinctively clutched them as he saw a + figure in white at the door of the room. Slowly, strangely deliberate, the + figure moved further into the room. + </p> + <p> + Charley’s breath stopped. He felt his face flush, and a strange weakness + came on him. There before him stood Kathleen. + </p> + <p> + She was in her night-gown, and she stood still, as though listening; yet, + as Charley looked closer, he realised that it was an unconscious, passive + listening, and that she did not know he was there. + </p> + <p> + Her mind only was listening. She was asleep. Was it possible that his very + presence in the house had touched some old note of memory, which, + automatically responding, had carried her from her bed in this + somnambulistic trance? That subtle telegraphy between our subconscious + selves which we cannot reduce to a law, yet alarming us at times, + announced to Kathleen’s mind, independent of the waking senses, the + presence once familiar to this house for so many years. In her sleep she + had involuntarily responded to the call of Charley’s approach. + </p> + <p> + Once, in the past, the night her uncle died, she had walked in her sleep, + and the memory of this flashed upon Charley now. Silently he came closer + to her. The moonlight shone on her face. He could see plainly she was + asleep. His position was painful and perilous. If she waked, the shock to + herself would be great; if she waked and saw him, what disaster might not + occur! + </p> + <p> + Yet he had no agitation now, only clearness of mind and a curious sense of + confusion that he should see her en dishabille—the old fastidious + sense mingling with the feeling that she was now a stranger to him, and + that, waking, she would fly embarrassed from his presence, as he was ready + to fly from hers. He was about to steal to the door and escape before she + waked, but she turned round, moved through the doorway, and glided down + the hall. He followed silently. + </p> + <p> + She moved to the staircase, then slowly down it, and through a passage to + a morning-room, where, opening a pair of French windows, she passed out + onto the lawn. He followed, not more than a dozen paces behind her. His + safety lay in getting outside, where he could easily hide among the + bushes, should someone else appear and an alarm be raised. + </p> + <p> + She crossed the lawn swiftly, a white, ghostlike figure. In the middle of + the lawn she stopped short once as if in doubt what to do—as a + thought-reader pauses in his search for the mental scent again, ere he + rushes upon the object of his search with the certainty of instinct. + </p> + <p> + Presently she moved on, going directly towards a gate that opened out on + the cliff above the river. In Charley’s day this gate had been often used, + for it gave upon four steep wooden steps leading to a narrow shelf of rock + below. From the edge of this cliff a rope-ladder dropped fifty feet to the + river. For years he had used this rope-ladder to get down to his boat, and + often, when they were first married, Kathleen used to come and watch him + descend, and sometimes, just at the very first, would descend also. As he + stole into the grounds this evening he had noticed, however, that the + rope-ladder was gone, and that new steps were being built. He had also + mechanically observed that the gate was open. + </p> + <p> + For an instant he watched her slowly moving towards the gate. At first he + did not realise the situation. Suddenly her danger flashed upon him. + Passing through the gateway, she must fall over the cliff. + </p> + <p> + Her life was in his hands. + </p> + <p> + He could rush forward swiftly and close the gate, then, raising an alarm, + get away before he was seen; or—he could escape now. + </p> + <p> + What had he to do with her? A weird, painful suggestion crept into his + brain: he was not responsible for her, and he was responsible for a woman + up there by the hospital, whose home was the valley of the Chaudiere! + </p> + <p> + If Kathleen were gone, what barrier would there be between him and + Rosalie? What had he to do with this strange disposition of events? + Kathleen was never absent from her church twice on Sundays; she was + devoted to work of all sorts for the church on week-days—where was + her intervening personal Providence? If Providence permitted her to die?—well, + she had had two years of happiness with the man she loved, at some expense + to himself—was it not fair that Rosalie should have her share? Had + he the right to call upon Rosalie for constant self-sacrifice, when, by + shutting his eyes now, by being dead to Kathleen and her need, as he was + dead to the world he once knew, the way would be clear to marry Rosalie? + </p> + <p> + Dead—he was dead to the world and to Kathleen! Should his ghost + interpose between her and the death now within two-score feet of her? Who + could know? It was grim, it was awful, but was it not a wild kind of + justice? Who could blame? It was the old Charley Steele, the Charley + Steele of the court-room, who argued back humanity and the inherent + rightness of things. + </p> + <p> + But it was only a moment’s pause. The thoughts flashed by like the + lightning impressions of a dream, and a voice said in his ear, the voice + of the new Charley with a conscience: + </p> + <p> + “Save her—save her!” + </p> + <p> + Even as he was conscious of another presence on the lawn, he rushed + forward noiselessly. Stealing between Kathleen and the gate-she was within + five feet of it he closed and locked it. Then, with a quick glance at her + sleeping face-it was engraven on his memory ever after like a dead face in + a coffin—he ran along the fence among the shrubbery. A man not fifty + feet away called to him. + </p> + <p> + “Hush—she is asleep!” Charley whispered, and disappeared. + </p> + <p> + It was Fairing himself who saw this deed which saved Kathleen’s life. + Awaking, and not finding her, he had glanced towards the window, and had + seen her on the lawn. He had rushed down to her, in time to see her saved + by a strange bearded man in habitant dress. His one glance at the man’s + face, as it turned towards him, produced an extraordinary effect upon his + mind, not soon to be dispelled—a haunting, ghostlike apparition, + which kept reminding him of something or somebody, he could not tell what + or whom. The whispering voice and the breathless words, “Hush—she is + asleep!” repeated themselves over and over again in his brain, as, taking + Kathleen’s hand, he led her, unresisting, and still sleeping, back to her + room. In agitated thankfulness he resolved not to speak of the event to + Kathleen, or to any one else, lest it should come to her ears and frighten + her. + </p> + <p> + He would, however, keep a sharp lookout for the man who had saved her + life, and would reward him duly. The face of the bearded habitant came + between him and his sleep. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile this disturber of a woman’s dreams and a man’s sleep was + hurrying to an inn in the town by the waterside, where he met another + habitant with a team of dogs—Jo Portugais. Jo had not been able to + bear the misery of suspense and anxiety, and had come seeking him. There + was little speech between them. + </p> + <p> + “You have not been found out, M’sieu’?” was Jo’s anxious question. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, but I have had a bad night, Jo. Get the dogs together.” + </p> + <p> + A little later, as Charley made ready to go back to Chaudiere, Jo said: + </p> + <p> + “You look as if you’d had a black dream, M’sieu’.” With the river rustling + by, and the trees stirring in the first breath of dawn, Charley told Jo + what had happened. + </p> + <p> + For a moment the murderer did not speak or stir, for a struggle was going + on in his breast also; then he stooped quickly, caught his companion’s + hand, and kissed it. + </p> + <p> + “I could not have done it, M’sieu’,” he said hoarsely. They parted, Jo to + remain behind as they had agreed, to be near Rosalie if needed; Charley to + return to the valley of the Chaudiere. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER L. THE PASSION PLAY AT CHAUDIERE + </h2> + <p> + For the first time in its history Chaudiere was becoming notable in the + eyes of the outside world. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll have more girth after this,” said Filion Lacasse the saddler to the + wife of the Notary, as, in front of the post-office, they stood watching a + little cavalcade of habitants going up the road towards Four Mountains to + rehearse the Passion Play. + </p> + <p> + “If Dauphin’s advice had been taken long ago, we’d have had a hotel at + Four Mountains, and the city folk would be coming here for the summer,” + said Madame Dauphin, with a superior air. + </p> + <p> + “Pish!” said a voice behind them. It was the Seigneur’s groom, with a + straw in his mouth. He had a gloomy mind. + </p> + <p> + “There isn’t a house but has two or three boarders. I’ve got three,” said + Filion Lacasse. “They come tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll have ten at the Manor. But no good will come of it,” said the + groom. + </p> + <p> + “No good! Look at the infidel tailor!” said Madame Dauphin. “He translated + all the writing. He drew all the dresses, and made a hundred pictures—there + they are at the Cure’s house.” + </p> + <p> + “He should have played Judas,” said the groom malevolently. “That’d be + right for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you don’t like the Passion Play,” said Madame Dauphin + disdainfully. + </p> + <p> + “We ain’t through with it yet,” said the death’s-head groom. + </p> + <p> + “It is a pious and holy mission,” said Madame Dauphin. “Even that Jo + Portugais worked night and day till he went away to Montreal, and he + always goes to Mass now. He’s to take Pontius Pilate when he comes back. + Then look at Virginie Morrissette, that put her brother’s eyes out + quarrelling—she’s to play Mary Magdalene.” + </p> + <p> + “I could fit the parts better,” said the groom. + </p> + <p> + “Of course. You’d have played St. John,” said the saddler—“or, + maybe, Christus himself!” + </p> + <p> + “I’d have Paulette Dubois play Mary the sinner.” + </p> + <p> + “Magdalene repented, and knelt at the foot of the cross. She was sorry and + sinned no more,” said the Notary’s wife in querulous reprimand. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Paulette does all that,” said the stolid, dark-visaged groom. + </p> + <p> + Filion Lacasse’s ears pricked up. “How do you know—she hasn’t come + back?” + </p> + <p> + “Hasn’t she, though! And with her child too—last night.” + </p> + <p> + “Her child!” Madame Dauphin was scandalised and amazed. + </p> + <p> + The groom nodded. “And doesn’t care who knows it. Seven years old, and as + fine a child as ever was!” + </p> + <p> + “Narcisse—Narcisse!” called Madame Dauphin to her husband, who was + coming up the street. She hastily repeated the groom’s news to him. + </p> + <p> + The Notary stuck his hand between the buttons of his waistcoat. “Well, + well, my dear Madame,” he said consequentially, “it is quite true.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you know about it—whose child is it?” she asked, with + curdling scorn. + </p> + <p> + “‘Sh-’sh!” said the Notary. Then, with an oratorical wave of his free + hand: “The Church opens her arms to all—even to her who sinned much + because she loved much, who, through woful years, searched the world for + her child and found it not—hidden away, as it was, by the duplicity + of sinful man”—and so on through tangled sentences, setting forth in + broken terms Paulette Dubois’s life. + </p> + <p> + “How do you know all about it?” asked the saddler. “I’ve known it for + years,” said the Notary grandly—stoutly too, for he would freely + risk his wife’s anger that the vain-glory of the moment might be enlarged. + </p> + <p> + “And you keep it even from madame!” said the saddler, with a smile too + broad to be sarcastic. “Tiens! if I did that, my wife’d pick my eyes out + with a bradawl.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a professional secret,” said the Notary, with a desperate resolve + to hold his position. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going home, Dauphin—are you coming?” questioned his wife, with + an air. + </p> + <p> + “You will remain, and hear what I’ve got to say. This Paulette Dubois—she + should play Mary Magdalene, for—” + </p> + <p> + “Look—look, what’s that?” said the saddler. He pointed to a wagon + coming slowly up the road. In front of it a team of dogs drew a cart. It + carried some thing covered with black. “It’s a funeral! There’s the + coffin. It’s on Jo Portugais’ little cart,” added Filion Lacasse. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, God be merciful, it’s Rosalie Evanturel and Mrs. Flynn! And M’sieu’ + Evanturel in the coffin!” said Madame Dauphin, running to the door of the + postoffice to call the Cure’s sister. + </p> + <p> + “There’ll be use enough for the baker’s Dead March now,” remarked M. + Dauphin sadly, buttoning up his coat, taking off his hat, and going + forward to greet Rosalie. As he did so, Charley appeared in the doorway of + his shop. + </p> + <p> + “Look, Monsieur,” said the Notary. “This is the way Rosalie Evanturel + comes home with her father.” + </p> + <p> + “I will go for the Cure” Charley answered, turning white. He leaned + against the doorway for a moment to steady himself, then hurried up the + street. He did not dare meet Rosalie, or go near her yet. For her sake it + was better not. + </p> + <p> + “That tailor infidel has a heart. His eyes were leaking,” said the Notary + to Filion Lacasse, and went on to meet the mournful cavalcade. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LI. FACE TO FACE + </h2> + <p> + “If I could only understand!”—this was Rosalie’s constant cry in + these weeks wherein she lay ill and prostrate after her father’s burial. + Once and once only had she met Charley alone, though she knew that he was + keeping watch over her. She had first seen him the day her father was + buried, standing apart from the people, his face sorrowful, his eyes + heavy, his figure bowed. + </p> + <p> + The occasion of their meeting alone was the first night of her return, + when the Notary and Charley had kept watch beside her father’s body. + </p> + <p> + She had gone into the little hallway, and had looked into the room of + death. The Notary was sound asleep in his arm-chair, but Charley sat + silent and moveless, his eyes gazing straight before him. She murmured his + name, and though it was only to herself, not even a whisper, he got up + quickly and came to the hall, where she stood grief-stricken, yet with a + smile of welcome, of forgiveness, of confidence. As she put out her hand + to him, and his swallowed it, she could not but say to him—so + contrary is the heart of woman, so does she demand a Yes by asserting a + No, and hunger for the eternal assurance—she could not but say: + </p> + <p> + “You do not love me—now.” + </p> + <p> + It was but a whisper, so faint and breathless that only the heart of love + could hear it. There was no answer in words, for some one was stirring + beyond Rosalie in the dark, and a great figure heaved through the kitchen + doorway, but his hand crushed hers in his own; his heart said to her, “My + love is an undying light; it will not change for time or tears”—the + words they had read together in a little snuff-coloured book on the + counter in the shop one summer day a year ago. The words flashed into his + mind, and they were carried to hers. Her fingers pressed his, and then + Charley said, over her shoulder, to the approaching Mrs. Flynn: “Do not + let her come again, Madame. She should get some sleep,” and he put her + hand in Mrs. Flynn’s. “Be good to her, as you know how, Mrs. Flynn,” he + added gently. + </p> + <p> + He had won the heart of Mrs. Flynn that moment, and it may be she had a + conviction or an inspiration, for she said, in a softer voice than she was + wont to use to any one save Rosalie: + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do by her as you’d do by your own, sir,” and tenderly drew Rosalie + to her own room. + </p> + <p> + Such had been their first meeting after her return. Afterwards she was + taken ill, and the torture of his heart drove him out into the night, to + walk the road and creep round her house like a sentinel, Mrs. Flynn’s + words ringing in his ears to reproach him—“I’ll do by her as you + would do by your own, sir.” Night after night it was the same, and Rosalie + heard his footsteps and listened and was less sorrowful, because she knew + that she was ever in his thoughts. But one day Mrs. Flynn came to him in + his shop. + </p> + <p> + “She’s wantin’ a word with ye on business,” she said, and gestured towards + the little house across the way. “‘Tis few words ye do be shpakin’ to + annybody, but if y’ have kind words to shpake and good things to say, y’ + naidn’t be bitin’ yer tongue,” she added in response to his nod, and left + him. + </p> + <p> + Charley looked after her with a troubled face. On the instant it seemed to + him that Mrs. Flynn knew all. But his second thought told him that it was + only an instinct on her part that there was something between them—the + beginning of love, maybe. + </p> + <p> + In another half-hour he was beside Rosalie’s chair. “Perhaps you are + angry,” she said, as he came towards her where she sat in the great + arm-chair. She did not give him time to answer, but hurried on. “I wanted + to tell you that I have heard you every night outside, and that I have + been glad, and sorry too—so sorry for us both.” + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie! Rosalie” he said hoarsely, and dropped on a knee beside her + chair, and took her hand and kissed it. He did not dare do more. + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to say to you,” she said, dropping a hand on his shoulder, “that + I do not blame you for anything—not for anything. Yet I want you to + be sorry too. I want you to feel as sorry for me as I feel sorry for you.” + </p> + <p> + “I am the worst man and you the best woman in the world.” + </p> + <p> + She leaned over him with tears in her eyes. “Hush!” she said. “I want to + help you—Charles. You are wise. You know ten thousand things more + than I; but I know one thing you do not understand.” + </p> + <p> + “You know and do whatever is good,” he said brokenly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, no, no! But I know one thing, because I have been taught, and + because it was born with me. Perhaps much was habit with me in the past, + but now I know that one thing is true. It is God.” + </p> + <p> + She paused. “I have learned so much since—since then.” + </p> + <p> + He looked up with a groan, and put a finger on her lips. “You are feeling + bitterly sorry for me,” she said. “But you must let me speak—that is + all I ask. It is all love asks. I cannot bear that you should not share my + thoughts. That is the thing that has hurt—hurt so all these months, + these long hard months, when I could not see you, and did not know why I + could not. Don’t shake so, please! Hear me to the end, and we shall both + be the better after. I felt it all so cruelly, because I did not—and + I do not—understand. I rebelled, but not against you. I rebelled + against myself, against what you called Fate. Fate is one’s self, what one + brings on one’s self. But I had faith in you—always—always, + even when I thought I hated you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, hate me! Hate me! It is your loving that cuts me to the quick,” he + said. “You have the magnanimity of God.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes leapt up. “‘Of God’—you believe in God!” she said eagerly. + “God is God to you? He is the one thing that has come out of all this to + me.” She reached out her hand and took her Bible from a table. “Read that + to yourself,” she said, and, opening the Book, pointed to a passage. He + read it: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in + the cool of the day: and Adam and his wife hid themselves from the + presence of the Lord God amongst the trees of the garden. + + And the Lord God called unto Adam, and said unto him, Where art + thou? + + And he said, I heard Thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, + because I was naked; and I hid myself. + + And He said, Who told thee that thou wart naked? Hast thou eaten of + the tree whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat? +</pre> + <p> + Closing the Book, Charley said: “I understand—I see.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you say a prayer with me?” she urged. “It is all I ask. It is the + only—the only thing I want to hurt you, because it may make you + happier in the end. What keeps us apart, I do not know. But if you will + say one prayer with me, I will keep on trusting, I will never complain, + and I will wait—wait.” + </p> + <p> + He kissed both her hands, but the look in his eyes was that of a man being + broken on the wheel. She slipped to the floor, her rosary in her fingers. + “Let us pray,” she said simply, and in a voice as clear as a child’s, but + with the anguish of a woman’s struggling heart behind. + </p> + <p> + He did not move. She looked at him, caught his hands in both of hers, and + cried: “But you will not deny me this! Haven’t I the right to ask it? + Haven’t I a right to ask of you a thousand times as much?” + </p> + <p> + “You have the right to ask all that is mine to give life, honour, my body + in pieces inch by inch, the last that I can call my own. But, Rosalie, + this is not mine to give! How can I pray, unless I believe!” + </p> + <p> + “You do—oh, you do believe in God,” she cried passionately. + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie—my life,” he urged, hoarse misery in his voice, “the only + thing I have to give you is the bare soul of a truthful man—I am + that now at least. You have made me so. If I deceived the whole world, if + I was as the thief upon the cross, I should still be truthful to you. You + open your heart to me—let me open mine to you, to see it as it is. + Once my soul was like a watch, cased and carried in the pocket of life, + uncertain, untrue, because it was a soul made, not born. I must look at + the hands to know the time, and because it varied, because the working did + not answer to the absolute, I said: ‘The soul is a lie.’ You—you + have changed all that, Rosalie. My soul now is like a dial to the sun. But + the clouds are there above, and I do not know what time it is in life. + When the clouds break—if they ever break—and the sun shines, + the dial will speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—” + </p> + <p> + He paused, confused, for he had repeated the words of a witness taking the + oath in court. + </p> + <p> + “‘So help me God!”’ she finished the oath for him. Then, with a sudden + change of manner, she came to her feet with a spring. She did not quite + understand. She was, however, dimly conscious of the power she had over + his chivalrous mind: the power of the weak over the strong—the + tyranny of the defended over the defender. She was a woman tortured beyond + bearing; and she was fighting for her very life, mad with anguish as she + struggled. + </p> + <p> + “I do not understand you,” she cried, with flashing eyes. “One minute you + say you do not believe in anything, and the next you say, ‘So help me + God!’” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, no, you said that, Rosalie,” he interposed gently. + </p> + <p> + “You said I was as magnanimous as God. You were laughing at me then, + mocking me, whose only fault is that I loved and trusted you. In the + wickedness of your heart you robbed me of happiness, you—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t—don’t! Rosalie! Rosalie!” he exclaimed in shrinking protest. + </p> + <p> + That she had spoken to him as her deepest heart abhorred only increased + her agitated denunciation. “Yes, yes, in your mad selfishness, you did not + care for the poor girl who forgot all, lost all, and now—” She + stopped short at the sight of his white, awe stricken face. His eye-glass + seemed like a frost of death over an eye that looked upon some shocking + scene of woe. Yet he appeared not to see, for his fingers fumbled on his + waistcoat for the monocle—fumbled—vaguely, helplessly. It was + the realisation of a soul cast into the outer darkness. Her abrupt silence + came upon him like the last engulfing wave to a drowning man—the + final assurance of the end, in which there is quiet and the deadly + smother. + </p> + <p> + “Now—I know-the truth!” he said, in a curious even tone, different + from any she had ever heard from him. It was the old Charley Steele who + spoke, the Charley Steele in whom the intellect was supreme once more. The + judicial spirit, the inveterate intelligence which put justice before all, + was alive in him, almost rejoicing in its regained governance. The new + Charley was as dead as the old had been of late, and this clarifying + moment left the grim impression behind that the old law was not obsolete. + He felt that in the abandonment of her indignation she had mercilessly + told the truth; and the irreducible quality of mind in him which in the + old days made for justice, approved. There was a new element now, however—that + conscience which never possessed him fully until the day he saw Rosalie go + travelling over the hills with her crippled father. That picture of the + girl against the twilight, her figure silhouetted in the clear air, had + come to him in sleeping and waking dreams, the type and sign of an + everlasting melancholy. As he looked at her blindly now, he saw, not + herself, but that melancholy figure. Out of the distance his own voice + said again: + </p> + <p> + “Now—I know-the truth!” + </p> + <p> + She had struck with a violence she did not intend, which, she knew, must + rend her own heart in the future, which put in the dice-box the last hopes + she had. But she could not have helped it—she could not have stayed + the words, though a suspended sword were to fall with the saying. It was + the cry of tradition and religion, and every home-bred, convent-nurtured + habit, the instinct of heredity, the wail of woman, for whom destiny, or + man, or nature, has arranged the disproportionate share of life’s + penalties. It was the impotent rebellion against the first curse, that man + in his punishment should earn his bread by the sweat of his brow—which + he might do with joy—while the woman must work out her ordained + sentence “in sorrow all the days of her life.” + </p> + <p> + In her bitter words was the inherent revolt of the race of woman. But now + she suddenly felt that she had flung him an infinite distance from her; + that she had struck at the thing she most cherished—his belief that + she loved him; that even if she had told the truth—and she felt she + had not—it was not the truth she wished him most to feel. + </p> + <p> + For an instant she stood looking at him, shocked and confounded, then her + changeless love rushed back on her, the maternal and protective spirit + welled up, and with a passionate cry she threw herself in the chair again + in very weakness, with outstretched hands, saying: + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me—oh, forgive me! I did not mean it—oh, forgive your + Rosalie!” + </p> + <p> + Stooping over her, he answered: + </p> + <p> + “It is good for me to know the whole truth. What hurts you may give me + will pass—for life must end, and my life cannot be long enough to + pay the price of the hurts I have given you. I could bear a thousand—one + for every hour—if they could bring back the light to your eye, the + joy to your heart. Could prayer, do you think, make me sorrier than I am? + I have hurt what I would have spared from hurt at the cost of my life—and + all the lives in all the world!” he added fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me—oh, forgive your Rosalie!” she pleaded. “I did not know + what I was saying—I was mad.” + </p> + <p> + “It was all so sane and true,” he said, like one who, on the brink of + death, finds a satisfaction in speaking the perfect truth. “I am glad to + hear the truth—I have been such a liar.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up startled, her tears blinding her. “You have not deceived + me?” she asked bitterly. “Oh, you have not deceived me—you have + loved me, have you not?” It was that which mattered, that only. Moveless + and eager, she looked—looked at him, waiting, as it were, for + sentence. + </p> + <p> + “I never lied to you, Rosalie—never!” he answered, and he touched + her hand. + </p> + <p> + She gave a moan of relief at his words. “Oh, then, oh, then... “ she said, + in a low voice, and the tears in her eyes dried away. + </p> + <p> + “I meant that until I knew you, I kept deceiving myself and others all my + life—” + </p> + <p> + “But without knowing it?” she said eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps, without quite knowing it.” + </p> + <p> + “Until you knew me?” she asked, in quick, quivering tones. + </p> + <p> + “Till I knew you,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Then I have done you good—not ill?” she asked, with painful + breathlessness. + </p> + <p> + “The only good there may be in me is you, and you only,” he said, and he + choked something rising in his throat, seeing the greatness of her heart, + her dear desire to have entered into his life to his own good. He would + have said that there was no good in him at all, but that he wished to + comfort her. + </p> + <p> + A little cry of joy broke from her lips. “Oh, that—that!” she cried, + with happy tears. “Won’t you kiss me now?” she added softly. + </p> + <p> + He clasped her in his arms, and though his eyes were dry, his heart wept + tears of blood. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0052" id="link2HCH0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LII. THE COMING OF BILLY + </h2> + <p> + Chaudiere had made—and lost—a reputation. The Passion Play in + the valley had become known to a whole country—to the Cure’s and the + Seigneur’s unavailing regret. They had meant to revive the great story for + their own people and the Indians—a homely, beautiful object-lesson, + in an Eden—like innocence and quiet and repose; but behold the world + had invaded them! The vanity of the Notary had undone them. He had written + to the great papers of the province, telling of the advent of the play, + and pilgrimages had been organised, and excursions had been made to the + spot, where a simple people had achieved a crude but noble picture of the + life and death of the Hero of Christendom. The Cure viewed with + consternation the invasion of their quiet. It was no longer his own + Chaudiere; and when, on a Sunday, his dear people were jostled from the + church to make room for strangers, his gentle eloquence seemed to forsake + him, he spoke haltingly, and his intoning of the Mass lacked the old + soothing simplicity. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my dear Seigneur!” he said, on the Sunday before the playing was to + end, “we have overshot the mark.” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur nodded and turned his head away. “There is an English play + which says, ‘I have shot mine arrow o’er the house and hurt my brother.’ + That’s it—that’s it! We began with religion, and we end with greed, + and pride, and notoriety.” + </p> + <p> + “What do we want of fame! The price is too high, Maurice. Fame is not good + for the hearts and minds of simple folk.” + </p> + <p> + “It will soon be over.” + </p> + <p> + “I dread a sordid reaction.” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur stood thinking for a moment. “I have an idea,” he said at + last. “Let us have these last days to ourselves. The mission ends next + Saturday at five o’clock. We will announce that all strangers must leave + the valley by Wednesday night. Then, during those last three days, while + yet the influence of the play is on them, you can lead your own people + back to the old quiet feelings.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Maurice—it is worthy of you! It is the way. We will + announce it to-day. And see now.... For those three days we will change + the principals; lest those who have taken the parts so long have lost the + pious awe which should be upon them. We will put new people in their + places. I will announce it at vespers presently. I have in my mind who + should play the Christ, and St. John, and St. Peter—the men are not + hard to find; but for Mary the Mother and Mary Magdalene—” + </p> + <p> + The eyes of the two men suddenly met, a look of understanding passed + between them. + </p> + <p> + “Will she do it?” said the Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + The Cure nodded. “Paulette Dubois has heard the word, ‘Go and sin no + more’; she will obey.” + </p> + <p> + Walking through the village as they talked, the Cure shrank back painfully + several times, for voices of strangers, singing festive songs, rolled out + upon the road. “Who can they be?” he said distressfully. + </p> + <p> + Without a word the Seigneur went to the door of the inn whence the sounds + proceeded, and, without knocking, entered. A moment afterwards the voices + stopped, but broke out again, quieted, then once more broke out, and + presently the Seigneur issued from the door, white with anger, three + strangers behind him. All were intoxicated. + </p> + <p> + One was violent. It was Billy Wantage, whom the years had not improved. He + had arrived that day with two companions—an excursion of curiosity + as an excuse for a “spree.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter with you, old stick-in-the-mud?” he shouted. “Mass is + over, isn’t it? Can’t we have a little guzzle between prayers?” + </p> + <p> + By this time a crowd had gathered, among them Filion Lacasse. At a motion + from the Seigneur, and a whisper that went round quickly, a dozen + habitants swiftly sprang on the three men, pinioned their arms, and + carrying them bodily to the pump by the tavern, held them under it, one by + one, till each was soaked and sober. Then their horses and wagon were + brought, and they were given five minutes to leave the village. + </p> + <p> + With a devilish look in his eye, and drenched and furious, Billy was + disposed to resist the command, but the faces around him were determined, + and, muttering curses, the three drove away towards the next parish. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIII. THE SEIGNEUR AND THE CURE HAVE A SUSPICION + </h2> + <p> + Presently the Seigneur and the Cure stood before the door of the + tailor-shop. The Cure was about to knock, when the Seigneur laid a hand + upon his arm. + </p> + <p> + “There is no use; he has been gone several days,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Gone—gone!” said the Cure. + </p> + <p> + “I came to see him yesterday, and not finding him, I asked at the + post-office.” M. Rossignol’s voice lowered. “He told Mrs. Flynn he was + going into the hills, so Rosalie says.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure’s face fell. “He went away also just before the play began. I + almost fear that—that we get no nearer. His mind prompts him to do + good and not evil, and yet—and yet.... I have dreamed a good dream, + Maurice, but I sometimes fear I have dreamed in vain.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait-wait!” + </p> + <p> + M. Loisel looked towards the post-office musingly. “I have thought + sometimes that what man’s prayers may not accomplish a woman’s love might + do. If—but, alas, what do we know of his past! Nothing. What do we + know of his future? Nothing. What do we know of the human heart? Nothing—nothing!” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur was astounded. The Cure’s meaning was plain. “What do you + mean?” he asked, almost gruffly. + </p> + <p> + “She—Rosalie—has changed—changed.” In his heart he dwelt + sorrowfully upon the fact that she had not been to confession to him for + many, many months. + </p> + <p> + “Since her father’s death—since her illness?” + </p> + <p> + “Since she went to Montreal seven months ago. Even while she was so ill + these past weeks, she never asked for me; and when I came... Ah, if it is + that her heart has gone out to the man, and his does not respond!” + </p> + <p> + “A good thing, too!” said the other gloomily. “We don’t know where he came + from, and we do know that he is a pagan.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet there she sits now, hour after hour, day after day—so changed.” + </p> + <p> + “She has lost her father,” urged M. Rossignol anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “I know the grief of children—this is not such a grief. There is + something more. But I cannot ask. If she were a sinner—but she is + without fault. Have we not watched her grow up here, mirthful, brave, + pure-souled—” + </p> + <p> + “Fitted for any station,” interposed the Seigneur huskily. Presently he + laid a hand upon the Cure’s arm. “Shall I ask her again?” he said, + breathing hard. “Do you think she has found out her mistake?” + </p> + <p> + The Cure was so taken aback that at first he could not speak. When he + realised, however, he could scarce suppress a smile at the other’s simple + vanity. But he mastered himself, and said: “It is not that, Maurice. It is + not you.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you know I had asked her?” asked his friend querulously. + </p> + <p> + “You have just told me.” + </p> + <p> + M. Rossignol felt a kind of reproval in the Cure’s tone. It made him a + little nervous. “I’m an old fool, but she needed some one,” he protested. + “At least I am a gentleman, and she would not be thrown away.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Maurice!” said the Cure, and linked his arm in the other’s. “In all + respects save one, it would have been to her advantage. But youth is the + only comrade for youth. All else is evasion of life’s laws.” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur pressed his arm. “I thought you less worldly-wise than + myself; I find you more,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Not worldly-wise. Life is deeper than the world or worldly wisdom. Come, + we will both go and see Rosalie.” + </p> + <p> + M. Rossignol suddenly stopped at the post-office door, and half turned + towards the tailor-shop. “He is young. Suppose that he drew her love his + way, but gave her nothing in return, and—” + </p> + <p> + “If it were so”—the Cure paused, and his face darkened—“if it + were so, he should leave her forever; and so my dream would end.” + </p> + <p> + “And Rosalie?” + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie would forget. To remember, youth must see and touch and be near, + else it wears itself out in excess of feeling. Youth feels more deeply + than age, but it must bear daily witness.” + </p> + <p> + “Upon my honour, Cure, you shall write your little philosophies for the + world,” said M. Rossignol, and then knocked at the door. + </p> + <p> + “I will go in alone, Maurice,” the Cure urged. “Good-you are right,” + answered the other. “I will go write the proclamation denying strangers + the valley after Wednesday. I will enforce it, too,” he added, with + vigour, and, turning, walked up the street, as Mrs. Flynn admitted the + Cure to the post-office. + </p> + <p> + A half-hour later M. Loisel again appeared at the post-office door, a + pale, beautiful face at his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + He had not been brave enough to say what was on his mind. But as he bade + her good-bye, he plucked up needful courage. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, Rosalie,” he said, “but I have sometimes thought that you + have more griefs than one. I have thought”—he paused, then went on + bravely—“that there might be—there might be unwelcomed love, + or love deceived.” + </p> + <p> + A mist came before her eyes, but she quietly and firmly answered: “I have + never been deceived in love, Monsieur Loisel.” + </p> + <p> + “There, there!” he hurriedly and gently rejoined. “Do not be hurt, my + child. I only want to help you.” A moment afterwards he was gone. + </p> + <p> + As the door closed behind him, she drew herself proudly up. + </p> + <p> + “I have never been deceived,” she said aloud. “I love him—love him—love + him.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIV. M. ROSSIGNOL SLIPS THE LEASH + </h2> + <p> + It was the last day of the Passion Play, and the great dramatic mission + was drawing to a close. The confidence of the Cure and the Seigneur was + restored. The prohibition against strangers had had its effect, and for + three whole days the valley had been at rest again. Apparently there was + not a stranger within its borders, save the Seigneur’s brother, the Abbe + Rossignol, who had come to see the moving spectacle. + </p> + <p> + The Abbe, on his arrival, had made inquiries concerning the tailor of + Chaudiere and Jo Portugais, as persistently about the one as the other. + Their secrets had been kept inviolate by him. + </p> + <p> + It was disconcerting to hear the tales people told of the tailor’s charity + and wisdom. It was all dangerous, for what was, accidentally, no evil in + this particular instance, might be the greatest disaster in another case. + Principle was at stake. He heard in stern silence the Cure’s happy + statement that Jo Portugais had returned to the bosom of the Church, and + attended Mass regularly. + </p> + <p> + “So it may be, my dear Abbe,” said M. Loisel, “that the friendship between + him and our ‘infidel’ has been the means of helping Portugais. I hope + their friendship will go on unbroken for years and years.” + </p> + <p> + “I have no idea that it will,” said the Abbe grimly. “That rope of + friendship may snap untimely.” + </p> + <p> + “Upon my soul, you croak like a raven!” testily broke in M. Rossignol, who + was present. “I didn’t know there was so much in common between you and my + surly-jowled groom. He gets his pleasure out of croaking. ‘Wait, wait, + you’ll see—you’ll see! Death, death, death—every man must die! + The devil has you by the hair—death—death—death!’ Bah! + I’m heartily sick of croakers. I suppose, like my grunting groom, you’ll + say about the Passion Play, ‘No good will come of it—wait—wait—wait!’ + Bah!” + </p> + <p> + “It may not be an unmixed good,” answered the ascetic. + </p> + <p> + “Well, and is there any such thing on earth as an unmixed good? The play + yesterday was worth a thousand sermons. It was meant to serve Holy Church, + and it will serve it. Was there ever anything more real—and touching—than + Paulette Dubois as Mary Magdalene yesterday?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not approve of such reality. For that woman to play the part is to + destroy the impersonality of the scene.” + </p> + <p> + “You would demand that the Christus should be a good man, and the St. John + blameless—why shouldn’t the Magdalene be a repentant woman?” + </p> + <p> + “It might impress the people more, if the best woman in your parish were + to play the part. The fall of virtue, the ruin of innocence, would be + vividly brought home. It does good to make the innocent feel the terror + and shame of sin. That is the price the good pay for the fall of man—sorrow + and shame for those who sin.” The Seigneur, rising quickly from the table, + and kicking his chair back, said angrily: “Damn your theories!” Then, + seeing the frozen look on his brother’s face, continued, more excitedly: + “Yes, damn, damn, damn your theories! You always took the crass view. I + beg your pardon, Cure—I beg your pardon.” + </p> + <p> + He then went to the window, threw it open, and called to his groom. + </p> + <p> + “Hi, there, coffin-face,” he said, “bring round the horses—the + quietest one in the stable for my brother—you hear? He can’t ride,” + he added maliciously. + </p> + <p> + This was his fiercest stroke, for the Abbe’s secret vanity was the belief + that he looked well on a horse, and rode handsomely. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0055" id="link2HCH0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LV. ROSALIE PLAYS A PART + </h2> + <p> + From a tree upon a little hill rang out a bell—a deep-toned bell, + bought by the parish years before for the missions held at this very spot. + Every day it rang for an instant at the beginning of each of the five + acts. It also tolled slowly when the curtain rose upon the scene of the + Crucifixion. In this act no one spoke save the abased Magdalene, who knelt + at the foot of the cross, and on whose hair red drops fell when the Roman + soldier pierced the side of the figure on the cross. This had been the + Cure’s idea. The Magdalene should speak for mankind, for the continuing + world. She should speak for the broken and contrite heart in all ages, + should be the first-fruits of the sacrifice, a flower of the desert earth, + bedewed by the blood of the Prince of Peace. + </p> + <p> + So, in the long nights of the late winter and early spring, the Cure had + thought and thought upon what the woman should say from the foot of the + cross. At last he put into her mouth that which told the whole story of + redemption and deliverance, so far as his heart could conceive it—the + prayer for all sorts and conditions of men and the general thanksgiving of + humanity. + </p> + <p> + During the last three days Paulette Dubois had taken the part of Mary + Magdalene. As Jo Portugais had confessed to the Abbe that notable day in + the woods at Vadrome Mountain, so she had confessed to the Cure after so + many years of agony—and the one confession fitted into the other: Jo + had once loved her, she had treated him vilely, then a man had wronged + her, and Jo had avenged her—this was the tale in brief. She it was + who laughed in the gallery of the court-room the day that Joseph Nadeau + was acquitted. + </p> + <p> + It had pained and shocked the Cure more than any he had ever heard, but he + urged for her no penalty as Portugais had set for himself with the austere + approval of the Abbe. Paulette’s presence as the Magdalene had had a deep + effect upon the people, so that she shared with Mary the Mother the + painfully real interest of the vast audience. + </p> + <p> + Five times had the bell rung out in the perfect spring air, upon which the + balm of the forest and the refreshment of the ardent sun were poured. The + quick anger of M. Rossignol had passed away long before the Cure, the + Abbe, and himself had reached the lake and the great plateau. Between the + acts the two brothers walked up and down together, at peace once more, and + there was a suspicious moisture in the Seigneur’s eyes. The demeanour of + the people had been so humble and rapt that the place and the plateau and + the valley seemed alone in creation with the lofty drama of the ages. + </p> + <p> + The Cure’s eyes shone when he saw on a little knoll in the trees, apart + from the worshippers and spectators, Charley and Jo Portugais. His cup of + content was now full. He had felt convinced that if the tailor had but + been within these bounds during the past three days, a work were begun + which should end only at the altar of their parish church. To-day the play + became to him the engine of God for the saving of a man’s soul. Not long + before the last great tableau was to appear he went to his own little tent + near the hut where the actors prepared to go upon the stage. As he + entered, some one came quickly forward from the shadow of the trees and + touched him on the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie!” he cried in amazement, for she wore the costume of Mary + Magdalene. + </p> + <p> + “It is I, not Paulette, who will appear,” she said, a deep light in her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You, Rosalie?” he asked dumfounded. “You are distrait. Trouble and sorrow + have put this in your mind. You must not do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am going there,” she said, pointing towards the great stage. + “Paulette has given me these to wear”—she touched the robe—“and + I only ask your blessing now. Oh, believe, believe me, I can speak for + those who are innocent and those who are guilty; for those who pray and + those who cannot pray; for those who confess and those who dare not! I can + speak the words out of my heart with gladness and agony, Monsieur,” she + urged, in a voice vibrating with feeling. + </p> + <p> + A luminous look came into the Cure’s face. A thought leapt up in his + heart. Who could tell!—this pure girl, speaking for the whole + sinful, unbelieving, and believing world, might be the one last conquering + argument to the man. + </p> + <p> + He could not read the agony of spirit which had driven Rosalie to this—to + confess through the words of Mary Magdalene her own woe, to say it out to + all the world, and to receive, as did Paulette Dubois, every day after the + curtain came down, absolution and blessing. She longed for the old + remembered peace. + </p> + <p> + The Cure could not read the struggle between her love for a man and the + ineradicable habit of her soul; but he raised his hand, made the sacred + gesture over leer, and said: “Go, my child, and God be with you.” + </p> + <p> + He could not see her for tears as she hurried away to where Paulette + Dubois awaited her—the two at peace now. At the hands of the lately + despised and injurious woman Rosalie was made ready to play the part in + the last act, none knowing save the few who appeared in the final tableau, + and they at the last moment only. + </p> + <p> + The bell began to toll. + </p> + <p> + A thousand people fell upon their knees, and with fascinated yet abashed + and awe-struck eyes saw the great tableau of Christendom: the three + crosses against the evening sky, the Figure in the centre, the Roman + populace, the trembling Jews, the pathetic groups of disciples. A cloud + passed across the sky, the illusion grew, and hearts quivered in piteous + sympathy. There was no music now—not a sound save the sob of some + overwrought woman. The woe of an oppressed world absorbed them. Even the + stolid Indians, as Roman soldiers, shrank awe-stricken from the sacred + tragedy. Now the eyes of all were upon the central Figure, then they + shifted for a moment to John the Beloved, standing with the Mother. + </p> + <p> + “Pauvre Mere! Pauvre Christ!” said a weeping woman aloud. + </p> + <p> + A Roman soldier raised a spear and pierced the side of the Hero of the + World. Blood flowed, and hundreds gasped. Then there was silence—a + strange hush as of a prelude to some great event. + </p> + <p> + “It is finished. Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,” said the + Figure. + </p> + <p> + The hush was broken by such a sound as one hears in a forest when a wind + quivers over the earth, flutters the leaves, and then sinks away—neither + having come nor gone, but only lived and died. + </p> + <p> + Again there was silence, and then all eyes were fixed upon the figure at + the foot of the cross-Mary the Magdalene. + </p> + <p> + Day after day they had seen this figure rise, come forward a step, and + speak the epilogue to this moving miracle-drama. For the last three days + Paulette Dubois had turned a sorrowful face upon them, and with one hand + upraised had spoken the prayer, the prophecy, the thanksgiving, the appeal + of humanity and the ages. They looked to see the same figure now, and + waited. But as the Magdalene turned, there was a great stir in the + multitude, for the face bent upon them was that of Rosalie Evanturel. Awe + and wonder moved the people. + </p> + <p> + Apart from the crowd, under a clump of trees, knelt a woodsman from + Vadrome Mountain, and the tailor of Chaudiere stood beside him. + </p> + <p> + When Charley, touched by the heavy scene, saw the figure of the Magdalene + rise, he felt a curious thrill of fascination. When she turned, and he saw + the face of Rosalie, the blood rushed to his face; then his heart seemed + to stand still. Pain and shame travelled to the farthest recesses of his + nature. Jo Portugais rose to his feet with a startled exclamation. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie began to speak. “This is the day of which the hours shall never + cease—in it there shall be no night. He whom ye have crucified hath + saved you from the wrath to come. He hath saved others, Himself He would + not save. Even for such as I, who have secretly opened, who have secretly + entered, the doors of sin—” + </p> + <p> + With a gasp of horror and a mad desire to take her away from the sight of + this gaping, fascinated crowd, Charley made to rush forward, but Jo + Portugais held him back. + </p> + <p> + “Be still. You will ruin her, M’sieu’!” said Jo. + </p> + <p> + “—even for such as I am,” the beautiful voice went on, “hath He + died. And in the ages to come, women such as I, and all women who sorrow, + and all men who err and are deceived, and all the helpless world, will + know that this was the Friend of the human soul.” Not a gesture, not a + movement, only that slight, pathetic figure, with pale, agonised face, and + eyes that looked—looked—looked beyond them, over their heads + to the darkening east, the clouded light of evening behind her. Her voice + rang out now valiant and clear, now searching and piteous, yet reaching to + where the farthermost person knelt, and was lost upon the lake and in the + spreading trees. + </p> + <p> + “What ye have done may never be undone; what He hath said shall never be + unsaid. His is the Word which shall unite all languages, when ye that are + Romans shall be no more Romans, and ye that are Jews shall still be Jews, + reproached and alone. No longer shall men faint in the glare—the + shadow of the Cross shall screen them. No more shall woman bear her black + sorrows, alone; the Light of the World shall cheer her.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke, the cloud drew back from the sunset, and the saffron glow + behind lighted the cross, and shone upon her hair, casting her face in a + gracious shadow. Her voice rose higher. “I, the Magdalene, am the + first-fruits of this sacrifice: from the foot of the cross I come. I have + sinned more than all. I have shamed all women. But I have confessed my + sin, and He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us + from all unrighteousness.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice now became lower, but clear and even, pathetically exulting: + </p> + <p> + “O world, forgive, as He hath forgiven you! Fall, dark curtain, and hide + this pain, and rise again upon forgiven sin and a redeemed people!” + </p> + <p> + She stood still, with her eyes upraised, and the curtain came slowly down. + </p> + <p> + For a long time no one in all the gathered multitude stirred. Far over + under the trees a man sat upon the ground, his head upon his arms, and his + arms upon his knees, in a misery unmeasurable. Beside him stood a + woodsman, who knew of no word to say that might comfort him. + </p> + <p> + A girl, in the garb of the Magdalene, entered the tent of the Cure, and, + speaking no word, knelt and received absolution of her sins. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0056" id="link2HCH0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LVI. MRS. FLYNN SPEAKS + </h2> + <p> + CHARLEY left Jo Portugais behind, and went home alone. He watched at a + window till he saw Rosalie return. As she passed quickly down the street + with Mrs. Flynn to her own door, he observed that her face was happier + than he had seen it for many a day. Her step was lighter, there was a + freedom in her air, a sense of confidence in her carriage. + </p> + <p> + She bore herself as one who had done a thing which relaxed a painful + tension. There was a curious glow in her eyes and face, and this became + deeper as, showing himself at the door, she saw him, smiled, and stood + still. He came across the street and took her hand. + </p> + <p> + “You have been away,” she said softly. “For a few days,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Far?” + </p> + <p> + “At Vadrome Mountain.” + </p> + <p> + “You have missed these last days of the Passion Play,” she said, a shadow + in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I was present to-day,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + She turned away her head quickly, for the look in his eyes told her more + than any words could have done, and Mrs. Flynn said: + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis a day for everlastin’ mimory, sir. For the part she played this day, + the darlin’, only such as she could play! ‘Tis the innocent takin’ the + shame o’ the guilty, and the tears do be comin’ to me eyes. ‘Tis not ould + Widdy Flynn’s eyes alone that’s wet this day, but hearts do be weepin’ for + the love o’ God.” + </p> + <p> + Rosalie suddenly opened the door, and, without another look at Charley, + entered the house. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis one in a million!” said Mrs. Flynn, in a confidential tone, for she + had a fixed idea that Rosalie loved Charley and that he loved her, and + that the only thing that stood in the way of their marriage was religion. + From the first Charley had conquered Mrs. Flynn. That he was a tailor was + a pity and a shame, but love was love, and the man had a head on him and a + heart in him; and love was love! So Mrs. Flynn said: + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis one that a man that’s a man should do annything for, was it havin’ + the heart cut out uv him, or givin’ the last drop uv his blood. Shure, for + such as her, murder, or false witness, or givin’ up the last wish or + thought a man hugged to his boosom, would be as aisy as aisy.” + </p> + <p> + Charley laughed to himself, her purpose was so obvious, but his heart went + out to her, for she was a friend, and, whatever came to him, Rosalie would + not be alone. + </p> + <p> + “I believe every word of yours,” he said, shaking her hand, “and we’ll + see, you and I, that no man marries her who isn’t ready to do what you + say.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you do it yourself—if it was you?” she asked, flushing for + her boldness. + </p> + <p> + “I would,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Then do it,” she said, and fled inside the house and shut the door. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Flynn—good Mrs. Flynn!” he said, and went back sadly to his + house, and shut himself up with his thoughts. When night drew on he went + to bed, but he could not sleep. He got up after a time, and taking pen and + paper, wrote for a long time. Having finished, he took what he had + written, and placing it with the two packets-of money and pearls—which + he had brought from his old home, he addressed it to the Cure, and going + to the safe in the wall of the shop, placed them inside and locked the + door. + </p> + <p> + Then he went to bed, and slept soundly—the deep sleep of the just. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0057" id="link2HCH0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LVII. A BURNING FIERY FURNACE + </h2> + <p> + Every man within the limits of the parish was in his bed, save one. He was + a stranger who, once before, had visited Chaudiere for one brief day, when + he had been saved from death at the Red Ravine, and had fled the village + that night because, as he thought, he had heard the voice of his old + friend’s ghost in the trees. Since that time he had travelled in many + parishes, healing where he could, entertaining where he might, earning + money as the charlatan. He was now on his way back through the parishes to + Montreal, and his route lay through Chaudiere. He had hoped to reach + Chaudiere before nightfall—he remembered with fear the incident from + which he had fled many months before; but his horse had broken its leg on + a corduroy bridge, a few miles out from the parish in the hills, and + darkness came upon him before he could hide his wagon in the woods and + proceed afoot to Chaudiere. He had shot his horse, and rolled it into the + swift torrent beneath the bridge. + </p> + <p> + Travelling the lonely road, he drank freely from the whiskey-horn he + carried, to keep his spirits up, so that by the time he came to the + outskirts of Chaudiere he was in a state of intoxication, and reeled + impudently along with the “Dutch courage” the liquor had given him. + Arrived at the first cluster of houses in the place, he paused uncertain. + Should he knock here or go on to the tavern? He shivered at thought of the + tavern, for it was near it he had heard Charley Steele’s voice calling to + him out of the trees. If he knocked here, would the people admit him in + his present state?—he had sense enough to know that he was very + drunk. As he shook his head in owlish gravity, he saw the church on the + hill not far away. He chuckled to himself. The carpet in the chancel and + the hassocks at the altar would make a good bed. No fear of Charley’s + ghost coming inside the church—it wouldn’t be that kind of a ghost. + As he travelled the intervening space, shrugging his shoulders, staggering + serenely, he told himself in confidence that he would leave the church at + dawn, go to the tavern, purchase a horse as soon as might be, and get back + to his wagon. + </p> + <p> + The church door was unlocked, and he entered and made his way to the + chancel, found surplices in the vestry and put a hassock inside one for a + pillow. Then he sat down and drew the loose rug of the chancel-floor over + him, and took another drink from the whiskey horn. Lighting his pipe, he + smoked for a while, but grew drowsy, and his pipe fell into his lap. With + eyes nearly shut he struck another match, made to light his pipe again, + but threw the match away, still burning. As he did so the pipe dropped + again from his mouth, and he fell back on the hassock-pillow he had made. + </p> + <p> + The lighted match fell on a surplice which had dropped from his arms as he + came from the vestry, and set it afire. In five minutes the whole chancel + was burning, and the sleeping man waked in the midst of smoke and flame. + He staggered to his feet with a terror-stricken cry, stumbled down the + aisle, through the front door, and out into the night. Reaching the road, + he turned his face again to the hill where his wagon lay hid. If he could + reach that, he would be safe; nobody would suspect him. He clutched the + whiskey-horn tight and broke into a run. As he passed beyond the village + his excited imagination heard Charley Steele’s ghost calling after him. He + ran harder. The voice kept calling from Chaudiere. + </p> + <p> + Not Charley’s voice, but the voices of many people in Chaudiere were + calling. Some wakeful person had seen the glare in the church windows and + had given the alarm, and now there rang through the streets the + call-“Fire! Fire! Fire!” + </p> + <p> + Charley and Jo were among the last to wake, for both had slept soundly, + but Jo was roused by a handful of gravel thrown at his window and a + warning cry, and a few moments later he and Charley were in the street + with a hurrying crowd. Over all the village was a red glare, lighting up + the sky, burnishing the trees. The church was a mass of flames. + </p> + <p> + Charley was as pale as the rest of the crowd; for he thought of the Cure, + he thought of this people to whom their church meant more than home and + vastly more than friend and fortune. His heart was with them all: not + because it was their church that was burning, but because it was something + dear to them. + </p> + <p> + Reaching the hill, he saw the Cure coming from the vestry of the burning + church, bearing some vessels of the altar. Depositing them in the arms of + his weeping sister, he turned again towards the door. People clung to him, + and would not let him go. + </p> + <p> + “See, it is all inflames,” they cried. “Your cassock is singed. You shall + not go.” + </p> + <p> + At that moment Charley and Portugais came up. A hurried question to the + Cure from Charley, a key handed over, a nod from Jo, and before the Cure + could prevent them the two men had rushed through the smoke and flame into + the vestry, Portugais holding Charley’s hand. + </p> + <p> + The crowd outside waited in a terrible anxiety. The timbers of the chancel + portion of the building seemed about to fall, and still the two men did + not appear. The people called; the Cure clinched his hands at his side—he + was too fearful even to pray. + </p> + <p> + But now the two men appeared, loaded with the few treasures of the church. + They were scorched and singed, and the beards of both were burned, but, + stumbling and exhausted, they brought their loads to the eager arms of the + waiting habitants. + </p> + <p> + Then from the other end of the church came a cry: “The little cross—the + little iron cross!” Then another cry: “Rosalie Evanturel! Rosalie + Evanturel!” Some one came running to the Cure. + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie Evanturel has gone inside for the little cross on the pillar. She + is in the flames; the door has fallen in. She can’t get out again.” + </p> + <p> + With a hoarse cry, Charley darted back inside the vestry door. A cry of + horror went up. + </p> + <p> + It was only a minute and a half, but it seemed like years, and then a man + in flames appeared in the fiery porch—and not alone. He carried a + girl in his arms. He wavered even at the threshold with the timbers + swaying overhead, but, with a last effort, he plunged forward through the + furnace, and was caught by eager hands on the margin of endurable heat. + The two were smothered in quilts brought from the Cure’s house, and + carried swiftly to the cool safety of the grass and trees beyond. The + woman had fainted in the flame of the church; the man dropped insensible + as they caught her from his arms. + </p> + <p> + As they tore away Charley’s coat muffling his face, and opened his shirt, + they stared in awe. The cross which Rosalie had torn from the pillar, + Charley had thrust into his bosom, and there it now lay on the red scar + made by itself in the hands of Louis Trudel. + </p> + <p> + M. Loisel waved the people back. He raised Charley’s head. The Abbe + Rossignol, who had just arrived with the Seigneur, lifted the cross from + the insensible man’s breast. + </p> + <p> + He started when he saw the scar. Then he remembered the tale he had heard. + He turned away gravely to his brother. “Was it the cross or the woman he + went for?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Great God—do you ask!” the Seigneur said indignantly. “And he + deserves her,” he muttered under his breath. + </p> + <p> + Charley opened his eyes. “Is she safe?” he asked, starting up. + </p> + <p> + “Unscathed, my son,” the Cure said. + </p> + <p> + Was this tailor-man not his son? Had he not thirsted for his soul as a + hart for the water-brooks? + </p> + <p> + “I am very sorry for you, Monsieur,” said Charley. + </p> + <p> + “It is God’s will,” was the reply, in a choking voice. “It will be years + before we have another church—many, many years.” + </p> + <p> + The roof gave way with a crash, and the spire shot down into the flaming + debris. + </p> + <p> + The people groaned. + </p> + <p> + “It will cost sixty thousand dollars to build it up again,” said Filion + Lacasse. + </p> + <p> + “We have three thousand dollars from the Passion Play,” said the Notary. + “That could go towards it.” + </p> + <p> + “We have another two thousand in the bank,” said Maximilian Cour. + </p> + <p> + “But it will take years,” said the saddler disconsolately. + </p> + <p> + Charley looked at the Cure, mournful and broken but calm. He saw the + Seigneur, gloomy and silent, standing apart. He saw the people in + scattered groups, looking more homeless than if they had no homes. Some + groups were silent; others discussed angrily the question, who was the + incendiary—that it had been set on fire seemed certain. + </p> + <p> + “I said no good would come of the play-acting,” said the Seigneur’s groom, + and was flung into the ditch by Filion Lacasse. + </p> + <p> + Presently Charley staggered to his feet, purpose in his face. These + people, from the Cure and Seigneur to the most ignorant habitant, were + hopeless and inert. The pride of their lives was gone. + </p> + <p> + “Gather the people together,” he said to the Notary and Filion Lacasse. + Then he turned to the Cure and the Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + “With your permission, messieurs,” he said, “I will do a harder thing than + I have ever done. I will speak to them all.” + </p> + <p> + Wondering, M. Loisel added his voice to the Notary’s, and the word went + round. Slowly they all made their way to a spot the Cure indicated. + </p> + <p> + Charley stood on the embankment above the road, the notables of the parish + round him. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie had been taken to the Cure’s house. In that wild moment in the + church when she had fallen insensible in Charley’s arms, a new feeling had + sprung up in her. She loved him in every fibre, but she had a strange + instinct, a prescience, that she was lying on his breast for the last + time. She had wound her arms round his neck, and, as his lips closed on + hers, she had cried: “We shall die together—together.” + </p> + <p> + As she lay in the Cure’s house, she thought only of that moment. + </p> + <p> + “What are they cheering for?” she asked, as a great noise came to her + through the window. + </p> + <p> + “Run and see,” said the Cure’s sister to Mrs. Flynn, and the fat woman + hurried away. + </p> + <p> + Rosalie raised herself so that she could look out of the window. “I can + see him,” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “See whom?” asked the Cure’s sister. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” she answered, with a changed voice. “He is speaking. They are + cheering him.” + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes later, the Cure and the Notary entered the room. M. Loisel + came forward to Rosalie, and took her hands in his. + </p> + <p> + “You should not have done it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to do something,” she replied. “To get the cross for you seemed + the only payment I could make for all your goodness to me.” + </p> + <p> + “It nearly cost you your life—and the life of another,” he said, + shaking his head reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + Cheering came again from the burning church. “Why do they cheer?” she + asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why do they cheer? Because the man we have feared, Monsieur Mallard—” + </p> + <p> + “I never feared him,” said Rosalie, scarcely above her breath. + </p> + <p> + “Because he has taught them the way to a new church again—and at + once, at once, my child.” + </p> + <p> + “A remarkable man!” said Narcisse Dauphin. “There never was such a speech. + Never in any courtroom was there such an appeal.” + </p> + <p> + “What did he do?” asked Mademoiselle Loisel, her hand in Rosalie’s. + </p> + <p> + “Everything,” answered the Cure. “There he stood in his tattered clothes, + the beard burnt to his chin, his hands scorched, his eyes bloodshot, and + he spoke—” + </p> + <p> + “‘With the tongues of men and of angels,’” said M. Dauphin + enthusiastically. + </p> + <p> + The Cure frowned and continued: “‘You look on yonder burning walls,’ he + said, ‘and wonder when they will rise again on this hill made sacred by + the burial of your beloved, by the christening of your children, the + marriages which have given you happy homes, and the sacraments which are + to you the laws of your lives. You give one-twentieth of your income + yearly towards your church—then give one-fortieth of all you possess + today, and your church will be begun in a month. Before a year goes round + you will come again to this venerable spot and enter another church here. + Your vows, your memories, and your hopes will be purged by fire. All that + you possess will be consecrated by your free-will offerings.’—Ah, if + I could but remember what came afterwards! It was all eloquence, and + generous and noble thought.” + </p> + <p> + “He spoke of you,” said the Notary—“he spoke the truth; and the + people cheered. He said that the man outside the walls could sometimes + tell the besieged the way relief would come. Never again shall I hear such + a speech.” + </p> + <p> + “What are they going to do?” asked Rosalie, and withdrew her trembling + hand from that of Madame Dugal. + </p> + <p> + “This very day, at my office, they will bring their offerings, and we will + begin at once,” answered M. Dauphin. “There is no man in Chaudiere but + will take the stocking from the hole, the bag from the chest, the credit + from the bank, the grain from the barn for the market, or make the note of + hand to contribute one-fortieth of all he is worth for the rebuilding of + the church.” + </p> + <p> + “Notes of hand are not money,” said the Cure’s sister, the practical sense + ever uppermost. + </p> + <p> + “They shall all be money—hard cash,” said the Notary. “The Seigneur + is going to open a sort of bank, and take up the notes of hand, and give + bank-bills in return. To-day I go with his steward to Quebec to get the + money.” + </p> + <p> + “What does the Abbe Rossignol say?” said the Cure’s sister. + </p> + <p> + “Our church and parish are our own,” interposed the Cure proudly. “We do + our duty and fear no abbe.” + </p> + <p> + “Voila!” said M. Dauphin, “he never can keep hands off. I saw him go to Jo + Portugais a little while ago. ‘Remember!’ he said—I can’t make out + what he was after. We have enough to remember to-day, for sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Good may come of it, perhaps,” said M. Loisel, looking sadly out upon the + ruins of his church. + </p> + <p> + “See, ‘tis the sunrise!” said Mrs. Flynn’s voice from the corner, her face + towards the eastern window. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0058" id="link2HCH0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LVIII. WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL. + </h2> + <p> + In four days ten thousand dollars in notes and gold had been brought to + the office of the Notary by the faithful people of Chaudiere. All day in + turn M. Loisel and M. Rossignol sat in the office and received that which + represented one-fortieth of the value of each man’s goods, estate, and + wealth—the fortieth value of a woodsawyer’s cottage, or a widow’s + garden. They did it impartially for all, as the Cure and three of the + best-to-do habitants had done for the Seigneur, whose four thousand + dollars had been paid in first of all. + </p> + <p> + Charley had been confined to his room for three days, because of his + injuries and a feverish cold he had caught, and the habitants did not + disturb his quiet. But Mrs. Flynn took him broth made by Rosalie’s hands, + and Rosalie fought with her desire to go to him and nurse him. She was + not, however, the Rosalie of the old impulse and impetuous resolve—the + arrow had gone too deep; she waited till she could see his face again and + look into his eyes. Not apathy, but a sense of the inevitable was upon + her, and pale and fragile, but with a calm spirit, she waited for she knew + not what. + </p> + <p> + She felt that the day of fate was closing down. She must hold herself + ready for the hour when he would need her most. At first, when the + conviction had come to her that the end of all was near, she had revolted. + She had had impulse to go to him at all hazards, to say to him: “Come away—anywhere, + anywhere!” But that had given place to the deeper thing in her, and + something of Charley’s spirit of stoic waiting had come upon her. + </p> + <p> + She watched the people going to the Notary’s office with their tributes + and free-will offerings, and they seemed like people in a play—these + days she lived no life which was theirs. It was a dream, unimportant and + temporary. She was feeling what was behind all life, and permanent. It + could not last, but there it was; and she could not return to the + transitory till this cloud of fate was lifted. She was much too young to + suffer so, but the young ever suffer most. + </p> + <p> + On the fourth day she saw Charley. He came from his shop and went to the + Notary’s office. At first she was startled, for he was clean-shaven—the + fire had burned his beard to the skin. She saw a different man, far + removed from this life about them both—individual, singular. He was + pale, and his eye-glass, with the cleanshaven face, gave an impression of + refined separateness. She did not know that the same look was in both + their faces. She watched him till he entered the Notary’s shop, then she + was called away to her duties. + </p> + <p> + Charley had come to give his one-fortieth with the rest. When he entered + the Notary’s office, the Seigneur and M. Dauphin stood up to greet him. + They congratulated him on his recovery, while feeling also that the change + in his personal appearance somehow affected their relations. A crowd + gathered round the door of the shop. When Charley made his offering, with + a statement of his goods and income, the Seigneur and Notary did not know + what to do. They were disposed to decline it, for since Monsieur was no + Catholic, it was not his duty to help. At this moment of delicate anxiety + M. Loisel entered. With a swift bright flush to his cheek he saw the + difficulty, and at once accepted freely. + </p> + <p> + “God bless you,” he said, as he took the money, and Charley left. “It + shall build the doorway of my church.” + </p> + <p> + Later in the day the Cure sent for Charley. There were grave matters to + consider, and his counsel was greatly needed. They had all come to depend + on the soundness of his judgment. It had never gone astray in Chaudiere, + they said. They owed to him this extraordinary scheme, which would be an + example to all modern Christianity. They told him so. He said nothing in + reply. + </p> + <p> + In an hour he had planned for them a scheme for the consideration of + contractors; had drawn, with the help of M. Loisel, an architect’s rough + plan of the new church, and, his old professional instincts keenly alive, + had lucidly suggested the terms and safeguards of the contracts. + </p> + <p> + Then came the question of the money contributed. The day before, M. + Dauphin and the Seigneur’s steward had arrived in safety from Quebec with + twenty thousand dollars in bank-bills. These M. Rossignol had exchanged + for the notes of hand of such of the habitants as had not ready cash to + give. All of this twenty thousand dollars had been paid over. They had now + thirty thousand dollars in cash, besides three thousand which the Cure had + at his house, the proceeds of the Passion Play. It was proposed to send + this large sum to the bank in Quebec in another two days, when the whole + contributions should be complete. + </p> + <p> + As to the safety of the money, the timid M. Dauphin did not care to take + responsibility. Strangers were still arriving, ignorant of the fact that + the Passion Play had ceased, and some of them must be aware that this + large sum of money was in the parish—no doubt also knew that it was + in his house. It was therefore better, he urged, that M. Rossignol or the + Cure should take charge of it. M. Loisel urged that secrecy as to the + resting-place of the money was important. It was better that it should be + deposited in the most unlikely place, and with some unofficial person who + might not be supposed to have it in charge. + </p> + <p> + “I have it!” said the Seigneur. “The money shall be placed in old Louis + Trudel’s safe in the wall of the tailor-shop.” + </p> + <p> + It was so arranged, after Charley’s protests of unwillingness, and + counter-appeals from the others. That evening at sundown thirty-three + thousand dollars was deposited in the safe in the old stone wall of the + tailorshop, and the lock was sealed with the parish seal. + </p> + <p> + But the Notary’s wife had wormed the secret from her husband, and she + found it hard to keep. She told it to Maximilian Cour, and he kept it. She + told it to her cousin, the wife of Filion Lacasse, and she did not keep + it. Before twenty-four hours went round, a dozen people knew it. + </p> + <p> + The evening of the second day, another two thousand dollars was added to + the treasure, and the lock was again sealed—with the utmost secrecy. + Charley and Jo Portugais, the infidel and the murderer, were thus the + sentries to the peace of a parish, the bankers of its gifts, the security + for the future of the church of Chaudiere. Their weapons of defence were + two old pistols belonging to the Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + “Money is the master of the unexpected,” the Seigneur had said as he + handed them over. He chuckled for hours afterwards as he thought of his + epigram. That night, as he turned over in bed for the third time, as was + his custom before going to sleep, another epigram came to him—“Money + is the only fox hunted night and day.” He kept repeating it over and over + again with vain pride. + </p> + <p> + The truth of M. Rossignol’s aphorisms had been demonstrated several days + before. On his return from Quebec with the twenty thousand dollars of the + Seigneur’s money, M. Dauphin had dwelt with great pride on the discretion + and energy he and the steward had shown; had told dramatically of the + skill which had enabled them to make a journey of such importance so + secretly and safely; had covered himself with blushes for his own coolness + and intrepidity. Fortune had, however, favoured his reputation and his + intrepidity, for he had been pursued from the hour he and his companion + left Quebec. A taste for the picturesque had impelled him to arrange for + two relays of horses, and this fact saved him and the twenty thousand + dollars he carried. Two hours after he had left Quebec, four determined + men had got upon his trail, and had only been prevented from overtaking + him by the freshness of the horses which his dramatic foresight had + provided. + </p> + <p> + The leader of these four pursuers was Billy Wantage, who had come to know + of the curious action of the Seigneur of Chaudiere from an intimate + friend, a clerk in the bank. Billy’s fortunes were now in a bad way, and, + in desperate straits for money, he had planned this bold attempt at the + highwayman’s art with two gamblers, to whom he owed money, and a certain + notorious horse-trader of whom he had made a companion of late. Having + escaped punishment for a crime once before, through Charley’s supposed + death, the immunity nerved him to this later and more dangerous + enterprise. The four rode as hard as their horses would permit, but M. + Dauphin and his companion kept always an hour or more ahead, and, from the + high hills overlooking the village, Billy and his friends saw the two + enter it safely in the light of evening. + </p> + <p> + His three friends urged Billy to turn back, since they were out of + provisions and had no shelter. It was unwise to go to a tavern or a + farmer’s house, where they must certainly be suspected. Billy, however, + determined to make an effort to find the banking-place of the money, and + refused to turn back without a trial. He therefore proposed that they + should separate, going different directions, secure accommodation for the + night, rest the following day, and meet the next night at a point + indicated. This was agreed upon, and they separated. + </p> + <p> + When the four met again, Billy had nothing to communicate, as he had been + taken ill during the night before, and had been unable to go secretly into + Chaudiere village. They separated once more. When they met the next night + Billy was accompanied by an old confederate. As he was entering Chaudiere + the previous evening, he had met John Brown, with his painted wagon and a + new mottled horse. John Brown had news of importance to give; for, in the + stable-yard of the village tavern, he had heard one habitant confide to + another that the money for the new church was kept in the safe of the + tailor-shop. John Brown was as ready to share in Billy’s second enterprise + as he had been to incite him to his first crime. + </p> + <p> + So it was that as the Seigneur made his epigram and gloated over it, the + five men, with horses at a convenient distance, armed to the teeth, broke + stealthily into Charley’s house. + </p> + <p> + They entered silently through the kitchen window, and made their way into + the little hall. Two stood guard at the foot of the stairs, and three + crept into the shop. + </p> + <p> + This night Jo Portugais was sleeping up-stairs, while Charley lay upon the + bench in the tailor-shop. Charley heard the door open, heard unfamiliar + steps, seized his pistol, and, springing up, with his back to the safe, + called out loudly to Jo. As he dimly saw men rush at him, he fired. The + bullet reached its mark, and one man fell dead. At that moment a + dark-lantern was turned full on Charley, and a pistol was fired pointblank + at him. + </p> + <p> + As he fell, shot through the breast, the man who had fired dropped the + lantern with a shriek of terror. He had seen the ghost of his + brother-in-law-Charley Steele. + </p> + <p> + With a quaking cry of warning to the others, Billy bolted from the house, + followed by his companions, two of whom were struggling with Jo Portugais + on the stairway. These now also broke and ran. + </p> + <p> + Jo rushed into the shop, and saw, as he thought, Charley lying dead—saw + the robber dead upon the floor. His master and friend gone, the conviction + seized him that his own time had come. He would give himself to justice + now—but to God’s justice, not to man’s. The robbers were four to + one, and he would avenge his master’s death and give his own life to do + it! It was all the thought of a second. He rushed out after the robbers, + shouting as he ran, to awake the villagers. He heard the marauders ahead + of him, and, fleet of foot, rushed on. Reaching them as they mounted, he + fired, and brought down his man—a shivering quack-doctor, who, like + his leader, had seen a sight in the tailor-shop that struck terror to his + soul. Two of the others then fired at Jo, who had caught a horse by the + head. He fell without a sound, and lay upon his face—he did not hear + the hoofs of the escaping horses nor any other sound. He had fallen + without a pang beside the quackdoctor, whose medicines would never again + quicken a pulse in his own body or any other. + </p> + <p> + Behind, in the village, frightened people flocked about the tailor-shop. + Within, Mrs. Flynn and the Notary crudely but tenderly bound up the + dreadful wound in Charley’s side, while Rosalie pillowed his head on her + bosom. + </p> + <p> + With a strange quietness Rosalie gave orders to the Notary and Mrs. Flynn. + There was a light in her eyes—an unnatural light—of strength + and presence of mind. Her hand was steady, and as gently as a mother with + a child she wiped the moist forehead, and poured a little brandy between + the set teeth. + </p> + <p> + “Stand back—give him air,” she said, in a voice of authority to + those who crowded round. + </p> + <p> + People fell back in awe, for, amid tears and excitement and fear, this + girl had a strange convincing calm. By the time Charley’s wound was + stopped, messengers were on the way to the Cure and the Seigneur. By + Rosalie’s instructions the dead body of the robber was removed, Charley’s + bed up-stairs was prepared for him, a fire was lighted, and twenty hands + were ready to do accurately her will. Now and again she felt his pulse, + and she watched his face intently. In her bitter sorrow her heart had a + sort of thankfulness, for his head was on her breast, he was in her arms. + It had been given her once more to come first to his rescue, and with one + wild cry, unheard by any one, to call out his beloved name. + </p> + <p> + The world of Chaudiere, roused by the shooting, had then burst in upon + them; but that one moment had been hers, no matter what came after. She + had no illusions—she knew that the end was near: the end of all for + him and for them both. + </p> + <p> + The Cure entered and hurried forward. There was the seal of the parish + intact on the door of the safe, but at what cost! + </p> + <p> + “He has given his life for the church,” he said, then commanded all to + leave, save those needed to carry the wounded man up-stairs. + </p> + <p> + Still it was Rosalie that directed the removal. She held his hand; she saw + that he was carefully laid down; she raised his head to a proper height; + she moistened his lips and fanned him. Meanwhile the Cure fell upon his + knees, and the noise of talk and whispering ceased in the house. + </p> + <p> + But presently there was loud murmuring and shuffling of feet outside + again, and Rosalie left the room hurriedly and went below to stop it. She + met the men who were bringing the body of Jo Portugais into the shop. + </p> + <p> + Up-stairs the Cure’s voice prayed: “Of Thy mercy, O Lord, hear our prayer. + Grant that he be brought into Thy Church ere his last hour come. Forgive, + O Lord—” + </p> + <p> + Charley stirred and opened his eyes. He saw the Cure bowed in prayer; he + heard the trembling voice. He touched the white head with his hand. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0059" id="link2HCH0059"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIX. IN WHICH CHARLEY MEETS A STRANGER + </h2> + <p> + The Cure came to his feet with a joyful cry. “Monsieur—my son,” he + said, bending over him. + </p> + <p> + “Is it all over?” Charley asked calmly, almost cheerfully. Death now was + the only solution of life’s problems, and he welcomed it from the void. + </p> + <p> + The Cure went to the door and locked it. The deepest desire of his life + must here be uttered, his great aspiration be realised. + </p> + <p> + “My son,” he said, as he came softly to the bedside again, “you have given + to us all you had—your charity, your wisdom, your skill. You have “—it + was hard, but the man’s wound was mortal, and it must be said “you have + consecrated our new church with your blood. You have given all to us; we + will give all to you—” + </p> + <p> + There was a soft knocking at the door. He went and opened it a very + little. “He is conscious, Rosalie,” he whispered. “Wait—wait—one + moment.” + </p> + <p> + Then came the Seigneur’s voice saying that Jo was gone, and that all the + robbers had escaped, save the two disposed of by Charley and Jo. + </p> + <p> + The Cure turned to the bed once more. “What did he say about Jo?” Charley + asked. + </p> + <p> + “He is dead, my son, and the quack-doctor also. The others have escaped.” + </p> + <p> + Charley turned his face away. “Au revoir, Jo,” he said into the great + distance. + </p> + <p> + Then there was silence for a moment, while outside the door a girl prayed, + with an old woman’s arm around her. + </p> + <p> + The Cure leaned over Charley again. “Shall not the sacraments of the + Church comfort you in your last hours?” he said. “It is the way, the + truth, and the life. It is the Voice that says: ‘Peace’ to the vexed mind. + Human intellect is vanity; only the soul survives. Will you not hear the + Voice? Will you not give us who love and honour you the right to make you + ours for ever? Will you not come to the bosom of that Church for which you + have given all?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell them so,” Charley said, and he motioned towards the window, under + which the people were gathered. + </p> + <p> + With a glad exclamation the Cure hastened to the window, and, in a voice + of sorrowful exultation, spoke to the people below. + </p> + <p> + Charley reckoned swiftly with his fate. What was there now to do? If his + wound was not mortal, what tragedy might now come! For Billy’s hand—the + hand of Kathleen’s brother—had brought him low. If the robbers and + murderers were captured, he must be dragged into the old life, and to what + an issue—all the old problems carried into more terrible conditions. + And Rosalie—in his half-consciousness he had felt her near him; he + felt her near him now. Rosalie—in any case, what could there be for + her? Nothing. He had heard the Cure whisper her name at the door. She was + outside-praying for him. He stretched out a hand as though he saw her, and + his lips framed her name. In his weakness and fading life he had no + anguish in the thought of her. Life and Love were growing distant though + he loved her as few love and live. She would be removed from want by him—there + were the pearls and the money in the safe with the money of the Church; + there was the letter to the Cure, his last testament, leaving all to her. + He, sleeping, would fear no foe; she, awake in the living world, would + hold him in dear remembrance. Death were the better thing for all. Then + Kathleen in her happiness would be at peace; and even Billy might go + unmolested, for, who was there to recognise Billy, now that Portugais was + dead? + </p> + <p> + He heard the Cure’s voice at the window—“Oh, my dear people, God has + given him to us at last. I go now to prepare him for his long journey, to—” + </p> + <p> + Charley realised and shuddered. Receive the sacraments of the Church? Be + made ready by the priest for his going hence—end all the soul’s + interrogations, with the solving of his own mortal problems? Say “I + believe,” confess his sins, and, receiving absolution, lie down in peace. + </p> + <p> + He suddenly raised himself on his elbow, flinging his body over. The + bandage of his wound was displaced, and blood gushed out upon the white + clothes of the bed. “Rosalie!” he gasped. “Rosalie, my love! God keep...” + </p> + <p> + As he sank back he heard the priest’s anguished voice above him, calling + for help. He smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Rosalie—” he whispered. The priest ran and unlocked the door, and + Rosalie entered, followed by the Seigneur and Mrs. Flynn. + </p> + <p> + “Quick! Quick!” said the priest. “The bandage slipped.” + </p> + <p> + The bandage slipped—or was it slipped? Who knows! + </p> + <p> + Blind with agony, and as in a direful dream, Rosalie made her way to the + bed. The sight of his ensanguined body roused her, and, murmuring his name—continually + murmuring his name—she assisted Mrs. Flynn to bind up the wound + again. Standing where she stood when she had stayed Louis Trudel’s arm + long ago, with an infinite tenderness she touched the scar-the scar of the + cross—on his breast. Terrible as was her grief, her heart had its + comfort in the thought—who could rob her of that for ever?—that + he would die a martyr. It did not matter now who knew the story of her + love. It could not do him harm. She was ready to proclaim it to all the + world. And those who watched knew that they were in the presence of a + great human love. + </p> + <p> + The priest made ready to receive the unconscious man into the Church. Had + Charley not said, “Tell them so?” Was it not now his duty to say the + sacred offices over a son of the Church in his last bitter hour? So it was + done while he lay unconscious. + </p> + <p> + For hours he lay still, and then the fevered blood, poisoned by the bullet + which had brought him down, made him delirious, gave him hallucinations—open-eyed + illusions. All the time Rosalie knelt at the foot of the bed, her piteous + tearless eyes for ever fixed on his face. + </p> + <p> + Towards evening, with an unnatural strength, he sat up in bed. + </p> + <p> + “See,” he whispered, “that woman in the corner there. She has come to take + me, but I will not go.” Fantasy after fantasy possessed him-fantasy, + strangely mixed with facts of his own past. Now it was Kathleen, now + Billy, now Jo Portugais, now John Brown, now Suzon Charlemagne at the Cote + Dorion, again Jo Portugais. In strange, touching sentences he spoke to + them, as though they were present before him. At length he stopped + abruptly, and gazed straight before him—over the head of Rosalie + into the distance. + </p> + <p> + “See,” he said, pointing, “who is that? Who? I can’t see his face—it + is covered. So tall-so white! He is opening his arms to me. He is coming—closer—closer. + Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It is Death, my son,” said the priest in his ear, with a pitying + gentleness. + </p> + <p> + The Cure’s voice seemed to calm the agitated sense, to bring it back to + the outer precincts of understanding. There was an awe-struck silence as + the dying man fumbled, fumbled, over his breast, found his eye-glass, and, + with a last feeble effort, raised it to his eye, shining now with an + unearthly fire. The old interrogation of the soul, the elemental habit + outlived all else in him. The idiosyncrasy of the mind automatically + expressed itself. + </p> + <p> + “I beg—your—pardon,” he whispered to the imagined figure, and + the light died out of his eyes, “have I—ever—been—introduced—to + you?” + </p> + <p> + “At the hour of your birth, my son,” said the priest, as a sobbing cry + came from the foot of the bed. + </p> + <p> + But Charley did not hear. His ears were for ever closed to the voices of + life and time. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0060" id="link2HCH0060"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LX. THE HAND AT THE DOOR + </h2> + <p> + The eve of the day of the memorable funeral two belated visitors to the + Passion Play arrived in the village, unknowing that it had ended, and of + the tragedy which had set a whole valley mourning; unconscious that they + shared in the bitter fortunes of the tailor-man, of whom men and women + spoke with tears. Affected by the gloom of the place, the two visitors at + once prepared for their return journey, but the manner of the tailorman’s + death arrested their sympathies, touched the humanity in them. The woman + was much impressed. + </p> + <p> + They asked to see the body of the man. They were taken to the door of the + tailor-shop, while their horses were being brought round. Within the house + itself they were met by an old Irishwoman, who, in response to their wish + “to see the brave man’s body,” showed them into a room where a man lay + dead with a bullet through his heart. It was the body of Jo Portugais, + whose master and friend lay in another room across the hallway. The lady + turned back in disappointment—the dead man was little like a hero. + </p> + <p> + The Irishwoman had meant to deceive her, for at this moment a girl who + loved the tailor was kneeling beside his body, and, if possible, Mrs. + Flynn would have no curious eyes look upon that scene. + </p> + <p> + When the visitors came into the hall again, the man said: “There was + another; Kathleen—a woodsman.” But standing by the nearly closed + door, behind which lay the dead tailor of Chaudiere—they could see + the holy candles flickering within—Kathleen whispered “We’ve seen + the tailor—that’s enough. It’s only the woodsman there. I prefer + not, Tom.” + </p> + <p> + With his fingers at the latch, the man hesitated, even as Mrs. Flynn + stepped apprehensively forward; then, shrugging a shoulder, he responded + to Kathleen’s hand on his arm. They went down the stairs together, and out + to their carriage. + </p> + <p> + As they drove away, Kathleen said: “It’s strange that men who do such fine + things should look so commonplace.” + </p> + <p> + “The other one might have been more uncommon,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder!” she said, with a sigh of relief, as they passed the bounds of + the village. Then she caught herself flushing, for she suddenly realised + that the exclamation was one so often on the lips of a dead, disgraced man + whose name she once had borne. + </p> + <p> + If the door of the little room upstairs had opened to the fingers of the + man beside her, the tailor of Chaudiere, though dead, would have been + dearly avenged. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0061" id="link2HCH0061"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXI. THE CURE SPEAKS + </h2> + <p> + The Cure stood with his back to the ruins of the church, at his feet two + newly made graves, and all round, with wistful faces, crowds of reverent + habitants. A benignant sorrow made his voice in perfect temper with the + pensive striving of this latest day of spring. At the close of his address + he said: + </p> + <p> + “I owe you much, my people. I owe him more, for it was given him, who knew + not God, to teach us how to know Him better. For his past, it is not given + you to know. It is hidden in the bosom of the Church. Sinner he once was, + criminal never, as one can testify who knows all”—he turned to the + Abbe Rossignol, who stood beside him, grave and compassionate—“and + his sins were forgiven him. He is the one sheaf which you and I may carry + home rejoicing from the pagan world of unbelief. What he had in life he + gave to us, and in death he leaves to our church all that he has not left + to a woman he loved—to Rosalie Evanturel.” + </p> + <p> + There was a gasping murmur among the people, but they stilled again, and + strained to hear. + </p> + <p> + “He leaves her a little fortune, and to us all else he had. Let us pray + for his soul, and let us comfort her who, loving deeply, reaped no harvest + of love. + </p> + <p> + “The law may never reach his ruthless murderers, for there is none to + recognise their faces; and were they ten times punished, how should it + avail us now! Let us always remember that, in his grave, our friend bears + on his breast the little iron cross we held so dear. That is all we could + give—our dearest treasure. I pray God that, scarring his breast in + life, it may heal all his woes in death, and be a saving image on his + bosom in the Presence at the last.” + </p> + <p> + He raised his hands in benediction. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_EPIL" id="link2H_EPIL"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPILOGUE + </h2> + <p> + Never again was there a Passion Play in the Chaudiere Valley. Spring-times + and harvests and long winters came and went, and a blessing seemed to be + upon the valley, for men prospered, and no untoward things befel the + people. So it was for twenty years, wherein there had been going and + coming in quiet. Some had gone upon short mortal journeys and had come + back, some upon long immortal voyages, and had never returned. Of the last + were the Seigneur and a woman once a Magdalene; but in a house beside a + beautiful church, with a noble doorway, lived the Cure, M. Loisel, aged + and serene. There never was a day, come rain or shine, in which he was not + visited by a beautiful woman, whose life was one with the people of the + valley. + </p> + <p> + There was no sorrow in the parish which the lady did not share, with the + help of an old Irishwoman called Mrs. Flynn. Was there sickness in the + parish, her hand smoothed the pillow and soothed the pain. Was there + trouble anywhere, her face brought light to the door way. Did any suffer + ill-repute, her word helped to restore the ruined name. They did not know + that she forgave so much in all the world, because she thought she had so + much in herself to forgive. + </p> + <p> + She was ever called “Madame Rosalie,” and she cherished the name, and gave + commands that when her grave came to be made near to a certain other + grave, Madame Rosalie should be carved upon the stone. Cheerfulness and + serenity were ever with her, undisturbed by wish to probe the mystery of + the life which had once absorbed her own. She never sought to know whence + the man came; it was sufficient to know whither he had gone, and that he + had been hers for a brief dream of life. It was better to have lived the + one short thrilling hour with all its pain, than never to have known what + she knew or felt what she had felt. The mystery deepened her romance, and + she was even glad that the ruffians who slew him were never brought to + justice. To her mind they were but part of the mystic machinery of fate. + </p> + <p> + For her the years had given many compensations, and so she told the Cure, + one midsummer day, when she brought to visit him the orphaned son of + Paulette Dubois, graduated from his college in France and making ready to + go to the far East. + </p> + <p> + “I have had more than I deserve—a thousand times,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The Cure smiled, and laid a gentle hand upon her own. “It is right for you + to think so,” he said, “but after a long life, I am ready to say that, one + way or another, we earn all the real happiness we have. I mean the real + happiness—the moments, my child. I once had a moment full of + happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “When my heart first went out to him”—he turned his face towards the + churchyard. + </p> + <p> + “He was a great man,” she said proudly. + </p> + <p> + The Cure looked at her benignly: she was a woman, and she had loved the + man. He had, however, come to a stage of life where greatness alone seemed + of little moment. He forbore to answer her, but he pressed her hand. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: + + A left-handed boy is all right in the world + Always hoping the best from the worst of us + Damnable propinquity + Good fathers think they have good daughters + Have not we all something to hide—with or without shame? + He has wheeled his nuptial bed into the street + He left his fellow-citizens very much alone + He had had acquaintances, but never friendships, and never loves + Hugging the chain of denial to his bosom + I have a good memory for forgetting + I am only myself when I am drunk + I should remember to forget it + Importunity with discretion was his motto + In all secrets there is a kind of guilt + Is the habit of good living mere habit and mere acting + It is good to live, isn’t it? + Know how bad are you, and doesn’t mind + Liquor makes me human + Nervous legs at a gallop + Pathetically in earnest + Shure, if we could always be ‘about the same,’ we’d do + So say your prayers, believe all you can, don’t ask questions + Strike first and heal after—“a kick and a lick” + Suspicion, the bane of sick old age + Things that once charmed charm less + Was not civilisation a mistake + Who knows! + Youth is the only comrade for youth + Youth is the only comrade for youth +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Right of Way, Complete, by Gilbert Parker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIGHT OF WAY, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 6249-h.htm or 6249-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/4/6249/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’ WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. + +The Foundation’s principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation’s web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> + </body> +</html> diff --git a/6249.txt b/6249.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6673081 --- /dev/null +++ b/6249.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13958 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Right of Way, Complete, by Gilbert Parker + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Right of Way, Complete + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Last Updated: March 13, 2009 +Release Date: October 18, 2006 [EBook #6249] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIGHT OF WAY, COMPLETE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +THE RIGHT OF WAY + +By Gilbert Parker + + +CONTENTS + + Volume 1. + I. THE WAY TO THE VERDICT + II. WHAT CAME OF THE TRIAL + III. AFTER FIVE YEARS + IV. CHARLEY MAKES A DISCOVERY + V. THE WOMAN IN HELIOTROPE + VI. THE WIND AND THE SHORN LAMB + VII. "PEACE, PEACE, AND THERE IS NO PEACE!" + VIII. THE COST OF THE ORNAMENT + + Volume 2. + IX. OLD DEBTS FOR NEW + X. THE WAY IN AND THE WAY OUT + XI. THE RAISING OF THE CURTAIN + XII. THE COMING OF ROSALIE + XIII. HOW CHARLEY WENT ADVENTURING, AND WHAT HE FOUND + XIV. ROSALIE, CHARLEY, AND THE MAN THE WIDOW PLOMONDON JILTED + XV. THE MARK IN THE PAPER + XVI. MADAME DAUPHIN HAS A MISSION + XVII. THE TAILOR MAKES A MIDNIGHT FORAY + XVIII. THE STEALING OF THE CROSS + + Volume 3. + XIX. THE SIGN FROM HEAVEN + XX. THE RETURN OF THE TAILOR + XXI. THE CURE HAS AN INSPIRATION + XXII. THE WOMAN WHO SAW + XXIII. THE WOMAN WHO DID NOT TELL + XXIV. THE SEIGNEUR TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME + XXV. THE COLONEL TELLS HIS STORY + XXVI. A SONG, A BOTTLE, AND A GHOST + XXVII. OUT ON THE OLD TRAIL + XXVIII. THE SEIGNEUR GIVES A WARNING + + Volume 4. + XXIX. THE WILD RIDE + XXX. ROSALIE WARNS CHARLEY + XXXI. CHARLEY STANDS AT BAY + XXXII. JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY + XXXIII. THE EDGE OF LIFE + XXXIV. IN AMBUSH + XXXV. THE COMING OF MAXIMILIAN COUR AND ANOTHER + XXXVI. BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY + XXXVII. THE CHALLENGE OF PAULETTE DUBOIS + XXXVIII. THE CURE AND THE SEIGNEUR VISIT THE TAILOR + XXXIX. THE SCARLET WOMAN + XL. AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING + + Volume 5. + XLI. IT WAS MICHAELMAS DAY + XLII. A TRIAL AND A VERDICT + XLIII. JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY + XLIV. "WHO WAS KATHLEEN?" + XLV. SIX MONTHS GO BY + XLVI. THE FORGOTTEN MAN + XLVII. ONE WAS TAKEN AND THE OTHER LEFT + XLVIII. "WHERE THE TREE OF LIFE IS BLOOMING--" + XLIX. THE OPEN GATE + + Volume 6. + L. THE PASSION PLAY AT CHAUDIERE + LI. FACE TO FACE + LII. THE COMING OF BILLY + LIII. THE SEIGNEUR AND THE CURE HAVE A SUSPICION + LIV. M. ROSSIGNOL SLIPS THE LEASH + LV. ROSALIE PLAYS A PART + LVI. MRS. FLYNN SPEAKS + LVII. A BURNING FIERY FURNACE + LVIII. WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL + LIX. IN WHICH CHARLEY MEETS A STRANGER + LX. THE HAND AT THE DOOR + LXI. THE CURE SPEAKS + + EPILOGUE + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +In a book called 'The House of Harper', published in this year, 1912, +there are two letters of mine, concerning 'The Right of Way', written +to Henry M. Alden, editor of Harper's Magazine. To my mind those letters +should never have been published. They were purely personal. They were +intended for one man's eyes only, and he was not merely an editor but a +beloved and admired personal friend. Only to him and to W. E. Henley, as +editors, could I ever have emptied out my heart and brain; and, as may +be seen by these two letters, one written from London and the other from +a place near Southampton, I uncovered all my feelings, my hopes and my +ambitions concerning The Right of Way. Had I been asked permission to +publish them I should not have granted it. I may wear my heart upon my +sleeve for my friend, but not for the universe. + +The most scathing thing ever said in literature was said by Robert +Buchanan on Dante Gabriel Rossetti's verses--"He has wheeled his nuptial +bed into the street." Looking at these letters I have a great shrinking, +for they were meant only for the eyes of an aged man for whom I cared +enough to let him see behind the curtain. But since they have been +printed, and without a "by your leave," I will use one or two passages +in them to show in what mood, under what pressure of impulse, under what +mental and, maybe, spiritual hypnotism it was written. I first planned +it as a story of twenty-five thousand words, even as 'Valmond' was +planned as a story of five thousand words, and 'A Ladder of Swords' as +a story of twenty thousand words; but I had not written three chapters +before I saw what the destiny of the tale was to be. I had gone to +Quebec to start the thing in the atmosphere where Charley Steele +belonged, and there it was borne in upon me that it must be a +three-decker novel, not a novelette. I telegraphed to Harper & Brothers +to ask them whether it would suit them just as well if I made it into a +long novel. They telegraphed their assent at once; so I went on. At that +time Mr. F. N. Doubleday was a sort of director of Harper's firm. To +him I had told the tale in a railway train, and he had carried me off +at once to Henry M. Alden, to whom I also told it, with the result that +Harper's Magazine was wide open to it, and there in Quebec, soon after +my interview with Mr. Alden and Mr. Doubleday, the book was begun. + +The first of the letters published in The House of Harper, however, was +apparently written immediately after my return to London when the novel +was well on its way. Evidently the first paragraph of the letter was an +apology for having suddenly announced the development of the book from a +long short story to a long novel; for I used these words: + +"Yet if you really take an interest in the working of the human mind in +its relation to the vicissitudes of life, you will appreciate what I am +going to tell you, and will recognise that there is only stability in +evolution which the vulgar call chance.... Now, sir, perpend. Charley +Steele is going to be a novel of one hundred thousand words or one +hundred and twenty thousand--a real bang-up heartful of a novel." + +Then there follows the confidence of a friend to a friend. As I look at +the words I am not sorry that I wrote them. They were a part of me. They +were the inveterate truth, but I would not willingly have uncovered my +inner self to any except the man to whom the words were written. But +here is what I wrote: + +"I am a bit of a fool over this book. It catches me at every tender +corner of my nature. It has aroused all the old ardent dreams of youth +and springtime puissance. I cannot lay it down, and I cannot shorten it, +for story, character, soul and reflection, imagination, observation +are dragging me along after them.... This novel will make me or break +me--prove me human and an artist, or an affected literary bore. If +you want it you must take the risk. But, my dear Alden, you will be +investing in a man's heart--which may be a fortune or a folly. Why, +I ought to have seen--and far back in my brain I did see--that the +character of Charley Steele was a type, an idiosyncrasy of modern life, +a resultant of forces all round us, and that he would demand space in +which to live and tell his story to the world.... And behold with what +joy I follow him, not only lovingly but sternly and severely, noting him +down as he really is, condoning naught, forgiving naught, but above +all else, understanding him--his wilful mystification of the world, his +shameless disdain of it, but the old law of interrogation, of sad yet +eager inquiry and wonder and 'non possumus' with him to the end." + +This letter was evidently written in December, 1899, and the other went +to Mr. Alden on the 7th August, 1900; therefore, eight or nine months +later. The work had gone well. Week after week, month after month it had +unfolded itself with an almost unpardonable ease. Evidently, the very +ease with which the book was written troubled me, because I find that in +this letter of the 7th August, 1900, to Mr. Alden, I used these words: + +"A kind of terror has seized me, and instead of sending a dozen more +chapters to you as I proposed to do, I am setting to to break this love +story anew under the stones of my most exacting criticism and troubled +regard. I go to bury myself at a solitary little seaside place" (it +was Mablethorpe in Lincolnshire), "there to live alone with Rosalie and +Charley, and if I do not know them hereafter, never ask me to write for +'Harper's' again.... This book has been written out of something vital +in me--I do not mean the religious part of it, I mean the humanity that +becomes one's own and part of one's self, by observation, experience, +and understanding got from dead years." + +Anyhow that shows the spirit in which the book was written, and there +must have been something in it that rang true, because not only did +it have an enormous sale and therefore a multitude of readers, but I +received hundreds of letters from people who in one way or another were +deeply interested in the story. + +The majority of them were inquisitive letters. A great many of them said +that the writer had shared in controversy as to what the relations +of Charley and Rosalie were, and asked me to set for ever queries and +controversies at rest by declaring either that the relations of these +two were what, in the way of life's stern conventions, they ought not +to be, or that Rosalie passed unscathed through the fire. I had foreseen +all this, though I could not have foreseen the passionately intense +interest which my readers would take in the life-story of these unhappy +yet happy people. I had, however, only one reply. It was that all I had +meant to say concerning Charley and Rosalie had been said in the book, +to the last word. All I had meant not to say would not be said after the +book was written. I asked them to take exactly the same view of Charley +and Rosalie as they would in real life regarding two human beings with +whom they were acquainted, and concerning whom, to their minds, there +was sufficient evidence, or not sufficient evidence, to come to a +conclusion as to what their relations were. I added that, as in real +life we used our judgment upon such things with a reasonable amount +of accuracy, I asked them to apply that judgment to Charley Steele and +Rosalie Evanturel. They and their story were there for eyes to see and +read, and when I had ended my manuscript in the year 1900 I had said +the last word I ever meant to say as to their history. The controversy +therefore continues, for the book still makes its appeal to an ever +increasing congregation of new readers. + +But another kind of letter came to me--the letter of some man who had +just such a struggle as Charley Steele, or whose father or brother or +friend had had such a struggle. Letters came from clergymen who had +preached concerning the book; from men who told me in brief their own +life problems and tragedies. These letters I prize; most of them had the +real thing in them, the human truth. + +That the book drew wide attention to the Dominion of Canada, +particularly to French Canada, and crystallised something of the life of +that dear Province, was a deep pleasure to me; and I was glad that I +had been able to culminate my efforts to portray the life of the +French-Canadian as I saw it, by a book which arrested the attention of +so comprehensive a public. + +I have seen many statements as to the original of Charley Steele, but +I have never seen a story which was true. Many people have told me that +they had seen the original of Charley Steele in an American lawyer. They +knew he was the original, because he himself had said so. The gentleman +was mistaken; I have never seen him. As with the purple cow, I never +hope to see him. Whoever he is or whatever he is, the original Charley +was an abler and a more striking man. I knew him as a boy, and he died +while I was yet a boy, taking with him, save in the memory of a few, a +rare and wonderful, if not wholly lovable personality. For over twenty +years I had carried him in my mind, wondering whether, and when, I +should-make use of him. Again and again I was tempted, but was never +convinced that his time had come; yet through all the years he was +gaining strength, securing possession of my mind, and gathering to him, +magnet-like, the thousand observations which my experience sent in his +direction. In my mind his life-story ended with his death at the Cote +Dorion. For years and years I saw his ending there. Yet it all seemed to +me so futile, despite the wonder of his personality, that I could make +nothing of him, and though always fascinated by his character I was held +back from exploiting it, because of the hopelessness of it all. It led +nowhere. It was the 'quid refert' of the philosopher, and I could not +bring myself to get any further than an interrogation mark at the end of +a life which was all scepticism, mind and matter, and nothing more. + +There came a day, however, when that all ended, when the doors were +flung wide to a new conception of the man, and of what he might have +become. I was going to America, and I paid an angry and reluctant visit +to my London tailor thirty-six hours before I was to start. A suit of +clothes had been sent home which, after an effective trying-on, was a +monstrosity. I went straight to my tailor, put on the clothes and bade +him look at them. He was a great tailor-he saw exactly what I saw, and +what I saw was bad; and when a tailor will do that, you may be quite +sure he is a good and a great man. He said the clothes were as bad as +they could be, but he added: "You shall have them before you sail, and +they shall be exactly as you want them. I'll have the foreman down." He +rang a bell. Presently the door swung open and in stepped a man with +an eyeglass in his eye. There, with a look at once reflective and +penetrating, with a figure at once slovenly and alert, was a caricature +of Charley Steele as I had known him, and of all his characteristics. +There was such a resemblance as an ugly child in a family may have to +his handsome brother. It was Charley Steele with a twist--gone to seed. +Looking at him in blank amazement, I burst out: "Good heavens, so you +didn't die, Charley Steele! You became a tailor!" + +All at once the whole new landscape of my story as it eventually became, +spread out before me. I was justified in waiting all the years. My +discontent with the futile end of the tale as I originally knew it +and saw it was justified. Charley Steele, brilliant, enigmatic and +epigrammatic, did not die at the Cote Dorion, but lived in that far +valley by Dalgrothe Mountain, and became a tailor! So far as I am +concerned he became much more. He was the beginning of a new epoch in +my literary life. I had got into subtler methods, reached more intimate +understandings, had come to a place where analysis of character had +shaken itself free--but certainly not quite free--from a natural yet +rather dangerous eloquence. + +As a play The Right of Way, skilfully and sympathetically dramatised by +Mr. Eugene Presbery, has had a career extending over several years, and +still continues to make its appearance. + + + + +NOTE + +It should not be assumed that the "Chaudiere" of this story is the real +Chaudiere of Quebec province. The name is characteristic, and for this +reason alone I have used it. + +I must also apologise to my readers for appearing to disregard a +statement made in 'The Lane that Had no Turning', that that tale was the +last I should write about French Canada. In explanation I would say that +'The Lane that Had no Turning' was written after the present book was +finished. G. F. + + + + +THE RIGHT OF WAY + +By Gilbert Parker + + + + "They had lived and loved, and walked and worked in their own way, + and the world went by them. Between them and it a great gulf was + fixed: and they met its every catastrophe with the Quid Refert? of + the philosophers." + + "I want to talk with some old lover's ghost, + Who lived before the god of love was born." + + "There are, it may be, so many kinds of voices in the world, and + none of them is without signification." + + + + +CHAPTER I. THE WAY TO THE VERDICT + +"Not guilty, your Honour!" + +A hundred atmospheres had seemed pressing down on the fretted people in +the crowded court-room. As the discordant treble of the huge foreman of +the jury squeaked over the mass of gaping humanity, which had twitched +at skirts, drawn purposeless hands across prickling faces, and kept +nervous legs at a gallop, the smothering weights of elastic air lifted +suddenly, a great suspiration of relief swept through the place like a +breeze, and in a far corner of the gallery a woman laughed outright. + +The judge looked up reprovingly at the gallery; the clerk of the court +angrily called "Silence!" towards the offending corner, and seven or +eight hundred eyes raced between three centres of interest--the judge, +the prisoner, and the prisoner's counsel. Perhaps more people looked +at the prisoner's counsel than at the prisoner, certainly far more than +looked at the judge. + +Never was a verdict more unexpected. If a poll had been taken of the +judgment of the population twenty-four hours before, a great majority +would have been found believing that there was no escape for the +prisoner, who was accused of murdering a wealthy timber merchant. The +minority would have based their belief that the prisoner had a chance of +escape, not on his possible innocence, not on insufficient evidence, +but on a curious faith in the prisoner's lawyer. This minority would not +have been composed of the friends of the lawyer alone, but of outside +spectators, who, because Charley Steele had never lost a criminal case, +attached to him a certain incapacity for bad luck; and of very young +men, who looked upon him as the perfect pattern of the person good to +see and hard to understand. + +During the first two days of the trial the case had gone wholly against +the prisoner, who had given his name as Joseph Nadeau. Witnesses had +heard him quarrelling with the murdered man, and the next day the +body of the victim had been found by the roadside. The prisoner was a +stranger in the lumber-camp where the deed was done, and while there +had been morose and lived apart; no one knew him; and he refused to +tell even his lawyer whence he came, or what his origin, or to bring +witnesses from his home to speak for his character. + +One by one the points had been made against him--with no perceptible +effect upon Charley Steele, who seemed the one cool, undisturbed person +in the courtroom. + +Indifferent as he seemed, seldom speaking to the prisoner, often +looking out of the windows to the cool green trees far over on the hill, +absorbed and unbusinesslike, yet judge and jury came to see, before the +second day was done, that he had let no essential thing pass, that the +questions he asked had either a pregnant aptness, opened up new avenues +of deliberation, or were touched with mystery--seemed to have a longer +reach than the moment or the hour. + +Before the end of this second day, however, more attention was upon him +than upon the prisoner, and nine-tenths of the people in the court-room +could have told how many fine linen handkerchiefs he used during the +afternoon, how many times he adjusted his monocle to look at the judge +meditatively. Probably no man, for eight hours a day, ever exasperated +and tried a judge, jury, and public, as did this man of twenty-nine +years of age, who had been known at college as Beauty Steele, and who +was still so spoken of familiarly; or was called as familiarly, Charley +Steele, by people who never had attempted to be familiar with him. + +The second day of the trial had ended gloomily for the prisoner. The +coil of evidence had drawn so close that extrication seemed impossible. +That the evidence was circumstantial, that no sign of the crime was upon +the prisoner, that he was found sleeping quietly in his bed when he was +arrested, that he had not been seen to commit the deed, did not weigh +in the minds of the general public. The man's guilt was freely believed; +not even the few who clung to the opinion that Charley Steele would yet +get him off thought that he was innocent. There seemed no flaw in the +evidence, once granted its circumstantiality. + +During the last two hours of the sitting the prisoner had looked at his +counsel in despair, for he seemed perfunctorily conducting the case: was +occupied in sketching upon the blotting-pad before him, looking out of +the window, or turning his head occasionally towards a corner where sat +a half-dozen well-dressed ladies, and more particularly towards one +lady who watched him in a puzzled way--more than once with a look of +disappointment. Only at the very close of the sitting did he appear to +rouse himself. Then, for a brief ten minutes, he cross-examined a friend +of the murdered merchant in a fashion which startled the court-room, +for he suddenly brought out the fact that the dead man had once struck +a woman in the face in the open street. This fact, sharply stated by the +prisoner's counsel, with no explanation and no comment, seemed uselessly +intrusive and malicious. His ironical smile merely irritated all +concerned. The thin, clean-shaven face of the prisoner grew more pinched +and downcast, and he turned almost pleadingly towards the judge. The +judge pulled his long side-whiskers nervously, and looked over his +glasses in severe annoyance, then hastily adjourned the sitting and +left the bench, while the prisoner saw with dismay his lawyer leave the +court-room with not even a glance towards him. + +On the morning of the third day Charley Steele's face, for the first +time, wore an expression which, by a stretch of imagination, might be +called anxious. He also took out his monocle frequently, rubbed it with +his handkerchief, and screwed it in again, staring straight before him +much of the time. But twice he spoke to the prisoner in a low voice, and +was hurriedly answered in French as crude as his own was perfect. When +he spoke, which was at rare intervals, his voice was without feeling, +concise, insistent, unappealing. It was as though the business before +him was wholly alien to him, as though he were held there against his +will, but would go on with his task bitterly to the bitter end. + +The court adjourned for an hour at noon. During this time Charley +refused to see any one, but sat alone in his office with a few biscuits +and an ominous bottle before him, till the time came for him to go back +to the court-house. Arrived there he entered by a side door, and was not +seen until the court opened once more. + +For two hours and a half the crown attorney mercilessly made out his +case against the prisoner. When he sat down, people glanced meaningly +at each other, as though the last word had been said, then looked at the +prisoner, as at one already condemned. + +Yet Charley Steele was to reply. He was not now the same man that had +conducted the case during the past two days and a half. Some +great change had passed over him. There was no longer abstraction, +indifference, or apparent boredom, or disdain, or distant stare. He +was human, intimate and eager, yet concentrated and impelling: he was +quietly, unnoticeably drunk. + +He assured the prisoner with a glance of the eye, with a word scarce +above a whisper, as he slowly rose to make his speech for the defence. + +His first words caused a new feeling in the courtroom. He was a new +presence; the personality had a changed significance. At first the +public, the jury, and the judge were curiously attracted, surprised into +a fresh interest. The voice had an insinuating quality, but it also +had a measured force, a subterranean insistence, a winning tactfulness. +Withal, a logical simplicity governed his argument. The flaneur, +the poseur--if such he was--no longer appeared. He came close to the +jurymen, leaned his hands upon the back of a chair--as it were, shut out +the public, even the judge, from his circle of interest--and talked in a +conversational tone. An air of confidence passed from him to the amazed +yet easily captivated jury; the distance between them, so gaping +during the last two days, closed suddenly up. The tension of the past +estrangement, relaxing all at once, surprised the jury into an almost +eager friendliness, as on a long voyage a sensitive traveller finds +in some exciting accident a natural introduction to an exclusive +fellow-passenger, whom he discovers as human as he had thought him +offensively distant. + +Charley began by congratulating the crown attorney on his statement of +the case. He called it masterly; he said that in its presentations +it was irrefutable; as a precis of evidence purely circumstantial it +was--useful and interesting. But, speech-making aside, and ability--and +rhetoric--aside, and even personal conviction aside, the case should +stand or fall by its total, not its comparative, soundness. Since the +evidence was purely circumstantial, there must be no flaw in its cable +of assumption, it must be logically inviolate within itself. Starting +with assumption only, there must be no straying possibilities, no loose +ends of certainty, no invading alternatives. Was this so in the case of +the man before them? They were faced by a curious situation. So far as +the trial was concerned, the prisoner himself was the only person who +could tell them who he was, what was his past, and, if he committed the +crime, what was--the motive of it: out of what spirit--of revenge, or +hatred--the dead man had been sent to his account. Probably in the whole +history of crime there never was a more peculiar case. Even himself +the prisoner's counsel was dealing with one whose life was hid from him +previous to the day the murdered man was discovered by the roadside. +The prisoner had not sought to prove an alibi; he had done no more than +formally plead not guilty. There was no material for defence save +that offered by the prosecution. He had undertaken the defence of +the prisoner because it was his duty as a lawyer to see that the law +justified itself; that it satisfied every demand of proof to the last +atom of certainty; that it met the final possibility of doubt with +evidence perfect and inviolate if circumstantial, and uncontradictory if +eye-witness, if tell-tale incident, were to furnish basis of proof. + +Judge, jury, and public riveted their eyes upon Charley Steele. He had +now drawn a little farther away from the jury-box; his eye took in +the judge as well; once or twice he turned, as if appealingly and +confidently, to the people in the room. It was terribly hot, the air +was sickeningly close, every one seemed oppressed--every one save a +lady sitting not a score of feet from where the counsel for the prisoner +stood. This lady's face was not one that could flush easily; it belonged +to a temperament as even as her person was symmetrically beautiful. +As Charley talked, her eyes were fixed steadily, wonderingly upon him. +There was a question in her gaze, which never in the course of the +speech was quite absorbed by the admiration--the intense admiration--she +was feeling for him. Once as he turned with a concentrated earnestness +in her direction his eyes met hers. The message he flashed her was +sub-conscious, for his mind never wavered an instant from the cause in +hand, but it said to her: + +"When this is over, Kathleen, I will come to you." For another quarter +of an hour he exposed the fallacy of purely circumstantial evidence; +he raised in the minds of his hearers the painful responsibility of the +law, the awful tyranny of miscarriage of justice; he condemned prejudice +against a prisoner because that prisoner demanded that the law should +prove him guilty instead of his proving himself innocent. If a man chose +to stand to that, to sternly assume this perilous position, the law had +no right to take advantage of it. He turned towards the prisoner and +traced his possible history: as the sensitive, intelligent son of godly +Catholic parents from some remote parish in French Canada. He drew an +imaginary picture of the home from which he might have come, and of the +parents and brothers and sisters who would have lived weeks of torture +knowing that their son and brother was being tried for his life. It +might at first glance seem quixotic, eccentric, but was it unnatural +that the prisoner should choose silence as to his origin and home, +rather than have his family and friends face the undoubted peril +lying before him? Besides, though his past life might have been wholly +blameless, it would not be evidence in his favour. It might, indeed, +if it had not been blameless, provide some element of unjust suspicion +against him, furnish some fancied motive. The prisoner had chosen his +path, and events had so far justified him. It must be clear to the +minds of judge and jury that there were fatally weak places in the +circumstantial evidence offered for the conviction of this man. + +There was the fact that no sign of the crime, no drop of blood, no +weapon, was found about him or near him, and that he was peacefully +sleeping at the moment the constable arrested him. + +There was also the fact that no motive for the crime had been shown. It +was not enough that he and the dead man had been heard quarrelling. Was +there any certainty that it was a quarrel, since no word or sentence +of the conversation had been brought into court? Men with quick tempers +might quarrel over trivial things, but exasperation did not always +end in bodily injury and the taking of life; imprecations were not so +uncommon that they could be taken as evidence of wilful murder. The +prisoner refused to say what that troubled conversation was about, +but who could question his right to take the risk of his silence being +misunderstood? + +The judge was alternately taking notes and looking fixedly at the +prisoner; the jury were in various attitudes of strained attention; the +public sat open mouthed; and up in the gallery a woman with white face +and clinched hands listened moveless and staring. Charley Steele was +holding captive the emotions and the judgments of his hearers. All +antipathy had gone; there was a strange eager intimacy between the +jurymen and himself. People no longer looked with distant dislike at the +prisoner, but began to see innocence in his grim silence, disdain only +in his surly defiance. + +But Charley Steele had preserved his great stroke for the psychological +moment. He suddenly launched upon them the fact, brought out in +evidence, that the dead man had struck a woman in the face a year ago; +also that he had kept a factory girl in affluence for two years. Here +was motive for murder--if motive were to govern them--far greater than +might be suggested by excited conversation which listeners who could not +hear a word construed into a quarrel--listeners who bore the prisoner +at the bar ill-will because he shunned them while in the lumber-camp. +If the prisoner was to be hanged for motive untraceable, why should not +these two women be hanged for motive traceable! + +Here was his chance. He appeared to impeach subtly every intelligence in +the room for having had any preconviction about the prisoner's guilt. He +compelled the jury to feel that they, with him, had made the discovery +of the unsound character of the evidence. The man might be guilty, but +their personal guilt, the guilt of the law, would be far greater if they +condemned the man on violable evidence. With a last simple appeal, his +hands resting on the railing before the seat where the jury sat, his +voice low and conversational again, his eyes running down the line of +faces of the men who had his client's life in their hands, he said: + +"It is not a life only that is at stake, it is not revenge for a life +snatched from the busy world by a brutal hand that we should heed +to-day, but the awful responsibility of that thing we call the State, +which, having the power of life and death without gainsay or hindrance, +should prove to the last inch of necessity its right to take a human +life. And the right and the reason should bring conviction to every +honest human mind. That is all I have to say." + +The crown attorney made a perfunctory reply. The judge's charge was +brief, and, if anything, a little in favour of the prisoner--very +little, a casuist's little; and the jury filed out of the room. They +were gone but ten minutes. When they returned, the verdict was given: +"Not guilty, your Honour!" + +Then it was that a woman laughed in the gallery. Then a whispering voice +said across the railing which separated the public from the lawyers: +"Charley! Charley!" + +Though Charley turned and looked at the lady who spoke, he made no +response. + +A few minutes later, outside the court, as he walked quickly away, again +inscrutable and debonair, the prisoner, Joseph Nadeau, touched him on +the arm and said: + +"M'sieu', M'sieu', you have saved my life--I thank you, M'sieu'!" + +Charley Steele drew his arm away with disgust. "Get out of my sight! +You're as guilty as hell!" he said. + + + + +CHAPTER II. WHAT CAME OF THE TRIAL + +"When this is over, Kathleen, I will come to you." So Charley Steele's +eyes had said to a lady in the court room on that last day of the great +trial. The lady had left the court-room dazed and exalted. She, with +hundreds of others, had had a revelation of Charley Steele; had had also +the great emotional experience of seeing a crowd make the 'volte face' +with their convictions; looking at a prisoner one moment with eyes of +loathing and anticipating his gruesome end, the next moment seeing him +as the possible martyr to the machinery of the law. She whose heart +was used to beat so evenly had felt it leap and swell with excitement, +awaiting the moment when the jury filed back into the court-room. Then +it stood still, as a wave might hang for an instant at its crest ere it +swept down to beat upon the shore. + +With her as with most present, the deepest feeling in the agitated +suspense was not so much that the prisoner should go free, as that the +prisoner's counsel should win his case. It was as if Charley Steele were +on trial instead of the prisoner. He was the imminent figure; it was his +fate that was in the balance--such was the antic irony of suggestion. +And the truth was, that the fates of both prisoner and counsel had been +weighed in the balance that sweltering August day. + +The prisoner was forgotten almost as soon as he had left the court-room +a free man, but wherever men and women met in Montreal that day, one +name was on the lips of all-Charley Steele! In his speech he had done +two things: he had thrown down every barrier of reserve--or so it +seemed--and had become human and intimate. "I could not have believed +it of him," was the remark on every lip. Of his ability there never had +been a moment's doubt, but it had ever been an uncomfortable ability, +it had tortured foes and made friends anxious. No one had ever seen +him show feeling. If it was a mask, he had worn it with a curious +consistency: it had been with him as a child, at school, at college, +and he had brought it back again to the town where he was born. It had +effectually prevented his being popular, but it had made him--with his +foppishness and his originality--an object of perpetual interest. Few +men had ventured to cross swords with him. He left his fellow-citizens +very much alone. He was uniformly if distantly courteous, and he was +respected in his own profession for his uncommon powers and for an utter +indifference as to whether he had cases in court or not. + +Coming from the judge's chambers after the trial he went to his office, +receiving as he passed congratulations more effusively offered than, as +people presently found, his manner warranted. + +For he was again the formal, masked Charley Steele, looking calmly +through the interrogative eye-glass. By the time he reached his office, +greetings became more subdued. His prestige had increased immensely in +a few short hours, but he had no more friends than before. Old relations +were soon re-established. The town was proud of his ability as it +had always been, irritated by his manner as it had always been, more +prophetic of his future than it had ever been, and unconsciously +grateful for the fact that he had given them a sensation which would +outlast the summer. + +All these things concerned him little. Once the business of the +court-room was over, a thought which had quietly lain in waiting behind +the strenuous occupations of his brain leaped forward to exclude all +others. + +As he entered his office he was thinking of that girl's face in the +court-room, with its flush of added beauty which he and his speech had +brought there. "What a perfect loveliness!" he said to himself as he +bathed his face and hands, and prepared to go into the street again. +"She needed just such a flush to make her supreme Kathleen!" He stood, +looking out into the square, out into the green of the trees where the +birds twittered. "Faultless--faultless in form and feature. She was so +as a child, she is so as a woman." He lighted a cigarette, and blew away +little clouds of smoke. "I will do it. I will marry her. She will have +me: I saw it in her eye. Fairing doesn't matter. Her uncle will never +consent to that, and she doesn't care enough for him. She cares, but she +doesn't care enough.... I will do it." + +He turned towards a cupboard into which he had put a certain bottle +before he went to the court-room two hours before. He put the key in the +lock, then stopped. "No, I think not!" he said. "What I say to her shall +not be said forensically. What a discovery I've made! I was dull, +blank, all iron and ice; the judge, the jury, the public, even Kathleen, +against me; and then that bottle in there--and I saw things like +crystal! I had a glow in my brain, I had a tingle in my fingers; and +I had success, and"--his face clouded--"He was as guilty as hell!" +he added, almost bitterly, as he put the key of the cupboard into his +pocket again. + +There was a knock at the door, and a youth of about nineteen entered. + +"Hello!" he said. "I say, sir, but that speech of yours struck us all +where we couldn't say no. Even Kathleen got in a glow over it. Perhaps +Captain Fairing didn't, for he's just left her in a huff, and she's +looking--you remember those lines in the school-book: + + "'A red spot burned upon her cheek, + Streamed her rich tresses down--'" + +He laughed gaily. "I've come to ask you up to tea," he added. "The +Unclekins is there. When I told him that Kathleen had sent Fairing away +with a flea in his ear, he nearly fell off his chair. He lent me twenty +dollars on the spot. Are you coming our way?" he continued, suddenly +trying to imitate Charley's manner. Charley nodded, and they left the +office together and moved away under a long avenue of maples to where, +in the shade of a high hill, was the house of the uncle of Kathleen +Wantage, with whom she and her brother Billy lived. They walked in +silence for some time, and at last Billy said, 'a propos' of nothing: + +"Fairing hasn't a red cent." + +"You have a perambulating mind, Billy," said Charley, and bowed to a +young clergyman approaching them from the opposite direction. + +"What does that mean?" remarked Billy, and said "Hello!" to the young +clergyman, and did not wait for Charley's answer. + +The Rev. John Brown was by no means a conventional parson. He was +smoking a cigarette, and two dogs followed at his heels. He was +certainly not a fogy. He had more than a little admiration for Charley +Steele, but he found it difficult to preach when Charley was in the +congregation. He was always aware of a subterranean and half-pitying +criticism going on in the barrister's mind. John Brown knew that he +could never match his intelligence against Charley's, in spite of the +theological course at Durham, so he undertook to scotch the snake by +kindness. He thought that he might be able to do this, because Charley, +who was known to be frankly agnostical, came to his church more or less +regularly. + +The Rev. John Brown was not indifferent to what men thought of him. He +had a reputation for being "independent," but his chief independence +consisted in dressing a little like a layman, posing as the athletic +parson of the new school, consorting with ministers of the dissenting +denominations when it was sufficiently effective, and being a "good +fellow" with men easily bored by church and churchmen. He preached +theatrical sermons to societies and benevolent associations. He wanted +to be thought well of on all hands, and he was shrewd enough to know +that if he trimmed between ritualism on one hand and evangelicism on +the other, he was on a safe road. He might perforate old dogmatical +prejudices with a good deal of freedom so long as he did not begin +bringing "millinery" into the service of the church. He invested his own +personal habits with the millinery. He looked a picturesque figure with +his blond moustache, a little silk-lined brown cloak thrown carelessly +over his shoulder, a gold-headed cane, and a brisk jacket half +ecclesiastical, half military. + +He had interested Charley Steele, also he had amused him, and sometimes +he had surprised him into a sort of admiration; for Brown had a +temperament capable of little inspirations--such a literary inspiration +as might come to a second-rate actor--and Charley never belittled +any man's ability, but seized upon every sign of knowledge with the +appreciation of the epicure. + +John Brown raised his hat to Charley, then held out a hand. +"Masterly-masterly!" he said. "Permit my congratulations. It was the +one thing to do. You couldn't have saved him by making him an object of +pity, by appealing to our sympathies." + +"What do you take to be the secret, then?" asked Charley, with a look +half abstracted, half quizzical. "Terror--sheer terror. You startled +the conscience. You made defects in the circumstantial evidence, the +imminent problems of our own salvation. You put us all on trial. We +were under the lash of fear. If we parsons could only do that from the +pulpit!" + +"We will discuss that on our shooting-trip next week. Duck-shooting +gives plenty of time for theological asides. You are coming, eh?" + +John Brown scarcely noticed the sarcasm, he was so delighted at the +suggestion that he was to be included in the annual duck-shoot of the +Seven, as the little yearly party of Charley and his friends to Lake +Aubergine was called. He had angled for this invitation for two years. + +"I must not keep you," Charley said, and dismissed him with a bow. "The +sheep will stray, and the shepherd must use his crook." + +Brown smiled at the badinage, and went on his way rejoicing in the fact +that he was to share the amusements of the Seven at Lake Aubergine--the +Lake of the Mad Apple. To get hold of these seven men of repute and +position, to be admitted into this good presence!--He had a pious +exaltation, but whether it was because he might gather into the fold +erratic and agnostical sheep like Charley Steele, or because it pleased +his social ambitions, he had occasion to answer in the future. He gaily +prepared to go to the Lake of the Mad Apple, where he was fated to eat +of the tree of knowledge. + +Charley Steele and Billy Wantage walked on slowly to the house under the +hill. + +"He's the right sort," said Billy. "He's a sport. I can stand that kind. +Did you ever hear him sing? No? Well, he can sing a comic song fit to +make you die. I can sing a bit myself, but to hear him sing 'The Man Who +Couldn't Get Warm' is a show in itself. He can play the banjo too, and +the guitar--but he's best on the banjo. It's worth a dollar to listen +to his Epha-haam--that's Ephraim, you know--Ephahaam Come Home,' and 'I +Found Y' in de Honeysuckle Paitch.'" + +"He preaches, too!" said Charley drily. + +They had reached the door of the house under the hill, and Billy had +no time for further remark. He ran into the drawing-room, announcing +Charley with the words: "I say, Kathleen, I've brought the man that made +the judge sit up." + +Billy suddenly stopped, however, for there sat the judge who had tried +the case, calmly munching a piece of toast. The judge did not allow +himself the luxury of embarrassment, but bowed to Charley with a +smile, which he presently turned on Kathleen, who came as near being +disconcerted as she had ever been in her life. + +Kathleen had passed through a good deal to look so unflurried. She +had been on trial in the court-room as well as the prisoner. Important +things had been at stake with her. She and Charley Steele had known each +other since they were children. To her, even in childhood, he had been +a dominant figure. He had judicially and admiringly told her she was +beautiful--when he was twelve and she five. But he had said it without +any of those glances which usually accompanied the same sentiments in +the mouths of other lads. He had never made boy-love to her, and she had +thrilled at the praise of less splendid people than Charley Steele. He +had always piqued her, he was so superior to the ordinary enchantments +of youth, beauty, and fine linen. + +As he came and went, growing older and more characteristic, more and +more "Beauty Steele," accompanied by legends of wild deeds and days +at college, by tales of his fopperies and the fashions he had set, she +herself had grown, as he had termed it, more "decorative." He had told +her so, not in the least patronisingly, but as a simple fact in which +no sentiment lurked. He thought her the most beautiful thing he had ever +seen, but he had never regarded her save as a creation for the perfect +pleasure of the eye; he thought her the concrete glory of sensuous +purity, no more capable of sentiment than himself. He had said again and +again, as he grew older and left college and began the business of life +after two years in Europe, that sentiment would spoil her, would scatter +the charm of her perfect beauty; it would vitalise her too much, and her +nature would lose its proportion; she would be decentralised! She had +been piqued at his indifference to sentiment; she could not easily be +content without worship, though she felt none. This pique had grown +until Captain Tom Fairing crossed her path. + +Fairing was the antithesis of Charley Steele. Handsome, poor, +enthusiastic, and none too able, he was simple and straightforward, and +might be depended on till the end of the chapter. And the end of it was, +that in so far as she had ever felt real sentiment for anybody, she felt +it for Tom Fairing of the Royal Fusileers. It was not love she felt in +the old, in the big, in the noble sense, but it had behind it selection +and instinct and natural gravitation. + +Fairing declared his love. She would give him no answer. For as soon as +she was presented with the issue, the destiny, she began to look round +her anxiously. The first person to fill the perspective was Charley +Steele. As her mind dwelt on him, her uncle gave forth his judgment, +that she should never have a penny if she married Tom Fairing. This only +irritated her, it did not influence her. But there was Charley. He was +a figure, was already noted in his profession because of a few +masterly successes in criminal cases, and if he was not popular, he was +distinguished, and the world would talk about him to the end. He was +handsome, and he was well-to-do-he had a big unoccupied house on the +hill among the maples. How many people had said, What a couple they +would make-Charley Steele and Kathleen Wantage! + +So, as Fairing presented an issue to her, she concentrated her thoughts +as she had never done before on the man whom the world set apart for +her, in a way the world has. + +As she looked and looked, Charley began to look also. He had not been +enamoured of the sordid things of the world; he had been merely curious. +He thought vice was ugly; he had imagination and a sense of form. +Kathleen was beautiful. Sentiment had, so he thought, never seriously +disturbed her; he did not think it ever would. It had not affected +him. He did not understand it. He had been born non-intime. He had had +acquaintances, but never friendships, and never loves or love. But he +had a fine sense of the fitting and the proportionate, and he worshipped +beauty in so far as he could worship anything. The homage was cerebral, +intellectual, temperamental, not of the heart. As he looked out upon the +world half pityingly, half ironically, he was struck with wonder at the +disproportion which was engendered by "having heart," as it was called. +He did not find it necessary. + +Now that he had begun to think of marriage, who so suitable as Kathleen? +He knew of Fairing's adoration, but he took it as a matter of course +that she had nothing to give of the same sort in return. Her beauty was +still serene and unimpaired. He would not spoil it by the tortures of +emotion. He would try to make Kathleen's heart beat in harmony with his +own; it should not thunder out of time. He had made up his mind that he +would marry her. + +For Kathleen, with the great trial, the beginning of the end had come. +Charley's power over her was subtle, finely sensuous, and, in deciding, +there were no mere heart-impulses working for Charley. Instinct and +impulse were working in another direction. She had not committed her +mind to either man, though her heart, to a point, was committed to +Fairing. + +On the day of the trial, however, she fell wholly under that influence +which had swayed judge, jury, and public. To her the verdict of the jury +was not in favour of the prisoner at the bar--she did not think of him. +It was in favour of Charley Steele. + +And so, indifferent as to who heard, over the heads of the people in +front of her, to the accused's counsel inside the railings, she had +called, softly: "Charley! Charley!" + +Now, in the house under the hill, they were face to face, and the end +was at hand: the end of something and the beginning of something. + +There was a few moments of casual conversation, in which Billy talked as +much as anybody, and then Kathleen said: + +"What do you suppose was the man's motive for committing the murder?" + +Charley looked at Kathleen steadily, curiously, through his monocle. It +was a singular compliment she paid him. Her remark took no heed of +the verdict of the jury. He turned inquiringly towards the judge, who, +though slightly shocked by the question, recovered himself quickly. + +"What do you think it was, sir?" Charley asked quietly. + +"A woman--and revenge, perhaps," answered the judge, with a +matter-of-course air. + +A few moments afterwards the judge was carried off by Kathleen's uncle +to see some rare old books; Billy, his work being done, vanished; and +Kathleen and Charley were left alone. + +"You did not answer me in the court-room," Kathleen said. "I called to +you." + +"I wanted to hear you say them here," he rejoined. "Say what?" she +asked, a little puzzled by the tone of his voice. + +"Your congratulations," he answered. + +She held out a hand to him. "I offer them now. It was wonderful. You +were inspired. I did not think you could ever let yourself go." + +He held her hand firmly. "I promise not to do it again," he said +whimsically. + +"Why not?" + +"Have I not your congratulations?" His hand drew her slightly towards +him; she rose to her feet. + +"That is no reason," she answered, confused, yet feeling that there was +a double meaning in his words. + +"I could not allow you to be so vain," he said. "We must be +companionable. Henceforth I shall congratulate myself--Kathleen." + +There was no mistaking now. "Oh, what is it you are going to say to me?" +she asked, yet not disengaging her hand. + +"I said it all in the court-room," he rejoined; "and you heard." + +"You want me to marry you--Charley?" she asked frankly. + +"If you think there is no just impediment," he answered, with a smile. + +She drew her hand away, and for a moment there was a struggle in +her mind--or heart. He knew of what she was thinking, and he did not +consider it of serious consequence. Romance was a trivial thing, and +women were prone to become absorbed in trivialities. When the woman had +no brains, she might break her life upon a trifle. But Kathleen had an +even mind, a serene temperament. Her nerves were daily cooled in a bath +of nature's perfect health. She had never had an hour's illness in her +life. + +"There is no just or unjust impediment, Kathleen," he added presently, +and took her hand again. + +She looked him in the eyes clearly. "You really think so?" she asked. + +"I know so," he answered. "We shall be two perfect panels in one picture +of life." + + + + +CHAPTER III. AFTER FIVE YEARS + +"You have forgotten me?" + +Charley Steele's glance was serenely non-committal as he answered drily: + +"I cannot remember doing so." + +The other man's eyelids drew down with a look of anger, then the humour +of the impertinence worked upon him, and he gave a nervous little laugh +and said: "I am John Brown." + +"Then I'm sure my memory is not at fault," remarked Charley, with an +outstretched hand. "My dear Brown! Still preaching little sermons?" + +"Do I look it?" There was a curious glitter in John Brown's eyes. "I'm +not preaching little sermons, and you know it well enough." He laughed, +but it was a hard sort of mirth. "Perhaps you forgot to remember that, +though," he sneeringly added. "It was the work of your hands." + +"That's why I should remember to forget it--I am the child of modesty." +Charley touched the corners of his mouth with his tongue, as though his +lips were dry, and his eyes wandered to a saloon a little farther down +the street. + +"Modesty is your curse," rejoined Brown mockingly. + +"Once when you preached at me you said that beauty was my curse." +Charley laughed a curt, distant little laugh which was no more the +spontaneous humour lying for ever behind his thoughts than his eye-glass +was the real sight of his eyes, though since childhood this laugh and +his eye-glass were as natural to all expression of himself as John +Brown's outward and showy frankness did not come from the real John +Brown. + +John Brown looked him up and down quickly, then fastened his eyes on +the ruddy cheeks of his old friend. "Do they call you Beauty now as they +used to?" he asked, rather insolently. + +"No. They only say, 'There goes Charley Steele!'" The tongue again +touched the corners of the mouth, and the eyes wandered to the doorway +down the street, over which was written in French: "Jean Jolicoeur, +Licensed to sell wine, beer, and other spirituous and fermented +liquors." + +Just then an archdeacon of the cathedral passed them, bowed gravely to +Charley, glanced at John Brown, turned colour slightly, and then with a +cold stare passed on too quickly for dignity. + +"I'm thinking of Bunyan," said the aforetime friend of Charley Steele. +"I'll paraphrase him and say: 'There, but for beauty and a monocle, +walks John Brown.'" + +Under the bitter sarcasm of the man, who, five years ago, had gone down +at last beneath his agnostic raillery, Charley's blue eye did not waver, +not a nerve stirred in his face, as he replied: "Who knows!" + +"That was what you always said--who knows! That did for John Brown." + +Charley seemed not to hear the remark. "What are you doing now?" he +asked, looking steadily at the face whence had gone all the warmth +of manhood, all that courage of life which keeps men young. The lean +parchment visage had the hunted look of the incorrigible failure, had +written on it self-indulgence, cunning, and uncertainty. + +"Nothing much," John Brown replied. + +"What last?" + +"Floated an arsenic-mine on Lake Superior." + +"Failed?" + +"More or less. There are hopes yet. I've kept the wolf from the door." + +"What are you going to do?" + +"Don't know--nothing, perhaps; I've not the courage I had." + +"I'd have thought you might find arsenic a good thing," said Charley, +holding out a silver cigarette-case, his eyes turning slowly from the +startled, gloomy face of the man before him, to the cool darkness beyond +the open doorway of that saloon on the other side of the street. + +John Brown shivered--there was something so cold-blooded in the +suggestion that he might have found arsenic a good thing. The metallic +glare of Charley's eye-glass seemed to give an added cruelty to the +words. Charley's monocle was the token of what was behind his blue +eye-one ceaseless interrogation. It was that everlasting questioning, +the ceaseless who knows! which had in the end unsettled John Brown's +mind, and driven him at last from the church and the possible gaiters of +a dean into the rough business of life, where he had been a failure. Yet +as Brown looked at Charley the old fascination came on him with a rush. +His hand suddenly caught Charley's as he took a cigarette, and he said: +"Perhaps I'll find arsenic a good thing yet." + +For reply Charley laid a hand on his arm-turned him towards the shade of +the houses opposite. Without a word they crossed the street, entered +the saloon, and passed to a little back room, Charley giving an +unsympathetic stare to some men at the bar who seemed inclined to speak +to him. + +As the two passed into the small back room with the frosted door, one +of the strangers said to the other: "What does he come here for, if +he's too proud to speak! What's a saloon for! I'd like to smash that +eye-glass for him!" + +"He's going down-hill fast," said the other. "He drinks steady--steady." + +"Tiens--tiens!" interposed Jean Jolicoeur, the landlord. "It is not harm +to him. He drink all day, an' he walk a crack like a bee-line." + +"He's got the handsomest wife in this city. If I was him, I'd think more +of myself," answered the Englishman. + +"How you think more--hein? You not come down more to my saloon?" + +"No, I wouldn't come to your saloon, and I wouldn't go to Theophile +Charlemagne's shebang at the Cote Dorion." + +"You not like Charlemagne's hotel?" said a huge black-bearded pilot, +standing beside the landlord. "Oh, I like Charlemagne's hotel, and +I like to talk to Suzon Charlemagne, but I'm not married, Rouge +Gosselin--" + +"If he go to Charlemagne's hotel, and talk some more too mooch to dat +Suzon Charlemagne, he will lose dat glass out of his eye," interrupted +Rouge Gosselin. + +"Who say he been at dat place?" said Jean Jolicoeur. "He bin dere four +times las' month, and dat Suzon Charlemagne talk'bout him ever since. +When dat Narcisse Bovin and Jacques Gravel come down de river, he better +keep away from dat Cote Dorion," sputtered Rouge Gosselin. "Dat's a long +story short, all de same for you--bagosh!" + +Rouge Gosselin flung off his glass of white whiskey, and threw after it +a glass of cold water. + +"Tiens! you know not M'sieu' Charley Steele," said Jean Jolicoeur, and +turned on his heel, nodding his head sagely. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. CHARLEY MAKES A DISCOVERY + +A hot day a month later Charley Steele sat in his office staring before +him into space, and negligently smoking a cigarette. Outside there was a +slow clacking of wheels, and a newsboy was crying "La Patrie! La +Patrie! All about the War in France! All about the massacree!" +Bells--wedding-bells--were ringing also, and the jubilant sounds, like +the call of the newsboy, were out of accord with the slumberous feeling +of the afternoon. Charley Steele turned his head slowly towards the +window. The branches of a maple-tree half crossed it, and the leaves +moved softly in the shadow they made. His eye went past the tree and +swam into the tremulous white heat of the square, and beyond to where in +the church-tower the bells were ringing-to the church doors, from +which gaily dressed folk were issuing to the carriages, or thronged +the pavement, waiting for the bride and groom to come forth into a +new-created world--for them. + +Charley looked through his monocle at the crowd reflectively, his head +held a little to one side in a questioning sort of way, on his lips the +ghost of a smile--not a reassuring smile. Presently he leaned forward +slightly and the monocle dropped from his eye. He fumbled for it, +raised it, blew on it, rubbed it with his handkerchief, and screwed it +carefully into his eye again, his rather bushy brow gathering over it +strongly, his look sharpened to more active thought. He stared straight +across the square at a figure in heliotrope, whose face was turned to a +man in scarlet uniform taller than herself two glowing figures towards +whom many other eyes than his own were directed, some curiously, some +disdain fully, some sadly. But Charley did not see the faces of those +who looked on; he only saw two people--one in heliotrope, one in +scarlet. + +Presently his white firm hand went up and ran through his hair +nervously, his comely figure settled down in the chair, his tongue +touched the corners of his red lips, and his eyes withdrew from the +woman in heliotrope and the man in scarlet, and loitered among the +leaves of the tree at the window. The softness of the green, the cool +health of the foliage, changed the look of his eye from something cold +and curious to something companionable, and scarcely above a whisper two +words came from his lips: + +"Kathleen! Kathleen!" + +By the mere sound of the voice it would have been hard to tell what the +words meant, for it had an inquiring cadence and yet a kind of distant +doubt, a vague anxiety. The face conveyed nothing--it was smooth, fresh, +and immobile. The only point where the mind and meaning of the man +worked according to the law of his life was at the eye, where the +monocle was caught now as in a vise. Behind this glass there was a +troubled depth which belied the self-indulgent mouth, the egotism +speaking loudly in the red tie, the jewelled finger, the ostentatiously +simple yet sumptuous clothes. + +At last he drew in a sharp, sibilant breath, clicked his tongue--a +sound of devil-may-care and hopelessness at once--and turned to a little +cupboard behind him. The chair squeaked on the floor as he turned, and +he frowned, shivered a little, and kicked it irritably with his heel. + +From the cupboard he took a bottle of liqueur, and, pouring out a small +glassful, drank it off eagerly. As he put the bottle away, he said +again, in an abstracted fashion, "Kathleen!" + +Then, seating himself at the table, as if with an effort towards energy, +he rang a bell. A clerk entered. "Ask Mr. Wantage to come for a moment," +he said. "Mr. Wantage has gone to the church--to the wedding," was the +reply. + +"Oh, very well. He will be in again this afternoon?" + +"Sure to, sir." + +"Just so. That will do." + +The clerk retired, and Charley, rising, unlocked a drawer, and taking +out some books and papers, laid them on the table. Intently, carefully, +he began to examine them, referring at the same time to a letter which +had lain open at his hand while he had been sitting there. For a quarter +of an hour he studied the books and papers, then, all at once, his +fingers fastened on a point and stayed. Again he read the letter lying +beside him. A flush crimsoned his face to his hair--a singular flush +of shame, of embarrassment, of guilt--a guilt not his own. His breath +caught in his throat. + +"Billy!" he gasped. "Billy, by God!" + + + + +CHAPTER V. THE WOMAN IN HELIOTROPE + +The flush was still on Charley's face when the door opened slowly, and +a lady dressed in heliotrope silk entered, and came forward. Without a +word Charley rose, and, taking a step towards her, offered a chair; +at the same time noticing her heightened colour, and a certain rigid +carriage not in keeping with her lithe and graceful figure. There was no +mistaking the quiver of her upper lip--a short lip which did not hide a +wonderfully pretty set of teeth. + +With a wave of the hand she declined the seat. Glancing at the books and +papers lying on the table, she flashed an inquiry at his flushed face, +and, misreading the cause, with slow, quiet point, in which bitterness +or contempt showed, she said meaningly: + +"What a slave you are!" + +"Behold the white man work!" he said good-naturedly, the flush passing +slowly from his face. With apparent negligence he pushed the letter +and the books and papers a little to one side, but really to place them +beyond the range of her angry eyes. She shrugged her shoulders at his +action. + +"For 'the fatherless children and widows, and all that are desolate and +oppressed?'" she said, not concealing her malice, for at the wedding +she had just left all her married life had rushed before her in a swift +panorama, and the man in scarlet had fixed the shooting pictures in her +mind. + +Again a flush swept up Charley's face and seemed to blur his sight. His +monocle dropped the length of its silken tether, and he caught it and +slowly adjusted it again as he replied evenly: + +"You always hit the nail on the head, Kathleen." There was a kind of +appeal in his voice, a sort of deprecation in his eye, as though he +would be friends with her, as though, indeed, there was in his mind some +secret pity for her. + +Her look at his face was critical and cold. It was plain that she was +not prepared for any extra friendliness on his part--there seemed no +reason why he should add to his usual courtesy a note of sympathy to +the sound of her name on his lips. He had not fastened the door of the +cupboard from which he had taken the liqueur, and it had swung open a +little, disclosing the bottle and the glass. She saw. Her face took on a +look of quiet hardness. + +"Why did you not come to the wedding? She was your cousin. People asked +where you were. You knew I was going." + +"Did you need me?" he asked quietly, and his eyes involuntarily swept +to the place where he had seen the heliotrope and scarlet make a glow of +colour on the other side of the square. "You were not alone." + +She misunderstood him. Her mind had been overwrought, and she caught +insinuation in his voice. "You mean Tom Fairing!" Her eyes blazed. "You +are quite right--I did not need you. Tom Fairing is a man that all the +world trusts save you." + +"Kathleen!" The words were almost a cry. "For God's sake! I have never +thought of 'trusting' men where you are concerned. I believe in no +man"--his voice had a sharp bitterness, though his face was smooth and +unemotional--"but I trust you, and believe in you. Yes, upon my soul and +honour, Kathleen." + +As he spoke she turned quickly and stepped towards the window, an +involuntary movement of agitation. He had touched a chord. But even as +she reached the window and glanced down to the hot, dusty street, she +heard a loud voice below, a reckless, ribald sort of voice, calling to +some one to, "Come and have a drink." + +"Billy!" she said involuntarily, and looked down, then shrank back +quickly. She turned swiftly on her husband. "Your soul and honour, +Charley!" she said slowly. "Look at what you've made of Billy! Look at +the company he keeps--John Brown, who hasn't even decency enough to keep +away from the place he disgraced. Billy is always with him. You ruined +John Brown, with your dissipation and your sneers at religion and +your-'I-wonder-nows!' Of what use have you been, Charley? Of what use to +anyone in the world? You think of nothing but eating, and drinking, and +playing the fop." + +He glanced down involuntarily, and carefully flicked some cigarette-ash +from his waistcoat. The action arrested her speech for a moment, and +then, with a little shudder, she continued: "The best they can say of +you is, 'There goes Charley Steele!'" + +"And the worst?" he asked. He was almost smiling now, for he admired her +anger, her scorn. He knew it was deserved, and he had no idea of making +any defence. He had said all in that instant's cry, "Kathleen!"--that +one awakening feeling of his life so far. She had congealed the word on +his lips by her scorn, and now he was his old debonair, dissipated self, +with the impertinent monocle in his eye and a jest upon his tongue. + +"Do you want to know the worst they say?" she asked, growing pale to +the lips. "Go and stand behind the door of Jolicoeur's saloon. Go to any +street corner, and listen. Do you think I don't know what they say? Do +you think the world doesn't talk about the company you keep? Haven't I +seen you going into Jolicoeur's saloon when I was walking on the other +side of the street? Do you think that all the world, and I among the +rest, are blind? Oh, you fop, you fool, you have ruined my brother, +you have ruined my life, and I hate and despise you for a cold-blooded, +selfish coward!" + +He made a deprecating gesture and stared--a look of most curious +inquiry. They had been married for five years, and during that time they +had never been anything but persistently courteous to each other. He had +never on any occasion seen her face change colour, or her manner show +chagrin or emotion. Stately and cold and polite, she had fairly met his +ceaseless foppery and preciseness of manner. But people had said of her, +"Poor Kathleen Steele!" for her spotless name stood sharply off from his +negligence and dissipation. They called her "Poor Kathleen Steele!" in +sympathy, though they knew that she had not resisted marriage with the +well-to-do Charley Steele, while loving a poor captain in the Royal +Fusileers. She preserved social sympathy by a perfect outward decorum, +though the man of the scarlet coat remained in the town and haunted the +places where she appeared, and though the eyes of the censorious world +were watching expectantly. No voice was raised against her. Her cold +beauty held the admiration of all women, for she was not eager for men's +company, and she kept her poise even with the man in scarlet near her, +glacially complacent, beautifully still, disconcertingly emotionless. +They did not know that the poise with her was to an extent as much a +pose as Charley's manner was to him. + +"I hate you and despise you for a cold-blooded, selfish coward!" So that +was the way Kathleen felt! Charley's tongue touched his lips quickly, +for they were arid, and he slowly said: + +"I assure you I have not tried to influence Billy. I have no remembrance +of his imitating me in anything. Won't you sit down? It is very +fatiguing, this heat." + +Charley was entirely himself again. His words concerning Billy Wantage +might have been either an impeachment of Billy's character and, by +deduction, praise of his own, or it may have been the insufferable +egoism of the fop, well used to imitators. The veil between the two, +which for one sacred moment had seemed about to lift, was fallen now, +leaded and weighted at the bottom. + +"I suppose you would say the same about John Brown! It is disconcerting +at least to think that we used to sit and listen to Mr. Brown as he +waved his arms gracefully in his surplice and preached sentimental +sermons. I suppose you will say, what we have heard you say before, +that you only asked questions. Was that how you ruined the Rev. John +Brown--and Billy?" + +Charley was very thirsty, and because of that perhaps, his voice had an +unusually dry tone as he replied: "I asked questions of John Brown; I +answer them to Billy. It is I that am ruined!" + +There was that in his voice she did not understand, for though long used +to his paradoxical phrases and his everlasting pose--as it seemed to her +and all the world--there now rang through his words a note she had never +heard before. For a fleeting instant she was inclined to catch at some +hidden meaning, but her grasp of things was uncertain. She had been +thrown off her balance, or poise, as Charley had, for an unwonted +second, been thrown off his pose, and her thought could not pierce +beneath the surface. + +"I suppose you will be flippant at Judgment Day," she said with a bitter +laugh, for it seemed to her a monstrous thing that they should be such +an infinite distance apart. + +"Why should one be serious then? There will be no question of an alibi, +or evidence for the defence--no cross-examination. A cut-and-dried +verdict!" + +She ignored his words. "Shall you be at home to dinner?" she rejoined +coldly, and her eyes wandered out of the window again to that spot +across the square where heliotrope and scarlet had met. + +"I fancy not," he answered, his eyes turned away also--towards the +cupboard containing the liqueur. "Better ask Billy; and keep him in, and +talk to him--I really would like you to talk to him. He admires you so +much. I wish--in fact I hope you will ask Billy to come and live with +us," he added half abstractedly. He was trying to see his way through +a sudden confusion of ideas. Confusion was rare to him, and his senses, +feeling the fog, embarrassed by a sudden air of mystery and a cloud of +futurity, were creeping to a mind-path of understanding. + +"Don't be absurd," she said coldly. "You know I won't ask him, and you +don't want him." + +"I have always said that decision is the greatest of all qualities--even +when the decision is bad. It saves so much worry, and tends to health." +Suddenly he turned to the desk and opened a tin box. "Here is further +practice for your admirable gift." He opened a paper. "I want you to +sign off for this building--leaving it to my absolute disposal." He +spread the paper out before her. + +She turned pale and her lips tightened. She looked at him squarely in +the eyes. "My wedding-gift!" she said. Then she shrugged her shoulders. +A moment she hesitated, and in that moment seemed to congeal. "You need +it?" she asked distantly. + +He inclined his head, his eye never leaving hers. With a swift angry +motion she caught the glove from her left hand, and, doubling it back, +dragged it off. A smooth round ring came off with it and rolled upon the +floor. + +Stooping, he picked up the ring, and handed it back to her, saying: +"Permit me." It was her wedding-ring. She took it with a curious +contracted look and put it on the finger again, then pulled off the +other glove quietly. "Of course one uses the pen with the right hand," +she said calmly. + +"Involuntary act of memory," he rejoined slowly, as she took the pen +in her hand. "You had spoken of a wedding, this was a wedding-gift, +and--that's right, sign there!" + +There was a brief pause, in which she appeared to hesitate, and then she +wrote her name in a large firm hand, and, throwing down the pen, caught +up her gloves, and began to pull them on viciously. + +"Thanks. It is very kind of you," he said. He put the document in the +tin box, and took out another, as without a word, but with a grave face +in which scorn and trouble were mingled, she now turned towards the +door. + +"Can you spare a minute longer?" he said, and advanced towards her, +holding the new document in his hand. "Fair exchange is no robbery. +Please take this. No, not with the right hand; the left is better +luck--the better the hand, the better the deed," he added with a +whimsical squint and a low laugh, and he placed the paper in her left +hand. "Item No. 2 to take the place of item No. 1." + +She scrutinised the paper. Wonder filled her face. "Why, this is a +deed of the homestead property--worth three times as much!" she said. +"Why--why do you do this?" + +"Remember that questions ruin people sometimes," he answered, and +stepped to the door and turned the handle, as though to show her out. +She was agitated and embarrassed now. She felt she had been unjust, and +yet she felt that she could not say what ought to be said, if all the +rules were right. + +"Thank you," she said simply. "Did you think of this when--when you +handed me back the ring?" + +"I never had an inspiration in my life. I was born with a plan of +campaign." + +"I suppose I ought to--kiss you!" she said in some little confusion. + +"It might be too expensive," he answered, with a curious laugh. Then he +added lightly: "This was a fair exchange"--he touched the papers--"but I +should like you to bear witness, madam, that I am no robber!" He opened +the door. Again there was that curious penetrating note in his voice, +and that veiled look. She half hesitated, but in the pause there was a +loud voice below and a quick foot on the stairs. + +"It's Billy!" she said sharply, and passed out. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. THE WIND AND THE SHORN LAMB + +A half-hour later Charley Steele sat in his office alone with Billy +Wantage, his brother-in-law, a tall, shapely fellow of twenty-four. +Billy had been drinking, his face was flushed, and his whole manner was +indolently careless and irresponsible. In spite of this, however, his +grey eyes were nervously fixed on Charley, and his voice was shaky as +he said, in reply to a question as to his finances: "That's my own +business, Charley." + +Charley took a long swallow from the tumbler of whiskey and soda beside +him, and, as he drew some papers towards him, answered quietly: "I must +make it mine, Billy, without a doubt." + +The tall youth shifted in his chair and essayed to laugh. + +"You've never been particular about your own business. Pshaw, what's the +use of preaching to me!" + +Charley pushed his chair back, and his look had just a touch of +surprise, a hint of embarrassment. This youth, then, thought him +something of a fool: read him by virtue of his ornamentations, his outer +idiosyncrasy! This boy, whose iniquity was under his finger on that +table, despised him for his follies, and believed in him less than his +wife--two people who had lived closer to him than any others in the +world. Before he answered he lifted the glass beside him and drank to +the last drop, then slowly set it down and said, with a dangerous smile: + +"I have always been particular about other people's finances, and the +statement that you haven't isn't preaching, it's an indictment--so it +is, Billy." + +"An indictment!" Billy bit his finger-nails now, and his voice shook. + +"That's what the jury would say, and the judge would do the preaching. +You have stolen twenty-five thousand dollars of trust-moneys!" + +For a moment there was absolute silence in the room. From outside in the +square came the Marche-t'en! of a driver, and the loud cackling laugh of +some loafer at the corner. Charley's look imprisoned his brother-in-law, +and Billy's eyes were fixed in a helpless stare on Charley's finger, +which held like a nail the record of his infamy. + +Billy drew himself back with a jerk of recovery, and said with bravado, +but with fear in look and motion: "Don't stare like that. The thing's +done, and you can't undo it, and that's all there is about it." Charley +had been staring at the youth-staring and not seeing him really, but +seeing his wife and watching her lips say again: "You are ruining +Billy!" He was not sober, but his mind was alert, his eccentric soul was +getting kaleidoscopic glances at strange facts of life as they rushed +past his mind into a painful red obscurity. + +"Oh yes, it can be undone, and it's not all there is about it!" he +answered quietly. + +He got up suddenly, went to the door, locked it, put the key in his +pocket, and, coming back, sat down again beside the table. + +Billy watched him with shrewd, hunted eyes. What did Charley mean to +do? To give him in charge? To send him to jail? To shut him out from the +world where he had enjoyed himself so much for years and years? Never to +go forth free among his fellows! Never to play the gallant with all the +pretty girls he knew! Never to have any sports, or games, or tobacco, +or good meals, or canoeing in summer, or tobogganing in winter, or +moose-hunting, or any sort of philandering! + +The thoughts that filled his mind now were not those of regret for his +crime, but the fears of the materialist and sentimentalist, who revolted +at punishment and all the shame and deprivation it would involve. + +"What did you do with the money?" said Charley, after a minute's +silence, in which two minds had travelled far. + +"I put it into mines." + +"What mines?" + +"Out on Lake Superior." + +"What sort of mines?" + +"Arsenic." + +Charley's eye-glass dropped, and rattled against the gold button of his +white waistcoat. + +"In arsenic-mines!" He put the monocle to his eye again. "On whose +advice?" + +"John Brown's." + +"John Brown's!" Charley Steele's ideas were suddenly shaken and +scattered by a man's name, as a bolting horse will crumple into +confusion a crowd of people. So this was the way his John Brown had come +home to roost. He lifted the empty whiskey-glass to his lips and drained +air. He was terribly thirsty; he needed something to pull himself +together. Five years of dissipation had not robbed him of his splendid +native ability, but it had, as it were, broken the continuity of his +will and the sequence of his intellect. + +"It was not investment?" he asked, his tongue thick and hot in his +mouth. + +"No. What would have been the good?" + +"Of course. Speculation--you bought heavily to sell on an expected +rise?" + +"Yes." + +There was something so even in Charley's manner and tone that Billy +misinterpreted it. It seemed hopeful that Charley was going to make the +best of a bad job. + +"You see," Billy said eagerly, "it seemed dead certain. He showed me the +way the thing was being done, the way the company was being floated, how +the market in New York was catching hold. It looked splendid. I thought +I could use the money for a week or so, then put it back, and have +a nice little scoop, at no one's cost. I thought it was a dead-sure +thing--and I was hard up, and Kathleen wouldn't lend me any more. If +Kathleen had only done the decent thing--" + +A sudden flush of anger swept over Charley's face--never before in his +life had that face been so sensitive, never even as a child. Something +had waked in the odd soul of Beauty Steele. + +"Don't be a sweep--leave Kathleen out of it!" he said, in a sharp, +querulous voice--a voice unnatural to himself, suggestive of little use, +as though he were learning to speak, using strange words stumblingly +through a melee of the emotions. It was not the voice of Charley Steele +the fop, the poseur, the idlest man in the world. + +"What part of the twenty-five thousand went into the arsenic?" he said, +after a pause. There was no feeling in the voice now; it was again even +and inquiring. + +"Nearly all." + +"Don't lie. You've been living freely. Tell the truth, or--or I'll know +the reason why, Billy." + +"About two-thirds-that's the truth. I had debts, and I paid them." + +"And you bet on the races?" + +"Yes." + +"And lost?" + +"Yes. See here, Charley; it was the most awful luck--" + +"Yes, for the fatherless children and widows, and all that are +oppressed!" + +Charley's look again went through and beyond the culprit, and he +recalled his wife's words and his own reply. A quick contempt and a sort +of meditative sarcasm were in the tone. It was curious, too, that he +could smile, but the smile did not encourage Billy Wantage now. + +"It's all gone, I suppose?" he added. + +"All but about a hundred dollars." + +"Well, you have had your game; now you must pay for it." + +Billy had imagination, and he was melodramatic. He felt danger ahead. + +"I'll go and shoot myself!" he said, banging the table with his fist so +that the whiskey-tumbler shook. + +He was hardly prepared for what followed. Charley's nerves had been +irritated; his teeth were on edge. This threat, made in such a cheap, +insincere way, was the last thing in the world he could bear to hear. +He knew that Billy lied; that if there was one thing Billy would not +do, shooting himself was that one thing. His own life was very sweet to +Billy Wantage. Charley hated him the more at that moment because he was +Kathleen's brother. For if there was one thing he knew of Kathleen, it +was that she could not do a mean thing. Cold, unsympathetic she might +be, cruel at a pinch perhaps, but dishonourable--never! This weak, +cowardly youth was her brother! No one had ever seen such a look on +Charley Steele's face as came upon it now--malicious, vindictive. He +stooped over Billy in a fury. + +"You think I'm a fool and an ass--you ignorant, brainless, lying +cub! You make me a thief before all the world by forging my name, and +stealing the money for which I am responsible, and then you rate me +so low that you think you'll bamboozle me by threats of suicide. You +haven't the courage to shoot yourself--drunk or sober. And what do you +think would be gained by it? Eh, what do you think would be gained? You +can't see that you'd insult your sister as well as--as rob me." + +Billy Wantage cowered. This was not the Charley Steele he had known, +not like the man he had seen since a child. There was something almost +uncouth in this harsh high voice, these gauche words, this raw accent; +but it was powerful and vengeful, and it was full of purpose. Billy +quivered, yet his adroit senses caught at a straw in the words, "as rob +me!" Charley was counting it a robbery of himself, not of the widows and +orphans! That gave him a ray of hope. In a paroxysm of fear, joined to +emotional excitement, he fell upon his knees, and pleaded for mercy--for +the sake of one chance in life, for the family name, for Kathleen's +sake, for the sake of everything he had ruthlessly dishonoured. Tears +came readily to his eyes, real tears--of excitement; but he could +measure, too, the strength of his appeal. + +"If you'll stand by me in this, I'll pay you back every cent, Charley," +he cried. "I will, upon my soul and honour! You shan't lose a penny, if +you'll only see me through. I'll work my fingers off to pay it back till +the last hour of my life. I'll be straight till the day I die--so help +me God!" + +Charley's eyes wandered to the cupboard where the liqueurs were. If +he could only decently take a drink! But how could he with this boy +kneeling before him? His breath scorched his throat. + +"Get up!" he said shortly. "I'll see what I can do--to-morrow. Go away +home. Don't go out again to-night. And come here at ten o'clock in the +morning." + +Billy took up his hat, straightened his tie, carefully brushed the dust +from his knees, and, seizing Charley's hand, said: "You're the best +fellow in the world, Charley." He went towards the door, dusting his +face of emotion as he had dusted his knees. The old selfish, shrewd +look was again in his eyes. Charley's gaze followed him gloomily. Billy +turned the handle of the door. It was locked. + +Charley came forward and unlocked it. As Billy passed through, Charley, +looking sharply in his face, said hoarsely: "By Heaven, I believe you're +not worth it!" Then he shut the door again and locked it. + +He almost ran back and opened the cupboard. Taking out the bottle of +liqueur, he filled a glass and drank it off. Three times he did this, +then seated himself at the table with a sigh of relief and no emotion in +his face. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. "PEACE, PEACE, AND THERE IS NO PEACE"' + +The sun was setting by the time Charley was ready to leave his office. +Never in his life had he stayed so late in "the halls of industry," as +he flippantly called his place of business. The few cases he had won so +brilliantly since the beginning of his career, he had studied at night +in his luxurious bedroom in the white brick house among the maples on +the hill. In every case, as at the trial of Joseph Nadeau, the man who +murdered the timber-merchant, the first prejudice of judge and jury had +given way slowly before the deep-seeing mind, which had as rare a power +of analysis as for generalisation, and reduced masses of evidence to +phrases; and verdicts had been given against all personal prejudice--to +be followed outside the court by the old prejudice, the old look askance +at the man called Beauty Steele. + +To him it had made no difference at any time. He cared for neither +praise nor blame. In his actions a materialist, in his mind he was a +watcher of life, a baffled inquirer whose refuge was irony, and whose +singular habits had in five years become a personal insult to the +standards polite society and Puritan morality had set up. Perhaps the +insult had been intended, for irregularities were committed with an +insolent disdain for appearances. He did nothing secretly; his page +of life was for him who cared to read. He played cards, he talked +agnosticism, he went on shooting expeditions which became orgies, he +drank openly in saloons, he whose forefathers had been gentlemen of +King George, and who sacrificed all in the great American revolution for +honour and loyalty--statesmen, writers, politicians, from whom he had +direct inheritance, through stirring, strengthening forces, in the +building up of laws and civilisation in a new land. Why he chose to be +what he was--if he did choose--he alone could answer. His personality +had impressed itself upon his world, first by its idiosyncrasies and +afterwards by its enigmatical excesses. + +What was he thinking of as he laid the papers away in the tin box in a +drawer, locked it, and put the key in his pocket? He had found to the +smallest detail Billy's iniquity, and he was now ready to shoulder the +responsibility, to save the man, who, he knew, was scarce worth the +saving. But Kathleen--there was what gave him pause. As he turned to the +window and looked out over the square he shuddered. He thought of the +exchange of documents he had made with her that day, and he had a sense +of satisfaction. This defalcation of Billy's would cripple him, for +money had flown these last few years. He had had heavy losses, and he +had dug deep into his capital. Down past the square ran a cool avenue of +beeches to the water, and he could see his yacht at anchor. On the other +side of the water, far down the shore, was a house which had been begun +as a summer cottage, and had ended in being a mansion. A few Moorish +pillars, brought from Algiers for the decoration of the entrance, +had necessitated the raising of the roof, and then all had to be in +proportion, and the cottage became like an appanage to a palace. So +it had gone, and he had cared so little about it all, and for the +consequences. He had this day secured Kathleen from absolute poverty, no +matter what happened, and that had its comfort. His eyes wandered among +the trees. He could see the yellow feathers of the oriole and catch the +note of the whippoorwill, and from the great church near the voices of +the choir came over. He could hear the words "Lord, now lettest thou thy +servant depart in peace, according to thy word." + +Depart in peace--how much peace was there in the world? Who had it? The +remembrance of what Kathleen said to him at the door--"I suppose I ought +to kiss you"--came to him, was like a refrain in his ears. + +"Peace is the penalty of silence and inaction," he said to himself +meditatively. "Where there is action there is no peace. If the brain and +body fatten, then there is peace. Kathleen and I have lived at peace, I +suppose. I never said a word to her that mightn't be put down in large +type and pasted on my tombstone, and she never said a word to me--till +to-day--that wasn't like a water-colour picture. Not till to-day, in a +moment's strife and trouble, did I ever get near her. And we've lived +in peace. Peace? Where is the right kind of peace? Over there is old +Sainton. He married a rich woman, he has had the platter of plenty +before him always, he wears ribbons and such like baubles given by the +Queen, but his son had to flee the country. There's Herring. He doesn't +sleep because his daughter is going to marry an Italian count. There's +Latouche. His place in the cabinet is begotten in corruption, in the +hotbed of faction war. There's Kenealy. His wife has led him a dance +of deep damnation. There's the lot of them--every one, not an ounce of +peace among them, except with old Casson, who weighs eighteen stone, +lives like a pig, grows stuffier in mind and body every day, and drinks +half a bottle of whiskey every night. There's no one else--yes, there +is!" + +He was looking at a small black-robed figure with clean-shaven face, +white hair, and shovel-hat, who passed slowly along the wooden walk +beneath, with meditative content in his face. + +"There's peace," he said with a laugh. "I've known Father Hallon +for twenty-five years, and no man ever worked so hard, ever saw more +trouble, ever shared other people's bad luck mere than he; ever took the +bit in his teeth, when it was a matter of duty, stronger than he; +and yet there's peace; he has it; a peace that passes all +understanding--mine anyhow. I've never had a minute's real peace. The +World, or Nature, or God, or It, whatever the name is, owes me peace. +And how is It to give it? Why, by answering my questions. Now it's +a curious thing that the only person I ever met who could answer any +questions of mine--answer them in the way that satisfies--is Suzon. She +works things down to phrases. She has wisdom in the raw, and a real grip +on life, and yet all the men she has known have been river-drivers and +farmers, and a few men from town who mistook the sort of Suzon she is. +Virtuous and straight, she's a born child of Aphrodite too--by nature. +She was made for love. A thousand years ago she would have had a +thousand loves! And she thinks the world is a magnificent place, and she +loves it, and wallows--fairly wallows--in content. Now which is right: +Suzon or Father Hallon--Aphrodite or the Nazarene? Which is peace--as +the bird and the beast of the field get it--the fallow futile content, +or--" + +He suddenly stopped, hiccoughed, then hurriedly drawing paper before +him, he sat down. For an hour he wrote. It grew darker. He pushed the +table nearer the window, and the singing of the choir in the church +came in upon him as his pen seemed to etch words into the paper, firm, +eccentric, meaning. What he wrote that evening has been preserved, and +the yellow sheets lie loosely in a black despatch-box which contains the +few records Charley Steele left behind him. What he wrote that night was +the note of his mind, the key to all those strange events through which +he began to move two hours after the lines were written: + + Over thy face is a veil of white sea-mist, + Only thine eyes shine like stars; bless or blight me, + I will hold close to the leash at thy wrist, + O Aphrodite! + + Thou in the East and I here in the West, + Under our newer skies purple and pleasant: + Who shall decide which is better--attest, + Saga or peasant? + + Thou with Serapis, Osiris, and Isis, + I with Jehovah, in vapours and shadows; + Thou with the gods' joy-enhancing devices, + Sweet-smelling meadows! + + What is there given us?--Food and some raiment, + Toiling to reach to some Patmian haven, + Giving up all for uncertain repayment, + Feeding the raven! + + Striving to peer through the infinite azure, + Alternate turning to earthward and falling, + Measuring life with Damastian measure, + Finite, appalling. + + What does it matter! They passed who with Homer + Poured out the wine at the feet of their idols: + Passing, what found they? To-come a misnomer, + It and their idols? + + Sacristan, acolyte, player, or preacher, + Each to his office, but who holds the key? + Death, only Death--thou, the ultimate teacher + Wilt show it to me. + + And when the forts and the barriers fall, + Shall we then find One the true, the almighty, + Wisely to speak with the worst of us all-- + Ah, Aphrodite! + + Waiting, I turn from the futile, the human, + Gone is the life of me, laughing with youth + Steals to learn all in the face of a woman, + Mendicant Truth! + +Rising with a bitter laugh, and murmuring the last lines, he thrust the +papers into a drawer, locked it, and going quickly from the room, he +went down-stairs. His horse and cart were waiting for him, and he got +in. + +The groom looked at him inquiringly. "The Cote Dorion!" he said, and +they sped away through the night. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. THE COST OF THE ORNAMENT + +One, two, three, four, five, six miles. The sharp click of the iron +hoofs on the road; the strong rush of the river; the sweet smell of the +maple and the pungent balsam; the dank rich odour of the cedar +swamp; the cry of the loon from the water; the flaming crane in the +fishing-boat; the fisherman, spear in hand, staring into the dark waters +tinged with sombre red; the voice of a lonely settler keeping time to +the ping of the axe as, lengthening out his day to nightly weariness, he +felled a tree; river-drivers' camps spotted along the shore; huge cribs +or rafts which had swung down the great stream for scores of miles, the +immense oars motionless, the little houses on the timbers blinking with +light; and from cheerful raftsmen coming the old familiar song of the +rivers: + + "En roulant, ma boule roulant, + En roulant ma boule!" + +Not once had Charley Steele turned his head as the horse sped on. His +face was kept straight along the line of the road; he seemed not to see +or to hear, to be unresponsive to sound or scene. The monocle at his eye +was like a veil to hide the soul, a defence against inquiry, itself +the unceasing question, a sort of battery thrown forward, a kind of +field-casemate for a lonely besieged spirit. + +It was full of suggestion. It might have been the glass behind which +showed some mediaeval relic, the body of some ancient Egyptian king +whose life had been spent in doing wonders and making signs--the +primitive, anthropomorphic being. He might have been a stone man, for +any motion that he made. Yet looking at him closely you would have seen +discontent in the eye, a kind of glaze of the sardonic over the whole +face. + +What is the good! the face asked. What is there worth doing? it said. +What a limitless futility! it urged, fain to be contradicted too, as the +grim melancholy of the figure suggested. + +"To be an animal and soak in the world," he thought to himself--"that is +natural; and the unnatural is civilisation, and the cheap adventure of +the mind into fields of baffling speculation, lighted by the flickering +intelligences of dead speculators, whose seats we have bought in the +stock-exchange of mortality, and exhaust our lives in paying for. To +eat, to drink, to lie fallow, indifferent to what comes after, to roam +like the deer, and to fight like the tiger--" + +He came to a dead stop in his thinking. "To fight like the tiger!" He +turned his head quickly now to where upon a raft some river-drivers were +singing: + + "And when a man in the fight goes down, + Why, we will carry him home!" + +"To fight like the tiger!" Ravage--the struggle to possess from all the +world what one wished for one's self, and to do it without mercy and +without fear-that was the clear plan in the primitive world, where +action was more than speech and dominance than knowledge. Was not +civilisation a mistake, and religion the insinuating delusion designed +to cover it up; or, if not designed, accepted by the original few who +saw that humanity could not turn back, and must even go forward with +illusions, lest in mere despair all men died and the world died with +them? + +His eyes wandered to the raft where the men were singing, and he +remembered the threat made: that if he came again to the Cote Dorion +he "would get what for!" He remembered the warning of Rouge Gosselin +conveyed by Jolicoeur, and a sinister smile crossed over his face. The +contradictions of his own thoughts came home to him suddenly, for was it +not the case that his physical strength alone, no matter what his skill, +would be of small service to him in a dark corner of contest? Primitive +ideas could only hold in a primitive world. His real weapon was his +brain, that which civilisation had given him in lieu of primitive +prowess and the giant's strength. + +They had come to a long piece of corduroy-road, and the horse's hoofs +struck rumbling hollow sounds from the floor of cedar logs. There was +a swamp on one side where fire-flies were flickering, and there flashed +into Charley Steele's mind some verses he had once learned at school: + + "They made her a grave too cold and damp + For a soul so warm and true--" + +It kept repeating itself in his brain in a strange dreary monotone. + +"Stop the horse. I'll walk the rest of the way," he said presently to +the groom. "You needn't come for me, Finn; I'll walk back as far as the +Marochal Tavern. At twelve sharp I'll be there. Give yourself a drink +and some supper"--he put a dollar into the man's hand--"and no white +whiskey, mind: a bottle of beer and a leg of mutton, that's the thing." +He nodded his head, and by the light of the moon walked away smartly +down the corduroy-road through the shadows of the swamp. Finn the groom +looked after him. + +"Well, if he ain't a queer dick! A reg'lar 'centric--but a reg'lar +brick, cutting a wide swathe as he goes. He's a tip-topper; and he's a +sort of tough too--a sort of a kind of a tough. Well, it's none of my +business. Get up!" he added to the horse, and turning round in the road +with difficulty, he drove back a mile to the Tavern Marochal for his +beer and mutton--and white whiskey. + +Charley stepped on briskly, his shining leather shoes, straw hat, and +light cane in no good keeping with his surroundings. He was thinking +that he had never been in such a mood for talk with Suzon Charlemagne. +Charlemagne's tavern of the Cote Dorion was known over half a province, +and its patrons carried news of it half across a continent. Suzon +Charlemagne--a girl of the people, a tavern-girl, a friend of sulking, +coarse river-drivers! But she had an alert precision of brain, an +instinct that clove through wastes of mental underbrush to the tree of +knowledge. Her mental sight was as keen and accurate as that which runs +along the rifle-barrel of the great hunter with the red deer in view. +Suzon Charlemagne no company for Charley Steele? What did it matter! +He had entered into other people's lives to-day, had played their games +with them and for them, and now he would play his own game, live his own +life in his own way through the rest of this day. He thirsted for some +sort of combat, for the sharp contrasts of life, for the common and the +base; he thirsted even for the white whiskey against which he had warned +his groom. He was reckless--not blindly, but wilfully, wildly reckless, +caring not at all what fate or penalty might come his way. + +"What do I care!" he said to himself. "I shall never squeal at any +penalty. I shall never say in the great round-up that I was weak and I +fell. I'll take my gruel expecting it, not fearing it--if there is to be +any gruel anywhere, or any round-up anywhere!" + +A figure suddenly appeared coming round the bend of the road before +him. It was Rouge Gosselin. Rouge Gosselin was inclined to speak. Some +satanic whim or malicious foppery made Charley stare him blankly in the +face. The monocle and the stare stopped the bon soir and the friendly +warning on Rouge Gosselin's tongue, and the pilot passed on with a +muttered oath. + +Gosselin had not gone far, however, before he suddenly stopped and +laughed outright, for at the bottom he had great good-nature, in keeping +with his "six-foot" height, and his temper was friendly if quick. +It seemed so absurd, so audacious, that a man could act like Charley +Steele, that he at once became interested in the phenomenon, and +followed slowly after Charley, saying as he went: "Tiens, there will be +things to watch to-night!" + +Before Charley was within five hundred yards of the tavern he could +hear the laughter and song coming from the old seigneury which Theophile +Charlemagne called now the Cote Dorion Hotel, after the name given to +the point on which the house stood. Low and wide-roofed, with dormer +windows and a wide stoop in front, and walls three feet thick, behind, +on the river side, it hung over the water, its narrow veranda supported +by piles, with steps down to the water-side. Seldom was there an hour +when boats were not tied to these steps. Summer and winter the tavern +was a place of resort. Inside, the low ceiling, the broad rafters, the +great fireplace, the well-worn floor, the deep windows, the wooden cross +let into the wall, and the varied and picturesque humanity frequenting +this great room, gave it an air of romance. Yet there were people +who called the tavern a "shebang"--slander as it was against Suzon +Charlemagne, which every river-driver and woodsman and habitant who +frequented the place would have resented with violence. It was because +they thought Charley Steele slandered the girl and the place in his +mind, that the river-drivers had sworn they would make it hot for him if +he came again. Charley was the last man in the world to undeceive them +by words. + +When he coolly walked into the great room, where a half-dozen of +them were already assembled, drinking white "whiskey-wine," he had no +intention of setting himself right. He raised his hat cavalierly to +Suzon and shook hands with her. + +He took no notice of the men around him. "Brandy, please!" he said. "Why +do I drink, do you say?" he added, as Suzon placed the bottle and glass +before him. + +She was silent for an instant, then she said gravely: "Perhaps because +you like it; perhaps because something was left out of you when you were +made, and--" + +She paused and went no further, for a red-shirted river-driver with +brass rings in his ears came close to them, and called gruffly for +whiskey. He glowered at Charley, who looked at him indolently, then +raised his glass towards Suzon and drank the brandy. + +"Pish!" said Red Shirt, and, turning round, joined his comrades. It was +clear he wanted a pretext to quarrel. + +"Perhaps because you like it; perhaps because something was left out of +you when you were made--" Charley smiled pleasantly as Suzon came over +to him again. "You've answered the question," he said, "and struck the +thing at the centre. Which is it? The difficulty to decide which has +divided the world. If it's only a physical craving, it means that we are +materialists naturally, and that the soil from which the grape came is +the soil that's in us; that it is the body feeding on itself all the +time; that like returns to like, and we live a little together, and +then mould together for ever and ever, amen. If it isn't a natural +craving--like to like--it's a proof of immortality, for it represents +the wild wish to forget the world, to be in another medium. + +"I am only myself when I am drunk. Liquor makes me human. At other times +I'm merely Charley Steele! Now isn't it funny, this sort of talk here?" + +"I don't know about that," she answered, "if, as you say, it's natural. +This tavern's the only place I have to think in, and what seems to you +funny is a sort of ordinary fact to me." + +"Right again, ma belle Suzon. Nothing's incongruous. I've never felt so +much like singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs as when I've been +drinking. I remember the last time I was squiffy I sang all the way home +that old nursery hymn: + + "'On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you. + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!'" + +"I should have liked to hear you sing it--sure!" said Suzon, laughing. + +Charley tossed off a quarter-tumbler of brandy, which, instead of +flushing the face, seemed only to deepen the whiteness of the skin, +showing up more brightly the spots of colour in the cheeks, that white +and red which had made him known as Beauty Steele. With a whimsical +humour, behind which was the natural disposition of the man to do +what he listed without thinking of the consequences, he suddenly began +singing, in a voice shaken a little now by drink, but full of a curious +magnetism: + + "On the other side of Jordan--" + +"Oh, don't; please don't!" said the girl, in fear, for she saw two +river-drivers entering the door, one of whom had sworn he would do for +Charley Steele if ever he crossed his path. + +"Oh, don't--M'sieu' Charley!" she again urged. The "Charley" caught his +ear, and the daring in his eye brightened still more. He was ready +for any change or chance to-night, was standing on the verge of any +adventure, the most reckless soul in Christendom. + + "On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you!" + +What more incongruous thing than this flaneur in patent leathers and red +tie, this "hell-of-a-fellow with a pane of glass in his eye," as +Jake Hough, the horse-doctor, afterwards said, surrounded by red and +blue-shirted river-men, woodsmen, loafers, and toughs, singing a sacred +song with all the unction of a choir-boy; with a magnetism, too, that +did its work in spite of all prejudice? It was as if he were counsel in +one of those cases when, the minds and sympathies of judge and jury at +first arrayed against him, he had irresistibly cloven his way to their +judgment--not stealing away their hearts, but governing, dominating +their intelligences. Whenever he had done this he had been drinking +hard, was in a mental world created by drink, serene, clear-eyed, in +which his brain worked like an invincible machine, perfect and powerful. +Was it the case that, as he himself suggested, he was never so natural +as when under this influence? That then and only then the real man +spoke, that then and only then the primitive soul awakened, that it +supplied the thing left out of him at birth? + + "There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!" + +One, two verses he sang as the men, at first snorting and scornful, +shuffled angrily; then Jake Hough, the English horse-doctor, roared in +the refrain: + + "There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!" + +Upon which, carried away, every one of them roared, gurgled, or shouted + + "There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!" + +Rouge Gosselin, who had entered during the singing, now spoke up quickly +in French: + +"A sermon now, M'sieu'!" + +Charley took his monocle out of his eye and put it back again. Now each +man present seemed singled out for an attack by this little battery +of glass. He did not reply directly to Rouge Gosselin, but standing +perfectly still, with one hand resting on the counter at which Suzon +stood, he prepared to speak. + +Suzon did not attempt to stop him now, but gazed at him in a sort +of awe. These men present were Catholics, and held religion in +superstitious respect, however far from practising its precepts. Many +of them had been profane and blasphemous in their time; may have sworn +"sacre bapteme!" one of the worst oaths of their race; but it had been +done in the wildness of anger, and they were little likely to endure +from Charley Steele any word that sounded like blasphemy. Besides, +the world said that he was an infidel, and that was enough for bitter +prejudice. + +In the pause--very short--before Charley began speaking, Suzon's +fingers stole to his on the counter and pressed them quickly. He made no +response; he was scarcely aware of it. He was in a kind of dream. In an +even, conversational tone, in French at once idiomatic and very simple, +he began: + +"My dear friends, this is a world where men get tired. If they work they +get tired, and if they play they get tired. If they look straight ahead +of them they walk straight, but then they get blind by-and-by; if they +look round them and get open-eyed, their feet stumble and they fall. It +is a world of contradictions. If a man drinks much he loses his head, +and if he doesn't drink at all he loses heart. If he asks questions he +gets into trouble, and if he doesn't ask them he gets old before his +time. Take the hymn we have just sung: + + "'On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you!' + +"We all like that, because we get tired, and it isn't always summer, and +nothing blooms all the year round. We get up early and we work late, and +we sleep hard, and when the weather is good and wages good, and there's +plenty in the house, we stay sober and we sadly sing, 'On the other side +of Jordan'; but when the weather's heavy and funds scarce, and the pork +and molasses and bread come hard, we get drunk, and we sing the comic +chanson 'Brigadier, vows avez raison!' We've been singing a sad song +to-night when we're feeling happy. We didn't think whether it was sad or +not, we only knew it pleased our ears, and we wanted those sweet fields +of Eden, and the blooming tree of life, and the rest under the tree. But +ask a question or two. Where is the other side of Jordan? Do you go up +to it, or down to it? And how do you go? And those sweet fields of Eden, +what do they look like, and how many will they hold? Isn't it clear that +the things that make us happiest in this world are the things we go for +blind?" + +He paused. Now a dozen men came a step or two nearer, and crowded +close together, looking over each others' shoulders at him with sharp, +wondering eyes. + +"Isn't that so?" he continued. "Do you realise that no man knows where +that Jordan and those fields are, and what the flower of the tree of +life looks like? Let us ask a question again. Why is it that the one +being in all the world who could tell us anything about it, the one +being who had ever seen Jordan or Eden or that tree of life-in fact, +the one of all creation who could describe heaven, never told? Isn't it +queer? Here he was--that one man-standing just as I am among you, and +round him were the men who followed him, all ordinary men, with ordinary +curiosity. And he said he had come down from heaven, and for years they +were with him, and yet they never asked him what that heaven was like: +what it looked like, what it felt like, what sort of life they lived +there, what manner of folk were the angels, what was the appearance of +God. Why didn't they ask, and why didn't he answer? People must have +kept asking that question afterwards, for a man called John answered +it. He described, as only an oriental Jew would or could, a place all +precious stones and gold and jewels and candles, in oriental language +very splendid and auriferous. But why didn't those twelve men ask the +One Man who knew, and why didn't the One answer? And why didn't the One +tell without being asked?" + +He paused again, and now there came a shuffling and a murmuring, a +curious rumble, a hard breathing, for Charley had touched with steely +finger the tender places in the natures of these Catholics, who, +whatever their lives, held fast to the immemorial form, the sacredness +of Mother Church. They were ever ready to step into the galley which +should bear them all home, with the invisible rowers of God at the oars, +down the wild rapids, to the haven of St. Peter. There was savagery in +their faces now. + +He saw, and he could not refrain from smiling as he stretched out +his hand to them again with a little quieting gesture, and continued +soothingly: + +"But why should we ask? There's a thing called electricity. Well, you +know that if you take a slice out of anything, less remains behind. We +can take the air out of this room, and scarcely leave any in it. + +"We take a drink out of a bottle, and certainly there isn't as much left +in it! But the queer thing is that with this electricity you take it +away and just as much remains. It goes out from your toe, rushes away +to Timbuctoo, and is back in your toe before you can wink. Why? No one +knows. What's the good of asking? You can't see it: you can only see +what it does. What good would it do us if we knew all about it? There it +is, and it's going to revolutionise the world. It's no good asking--no +one knows what it is and where it comes from, or what it looks like. +It's better to go it blind, because you feel the power, though you can't +see where it comes from. You can't tell where the fields of Eden are, +but you believe they're somewhere, and that you'll get to them some day. +So say your prayers, believe all you can, don't ask questions, and don't +try to answer 'em; and remember that Charley Steele preached to you the +fear of the Lord at the Cote Dorion, and wound up the service with the +fine old hymn: + + "'I'll away, I'll away, to the promised land--'" + +A whole verse of this camp-meeting hymn he sang in an ominous silence +now, for it had crept into their minds that the hymn they had previously +sung so loudly was a Protestant hymn, and that this was another +Protestant hymn of the rankest sort. When he stopped singing and pushed +over his glass for Suzon to fill it, the crowd were noiseless and silent +for a moment, for the spell was still on them. They did not recover +themselves until they saw him lift his glass to Suzon, his back on them, +again insolently oblivious of them all. They could not see his face, but +they could see the face of Suzon Charlemagne, and they misunderstood the +light in her eye, the flush on her cheek. They set it down to a personal +interest in Charley Steele. + +Charley had, however, thrown a spell over her in another fashion. In her +eye, in her face, was admiration, the sympathy of a strong intelligence, +the wonder of a mind in the presence of its master, but they thought +they saw passion, love, desire, in her face--in the face of their Suzon, +the pride of the river, the flower of the Cote Dorion. Not alone because +Charley had blasphemed against religion did they hate him at this +moment, but because every heart was scorched with envy and jealousy--the +black unreasoning jealousy which the unlettered, the dull, the crude, +feels for the lettered, the able and the outwardly refined. + +Charley was back again in the unfriendly climate of his natural life. +Suzon felt the troubled air round them, saw the dark looks on the faces +of the men, and was at once afraid and elated. She loved the glow of +excitement, she had a keen sense of danger, but she also felt that in +any possible trouble to-night the chances of escape would be small for +the man before her. + +He pushed out his glass again. She mechanically poured brandy into it. + +"You've had more than enough," she said, in a low voice. + +"Every man knows his own capacity, Suzon. Love me little, love me long," +he added, again raising his glass to her, as the men behind suddenly +moved forward upon the bar. + +"Don't--for God's sake!" she whispered hastily. "Do go--or there'll be +trouble!" + +The black face of Theophile Charlemagne was also turned anxiously in +Charley's direction as he pushed out glasses for those who called for +liquor. + +"Oh, do, do go--like a good soul!" Suzon urged. Charley laughed +disdainfully. "Like a good soul!" Had it come to this, that Suzon +pleaded with him as if he were a foolish, obstreperous child! + +"Faithless and unbelieving!" he said to Suzon in English. "Didn't I play +my game well a minute ago--eh--eh--eh, Suzon?" + +"Oh, yes, yes, M'sieu'," she replied in English; "but now you are +differen' and so are they. You must goah, so, you must!" + +He laughed again, a queer sardonic sort of laugh, yet he put out his +hand and touched the girl's arm lightly with a forefinger. "I am a +Quaker born; I never stir till the spirit moves me," he said. + +He scented conflict, and his spirits rose at the thought. Some reckless +demon of adventure possessed him; some fatalistic courage was upon him. +So far as the eye could see, the liquor he had drunk had done no more +than darken the blue of his eye, for his hand was steady, his body was +well poised, his look was direct; there seemed some strange electric +force in leash behind his face, a watchful yet nonchalant energy of +spirit, joined to an indolent pose of body. As the girl looked at +him something of his unreckoning courage passed into her. Somehow she +believed in him, felt that by some wild chance he might again conquer +this truculent element now almost surrounding him. She spoke quickly to +her step-father. "He won't go. What can we do?" + +"You go, and he'll follow," said Theophile, who didn't want a row--a +dangerous row-in his house. + +"No, he won't," she said; "and I don't believe they'd let him follow +me." + +There was no time to say more. The crowd were insistent and restless +now. They seemed to have a plan of campaign, and they began to carry it +out. First one, then another, brushed roughly against Charley. Cool and +collected, he refused to accept the insults. + +"Pardon," he said, in each case; "I am very awkward." + +He smiled all the time; he seemed waiting. The pushing and crowding +became worse. "Don't mention it," he said. "You should learn how to +carry your liquor in your legs." + +Suddenly he changed from apology to attack. He talked at them with +a cheerful scorn, a deprecating impertinence, as though they were +children; he chided them with patient imprecations. This confused them +for a moment and cleared a small space around him. There was no defiance +in his aspect, no aggressiveness of manner; he was as quiet as though +it were a drawing-room and he a master of monologues. He hurled original +epithets at them in well-cadenced French, he called them what he listed, +but in language which half-veiled the insults--the more infuriating to +his hearers because they did not perfectly understand. + +Suddenly a low-set fellow, with brass rings in his ears, pulled off +his coat and threw it on the floor. "I'll eat your heart," he said, and +rolled up blue sleeves along a hairy arm. + +"My child," said Charley, "be careful what you eat. Take up your coat +again, and learn that it is only dogs that delight to bark and bite. Our +little hands were never made to tear each other's eyes." + +The low-set fellow made a rush forward, but Rouge Gosselin held him +back. "No, no, Jougon," he said. "I have the oldest grudge." + +Jougon struggled with Rouge Gosselin. "Be good, Jougon," said Charley. + +As he spoke a heavy tumbler flew from the other side of the room. +Charley saw the missile thrown and dodged. It missed his temple, but +caught the rim of his straw hat, carrying it off his head, and crashed +into a lantern hanging against the wall, putting out the light. The room +was only lighted now by another lantern on the other side of the room. +Charley stooped, picked up his hat, and put it on his head again coolly. + +"Stop that, or I'll clear the bar!" cried Theophile Charlemagne, taking +the pistol Suzon slipped into his hand. The sight of the pistol drove +the men wild, and more than one snatched at the knife in his belt. + +At that instant there pushed forward into the clear space beside Charley +Steele the great figure of Jake Hough, the horse-doctor, the strongest +man, and the most popular Englishman on the river. He took his stand by +Charley, raised his great hand, smote him in the small of his back, and +said: + +"By the Lord, you have sand, and I'll stand by you!" Under the friendly +but heavy stroke the monocle shot from Charley's eye the length of the +string. Charley lifted it again, put it up, and staring hard at Jake, +coolly said: + +"I beg your pardon--but have I ever--been introduced to you?" + +What unbelievable indifference to danger, what disdain to friendliness, +made Charley act as he did is a matter for speculation. It was throwing +away his one chance; it was foppery on the scaffold--an incorrigible +affectation or a relentless purpose. + +Jake Hough strode forward into the crowd, rage in his eye. "Go to the +devil, then, and take care of yourself!" he said roughly. + +"Please," said Charley. + +They were the last words he uttered that night, for suddenly the other +lantern went out, there was a rush and a struggle, a muffled groan, +a shrill woman's voice, a scramble and hurrying feet, a noise of a +something splashing heavily in the water outside. When the lights were +up again the room was empty, save for Theophile Charlemagne, Jake Hough, +and Suzon, who lay in a faint on the floor with a nasty bruise on her +forehead. + +A score of river-drivers were scattering into the country-side, and +somewhere in the black river, alive or dead, was Charley Steele. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. OLD DEBTS FOR NEW + +Jo Portugtais was breaking the law of the river--he was running a +little raft down the stream at night, instead of tying up at sundown and +camping on the shore, or sitting snugly over cooking-pot by the little +wooden caboose on his raft. But defiance of custom and tradition was a +habit with Jo Portugais. He had lived in his own way many a year, and he +was likely to do so till the end, though he was a young man yet. He had +many professions, or rather many gifts, which he practised as it pleased +him. He was river-driver, woodsman, hunter, carpenter, guide, as whim or +opportunity came to him. On the evening when Charley Steele met with his +mishap he was a river-driver--or so it seemed. He had been up nor'west +a hundred and fifty miles, and he had come down-stream alone with his +raft-which in the usual course should take two men to guide it--through +slides, over rapids, and in strong currents. Defying the code of the +river, with only one small light at the rear of his raft, he voyaged the +swift current towards his home, which, when he arrived opposite the Cote +Dorion, was still a hundred miles below. He had watched the lights in +the river-drivers' camps, had seen the men beside the fires, and had +drifted on, with no temptation to join in the songs floating out over +the dark water, to share the contents of the jugs raised to boisterous +lips, or to thrust his hand into the greasy cooking-pot for a succulent +bone. + +He drifted on until he came opposite Charlemagne's tavern. Here the +current carried him inshore. He saw the dim light, he saw dark figures +in the bar-room, he even got a glimpse of Suzon Charlemagne. He dropped +the house behind quickly, but looked back, leaning on the oar and +thinking how swift was the rush of the current past the tavern. His eyes +were on the tavern door and the light shining through it. Suddenly +the light disappeared, and the door vanished into darkness. He heard a +scuffle, and then a heavy splash. + +"There's trouble there," said Jo Portugais, straining his eyes through +the night, for a kind of low roar, dwindling to a loud whispering, and +then a noise of hurrying feet, came down the stream, and he could dimly +see dark figures running away into the night by different paths. + +"Some dirty work, very sure," said Jo Portugais, and his eyes travelled +back over the dark water like a lynx's, for the splash was in his ear, +and a sort of prescience possessed him. He could not stop his raft. It +must go on down the current, or be swerved to the shore, to be fastened. + +"God knows, it had an ugly sound," said Jo Portugais, and again strained +his eyes and ears. He shifted his position and took another oar, where +the raft-lantern might not throw a reflection upon the water. He saw a +light shine again through the tavern doorway, then a dark object +block the light, and a head thrust forward towards the river as though +listening. + +At this moment he fancied he saw something in the water nearing him. He +stretched his neck. Yes, there was something. + +"It's a man. God save us--was it murder?" said Jo Portugais, and +shuddered. "Was it murder?" + +The body moved more swiftly than the raft. There was a hand thrust +up--two hands. + +"He's alive!" said Jo Portugais, and, hurriedly pulling round his waist +a rope tied to a timber, jumped into the water. + +Three minutes later, on the raft, he was examining a wound in the head +of an insensible man. + +As his hand wandered over the body towards the heart, it touched +something that rattled against a button. He picked it up mechanically +and held it to the light. It was an eye-glass. + +"My God!" said Jo Portugais, and peered into the man's face. "It's him." +Then he remembered the last words the man had spoken to him--"Get out of +my sight. You're as guilty as hell!" But his heart yearned towards the +man nevertheless. + + + + +CHAPTER X. THE WAY IN AND THE WAY OUT + +In his own world of the parish of Chaudiere Jo Portugais was counted a +widely travelled man. He had adventured freely on the great rivers and +in the forests, and had journeyed up towards Hudson's Bay farther than +any man in seven parishes. + +Jo's father and mother had both died in one year--when he was +twenty-five. That year had turned him from a clean-shaven cheerful boy +into a morose bearded man who looked forty, for it had been marked by +his disappearance from Chaudiere and his return at the end of it, to +find his mother dead and his father dying broken-hearted. What had +driven Jo from home only his father knew; what had happened to him +during that year only Jo himself knew, and he told no one, not even his +dying father. + +A mystery surrounded him, and no one pierced it. He was a figure apart +in Chaudiere parish. A dreadful memory that haunted him, carried him out +of the village, which clustered round the parish church, into Vadrome +Mountain, three miles away, where he lived apart from all his kind. It +was here he brought the man with the eye-glass one early dawn, after two +nights and two days on the river, pulling him up the long hill in a +low cart with his strong faithful dogs, hitching himself with them and +toiling upwards through the dark. In his three-roomed hut he laid his +charge down upon a pile of bear-skins, and tended him with a strange +gentleness, bathing the wound in the head and binding it again and +again. + +The next morning the sick man opened his eyes heavily. He then began +fumbling mechanically on his breast. At last his fingers found his +monocle. He feebly put it to his eye, and looked at Jo in a strange, +questioning, uncomprehending way. + +"I beg--your pardon," he said haltingly, "have I ever--been intro--" +Suddenly his eyes closed, a frown gathered on his forehead. After +a minute his eyes opened again, and he gazed with painful, pathetic +seriousness at Jo. This grew to a kind of childish terror; then slowly, +as a shadow passes, the perplexity, anxiety and terror cleared away, +and left his forehead calm, his eyes unvexed and peaceful. The monocle +dropped, and he did not heed it. At length he said wearily, and with an +incredibly simple dependence: + +"I am thirsty now." + +Jo lifted a wooden bowl to his lips, and he drank, drank, drank to +repletion. When he had finished he patted Jo's shoulder. + +"I am always thirsty," he said. "I shall be hungry too. I always am." + +Jo brought him some milk and bread in a bowl. When the sick man had +eaten and drunk the bowlful to the last drop and crumb, he lay back with +a sigh of content, but trembling from weakness and the strain, though +Jo's hand had been under his head, and he had been fed like a little +child. + +All day he lay and watched Jo as he worked, as he came and went. +Sometimes he put his hand to his head and said to Jo: "It hurts." Then +Jo would cool the wound with fresh water from the mountain spring, and +he would drag down the bowl to drink from it greedily. + +It was as though he could never get enough water to drink. So the first +day in the hut at Vadrome Mountain passed without questioning on the +part of either Charley Steele or his host. + +With good reason. Jo Portugais saw that memory was gone; that the past +was blotted out. He had watched that first terrible struggle of memory +to reassert itself, as the eyes mechanically looked out upon new and +strange surroundings, but it was only the automatic habit of the sight, +the fumbling of the blind soul in its cell-fumbling for the latch which +it could not find, for the door which would not open. The first day on +the raft, as Charley had opened his eyes upon the world again after +that awful night at the Cote Dorion, Jo. had seen that same blank +uncomprehending look--as it were, the first look of a mind upon the +world. This time he saw, and understood what he saw, and spoke as men +speak, but with no knowledge or memory behind it--only the involuntary +action of muscle and mind repeated from the vanished past. + +Charley Steele was as a little child, and having no past, and +comprehending in the present only its limited physical needs and +motions, he had no hope, no future, no understanding. In three days he +was upon his feet, and in four he walked out of doors and followed Jo +into the woods, and watched him fell a tree and do a woodsman's work. +Indoors he regarded all Jo did with eager interest and a pleased, +complacent look, and readily did as he was told. He seldom spoke--not +above three or four times a day, and then simply and directly, and only +concerning his wants. From first to last he never asked a question, and +there was never any inquiry by look or word. A hundred and twenty miles +lay between him and his old home, between him and Kathleen and Billy and +Jean Jolicoeur's saloon, but between him and his past life the unending +miles of eternity intervened. He was removed from it as completely as +though he were dead and buried. + +A month went by. Sometimes Jo went down to the village below, and then, +at first, he locked the door of the house behind him upon Charley. +Against this Charley made no motion and said no word, but patiently +awaited Jo's return. So it was that, at last, Jo made no attempt to lock +the door, but with a nod or a good-bye left him alone. When Charley saw +him returning he would go to meet him, and shake hands with him, and say +"Good-day," and then would come in with him and help him get supper or +do the work of the house. + +Since Charley came no one had visited the house, for there were no paths +beyond it, and no one came to the Vadrome Mountain, save by chance. But +after two months had gone the Cure came. Twice a year the Cure made it +a point to visit Jo in the interests of his soul, though the visits came +to little, for Jo never went to confession, and seldom to mass. On this +occasion the Cure arrived when Jo was out in the woods. He discovered +Charley. Charley made no answer to his astonished and friendly greeting, +but watched him with a wide-eyed anxiety till the Cure seated himself at +the door to await Jo's coming. Presently, as he sat there, Charley, +who had studied his face as a child studies the unfamiliar face of a +stranger, brought him a bowl of bread and milk and put it in his hands. +The Cure smiled and thanked him, and Charley smiled in return and said: +"It is very good." + +As the Cure ate, Charley watched him with satisfaction, and nodded at +him kindly. + +When Jo came he lied to the Cure. He said he had found Charley wandering +in the woods, with a wound in his head, and had brought him home with +him and cared for him. Forty miles away he had found him. + +The Cure was perplexed. What was there to do? He believed what Jo said. +So far as he knew, Jo had never lied to him before, and he thought he +understood Jo's interest in this man with the look of a child and no +memory: Jo's life was terribly lonely; he had no one to care for, and +no one cared for him; here was what might comfort him! Through this +helpless man might come a way to Jo's own good. So he argued with +himself. + +What to do? Tell the story to the world by writing to the newspaper at +Quebec? Jo pooh-poohed this. Wait till the man's memory came back? Would +it come back--what chance was there of its ever coming back? Jo said +that they ought to wait and see--wait awhile, and then, if his memory +did not return, they would try to find his friends, by publishing his +story abroad. + +Chaudiere was far from anywhere: it knew little of the world, and the +world knew naught of it, and this was a large problem for the Cure. +Perhaps Jo was right, he thought. The man was being well cared for, and +what more could be wished at the moment? The Cure was a simple man, and +when Jo urged that if the sick man could get well anywhere in the world +it would be at Vadrome Mountain in Chaudiere, the Cure's parochial pride +was roused, and he was ready to believe all Jo said. He also saw reason +in Jo's request that the village should not be told of the sick man's +presence. Before he left, the Cure knelt down and prayed, "for the good +of this poor mortal's soul and body." + +As he prayed, Charley knelt down also, and kept his eyes-calm +unwondering eyes-full fixed on the good M. Loisel, whose grey hair, thin +peaceful face, and dark brown eyes made a noble picture of patience and +devotion. + +When the Cure shook him by the hand, murmuring in good-bye, "God be +gracious to thee, my son," Charley nodded in a friendly way. He watched +the departing figure till it disappeared over the crest of the hill. + +This day marked an epoch in the solitude of the hut on Vadrome Mountain. +Jo had an inspiration. He got a second set of carpenter's tools, and +straightway began to build a new room to the house. He gave the extra +set of tools to Charley with an encouraging word. For the first time +since he had been brought here, Charley's face took on a look of +interest. In half-an-hour he was at work, smiling and perspiring, and +quickly learning the craft. He seldom spoke, but he sometimes laughed a +mirthful, natural boy's laugh of good spirits and contentment. From that +day his interest in things increased, and before two months went round, +while yet it was late autumn, he looked in perfect health. He ate +moderately, drank a great deal of water, and slept half the circle of +the clock each day. His skin was like silk; the colour of his face was +as that of an apple; he was more than ever Beauty Steele. The Cure +came two or three times, and Charley spoke to him but never held +conversation, and no word concerning the past ever passed his tongue, +nor did he have memory of what was said to him from one day to the next. +A hundred ways Jo had tried to rouse his memory. But the words Cote +Dorion had no meaning to him, and he listened blankly to all names and +phrases once so familiar. Yet he spoke French and English in a slow, +passive, involuntary way. All was automatic, mechanical. + +The weeks again wore on, and autumn became winter, and then at last one +day the Cure came, bringing his brother, a great Parisian surgeon lately +arrived from France on a short visit. The Cure had told his brother the +story, and had been met by a keen, astonished interest in the unknown +man on Vadrome Mountain. A slight pressure on the brain from accident +had before now produced loss of memory--the great man's professional +curiosity was aroused: he saw a nice piece of surgical work ready to his +hand; he asked to be taken to Vadrome Mountain. + +Now the Cure had lived long out of the world, and was not in touch with +the swift-minded action and adventuring intellects of such men as his +brother, Marcel Loisel. Was it not tempting Providence, a surgical +operation? He was so used to people getting ill and getting well without +a doctor--the nearest was twenty miles distant--or getting ill and dying +in what seemed a natural and preordained way, that to cut open a man's +head and look into his brain, and do this or that to his skull, seemed +almost sinful. Was it not better to wait and see if the poor man would +not recover in God's appointed time? + +In answer to his sensitively eager and diverse questions, Marcel +Loisel replied that his dear Cure was merely mediaeval, and that he had +sacrificed his mental powers on the altar of a simple faith, which +might remove mountains but was of no value in a case like this, where, +clearly, surgery was the only providence. + +At this the Cure got to his feet, came over, laid his hand on his +brother's shoulder, and said, with tears in his eyes: + +"Marcel, you shock me. Indeed you shock me!" + +Then he twisted a knot in his cassock cords, and added "Come then, +Marcel. We will go to him. And may God guide us aright!" + +That afternoon the two grey-haired men visited Vadrome Mountain, and +there they found Charley at work in the little room that the two men had +built. Charley nodded pleasantly when the Cure introduced his brother, +but showed no further interest at first. He went on working at the +cupboard under his hand. His cap was off and his hair was a little +rumpled where the wound had been, for he had a habit of rubbing the +place now and then--an abstracted, sensitive motion--although he seemed +to suffer no pain. The surgeon's eyes fastened on the place, and as +Charley worked and his brother talked, he studied the man, the scar, the +contour of the head. At last he came up to Charley and softly placed his +fingers on the scar, feeling the skull. Charley turned quickly. + +There was something in the long, piercing look of the surgeon which +seemed to come through limitless space to the sleeping and imprisoned +memory of Charley's sick mind. A confused, anxious, half-fearful look +crept into the wide blue eyes. It was like a troubled ghost, flitting +along the boundaries of sight and sense, and leaving a chill and a +horrified wonder behind. The surgeon gazed on, and the trouble in +Charley's eye passed to his face, stayed an instant. Then he turned away +to Jo Portugais. "I am thirsty now," he said, and he touched his lips +in the way he was wont to do in those countless ages ago, when, millions +upon millions of miles away, people said: "There goes Charley Steele!" + +"I am thirsty now," and that touch of the lip with the tongue, were a +revelation to the surgeon. + +A half-hour later he was walking homeward with the Cure. Jo accompanied +them for a distance. As they emerged into the wider road-paths that +began half-way down the mountain, the Cure, who had watched his +brother's face for a long time in silence, said: + +"What is in your mind, Marcel?" The surgeon turned with a half-smile. + +"He is happy now. No memory, no conscience, no pain, no responsibility, +no trouble--nothing behind or before. Is it good to bring him back?" + +The Cure had thought it all over, and he had wholly changed his mind +since that first talk with his brother. "To save a mind, Marcel!" he +said. + +"Then to save a soul?" suggested the surgeon. "Would he thank me?" + +"It is our duty to save him." + +"Body and mind and soul, eh? And if I look after the body and the mind?" + +"His soul is in God's hands, Marcel." + +"But will he thank me? How can you tell what sorrows, what troubles, +he has had? What struggles, temptations, sins? He has none now, of any +sort; not a stain, physical or moral." + +"That is not life, Marcel." + +"Well, well, you have changed. This morning it was I who would, and you +hesitated." + +"I see differently now, Marcel." + +The surgeon put a hand playfully on his brother's shoulder. + +"Did you think, my dear Prosper, that I should hesitate? Am I a +sentimentalist? But what will he say? + +"We need not think of that, Marcel." + +"But yet suppose that with memory come again sin and shame--even crime?" + +"We will pray for him." + +"But if he isn't a Catholic?" + +"One must pray for sinners," said the Curb, after a silence. + +This time the surgeon laid a hand on the shoulder of his brother +affectionately. "Upon my soul, dear Prosper, you almost persuade me to +be reactionary and mediaeval." + +The Curb turned half uneasily towards Jo, who was following at a little +distance. This seemed hardly the sort of thing for him to hear. + +"You had better return now, Jo," he said. + +"As you wish, M'sieu'," Jo answered, then looked inquiringly at the +surgeon. + +"In about five days, Portugais. Have you a steady hand and a quick eye?" + +Jo spread out his hands in deprecation, and turned to the Curb, as +though for him to answer. + +"Jo is something of a physician and surgeon too, Marcel. He has a gift. +He has cured many in the parish with his herbs and tinctures, and he has +set legs and arms successfully." + +The surgeon eyed Jo humorously, but kindly. "He is probably as good a +doctor as some of us. Medicine is a gift, surgery is a gift and an art. +You shall hear from me, Portugais." He looked again keenly at Jo. "You +have not given him 'herbs and tinctures'?" + +"Nothing, M'sieu'." + +"Very sensible. Good-day, Portugais." + +"Good-day, my son," said the priest, and raised his fingers in +benediction, as Jo turned and quickly retraced his steps. + +"Why did you ask him if he had given the poor man any herbs or +tinctures, Marcel?" said the priest. + +"Because those quack tinctures have whiskey in them." + +"What do you mean?" + +"Whiskey in any form would be bad for him," the surgeon answered +evasively. + +But to himself he kept saying: "The man was a drunkard--he was a +drunkard." + + + + +CHAPTER XI. THE RAISING OF THE CURTAIN + +M. Marcel Loisel did his work with a masterly precision, with the aid +of his brother and Portugais. The man under the instruments, not wholly +insensible, groaned once or twice. Once or twice, too, his eyes opened +with a dumb hunted look, then closed as with an irresistible weariness. +When the work was over, and every stain or sign of surgery removed, +sleep came down on the bed--a deep and saturating sleep, which seemed +to fill the room with peace. For hours the surgeon sat beside the couch, +now and again feeling the pulse, wetting the hot lips, touching the +forehead with his palm. At last, with a look of satisfaction, he came +forward to where Jo and the Cure sat beside the fire. + +"It is all right," he said. "Let him sleep as long as he will." He +turned again to the bed. "I wish I could stay to see the end of it. Is +there no chance, Prosper?" he added to the priest. + +"Impossible, Marcel. You must have sleep. You have a seventy-mile drive +before you to-morrow, and sixty the next day. You can only reach the +port now by starting at daylight to-morrow." + +So it was that Marcel Loisel, the great surgeon, was compelled to leave +Chaudiere before he knew that the memory of the man who had been under +his knife had actually returned to him. He had, however, no doubt in his +own mind, and he was confident that there could be no physical harm from +the operation. Sleep was the all-important thing. In it lay the strength +for the shock of the awakening--if awakening of memory there was to be. + +Before he left he stooped over Charley and said musingly: "I wonder what +you will wake up to, my friend?" Then he touched the wound with a light +caressing finger. "It was well done, well done," he murmured proudly. + +A moment afterwards he was hurrying down the hill to the open road, +where a cariole awaited the Cure and himself. + +For a day and a half Charley slept, and Jo watched him with an +affectionate solicitude. Once or twice, becoming anxious, because of the +heavy breathing and the motionless sleep, he had forced open the teeth, +and poured a little broth between. + +Just before dawn on the second morning, worn out and heavy with slumber, +Jo lay down by the piled-up fire and dropped into a sleep that wrapped +him like a blanket, folding him away into a drenching darkness. + +For a time there was a deep silence, troubled only by Jo's deep +breathing, which seemed itself like the pulse of the silence. Charley +appeared not to be breathing at all. He was lying on his back, seemingly +lifeless. Suddenly on the snug silence there was a sharp sound. A tree +outside snapped with the frost. + +Charley awoke. The body seemed not to awake, for it did not stir, but +the eyes opened wide and full, looking straight before them--straight +up to the brown smoke-stained rafters, along which were ranged guns and +fishing-tackle, axes and bear-traps. Full clear blue eyes, healthy and +untired as a child's fresh from an all-night's drowse, they looked and +looked. Yet, at first, the body did not stir; only the mind seemed to be +awakening, the soul creeping out from slumber into the day. Presently, +however, as the eyes gazed, there stole into them a wonder, a trouble, +an anxiety. For a moment they strained at the rafters and the crude +weapons and implements there, then the body moved, quickly, eagerly, +and turned to see the flickering shadows made by the fire and the simple +order of the room. + +A minute more, and Charley was sitting on the side of his couch, dazed +and staring. This hut, this fire, the figure by the hearth in a sound +sleep-his hand went to his head: it felt the bandage there! + +He remembered now! Last night at the Cote Dorion! Last night he had +talked with Suzon Charlemagne at the Cote Dorion; last night he had +drunk harder than he had ever drunk in his life, he had defied, chaffed, +insulted the river-drivers. The whole scene came back: the faces of +Suzon and her father; Suzon's fingers on his for an instant; the glass +of brandy beside him; the lanterns on the walls; the hymn he sang; the +sermon he preached--he shuddered a little; the rumble of angry noises +round him; the tumbler thrown; the crash of the lantern, and only one +light left in the place! Then Jake Hough and his heavy hand, the flying +monocle, and his disdainful, insulting reply; the sight of the pistol in +the hand of Suzon's father; then a rush, a darkness, and his own fierce +plunge towards the door, beyond which were the stars and the cool night +and the dark river. Curses, hands that battered and tore at him, the +doorway reached, and then a blow on the head and--falling, falling, +falling, and distant noises growing more distant, and suddenly and +sweetly--absolute silence. + +Again he shuddered. Why? He remembered that scene in his office +yesterday with Kathleen, and the one later with Billy. A sensitive chill +swept all over him, making his flesh creep, and a flush sped over his +face from chin to brow. To-day he must pick up all these threads again, +must make things right for Billy, must replace the money he had stolen, +must face Kathleen again he shuddered. Was he at the Cote Dorion still? +He looked round him. No, this was not the sort of house to be found at +the Cote Dorion. Clearly this was the hut of a hunter. Probably he had +been fished out of the river by this woodsman and brought here. He felt +his head. The wound was fresh and very sore. He had played for death, +with an insulting disdain, yet here he was alive. + +Certainly he was not intended to be drowned or knifed--he remembered the +knives he saw unsheathed--or kicked or pummelled into the hereafter. +It was about ten o'clock when he had had his "accident"--he affected a +smile, yet somehow he did not smile easily--it must be now about five, +for here was the morning creeping in behind the deer-skin blind at the +window. + +Strange that he felt none the worse for his mishap, and his tongue was +as clean and fresh as if he had been drinking milk last night, and +not very doubtful brandy at the Cote Dorion. No fever in his hands, +no headache, only the sore skull, so well and tightly bandaged but a +wonderful thirst, and an intolerable hunger. He smiled. When had he ever +been hungry for breakfast before? Here he was with a fine appetite: it +was like coals of fire heaped on his head by Nature for last night's +business at the Cote Dorion. How true it was that penalties did not +always come with--indiscretions. Yet, all at once, he flushed again to +the forehead, for a curious sense of shame flashed through his whole +being, and one Charley Steele--the Charley Steele of this morning, +an unknown, unadventuring, onlooking Charley Steele--was viewing with +abashed eyes the Charley Steele who had ended a doubtful career in the +coarse and desperate proceedings of last night. With a nervous confusion +he sought refuge in his eye-glass. His fingers fumbled over his +waistcoat, but did not find it. The weapon of defence and attack, the +symbol of interrogation and incomprehensibility, was gone. Beauty Steele +was under the eyes of another self, and neither disdain, nor contempt, +nor the passive stare, were available. He got suddenly to his feet, and +started forward, as though to find refuge from himself. + +The abrupt action sent the blood to his head, and feeling a blindness +come over him, he put both hands up to his temples, and sank back on the +couch, dizzy and faint. + +His motions waked Jo Portugais, who scrambled from the floor, and came +towards him. + +"M'sieu'," he said, "you must not. You are faint." He dropped his hands +supportingly to Charley's shoulders. + +Charley nodded, but did not yet look up. His head throbbed sorely. +"Water--please!" he said. + +In an instant Jo was beside him again, with a bowl of fresh water at his +lips. He drank, drank, drank, until the great bowl was drained to the +last drop. + +"Whew! That was good!" he said, and looked up at Jo with a smile. "Thank +you, my friend; I haven't the honour of your acquaintance, but--" + +He stopped suddenly and stared at Jo. Inquiry, mystification, were in +his look. + +"Have I ever seen you before?" he said. "Who knows, M'sieu'!" + +Since Jo had stood before Charley in the dock near six years ago he had +greatly changed. The marks of smallpox, a heavy beard, grey hair, and +solitary life had altered him beyond Charley's recognition. + +Jo could hardly speak. His legs were trembling under him, for now he +knew that Charley Steele was himself again. He was no longer the simple, +quiet man-child of three days ago, and of these months past, but the +man who had saved him from hanging, to whom he owed a debt he dare not +acknowledge. Jo's brain was in a muddle. Now that the great crisis was +over, now that the expected thing had come, and face to face with the +cure, he had neither tongue, nor strength, nor wit. His words stuck in +his throat where his heart was, and for a minute his eyes had a kind of +mist before them. + +Meanwhile Charley's eyes were upon him, curious, fixed, abstracted. + +"Is this your house?" + +"It is, M'sieu'." + +"You fished me out of the river by the Cote Dorion?" He still held his +head with his hands, for it throbbed so, but his eyes were intent on his +companion. + +"Yes, M'sieu'." + +Charley's hand mechanically fumbled for his monocle. Jo turned quickly +to the wall, and taking it by its cord from the nail where it had been +for these long months, handed it over. Charley took it and mechanically +put it in his eye. "Thank you, my friend," he said. "Have I been +conscious at all since you rescued me last night?" he asked. + +"In a way, M'sieu'." + +"Ah, well, I can't remember, but it was very kind of you--I do thank you +very much. Do you think you could find me something to eat? I beg your +pardon--it isn't breakfast-time, of course, but I was never so hungry in +my life!" + +"In a minute, M'sieu'--in one minute. But lie down, you must lie down a +little. You got up too quick, and it makes your head throb. You have had +nothing to eat." + +"Nothing, since yesterday noon, and very little then. I didn't eat +anything at the Cote Dorion, I remember." He lay back on the couch and +closed his eyes. The throbbing in his head presently stopped, and he +felt that if he ate something he could go to sleep again, it was so +restful in this place--a whole day's sleep and rest, how good it +would be after last night's racketing! Here was primitive and material +comfort, the secret of content, if you liked! Here was this poor +hunter-fellow, with enough to eat and to drink, earning it every day +by every day's labour, and, like Robinson Crusoe no doubt, living in a +serene self-sufficiency and an elysian retirement. Probably he had no +responsibilities in the world, with no one to say him nay, himself only +to consider in all the universe: a divine conception of adequate life. +Yet himself, Charley Steele, an idler, a waster, with no purpose in +life, with scarcely the necessity to earn his bread-never, at any rate, +until lately--was the slave of the civilisation to which he belonged. +Was civilisation worth the game? + +His hand involuntarily went to his head. It changed the course of his +thoughts. He must go back to-day to put Billy's crime right, to replace +the trust-moneys Billy had taken by forging his brother-in-law's name. +Not a moment must be lost. No doubt he was within driving distance +of his office, and, bandaged head or no bandaged head, last night's +disgraceful doings notwithstanding, it was his duty to face the +wondering eyes--what did he care for wondering eyes? hadn't he been +making eyes wonder all his life?--face the wondering eyes in the little +city, and set a crooked business straight. Fool and scoundrel certainly +Billy was, but there was Kathleen! + +His lips tightened; he had a strange anxious flutter of the heart. When +had his heart fluttered like this? When had he ever before considered +Kathleen's feelings as to his personal conduct so delicately? Well, +since yesterday he did feel it, and a sudden sense of pity sprang up +in him--vague, shamefaced pity, which belied the sudden egotistical +flourish with which he put his monocle to his eye and tried futilely to +smile in the old way. + +He had lain with his eyes closed. They opened now, and he saw his host +spreading a newspaper as a kind of cloth on a small rough table, and +putting some food upon it-bread, meat, and a bowl of soup. It was +thoughtful of this man to make his soup overnight-he saw Jo lift it from +beside the fire where it had been kept hot. A good fellow-an excellent +fellow, this woodsman. + +His head did not throb now, and he drew himself up slowly on his +elbow-then, after a moment, lifted himself to a sitting posture. + +"What is your name, my friend?" he said. + +"Jo Portugais, M'sieu'," Jo answered, and brought a candle and put it on +the table, then lifted the tin-plate from over the bowl of savoury soup. + +Never before had Charley Steele sat down to such a breakfast. A roll and +a cup of coffee had been enough, and often too much, for him. Yet now +he could not wait to eat the soup with a spoon, but lifted the bowl and +took a long draught of it, and set it down with a sigh of content. Then +he broke bread into the soup--large pieces of black oat bread--until the +bowl was a mass of luscious pulp. This he ate almost ravenously, his eye +wandering avidly the while to the small piece of meat beside the bowl. +What meat was it? It looked like venison, yet summer was not the time +for venison. What did it matter! Jo sat on a bench beside the fire, his +face turned towards his guest, dreading the moment when the man he had +nursed and cared for, with whom he had eaten and drunk for so long, +should know the truth about himself. He could not tell him all there was +to tell, he was taking another means of letting him know. + +Charley did not speak. Hunger was a new sensation, a delicious thing, +too good to be broken by talking. He ate till he had cleared away the +last crumbs of bread and meat and drunk the last drop of soup. He looked +at the woodsman as though wondering if he would bring more. Jo evidently +thought he had had enough, for he did not move. Charley's glance +withdrew from Jo, and busied itself with the few crumbs remaining upon +the table. He saw a little piece of bread on the floor. He picked it up +and ate it with relish, laughing to himself. + +"How long will it take us to get to town? Can we do it this morning?" + +"Not this morning, M'sieu'," said Jo, in a sort of hoarse whisper. + +"How many hours would it take?" + +He was gathering the last crumbs of his feast with his hand, and looking +casually down at the newspaper spread as a table-cloth. + +All at once his hand stopped, his eyes became fixed on a spot in the +paper. He gave a hoarse, guttural cry, like an animal in agony. His lips +became dry, his hand wiped a blinding mist from his eyes. + +Jo watched him with an intense alarm and a horrified curiosity. He felt +a base coward for not having told Charley what this paper contained. +Never had he seen such a look as this. He felt his beads, and told +them over and over again, as Charley Steele, in a dry, croaking sort +of whisper, read, in letters that seemed monstrous symbols of fire, a +record of himself: + +"To-day, by special license from the civil and ecclesiastical courts +[the paragraph in the paper began], was married, at St. Theobald's +Church, Mrs. Charles Steele, daughter of the late Hon. Julien Wantage, +and niece of the late Eustace Wantage, Esq., to Captain Thomas Fairing, +of the Royal Fusileers--" + +Charley snatched at the top of the paper and read the date "Tenth of +February, 18-!" It was August when he was at the Cote Dorion, the 5th +August, 18-, and this paper was February 10th, 18-. He read on, in the +month-old paper, with every nerve in his body throbbing now: a fierce +beating that seemed as if it must burst the heart and the veins: + +"--Captain Thomas Fairing, of the Royal Fusileers, whose career in our +midst has been marked by an honourable sense of public and private duty. +Our fellow-citizens will unite with us in congratulating the bride, +whose previous misfortunes have only increased the respect in which she +is held. If all remember the obscure death of her first husband (though +the body was not found, there has never been a doubt of his death), +and the subsequent discovery that he had embezzled trust-moneys to the +extent of twenty-five thousand dollars, thereby setting the final seal +of shame upon a misspent life, destined for brilliant and powerful +uses, all have conspired to forget the association of our beautiful +and admired townswoman with his career. It is painful to refer to these +circumstances, but it is only within the past few days that the estate +of the misguided man has been wound up, and the money he embezzled +restored to its rightful owners; and it is better to make these remarks +now than repeat them in the future, only to arouse painful memories in +quarters where we should least desire to wound. + +"In her new life, blessed by a romantic devotion known and admired by +all, Mrs. Fairing and her husband will be followed by the affectionate +good wishes of the whole community." + +The man on the hearth-stone shrank back at the sight of the still, white +face, in which the eyes were like sparks of fire. His impulse had been +to go over and offer the hand of sympathy to the stricken man, but his +simple mind grasped the fact that no one might, with impunity, invade +this awful quiet. Charley was frozen in body, but his brain was awake +with the heat of "a burning fiery furnace." + +Seven months of unconscious life-seven months of silence--no sight, no +seeing, no knowing; seven months of oblivion, in which the world had +buried him out of ken in an unknown grave of infamy! Seven months--and +Kathleen was married again to the man she had always loved. To the world +he himself was a rogue and thief. Billy had remained silent--Billy, whom +he had so befriended, had let decent men heap scorn and reproaches on +his memory. Here was what the world thought of him--he read the lines +over again, his eyes scorching, but his finger steady, as it traced the +lines slowly: "the obscure death..." "embezzled trustmoneys..." "the +final seal of shame upon a misspent life!" + +These were the epitaphs on the tombstone of Charley Steele; dead and +buried, out of sight, out of repute, soon to be out of mind and out of +memory, save as a warning to others--an old example raked out of the +dust-bin of time by the scavengers of morality, to toss at all who trod +the paths of dalliance. + +What was there to do? Go back? Go back and knock at Kathleen's door, +another Enoch Arden, and say: "I have come to my own again?" Return and +tell Tom Fairing to go his way and show his face no more? Break up +this union, this marriage of love in which these two rejoiced? Summon +Kathleen out of her illegal intercourse with the man who had been true +to her all these years? + +To what end? What had he ever done for her that he might destroy her +now? What sort of Spartan tragedy was this, that the woman who had been +the victim of circumstances, who had been the slave to a tie he never +felt, yet which had been as iron-bound to her, should now be brought out +to be mangled body and soul for no fault of her own? What had she done? +What had she ever done to give him right to touch so much as a hair of +her head? + +Go back, and bring Billy to justice, and clear his own name? Go back, +and send Kathleen's brother, the forger, to jail? What an achievement +in justice! Would not the world have a right to say that the only decent +thing he could do was to eliminate himself from the equation? What +profit for him in the great summing-up, that he was technically innocent +of this one thing, and that to establish his innocence he broke a +woman's heart and destroyed a boy's life? To what end! It was the +murderer coming back as a ghost to avenge himself for being hanged. +Suppose he went back--the death's-head at the feast--what would there be +for himself afterwards; for any one for whom he was responsible? Living +at that price? + +To die and end it all, to disappear from this petty life where he had +done so little, and that little ill? To die? + +No. There was in him some deep, if obscure, fatalism after all. If he +had been meant to die now, why had he not gone to the bottom of the +river that yesterday at the Cote Dorion? Why had he been saved by this +yokel at the fire, and brought here to lie in oblivion in this mountain +hut, wrapped in silence and lost to the world? Why had his brain and +senses lain fallow all these months, a vacuous vegetation, an empty +consciousness? Was it fate? Did it not seem probable that the Great +Machine had, in its automatic movement, tossed him up again on the +shores of Time because he had not fallen on the trap-door predestined +for his eternal exit? + +It was clear to him that death by his own hand was futile, and that if +there were trap-doors set for him alone, it were well to wait until he +trod upon them and fell through in his appointed hour in the movement of +the Great Machine. + +What to do--where to live--how to live? + +He got slowly to his feet and took a step forward half blindly. The man +on the bench stirred. Crossing the room he dropped a hand on the man's +shoulder. "Open the blind, my friend." + +Jo Portugais got to his feet quickly, eyes averted--he did not dare look +into Charley's face--and went over and drew back the deer-skin blind. +The clear, crisp sunlight of a frosty morning broke gladly into the +room. Charley turned and blew out the candle on the table where he had +eaten, then walked feebly to the window. Standing on the crest of the +mountain the hut looked down through a clearing, flanked by forest +trees. + +It was a goodly scene. The green and frosted foliage of the pines and +cedars; the flowery tracery of frost hanging like cobwebs everywhere; +the poudre sparkle in the air; the hills of silver and emerald sloping +down to the valley miles away, where the village clustered about the +great old parish church; the smoke from a hundred chimneys, in purple +spirals, rising straight up in the windless air; over all peace and a +perfect silence. + +Charley mechanically fixed his eye-glass and stood with hands resting on +the window-sill, looking, looking out upon a new world. + +At length he turned. + +"Is there anything I can do for you, M'sieu'?" said Jo huskily. + +Charley held out his hand and clasped Jo's. "Tell me about all these +months," he said. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. THE COMING OF ROSALIE + +Charley Steele saw himself as he had been through the eyes of another. +He saw the work that he had done in the carpentering shed, and had no +memory of it. The real Charley Steele had been enveloped in oblivion for +seven months. During that time a mild phantom of himself had wandered, +as it were in a somnambulistic dream, through the purlieus of life. +Open-eyed, but with the soul asleep, all idiosyncrasy laid aside, all +acquired impressions and influences vanished, he had been walking in +the world with no more complexity of mind than a new-born child, nothing +intervening between the sight of the eyes and the original sense. + +Now, when the real Charley Steele emerged again, the folds of mind and +soul unrolling to the million-voiced creation and touched by the antenna +of a various civilisation, the phantom Charley was gone once more into +obscurity. The real Charley could remember naught of the other, could +feel naught, save, as in the stirring industrious day, one remembers +that he has dreamed a strange dream the night before, and cannot recall +it, though the overpowering sense of it remains. + +He saw the work of his hands, the things he had made with adze and +plane, with chisel and hammer, but nothing seemed familiar save the +smell of the glue pot, which brought back in a cloudy impression curious +unfamiliar feelings. Sights, sounds, motions, passed in a confused way +through his mind as the smell of the glue crept through his nostrils; +and he struggled hard to remember. But no--seven months of his life were +gone for ever. Yet he knew and felt that a vast change had gone over +him, had passed through him. While the soul had lain fallow, while the +body had been growing back to childlike health again, and Nature +had been pouring into his sick senses her healing balm; while the +medicaments of peace and sleep and quiet labour had been having their +way with him, he had been reorganised, renewed, flushed of the turgid +silt of dissipation. For his sins and weaknesses there had been no gall +and vinegar to drink. + +As Charley stood looking round the workshop, Jo entered, shaking the +snow from his moccasined feet. "The Cure, M'sieu' Loisel, has come," he +said. Charley turned, and, without a word, followed Jo into the house. +There, standing at the window and looking down at the village +beneath, was the Cure. As Charley entered, M. Loisel came forward with +outstretched hand. + +"I am glad to see you well again, Monsieur," he said, and his cool thin +hand held Charley's for a moment, as he looked him benignly in the eye. + +With a kind of instinct as to the course he must henceforth pursue, +Charley replied simply, dropping his eye-glass as he met that clear +soluble look of the priest--such a well of simplicity he had never +before seen. Only naked eye could meet that naked eye, imperfect though +his own sight was. + +"It is good of you to feel so, and to come and tell me so," he answered +quietly. "I have been a great trouble, I know." + +There was none of the old pose in his manner, none of the old cryptic +quality in his words. + +"We were anxious for your sake--and for the sake of your friends, +Monsieur." + +Charley evaded the suggestion. "I cannot easily repay your kindness and +that of Jo Portugais, my good friend here," he rejoined. + +"M'sieu'," replied Jo, his face turned away, and his foot pushing a log +on the fire, "you have repaid it." + +Charley shook his head. "I am in a conspiracy of kindness," he said. "It +is all a mystery to me. For why should one expect such treatment from +strangers, when, besides all, one can never make any real return, not +even to pay for board and lodging!" + +"'I was a stranger and ye took me in,"' said the Cure, smiling by no +means sentimentally. "So said the Friend of the World." + +Charley looked the Curb steadily in the eyes. He was thinking how simply +this man had said these things; as if, indeed, they were part of +his life; as though it were usual speech with him, a something that +belonged, not an acquired language. There was the old impulse to ask a +question, and he put the monocle to his eye, but his lips did not open, +and the eye-glass fell again. He had seen familiarity with sacred names +and things in the uneducated, in excited revivalists, worked up to a +state clairvoyant and conversational with the Creator; but he had never +heard an educated man speak as this man did. + +At last Charley said: "Your brother--Portugais tells me that your +brother, the surgeon, has gone away. I should have liked to thank +him--if no more." + +"I have written him of your good recovery. He will be glad, I know. But +my brother, from one stand-point--a human stand-point--had scruples. +These I did not share, but they were strong in him, Monsieur. Marcel +asked himself--" He stopped suddenly and looked towards Jo. + +Charley saw the look, and said quickly: "Speak plainly. Portugais is my +friend." + +Jo turned slowly towards him, and a light seemed to come to his eyes--a +shining something that resolved itself into a dog-like fondness, an +utter obedience, a strange intense gratitude. + +"Marcel asked himself," the Cure continued, "whether you would thank him +for bringing you back to--to life and memory. I fear he was trying to +see what I should say--I fear so. Marcel said, 'Suppose that he should +curse me for it? Who knows what he would be brought back to--to what +suffering and pain, perhaps?' Marcel said that." + +"And you replied, Monsieur le Cure?" + +"I replied that Nature required you to answer that question for +yourself, and whether bitterly or gladly, it was your duty to take up +your life and live it out. Besides, it was not you alone that had to be +considered. One does not live alone or die alone in this world. There +were your friends to consider." + +"And because I had no friends here, you were compelled to think for me!" +answered Charley calmly. "Truth is, it was not a question of my friends, +for what I was during those seven months, or what I am now, can make no +difference to them." + +He looked the Cure in the eyes steadily, and as though he would +convey his intentions without words. The Curb understood. The habit of +listening to the revelations of the human heart had given him something +of that clairvoyance which can only be pursued by the primitive mind, +unvexed by complexity. + +"It is, then, as though you had not come to life again? It is as though +you had no past, Monsieur?" + +"It is that, Monsieur." + +Jo suddenly turned and left the room, for he heard a step on the frosty +snow without. + +"You will remain here, Monsieur?" said the Cure. "I cannot tell." + +The Cure had the bravery of simple souls with a duty to perform. He +fastened his eyes on Charley. "Monsieur, is there any reason why you +should not stay here? I ask it now, man to man--not as a priest of my +people, but as man to man." + +Charley did not answer for a moment. He was wondering how he should put +his reply. But his look did not waver, and the Cure saw the honesty of +the gaze. At length he replied: "If you mean, have I committed any crime +which the law may punish?--I answer no, Monsieur. If you mean, have I +robbed or killed, or forged--or wronged a woman as men wrong women? No. +These, I take it, are the things that matter first. For the rest, +you can think of me as badly as you will, or as well, for what I do +henceforth is the only thing that really concerns the world, Monsieur le +Cure." + +The Cure came forward and put out his hand with a kindly gesture. +"Monsieur, you have suffered," he said. + +"Never, never at all, Monsieur. Never for a moment, until I was dropped +down here like a stone from a sling. I had life by the throat; now it +has me there--that is all." + +"You are not a Catholic, Monsieur?" asked the priest, almost pleadingly, +and as though the question had been much on his mind. + +"No, Monsieur." + +The Cure made no rejoinder. If he was not a Catholic, what matter +what he was? If he was not a Catholic, were he Buddhist, pagan, or +Protestant, the position for them personally was the same. "I am +very sorry," he said gently. "I might have helped you had you been a +Catholic." + +The eye-glass came like lightning to the eye, and a caustic, questioning +phrase was on the tongue, but Charley stopped himself in time. For, +apart from all else, this priest had been his friend in calamity, had +acted with a charming sensibility. The eye-glass troubled the Cure, and +the look on Charley's face troubled him still more, but it passed as +Charley said, in a voice as simple as the Cure's own: + +"You may still help me as you have already done. I give you my word, +too"--strange that he touched his lips with his tongue as he did in the +old days when his mind turned to Jean Jolicoeur's saloon--"that I +will do nothing to cause regret for your humanity and--and Christian +kindness." Again the tongue touched the lips--a wave of the old life had +swept over him, the old thirst had rushed upon him. Perhaps it was the +force of this feeling which made him add, with a curious energy, "I give +you my word, Monsieur le Cure." At that moment the door opened and Jo +entered. + +"M'sieu'," he said to Charley, "a registered parcel has come for you. +It has been brought by the postmaster's daughter. She will give it to no +one but yourself." + +Charley's face paled, and the Cure's was scarcely less pale. In +Charley's mind was the question, Who had discovered his presence here? +Was he not, then, to escape? Who should send him parcels through the +post? + +The Cure was perturbed. Was he, then, to know who this man was--his name +and history? Was the story of his life now to be told? + +Charley broke the silence. "Tell the girl to come in." Instantly +afterwards the postmaster's daughter entered. The look of the girl's +face, at once delicate and rosy with health, almost put the question of +the letter out of his mind for an instant. Her dark eyes met his as he +came forward with outstretched hand. + +"This is addressed, as you will see, 'To the Sick Man at the House of +Jo Portugais, at Vadrome Mountain.' Are you that person, Monsieur?" she +asked. + +As she handed the parcel, Charley's eyes scanned her face quickly. How +did this habitant girl come by this perfect French accent, this refined +manner? He did not know the handwriting on the parcel; he hastily tore +it open. Inside were a few dozen small packets. Here also was a sheet of +paper. He opened and read it quickly. It said: + + Monsieur, I am not sure that you have recovered your memory and your + health, and I am also not sure that in such case you will thank me + for my work. If you think I have done you an injury, pray accept my + profound apologies. Monsieur, you have been a drunkard. If you + would reverse the record now, these powders, taken at opportune + moments, will aid you. Monsieur, with every expression of my good- + will, and the hope that you will convey to me without reserve your + feelings on this delicate matter, I append my address in Paris, and + I have the honour to subscribe myself, with high consideration, + Monsieur, yours faithfully, + MARCEL LOISEL. + +The others looked at him with varied feelings as he read. Curiosity, +inquiry, expectation, were common to them all, but with each was a +different personal feeling. The Cure's has been described. Jo Portugais' +mind was asking if this meant that the man who had come into his life +must now go out of it; and the girl was asking who was this mysterious +man, like none she had ever seen or known. + +Without hesitation Charley handed over the letter to the Cure, who took +it with surprise, read it with amazement, and handed it back with a +flush on his face. + +"Thank you," said Charley to the girl. "It is good of you to bring it +all this way. May I ask--" + +"She is Mademoiselle Rosalie Evanturel," said the Cure smiling. + +"I am Charles Mallard," said Charley slowly. "Thank you. I will go +now, Monsieur Mallard," the girl said, lifting her eyes to his face. +He bowed. As she turned and went towards the door her eyes met his. She +blushed. + +"Wait, Mademoiselle; I will go back with you," said the Cure kindly. +He turned to Charley and held out his hand. "God be with you, +Monsieur--Charles," he said. "Come and see me soon." Remembering that +his brother had written that the man was a drunkard, his eyes had a +look of pity. This was the man's own secret and his. It was a way to the +man's heart; he would use it. + +As the two went out of the door, the girl looked back. Charley was +putting the surgeon's letter into the fire, and did not see her; yet she +blushed again. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. HOW CHARLEY WENT ADVENTURING AND WHAT HE FOUND + +A week passed. Charley's life was running in a tiny circle, but his mind +was compassing large revolutions. The events of the last few days had +cut deep. His life had been turned upside down. All his predispositions +had been suddenly brought to check, his habits turned upon the flank and +routed, his mental postures flung into confusion. He had to start life +again; but it could not be in the way of any previous travel of mind or +body. The line of cleavage was sharp and wide, and the only connection +with the past was in the long-reaching influence of evil habits, which +crept from their coverts, now and again, to mock him as his old self +had mocked life--to mock him and to tempt him. Through seven months of +healthy life for his body, while brain and will were sleeping, the whole +man had made long strides towards recreation. But with the renewal of +will and mind the old weaknesses, roused by memory, began to emerge +intermittently, as water rises from a spring. There was something +terrible in this repetition of sensation--the law of habit answering +to the machine-like throbbing of memory, as, a kaleidoscope turning, +turning, its pictures pass a certain point at fixed intervals--an +automatic recurrence. He found himself at times touching his lips with +his tongue, and with this act came the dry throat, the hot eye, the +restless hand feeling for a glass that eluded his fingers. + +Twice in one week did this fever surge up in him, and it caught him +in those moments when, exhausted by the struggle of his mind to adapt +itself to the new conditions, his senses were delicately susceptible. +Visions of Jolicoeur's saloon came to his mind's eye. With a singular +separateness, a new-developed dual sense, he saw himself standing in the +summer heat, looking over to the cool dark doorway of the saloon, and +he caught again the smell of the fresh-drawn beer. He was conscious +of watching himself do this and that, of seeing himself move here and +there. He began to look upon Charley Steele as a man he had known--he, +Charles Mallard, had known--while he had to suffer for what Charley +Steele had done. Then, all at once, as he was thinking and dreaming and +seeing, there would seize upon him the old appetite, coincident with the +seizure of his brain by the old sense of cynicism at its worst--such a +worst as had made him insult Jake Hough when the rough countryman was +ready to take his part that wild night at the Cote Dorion. + +At such moments life became a conflict--almost a terror--for as yet he +had not swung into line with the new order of things. In truth, there +was no order of things; for one life was behind him and the new one +was not yet decided upon, save that here he would stay--here out of the +world, out of the game, far from old associations, cut off, and to be +for ever cut off, from all that he had ever known or seen or felt or +loved!... Loved! When did he ever love? If love was synonymous with +unselfishness, with the desire to give greater than the desire to get, +then he had never known love. He realised now that he had given Kathleen +only what might be given across a dinner-table--the sensuous tribute of +a temperament, passionate without true passion or faith or friendship. +Kathleen had known that he gave her nothing worth the having; for in +some meagre sense she knew what love was, and had given it meagrely, +after her nature, to another man, preserving meanwhile the letter of the +law, respecting that bond which he had shamed by his excesses. + +Kathleen was now sitting at another man's table--no, probably at his own +table--his, Charley Steele's own table in his own house--the house he +had given her by deed of gift the day he died. Tom Fairing was sitting +where he used to sit, talking across the table--not as he used to +talk--looking into Kathleen's face as he had never looked. He was no +more to them than a dark memory. "Well, why should I be more?" he asked +himself. "I am dead, if not buried. They think me down among the fishes. +My game is done; and when she gets older and understands life better, +Kathleen will say, 'Poor Charley--he might have been anything!' She'll +be sure to say that some day, for habit and memory go round in a circle +and pass the same point again and again. For me--they take me by the +throat--" He put his hand up as if to free his throat from a grip, his +tongue touched his lips, his hands grew restless. + +"It comes back on me like a fit of ague, this miserable thirst. If I +were within sight of Jolicoeur's saloon, I should be drinking hard this +minute. But I'm here, and--" His hand felt his pocket, and he took out +the powders the great surgeon had sent him. + +"He knew--how did he know that I was a drunkard? Does a man carry in his +face the tale he would not tell? Jo says I didn't talk of the past, that +I never had delirium, that I never said a word to suggest who I was, or +where I came from. Then how did the doctor--man know? I suppose every +particular habit carries its own signal, and the expert knows the +ciphers." He opened the paper containing the powders, and looked round +for water, then paused, folded the paper up, and put it in his pocket +again. He went over to the window and looked out. His shoulders set +square. "No, no, no, not a speck on my tongue!" he said. "What I can't +do of my own will is not worth doing. It's too foolish, to yield to the +shadow of an old appetite. I play this game alone--here in Chaudiere." + +He looked out and down. The sweet sun of early spring was shining +hard, and the snow was beginning to pack, to hang like a blanket on +the branches, to lie like a soft coverlet over all the forest and the +fields. Far away on the frozen river were saplings stuck up to show +where the ice was safe--a long line of poles from shore to shore--and +carioles were hurrying across to the village. Being market-day, the +place was alive with the cheerful commerce of the habitant. The bell +of the parish church was ringing. The sound of it came up distantly and +peacefully. Charley drew a long breath, turned away to a pail of water, +filled a dipper half full, and drank it off gaspingly. Then he returned +to the window with a look of relief. + +"That does it," he said. "The horrible thing is gone again--out of my +brain and out of my throat." + +As he stood there, Jo came up the hill with a bundle in his arms. +Charley watched him for a moment, half whimsically, half curiously. Yet +he sighed once too as Portugais opened the door and came into the room. +"Well done, Jo!" said he. "You have 'em?" + +"Yes, M'sieu'. A good suit, and I believe they'll fit. Old Trudel says +it's the best suit he's made in a year. I'm afraid he'll not make many +more suits, old Trudel. + +"He's very bad. When he goes there'll be no tailor--ah, old Trudel will +be missed for sure, M'sieu'!" + +Jo spread the clothes out on the table--a coat, waistcoat, and trousers +of fulled cloth, grey and bulky, and smelling of the loom and the +tailor's iron. Charley looked at them interestedly, then glanced at +the clothes he had on, the suit that had belonged to him last +year--grave-clothes. + +He drew himself up as though rousing from a dream. "Come, Jo, clear out, +and you shall have your new habitant in a minute," he said. Portugais +left the room, and when he came back, Charley was dressed in the suit +of grey fulled cloth. It was loose, but comfortable, and save for the +refined face--on which a beard was growing now--and the eye-glass, he +might easily have passed for a farmer. When he put on the dog-skin +fur cap and a small muffler round his neck, it was the costume of the +habitant complete. + +Yet it was no disguise, for it was part of the life that Charles +Mallard, once Charley Steele, should lead henceforth. + +He turned to the door and opened it. "Good-bye, Portugais," he said. + +Jo was startled. "Where are you going, M'sieu'?" + +"To the village." + +"What to do, M'sieu'?" + +"Who knows?" + +"You will come back?" Jo asked anxiously. + +"Before sundown, Jo. Good-bye!" + +This was the first long walk he had taken since he had become himself +again. The sweet, cold air, with a bracing wind in his face, gave peace +to the nerves but now strained and fevered in the fight with appetite. +His mind cleared, and he drank in the sunny air and the pungent smell +of the balsams. His feet light with moccasins, he even ran a distance, +enjoying the glow from a fast-beating pulse. + +As he came into the high-road, people passed him in carioles and +sleighs. Some eyed him curiously. What did he mean to do? What object +had he in coming to the village? What did he expect? As he entered the +village his pace slackened. He had no destination, no object. He was +simply aware that his new life was beginning. + +He passed a little house on which was a sign, "Narcisse Dauphin, +Notary." It gave him a curious feeling. It was the old life before him. +"Charles Mallard, Notary?"--No, that was not for him. Everything that +reminded him of the past, that brought him in touch with it, must be set +aside. He moved on. Should he go to the Cure? No; one thing at a time, +and today he wanted his thoughts for himself. More people passed +him, and spoke of him to each other, though there was no coarse +curiosity--the habitant has manners. + +Presently he passed a low shop with a divided door. The lower half was +closed, the upper open, and the winter sun was shining full into the +room, where a bright fire burned. + +Charley looked up. Over the door was painted, in straggling letters: +"Louis Trudel, Tailor." He looked inside. There, on a low table, bent +over his work, with a needle in his hand, sat Louis Trudel the tailor. +Hearing footsteps, feeling a shadow, he looked up. Charley started at +the look of the shrunken, yellow face; for if ever death had set his +seal, it was on that haggard parchment. The tailor's yellow eyes ran +from Charley's face to his clothes. + +"I knew they'd fit," he said, with a snarl. "Drove me hard, too!" + +Charley had an inspiration. He opened the halfdoor, and entered. + +"Do you want help?" he said, fixing his eyes on the tailor's, steady and +persistent. + +"What's the good of wanting--I can't get it," was the irritable reply, +as he uncrossed his legs. + +Charley took the iron out of his hand. "I'll press, if you'll show me +how," he said. + +"I don't want a fiddling ten-minutes' help like that." + +"It isn't fiddling. I'm going to stay, if you think I'll do." + +"You are going to stop-every day?" The old man's voice quavered a +little. + +"Precisely that." Charley wetted a seam with water as he had often +seen tailors do. He dropped the hot iron on the seam, and sniffed with +satisfaction. + +"Who are you?" said the tailor. + +"A man who wants work. The Cure knows. It's all right. Shall I stay?" + +The tailor nodded, and sat down with a colour in his face. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. ROSALIE, CHARLEY, AND THE MAN THE WIDOW PLOMONDON JILTED + +From the moment there came to the post-office the letter addressed to +"The Sick Man at the House of Jo Portugais at Vadrome Mountain," Rosalie +Evanturel dreamed dreams. Mystery, so fascinating a thing in all the +experiences of life, took hold of her. The strange man in the lonely +hut on the hill, the bandaged head, the keen, piercing blue eyes, +the monocle, like a masked battery of the mind, levelled at her--all +appealed to that life she lived apart from the people with whom she had +daily commerce. Her world was a world of books and dreams, and simple, +practical duties of life. Most books were romance to her, for most were +of a life to which she had not been educated. Even one or two purely +Protestant books of missionary enterprise, found in a box in her dead +mother's room, had had all the charms of poetry and adventure. It was +all new, therefore all delightful, even when the Protestant sentiments +shocked her as being not merely untrue, but hurting that aesthetic sense +never remote from the mind of the devout Catholic. + +She had blushed when monsieur had first looked at her, in the hut on +Vadrome Mountain, not because there was any soft sentiment about him +in her heart--how could there be for a man she had but just seen!--but +because her feelings, her imagination, were all at high temperature; +because the man compelled attention. The feeling sprang from a deep +sensibility, a natural sense, not yet made incredulous by the ironies +of life. These had never presented themselves to her in a country, in +a parish, where people said of fortune and misfortune, happiness and +sorrow, "C'est le bon Dieu!"--always "C'est le bon Dieu!" + +In some sense it was a pity that she had brains above the ordinary, that +she had had a good education and nice tastes. It was the cultivation of +the primitive and idealistic mind, which could not rationalise a sense +of romance, of the altruistic, by knowledge of life. As she sat behind +the post-office counter she read all sorts of books that came her way. +When she learned English so as to read it almost as easily as she read +French, her greatest joy was to pore over Shakespeare, with a heart full +of wonder, and, very often, eyes full of tears--so near to the eyes of +her race. Her imagination inhabited Chaudiere with a different folk, +living in homes very unlike these wide, sweeping-roofed structures, with +double windows and clean-scrubbed steps, tall doors, and wide, uncovered +stoops. Her people--people of bright dreaming--were not quarrelsome, +or childish, or merely traditional, like the habitants. They were +picturesque and able and simple, doing good things in disguise, +succouring distress, yielding their lives without thought for a cause, +or a woman, and loving with an undying love. + +Charley was of these people--from the first instant she saw him. The +Cure, the Avocat, and the Seigneur were also of them, but placidly, +unimportantly. "The Sick Man at Jo Portugais' House" came out of a +mysterious distance. Something in his eyes said, "I have seen, I have +known," told her that when he spoke she would answer freely, that they +were kinsfolk in some hidden way. Her nature was open and frank; she +lived upon the house-tops, as it were, going in and out of the lives of +the people of Chaudiere with neighbourly sympathy and understanding. Yet +she knew that she was not of them, and they knew that, poor as she was, +in her veins flowed the blood of the old nobility of France. For this +the Cure could vouch. Her official position made her the servant of the +public, and she did her duty with naturalness. + +She had been a figure in the parish ever since the day she returned from +the convent at Quebec, and took her dead mother's place in the home and +the parish. She had a quick temper, but there was not a cheerless note +in her nature, and there was scarce a dog or a horse in the parish but +knew her touch, and responded to it. Squirrels ate out of her hand, she +had even tamed two partridges, and she kept in her little garden a bear +she had brought up from a cub. Her devotion to her crippled father was +in keeping with her quick response to every incident of sorrow or joy in +the parish--only modified by wilful prejudices scarcely in keeping with +her unselfishness. + +As Mrs. Flynn, the Seigneur's Irish cook, said of her: "Shure, she's not +made all av wan piece, the darlin'! She'll wear like silk, but she's not +linen for everybody's washin'." And Mrs. Flynn knew a thing or two, as +was conceded by all in Chaudiere. No gossip was Mrs. Flynn, but she knew +well what was going on in the parish, and she had strong views upon +all subjects, and a special interest in the welfare of two people in +Chaudiere. One of these was the Seigneur, who, when her husband died, +leaving behind him a name for wit and neighbourliness, and nothing else, +proposed that she should come to be his cook. In spite of her protest +that what was "fit for Teddy was not fit for a gintleman of quality," +the Seigneur had had his way, never repenting of his choice. Mrs. +Flynn's cooking was not her only good point. She had the rarest sense +and an unfailing spring of good-nature--life bubbled round her. It was +she that had suggested the crippled M. Evanturel to the Seigneur when +the office of postmaster became vacant, and the Seigneur had acted on +her suggestion, henceforth taking greater interest in Rosalie. + +It was Mrs. Flynn who gave Rosalie information concerning Charley's +arrival at the shop of Louis Trudel the tailor. The morning after +Charley came, Mrs. Flynn had called for a waistcoat of the Seigneur, who +was expected home from a visit to Quebec. She found Charley standing at +a table pressing seams, and her quick eye took him in with knowledge and +instinct. She was the one person, save Rosalie, who could always divert +old Louis, and this morning she puckered his sour face with amusement by +the story of the courtship of the widow Plomondon and Germain Boily the +horse-trainer, whose greatest gift was animal-training, and greatest +weakness a fondness for widows, temporary and otherwise. Before she left +the shop, with the stranger's smile answering to her nod, she had made +up her mind that Charley was a tailor by courtesy only. So she told +Rosalie a few moments afterwards. + +"'Tis a man, darlin', that's seen the wide wurruld. 'Tis himisperes he +knows, not parrishes. Fwhat's he doin' here, I dun'no'. Fwhere's he come +from, I dun'no'. French or English, I dun'no'. But a gintleman born, I +know. 'Tis no tailor, darlin', but tailorin' he'll do as aisy as he'll +do a hunderd other things anny day. But how he shlipped in here, an' +when he shlipped in here, an' what's he come for, an' how long he's +stayin', an' meanin' well, or doin' ill, I dun'no', darlin', I dun' +no'." + +"I don't think he'll do ill, Mrs. Flynn," said Rosalie, in English. + +"An' if ye haven't seen him, how d'ye know?" asked Mrs. Flynn, taking a +pinch of snuff. + +"I have seen him--but not in the tailor-shop. I saw him at Jo Portugais' +a fortnight ago." + +"Aisy, aisy, darlin'. At Jo Portugais'--that's a quare place for a +stranger. 'Tis not wid Jo's introducshun I'd be comin' to Chaudiere." + +"He comes with the Cure's introduction." + +"An' how d'ye know that, darlin'?" + +"The Curb was at Jo Portugais' with monsieur when I went there." + +"You wint there!" + +"To take him a letter--the stranger." "What's his name, darlin'?" + +"The letter I took him was addressed, 'To the Sick Man at Jo Portugais' +House at Vadrome Mountain.'" + +"Ah, thin, the Cure knows. 'Tis some rich man come to get well, and +plays at bein' tailor. But why didn't the letther come to his name, I +wander now? That's what I wander." + +Rosalie shook her head, and looked reflectively through the window +towards the tailor-shop. + +"How manny times have ye seen him?" + +"Only once;" answered Rosalie truthfully. She did not, however, tell +Mrs. Flynn that she had thrice walked nearly to Vadrome Mountain in the +hope of seeing him again; and that she had gone to her favourite resort, +the Rest of the Flax-Beaters, lying in the way of the riverpath from +Vadrome Mountain, on the chance of his passing. She did not tell Mrs. +Flynn that there had scarcely been a waking hour when she had not +thought of him. + +"What Portugais knows, he'll not be tellin'," said Mrs. Flynn, after a +moment. "An' 'tis no business of ours, is it, darlin'? Shure, there's Jo +comin' out of the tailor-shop now!" + +They both looked out of the window, and saw Jo encounter Filion Lacasse +the saddler, and Maximilian Cour the baker. The three stood in the +middle of the street for a minute, Jo talking freely. He was usually +morose and taciturn, but now he spoke as though eager to unburden his +mind--Charley and he had agreed upon what should be said to the people +of Chaudiere. + +The sight of the confidences among the three was too much for Mrs. +Flynn. She opened the door of the post office and called to Jo. "Like +three crows shtandin' there!" she said. "Come in--ma'm'selle says come +in, and tell your tales here, if they're fit to hear, Jo Portugais. Who +are you to say no when ma'm'selle bids!" she added. + +Very soon afterwards Jo was inside the post-office, telling his tale +with the deliberation of a lesson learned by heart. + +"It's all right, as ma'm'selle knows," he said. "The Cure was there +when ma'm'selle brought a letter to M'sieu' Mallard. The Cure knows all. +M'sieu' come to my house sick-and he stayed there. There is nothing like +the pine-trees and the junipers to cure some things. He was with me +very quiet some time. The Cure come and come. He knows. When m'sieu' got +well, he say, 'I will not go from Chaudiere; I will stay. I am poor, +and I will earn my bread here.' At first, when he is getting well, he is +carpent'ring. He makes cupboards and picture-frames. The Cure has one of +the cupboards in the sacristy; the frames he puts on the Stations of the +Cross in the church." + +"That's good enough for me!" said Maximilian Cour. "Did he make them for +nothing?" asked Filion Lacasse solemnly. + +"Not one cent did he ask. What's more, he's working for Louis Trudel +for nothing. He come through the village yesterday; he see Louis old and +sick on his bench, and he set down and go to work." + +"That's good enough for me," said the saddler. "If a man work for the +Church for nothing, he is a Christian. If he work for Louis Trudel for +nothing, he is a fool--first-class--or a saint. I wouldn't work for +Louis Trudel if he give me five dollars a day." + +"Tiens! the man that work for Louis Trudel work for the Church, for all +old Louis makes goes to the Church in the end--that is his will. The +Notary knows," said Maximilian Cour. + +"See there, now," interposed Mrs. Flynn, pointing across the street +to the tailor-shop. "Look at that grocer-man stickin' in his head; and +there's Magloire Cadoret and that pig of a barber, Moise Moisan, starin' +through the dure, an'--" + +As she spoke, the barber and his companion suddenly turned their faces +to the street, and started forward with startled exclamations, the +grocer following. They all ran out from the post-office. Not far up +the street a crowd was gathering. Rosalie locked the office-door and +followed the others quickly. + +In front of the Hotel Trois Couronnes a painful thing was happening. +Germain Boily, the horse-trainer, fresh from his disappointment with the +widow Plomondon, had driven his tamed moose up to the Trois Couronnes, +and had drunk enough whiskey to make him ill-tempered. He had then begun +to "show off" the animal, but the savage instincts of the moose being +roused, he had attacked his master, charging with wide-branching horns, +and striking with his feet. Boily was too drunk to fight intelligently. +He went down under the hoofs of the enraged animal, as his huge +boar-hound, always with him, fastened on the moose's throat, dragged him +to the ground, and tore gaping wounds in his neck. + +It was all the work of a moment. People ran from the doorways and +sidewalks, but stayed at a comfortable distance until the moose was +dragged down; then they made to approach the insensible man. Before +any one could reach him, however, the great hound, with dripping fangs, +rushed to his master's body, and, standing over it, showed his teeth +savagely. The hotel-keeper approached, but the bristles of the hound +stood up, he prepared to attack, and the landlord drew back in haste. +Then M. Dauphin, the Notary, who had joined the crowd, held out a hand +coaxingly, and with insinuating rhetoric drew a little nearer than the +landlord had done; but he retreated precipitously as the hound crouched +back for a spring. Some one called for a gun, and Filion Lacasse ran +into his shop. The animal had now settled down on his master's body, his +bloodshot eyes watching in menace. The one chance seemed to be to shoot +him, and there must be no bungling, lest his prostrate master suffer at +the same time. The crowd had melted away into the houses, and were now +standing at doorways and windows, ready for instant retreat. + +Filion Lacasse's gun was now at disposal, but who would fire it? Jo +Portugais was an expert shot, and he reached out a hand for the weapon. + +As he did so, Rosalie Evanturel cried: "Wait, oh, wait!" Before any +one could interfere she moved along the open space to the mad beast, +speaking soothingly, and calling his name. + +The crowd held their breath. A woman fainted. Some wrung their hands, +and Jo Portugais, with blanched face, stood with gun half raised. With +assured kindness of voice and manner, Rosalie walked deliberately over +to the hound. At first the animal's bristles came up, and he prepared to +spring, but murmuring to him, she held out her hand, and presently laid +it on his huge head. With a growl of subjection, the dog drew from the +body of his master, and licked Rosalie's fingers as she knelt beside +Boily and felt his heart. She put her arm round the dog's neck, and said +to the crowd, "Some one come--only one--ah, yes, you, Monsieur!" she +added, as Charley, who had just arrived on the scene, came forward. +"Only you, if you can lift him. Take him to my house." + +Her arm still round the dog, she talked to him, as Charley came forward, +and, lifting up the body of the little horse-trainer, drew him across +his shoulder. The hound at first resented the act, but under Rosalie's +touch became quiet, and followed at their heels towards the post-office, +licking the wounded man's hands as they hung down. Inside M. Evanturel's +house the injured man was laid upon a couch. Charley examined his +wounds, and, finding them severe, advised that the Cure be sent for, +while he and Jo Portugais set about restoring him to consciousness. Jo +had skill of a sort, and his crude medicaments were efficacious. + +When the Cure came, the injured man was handed over to his care, and he +arranged that in the evening Boily should be removed to his house, to +await the arrival of the doctor from the next parish. + +This was Charley's public introduction to the people of Chaudiere, and +it was his second meeting with Rosalie Evanturel. + +The incident brought him into immediate prominence. Before he left the +post-office, Filion Lacasse, Maximilian Cour, and Mrs. Flynn had given +forth his history, as related by Jo Portugais. The village was agog with +excitement. + +But attention was not centred on himself, for Rosalie's courage had set +the parish talking. When the Notary stood on the steps of the saddler's +shop, and with fine rhetoric proposed a vote of admiration for the girl, +the cheering could be heard inside the post-office, and it brought Mrs. +Flynn outside. + +"'Tis for her, the darlin'--for Ma'm'selle Rosalie--they're splittin' +their throats!" she said to Charley as he was making his way from the +sick man's room to the street door. "Did ye iver see such an eye an' +hand? That avil baste that's killed two Injins already--an' all the men +o' the place sneakin' behind dures, an' she walkin' up cool as leaf in +mornin' dew, an' quietin' the divil's own! Did ye iver see annything +like it, sir--you that's seen so much?" + +"Madame, it is not touch of hand alone, or voice alone," answered +Charley. + +"Shure, 'tis somethin' kin in baste an' maid, you're manin' thin?" + +"Quite so, Madame." + +"Simple like, an' understandin' what Noah understood in that ark av +his--for talk to the bastes he must have, explainin' what was for thim +to do." + +"Like that, Madame." + +"Thrue for you, sir, 'tis as you say. There's language more than tongue +of man can shpake. But listen, thin, to me"--her voice got +lower--"for 'tis not the furst time, a thing like that, the lady she +is--granddaughter of a Seigneur, and descinded from nobility in France! +'Tis not the furst time to be doin' brave things. Just a shlip of a girl +she was, three years ago, afther her mother died, an' she was back from +convint. A woman come to the parish an' was took sick in the house of +her brother--from France she was. Small-pox they said at furst. 'Twas +no small-pox, but plague, got upon the seas. Alone she was in the +house--her brother left her alone, the black-hearted coward. The people +wouldn't go near the place. The Cure was away. Alone the woman was--poor +soul! Who wint--who wint and cared for her? Who do ye think, sir?" + +"Mademoiselle?" + +"None other. 'Go tell Mrs. Flynn,' says she, 'to care for my father +till I come back,' an' away she wint to the house of plague. A week she +stayed, an' no one wint near her. Alone she was with the woman and the +plague. 'Lave her be,' said the Cure when he come back; ''tis for the +love of God. God is with her--lave her be, and pray for her,' says he. +An' he wint himself, but she would not let him in. ''Tis my work,' says +she. ''Tis God's work for me to do,' says she. 'An' the woman will live +if 'tis God's will,' says she. 'There's an agnus dei on her breast,' +says she. 'Go an' pray,' says she. Pray the Cure did, an' pray did we +all, but the woman died of the plague. All alone did Rosalie draw her to +the grave on a stone-boat down the lane, an' over the hill, an' into the +churchyard. An' buried her with her own hands at night, no one knowin' +till the mornin', she did. So it was. An' the burial over, she wint back +an' burned the house to the ground--sarve the villain right that lave +the sick woman alone! An' her own clothes she burned, an' put on the +clothes I brought her wid me own hand. An' for that thing she did, the +love o' God in her heart, is it for Widdy Flynn or Cure or anny other to +forgit? Shure the Cure was for iver broken-hearted, for that he was sick +abed for days an' could not go to the house when the woman died, an' +say to Rosalie, 'Let me in for her last hour.' But the word of +Rosalie--shure 'twas as good as the words of a praste, savin' the Cure +prisince wheriver he may be!" + +This was the story of Rosalie which Mrs. Flynn told Charley, as he stood +at the street door of the post-office. When she had finished, Charley +went back into the room where Rosalie sat beside the sick man's couch, +the hound at her feet. She came forward, surprised, for he had bade her +good-bye but a few minutes before. + +"May I sit and watch for an hour longer, Mademoiselle?" he said. "You +will have your duties in the post-office." + +"Monsieur--it is good of you," she answered. + +For two hours Charley watched her going in and out, whispering +directions to Mrs. Flynn, doing household duty, bringing warmth in with +her, and leaving light behind her. + +It was afternoon when he returned to his bench in the tailor-shop, and +was received by old Louis Trudel in peevish silence. For an hour they +worked in silence, and then the tailor said: + +"A brave girl--that. We will work till nine to-night!" + + + + +CHAPTER XV. THE MARK IN THE PAPER + +Chaudiere was nearing the last of its nine-days' wonder. It had filed +past the doorway of the tailor-shop; it had loitered on the other side +of the street; it had been measured for more clothes than in three +months past--that it might see Charley at work in the shop, cross-legged +on a bench, or wielding the goose, his eye glass in his eye. Here was +sensation indeed, for though old M. Rossignol, the Seigneur, had an +eye-glass, it was held to his eye--a large bone-bound thing with a +little gold handle; but no one in Chaudiere had ever worn a glass in +his eye like that. Also, no one in Chaudiere had ever looked quite like +"M'sieu'"--for so it was that, after the first few days (a real tribute +to his importance and sign of the interest he created) Charley came to +be called "M'sieu'," and the Mallard was at last entirely dropped. + +Presently people came and stood at the tailor's door and talked, or +listened to Louis Trudel and M'sieu' talking. And it came to be noised +abroad that the stranger talked as well as the Cure and better than the +Notary. By-and-by they associated his eye-glass with his talent, so that +it seemed, as it were, to be the cause of it. Yet their talk was ever of +simple subjects, of everyday life about them, now and then of politics, +occasionally of the events of the world filtered to them through vast +tracts of country. There was one subject which, however, was barred; +perhaps because there was knowledge abroad that M'sieu' was not +a Catholic, perhaps because Charley himself adroitly changed the +conversation when it veered that way. + +Though the parish had not quite made up its mind about him, there were +a number of things in his favour. In the first place, the Cure seemed +satisfied; secondly, he minded his own business. Also, he was working +for Louis Trudel for nothing. These things Jo Portugais diligently +impressed on the minds of all who would listen. + +From above the frosted part of the windows of the post-office, in the +corner where she sorted letters, Rosalie could look over at the tailor's +shop at an angle; could sometimes even see M'sieu' standing at the long +table with a piece of chalk, a pair of shears, or a measure. She watched +the tailor-shop herself, but it annoyed her when she saw any one else +do so. She resented--she was a woman and loved monopoly--all inquiry +regarding M'sieu', so frequently addressed to her. + +One afternoon, as Charley came out, on his way to the house on Vadrome +Mountain, she happened to be outside. He saw her, paused, lifted his fur +cap, and crossed the street to her. + +"Have you, perhaps, paper, pens, and ink for sale, Mademoiselle?" + +"Yes, oh yes; come in, Monsieur Mallard." + +"Ah, it is nice of you to remember me," he answered. "I see you every +day--often," she answered. + +"Of course, we are neighbours," he responded. "The man--the +horse-trainer--is quite well again?" + +"He has gone home almost well," she answered. She placed pens, paper, +and ink before him. "Will these do?" + +"Perfectly," he answered mechanically, and laid a few pens and a bottle +of ink beside the paper. + +"You were very brave that day," he said--they had not talked together +since, though seeing each other so often. + +"Oh, no; I knew he would make friends with me--the hound." + +"Of course," he rejoined. + +"We should show animals that we trust them," she said, in some +confusion, for being near him made her heart throb painfully. + +He did not answer. Presently his eye glanced at the paper again, and was +arrested. He ran his fingers over it, and a curious look flashed across +his face. He held the paper up to the light quickly, and looked through +it. It was thin, half-foreign paper, without lines, and there was a +water-mark in it-large, shadowy, filmy--Kathleen. + +It was paper made in the mills which had belonged to Kathleen's uncle. +This water-mark was made to celebrate their marriage-day. Only for one +year had this paper been made, and then the trade in it was stopped. It +had gone its ways down the channels of commerce, and here it was in +his hand, a reminder, not only of the old life, but, as it were, the +parchment for the new. There it was, a piece of plain good paper, ready +for pen and ink and his letter to the Cure's brother in Paris--the +only letter he would ever write, ever again until he died, so he told +himself; but hold it up to the light and there was the name over which +his letter must be written--Kathleen, invisible but permanent, obscured, +but brought to life by the raising of a hand. + +The girl caught the flash of feeling in his face, saw him holding the +paper up to the light, and then, with an abstracted air, calmly lay it +down. + +"That will do, thank you," he said. "Give me the whole packet." She +wrapped it up for him without a word, and he laid down a two-dollar +note, the last he had in the world. + +"How much of this paper have you?" he asked. The girl looked under the +counter. "Six packets," she said. "Six, and a few sheets over." + +"I will take it all. But keep it for me, for a week, or perhaps a +fortnight, will you?" He did not need all this paper to write letters +upon, yet he meant to buy all the paper of this sort that the shop +contained. But he must get money from Louis Trudel--he would speak about +it to-morrow. + +"Monsieur does not want me to sell even the loose sheets?" + +"No. I like the paper, and I will take it all." + +"Very good, Monsieur." + +Her heart was beating hard. All this man did had peculiar significance +to her. His look seemed to say: "Do not fear. I will tell you things." + +She gave him the parcel and the change, and he turned to go. "You read +much?" he asked, almost casually, yet deeply interested in the charm and +intelligence of her face. + +"Why, yes, Monsieur," she answered quickly. "I am always reading." + +He did not speak at once. He was wondering whether, in this primitive +place, such a mind and nature would be the wiser for reading; whether +it were not better to be without a mental aspiration, which might set up +false standards. + +"What are you reading now?" he asked, with his hand on the door. + +"Antony and Cleopatra, also Enoch Arden," she answered, in good English, +and without accent. + +His head turned quickly towards her, but he did not speak. + +"Enoch Arden is terrible," she added eagerly. "Don't you think so, +Monsieur?" + +"It is very painful," he answered. "Good-night." He opened the door and +went out. + +She ran to the door and watched him go down the street. For a little she +stood thinking, then, turning to the counter, and snatching up a sheet +of the paper he had bought, held it up to the light. She gave a cry of +amazement. + +"Kathleen!" she exclaimed. + +She thought of the start he gave when he looked at the water-mark; she +thought of the look on his face when he said he would buy all this paper +she had. + +"Who was Kathleen?" she whispered, as though she was afraid some one +would hear. "Who was Kathleen!" she said again resentfully. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. MADAME DAUPHIN HAS A MISSION + +One day Charley began to know the gossip of the village about him from a +source less friendly than Jo Portugais. The Notary's wife, bringing her +boy to be measured for a suit of broadcloth, asked Charley if the things +Jo had told about him were true, and if it was also true that he was a +Protestant, and perhaps an Englishman. As yet, Charley had been asked no +direct questions, for the people of Chaudiere had the consideration of +their temperament; but the Notary's wife was half English, and being a +figure in the place, she took to herself more privileges than did old +Madame Dugal, the Cure's sister. + +To her ill-disguised impertinence in English, as bad as her French and +as fluent, Charley listened with quiet interest. When she had finished +her voluble statement she said, with a simper and a sneer-for, after +all, a Notary's wife must keep her position--"And now, what is the truth +about it? And are you a Protestant?" + +There was a sinister look in old Trudel's eyes as, cross-legged on +his table, he listened to Madame Dauphin. He remembered the time, +twenty-five years ago, when he had proposed to this babbling woman, and +had been rejected with scorn--to his subsequent satisfaction; for there +was no visible reason why any one should envy the Notary, in his house +or out of it. Already Trudel had a respect for the tongue of M'sieu'. +He had not talked much the few days he had been in the shop, but, as +the old man had said to Filion Lacasse the saddler, his brain was like +a pair of shears--it went clip, clip, clip right through everything. He +now hoped that his new apprentice, with the hand of a master-workman, +would go clip, clip through madame's inquisitiveness. He was not +disappointed, for he heard Charley say: + +"One person in the witness-box at a time, Madame. Till Jo Portugais is +cross-examined and steps down, I don't see what I can do!" + +"But you are a Protestant!" said the woman snappishly. This man was only +a tailor, dressed in fulled cloth, and no doubt his past life would not +bear inspection; and she was the Notary's wife, and had said to people +in the village that she would find out the man's history from himself. + +"That is one good reason why I should not go to confession," he +replied casually, and turned to a table where he had been cutting a +waistcoat--for the first time in his life. + +"Do you think I'm going to stand your impertinence? Do you know who I +am?" + +Charley calmly put up his monocle. He looked at the foolish little woman +with so cruel a flash of the eye that she shrank back. + +"I should know you anywhere," he said. + +"Come, Stephan," she said nervously to her boy, and pulled him towards +the door. + +On the instant Charley's feeling changed. Was he then going to carry the +old life into the new, and rebuke a silly garish woman whose faults +were generic more than personal? He hurried forward to the door and +courteously opened it for her. + +"Permit me, Madame," he said. + +She saw that there was nothing ironical in this politeness. She had a +sudden apprehension of an unusual quality called "the genteel," for no +storekeeper in Chaudiere ever opened or shut a shop-door for anybody. +She smiled a vacuous smile; she played "the lady" terribly, as, with a +curious conception of dignity, she held her body stiff as a ramrod, and +with a prim merci sailed into the street. + +This gorgeous exit changed her opinion of the man she had been unable to +catechise. Undoubtedly he had snubbed her--that was the word she used +in her mind--but his last act had enabled her, in the sight of several +habitants and even of Madame Dugal, "to put on airs," as the charming +Madame Dugal said afterwards. + +Thinking it better to give the impression that she had had a successful +interview, she shook her head mysteriously when asked about M'sieu', +and murmured, "He is quite the gentleman!" which she thought a socially +distinguished remark. + +When she had gone, Charley turned to old Louis. + +"I don't want to turn your customers away," he said quietly, "but there +it is! I don't need to answer questions as a part of the business, do +I?" + +There was a sour grin on the face of old Trudel. He grunted some +inaudible answer, then, after a pause, added: "I'd have been hung for +murder, if she'd answered the question I asked her once as I wanted her +to." + +He opened and shut his shears with a sardonic gesture. + +Charley smiled, and went to the window. For a minute he stood watching +Madame Dauphin and Rosalie at the post-office door. The memory of his +talk with Rosalie was vivid to him at the moment. He was thinking also +that he had not a penny in the world to pay for the rest of the paper he +had bought. He turned round and put on his coat slowly. + +"What are you doing that for?" asked the old man, with a kind of snarl, +yet with trepidation. + +"I don't think I'll work any more to-day." + +"Not work! Smoke of the devil, isn't Sunday enough to play in? You're +not put out by that fool wife of Dauphin's?" + +"Oh no--not that! I want an understanding about wages." + +To Louis the dread crisis had come. He turned a little green, for he was +very miserly-for the love of God. + +He had scarcely realised what was happening when Charley first sat down +on the bench beside him. He had been taken by surprise. Apart from the +excitement of the new experience, he had profited by the curiosity of +the public, for he had orders enough to keep him busy until summer, and +he had had to give out work to two extra women in the parish, though +he had never before had more than one working for him. But his ruling +passion was strong in him. He always remembered with satisfaction that +once when the Cure was absent and he was supposed to be dying, a priest +from another parish came, and, the ministrations over, he had made an +offering of a gold piece. When the young priest hesitated, his fingers +had crept back to the gold piece, closed on it, and drawn it back +beneath the coverlet again. He had then peacefully fallen asleep. It was +a gracious memory. + +"I don't need much, I don't want a great deal," continued Charley when +the tailor did not answer, "but I have to pay for my bed and board, and +I can't do it on nothing." + +"How have you done it so far?" peevishly replied the tailor. + +"By working after hours at carpentering up there"--he made a gesture +towards Vadrome Mountain. "But I can't go on doing that all the time, or +I'll be like you too soon." + +"Be like me!" The voice of the tailor rose shrilly. + +"Be like me! What's the matter with me?" + +"Only that you're in a bad way before your time, and that you mayn't +get out of this hole without stepping into another. You work too hard, +Monsieur Trudel." + +"What do you want--wages?" + +Charley inclined his head. "If you think I'm worth them." + +The tailor viciously snipped a piece of cloth. "How can I pay you wages, +if you stand there doing nothing?" "This is my day for doing nothing," +Charley answered pleasantly, for the tailor-man amused him, and the +whimsical mental attitude of his past life was being brought to the +surface by this odd figure, with big spectacles pushed up on a yellow +forehead, and shrunken hands viciously clutching the shears. + +"You don't mean to say you're not going to work to-day, and this suit of +clothes promised for to-morrow night--for the Manor House too!" + +With a piece of chalk Charley idly made heads on brown paper. "After +all, why should clothes be the first thing in one's mind--when they are +some one else's! It's a beautiful day outside. I've never felt the sun +so warm and the air so crisp and sweet--never in all my life." + +"Then where have you lived?" snapped out the tailor with a sneer. "You +must be a Yankee--they have only what we leave over down there!"--he +jerked his head southward. "We don't stop to look at weather here. I +suppose you did where you come from?" + +Charley smiled in a distant sort of way. "Where I came from, when we +weren't paid for our work we always stopped to consider our health--and +the weather. I don't want a great deal. I put it to you honestly. Do you +want me? If you do, will you give me enough to live on--enough to buy +a suit of clothes a year, to pay for food and a room? If I work for you +for nothing, I have to live on others for nothing, or kill myself as +you're doing." + +There was no answer at once, and Charley went on: "I came to you because +I saw you wanted help badly. I saw that you were hard-pushed and sick--" + +"I wasn't sick," interrupted the tailor with a snarl. + +"Well, overworked, which is the same thing in the end. I did the best I +could: I gave you my hands--awkward enough they were at first, I know, +but--" + +"It's a lie. They weren't awkward," churlishly cut in the tailor. + +"Well, perhaps they weren't so awkward, but they didn't know quite what +to do--" + +"You knew as well as if you'd been taught," came back in a growl. + +"Well, then, I wasn't awkward, and I had a knack for the work. What was +more, I wanted work. I wanted to work at the first thing that appealed +to me. I had no particular fancy for tailoring--you get bowlegged in +time!"--the old spirit was fighting with the new--"but here you were at +work, and there I was idle, and I had been ill, and some one who wasn't +responsible for me--a stranger-worked for me and cared for me. Wasn't +it natural, when you were playing the devil with yourself, that I should +step in and give you a hand? You've been better since--isn't that so?" +The tailor did not answer. + +"But I can't go on as we are, though I want only enough to keep me +going," Charley continued. + +"And if I don't give you what you want, you'll leave?" + +"No. I'm never going to leave you. I'm going to stay here, for you'll +never get another man so cheap; and it suits me to stay--you need some +one to look after you." + +A curious soft look suddenly flashed into the tailor's eyes. + +"Will you take on the business after I'm gone?" he asked at last. "It's +along time to look ahead, I know," he added quickly, for not in words +would he acknowledge the possibility of the end. + +"I should think so," Charley answered, his eyes on the bright sun and +the soft snow on the trees beyond the window. + +The tailor snatched up a pattern and figured on it for a moment. Then he +handed it to Charley. "Will that do?" he asked with anxious, acquisitive +look, his yellow eyes blinking hard. + +Charley looked at it musingly, then said "Yes, if you give me a room +here." + +"I meant board and lodging too," said Louis Trudel with an outburst of +eager generosity, for, as it was, he had offered about one-half of what +Charley was worth to him. + +Charley nodded. "Very well, that will do," he said, and took off his +coat and went to work. For a long time they worked silently. The tailor +was in great good-humour; for the terrible trial was over, and he now +had an assistant who would be a better tailor than himself. There would +be more profit, more silver nails for the church door, and more masses +for his soul. + +"The Cure says you are all right.... When will you come here?" he said +at last. + +"To-morrow night I shall sleep here," answered Charley. + +So it was arranged that Charley should come to live in the tailor's +house, to sleep in the room which the tailor had provided for a wife +twenty-five years before--even for her that was now known as Madame +Dauphin. + +All morning the tailor chuckled to himself. When they sat down at noon +to a piece of venison which Charley had prepared himself--taking the +frying-pan out of the hands of Margot Patry, the old servant, and +cooking it to a turn--Louis Trudel saw his years lengthen to an +indefinite period. He even allowed himself to nervously stand up, bow, +shake Charley's hand jerkingly, and say: + +"M'sieu', I care not what you are or where you come from, or even if +you're a Protestant, perhaps an Englishman. You're a gentleman and a +tailor, and old Louis Trudel will not forget you. It shall be as you +said this morning--it is no day for work. We will play, and the clothes +for the Manor can go to the devil. Smoke of hell-fire, I will go and +have a pipe with that, poor wretch the Notary!" + +So, a wonderful thing happened. Louis Trudel, on a week-day and a +market-day, went to smoke a pipe with Narcisse Dauphin, and to tell him +that M. Mallard was going to stay with him for ever, at fine wages. He +also announced that he had paid this whole week's wages in advance; but +he did not tell what he did not know--that half the money had already +been given to old Margot, whose son lay ill at home with a broken leg, +and whose children were living on bread and water. Charley had slowly +drawn from the woman the story of her life as he sat by the kitchen fire +and talked to her, while her master was talking to the Notary. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. THE TAILOR MAKES A MIDNIGHT FORAY + +Since the day Charley had brought home the paper bought at the +post-office, and water-marked Kathleen, he had, at odd times, written +down his thoughts, and promptly torn the paper up again or put it in the +fire. In the repression of the new life, in which he must live wholly +alone, so far as all past habits of mind were concerned, it was a relief +to record his passing reflections, as he had been wont to do when the +necessity for it was less. Writing them here was like the bursting of +an imprisoned stream; it was relaxing the ceaseless eye of vigilance; +freeing an imprisoned personality. This personality was not yet +merged into that which must take its place, must express itself in the +involuntary acts which tell of a habit of mind and body--no longer the +imitative and the histrionic, but the inherent and the real. + +On the afternoon of the day that old Louis agreed to give him wages, +and went to smoke a pipe with the Notary, Charley scribbled down his +thoughts on this matter of personality and habit. + +"Who knows," he wrote, "which is the real self? A child comes into the +world gin-begotten, with the instinct for liquor in his brain, like the +scent of the fox in the nostrils of the hound. And that seems the real. +But the same child caught up on the hands of chance is carried into +another atmosphere, is cared for by ginhating minds and hearts: habit +fastens on him--fair, decent, and temperate habit--and he grows up like +the Cure yonder, a brother of Aaron. Which is the real? Is the instinct +for the gin killed, or covered? Is the habit of good living mere habit +and mere acting, in which the real man never lives his real life, or is +it the real life? + +"Who knows! Here am I, born with a question in my mouth, with the +ever-present 'non possumus' in me. Here am I, to whom life was one +poor futility; to whom brain was but animal intelligence abnormally +developed; to whom speechless sensibility and intelligence was the only +reality; to whom nothing from beyond ever sent a flash of conviction, +an intimation, into my soul--not one. To me God always seemed a being of +dreams, the creation of a personal need and helplessness, the despairing +cry of the victims of futility--And here am I flung like a stone from a +sling into this field where men believe in God as a present and tangible +being; who reply to all life's agonies and joys and exultations with the +words 'C'est le bon Dieu.' And what shall I become? Will habit do its +work, and shall I cease to be me? Shall I, in the permanency of habit, +become like unto this tailor here, whose life narrows into one sole +cause; whose only wish is to have the Church draw the coverlet of +forgiveness and safety over him; who has solved all questions in a blind +belief or an inherited predisposition--which? This stingy, hard, unhappy +man--how should he know what I am denied! Or does he know? Is it all +illusion? If there is a God who receives such devotion, to the exclusion +of natural demand and spiritual anxieties, why does not this tailor +'let his light so shine before men that they may see his good works, +and glorify his Father which is in heaven?' That is it. Therefore, +wherefore, tailor-man? Therefore, wherefore, God? Show me a sign from +Heaven, tailor-man!" + +Seated on his bench in the shop, with his eyes ever and anon raised +towards the little post-office opposite, he wrote these words. +Afterwards he sat and thought till the shadows deepened, and the tailor +came in to supper. Then he took up the pieces of paper, and, going to +the fire, which was still lighted of an evening, thrust them inside. + +Louis Trudel saw the paper burning, and, glancing down, he noticed that +one piece--the last--had slipped to the floor and was lying under the +table. He saw the pencil still in Charley's hand. Forthwith his natural +suspicion leaped up, and the cunning of the monomaniac was upon him. +With all his belief in le bon Dieu and the Church, Louis Trudel trusted +no one. One eye was ever open to distrust man, while the other was ever +closed with blind belief in Heaven. + +As Charley stooped to put wood in the fire, the tailor thrust a foot +forward and pushed the piece of paper further under the table. + +That night the tailor crept down into the shop, felt for the paper +in the dark, found it, and carried it away to his room. All kinds of +thoughts had raged through his diseased mind. It was a letter, perhaps, +and if a letter, then he would gain some facts about the man's life. +But if it was a letter, why did he burn it? It was said that he never +received a letter and never sent one, therefore it was little likely to +be a letter if not a letter, then what could it be? Perhaps the man +was English and a spy of the English government, for was there not +disaffection in some of the parishes? Perhaps it was a plan of robbery. +To such a state of hallucination did his weakened mind come, that he +forgot the kindly feeling he had had for this stranger who had worked +for him without pay. Suspicion, the bane of sick old age, was hot on +him. He remembered that M'sieu' had put an arm through his when they +went upstairs, and that now increased suspicion. Why should the man have +been so friendly? To lull him into confidence, perhaps, and then to rob +and murder him in his sleep. Thank God, his ready money was well hid, +and the rest was safe in the bank far away! He crept back to his room +with the paper in his hand. It was the last sheet of what Charley had +written, and had been accidentally brushed off on the floor. It was in +French, and, holding the candle close, he slowly deciphered the crabbed, +characteristic handwriting. + +His eyes dilated, his yellow cheeks took on spots of unhealthy red, his +hand trembled. Anger seized him, and he mumbled the words over and over +again to himself. Twice or thrice, as the paper lay in one hand, he +struck it with the clinched fist of the other, muttering and distraught. + +"This tailor here.... This stingy, hard, unhappy man.... If there is +a God!... Therefore, wherefore, tailor-man?... Therefore, wherefore, +God?... Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!" + +Hatred of himself, blasphemy, the profane and hellish humour of--of +the infidel! A Protestant heretic--he was already damned; a robber--you +could put him in jail; a spy--you could shoot him or tar and feather +him; a murderer--you could hang him. But an infide--this was a +deadly poison, a black danger, a being capable of all crimes. An +infidel--"Therefore, wherefore, tailor-man?... Therefore, wherefore, +God?... Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!" + +The devil laughing--the devil incarnate come to mock a poor tailor, to +sow plague through a parish where all were at peace in the bosom of +the Church. The tailor had three ruling passions--cupidity, vanity, +and religion. Charley had now touched the three, and the whole man +was alive. His cupidity had been flattered by the unpaid service of a +capable assistant, but now he saw that he was paying the devil a wage. +His vanity was overwhelmed by a satanic ridicule. His religion and his +God had been assaulted in so shameful a way that no punishment could be +great enough for the man of hell. In religion he was a fanatic; he was a +demented fanatic now. + +He thrust the paper into his pocket, then crept out into the hall and +to the door of Charley's bedroom. He put his ear to the door. After +a moment he softly raised the latch, and opened the door and listened +again. 'M'sieu' was in a deep sleep. + +Louis Trudel scarcely knew why he had listened, why he had opened the +door and stood looking at the figure in the bed, barely definable in the +semi-darkness of the room. If he had meant harm to the helpless man, +he had brought no weapon; if he had been curious, there the man was +peacefully sleeping! + +His sick, morbid imagination was so alive, that he scarcely knew what +he did. As he stood there listening, hatred and horror in his heart, a +voice said to him: "Thou shalt do no murder." The words kept ringing in +his ears. Yet he had not thought of murder. The fancied command itself +was his first temptation towards such a deed. He had thought of raising +the parish, of condign punishment of many sorts, but not this. As he +closed the door softly, killing entered his mind and stayed there. "Thou +shalt not" had been the first instigation to "Thou shalt." + +It haunted him as he returned to his room, undressed himself, and went +to bed. He could not sleep. "Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!" +The challenge had been to himself. He must respond to it. The duty lay +with him; he must answer this black infidel for the Church, for faith, +for God. + +The more he thought of it, the more Charley's face came before him, with +the monocle shining and hard in the eye. The monocle haunted him. That +was the infidel's sign. "Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!" What +sign should he show? + +Presently he sat up straight in bed. In another minute he was out and +dressing. Five minutes later he was on his way to the parish church. +When he reached it he took a tool from his pocket and unscrewed a small +iron cross from the front door. It was a cross which had been blessed by +the Pope, and had been brought to Chaudiere by the beloved mother of the +Cure, now dead. + +"When I have done with it I will put it back," he said, as he thrust it +inside his shirt, and hurried stealthily back to his house. As he got +into bed he gave a noiseless, mirthless laugh. All night he lay with +his yellow eyes wide open, gazing at the ceiling. He was up at dawn, +hovering about the fire in the shop. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. THE STEALING OF THE CROSS + +If Charley had been less engaged with his own thoughts, he would have +noticed the curious baleful look in the eyes of the tailor; but he was +deeply absorbed in a struggle that had nothing to do with Louis Trudel. + +The old fever of thirst and desire was upon him. All morning the door of +Jolicoeur's saloon was opening and shutting before his mind's eye, and +there was a smell of liquor everywhere. It was in his nostrils when the +hot steam rose from the clothes he was pressing, in the thick odour of +the fulled cloth, in the melting snow outside the door. + +Time and again he felt that he must run out of the shop and away to the +little tavern where white whiskey was sold to unwise habitants. But he +fought on. Here was the heritage of his past, the lengthening chain +of slavery to his old self--was it his real self? Here was what would +prevent him from forgetting all that he had been and not been, all +the happiness he might have had, all that he had lost--the ceaseless +reminder. He was still the victim to a poison which gave not only a +struggle of body, but a struggle of soul--if he had a soul. + +"If he had a soul!" The phrase kept repeating itself to him even as he +fought the fever in his throat, resisting the temptation to take that +medicine which the Curb's brother had sent him. + +"If he had a soul!" The thinking served as an antidote, for by the +ceaseless iteration his mind was lulled into a kind of drowse. Again and +again he went to the pail of water that stood on the window-sill, and +lifting it to his lips, drank deep and full, to quench the wearing +thirst. + +"If he had a soul!" He looked at Louis Trudel, silent and morose, the +clammy yellow of a great sickness in his face and hands, but his mind +only intent on making a waistcoat--and the end of all things very near! +The words he had written the night before came to him: "Therefore, +wherefore, tailor-man? Therefore, wherefore, God?... Show me a sign from +Heaven, tailor-man!" As if in reply to his thoughts there came the sound +of singing, and of bells ringing in the parish church. + +A procession with banners was coming near. It was a holy day, and +Chaudiere was mindful of its duties. The wanderers of the parish had +come home for Easter. All who belonged to Chaudiere and worked in the +woods or shanties, or lived in big cities far away, were returned--those +who could return--to take the holy communion in the parish church. +Yesterday the parish had been alive with a pious hilarity. The great +church had been crowded beyond the doors, the streets had been full of +cheerily dressed habitants. There had, however, come a sudden chill to +the seemly rejoicings--the little iron cross blessed by the Pope had +been stolen from the door of the church! + +The fact had been told to the Cure as he said the Mass, and from the +altar steps, before going to the pulpit, he referred to the robbery with +poignant feeling; for the relic had belonged to a martyr of the Church, +who, two centuries before, had laid down his life for the Master on the +coast of Africa. + +Louis Trudel had heard the Cure's words, and in his place at the rear +of the church he smiled sourly to himself. In due time the little cross +should be returned, but it had work to do first. He did not take the +holy communion this Easter day, or go to confession as was his wont. +Not, however, until a certain day later did the Cure realise this, +though for thirty years the tailor had never omitted his Easter-time +duties. + +The people guessed and guessed, but they knew not on whom to cast +suspicion at first. No sane Catholic of Chaudiere could possibly have +taken the holy thing. Presently a murmur crept about that M'sieu' might +have been the thief. He was not a Catholic, and--who could tell? +Who knew where he came from? Who knew what he had been? Perhaps a +jail-bird-robber-murderer! Charley, however, stitched on, intent upon +his own struggle. + +The procession passed the doorway: men bearing banners with sacred +texts, acolytes swinging censers, a figure of the Saviour carved in wood +borne aloft, the Cure under a silk canopy, and a long line of habitants +following with sacred song. People fell upon their knees in the street +as the procession passed, and the Cure's face was bent here and there, +his hand raised in blessing. + +Old Louis got up from his bench, and, putting on a coat over his wool +jacket, hastened to the doorway, knelt down, made the sign of the cross, +and said a prayer. Then he turned quickly towards Charley, who, +looking at the procession, then at the tailor, then back again at the +procession, smiled. + +Charley was hardly conscious of what he did. His mind had ranged far +beyond this scene to the large issues which these symbols represented. +Was it one universal self-deception? Was this "religion" the pathetic, +the soul-breaking make-believe of mortality? So he smiled--at himself, +at his own soul, which seemed alone in this play, the skeleton in +armour, the thing that did not belong. His own words written that +fateful day before he died at the Cote Dorion came to him: + +"Sacristan, acolyte, player, or preacher, Each to his office, but who +holds the key? Death, only Death, thou, the ultimate teacher, Wilt show +it to me!" + +He was suddenly startled from his reverie, through which the procession +was moving--a cloud of witnesses. It was the voice of Louis Trudel, +sharp and piercing: + +"Don't you believe in God and the Son of God?" + +"God knows!" answered Charley slowly in reply--an involuntary +exclamation of helplessness, an automatic phrase deflected from its +first significance to meet a casual need of the mind. Yet it seemed like +satire, like a sardonic, even vulgar, humour. So it struck Louis Trudel, +who snatched up a hot iron from the fire and rushed forward with +a snarl. So astounded was Charley that he did not stir. He was not +prepared for the sudden onslaught. He did not put up his hand even, but +stared at the tailor, who, within a foot of him, stopped short with the +iron poised. + +Louis Trudel repented in time. With the cunning of the monomaniac he +realised that an attack now might frustrate his great stroke. It would +bring the village to his shop door, precipitate the crisis upon the +wrong incident. + +As it chanced, only one person in Chaudiere saw the act. That was +Rosalie Evanturel across the way. She saw the iron raised, and looked +for M'sieu' to knock the tailor down; but, instead, she beheld the +tailor go back and put the iron on the fire again. She saw also that +M'sieu' was speaking, though she could hear no words. + +Charley's words were simple enough. "I beg your pardon, Monsieur," he +said across the room to old Louis; "I meant no offence at all. I was +trying to think it out in a human sort of way. I suppose I wanted a sign +from Heaven--wanted too much, no doubt." + +The tailor's lips twitched, and his hand convulsively clutched the +shears at his side. + +"It is no matter now," he answered shortly. "I have had signs from +Heaven; perhaps you will have one too!" + +"It would be worth while," rejoined Charley musingly. Charley wondered +bitterly if he had made an irreparable error in saying those ill-chosen +words. This might mean a breach between them, and so make his position +in the parish untenable. He had no wish to go elsewhere--where could he +go? It mattered little what he was, tinker or tailor. He had now only +to work his way back to the mind of the peasant; to be an animal with +intelligence; to get close to mother earth, and move down the declivity +of life with what natural wisdom were possible. It was his duty to adapt +himself to the mind of such as this tailor; to acquire what the +tailor and his like had found--an intolerant belief and an inexpensive +security, to be got through yielding his nature to the great religious +dream. And what perfect tranquillity, what smooth travelling found +therein. + +Gazing across the street towards the little post-office, he saw Rosalie +Evanturel at the window. He fell to thinking about her. Rosalie, on her +part, kept wondering what old Louis' violence meant. + +Presently she saw a half-dozen men come quickly down the street, and, +before they reached the tailorshop, stand in a group talking excitedly. +Afterwards one came forward from the others quickly--Filion Lacasse the +saddler. He stopped short at the tailor's door. Looking at Charley, he +exclaimed roughly: + +"If you don't hand out the cross you stole from the church door, we'll +tar and feather you, M'sieu'." Charley looked up, surprised. It had +never occurred to him that they could associate him with the theft. "I +know nothing of the cross," he said quietly. "You're the only heretic +in the place. You've done it. Who are you? What are you doing here in +Chaudiere?" + +"Working at my trade," was Charley's quiet answer. He looked towards +Louis Trudel, as though to see how he took this ugly charge. + +Old Louis responded at once. "Get away with you, Filion Lacasse," he +croaked. "Don't come here with your twaddle. M'sieu' hasn't stole the +cross. What does he want with a cross? He's not a Catholic." + +"If he didn't steal the cross, why, he didn't," answered the saddler; +"but if he did, what'll you say for yourself, Louis? You call yourself a +good Catholic--bah!--when you've got a heretic living with you." + +"What's that to you?" growled the tailor, and reached out a nervous hand +towards the iron. "I served at the altar before you were born. Sacre! +I'll make your grave-clothes yet, and be a good Catholic when you're in +the churchyard. Be off with you. Ach," he sharply added, when Filion did +not move, "I'll cut your hair for you!" He scrambled off the bench with +his shears. + +Filion Lacasse disappeared with his friends, and the old man settled +back on his bench. + +Charley, looking up quietly from his work, said "Thank you, Monsieur." + +He did not notice what an evil look was in Louis Trudel's face as it +turned towards him, but Rosalie Evanturel, standing outside, saw it; and +she stole back to the post-office ill at ease and wondering. + +All that day she watched the tailor's shop, and even when the door was +shut in the evening, her eyes were fastened on the windows. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. THE SIGN FROM HEAVEN + +The agitation and curiosity possessing Rosalie all day held her in the +evening when the wooden shutters of the tailor's shop were closed and +only a flickering light showed through the cracks. She was restless and +uneasy during supper, and gave more than one unmeaning response to +the remarks of her crippled father, who, drawn up for supper in his +wheel-chair, was more than usually inclined to gossip. + +Damase Evanturel's mind was stirred concerning the loss of the iron +cross; the threat made by Filion Lacasse and his companions troubled +him. The one person beside the Cure, Jo Portugais, and Louis Trudel, to +whom M'sieu' talked much, was the postmaster, who sometimes met him of +an evening as he was taking the air. More than once he had walked behind +the wheel-chair and pushed it some distance, making the little crippled +man gossip of village matters. + +As the two sat at supper the postmaster was inclined to take a serious +view of M'sieu's position. He railed at Filion Lacasse; he called the +suspicious habitants clodhoppers, who didn't know any better--which +was a tribute to his own superior birth; and at last, carried away by a +feverish curiosity, he suggested that Rosalie should go and look through +the cracks in the shutters of the tailor-shop and find out what was +going on within. This was indignantly rejected by Rosalie, but the more +she thought, the more uneasy she became. She ceased to reply to her +father's remarks, and he at last relapsed into gloom, and said that +he was tired and would go to bed. Thereupon she wheeled him inside his +bedroom, bade him good-night, and left him to his moodiness, which, +however, was soon absorbed in a deep sleep, for the mind of the little +grey postmaster could no more hold trouble or thought than a sieve. + +Left alone, Rosalie began to be tortured. What were they doing in the +house opposite? + +Go and look through the windows? But she had never spied on people in +her life! Yet would it be spying? Would it not be pardonable? In the +interest of the man who had been attacked in the morning by the tailor, +who had been threatened by the saddler, and concerning whom she had seen +a signal pass between old Louis and Filion Lacasse, would it not be a +humane thing to do? It might be foolish and feminine to be anxious, but +did she not mean well, and was it not, therefore, honourable? + +The mystery inflamed her imagination. Charley's passiveness when he was +assaulted by old Louis and afterwards threatened by the saddler seemed +to her indifference to any sort of danger--the courage of the hopeless +life, maybe. Instantly her heart overflowed with sympathy. Monsieur was +not a Catholic perhaps? Well, so much the more he should be befriended, +for he was so much the more alone and helpless. If a man was born a +Protestant--or English--he could not help it, and should not be punished +in this world for it, since he was sure to be punished in the next. + +Her mind became more and more excited. The postoffice had been long +since closed, and her father was asleep--she could hear him snoring. +It was ten o'clock, and there was still a light in the tailor's +shop. Usually the light went out before nine o'clock. She went to the +post-office door and looked out. The streets were empty; there was not +a light burning anywhere, save in the house of the Notary. Down towards +the river a sleigh was making its way over the thin snow of spring, and +screeching on the stones. Some late revellers, moving homewards from the +Trois Couronnes, were roaring at the top of their voices the habitant +chanson, 'Le Petit Roger Bontemps': + + "For I am Roger Bontemps, + Gai, gai, gai! + With drink I am full and with joy content, + Gai, gaiment!" + +The chanson died away as she stood there, and still the light was +burning in the shop opposite. A thought suddenly came to her. She would +go over and see if the old housekeeper, Margot Patry, had gone to bed. +Here was the solution to the problem, the satisfaction of modesty and +propriety. + +She crossed the street quickly, hurried round the corner of the house, +and was passing the side-window of the shop, when a crack in the +shutters caught her eye. She heard something fall on the floor within. +Could it be that the tailor and M'sieu' were working at so late an hour? +She had an irresistible impulse, and glued her eye to the crack. + +But presently she started back with a smothered cry. There by the great +fireplace stood Louis Trudel picking up a red-hot cross with a pair of +pincers. Grasping the iron firmly just below the arms of the cross, the +tailor held it up again. He looked at it with a wild triumph, yet with a +malignancy little in keeping with the object he held--the holy relic he +had stolen from the door of the parish church. The girl gave a low cry +of dismay. + +She saw old Louis advance stealthily towards the door of the shop +leading into the house. In bewilderment, she stood still an instant, +then, with a sudden impulse, she ran to the kitchen-door and tried it +softly. It was not locked. She opened it, entered quickly, and found old +Margot standing in the middle of the room in her night-dress. + +"Oh, Rosalie, Rosalie!" cried the old woman, "something's going to +happen. M'sieu' Trudel has been queer all evening. I peeped in the +key-hole of the shop just now, and--" + +"Yes, yes, I've seen too. Come!" said Rosalie, and going quickly to the +door, opened it, and passed through to another room. Here she opened +another door, leading into the hall between the shop and the house. +Entering the hall, she saw a glimmer of light above. It was the reddish +glow of the iron cross held by old Louis. She crept softly up the stone +steps. She heard a door open very quietly. She hurried now, and came to +the landing. She saw the door of Charley's room open--all the village +knew what room he slept in--and the moonlight was streaming in at the +window. + +She saw the sleeping man on the bed, and the tailor standing over him. +Charley was lying with one arm thrown above his head; the other lay over +the side of the bed. + +As she rushed forward, divining old Louis' purpose, the fiery +cross descended, and a voice cried: "'Show me a sign from Heaven, +tailor-man!'" + +This voice was drowned by that of another, which, gasping with agony +out of a deep sleep, as the body sprang upright, cried: "God-oh God!" +Rosalie's hand grasped old Louis' arm too late. The tailor sprang +back with a horrible laugh, striking her aside, and rushed out to the +landing. + +"Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!" cried Rosalie, and, snatching a scarf from +her bosom, thrust it in upon the excoriated breast, as Charley, hardly +realising what had happened, choked back moans of pain. + +"What did he do?" he gasped. + +"The iron cross from the church door!" she answered. "A minute, one +minute, Monsieur!" + +She rushed out upon the landing in time to see the tailor stumble on +the stairs and fall head forwards to the bottom, at the feet of Margot +Patry. + +Rosalie paid no heed to the fallen man. "Oil! flour! Quick!" she cried. +"Quick! Quick!" She stepped over the body of the tailor, snatched at +Margot's arm, and dragged her into the kitchen. "Quick-oil and flour!" + +The old woman showed her where they were, moaning and whining. + +"He tried to kill Monsieur," cried Rosalie, "burned him on the breast +with the holy cross!" + +With oil and flour she hurried back, over the body of the tailor, up +the stairs, and into Charley's room. Charley was now out of bed and half +dressed, though choking with pain, and preserving consciousness only by +a great effort. + +"Good Mademoiselle!" he said. + +She took the scarf off gently, soaked it in oil and splashed it with +flour, and laid it quickly back on the burnt flesh. + +Margot came staggering into the room. + +"I cannot rouse him. I cannot rouse him. He is dead! He is dead!" she +whimpered. + +"He--" + +Charley swayed forward towards the woman, recovered himself, and said: + +"Now not a word of what he did to me, remember. Not one word, or you +will go to jail with him. If you keep quiet, I'll say nothing. He didn't +know what he was doing." He turned to Rosalie. "Not a word of this, +please," he moaned. "Hide the cross." + +He moved towards the door. Rosalie saw his purpose, and ran out ahead of +him and down the stairs to where the tailor lay prone on his face, one +hand still holding the pincers. The little iron cross lay in a dark +corner. Stooping, she lifted up the tailor's head, then felt his heart. + +"He is not dead," she cried. "Quick, Margot, some water," she added, +to the whimpering woman. Margot tottered away, and came again presently +with the water. + +"I will go for some one to help," Rosalie said, rising to her feet, +as she saw Charley come slowly down the staircase, his face white with +misery. She ran and took his arm to help him down. + +"No, no, dear Mademoiselle," he said; "I shall be all right presently. +You must get help to carry him up stairs. Bring the Notary; he and I can +carry him up." + +"You, Monsieur! You--it would kill you! You are terribly hurt." + +"I must help to carry him, else people will be asking questions," he +answered painfully. "He is going to die. It must not be known--you +understand!" His eyes searched the floor until they found the cross. +Rosalie picked it up with the pincers. "It must not be known what he did +to me," Charley said to the muttering and weeping old woman. He caught +her shoulder with his hand, for she seemed scarcely to heed. + +She nodded. "Yes, yes, M'sieu', I will never speak." Rosalie was +standing in the door. "Go quickly, Mademoiselle," he said. She +disappeared with the iron cross, and flying across the street, thrust it +inside the post-office, then ran to the house of the Notary. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. THE RETURN OF THE TAILOR + +Twenty minutes later the tailor was lying in his bed, breathing, but +still unconscious, the Notary, M'sieu', and the doctor of the next +parish, who by chance was in Chaudiere, beside him. Charley's face was +drawn and haggard with pain, for he had helped to carry old Louis to +bed, though every motion of his arms gave him untold agony. In the +doorway stood Rosalie and Margot Patry. + +"Will he live?" asked the Notary. + +The doctor shook his head. "A few hours, perhaps. He fell downstairs?" + +Charley nodded. There was silence for some time, as the doctor went on +with his ministrations, and the Notary sat drumming his fingers on the +little table beside the bed. The two women stole away to the kitchen, +where Rosalie again pressed secrecy on Margot. In the interest of the +cause she had even threatened Margot with a charge of complicity. She +had heard the phrase "accessory before the fact," and she used it now +with good effect. + +Then she took some fresh flour and oil, and thrust them inside the +bedroom door where Charley now sat clinching his hands and fighting down +the pain. Careful as ever of his personal appearance, however, he had +brushed every speck of flour from his clothes, and buttoned his coat up +to the neck. + +Nearly an hour passed, and then the Cure appeared. When he entered the +sick man's room, Charley followed, and again Rosalie and old Margot came +and stood within the doorway. + +"Peace be to this house!" said the Cure. He had a few minutes of +whispered conversation with the doctor, and then turned to Charley. + +"He fell down-stairs, Monsieur? You saw him fall?" + +"I was in my room--I heard him fall, Cure." + +"Had he been ill during the day?" + +"He appeared to be feeble, and he seemed moody." + +"More than usual, Monsieur?" The Cure had heard of the incident of the +morning when Filion Lacasse accused Charley of stealing the cross. + +"Rather more than usual, Monsieur." + +The Cure turned towards the door. "You, Mademoiselle Rosalie, how came +you to know?" + +"I was in the kitchen with Margot, who was not well." + +The Cure looked at Margot, who tearfully nodded. "I was ill," she said, +"and Rosalie was here with me. She helped M'sieu' and me. Rosalie is a +good girl, and kind to me," she whimpered. + +The Cure seemed satisfied, and after looking at the sick man for a +moment, he came close to Charley. "I am deeply pained at what happened +to-day," he said courteously. "I know you have had nothing to do with +the beloved little cross." + +The Notary tried to draw near and listen, but the Cure's look held him +back. The doctor was busy with his patient. + +"You are only just, Monsieur," said Charley in response, wishing that +these kind eyes were fixed anywhere than on his face. + +All at once the Cure laid a hand upon his arm. "You are ill," he said +anxiously. "You look very ill indeed. See, Vaudrey," he added to the +doctor, "you have another patient here!" + +The friendly, oleaginous doctor came over and peered into Charley's +face. "Ill-sure enough!" he said. "Look at this sweat!" he pointed to +the drops of perspiration on Charley's forehead. "Where do you suffer?" + +"Severe pains all through my body," Charley answered simply, for it +seemed easier to tell the truth, as near as might be. + +"I must look to you," said the doctor. "Go and lie down, and I will come +to you." + +Charley bowed, but did not move. Just then two things drew the attention +of all: the tailor showed returning consciousness, and there was noise +of many voices outside the house and the tramping of feet below-stairs. + +"Go and tell them no one must come up," said the doctor to the Notary, +and the Cure made ready to say the last offices for the dying. + +Presently the noise below-stairs diminished, and the priest's voice +rose in the office, vibrating and touching. The two women sank to their +knees, the doctor followed, his eyes still fixed on the dying man. +Presently, however, Charley did the same; for something penetrating and +reasonable in the devotion touched him. + +All at once Louis Trudel opened his eyes. Staring round with acute +excitement, his eyes fell on the Cure, then upon Charley. + +"Stop--stop, M'sieu' le Cure!" he cried. "There's other work to do." He +gasped and was convulsed, but the pallor of his face was alive with fire +from the distempered eyes. He snatched from his breast the paper Charley +had neglected to burn. He thrust it into the Curb's hand. + +"See--see!" he croaked. "He is an infidel--black infidel--from hell!" +His voice rose in a kind of shriek, piercing to every corner of the +house. He pointed at Charley with shaking finger. + +"He wrote it there--on that paper. He doesn't--believe in God." + +His strength failed him, his hand clutched tremblingly at the air. He +laughed, a dry, crackling laugh, and his mouth opened twice or thrice +to speak, but gasping breaths only came forth. With a last effort, +however--as the priest, shocked, stretched out his hand and said: "Have +done, have done, Trudel!"--he cried, in a voice that quavered shrilly: + +"He asked--tailor-man--sign--from--Heaven. Look-look!" He pointed wildly +at Charley. "I--gave him--sign of--" + +But that was the end. With a shudder the body collapsed in a formless +heap, and the tailor-man was gone to tell of the work he had done for +his faith on earth. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. THE CURE HAS AN INSPIRATION + +White and malicious faces peered through the doorway. There was an ugly +murmur coming up the staircase. Many habitants had heard Louis Trudel's +last words, and had passed them on with vehement exaggeration. + +Chaudiere had been touched in its most superstitious corner. +Protestantism was a sin, but atheism was a crime against humanity. The +Protestant might be the victim of a mistake, but the atheist was the +deliberate son of darkness, the source of fearful dangers. An atheist in +their midst was like a scorpion in a flower-bed--no one could tell when +and where he would sting. Rough misdemeanours among them had been many, +there had once been a murder in the parish, but the undefined horrors of +infidelity were more shameful than crimes the eye could see. + +To the minds of these excited people the tailor-man's death was due to +the infidel before them. They were ready to do all that might become +a Catholic intent to avenge the profaned honour of the Church and the +faith. Bodily harm was the natural form for their passion to take. + +"Bring him out--let us have him!" they cried with fierce gestures, to +which Rosalie Evanturel turned a pained, indignant face. + +As the Curb stood with the paper in his hand, his face set and bitter, +Rosalie made a step forward. She meant to tell the truth about Louis +Trudel, and show how good this man was, who stood charged with an +imaginary crime. But she met the warning eye of the man himself, calm +and resolute, she saw the suffering in the face, endured with what +composure! and she felt instantly that she must obey him, and that--who +could tell?--his plan might be the best in the end. She looked at the +Cure anxiously. What would he say and do? In the Cure's heart and mind a +great struggle was going on. All his inherent prejudice, the hereditary +predisposition of centuries, the ingrain hatred of atheism, were alive +in him, hardening his mind against the man before him. His first +impulse was to let Charley take his fate at the hands of the people +of Chaudiere, whatever it might be. But as he looked at the man, as he +recalled their first meeting, and remembered the simple, quiet life he +had lived among them--charitable, and unselfish--the barriers of creed +and habit fell down, and tears unbidden rushed into his eyes. + +The Cure had, all at once, the one great inspiration of his life--its +one beautiful and supreme imagining. For thus he reasoned swiftly: + +Here he was, a priest who had shepherded a flock of the faithful passed +on to him by another priest before him, who again had received them from +a guardian of the fold--a family of faithful Catholics whose thoughts +never strayed into forbidden realms. He had done no more than keep them +faithful and prevent them from wandering--counselling, admonishing, +baptising, and burying, giving in marriage and blessing, sending them on +their last great journey with the cachet of Holy Church upon them. But +never once, never in all his life, had he brought a lost soul into +the fold. If he died to-night, he could not say to St. Peter, when he +arrived at Heaven's gate: "See, I have saved a soul!" Before the Throne +he could not say to Him who cried: "Go ye into all the world and preach +the gospel to every creature"--he could not say: "Lord, by Thy grace +I found this soul in the wilderness, in the dark and the loneliness, +having no God to worship, denial and rebellion in his heart; and behold, +I took him to my breast, and taught him in Thy name, and led him home to +Thy haven, the Church!" + +Thus it was that the Cure dreamed a dream. He would set his life to +saving this lost soul. He would rescue him from the outer darkness. + +His face suffused, he handed the paper in his hand back to the man +who had written the words upon it. Then he lifted his hand against the +people at the door and the loud murmuring behind them. + +"Peace--peace!" he said, as though from the altar. "Leave this room of +death, I command you. Go at once to your homes. This man"--he pointed to +Charley--"is my friend. Who seeks to harm him, would harm me. Go hence +and pray. Pray for yourselves, pray for him, and for me; and pray for +the troubled soul of Louis Trudel. Go in peace." + +Soon afterwards the house was empty, save for the Cure, Charley, old +Margot, and the Notary. + +That night Charley sat in the tailor's bedroom, rigid and calm, though +racked with pain, and watched the candles flickering beside the dead +body. He was thinking of the Cure's last words to the people. + +"I wonder--I wonder," he said, and through his eyeglass he stared at the +crucifix that threw a shadow on the dead man's face. Morning found him +there. As dawn crept in he rose to his feet. "Whither now?" he said, +like one in a dream. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. THE WOMAN WHO SAW + +Up to the moment of her meeting with Charley, Rosalie Evanturel's life +had been governed by habit, which was lightly coloured by temperament. +Since the eventful hour on Vadrome Mountain it had become a life of +temperament, in which habit was involuntary and mechanical. She did her +daily duties with a good heart, but also with a sense superior to the +practical action. This grew from day to day, until, in the tragical days +wherein she had secretly played a great part, she moved as in a dream, +but a dream so formal that no one saw any change taking place in her, or +associated her with the events happening across the way. + +She had been compelled to answer many questions, for it was known she +was in the tailor's house when Louis Trudel fell down-stairs, but what +more was there to tell than that she had run for the Notary, and +sent word to the Cure, and that she was present when the tailor died, +charging M'sieu' with being an infidel? At first she was ill disposed +to answer any questions, but she soon felt that attitude would only do +harm. For the first time in her life she was face to face with moral +problems--the beginning of sorrow, of knowledge, and of life. + +In all secrets there is a kind of guilt, however beautiful or joyful +they may be, or for what good end they may be set to serve. Secrecy +means evasion, and evasion means a problem to the moral mind. To the +primitive mind, with its direct yes and no, there is danger of it +becoming a tragical problem ere it is realised that truth is various +and diverse. Perhaps even with that Mary who hid the matter in her +heart--the exquisite tragedy and glory of Christendom--there was a +delicate feeling of guilt, the guilt of the hidden though lofty and +beautiful thing. + +If secrecy was guilt, then Charley and Rosalie were bound together by +a bond as strong as death: Rosalie held the key to a series of fateful +days and doings. + +In ordinary course, they might have known each other for five years and +not have come to this sensitive and delicate association. With one great +plunge she had sprung into the river of understanding. In the moment +that she had thrust her scarf into his scorched breast, in that little +upper room, the work of years had been done. + +As long as he lived, that mark must remain on M'sieu's breast--the red, +smooth scar of a cross! She had seen the sort of shining scar a bad burn +makes, and at thought of it she flushed, trembled, and turned her +head away, as though some one were watching her. Even in the night +she flushed and buried her face in the pillow when the thought flashed +through her mind; though when she had soaked the scarf in oil and +flour and laid it on the angry wound she had not flushed at all, was +determined, quiet, and resourceful. + +That incident had made her from a girl into a woman, from a child of the +convent into a child of the world. She no longer thought and felt as she +had done before. What she did think or feel could not easily have been +set down, for her mind was one tremulous confusion of unusual thoughts, +her heart was beset by new feelings, her imagination, suddenly finding +itself, was trying its wings helplessly. The past was full of wonder and +event, the present full of surprises. + +There was M'sieu' established already in Louis Trudel's place, having +been granted a lease of the house and shop by the Curte, on the part of +the parish, to which the property had been left; receiving also a gift +of the furniture and of old Margot, who remained where she had been so +many years. She could easily see Charley at work--pale and suffering +still--for the door was generally open in the sweet April weather, +with the birds singing, and the trees bursting into blossom. Her wilful +imagination traced the cross upon his breast--it almost seemed as if it +were outside upon his clothes, exposed to every eye, a shining thing all +fire, not a wound inside, for which old Margot prepared oiled linen now. + +The parish was as perturbed as her own mind, for the mystery of the +stolen cross had never been cleared up, and a few still believed that +M'sieu' had taken it. They were of those who kept hinting at dark things +which would yet be worked upon the infidel in the tailor's shop. These +were they to whom the Curb's beautiful ambition did not appeal. He had +said that if the man were an infidel, then they must pray that he be +brought into the fold; but a few were still suspicious, and they said in +Rosalie's presence: "Where is the little cross? M'sieu' knows." + +He did know. That was the worst of it. The cross was in her possession. +Was it not necessary, then, to quiet suspicion for his sake? She had +locked the relic away in a cupboard in her bedroom, and she carried the +key of it always in her pocket. Every day she went and looked at it, +as at some ghostly token. To her it was a symbol, not of supernatural +things, but of life in its new reality to her. It was M'sieu', it was +herself, it was their secret--she chafed inwardly that Margot should +share a part of that secret. If it were only between their two +selves--between M'sieu' and herself! If Margot--she paused suddenly, +for she was going to say, If Margot would only die! She was not wicked +enough to wish that; yet in the past few weeks she had found herself +capable of thinking things beyond the bounds of any past experience. + +She found a solution at last. She would go to-night secretly and nail +the cross again on the church door, and so stop the chatter of evil +tongues. The moon set very early now, and as every one in Chaudiere was +supposed to be in bed by ten o'clock, the chances of not being seen were +in her favour. She received the final impetus to her resolution by a +quarrelsome and threatening remark of Jo Portugais to some sharp-tongued +gossip in the post-office. She was glad that Jo should defend M'sieu', +but she was jealous of his friendship for the tailor. Besides, did there +not appear to be a secret between Jo and M'sieu'? Was it not possible +that Jo knew where M'sieu' came from, and all about him? Of late Jo +had come in and gone out of the shop oftener than in the past, had even +brought her bunches of mosses for her flower-pots, the first budding +lilacs, and some maple-sugar made from the trees on Vadrome Mountain. +She remembered that when she was a girl at school, years ago--ten years +ago--Jo Portugais, then scarcely out of his teens, a cheerful, pleasant, +quick-tempered lad, had brought her bunches of the mountain-ash berry; +that once he had mended the broken runner of her sled; and yet another +time had sent her a birch-bark valentine at the convent, where it was +confiscated by the Mother Superior. Since those days he had become a +dark morose figure, living apart from men, never going to confession, +seldom going to Mass, unloving and unlovable. + +There was only one other person in the parish more unloved. That was the +woman called Paulette Dubois, who lived in the little house at the outer +gate of the Manor. Paulette Dubois had a bad name in the parish--so bad +that all women shunned her, and few men noticed her. Yet no one +could say that at the present time she did not live a careful life, +justifying, so far as eye could see, the protection of the Seigneur, +M. Rossignol, a man of queer habits and queerer dress, a dabbler in +physical science, a devout Catholic, and a constant friend of the Cure. +He it was who, when an effort was made to drive Paulette out of the +parish, had said that she should not go unless she wished; that, having +been born in Chaudiere, she had a right to live there and die there; and +if she had sinned there, the parish was in some sense to blame. Though +he had no lodge-gates, and though the seigneury was but a great wide +low-roofed farmhouse, with an observatory, and a chimney-piece dating +from the time of Louis the Fourteenth, the Seigneur gave Paulette Dubois +a little hut at his outer gate, which had been there since the great +Count Frontenac visited Chaudiere. Probably Rosalie spoke to Paulette +Dubois more often than did any one else in the parish, but that was +because the woman came for little things at the shop, and asked for +letters, and every week sent one--to a man living in Montreal. She sent +these letters, but not more than once in six months did she get a reply, +and she had not had one in a whole year. Yet every week she asked, and +Rosalie found it hard to answer her politely, and sometimes showed it. + +So it was that the two disliked each other without good cause, save that +they were separated by a chasm as wide as a sea. The one disliked the +other because she must recognise her; the other chafed because she could +be recognised by Rosalie officially only. + +The late afternoon of the day in which Rosalie decided to nail the cross +on the church door again, Paulette arrived to ask for letters at the +moment that the office wicket was closed, and Rosalie had answered that +it was after office hours, and had almost closed the door in her face. +As she turned away Jo Portugais came out of the tailor-shop opposite. +He saw Paulette, and stood still an instant. She did the same. A strange +look passed across the face of each, then they turned and went in +opposite directions. + +Never in her life had time gone so slowly with Rosalie. She watched +the clock. A dozen times she went to the front door and looked out. She +tried to read--it was no use; she tried to spin-her fingers trembled; +she sorted the letters in the office again, and rearranged every letter +and parcel and paper in its little pigeonhole--then did it all over +again. She took out again the letter Paulette had dropped in the +letter-box; it was addressed in the name of the man at Montreal. She +looked at it in a kind of awe, as she had ever done the letters of this +woman who was without the pale. They had a sense of mystery, an air of +forbidden imagination. + +She put the letter back, went to the door again, and looked out. It was +now time to go. Drawing a hood over her head, she stepped out into the +night. There was a little frost, though spring was well forward, and the +smell of the rich earth and the budding trees was sweet to the sense. +The moon had just set, but the stars were shining, and here and there +patches of snow on the hillside and in the fields added to the light. +Yet it was not bright enough to see far, and as Rosalie moved down the +street she did not notice a figure at a little distance behind, walking +on the new-springing grass by the roadside. All was quiet at the tavern; +there was no light in the Notary's house--as a rule, he sat up late, +reading; and even the fiddle of Maximilian Cour, the baker, was silent. +The Cure's windows were dark, and the church with its white tin spire +stood up sentinel-like above the village. + +Rosalie had the fateful cross in her hand as she softly opened the +gate of the churchyard and approached the great oak doors. Taking a +screw-driver and some screws from her pocket, she felt with a finger +for the old screw-holes in the door. Then she began her work, looking +fearfully round once or twice at first. Presently, however, because the +screws were larger than the old ones, it became much harder; the task +called forth more strength, and drove all thought of being seen out of +her mind for a space. At last, however, she gave the final turn to the +handle, and every screw was in its place, its top level and smooth with +the iron of the cross. She stopped and looked round again with an uneasy +feeling. She could see no one, hear no one, but she began to tremble, +and, overcome, she fell on her knees before the door, and, with her +fingers on the foot of the little cross, prayed passionately; for +herself, for Monsieur. + +Suddenly she heard footsteps inside the church. They were coming towards +the doorway, nearer and nearer. At first she was so struck with terror +that she could not move. Then with a little cry she sprang to her feet, +rushed to the gate, threw it open, ran out into the road, ind wildly on +towards home. She did not stop for at least three hundred yards. Turning +and looking back she saw at the church door a pale round light. With +another cry she sped on, and did not pause till she reached the house. +Then, bursting in and locking the door, she hurried to her room, +undressed quickly, got into bed without saying her prayers, and buried +her face in the pillow, shivering and overwrought. + +The footsteps she had heard were those of the Cure and Jo Portugais. +The Cure had sent for Jo to do some last work upon a little altar, to +be used the next day for the first time. The carpenter and the carver +in wood who were responsible for the work had fallen victims to white +whiskey on the very last day of their task, and had been driven from the +church by the Cure, who then sent for Jo. Rosalie had not seen the light +at the shrine, as it was on the side of the church farthest from the +village. + +Their labour finished, the two came towards the front door, the Cure's +lantern in his hand. Opening the door, Jo heard the sound of +footsteps and saw a figure flying down the road. As the Cure came out +abstractedly, he glanced sorrowfully towards the place where the little +cross was used to be. He gave a wondering cry, and almost dropped the +lantern. + +"See, see, Portugais," he said, "our little cross again!" Jo nodded. "So +it seems, Monsieur," he said. + +At that instant he saw a hood lying on the ground, and as the Cure held +up the lantern, peering at the little cross, he hastily picked it up and +thrust it inside his coat. + +"Strange--very strange!" said the Cure. "It must have been done while we +were inside. It was not there when we entered." + +"We entered by the vestry door," said Jo. + +"Ah, true-true," responded the Cure. + +"It comes as it went," said Jo. "You can't account for some things." + +The Cure turned and looked at Jo curiously. "Are you then so +superstitious, Jo? Nonsense; it is the work of human hands--very human +hands," he added sadly. + +"There is nothing to show," said the Cure, seeing Jo's glance round. + +"As you see, M'sieu' le Cure." + +"Well, it is a mystery which time no doubt will clear up. Meanwhile, let +us be thankful to God," said the Cure. + +They parted, the Cure going through a side-gate into his own garden, Jo +passing out of the churchyard-gate through which Rosalie had gone. He +looked down the road towards the village. + +"Well!" said a voice in his ear. Paulette Dubois stood before him. + +"It was you, then," he said, with a glowering look. "What did you want +with it?" + +"What do you want with the hood in your coat there?" She threw her head +back with a spiteful laugh. "Whose do you think it is?" he said quietly. + +"You and the schoolmaster made verses about her once." + +"It was Rosalie Evanturel?" he asked, with aggravating composure. + +"You have the hood-look at it! You saw her running down the road; I +saw her come, watched her, and saw her go. She is a thief--pretty +Rosalie--thief and postmistress! No doubt she takes letters too." + +"The ones you wait for, and that never come--eh?" Her face darkened with +rage and hatred. "I will tell the world she's a thief," she sneered. + +"Who will believe you?" + +"You will." She was hard and fierce, and looked him in the eyes +squarely. "You'll give evidence quick enough, if I ask you." + +"I wouldn't do anything you asked me to-nothing, if it was to save my +life." + +"I'll prove her a thief without you. She can't deny it." + +"If you try it, I'll--" He stopped, husky and shaking. + +"You'll kill me, eh? You killed him, and you didn't hang. Oh no, you +wouldn't kill me, Jo," she added quickly, in a changed voice. "You've +had enough of that kind of thing. If I'd been you, I'd rather have +hung--ah, sure!" She suddenly came close to him. "Do you hate me so bad, +Jo?" she said anxiously. "It's eight years--do you hate me so bad as +then?" + +"You keep your tongue off Rosalie Evanturel," he said, and turned on his +heel. + +She caught his arm. "We're both bad, Jo. Can't we be friends?" she said +eagerly, her voice shaking. + +He did not reply. + +"Don't drive a woman too hard," she said between her teeth. + +"Threats! Pah!" he rejoined. "What do you think I'm made of?" + +"I'll find that out," she said, and, turning on her heel, ran down the +road towards the Manor House. "What had Rosalie to do with the cross?" +Jo said to himself. "This is her hood." He took it out and looked at it. +"It's her hood--but what did she want with the cross?" + +He hurried on, and as he neared the post-office he saw the figure of a +woman in the road. At first he thought it might be Rosalie, but as he +came nearer he saw it was not. The woman was muttering and crying. She +wandered to and fro bewilderedly. He came up, caught her by the arm, and +looked into her face. + +It was old Margot Patry. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. THE WOMAN WHO DID NOT TELL. "Oh, M'sieu', I am afraid." + +"Afraid of what, Margot?" + +"Of the last moment, M'sieu' le Cure." + +"There will be no last moment to your mind--you will not know it when it +comes, Margot." + +The woman trembled. "I am not sorry to die. But I am afraid; it is so +lonely, M'sieu' le Cure." + +"God is with us, Margot." + +"When we are born we do not know. It is on the shoulders of others. When +we die we know, and we have to answer." + +"Is the answering so hard, Margot?" + +The woman shook her head feebly and sadly, but did not speak. + +"You have been a good mother, Margot." She made no sign. + +"You have been a good neighbour; you have done unto others as you would +be done by." + +She scarcely seemed to hear. + +"You have been a good servant--doing your duty in season and out of +season; honest and just and faithful." + +The woman's fingers twitched on the coverlet, and she moved her head +restlessly. + +The Curb almost smiled, for it seemed as if Margot were finding herself +wanting. Yet none in Chaudiere but knew that she had lived a blameless +life--faithful, friendly, a loving and devoted mother, whose health had +been broken by sleepless attendance at sick-beds by night, while doing +her daily work at the house of the late Louis Trudel. + +"I will answer for the way you have done your duty, Margot," said the +Cure. "You have been a good daughter of the Church." + +He paused a minute, and in the pause some one rose from a chair by +the window and looked out on the sunset sky. It was Charley. The woman +heard, and turned her eyes towards him. "Do you wish him to go?" asked +the Cure. + +"No, no--oh no, M'sieu'!" she said eagerly. She had asked all day that +either Rosalie or M'sieu' should be in the room with her. It would seem +as though she were afraid she had not courage enough to keep the secret +of the cross without their presence. Charley had yielded to her request, +while he shrank from granting it. Yet, as he said to himself, the woman +was keeping his secret--his and Rosalie's--and she had some right to +make demand. + +When the Cure asked the question of old Margot, he turned expectantly, +and with a sense of relief. He thought it strange that the Cure should +wish him to remain. The Cure, on his part, was well pleased to have him +in the influence of a Christian death-bed. A time must come when the +last confidences of the dying woman could be given to no ears but his +own, but meanwhile it was good that M'sieu' should be there. + +"M'sieu' le Cure," said the dying woman, "must I tell all?" + +"All what, Margot?" + +"All that is sin?" + +"There is no must, Margot." + +"If you should ask me, M'sieu'--" + +She paused, and the man at the window turned and looked curiously at +her. He saw the problem in the woman's mind: had she the right to die +with the secret of another's crime upon her mind? + +"The priest does not ask, Margot: it is you who confess your sins. That +is between you and God." + +The Cure spoke firmly, for he wanted the man at the window to clearly +understand. + +"But if there are the sins of others, and you know, and they trouble +your soul, M'sieu'?" + +"You have nothing to do with the sins of others; it is enough to repent +of your own sins. The priest has nothing to do with any sins but those +confessed by the sinner to himself. Your own sins are your sole concern +to-night, Margot." + +The woman's face seemed to clear a little, and her eyes wandered to +the man at the window with less anxiety. Charley was wondering whether, +after all, she would have the courage to keep her word, whether +spiritual terror would surmount the moral attitude of honour. He was +also wondering how much right he had to put the strain upon the woman +in her desperate hour. "How long did the doctor say I could live?" the +woman asked presently. + +"Till morning, perhaps, Margot." + +"I should like to live till sunrise," she answered, "till after +breakfast. Rosalie makes good tea," she added musingly. + +The Cure almost smiled. "There is the Living Bread, my daughter." + +She nodded. "But I should like to see the sunrise and have Rosalie bring +me tea," she persisted. + +"Very well, Margot. We will ask God for that." + +Her mind flew back again to the old question. + +"Is it wrong to keep a secret?" she asked, her face turned away from the +man at the window. + +"If it is the secret of a sin, and the sin is your own--yes, Margot." + +"And if the sin is not your own?" + +"If you share the sin, and if the secret means injury to others, and a +wrong is being done, and the law can right that wrong, then you must go +to the law, not to your priest." + +The Cure's look was grave, even anxious, for he saw that the old woman's +mind was greatly disturbed. But her face cleared now, and stayed so. +"It has all been a mix and a muddle," she answered; "and it hurt my poor +head, M'sieu' le Cure, but now I think I under stand. I am not afraid; I +will confess." + +The Cure had made it clear to her that she could carry to her grave the +secret of the little cross and the work it had done, and so keep her +word and still not injure her chances of salvation. She was content. +She no longer needed the helpful presence of M'sieu' or Rosalie. Charley +instinctively felt what was in her mind, and came towards the bed. + +"I will tell Mademoiselle Rosalie about the tea," he said to her. + +She looked up at him, almost smiling. "Thank you, good M'sieu'," she +said. + +"I will confess now, M'sieu' le Cure" she continued. Charley left the +room. + +Towards morning Margot waked out of a brief sleep, and found the Cure +and his sister and others about her bed. + +"Is it near sunrise?" she whispered. + +"It is just sunrise. See; God has been good," answered the Cure, drawing +open the blind and letting in the first golden rays. + +Rosalie entered the room with a cup of tea, and came towards the bed. + +Old Margot looked at the girl, at the tea, and then at the Cure. + +"Drink the tea for me, Rosalie," she whispered. Rosalie did as she was +asked. + +She looked round feebly; her eyes were growing filmy. "I never +gave--so much--trouble--before," she managed to say. "I never had--so +much--attention.... I can keep--a secret too," she said, setting her +lips feebly with pride. "But I--never--had--so much--attention--before; +have I--Rosalie?" + +Rosalie did not need to answer, for the woman was gone. The crowning +interest of her life had come all at the last moment, as it were, and +she had gone away almost gladly and with a kind of pride. + +Rosalie also had a hidden pride: the secret was now her very own--hers +and M'sieu's. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. THE SEIGNEUR TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME + +It was St. Jean Baptiste's day, and French Canada was en fete. Every +seigneur, every cure, every doctor, every notary--the chief figures in a +parish--and every habitant was bent for a happy holiday, dressed in his +best clothes, moved in his best spirits, in the sweet summer weather. + +Bells were ringing, flags were flying, every road and lane was filled +with caleches and wagons, and every dog that could draw a cart pulled +big and little people, the old and the blind and the mendicant, the +happy and the sour, to the village, where there were to be sports and +speeches, races upon the river, and a review of the militia, arranged +by the member of the Legislature for the Chaudiere-half of the county. +French soldiers in English red coats and carrying British flags were +straggling along the roads to join the battalion at the volunteers' camp +three miles from the town, and singing: + + "Brigadier, respondez Pandore-- + Brigadier, vous avez raison." + +It was not less incongruous and curious when one group presently broke +out into 'God save the Queen', and another into the 'Marseillaise', and +another still into 'Malbrouck s'en va t'en guerre'. At last songs and +soldiers were absorbed in the battalion at the rendezvous, and the long +dusty march to the village gave a disciplined note to the gaiety of the +militant habitant. + +At high noon Chaudiere was filled to overflowing. There were booths +and tents everywhere--all sorts of cheap-jacks vaunted their wares, +merry-go-rounds and swings and shooting-galleries filled the usual +spaces in the perspective. The Cure, M. Rossignol the Seigneur, and +the Notary stood on the church steps viewing the scene and awaiting the +approach of the soldier-citizens. The Seigneur and the Cure had ceased +listening to the babble of M. Dauphin, who seemed not to know that his +audience closed its ears and found refuge in a "Well, well!" or "Think +of that!" or an abstracted "You surprise me!" + +The Notary talked on with eager gesture and wreathing smile, shaking +back his oiled ringlets as though they trespassed on his smooth, +somewhat jaundiced cheeks, until it began to dawn upon him that there +was no coin of real applause to be got at this mint. Fortune favoured +him at the critical juncture, for the tailor walked slowly past them, +looking neither to right nor to left, his eyes cast upon the ground, +apparently oblivious to all round him. Almost opposite the church door, +however, Charley was suddenly stopped by Filion Lacasse, who ran out +from a group before the tavern, and, standing in front of him with +outstretched hand, said loudly: + +"M'sieu', it's all right. What you said done it, sure! I'm a thousand +dollars richer to-day. You may be an infidel, but you have a head, and +you save me money, and you give away your own, and that's good enough +for me,"--he wrung Charley's hand,--"and I don't care who knows +it--sacre!" + +Charley did not answer him, but calmly withdrew his hand, smiled, raised +his hat at the lonely cheer the saddler raised, and passed on, scarce +conscious of what had happened. Indeed he was indifferent to it, for he +had a matter on his mind this day which bitterly absorbed him. + +But the Notary was not indifferent. "Look there, what do you think +of that?" he asked querulously. "I am glad to see that Lacasse treats +Monsieur well," said the Cure. + +"What do you think of that, Monsieur?" repeated the Notary excitedly to +the Seigneur. + +The Seigneur put his large gold-handled glass to his eye and looked +interestedly after Charley for a moment, then answered: "Well, Dauphin, +what?" + +"He's been giving Filion Lacasse advice about the old legacy business, +and Filion's taken it; and he's got a thousand dollars; and now there's +all that fuss. And four months ago Filion wanted to tar and feather him +for being just what he is to-day--an infidel--an infidel!" + +He was going to say something else, but he did not like the look the +Cure turned on him, and he broke off short. + +"Do you regret that he gave Lacasse good advice?" asked the Cure. + +"It's taking bread out of other men's mouths." + +"It put bread into Filion's mouth. Did you ever give Lacasse advice? The +truth now, Dauphin!" said the Seigneur drily. + +"Yes, Monsieur, and sound advice too, within the law-precedent and code +and every legal fact behind." The Seigneur was a man of laconic speech. +"Tut, tut, Dauphin; precedent and code and legal fact are only good when +there's brain behind 'em. The tailor yonder has brains." + +"Ah, but what does he know about the law?" answered Dauphin, with +acrimonious voice but insinuating manner, for he loved to stand well +with the Seigneur. + +"Enough for the saddler evidently," sharply rejoined the Seigneur. + +Dauphin was fighting for his life, as it were. His back was to the wall. +If this man was to be allowed to advise the habitants of Chaudiere on +their disputes and "going to law," where would his own prestige be? His +vanity had been deeply wounded. + +"It's guesswork with him. Let him stick to his trade as I stick to mine. +That sort of thing only does harm." + +"He puts a thousand dollars into the saddler's pocket: that's a positive +good. He may or may not take thereby ten dollars out of your pocket: +that's a negative injury. In this case there was no injury, for you had +already cost Lacasse--how much had you cost him, Dauphin?" continued the +Seigneur, with a half-malicious smile. "I've been out of Chaudiere for +near a year; I don't know the record--how much, eh, Dauphin?" + +The Notary was too offended to answer. He shook his ringlets back +angrily, and a scarlet spot showed on each straw-coloured cheek. + +"Twenty dollars is what Lacasse paid our dear Dauphin," said the Cure +benignly, "and a very proper charge. Lacasse probably gave Monsieur +there quite as much, and Monsieur will give it to the first poor man he +meets, or send it to the first sick person of whom he hears." + +"My own opinion is, he's playing some game here," said the Notary. + +"We all play games," said the Seigneur. "His seems to give him hard work +and little luxury. Will you bring him to see me at the Manor, my dear +Cure?" he added. "He will not go. I have asked him." + +"Then I shall visit him at his tailor-shop," said the Seigneur. "I need +a new suit." + +"But you always had your clothes made in Quebec, Monsieur," said the +Notary, still carping. + +"We never had such a tailor," answered the Seigneur. + +"We'll hear more of him before we're done with him," obstinately urged +the Notary. + +"It would give Dauphin the greatest pleasure if our tailor proved to be +a murderer or a robber. I suppose you believe that he stole our little +cross here," the Cure added, turning to the church door, where his eye +lingered lovingly on the relic, hanging on a pillar just inside, whither +he had had it removed. + +"I'm not sure yet he hadn't something to do with it," was the stubborn +response. + +"If he did, may it bring him peace at last!" said the Cure piously. "I +have set my heart on nailing him to our blessed faith as that cross is +fixed to the pillar yonder--'I will fasten him like a nail in a sure +place,' says the Book. I take it hard that my friend Dauphin will not +help me on the way. Suppose the man were evil, then the Church should +try to snatch him like a brand from the burning. But suppose that in his +past there was no wrong necessary to be hidden in the present--and this +I believe with all my heart; suppose that he was wronged, not wronging: +then how much more should the Church strive to win him to the light! +Why, man, have you no pride in Holy Church? I am ashamed of you, +Dauphin, with your great intelligence, your wide reading. With our +knowledge of the world we should be broader." + +The Seigneur's eyes were turned away, for there was in them at once +humour and a suspicious moisture. Of all men in the world he most +admired the Cure, for his utter truth and nobility; but he could not +help smiling at his enthusiasm--his dear Cure turned evangelist like any +"Methody"!--and at the appeal of the Notary on the ground of knowledge +of the world. He was wise enough to count himself an old fogy, a +provincial, and "a simon-pure habitant," but of the three he only had +any knowledge of life. As men of the world the Cure and the Notary +were sad failures, though they stood for much in Chaudiere. Yet this +detracted nothing from the fine gentlemanliness of the Cure or the +melodramatic courtesy of the Notary. + +Amused and touched as the Seigneur had been at the Cure's words, he +turned now and said: "Always on the weaker side, Cure; always hoping the +best from the worst of us." + +"I am only following an example at my door--you taught us all charity +and justice," answered M. Loisel, looking meaningly at the Seigneur. +There was silence a little while, for all three were thinking of the +woman of the hut, at the gate of the Seigneur's manor. + +On this topic M. Dauphin was not voluble. His original kindness to the +woman had given him many troubled hours at home, for Madame Dauphin had +construed his human sympathy into the dark and carnal desires of +the heart, and his truthful eloquence had made his case the worse. A +miserable sentimentalist, the Notary was likely to be misunderstood +for ever, and one or two indiscretions of his extreme youth had been a +weapon against him through the long years of a blameless married life. + +He heaved a sigh of sympathy with the Cure now. "She has not come +back yet?" he said to the Seigneur. "No sign of her. She locked up and +stepped out, so my housekeeper says, about the time--" + +"The day of old Margot's funeral," interposed the Notary. "She'd had +a letter that day, a letter she'd been waiting for, and abroad she +went--alas! the flyaway--from bad to worse, I fear--ah me!" + +The Seigneur turned sharply on him. "Who told you she had a letter that +day, for which she had been waiting?" he said. + +"Monsieur Evanturel." + +The Seigneur's face became sterner still. "What business had he to know +that she received a letter that day?" + +"He is postmaster," innocently replied the Notary. "He is the +devil!" said the Seigneur tartly. "I beg your pardon, Cure; but it is +Evanturel's business not to know what letters go to and fro in that +office. He should be blind and dumb, so far as we all are concerned." + +"Remember that Evanturel is a cripple," the Cure answered gently. "I am +glad, very glad it was not Rosalie." + +"Rosalie has more than usual sense for her sex," gruffly but kindly +answered the Seigneur, a look of friendliness in his eyes. "I shall talk +to her about her father; I can't trust myself to speak to the man." + +"Rosalie is down there with Madame Dauphin," said the Notary, pointing. +"Shall I ask her to come?" + +The Seigneur nodded. He was magistrate and magnate, and he was the +guarantor of the post-office, and of Rosalie and her father. His eyes +fixed in reverie on Rosalie; he and the Cure passively waited her +approach. + +She came over, pale and a little anxious, but with a courageous look. +She had a vague sense of trouble, and she feared it might be the little +cross, that haunting thing of all these months. + +When she came near, the Cure greeted her courteously, and then, taking +the Notary by the arm, led him away. + +The Seigneur and Rosalie being left alone, the girl said: "You wish to +speak with me, Monsieur?" + +The Seigneur scrutinised her sharply. Though her colour came and went, +her look was frank and fearless. She had had many dark hours since that +fateful month of April. At night, trying to sleep, she had heard the +ghostly footsteps in the church, which had sent her flying homeward. +Then, there was the hood. She had waited on and on, fearing word would +come that it had been found in the churchyard, and that she had been +seen putting the cross back upon the church door. As day after day +passed she had come at length to realise that, whatever had happened to +the hood, she was not suspected. Yet the whole train of circumstances +had a supernatural air, for the Cure and Jo Portugais had not made +public their experience on the eventful night; she had been educated in +a land of legend and superstition, and a deep impression had been made +upon her mind, giving to her other new emotions a touch of pathos, of +imagination, and adding character to her face. The old Seigneur stroked +his chin as he looked at her. He realised that a change had come upon +her, that she had developed in some surprising way. + +"What has happened--who has happened, Mademoiselle Rosalie?" he asked. +He had suddenly made up his mind about that look in her face--he thought +it the woman in her which answers to the call of man, not perhaps any +particular man, but man the attractive influence, the complement. + +Her eyes dropped, then raised frankly to his. "I don't know,"--adding, +with a quick humour, for he had been very friendly with her, and joked +with her in his dry way all her life; "do you, Monsieur?" + +He pulled his nose with a quick gesture habitual to him, and answered +slowly and meaningly: "The government's a good husband and pays regular +wages, Mademoiselle. I'd stick to government." + +"I am not asking for a divorce, Monsieur." + +He pulled his nose again delightedly--so many people were pathetically +in earnest in Chaudiere--even the Cure's humour was too mediaeval and +obvious. He had never before thought Rosalie so separate from them all. +All at once he had a new interest in her. His cheek flushed a little, +his eye kindled, humour relaxed his lips. + +"No other husband would intrude so little," he rejoined. + +"True, there's little love lost between us, Monsieur." She felt +exhilaration in talking with him, a kind of joy in measuring word +against word; yet a year ago she would have done no more than smile +respectfully and give a demure reply if the Seigneur had spoken to her +like this. + +The Seigneur noted the mixed emotions in her face and the delicate +alertness of expression. As a man of the world, he was inclined to +believe that only one kind of experience can bring such looks to a +woman's face. He saw in her the awakening of the deeper interests of +life, the tremulous apprehension of nascent emotions and passions which, +at some time or other, give beauty and importance to the nature of every +human being. It did not occur to him that the tailor--the mysterious +figure in the parish--might be responsible. He was observant, but not +imaginative; he was moved by what he saw, in a quiet, unexplainable +manner. + +"The government is the best sort of husband. From the other sort you +would get more kisses and less ha'pence," he continued. + +"That might be a satisfactory balance-sheet, Monsieur." + +"Take care, Mademoiselle Rosalie," he rejoined, half seriously, "that +you don't miss the ha'pence before you get the kisses." + +She turned pale in very fear. What was he going to say? Was the +post-office to be taken from them? She came straight to the point. + +"What have I done wrong, Monsieur? I've never kept the mail-stage +waiting; I've never left the mailbag unlocked; I've never been late +in opening the wicket; I've never been careless, and no one's ever +complained of a lost letter." + +The Seigneur saw her agitation, and was sorry for her. He came to the +point as she had done: + +"We will have you made postmistress--you alone, Rosalie Evanturel. I've +made up my mind to that. But you'll promise not to get married--eh? +Anyhow, there's no one in the parish for you to marry. You're too +well-born and you've been too well educated for a habitant's wife--and +the Cure or I can't marry you." + +He was not taken back to see her flush deeply, and it pleased him to see +this much life rising to his own touch, this much revelation to give his +mind a new interest. He had come to that age when the mind is surprised +to find that the things that once charmed charm less, and the things +once hated are less acutely repulsive. He saw her embarrassment. He +did not know that this was the first time that she had ever thought of +marriage since it ceased to be a dream of girlhood, and, by reason of +thinking much on a man, had become a possibility, which, however, she +had never confessed to herself. Here she was faced by it now in the +broad open day: a plain, hard statement, unrelieved by aught save the +humour of the shrewd eyes bent upon her. + +She did not answer him at once. "Do you promise not to marry so useless +a thing as man, and to remain true to the government?" he continued. + +"If I wished to marry a man, I should not let the government stand in my +way," she said, in brave confusion. + +"But do you wish to marry any man?" he asked abruptly, even petulantly. + +"I have not asked myself that question, Monsieur, and--should you ask +it, unless--" she said, and paused with as pretty and whimsical a glance +of merriment as could well be. + +He burst out laughing at the swift turn she had given her reply, and at +the double suggestion. Then he suddenly changed. A curious expression +filled his eyes. A smile, almost beautiful, came to his lips. + +"'Pon my honour," he said, in a low tone, "you have me caught! And I beg +to say--I beg to say," he added, with a flush mounting in his own face, +a sudden inspiration in his look, "that if you do not think me too old +and crabbed and ugly, and can endure me, I shall be profoundly happy if +you will marry me, Rosalie." + +He stood upright, holding himself very hard, for this idea had shot +into his mind all in an instant, though, unknown to himself, it had been +growing for years, cherished by many a kind act to her father and by +a simple gratitude on her part. He had spoken without feeling the +absurdity of the proposal. He had never married, and he was unprepared +to make any statement on such a theme; but now, having made it somehow, +he would stand by it, in spite of any and all criticism. He had known +Rosalie since her birth, her education was as good as a convent could +secure, she was the granddaughter of a notable seigneur, and here +she was, as fine a type of health, beauty and character as man could +wish--and he was only fifty! Life was getting lonelier for him every +day, and, after all, why should he leave distant relations and the +Church his worldly goods? All this flashed through his mind as he waited +for her answer. Now it seemed to him that he had meant to say this thing +for many years. He had seen an awakening in her--he had suddenly been +awakened himself. + +"Monsieur, Monsieur," she said in a bewildered way, "do not amuse +yourself at my expense." + +"Would it be that, then?" he said, with a smile, behind which there was +determination and self-will. "I want you to marry me; I do with all my +heart. You shall have those ha'pence, and the kisses too, if so be you +will take them--or not, as you will, Rosalie." + +"Monsieur," she gasped, for something caught her in the throat, and the +tears started to her eyes, "ask me to forget that you have ever said +those words. Oh, Monsieur, it is not possible, it never could be +possible! I am only the postmaster's daughter." + +"You are my wife, if you will but say the word," he answered, "and I as +proud a husband as the land holds!" + +"You were always kind to me, Monsieur," she rejoined, her lips +trembling; "won't you be so still?" + +"I am too old?" he asked. + +"Oh no, it is not that," she replied. + +"You have as good manners as my mother had. You need not fear comparison +with any lady in the land. Have I not known you all your life? I know +the way you have come, and your birth is as good as mine." + +"Ah, it is not that, Monsieur!" + +"I give you my word that I do not come to you because no one else would +have me," he said with a curious simplicity. "I never asked a woman to +marry me--never! You are the first. There was talk once--but it was all +false. I never meant to ask any one to marry me. But I have the wish now +which I never had in my youth. I thought best of myself always; now, I +think--I think better of you than--" + +"Oh, Monsieur, I beg of you, no more! I cannot; oh, I cannot--" + +"You--but no; I will not ask you, Mademoiselle. If you have some one +else in your heart, or want some one else there, that is your affair, +not mine--undoubtedly. I would have tried to make you happy; you would +have had peace and comfort all your life; you could have trusted me--but +there it is...." He felt all at once that he was unfair to her, that he +had thrust upon her too hard a problem in too troubled an hour. + +"I could trust you with my life, Monsieur Rossignol," she replied. "And +I love you in a way that a man may be loved to no one's harm or sorrow: +it is true that!" She raised her eyes to his simply, trustingly. + +He looked at her steadily for a moment. "If you change your mind--" + +She shook her head sadly. + +"Good, then," he went on, for he thought it wise not to press her now, +though he had no intention of taking her no as final. "I'll keep an +eye on you. You'll need me some day soon; I can do things that the Cure +can't, perhaps." His manner changed still more. "Now to business," he +continued. "Your father has been talking about letters received and sent +from the post-office. That is punishable. I am responsible for you both, +and if it is reported, if the woman were to report it--you know the +letter I mean--there would be trouble. You do not talk. Now I am +going to ask the government to make you sole postmistress, with full +responsibility. Then you must govern your father--he hasn't as much +sense as you." + +"Monsieur, we owe you so much! I am deeply grateful, and, whatever you +do for us, you may rely on me to do my duty." + +They could scarcely hear each other speak now, for the soldiers were +coming nearer, and the fife-and-drum bands were screeching, 'Louis the +King was a Soldier'. + +"Then you will keep the government as your husband?" he asked, with +forced humour, as he saw the Cure and the Notary approaching. + +"It is less trouble, Seigneur," she answered, with a smile of relief. + +M. Rossignol turned to the Cure and the Notary. "I have just offered +Mademoiselle a husband she might rule in place of a government that +rules her, and she has refused," he said in the Cure's ear, with a dry +laugh. + +"She's a sensible girl, is Rosalie," said the Cure, not apprehending. + +The soldiers were now opposite the church, and riding at their head was +the battalion Colonel, also member of the Legislature. + +They all moved down, and Rosalie disappeared in the crowd. As the +Seigneur and the Cure greeted the Colonel, the latter said: + +"At luncheon I'll tell you one of the bravest things ever seen. Happened +half-hour ago at the Red Ravine. Man who did it wore an eye-glass--said +he was a tailor." + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. THE COLONEL TELLS HIS STORY + +The Colonel had lunched very well indeed. He had done justice to every +dish set before him; he had made a little speech, congratulating himself +on having such a well-trained body of men to command, and felicitating +Chaudiere from many points of view. He was in great good-humour with +himself, and when the Notary asked him--it was at the Manor, with the +soldiers resting on the grass without--about the tale of bravery he +had promised them, he brought his fist down on the table with great +intensity but little noise, and said: + +"Chaudiere may well be proud of it. I shall refer to it in the +Legislature on the question of roads and bridges--there ought to be +a stone fence on that dangerous road by the Red Ravine--Have I your +attention?" + +He stood up, for he was an excitable and voluble Colonel, and he loved +oration as a cat does milk. With a knife he drew a picture of the +locale on the table cloth. "Here I was riding on my sorrel, all my noble +fellows behind, the fife and drums going as at Louisburg--that day! +Martial ardour united to manliness and local pride--follow me? Here we +were, Red Ravine left, stump fences and waving fields of grain right. +From military point of view, bad position--ravine, stump fence, brave +soldiers in the middle, food for powder--catch it?--see?" + +He emptied his glass, drew a long breath, and again began, the +carving-knife cutting a rhetorical path before him. "I was engaged +upon the military problem--demonstration in force, no scouts ahead, +no rearguard, ravine on the right, stump fence on the left, red coats, +fife-and-drum band, concealed enemy--follow me? Observant mind +always sees problems everywhere--unresting military genius accustoms +intelligence to all possible contingencies--'stand what I mean?" + +The Seigneur took a pinch of snuff, and the Cure, whose mind was +benevolent, listened with the gravest interest. + +"At the juncture when, in my mind's eye, I saw my gallant fellows +enfiladed with a terrible fire, caught in a trap, and I, despairing, +spurring on to die at their head--have I your attention?--just at that +moment there appeared between the ravine and the road ahead a man. +He wore an eye-glass; he seemed an unconcerned spectator of our +movements--so does the untrained, unthinking eye look out upon destiny! +Not far away was a wagon, in it a man. Wagon bisecting our course from a +cross-road--" + +He drew a line on the table-cloth with the carvingknife, and the Notary +said: "Yes, yes, the concession road." + +"So, Messieurs. There were we, a battalion and a fife-and-drum band; +there was the man with the eyeglass, the indifferent spectator, yet +the engine of fate; there was the wagon, a mottled horse, and a man +driving--catch it? The mottled horse took fright at our band, which at +that instant strikes up 'The Chevalier Drew his Sabre'. He shies from +the road with a leap, the man falls backwards into the wagon, and the +reins drop. The horse dashes from the road into the open, and rushes on +to the ravine. What good now to stop the fifes and drums-follow me? +What can we, an armed force, bandoleered, knapsacked, sworded, rifled, +impetuous, brave, what can we do before this tragedy? The man in the +wagon senseless, the flying horse, the ravine, death! How futile the +power of man--'stand what I mean?" + +"Why didn't your battalion shoot the horse?" said the Seigneur drily, +taking a pinch of snuff. "Monsieur," said the Colonel, "see the irony, +the implacable irony of fate--we had only blank cartridge! But see you, +here was this one despised man with an eye-glass, a tailor--takes nine +tailors to make a man!--between the ravine and the galloping tragedy. +His spirit arrayed itself like an army with banners, prepared to wrestle +with death as Jacob wrestled with his shadow all the night 'sieur le +Cure!" + +The Cure bowed; the Notary shook back his oiled locks in excitement. + +"Awoke a whole man--nine-ninths, as in Adam--in the obscure soul of the +tailor, and, rushing forward, he seized the mottled horse by the bridle +as he galloped upon the chasm: The horse dragged him on--dragged him +on--on--on. We, an army, so to speak, stood and watched the Tailor and +the Tragedy! All seemed lost, but, by the decree of fate--" + +"The will of God," said the Cure softly. + +"By the great decree, the man was able to stop the horse, not a +half-dozen feet from the ravine. The horse and the insensible driver +were spared death--death. So, Messieurs, does bravery come from +unexpected places--see?" + +The Seigneur, the Cure, and even the Notary clapped their hands, and +murmured praises of the tailor-man. But the Colonel did not yet take his +seat. + +"But now, mark the sequel," he said. "As I galloped over, I saw the +tailor look into the wagon, and turn away quickly. He waited by the +horse till I came near, and then walked off without a word. I rode up, +and tapped him with my sword upon the shoulder. 'A noble deed, my good +man,' said I. 'I approve of your conduct, and I will remember it in the +Legislature when I address the committee of the whole house on roads and +bridges.' What do you think was his reply to my affable words? When I +tapped him approvingly on the shoulder a second time, he screwed his +eye-glass in his eye, and, with no emotion, though my own eyes were +full of tears, he said, in a tone of affront, 'Look after the man there, +constable,' and pointed to the wagon. Constable--mon Dieu! Gross manners +even for a tailor!" + +"I had not thought his manners bad," said the Cure, as the Colonel sat +down, gulped a glass of brandy-and-water, and mopped his forehead. + +"A most remarkable tailor," said the Seigneur, peering into his +snuff-box. + +"And the driver of the mottled horse?" asked the Notary. + +"Knocked senseless. One of my captains soon restored him. He followed +us into the village. He is a quack-doctor. I suppose he is now selling +tinctures, pulling teeth, and driving away rheumatics. He gave me his +card. I told him he should leave one on the tailor." + +With a flourish he threw a professional card upon the table, before the +Cure. + +The Cure picked it up and read: + + JOHN BROWN, B.A., M.D., + + Healer of Ailments that Defy the Ordinary Skill of Ordinary + Medical Men. Rheumatism, Sciatica, Headache, Toothache, + Asthma, Ague, Pleurisy, Gout, and all Chronic Diseases Yield + Instantly to the Power of his Medicines. + + Dr. Brown will publicly treat the most stubborn cases, laying + himself open to the derision of mankind if he does not instantly + give relief and benefit. His whole career has been a blessing to + his fellows, and his journey now through this country, fresh from + his studies in the Orient, is to introduce his remedies to a + suffering world, for the conquest of malady, not for personal + profit. + + JOHN BROWN, B.A., M.D., + + Specialist in Chronic Diseases and General Practitioner. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. A SONG, A BOTTLE, AND A GHOST + +All day John Brown, ex-clergyman and quack-doctor, harangued the people +of Chaudiere from his gaily-painted wagon. He had the perfect gift +of the charlatan, and he had discovered his metier. Inclined to the +picturesque by nature, melodramatic and empirical, his earlier career +had been the due fruit of habit and education. As a dabbler in mines +he had been out of his element. He lacked the necessary reticence, and +arsenic had not availed him, though it had tempted Billy Wantage to +forgery; and because Billy hid himself behind the dismal opportunity of +silence, had ruined the name of a dead man called Charley Steele. Since +Charley's death John Brown had never seen Billy: he had left the town +one woful day an hour after Billy had told him of the discovery Charley +had made. From a far corner of the country he had read the story of +Charley's death; of the futile trial of the river-drivers afterwards, +ending in acquittal, and the subsequent discovery of the theft of the +widows' and orphans' trust-moneys. + +On this St. Jean Baptiste's day he was thinking of anything and +everything else but Charley Steele. Nothing could have been a better +advertisement for him than the perilous incident at the Red Ravine. +Falling backwards when the horse suddenly bolted, his head had struck +the medicine-chest, and he had lain insensible till brought back to +consciousness by the good offices of the voluble Colonel. He had not, +therefore, seen Charley. It was like him that his sense of gratitude to +the unknown tailor should be presently lost in exploiting the interest +he created in the parish. His piebald horse, his white "plug" hat, +his gaily painted wagon, his flamboyant manner, and, above all, the +marvellous tale of his escape from death, were more exciting to +the people of Chaudiere than the militia, the dancing-bears, the +shooting-galleries, or the boat-races. He could sing extremely well--had +he not trained his own choir when he was a parson? had not Billy +approved his comic songs?--and these comic songs, now sandwiched between +his cures and his sales, created much laughter. He cured headaches, +toothaches, rheumatism, and all sorts of local ailments "with despatch." +He miraculously juggled away pains by what he called his Pain Paint, and +he stopped a cough by a laugh and a dose of his Golden Pectoral. In the +exuberance of trade, which steadily increased till sundown, he gave no +thought to the tailor, to whom, however, he had sent by a messenger +a two-dollar bill and two bottles of Pain Paint, with the lordly +announcement that he would call in the evening and "present his +compliments and his thanks." The messenger left the Pain Paint on the +door-step of the tailor-shop, and the two dollars he promptly spent at +the Trois Couronnes. + +Rosalie Evanturel rescued the bottles from the doorstep and awaited +Charley's return to his shop, that she might take them over to him, and +so have an excuse to speak with him; for to-day her heart and mind were +full of him. He had done a brave thing for the medicine-man, and had +then fled from public gaze as a brave man should. There was no one to +compare with him. Not even the Cure was his superior in ability, and +certainly he was a greater man--though seemingly only a tailor--than M. +Rossignol. M. Rossignol--she flushed. Who could have believed that the +Seigneur would say those words to her this morning--to her, Rosalie +Evanturel, who hadn't five hundred dollars to her name? That she should +be asked to be Madame Rossignol! Confusion mingled with her simple +pride, and she ran out into the street, to where her father sat +listening to the medicine-man singing, in doubtful French: + + "I am a waterman bold, + Oh, I'm a waterman bold: + But for my lass I have great fear, + Yes, in the isles I have great fear, + For she is young, and I am old, + And she is bien gentille!" + +It was night now. The militia had departed, their Colonel roaring +commands at them out of a little red drill-book; the older people had +gone to their homes, but festive youth hovered round the booths and +sideshows, the majority enjoying themselves at some expense in the +medicine-man's encampment. + +As Rosalie ran towards the crowd she turned a wistful glance to the +tailor-shop. Not a sign of life there! She imagined M'sieu' to be at +Vadrome Mountain, until, glancing round the crowd at the quack-doctor's +wagon, she saw Jo Portugais gloomily watching the travelling tinker of +human bodies. Evidently M'sieu' was not at Vadrome Mountain. + +He was not far from her. At the side of the road, under a huge +maple-tree with wide-spreading branches, Charley stood and watched John +Brown performing behind the flaring oil-lights stuck on poles round his +wagon, his hat now on, now off; now singing a comic song in English---'I +found Y' in de Honeysuckle Paitch;' now a French chanson--'En Revenant +de St. Alban;' now treating a stiff neck or a bent back, or giving +momentary help to the palsy of an old man, or again making a speech. + +Charley was in touch again with the old life, but in a kind of fantasy +only--a staring, high-coloured dream. This man--John Brown--had gone +down before his old ironical questioning, had been, indirectly, the +means of disgracing his name. A step forward to that wagon, a word +uttered, a look, and he would have to face again the life he had put +by for ever, would have to meet a hard problem and settle it--to what +misery and tragedy, who might say? Under this tree he was M. Mallard, +the infidel tailor, whose life was slowly entering into the life of +this place called Chaudiere, slowly being acted upon by habit, which, +automatically repeated, at length becomes character. Out in that red +light, before that garish wagon, he would be Charley Steele, barrister, +'flaneur', and fop, who, according to the world, had misused a wife, +misled her brother, robbed widows and orphans, squandered a fortune, +become drunkard and wastrel, and at last had lost his life in +a disorderly tavern at the Cote Dorion. This man before him had +contributed to his disgrace; but once he had contributed to John Brown's +disgrace; and to-day he had saved John Brown's life. They were even. + +All the night before, all this morning, he had fought a fierce battle +with his past--with a raging thirst. The old appetite had swept over him +fiercely. All day he had moved in a fevered conflict, which had lifted +him away from the small movements of everyday life into a region where +only were himself and one strong foe, who tirelessly strove with him. In +his old life he had never had a struggle of any sort. His emotions had +been cloaked, his soul masked, there had been a film before his eyes, he +had worn an armour of selfishness on a life which had no deep problems, +because it had no deep feelings--a life never rising to the intellectual +prowess for which it was fitted, save when under the stimulus of liquor. + +From the moment he had waked from a long seven months' sleep in the +hut on Vadrome Mountain, new deep feelings had come to him as he faced +problems of life. Fighting had begun from that hour--a fighting which +was putting his nature through bitter mortal exercises, yet, too, giving +him a sense of being he had never known. He had now the sweetness of +earning daily bread by the work of his hands; of giving to the poor, the +needy, and the afflicted; of knowing for the first time in his life that +he was not alone in the world. Out of the grey dawn of life a woman's +voice had called to him; the look of her face had said to him: "Viens +ici! Viens ici!"--"Come to me! Come to me!" + +But with that call there was the answer of his soul, the desolating cry +of the dispossessed Lear--"--never--never--never--never!" + +He had not questioned himself concerning Rosalie--had dared not to do +so. But now, as he stood under the great tree, within hand-touch of the +old life, in imminent danger of being thrust back into it, the question +of Rosalie came upon him with all the force of months of feeling behind +it. Thus did he argue with himself: + +"Do I love her? And if I love her, what is to be done? Marry her, with +a wife living? Marry her while charged with a wretched crime? Would that +be love? But suppose I never were discovered, and we might live here for +ever, I as 'Monsieur Mallard,' in peace and quiet all the days of our +life? Would that be love?... Could there be love with a vital secret, +like, a cloud between, out of which, at any hour, might spring +discovery? Could I build our life upon a silence which must be a lie? +Would I not have to face the question, Does any one know cause or +just impediment why this woman should not be married to this man? Tell +Rosalie all, and let the law separate myself and Kathleen? That would +mean Billy's ruin and imprisonment, and Kathleen's shame, and it might +not bring Rosalir. She is a Catholic, and her Church would not listen to +it. Would I have the right to bring trouble into her life? To wrong one +woman should seem enough for one lifetime!" + +At that instant Rosalie, who had been on the outskirts of the crowd, +moved into his line of vision. The glare from the lights fell on her +face as she stood by her father's chair, looking curiously at the +quack-doctor who, having sold many bottles of his medicines, noy picked +up a guitar and began singing an old dialect chanson of Saintonge: + + "Voici, the day has come + When Rosette leaves her home! + With fear she walks in the sun, + For Raoul is ninety year, + And she not twenty-one. + La petit' Rosette, + She is not twenty-one. + + "He takes her by the hand, + And to the church they go; + By parents 'twas well meant, + But is Rosette content? + 'Tis gold and ninety year + She walks in the sun with fear, + La petit' Rosette, + Not twenty-one as yet!" + +Charley's eyes, which had watched her these months past, noted the +deepening colour of the face, the glow in the eyes, the glances of keen +but agitated interest towards the singer. He could not translate her +looks; and she, on her part, had she been compelled to do so, could only +have set down a confusion of sensations. + +In Rosette she saw herself, Rosalie Evanturel; in the man "de +quatre-vingt-dix ans," who was to marry this Rosette of Saintonge, she +saw M. Rossignol. Disconcerting pictures of a possible life with +the Seigneur flitted before her mind. She beheld herself, young, +fresh-cheeked, with life beating high and all the impulses of youth +panting to use, sitting at the head of the seigneury table. She saw +herself in the great pew at Mass, stiff with dignity, old in the way +of manorial pride--all laughter dead in her, all spring-time joy +overshadowed by the grave decorum of the Manor, all the imagination of +her dreaming spirit chilled by the presence of age, however kindly and +quaint and cheerful. + +She shuddered, and dropped her eyes upon the ground, as, to the laughter +and giggling of old and young gathered round the wagon, the medicine-man +sang: + + "He takes her by the hand, + And to her chamber fair--" + +Then, suddenly turning, she vanished into the night, followed by the +feeble inquiry of her father's eyes, the anxious look in Charley's. + +Charley could not read her tale. He had, however, a hot impulse +to follow and ask her if she would vanish from the scene if the +medicine-man should sing of Rosette and a man of thirty, not ninety, +years. The fight he had had all day with his craving for drink had made +him feverish, and all his emotions--unregulated, under the command of +his will only--were in high temperature. A reckless feeling seized him. +He would go to Rosalie, look into her eyes, and tell her that he loved +her, no matter what the penalty of fate. He had never loved a human +being, and the sudden impulse to cry out in the new language was driving +him to follow the girl whose spirit for ever called to him. + +He made a step forward to follow her, but stopped short, recalled to +caution and his danger by the voice of the medicine-man: + +"I had a friend once--good fellow, bad fellow, cleverest chap I ever +knew. Tremendous fop--ladies loved him--cheeks like roses--tongue like +sulphuric acid. Beautiful to look at. Clothes like a fashion-plate--got +any fashion-plates in Chaudiere? 'who's your tailor?'" he added, in the +slang of the hour, with a loud laugh, then stopped suddenly and took +off his hat. "I forgot," he added, with upturned eyes and a dramatic +seriousness, "your tailor saved my life to-day-henceforth I am the +friend of all tailors. Well, to continue. My friend that was--I call him +my friend, though he ruined me and ruined others,--didn't mean to, but +he did just the same,--he came to a bad end. But he was a great man +while he lived. And what I'm coming to is this, the song he used to sing +when, in youthful exuberance, we went on the war-path like our young +friend over there"--he pointed to a young habitant farmer, who was +trying hard to preserve equilibrium--"Brown's Golden Pectoral will cure +that cough, my friend!" he added, as the young man, gloomily ashamed of +the laughter of the crowd, hiccoughed and turned away to the tree under +which Charley Steele stood. "Well," he went on, "I was going to say +that my friend's name was Charley, and the song he used to sing when the +roosters waked the morn was called 'Champagne Charlie.' He was called +'Champagne Charlie'--till he came to a bad end." + +He twanged his guitar, cleared his throat, winked at Maximilian Cour the +baker, and began: + + "The way I gained my title's by a hobby which I've got + Of never letting others pay, however long the shot; + Whoever drinks at my expense is treated all the same; + Whoever calls himself my friend, I make him drink champagne. + Some epicures like Burgundy, Hock, Claret, and Moselle, + But Moet's vintage only satisfies this champagne swell. + What matter if I go to bed and head is muddled thick, + A bottle in the morning sets me right then very quick. + Champagne Charlie is my name; + Champagne Charlie is my name. + Who's the man with the heart so young, + Who's the man with the ginger tongue? + Champagne Charlie is his name!" + +Under the tree, Charley Steele listened to this jaunty epitaph on his +old self. At the first words of the coarse song there rushed on him +the dreaded thirst. He felt his veins beating with desire, with anger, +disgust, and shame; for there was John Brown, to the applause of the +crowd, imitating his old manner, his voice, his very look. He started +forward, but the drunken young habitant lurched sideways under the tree +and collapsed upon the ground, a bottle of whiskey falling out of his +pocket and rolling almost to his own feet. + + "Champagne Charlie is my name," + +sang the medicine-man. All Charley's old life surged up in him as +dyked water suddenly bursts bounds and spreads destruction. He had an +uncontrollable impulse. As a starving animal snatches at the first food +offered it, he stooped, with a rattle in his throat, seized the bottle, +uncorked it, put it to his lips, and drank--drank--drank. + +Then he turned and plunged away into the trees. The sound of the song +followed him. It came to him, the last refrain, sung loudly to the +laughter of the crowd, in imitation of his own voice as it used to +be--it had been a different voice during this past year. He turned with +headlong intention, and, as the last notes of the song and the applause +that followed it, died away, threw back his head and sang out of the +darkness: + + "Champagne Charlie is my name--" + +With a shrill laugh, like the half-mad cry of an outcast soul, he flung +away farther into the trees. + +There was a sudden silence. The crowd turned with half-apprehensive +laughter to the trees. Upon John Brown the effect was startling. His +face blanched, his eyes grew large with terror, his mouth opened in +helpless agitation. Charley Steele was lying under the waters of the +great river, his bones rotting there for a year, yet here was his voice +coming out of the night, in response to his own grotesque imitation of +the dead man. Seeing his agitation, women turned pale, men felt their +flesh creep, imagination gave a thrilling coldness to the air. For a +moment the silence was unbroken. Then John Brown stretched out his hand +and said, in a hoarse whisper: + +"It was his voice--Charley's voice, and he's been dead a year!" + +Within half-an-hour, in utter collapse and fright, he was being driven +to the next parish by two young habitants whom he paid to accompany him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. OUT ON THE OLD TRAIL. + +There was one person in the crowd surrounding the medicine-man's wagon +who had none of that superstitious thrill which had scattered the +habitants into little awe-stricken groups, and then by twos and threes +to their homes; none of that fear which had reduced the quack-doctor to +such nervous collapse that he would not spend the night in the village. +Jo Portugais had recognised the voice--that of Charley Steele the lawyer +who had saved him from hanging years ago. It was little like the voice +of M'sieu'! There was that in it which frightened him. He waited until +he had seen the quackdoctor start for the next parish, then he went +slowly down the street. There were people still about, so he walked on +towards the river. When he returned, the street was empty. Keeping in +the shadow of the trees, he went to Charley's house. There was a light +in a window. He went to the back door and tried it. It was not locked, +and, without knocking, he stepped inside the kitchen. Here was no light, +and he passed into the hallway and on to a little room opening from the +tailorshop. He knocked; then, not waiting for response, opened the door +and entered. + +Charley was standing before a mirror, holding a pair of scissors. He +turned abruptly, and said forbiddingly: "I am at my toilet!" + +Then, turning again to the mirror, with a shrug of the shoulders, he +raised the shears to his beard. Before he could use them, Jo's hand was +on his arm. + +"Stop that, M'sieu'!" he said huskily. + +Charley had drunk nearly a whole bottle of cheap whiskey within an hour. +He was intoxicated, but, as had ever been the case with him, his brain +was working clearly, his hand was steady; he was in that wide dream +of clear-seeing and clear-knowing which, in old days, had given him +glimpses of the real life from which, in the egotism of the non-intime, +he had been shut out. Looking at Jo now, he was possessed by a composed +intoxication like that in which he had moved during that last night at +the Cote Dorion. + +But now, with the baleful crust of egotism gone, with every nerve of +life exposed, with conscience struggling to its feet from the torpor of +thirty-odd vacant years, he was as two men in one, with different lives +and different souls, yet as inseparable in their misery as those poor +victims of Gallic tyranny, chained back to back and thrown into the +Seine. + +Jo's words, insistent and eager, suddenly roused in him some old memory, +which stayed his hand. + +"Why should I stop?" he asked quietly, and smiling that smile which had +infuriated the river-drivers at the Cote Dorion. + +"Are you going back, M'sieu?" + +"Back where?" Charley's eyes were fixed on Jo with a penetrating +intensity, heightened to a strange abstraction, as though he saw not Jo +alone, but something great distances beyond. + +Jo did not answer this question directly. "Some one came to-day--he is +gone; some one may come to-morrow--and stay," he said meaningly. + +Charley went over to the fire and sat down on a bench, opening and +shutting the scissors mechanically. Jo was in the light, and Charley's +eyes again studied him hard. + +His memory was industriously feeling its way into the baffling distance. + +"What if some one did come-and stay?" he urged quietly. + +"You might be recognised without the beard." + +"What difference would it make?" Charley's memory was creeping close to +the hidden door. It was feeling-feeling for the latch. + +"You know best, M'sieu'." + +"But what do you know?" Charley's face now had a strained look, and he +touched his lips with his tongue. "What John Brown knows, M'sieu'." + +There flashed across Charley's mind the fatal newspaper he had read on +the day he awakened to memory again in the but on Vadrome Mountain. He +remembered that he had put it in the fire. But Jo might have read it +before it was spread upon the bench-put it there of purpose for him to +read. Yet what reason could Jo have for being silent, for hiding his +secret? + +There was silence for a space, in which Charley's eyes were like +unmoving sparks of steel. He did not see Jo's face--it was in a mist--he +was searching, searching, searching. All at once he felt the latch of +the hidden door under his finger; he saw a court-room, a judge and jury, +and hundreds of excited faces, himself standing in the midst. He saw +twelve men file slowly into the room and take their seats-all save one, +who stood still in his place and said: "Not guilty, your Honour!" He +saw the prisoner leave the box and step down a free man. He saw himself +coming out into the staring summer day. He watched the prisoner come to +him and touch his arm, and say: "Thank you, M'sieu'. You have saved my +life." He saw himself turn to this man: + +He roused from his trance, he staggered to his feet, the shears rattled +to the floor. Lurching forward, he caught Jo Portugais by the throat, +and said, as he had said outside the court-room years ago: + +"Get out of my sight. You're as guilty as hell!" + +His grip tightened--tightened on Jo's throat. Jo did not move, though +his face grew black. Then, suddenly, the hands relaxed, a bluish +paleness swept over the face, and Charley fell sidewise to the floor +before Jo could catch him. + +All night, alone, the murderer struggled with death over the body of the +lawyer who had saved his life. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. THE SEIGNEUR GIVES A WARNING + +Rosalie had watched a shut door for five days--a door from which, for +months past, had come all the light and glow of her life. It framed a +figure which had come to represent to her all that meant hope and soul +and conscience-and love. The morning after St. Jean Baptiste's day +she had awaited the opening door, but it had remained closed. Ensued +watchful hours, and then from Jo Portugais she had learned that M'sieu' +had been ill and near to death. She had been told the weird story of the +medicine-man and the ghostly voice, and, without reason, she took the +incident as a warning, and associated it with the man across the way. +She was come of a superstitious race, and she herself had heard and seen +things of which she never had been able to speak--the footsteps in the +church the night she had screwed the little cross to the door again; +the tiny round white light by the door of the church; the hood which had +vanished into the unknown. One mystery fed another. It seemed to her as +if some dreadful event were forward; and all day she kept her eyes fixed +on the tailor's door. + +Dead--if M'sieu' should die! If M'sieu' should die--it needed all her +will to prevent herself from going over and taking things in her +own hands, being his nurse, his handmaid, his slave. Duty--to the +government, to her father? Her heart cried out that her duty lay where +all her life was eddying to one centre. What would the world say? She +was not concerned for that, save for him. What, then, would M'sieu' say? +That gave her pause. The Seigneur's words the day before had driven her +back upon a tide of emotions which carried her far out upon that sea +where reason and life's conventions are derelicts, where Love sails with +reckless courage down the shoreless main. + +"If I could only be near him!" she kept saying to herself. "It is my +right. I would give my life, my soul for his. I was with him before when +his life was in danger. It was my hand that saved him. It was my love +that tended him. It was my soul that kept his secret. It was my faith +that spoke for him. It was my heart that ached for him. It is my heart +that aches for him now as none other in all the world can. No one on +earth could care as I care. Who could there be?" Something whispered in +her ear, "Kathleen!" The name haunted her, as the little cross had done. +Misery and anger possessed her, and she fought on with herself through +dark hours. + +Thus five days had gone, until at last a wagon was brought to the door +of the tailor-shop, and M'sieu' came out, leaning on the arm of Jo +Portugais. There were several people in the street at the time, and they +kept whispering that M'sieu' had been at death's door. He was pale and +haggard, with dark hollows under the eyes. Just as he got into the wagon +the Cure came up. They shook hands. The Cure looked him earnestly in the +face, his lips moved, but no one could have told what he said. As the +wagon started, Charley looked across to the post-office. Rosalie was +standing a little back from the door, but she stepped forward now. Their +eyes met. Her heart beat faster, for there was a look in his eyes she +had never seen before--a look of human helplessness, of deep anxiety. It +was meant for her--for herself alone. She could not trust herself to go +and speak to him. She felt that she must burst into tears. So, with a +look of pity and pain, she watched the wagon go down the street. + +Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!--the Seigneur's gold-headed cane rattled on the +front door of the tailor-shop. It was plain to be seen his business was +urgent. + +Madame Dauphin came hurrying from the postoffice, followed by Maximilian +Cour and Filion Lacasse. "Ah, M'sieu', the tailor will not answer. +There's no use knocking--not a bit, M'sieu' Rossignol," said Madame. + +The Seigneur turned querulously upon the Notary's wife, yet with a glint +of hard humour in his eye. He had no love for Madame Dauphin. He thought +she took unfair advantages of M. Dauphin, whom also he did not love, but +whose temperament did him credit. + +"How should Madame know whether or no the gentleman will answer? Does +Madame share the gentleman's confidence, perhaps?" he remarked. + +Madame did not reply at once. She turned on the saddler and the baker. +"I hope you'll learn a lesson," she cried triumphantly. "I've always +said the tailor was quite the gentleman; and now you see how your +betters call him. No, M'sieu', the gentleman will not answer," she added +to the Seigneur. + +"He is in bed yet, Madame?" + +"His bed is empty there, M'sieu'," she said, impressively, and pointing. + +"I suppose I should trust you in this matter; I suppose you should know. +But, Dauphin--what does Dauphin say?" + +The saddler laughed outright. Maximilian Cour suddenly blushed in +sympathy with Madame Dauphin, who now saw the drift of the Seigneur's +remarks, and was sensibly agitated, as the Seigneur had meant her to be. +Had she not turned Dauphin's human sympathies into a crime? Had not +the Notary supported the Seigneur in his friendly offices to Paulette +Dubois; and had not Madame troubled her husband's life because of it? +Madame bridled up now--with discretion, for it was not her cue to offend +the Seigneur. + +"All the village knows his bed's empty there, M'sieu'," she said, with +tightening lips. + +"I am subtracted from the total, then?" he asked drily. + +"You have been away for the last five days--" + +"Come, now, how did you know that?" + +"Everybody knows it. You went away with the Colonel and the soldiers on +St. Jean Baptiste's day. Since then M'sieu' the tailor has been ill. I +should think Mrs. Flynn would have told you that, M'sieu'." + +"H'm! Would you? Well, Mrs. Flynn has been away too--and you didn't know +that! What is the matter with Monsieur Mallard?" + +"Some kind of fever. On St. Jean Baptiste's day he was taken ill, and +that animal Portugais took care of him all night--I wonder how M'sieu' +can have the creature about! That St. Jean Baptiste's night was an awful +night. Have you heard of what happened, M'sieu'? Ghost or no ghost--" + +"Come, come, I want to know about the tailor, not of ghosts," +impatiently interrupted the Seigneur. "Tiens! M'sieu', the tailor was +ill for three days here, and he would let no one except the Cure and Jo +Portugais near him. I went myself to clean up and make some broth, but +that toad of a Portugais shut the door in my face. The Cure told us to +go home and leave M'sieu' with Portugais. He must be very sick to have +that black sheep about him--and no doctor either." + +The saddler spoke up now. "I took him a bottle of good brandy and some +buttermilk-pop and seed cake--I would give him a saddle if he had a +horse--he got my thousand dollars for me! Well, he took them, but what +do you think? He sent them right off to the shantyman, Gugon, who has a +broken leg. Infidel or no, I'm on his side for sure. And God blesses a +cheerful giver, I'm told." + +It was the baker's chance, and he took it. "I played 'The Heart Bowed +Down'-it is English-under his window, two nights ago, and he sent word +for me to come and play it again in the kitchen. Ah, that is a good +song, 'The Heart Bowed Down.'" + +"You'd be a better baker if you fiddled less," said Madame Dauphin, +annoyed at being dropped out of the conversation. + +"The soul must be fed, Madame," rejoined the baker, with asperity. + +"Where is the tailor now?" said the Seigneur shortly. "At Portugais's on +Vadrome Mountain. They say he looked like a ghost when he went. Rosalie +Evanturel saw him, but she has no tongue in her head this morning," +added Madame. + +The Seigneur moved away. "Good-bye to you--I am obliged to you, Madame. +Good-bye, Lacasse. Come and fiddle to me some night, Cour." + +He bowed to the obsequious three, and then bent his steps towards the +post-office. They seemed about to follow him, but he stopped them with a +look. The men raised their bonnets-rouges, the woman bowed low, and the +Seigneur entered the post-office door. + +From the shadows of the office Rosalie had watched the little group +before the door of the tailor-shop. She saw the Seigneur coming across +the street. Suddenly she flushed deeply, for there came to her mind the +song the quack-doctor sang: + + "Voila, the day has come + When Rosette leaves her home! + With fear she walks in the sun, + For Raoul is ninety year, + And she not twenty-one." + +As M. Rossignol's figure darkened the doorway, she pretended to be busy +behind the wicket, and not to see him. He was not sure, but he +thought it quite possible that she had seen him coming, and he put her +embarrassment down to shyness. Naturally the poor child was not given +the chance every day to receive an offer of marriage from a seigneur. +He had made up his mind that she would be sure to accept him if he asked +her a second time. + +"Ah, Ma'm'selle Rosalie," he said gaily, "what have you to say that you +should not come before a magistrate at once?" + +"Nothing, if Monsieur Rossignol is to be the magistrate," she replied, +with forced lightness. + +"Good!" He looked at her quizzically through his gold-handled glass. "I +can't frighten you, I see. Well, you must wait a little; you shall be +sworn in postmistress in three days." His voice lowered, became more +serious. "Tell me," he said, "do you know what is the matter with the +gentleman across the way?" Turning, he looked across to the tailor-shop, +as though he expected "the gentleman" to appear, and he did not see her +turn pale. When his look fell on her again, she was self-controlled. + +"I do not know, Monsieur." + +"You have been opposite him here these months past--did you ever see +anything not--not as it should be?" + +"With him, Monsieur? Never." + +"It is as though the infidel behaved like a good Catholic and a +Christian?" + +"There are good Catholics in Chaudiere who do not behave like +Christians." + +"What would you say, for instance, about his past?" + +"What should I say about his past, Monsieur? What should I know?" + +"You should know more than any one else in Chaudiere. The secrets of his +breast might well be bared to you." + +She started and crimsoned. Before her eyes there came a mist obscuring +the Seigneur, and for an instant shutting out the world. The secrets of +his breast--what did he mean? Did he know that on Monsieur's breast was +the red scar which... + +M. Rossignol's voice seemed coming from an infinite distance, and as it +came, the mist slowly passed from her eyes. + +"You will know, Mademoiselle Rosalie," he was saying, "that while I +suggested that the secrets of his breast might well be bared to you, I +meant that as an honest lady and faithful postmistress they were not. It +was my awkward joke--a stupid gambolling by an old man who ought to know +better." + +She did not answer, and he continued: + +"You know that you are trusted. Pray accept my apologies." + +She was herself again. "Monsieur," she said quietly; "I know nothing of +his past. I want to know nothing. It does not seem to me that it is my +business. The world is free for a man to come and go in, if he keeps the +law and does no ill--is it not? But, in any case, I know nothing. Since +you have said so much, I shall say this, and betray no 'secrets of his +breast'--that he has received no letter through this office since the +day he first came from Vadrome Mountain." + +The Seigneur smiled. "A wonderful tailor! How does he carry on business +without writing letters?" + +"There was a large stock of everything left by Louis Trudel, and not +long ago a commercial traveller was here with everything." + +"You think he has nothing to hide, then?" + +"Have not we all something to hide--with or without shame?" she asked +simply. + +"You have more sense than any woman in Chaudiere, Mademoiselle." + +She shook her head, yet she raised her eyes gratefully to him. + +"I put faith in what you say," he continued. "Now listen. My brother, +the Abbe, chaplain to the Archbishop, is coming here. He has heard of +'the infidel' of our parish. He is narrow and intolerant--the Abbe. He +is going to stir up trouble against the tailor. We are a peaceful people +here, and like to be left alone. We are going on very well as we are. So +I wanted to talk to Monsieur to-day. I must make up my own mind how to +act. The tailor-shop is the property of the Church. An infidel occupies +it, so it is said; the Abbe does not like that. I believe there are +other curious suspicions about Monsieur: that he is a robber, or +incendiary, or something of the sort. The Abbe may take a stand, and the +Cure's position will be difficult. What is more, my brother has friends +here, fanatics like himself. He has been writing to them. They are men +capable of doing unpleasant things--the Abbe certainly is. It is fair to +warn the tailor. Shall I leave it to you? Do not frighten him. But there +is no doubt he should be warned--fair play, fair play! I hear nothing +but good of him from those whose opinions I value. But, you see, every +man's history in this parish and in every parish of the province is +known. This man, for us, has no history. The Cure even admits there are +some grounds for calling him an infidel, but, as you know, he would keep +the man here, not drive him out from among us. I have not told the Cure +about the Abbe yet. I wished first to talk with you. The Abbe may come +at any moment. I have been away, and only find his letters to-day." + +"You wish me to tell Monsieur?" interrupted Rosalie, unable to hold +silence any longer. More than once during the Seigneur's disclosure she +had felt that she must cry out and fiercely repel the base insinuations +against the man she loved. + +"You would do it with discretion. You are friendly with him, are you +not?--you talk with him now and then?" + +She inclined her head. "Very well, Monsieur. I will go to Vadrome +Mountain to-morrow," she said quietly. Anger, apprehension, indignation, +possessed her, but she held herself firmly. The Seigneur was doing a +friendly thing; and, in any case, she could have no quarrel with him. +There was danger to the man she loved, however, and every faculty was +alive. + +"That's right. He shall have his chance to evade the Abbe if he wishes," +answered M. Rossignol. + +There was silence for a moment, in which she was scarcely conscious of +his presence; then he leaned over the counter towards her, and spoke in +a low voice. + +"What I said the other day I meant. I do not change my mind--I am too +old for that. Yet I'm young enough to know that you may change yours." + +"I cannot change, Monsieur," she said tremblingly. + +"But you will change. I knew your mother well, I know how anxious she +was for your future. I told her once that I should keep an eye on you +always. Her father was my father's good friend. I knew you when you were +in the cradle--a little brown-haired babe. I watched you till you went +to the convent. I saw you come back to take up the duties which your +mother laid down, alas!--" + +"Monsieur--!" she said choking, and with a troubled little gesture. + +"You must let me speak, Rosalie. We got your father this post-office. +It is a poor living, but it keeps a roof over your head. You have never +failed us you have always fulfilled our hopes. But the best years of +your life are going, and your education and your nature have not their +chance. Oh, I've not watched you all these years for nothing. I never +meant to ask you to marry me. It came to me, though, all at once, and I +know that it has been in my mind all these years--far back in my mind. I +don't ask you for my own sake alone. Your father may grow very ill--who +can tell what may happen!" + +"I should be postmistress still," she said sadly. + +"As a young girl you could not have the responsibility here alone. And +you should not waste your life it is a fine, full spirit; let the lean, +the poor-spirited, go singly. You should be mated. You can't marry +any of the young farmers of Chaudiere. 'Tis impossible. I can give you +enough for any woman's needs--the world may be yours to see and use to +your heart's content. I can give, too"--he drew himself up proudly--"the +unused emotions of a lifetime." This struck him as a very fine and +important thing to say. + +"Ah, Monsieur, that is not enough," she responded. + +"What more can you want?" + +She looked up with a tearful smile. "I will tell you one day, Monsieur." + +"What day?" + +"I have not picked it out in the calendar." + +"Fix the day, and I will wait till then. I will not open my mouth again +till then." + +"Michaelmas day, then, Monsieur," she answered mechanically and at +haphazard, but with an urged gaiety, for a great depression was on her. + +"Good. Till Michaelmas day, then!" He pulled his long nose, laughing +silently.... "I leave the tailor in your hands. Give every man his +chance, I say. The Abbe is a hard man, but our hearts are soft--eh, eh, +very soft!" He raised his hat and turned to the door. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. THE WILD RIDE + +There had been a fierce thunder-storm in the valley of the Chaudiere. +It had come suddenly from the east, had shrieked over the village, +levelling fences, carrying away small bridges, and ending in a pelting +hail, which whitened the ground with pebbles of ice. It had swept up to +Vadrome Mountain, and had marched furiously through the forest, carrying +down hundreds of trees, drowning the roars of wild animals and the +crying and fluttering of birds. One hour of ravage and rage, and then, +spent and bodiless, the storm crept down the other side of the mountain +and into the next parish, whither the affrighted quack-doctor had +betaken himself. After, a perfect calm, a shining sun, and a sweet smell +over all the land, which had thirstily drunk the battering showers. + +In the house on Vadrome Mountain the tailor of Chaudiere had watched the +storm with sympathetic interest. It was in accord with his own feelings. +He had had a hard fight for months past, and had gone down in the storm +of his emotions one night when a song called Champagne Charlie had had a +weird and thrilling antiphonal. There had been a subsequent debacle for +himself, and then a revelation concerning Jo Portugais. Ensued hours +and days, wherein he had fought a desperate fight with the present--with +himself and the reaction from his dangerous debauch. + +The battle for his life had been fought for him by this gloomy woodsman +who henceforth represented his past, was bound to him by a measureless +gratitude, almost a sacrament--of the damned. Of himself he had played +no conscious part in it till the worst was over. On the one side was the +Cure, patient, gentle, friendly, never pushing forward the Faith which +the good man dreamed should give him refuge and peace; on the other +side was the murderer, who typified unrest, secretiveness, an awful +isolation, and a remorse which had never been put into words or acts of +restitution. For six days the tailor-shop and the life at Chaudiere had +been things almost apart from his consciousness. Ever-recurring +memories of Rosalie Evanturel were driven from his mind with a painful +persistence. In the shadows where his nature dwelt now he would not +allow her good innocence and truth to enter. His self-reproach was the +more poignant because it was silent. + +Watching the tempest-swept valley, the tortured forest, where wild life +was in panic, there came upon him the old impulse to put his thoughts +into words, "and so be rid of them," as he was wont to say in other +days. Taking from his pocket some slips of paper, he laid them on the +table before him. Three or four times he leaned over the paper to write, +but the noise of the storm again and again drew his look to the window. +The tempest ceased almost as suddenly as it had come, and, as the first +sunlight broke through the flying clouds, he mechanically lifted a sheet +of the paper and held it up to the light. It brought to his eyes the +large water-mark, Kathleen! + +A sombre look passed over his face, he shifted in his chair, then bent +over the paper and began to write. Words flowed from his pen. The lines +of his face relaxed, his eyes lightened; he was lost in a dream. He +thought of the present, and he wrote: + + "Wave walls to seaward, + Storm-clouds to leeward, + Beaten and blown by the winds of the West; + Sail we encumbered + Past isles unnumbered, + But never to greet the green island of Rest." + +He thought of Father Loisel. He had seen the good man's lips tremble at +some materialistic words he had once used in their many talks, and he +wrote: + + "Lips that now tremble, + Do you dissemble + When you deny that the human is best?-- + Love, the evangel, + Finds the Archangel? + Is that a truth when this may be a jest? + + "Star-drifts that glimmer + Dimmer and dimmer, + What do ye know of my weal or my woe? + Was I born under + The sun or the thunder? + What do I come from? and where do I go? + + "Rest, shall it ever + Come? Is endeavour + But a vain twining and twisting of cords? + Is faith but treason; + Reason, unreason, + But a mechanical weaving of words?" + +He thought of Louis Trudel, in his grave, and his own questioning: "Show +me a sign from Heaven, tailorman!" and he wrote: + + "What is the token, + Ever unbroken, + Swept down the spaces of querulous years, + Weeping or singing + That the Beginning + Of all things is with us, and sees us, and hears?" + +He made an involuntary motion of his hand to his breast, where old Louis +Trudel had set a sign. So long as he lived, it must be there to read: +a shining smooth scar of excoriation, a sacred sign of the faith he had +never been able to accept; of which he had never, indeed, been able to +think, so distant had been his soul, until, against his will, his +heart had answered to the revealing call in a woman's eyes. He felt her +fingers touch his breast as they did that night the iron seared him; and +out of this first intimacy of his soul he wrote: + + "What is the token? + Bruised and broken, + Bend I my life to a blossoming rod? + Shall then the worst things + Come to the first things, + Finding the best of all, last of all, God?" + +Like the cry of his "Aphrodite," written that last afternoon of the old +life, this plaint ended with the same restless, unceasing question. But +there was a difference. There was no longer the material, distant +note of a pagan mind; there was the intimate, spiritual note of a mind +finding a foothold on the submerged causeway of life and time. + +As he folded up the paper to put it into his pocket, Jo Portugais +entered the room. He threw in a corner the wet bag which had protected +his shoulders from the rain, hung his hat on a peg of the chimney-piece, +nodded to Charley, and put a kettle on the little fire. + +"A big storm, M'sieu'," Jo said presently as he put some tea into a pot. + +"I have never seen a great storm in a forest before," answered Charley, +and came nearer to the window through which the bright sun streamed. + +"It always does me good," said Jo. "Every bird and beast is awake and +afraid and trying to hide, and the trees fall, and the roar of it like +the roar of the chasse-galerie on the Kimash River." + +"The Kimash River--where is it?" + +Jo shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows!" + +"Is it a legend, then?" + +"It is a river." + +"And the chasse-galerie?" + +"That is true, M'sieu', no matter what any one thinks. I know; I have +seen--I have seen with my own eyes." Jo was excited now. + +"I am listening." He took a cup of tea from Portugais and drank eagerly. + +"The Kimash River, M'sieu', that is the river in the air. On it is the +chasse-galerie. You sell your soul to the devil; you ask him to help +you; you deny God. You get into a canoe and call on the devil. You are +lifted up, canoe and all, and you rush on down rapids, over falls, on +the Kimash River in the air. The devil stands behind you and shouts, and +you sing, 'V'la! l'bon vent! V'la l'joli vent!' On and on you go, faster +and faster, and you forget the world, and you forget yourself, and +the devil is with you in the air--in the chasse-galerie on the Kimash +River." + +"Jo," said Charley Steele, "do you honestly think there's a river like +that?" + +'M'sieu', I know it. I saw Ignace Latoile, who robbed a priest and got +drunk on the communion wine--I saw him with the devil in the Black Canoe +at the Saguenay. I could see Ignace; I could see the devil; I could see +the Kimash River. I shall ride myself some day. + +"Ride where?" + +"What does it matter where?" + +"Why should you ride?" + +"Because you ride fast with the devil." + +"What is the good of riding fast?" + +"In the rush a man forget." + +"What does he forget, my friend?" + +There was a pause, in which a man with a load of crime upon his soul +dwelt upon the words my friend, coming from the lips of one who knew the +fulness of his iniquity. Then he answered: + +"In the noise he forget that a voice is calling in his ear, 'You did +It!' He forget what he see in his dreams. He forget the hand that touch +him on the arm when he walk in the woods alone, or lie down to sleep at +night, no one near. He forget that some one wait--wait--wait, till he +has suffer long enough, or till, one day, he think he is happy again, +and the Thing he did is far off like a dream--to drag him out to the +death he did not die. He forget that he is alone--all alone in the +world, for ever and ever and ever." + +He suddenly sank upon the floor beside Charley, and a groan burst from +his lips. "To have no friend--ah, it is so awful!" he said. "Never to +see a face that look into yours, and know how bad are you, and doesn't +mind. For five years I have live like that. I cannot let any one be +my friend because I was that! They seem to know--everything, +everybody--what I am. The little children when I pass them run away to +hide. I have wake in the night and cry out in fear, it is so lonely. I +have hear voices round me in the woods, and I run and run and run from +them, and not leave them behind. Three times I go to the jails in Quebec +to see the prisoners behind the bars, and watch the pains on their +faces, to understand what I escape. Five times have I go to the courts +to listen to murderers tried, and watch them when the Jury say Guilty! +and the Judge send them to death--that I might know. Twice have I go to +see murderers hung. Once I was helper to the hangman, that I might hear +and know what the man said, what he felt. When the arms were bound, I +felt the straps on my own; when the cap come down, I gasp for breath; +when the bolt is shot, I feel the wrench and the choke, and shudder go +through myself--feel the world jerk out in the dark. When the body is +bundled in the pit, I see myself lie still under the quick-lime with the +red mark round my throat." + +Charley touched him on the shoulder. "Jo--poor Jo, my friend!" he said. +Jo raised his eyes, red with an unnatural fire, deep with gratitude. + +"As I sit at my dinner, with the sun shining and the woods green and +glad, and all the world gay, I have see what happened all over again. +I have see his strong hands; his bad face laugh at my words; I have see +him raise his riding-whip and cut me across the head. I have see him +stagger and fall from the blows I give him with the knife--the knife +which never was found--why, I not know, for I throw it on the ground +beside him! There, as I sit in the open day, a thousand times I have +see him shiver and fall, staring, staring at me as if he see a dreadful +thing. Then I stand up again and strike at him--at his ghost!--as I did +that day in the woods. Again I see him lie in his blood, straight and +white--so large, so handsome, so still! I have shed tears--but what are +tears! Blind with tears I have call out for the devils of hell to take +me with them. I have call on God to give me death. I have prayed, and I +have cursed. Twice I have travelled to the grave where he lies. I have +knelt there and have beg him to tell the truth to God, and say that he +torture me till I kill him. I have beg him to forgive me and to haunt +me no more with his bad face. But never--never--never--have I one quiet +hour until you come, M'sieu'; nor any joy in my heart till I tell you +the black truth--M'sieu'! M'sieu!" + +He buried his face between Charley's feet, and held them with his hands. + +Charley laid a hand on the shaggy head as though it were that of a +child. "Be still--be still, Jo," he said gently. + +Since that night of St. Jean Baptiste's festival, no word of the past, +of the time when Charley turned aside the revanche of justice from a man +called Joseph Nadeau, had been spoken between them. Out of the delirium +of his drunken trance had come Charley's recognition of the man he knew +now as Jo Portugais. But the recognition had been sent again into the +obscurity whence it came, and had not been mentioned since. To outward +seeming they had gone on as before. As Charley saw the knotted brows, +the staring eyes, the clinched hands, the figure of the woodsman rigid +in its agony of remorse, he said to himself: "What right had I to save +this man's life? To have paid for his crime would have been easier for +him. I knew he was guilty. Perhaps it was my duty to see that every +condition, to the last shade of the law, was satisfied, but was it +justice to the poor devil himself? There he sits with a load on him that +weighs him down every hour of his life. I called him back; I gave him +life; but I gave him memory and remorse, and the ghosts that haunt +him: the voice in his ear, the touch on his arm, the some one that is +'waiting--waiting--waiting!' That is what I did, and that is what +the brother of the Cure did for me. He drew me back. He knew I was +a drunkard, but he drew me back. I might have been a murderer like +Portugais. The world says I was a thief, and a thief I am until I prove +to the world I am innocent--and wreck three lives! How much of Jo's +guilt is guilt? How much remorse should a man suffer to pay the debt +of a life? If the law is an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, how +much hourly remorse and torture, such as Jo's, should balance the eye or +the tooth or the life? I wonder, now!" + +He leaned over, and, helping Jo to his feet, gently forced him down upon +a bench near. "All right, Jo, my friend," he said. "I understand. We'll +drink the gall together." + +They sat and looked at each other in silence. + +At length Charley leaned over and touched Jo on the shoulder. + +"Why did you want to save yourself?" he said. + +At that instant there was a knock at the door, and a voice said: +"Monsieur!--Monsieur!" + +Jo sprang to his feet with a sharp exclamation, then went heavily to the +door and threw it open. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. ROSALIE WARNS CHARLEY + +Charley's eyes met Rosalie's with a look the girl had never seen in them +before. It gave a glow to his haggard face. + +Rosalie turned to Jo and greeted him with a friendlier manner than was +her wont towards him. The nearer she was to Charley, the farther away +from him, to her mind, was Portugais, and she became magnanimous. + +Jo nodded' awkwardly and left the room. Looking after the departing +figure, Rosalie said: "I know he has been good to you, but--but do you +trust him, Monsieur?" + +"Does not everybody in Chaudiere trust him?" + +"There is one who does not, though perhaps that's of no consequence." + +"Why do you not trust him?" + +"I don't know. I never knew him do a bad thing; I never heard of a bad +thing he has done; and--he has been good to you." + +She paused, flushing as she felt the significance of her words, and +continued: "Yet there is--I cannot tell what. I feel something. It is +not reasonable to go upon one's feelings; but there it is, and so I do +not trust him." + +"It is the way he lives, here in these lonely woods--the mystery around +him." + +A change passed over her. With the first glow of meeting the object of +her visit had receded, though since her last interview with the Seigneur +she had not rested a moment, in her anxiety to warn him of his danger. +"Oh, no," she said, lifting her eyes frankly to his: "oh, no, Monsieur! +It is not that. There is mystery about you!" She felt her heart beating +hard. It almost choked her, but she kept on bravely. "People say strange +and bad things about you. No one knows"--she trembled under the painful +inquiry of his eyes. Then she gained courage and went on, for she must +make it clear she trusted him, that she took him at his word, before she +told him of the peril before him--"No one knows where you came from... +and it is nobody's business. Some people do not believe in you. But I +believe in you--I should believe in you if every one doubted; for there +is no feeling in me that says, 'He has done some wicked thing +that stands-between us.' It isn't the same as with Portugais, you +see--naturally, it could not be the same." + +She seemed not to realise that she was telling more of her own heart +than she had ever told. It was a revelation, having its origin in an +honesty which impelled a pure outspokenness to himself. Reserve, of +course, there had been elsewhere, for did not she hold a secret with +him? Had she not hidden things, equivocated else where? Yet it had been +at his wish, to protect the name of a dead man, for the repose of whose +soul masses were now said, with expensive candles burning. For this she +had no repentance; she was without logic where this man's good was at +stake. + +Charley had before him a problem, which he now knew he never could evade +in the future. He could solve it by none of the old intellectual means, +but by the use of new faculties, slowly emerging from the unexplored +fastnesses of his nature. + +"Why should you believe in me?" he asked, forcing himself to smile, yet +acutely alive to the fact that a crisis was impending. "You, like all +down there in Chaudiere, know nothing of my past, are not sure that I +haven't been a hundred times worse than you think poor Jo there. I may +have been anything. You may be harbouring a man the law is tracking +down." + +In all that befell Rosalie Evanturel thereafter, never could come such +another great resolute moment. There was nothing to support her in the +crisis but her own faith. It needed high courage to tell this man who +had first given her dreams, then imagination, hope, and the beauty of +doing for another's well-being rather than for her own--to tell this man +that he was a suspected criminal. Would he hate her? Would his kindness +turn to anger? Would he despise her for even having dared to name the +suspicion which was bringing hither an austere Abbe and officers of the +law? + +"We are harbouring a man the law is tracking down," she said with an +infinite appeal in her eyes. + +He did not quite understand. He thought that perhaps she meant Jo, and +he glanced towards the door; but she kept her eyes on him, and they +told him that she meant himself. He chilled, as though ether were being +poured through his veins. + +Did the world know, then, that Charley Steele was alive? Was the law +sending its officers to seize the embezzler, the ruffian who had robbed +widow and orphan? + +If it were so.... To go back to the world whence he came, with the +injury he must do to others, and the punishment also that he must +suffer, if he did not tell the truth about Billy! And Chaudiere, which, +in spite of all, was beginning to have a real belief in him--where was +his contempt for the world now!... And Rosalie, who trusted him--this +new element rapidly grew dominant in his thoughts-to be the common +criminal in her eyes! + +His paleness gave way to a flush as like her own as could be. + +"You mean me?" he asked quietly. + +She had thought that his flush meant anger, and she was surprised at the +quiet tone. She nodded assent. "For what crime?" he asked. + +"For stealing." + +His heart seemed to stand still. Then, it had come in spite of all it +had come. Here was his resurrection, and the old life to face. + +"What did I steal?" he asked with dull apathy. "The gold vessels +from the Catholic Cathedral of Quebec, after--after trying to blow up +Government House with gunpowder." + +His despair passed. His face suddenly lighted. He smiled. It was so +absurd. "Really!" he said. "When was the place blown up?" + +"Two days before you came here last year--it was not blown up; an +attempt was made." + +"Ah, I did not know. Why was the attempt made to blow it up?" + +"Some Frenchman's hatred of the English, they say." + +"But I am not French." + +"They do not know. You speak French as perfectly as English--ah, +Monsieur, Monsieur, I believe you are whatever you say." Pain and appeal +rang from her lips. + +"I am only an honest tailor," he answered gently. He ruled his face to +calmness, for he read the agony in the girl's face, and troubled as he +was, he wished to show her that he had no fear. + +"It is for what you were they will arrest you," she said helplessly, and +as though he needed to have all made clear to him. "Oh, Monsieur," she +continued, in a broken voice, "it would shame me so to have you made a +prisoner in Chaudiere--before all these silly people, who turn with the +wind. I should not lift my head--but yes, I should lift my head!" she +added hurriedly. "I should tell them all they lied--every one--the +idiots! The Seigneur--" + +"Well, what of the Seigneur-Rosalie?" + +Her own name on his lips--the sound of it dimmed her eyes. + +"Monsieur Rossignol does not know you. He neither believes nor +disbelieves. He said to me that if you wanted consideration, to command +him, for in Chaudiere he had heard nothing but good of you. If you +stayed, he would see that you had justice--not persecution. I saw him +two hours ago." + +She said the last words shyly, for she was thinking why the Seigneur +had spoken as he did--that he had taken her opinion of Monsieur as +his guide, and she had not scrupled to impress him with her views. The +Seigneur was in danger of becoming prejudiced by his sentiments. + +A wave of feeling passed over Charley, a rushing wave of sympathy for +this simple girl, who, out of a blind confidence, risked so much for +him. Risk there certainly was, if she--if she cared for him. It was +cruelty not to reassure her. + +Touching his breast, he said gravely: "By this sign here, I am not +guilty of the crime for which they come to seek me, Rosalie. Nor of any +other crime for which the law might punish me--dear, noble friend." + +He did so little to get such rich return. Her eyes leaped up to brighter +degrees of light, her face shone with a joy it had never reflected +before, her blood rushed to her finger-tips. She abruptly sat down in +a chair and buried her face in her hands, trembling. Then, lifting her +head slowly, after a moment she spoke in a tone that told him her faith, +her gratitude--not for reassurance, but for confidence, which is as +water in a thirsty land to a woman. + +"Oh, Monsieur, I thank you, I thank you from the depth of my heart; and +my heart is deep indeed, very, very deep--I cannot find what lies lowest +in it! I thank you, because you trust me, because you make it so easy +to--to be your friend; to say 'I know' when any one might doubt you. +One has no right to speak for another till--till the other has given +confidence, has said you may. Ah, Monsieur, I am so happy!" + +In very abandonment of heart she clasped her hands and came a step +nearer to him, but abruptly stopped still; for, realising her action, +timidity and embarrassment rushed upon her. + +Charley understood, and again his impulse was to say what was in his +heart and dare all; but resolution possessed him, and he said quickly: + +"Once, Rosalie, you saved me--from death perhaps. Once your hands helped +my pain--here." He touched his breast. "Your words now, and what you do, +they still help me--here... but in a different way. The trouble is in +my heart, Rosalie. You are glad of my confidence? Well, I will give +you more.... I cannot go back to my old life. To do so would injure +others--some who have never injured me and some who have. That is why. +That is why I do not wish to be taken to Quebec now on a false charge. +That is all I can say. Is it enough?" + +She was about to answer, but Jo Portugais entered, exclaiming. +"M'sieu'," he cried, "men are coming with the Seigneur and Cure." + +Charley nodded at Jo, then turned to Rosalie. "You need not be seen if +you go out by the back way, Mademoiselle." He held aside the bear-skin +curtain of the door that led into the next room. + +There was a frightened look in her face. "Do not fear for me," he +continued. "It will come right--somehow. You have done more for me than +any one has ever done or ever will do. I will remember till the last +moment of my life. Good-bye." + +He laid a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her from the room. + +"God protect you! The Blessed Virgin speak for you! I will pray for +you," she whispered. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. CHARLEY STANDS AT BAY + +Charley turned quickly to the woodsman. "Listen," he said, and he told +Jo how things stood. + +"You will not hide, M'sieu'? There is time," Jo asked. + +"I will not hide, Jo." + +"What will you do?" + +"I'll decide when they come." + +There was silence for a moment, then the sound of voices on the +hill-side. + +Charley's soul rose up in revolt against the danger that faced him--not +against personal peril, but the danger of being dragged back again into +the life he had come from, with all that it involved--the futility of +this charge against him! To be the victim of an error--to go to the bar +of justice with the hand of injustice on his arm! + +All at once the love of this new life welled up in him, as a spring of +water overflows its bounds. A voice kept ringing in his ears, "I +will pray for you." Subconsciously his mind kept saying, +"Rosalie--Rosalie--Rosalie!" There was nothing now that he would not +do to avert his being taken away upon this ridiculous charge. Mistaken +identity? To prove that, he must at once prove himself--who he was, +whence he came. Tell the Cure, and make it a point of honour for his +secret to be kept? But once told, the new life would no longer stand +by itself as the new life, cut off from all contact with the past. Its +success, its possibility, must lie in its absolute separateness, with +obscurity behind--as though he had come out of nothing into this very +room, on that winter morning when memory returned. + +It was clear that he must, somehow, evade the issue. He glanced at Jo, +whose eyes, strained and painful, were fixed upon the door. Here was a +man who suffered for his sake.... He took a step forward, as though with +sudden resolve, but there came a knocking, and, pausing, he motioned Jo +to open the door. Then, turning to a shelf, he took something from it +hastily, and kept it in his hand. + +Jo roused himself with an effort, and opened to the knocking. + +Three people entered: the Seigneur, the Cure, and the Abbe Rossignol, an +ascetic, severe man, with a face of intolerance and inflexibility. Two +constables in plain clothes followed; one stolid, one alert, one +English and one French, both with grim satisfaction in their faces--the +successful exercise of his trade is pleasant to every craftsman. When +they entered, Charley was standing with his back to the fireplace, his +eye-glass adjusted, one hand stroking his beard, the other held behind +his back. + +The Cure came forward and shook hands in an eager friendly way. + +"My dear Monsieur," said he, "I hope that you are better." + +"I am quite well, thank you, Monsieur le Cure," answered Charley. "I +shall get back to work on Monday, I hope." + +"Yes, yes, that is good," responded the Cure, and seemed confused. +He turned uneasily to the Seigneur. "You have come to see my friend +Portugais," Charley remarked slowly, almost apologetically. "I will take +my leave." He made a step forward. The two constables did the same, and +would have laid their hands upon his shoulder but that the Seigneur said +tartly: + +"Stand off, Jack-in-boxes!" + +The two stood aside, and looked covertly at the Seigneur, whose temper +seemed unusually irascible. Charley's face showed no surprise, but he +looked inquiringly at the Cure. + +"If they wish to be measured for uniforms--or manners--I will see them +at my shop," he said. + +The Seigneur chuckled. Charley stepped again towards the door. The +two constables stood before it. Again he turned inquiringly, this time +towards the Cure. The Cure did not speak. + +"It is you we wish to see, tailor," said the Abbe Rossignol. + +Soft-tongued irony leaped to Charley's lips: "Have I, then, the honour +of including Monsieur among my customers? I cannot recall Monsieur's +figure. I think I should not have forgotten it." + +It was now the old Charley Steele, with the new body, the new spirit, +but with the old skilful mind, aggravatingly polite, non-intime--the +intolerant face of this father of souls irritated him. + +"I never forget a figure which has idiosyncrasy," he added, with a bland +eye wandering over the priest's gaunt form. It was his old way to strike +first and heal after--"a kick and a lick," as old Paddy Wier, whom he +once saved from prison, said of him. It was like bygone years of another +life to appear in defence when the law was tightening round a victim. +The secret spring had been touched, the ancient machinery of his mind +was working almost automatically. + +The illusion was considerable, for the Seigneur had taken the only +arm-chair in the room, a little apart, as it were, filling the place of +judge. The priest-brother, cold and inveterate, was like the attorney +for the crown. The Cure was the clerk of the court, who could only echo +the decisions of the Judge. The constables were the machinery of the +Law, and Jo Portugais was the unwilling witness, whose evidence would +be the crux of the case. The prisoner--he himself was prisoner and +prisoner's counsel. + +A good struggle was forward. + +He had enraged the Abbe as much as he had delighted the Abbe's brother; +for nothing gave the Seigneur such pleasure as the discomfiture of the +Abbe Rossignol, chaplain and ordinary to the Archbishop of Quebec. The +genial, sympathetic nature of the Seigneur could not even be patient +with the excessive piety of the churchman, who, in rigid righteousness, +had thrashed him cruelly as a boy. At Charley's words upon the Abbe's +figure, gaunt and precise as a swaddled ramrod, he pulled his nose with +a grunt of satisfaction. + +The Cure, the peace-maker, intervened. The tailor's meaning was +sufficiently clear: if they had come to see him personally, then it was +natural for him to wish to know the names and stations of his guests, +and their business. The Seigneur was aware that the tailor did know, and +he enjoyed the 'sang-froid' with which he was meeting the situation. + +"Monsieur," said the Cure, in a mollifying voice, "I have ventured +to bring the Seigneur of Chaudiere"--the Seigneur stood up and bowed +gravely--"and his brother, the Abbe Rossignol, who would speak with you +on private business"--he ignored the presence of the constables. + +Charley bowed to the Seigneur and the Abbe, then turned inquiringly +towards the two constables. "Friends of my brother the Abbe," said the +Seigneur maliciously. + +"Their names, Monsieur?" asked Charley. + +"They have numbers," answered the Seigneur whimsically--to the Cure's +pain, for levity seemed improper at such a time. + +"Numbers of names are legally suspicious, numbers for names are +suspiciously legal," rejoined Charley. "You have pierced the disguise +of discourtesy," said the Seigneur, and, on the instant, he made up +his mind that whatever the tailor might have been, he was deserving of +respect. + +"You have private business with me, Monsieur?" asked Charley of the +Abbe. + +The Abbe shook his head. "The business is not private, in one sense. +These men have come to charge you with having broken into the cathedral +at Quebec and stolen the gold vessels of the altar; also with having +tried to blow up the Governor's residence." + +One of the constables handed Charley the warrant. He looked at it with a +curious smile. It was so natural, yet so unnatural, to be thus in touch +with the habits of far-off times. + +"On what information is this warrant issued?" he asked. + +"That is for the law to show in due course," said the priest. + +"Pardon me; it is for the law to show now. I have a right to know." + +The constables shifted from one foot to the other, looked at each other +meaningly, and instinctively felt their weapons. + +"I believe," said the Seigneur evenly, "that--" The Abbe interrupted. +"He can have information at his trial." + +"Excuse me, but the warrant has my endorsement," said the Seigneur, +"and, as the justice most concerned, I shall give proper information +to the gentleman under suspicion." He waved a hand at the Abbe, as at a +fractious child, and turned courteously to Charley. + +"Monsieur," he said, "on the tenth of August last the cathedral at +Quebec was broken into, and the gold altar-vessels were stolen. You are +suspected. The same day an attempt was made to blow up the Governor's +residence. You are suspected." + +"On what ground, Monsieur?" + +"You appeared in this vicinity three days afterwards with an injury to +the head. Now, the incendiary received a severe blow on the head from a +servant of the Governor. You see the connection, Monsieur?" + +"Where is the servant of the Governor, Monsieur?" + +"Dead, unfortunately. He told the story so often, to so much +hospitality, that he lost his footing on Mountain Street steps--you +remember Mountain Street steps possibly, Monsieur?--and cracked his head +on the last stone." + +There was silence for a moment. If the thing had not been so serious, +Charley must have laughed outright. If he but disclosed his identity, +how easy to dispose of this silly charge! He did not reply at once, but +looked calmly at the Abbe. In the pause, the Seigneur added "I forgot to +add that the man had a brown beard. You have a brown beard, Monsieur." + +"I had not when I arrived here." + +Jo Portugais spoke. "That is true, M'sieu'; and what is more, I know a +newly shaved face when I see it, and M'sieu's was tanned with the sun. +It is foolish, that!" + +"This is not the place for evidence," said the Abbe sharply. + +"Excuse me, Abbe," said his brother; "if Monsieur wishes to have a +preliminary trial here, he may. He is in my seigneury; he is a tenant of +the Church here--" + +"It is a grave offence that an infidel, dropping down here from, who +knows where--that an acknowledged infidel should be a tenant of the +Church!" + +"The devil is a tenant of the Almighty, if creation is the Almighty's," +said Charley. + +"Satan is a prisoner," snapped the Abbe. + +"With large domains for exercise," retorted Charley, "and in successful +opposition to the Church. If it is true that the man you charge is an +infidel, how does that warrant suspicion?" + +"Other thefts," answered the Abbe. "A sacred iron cross was stolen from +the door of the church of Chaudiere. I have no doubt that the thief of +the gold vessels of the cathedral was the thief of the iron cross." + +"It is not true," sullenly broke in Jo Portugais. + +"What proof have you?" said the Seigneur. Charley waved a deprecating +hand towards Jo. + +"I shall not call Portugais as evidence," he said. + +"You are conducting your own case?" asked the Seigneur, with a grim +smile. + +"It is dangerous, I believe." + +"I will take my chances," answered Charley. "Will you tell me what +object the criminal could have in stealing the gold vessels from the +cathedral?" he added, turning to the Abbe. + +"They were gold!" + +"And for taking the cross from the door of the church in Chaudiere?" + +"It was sacred, and he was an infidel, and hated it." + +"I do not see the logic of the argument. He stole the vessels because +they were valuable, and the iron cross because he was an infidel! Now +how do you know that the suspected criminal was an infidel, Monsieur?" + +"It is well known." + +"Has he ever said so?" + +"He does not deny it." + +"If you were charged with being an opium-eater, does it follow that +you are one because you do not deny it? There was a Man who was said to +blaspheme, to have all 'the crafts and assaults of the devil'--was it +His duty to deny it? Suppose you were accused of being a highwayman, +would you be less a highwayman if you denied it? Or would you be less +guilty if you denied it?" + +"That is beside the case," said the priest with acerbity. + +"Faith, I think it is the case itself," said the Seigneur with a +satisfied pull of his nose. + +"But do you seriously suggest that only infidels rob churches?" Charley +persisted. + +"I am not here to be cross-examined," answered the Abbe harshly. +"You are charged with robbing the cathedral and trying to blow up the +Governor's residence. Arrest him!" he added, turning to the constables. + +"Stand where you are, men," sharply threatened the Seigneur. "There +are no lettres de cachet nowadays, Francois," he added tartly to his +brother. + +"If it is the exclusive temptation of an infidel to rob a church, has +infidelity also an inherent penchant for arson? Is it a patent? Why did +the infidel blow up the Governor's residence?" continued Charley. + +"He did not blow it up, he only tried," interposed the Cure softly. + +"I was not aware," said Charley. "Well, did the man who stole the patens +from the altar--" + +"They were chalices," again interrupted the Cure, with a faint smile. + +"Ah, I was not aware!" again rejoined Charley. "I repeat, what reason +had the person who stole the chalices to try to blow up the Governor's +residence? Is it a sign of infidelity, or--" + +"You can answer for that yourself," angrily interposed the Abbe. The +strain was telling on his nerves. + +"It is fair to give reasons for the suspicion," urged the Seigneur +acidly. + +"As I said before, Francois, this is not the fifteenth century." + +"He hated the English government," said the Abbe. "I do not understand," +responded Charley. "Am I then to suppose that the alleged criminal was a +Frenchman as well as an infidel?" + +There was silence, and Charley continued. "It is an unusual thing for a +French Abbe to be so concerned for the safety of an English Protestant's +life and housing... the Governor is a Protestant--eh? That is, indeed, a +zeal almost Christian--or millennial." + +The Abby turned to the Seigneur. "Are you going to interfere longer with +the process of the law?" + +"I think Monsieur has not quite finished his argument," said the +Seigneur, with a twist of the mouth. + +"If the man was a Frenchman, why do you suspect the tailor of +Chaudiere?" asked Charley softly. "Of course I understand the reason +behind all: you have heard that the tailor is an infidel; you have +protested to the good Cure here, and the Cure is a man who has a sense +of justice, and will not drive a poor man from his parish by Christian +persecution--without cause. Since certain dates coincide and impulses +urge, you suspect the tailor. Again, according to your mind, a man who +steals holy vessels must needs be an infidel; therefore a tailor in +Chaudiere, suspected of being an infidel, stole the holy chalices. It +might seem a fair case for a grand jury of clericals. But it breaks down +in certain places. Your criminal is a Frenchman; the tailor of Chaudiere +is an Englishman." + +The Abbe's face was contracted with stubborn annoyance, though he held +his tongue from violence. "Do you deny that you are French?" he asked +tartly. + +"I could almost endure the suspicion because of the compliment to my +command of your charming language." + +"Prove that you are an Englishman. No one knows where you came from; no +one knows what you are. You are a fair subject for suspicion, apart from +the evidence shown," said the Abbe, trying now to be as polite as the +tailor. + +"This is a free country. So long as the law is obeyed, one can go where +one wills without question, I take it." + +"There is a law of vagrancy." + +"I am a householder, a tenant of the Church, not a vagrant." + +"Monsieur, you can have your choice of proving these things here or in +Quebec," said the Abbe, with angry impatience again. + +"I may not be compelled to prove anything. It is the privilege of the +law to prove the crime against me." + +"You are a very remarkable tailor," said the Abbe sarcastically. + +"I have not had the honour of making you even a cassock, I think. +Monsieur le Cure, I believe, approves of those I make for him. He has a +good figure, however." + +"You refuse to identify yourself?" asked the Abbe, with asperity. + +"I am not aware that you possess any right to ask me to do so." + +The Abbe's thin lips clipped-to like shears. He turned again towards the +officers. + +"It would relieve the situation," interposed the Seigneur, "if Monsieur +could find it possible to grant the Abbe's demand." + +Charley bowed to the Seigneur. "I do not know why I should be taken for +a Frenchman or an infidel. I speak French well, I presume, but I spoke +it from the cradle. I speak English with equally good accent," he added, +with the glimmer of a smile; for there was a kind of exhilaration in the +little contest, even with so much at stake. This miserable, silly charge +had that behind it which might open up a grave, make its dead to walk, +fright folk from their senses, and destroy their peace for ever. Yet +he was cool and thinking clearly. He measured up the Abbe in his mind, +analysed him, found the vulnerable spot in his nature, the avenue to the +one place lighted by a lamp of humanity. He leaned a hand upon the ledge +of the chimney where he stood, and said, in a low voice: + +"Monsieur l'Abbe, it is sometimes the misfortune of just men to +be terribly unjust. 'For conscience sake' is another name for +prejudice--for those antipathies which, natural to us, are, at the same +time, trap-doors, for our just intentions. You, Monsieur, have a radical +antipathy to those men who are unable to see or to feel what you were +privileged to see and feel from the time of your birth. You know that +you are right. Do you think that those who do not see as you do are +wicked because they were not given what you were given? If you are +right, may they, poor folk! not be the victims of their blindness of +heart--of the darkness born with them, or of the evils that overtake +them? For conscience sake, you would crush out evil. To you an +infidel--so called--is an evil-doer, a peril to the peace of God. +You drive him out from among the faithful. You heard that a tailor +of Chaudiere was an infidel. You did not prove him one, but you, for +conscience sake, are trying to remove him, by fixing on him a crime of +which he may, with slight show of reason, be suspected. But I ask you, +would you have taken the same deep interest in setting the law upon this +suspected man did you not believe him to be an infidel?" + +He paused. The Abbe made no reply. The Cure was bending forward eagerly; +the Seigneur sat with his hands over the top of his cane, his chin on +his hands, never taking his eyes from him, save to glance once or twice +at his brother. Jo Portugais was crouched on the bench, watching. + +"I do not know what makes an infidel," Charley went on. "Is it an honest +mind, a decent life, an austerity of living as great as that of any +priest, a neighbourliness that gives and takes in fairness--" + +"No, no, no," interposed the Cure eagerly. "So you have lived here, +Monsieur; I can vouch for that. Charity and a good heart have gone with +you always." + +"Do you mean that a man is an infidel because he cannot say, as Louis +Trudel said to me, 'Do you believe in God?' and replies, as I replied, +'God knows!' Is that infidelity? If God is God, He alone knows when +the mind or the tongue can answer in the terms of that faith which you +profess. He knows the secret desires of our hearts, and what we believe, +and what we do not believe; He knows better than we ourselves know--if +there is a God. Does a man conjure God, if he does not believe in +God? 'God knows!' is not a statement of infidelity. With me it was a +phrase--no more. You ask me to bare my inmost soul. I have not learned +how to confess. You ask me to lay bare my past, to prove my identity. +For conscience sake you ask that, and I for conscience sake say I will +not, Monsieur. You, when you enter your priestly life, put all your past +behind you. It is dead for ever: all its deeds and thoughts and desires, +all its errors--sins. I have entered on a life here which is to me as +much a new life as your priesthood is to you. Shall I not have the right +to say, that may not be disinterred? Have I not the right to say, Hands +off? For the past I am responsible, and for the past I will speak from +the past; but for the deeds of the present I will speak only from the +present. I am not a Frenchman; I did not steal the little cross from the +church door here, nor the golden chalices in Quebec; nor did I seek to +injure the Governor's residence. I have not been in Quebec for three +years." + +He ceased speaking, and fixed his eyes on the Abbe, who now met his look +fairly. + +"In the way of justice, there is nothing hidden that shall not be +revealed, nor secret that shall not be made known," answered the +Abbe. "Prove that you were not in Quebec on the day the robbery was +committed." There was silence. The Abbe's pertinacity was too difficult. +The Seigneur saw the grim look in Charley's face, and touched the Abbe +on the arm. "Let us walk a little outside. Come, Cure" he added. "It +is right that Monsieur should have a few minutes alone. It is a serious +charge against him, and reflection will be good for us all." + +He motioned the constables from the room. The Abby passed through the +door into the open air, and the Cure and the Seigneur went arm in arm +together, talking earnestly. The Cure turned in the doorway. + +"Courage, Monsieur!" he said to Charley, and bowed himself out. Jo +Portugais followed. + +One officer took his place at the front door and the other at the back +door, outside. + +The Abby, by himself, took to walking backward and forward under the +trees, buried in gloomy reflection. Jo Portugais caught his sleeve. + +"Come with me for a moment, M'sieu'," he said. "It is important." + +The Abby followed him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY + +Jo Portugais had fastened down a secret with clasps heavier than iron, +and had long stood guard over it. But life is a wheel, and natures move +in circles, passing the same points again and again, the points being +distant or near to the sense as the courses of life have influenced +the nature. Confession was an old principle, a light in the way, a +rest-house for Jo and all his race, by inheritance, by disposition, and +by practice. Again and again Jo had come round to the rest-house +since one direful day, but had not, found his way therein. There were +passwords to give at the door, there was the tale of the journey to tell +to the door-keeper. And this tale he had not been ready to tell. But the +man who knew of the terrible thing he had done, who had saved him from +the consequences of that terrible thing, was in sore trouble, and this +broke down the gloomy guard he had kept over his dread secret. He fought +the matter out with himself, and, the battle ended, he touched the +door-keeper on the arm, beckoned him to a lonely place in the trees, and +knelt down before him. + +"What is it you seek?" asked the door-keeper, whose face was set and +forbidding. + +"To find peace," answered the man; yet he was thinking more of another's +peril than of his own soul. "What have I to do with the peace of your +soul? Yonder is your shepherd and keeper," said the doorkeeper, pointing +to where two men walked arm in arm under the trees. + +"Shall the sinner not choose the keeper of his sins?" said the man +huskily. + +"Who has been the keeper all these years? Who has given you peace?" + +"I have had no keeper; I have had no peace these many years." + +"How many years?" The Abbe's voice was low and even, and showed no +feeling, but his eyes were keenly inquiring and intent. + +"Seven years." + +"Is the sin that held you back from the comfort of the Church a great +one?" + +"The greatest, save one." + +"What would be the greatest?" + +"To curse God." + +"The next?" + +"To murder." + +The other's whole manner changed on the instant. He was no longer +the stern Churchman, the inveterate friend of Justice, the prejudiced +priest, rigid in a pious convention, who could neither bend nor break. +The sin of an infidel breaker of the law, that was one thing; the crime +of a son of the Church, which a human soul came to relate in its agony, +that was another. He had a crass sense of justice, but there was in +him a deeper thing still: the revelation of the human soul, the +responsibility of speaking to the heart which has dropped the folds of +secrecy, exposing the skeleton of truth, grim and staring, to the eye of +a secret earthly mentor. + +"If it has been hidden all these years, why do you tell it now, my son?" + +"It is the only way." + +"Why was it hidden?" + +"I have come to confess," answered the man bitterly. The priest looked +at him anxiously. "You have spoken rightly, my son. I am not here to +ask, but to receive." + +"Forgive me, but it is my crime I would speak of now. I choose this +moment that another should not suffer for what he did not do." + +The priest thought of the man they had left in the little house, and the +crime with which he was charged, and wondered what the sinner before him +was going to say. + +"Tell your story, my son, and God give your tongue the very spirit of +truth, that nothing be forgotten and nothing excused." + +There was a fleeting pause, in which the colour left the priest's +face, and, as he opened the door of his mind--of the Church, secret +and inviolate--he had a pain at his heart; for beneath his arrogant +churchmanship there was a fanatical spirituality of a mediaeval kind. +His sense of responsibility was painful and intense. The same pain +possessed him always, were the sin that of a child or a Borgia. + +As he listened to the broken tale, the forest around was vocal, the +chipmunks scampered from tree to tree, the woodpecker's tap-tap, +tap-tap, went on over their heads, the leaves rustled and gave forth +their divine sweetness, as though man and nature were at peace, and +there were no storms in sky above or soul beneath, or in the waters of +life that are deeper than "the waters under the earth." + +It was only a short time, but to the door-keeper and the wayfarer +it seemed hours, for the human soul travels far and hard and long in +moments of pain and revelation. The priest in his anxiety suffered as +much as the man who did the wicked thing. When the man had finished, the +priest said: + +"Is this all?" + +"It is the great sin of my life." He shuddered, and continued: "I have +no love of life; I have no fear of death; but there is the man who saved +me years ago, who got me freedom. He has had great sorrow and trouble, +and I would live for his sake--because he has no friend." + +"Who is the man?" + +The other pointed to where the little house was hidden among the trees. +The priest almost gasped his amazement, but waited. + +Thereupon the woodsman told the whole truth concerning the tailor of +Chaudiere. + +"To save him, I have confessed my own sin. To you I might tell all in +confession, and the truth about him would be buried for ever. I might +not confess at all unless I confessed my own sin. You will save him, +father?" he asked anxiously. + +"I will save him," was the reply of the priest. + +"I want to give myself to justice; but he has been ill, and he may be +ill again, and he needs me." He told of the tailor's besetting weakness, +of his struggles against it, of his fall a few days before, and the +cause of it... told all to the man of silence. + +"You wish to give yourself to justice?" + +"I shall have no peace unless." + +There was something martyr-like in the man's attitude. It appealed to +some stern, martyr-like quality in the priest. If the man would win +eternal peace so, then so be it. His grim piety approved. He spoke now +with the authority of divine justice. + +"For one year longer go on as you are, then give yourself to +justice--one year from to-day, my son. Is it enough?" + +"It is enough." + +"Absolvo te!" said the priest. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. THE EDGE OF LIFE + +Meantime Charley was alone with his problem. The net of circumstances +seemed to have coiled inextricably round him. Once, at a trial in court +in other days, he had said in his ironical way: "One hasn't to fear the +penalties of one's sins, but the damnable accident of discovery." + +To try to escape now, or, with the assistance of Jo Portugais, when +en route to Quebec in charge of the constables, and find refuge and +seclusion elsewhere? There was nothing he might ask of Portugais which +he would not do. To escape--and so acknowledge a guilt not his own! +Well, what did it matter! Who mattered? He knew only too well. The Cure +mattered--that good man who had never intruded his piety on him; who +had been from the first a discreet friend, a gentleman,--a Christian +gentleman, if there was such a sort of gentleman apart from all others. +Who mattered? The Seigneur, whom he had never seen before, yet who had +showed that day a brusque sympathy, a gruff belief in him? Who mattered? + +Above all, Rosalie mattered. To escape, to go from Rosalie's presence +by a dark way, as it were, like a thief in the night--was that possible? +His escape would work upon her mind. She would first wonder, then doubt, +and then believe at last that he was a common criminal. She was the one +who mattered in that thought of escape escape to some other parish, to +some other province, to some other country--to some other world! + +To some other world? He looked at a little bottle he held in the palm of +his hand. + +A hand held aside the curtain of the door entering on the next room, and +a girl's troubled face looked in, but he did not see. + +Escape to some other world? And why not, after all? On the day his +memory came back he had resisted the idea in this very room. As the +fatalist he had resisted it then. Now how poor seemed the reasons for +not having ended it all that day! If his appointed time had been come, +the river would have ended him then--that had been his argument. Was +that argument not belief in Somebody or Something which governed his +going or staying? Was it not preordination? Was not fatalism, then, +the cheapest sort of belief in an unchangeable Somebody or Something, +representing purpose and law and will? Attribute to anything power, and +there was God, whatever His qualities, personality, or being. + +The little phial of laudanum was in his hand to loosen life into +knowledge. Was it not his duty to eliminate himself, rather than be an +unsolvable quantity in the problem of many lives? It was neither vulgar +nor cowardly to pass quietly from forces making for ruin, and so avert +ruin and secure happiness. To go while yet there was time, and smooth +for ever the way for others by an eternal silence--that seemed well. +Punishment thereafter, the Cure would say. But was it not worth while +being punished, even should the Cure's fond belief in the noble fable be +true, if one saved others here? Who--God or man--had the right to +take from him the right to destroy himself, not for fear, not through +despair, but for others' sake? Had he not the right to make restitution +to Kathleen for having given her nothing but himself, whom she had +learned to despise? If he were God, he would say, Do justice and fear +not. And this was justice. Suppose he were in a battle, with all these +things behind him, and put himself, with daring and great results, +in some forlorn hope--to die; and he died, ostensibly a hero for his +country, but, in his heart of hearts, to throw his life away to +save some one he loved, not his country, which profited by his +sacrifice--suppose that were the case, what would the world say? + +"He saved others, himself he could not save"--flashed through his mind, +possessed him. He could save others; but it was clear he could not +save himself. It was so simple, so kind, and so decent. And he would +be buried here in quiet, unconsecrated ground, a mystery, a tailor who, +finding he could not mend the garment of life, cast it away, and took on +himself the mantle of eternal obscurity. No reproaches would follow him; +and he would not reproach himself, for Kathleen and Billy and another +would be safe and free to live their lives. + +Far, far better for Rosalie! She too would be saved--free from the peril +of his presence. For where could happiness come to her from him? He +might not love her; he might not marry her; and it were well to go now, +while yet love was not a habit, but an awakening, a realisation of life. +His death would settle this sad question for ever. To her he would be a +softening memory as time went on. + +The girl who had watched by the curtain stepped softly inside the room +... she divined his purpose. He was so intent he did not hear. + +"I will do it," he said to himself. "It is better to go than to stay. I +have never done a good thing for love of any human being. I will do one +now." + +He turned towards the window through which the sunlight streamed. +Stepping forward into the sun, he uncorked the bottle. + +There was a quick step behind him, and the girl's voice said clearly: + +"If you go, I go also." + +He turned swiftly, cold with amazement, the blood emptied from his +heart. + +Rosalie stood a little distance from him, her face pale, her hands held +hard to her side. + +"I understand all. I could not go outside, I stayed there"--she pointed +to the other room--"and I know why you would die. You would die to save +others." + +"Rosalie!" he protested in a hoarse voice, and could say nothing more. + +"You think that I will stay, if you go! No, no, no--I will not. You +taught me how to live, and I will follow you now." + +He saw the strange determination of her look. It startled him; he knew +not what to say. "Your father, Rosalie--" + +"My father will be cared for. But who will care for you in the place +where you are going? You will have no friends there. You shall not go +alone. You will need me--in the dark." + +"It is good that I go," he said. "It would be wicked, it would be +dreadful, for you to go." + +"I go if you go," she urged. "I will lose my soul to be with you; you +will want me--there!" + +There was no mistaking her intention. Footsteps sounded outside. The +others were coming back. To die here before her face? To bring her to +death with him? He was sick with despair. + +"Go into the next room quickly," he said. "No matter what comes, I will +not--on my honour!" + +She threw him a look of gratitude, and, as the bearskin curtain dropped +behind her, he put the phial of laudanum in his pocket. + +The door opened, and the Abbe Rossignol entered, followed by the +Seigneur, the Cure, and Jo Portugais. Charley faced them calmly, and +waited. + +The Abbe's face was still cold and severe, but his voice was human as he +said quickly: "Monsieur, I have decided to take you at your word. I am +assured you are not the man who committed the crime. You probably have +reasons for not establishing your identity." + +Had Charley been a prisoner in the dock, he could not have had a moment +of deeper amazement--even if after the jury had said Guilty, a piece +of evidence had been handed in, proving innocence, averting the death +sentence. A wave of excitement passed over him, leaving him cold and +still. In the other room a girl put her hand to her mouth to stifle a +cry of joy. + +Charley bowed. "You made a mistake, Monsieur--pray do not apologise," he +said. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. IN AMBUSH + +Weeks went by. Summer was done, autumn was upon the land. Harvest-home +had gone, and the "fall" ploughing was forward. The smell of the burning +stubble, of decaying plant and fibre, was mingling with the odours of +the orchards and the balsams of the forest. The leafy hill-sides, far +and near, were resplendent in scarlet and saffron and tawny red. Over +the decline of the year flickered the ruined fires of energy. + +It had been a prosperous summer in the valley. Harvests had been reaped +such as the country had not known for years--and for years there had +been great harvests. There had not been a death in the parish all +summer, and births had occurred out of all usual proportion. + +When Filion Lacasse commented thereon, and mentioned the fact that even +the Notary's wife had had the gift of twins as the crowning fulness of +the year, Maximilian Cour, who was essentially superstitious, tapped on +the table three times, to prevent a turn in the luck. + +The baker was too late, however, for the very next day the Notary was +brought home with a nasty gunshot wound in his leg. He had been lured +into duck-hunting on a lake twenty miles away, in the hills, and had +been accidentally shot on an Indian reservation, called Four Mountains, +where the Church sometimes held a mission and presented a primitive sort +of passion-play. From there he had been brought home by his comrades, +and the doctor from the next parish summoned. The Cure assisted the +doctor at first, but the task was difficult to him. At the instant when +the case was most critical the tailor of Chaudiere set his foot inside +the Notary's door. A moment later he relieved the Cure and helped to +probe for shot, and care for an ugly wound. + +Charley had no knowledge of surgery, but his fingers were skilful, his +eye was true, and he had intuition. The long operation over, the rural +physician and surgeon washed his hands and then studied Charley with +curious admiration. + +"Thank you, Monsieur," he said, as he dried his hands on a towel. "I +couldn't have done it without you. It's a pretty good job; and you share +the credit." + +Charley bowed. "It's a good thing not to halloo till you're out of the +woods," he said. "Our friend there has a bad time before him--hein?" + +"I take you. It is so." The man of knives and tinctures pulled his +side-whiskers with smug satisfaction as he looked into a small mirror on +the wall. "Do you chance to know if madame has any cordials or spirits?" +he added, straightening his waistcoat and adjusting his cravat. + +"It is likely," answered Charley, and moved away to the window looking +upon the street. + +The doctor turned in surprise. He was used to being waited on, and he +had expected the tailor to follow the tradition. + +"We might--eh?" he said suggestively. "It is usually the custom to +provide refreshment, but the poor woman, madame, has been greatly +occupied with her husband, and--" + +"And the twins," Charley put in drily--"and a house full of work, and +only one old crone in the kitchen to help. Still, I have no doubt she +has thought of the cordials too. Women are the slaves of custom--ah, +here they are, as I said, and--" + +He stopped short, for in the doorway, with a tray, stood Rosalie +Evanturel. The surgeon was so intent upon at once fortifying himself +that he did not see the look which passed between Rosalie and the +tailor. + +Rosalie had been absent for two months. Her father had been taken +seriously ill the day after the critical episode in the but at Vadrome +Mountain, and she had gone with him to the hospital at Quebec, for an +operation. The Abbe Rossignol had undertaken to see them safely to the +hospital, and Jo Portugais, at his own request, was permitted to go in +attendance upon M. Evanturel. + +There had been a hasty leave-taking between Charley and Rosalie, but +it was in the presence of others, and they had never spoken a word +privately together since the day she had said to him that where he went +she would go, in life or out of it. + +"You have been gone two months," Charley said now, after their touch of +hands and voiceless greeting. "Two months yesterday," she answered. + +"At sundown," he replied, in an even voice. + +"The Angelus was ringing," she answered calmly, though her heart was +leaping and her hands were trembling. The doctor, instantly busy with +the cordial, had not noticed what they said. + +"Won't you join me?" he asked, offering a glass to Charley. + +"Spirits do not suit me," answered Charley. "Matter of constitution," +rejoined the doctor, and buttoned up his coat, preparing to depart. He +came close to Charley. "Now, I don't want to put upon you, Monsieur," he +said, "but this sick man is valuable in the parish--you take me? Well, +it's a difficult, delicate case, and I'd be glad if I could rely on you +for a few days. The Cure would do, but you are young, you have a sense +of things--take me? Half the fees are yours if you'll keep a sharp eye +on him--three times a day, and be with him at night a while. Fever is +the thing I'm afraid of--temperature--this way, please!" He went to the +window, and for a minute engaged Charley in whispered conversation. "You +take me?" he said cheerily at last, as he turned again towards Rosalie. + +"Quite, Monsieur," answered Charley, and drew away, for he caught the +odour of the doctor's breath, and a cold perspiration broke out over +him. He felt the old desire for drink sweeping through him. "I will do +what I can," he said. + +"Come, my dear," the doctor said to Rosalie. "We will go and see your +father." + +Charley's eyes had fastened on the bottles avidly. As Rosalie turned to +bid him good-bye, he said to her, almost hoarsely: "Take the tray back +to Madame Dauphin--please." + +She flashed a glance of inquiry at him. She was puzzled by the fire in +his eyes. With her soul in her face as she lifted the tray, out of the +warm-beating life in her, she said in a low tone: + +"It is good to live, isn't it?" + +He nodded and smiled, and the trouble slowly passed from his eyes. The +woman in her had conquered his enemy. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. THE COMING OF MAXIMILIAN COUR AND ANOTHER + +"It is good to live, isn't it?" In the autumn weather when the air drank +like wine, it seemed so indeed, even to Charley, who worked all day in +his shop, his door wide open to the sunlight, and sat up half the night +with Narcisse Dauphin, sometimes even taking a turn at the cradle of the +twins, while madame sat beside her husband's bed. + +To Charley the answer to Rosalie's question lay in the fact that his +eyes had never been so keen, his face so alive, or his step so buoyant +as in this week of double duty. His mind was more hopeful than it had +ever been since the day he awoke with memory restored in the silence of +a mountain hut. + +He had found the antidote to his great temptation, to the lurking, +relentless habit which had almost killed him the night John Brown +had sung Champagne Charlie from behind the flaring lights. From a +determination to fight his own fight with no material aids, he had never +once used the antidote sent him by the Cure's brother. + +On St. Jean Baptiste's day his proud will had failed him; intellectual +force, native power of mind, had broken like reeds under the weight of +a cruel temptation. But now a new force had entered into him. As his +fingers were about to reach for the spirit-bottle in the house of the +Notary, and he had, for the first time in his life, made an appeal for +help, a woman's voice had said, "It is good to live, isn't it?" and his +hand was stayed. A woman's look had stilled the strife. Never before in +his life had he relied on a moral or a spiritual impulse in him. What +of these existed in him were in unseen quantities--for which there was +neither multiple nor measure--had been primitive and hereditary, flowing +in him like a feeble tincture diluted to inefficacy. + +Rosalie had resolved him back to the original elements. The quiet days +he had spent in Chaudiere, the self-sacrifice he had been compelled to +make, the human sins, such as those of Jo Portugais and Louis Trudel, +with which he had had to do, the simplicity of the life around him--the +uncomplicated lie and the unvarnished truth, the obvious sorrow and the +patent joy, the childish faith, and the rude wickedness so pardonable +because so frankly brutal--had worked upon him. The elemental spirit +of it all had so invaded his nature, breaking through the crust of old +habit to the new man, that, when he fell before his temptation, and his +body became saturated with liquor, the healthy natural being and the +growing natural mind were overpowered by the coarse onslaught, and death +had nearly followed. + +It was his first appeal to a force outside himself, to an active +principle unfamiliar to the voluntary working of his nature, and the +answer had been immediate and adequate. Yet what was it? He did not ask; +he had not got beyond the mere experience, and the old questioning habit +was in abeyance. Each new and great emotion has its dominating moment, +its supreme occasion, before taking its place in the modulated moral +mechanism. He was touched with helplessness. + +As he sat beside Narcisse Dauphin's bedside, one evening, the sick man +on his way to recovery, there came to him the text of a sermon he had +once heard John Brown preach: "Greater love hath no man than this, that +a man lay down his life for his friend." He had been thinking of Rosalie +and that day at Vadrome Mountain. She would not only have died with him, +but she would have died for him, if need had been. What might he give in +return for what she gave? + +The Notary interrupted his thoughts. He had lain watching Charley for a +long time, his brow drawn down with thought. At last he said: + +"Monsieur, you have been good to me." Charley laid a hand on the sick +man's arm. + +"I don't see that. But if you won't talk, I'll believe you think so." + +The Notary shook his head. "I've not been talking for an hour, I've no +fever, and I want to say some things. When I've said them, I'll feel +better--voila! I want to make the amende honorable. I once thought +you were this and that--I won't say what I thought you. I said you +interfered--giving advice to people, as you did to Filion Lacasse, and +taking the bread out of my mouth. I said that!" + +He paused, raised himself on his elbow, smoothed back his grizzled +hair behind his ears, looked at himself in the mirror opposite with +satisfaction, and added oracularly: "But how prone is the mind of man +to judge amiss! You have put bread into my mouth--no, no, Monsieur, you +shall hear me! As well as doing your own work, you have done my business +since my accident as well as a lawyer could do it; and you've given +every penny to my wife." + +"As for the work I've done," answered Charley, "it was nothing--you +notaries have easy times. You may take your turn with my shears and +needle one day." + +With a dash of patronage true to his nature, "You are wonderful for a +tailor," the Notary rejoined. Charley laughed--seldom, if ever, had he +laughed since coming to Chaudiere. It was, however, a curious fact that +he took a real pleasure in the work he did with his hands. In making +clothes for habitant farmers, and their sons and their sons' sons, and +jackets for their wives and daughters, he had had the keenest pleasure +of his life. + +He had taken his earnings with pride, if not with exultation. He knew +the Notary did not mean that he was wonderful as a tailor, but he +answered to the suggestion. + +"You liked that last coat I made for you, then," he said drily; "I +believe you wore it when you were shot. It was the thing for your +figure, man." + +The Notary looked in the large mirror opposite with sad content. "Ah, it +was a good figure, the first time I went to that hut at Four Mountains!" + +"We can't always be young. You have a waist yet, and your chest-barrel +gives form to a waistcoat. Tut, tut! Think of the twins in the way of +vainglory and hypocrisy." + +"'Twins' and 'hypocrisy'; there you have struck the nail on the head, +tailor. There is the thing I'm going to tell you about." + +After a cautious glance at the door and the window, Dauphin continued in +quick, broken sentences: "It wasn't an accident at Four Mountains--not +quite. It was Paulette Dubois--you know the woman that lives at the +Seigneur's gate? Twelve years ago she was a handsome girl. I fell in +love with her, but she left here. There were two other men. There was a +timber-merchant,--and there was a lawyer after. The timber-merchant was +married; the lawyer wasn't. She lived at first with the timber-merchant. +He was killed--murdered in the woods." + +"What was the timber-merchant's name?" interrupted Charley in an even +voice. + +"Turley--but that doesn't matter!" continued the Notary. "He was +murdered, and then the lawyer came on the scene. He lived with her for +a year. She had a child by him. One day he sent the child away to a safe +place and told her he was going to turn over a new leaf--he was going +to stand for Parliament, and she must go. She wouldn't go without +the child. At last he said the child was dead; and showed her the +certificate of death. Then she came back here, and for a while, alas! +she disgraced the parish. But all at once she changed--she got a message +that her child was alive. To her it was like being born again. It was at +this time they were going to drive her from the parish. But the Seigneur +and then the Cure spoke for her, and so did I--at last." + +He paused and plaintively admired himself in the mirror. He was grateful +that he had been clean-shaved that morning, and he was content to catch +the citrine odour of the bergamot upon his hair. + +New phases of the most interesting case Charley had ever defended spread +out before him--the case which had given him his friend Jo Portugais, +which had turned his own destiny. Yet he could not quite trace in it the +vital association of this vain Notary now in the confessional mood. + +"You behaved very well," said Charley tentatively. + +"Ah, you say that, knowing so little! What will you say when you know +all--ah! That I should take a stand also was important. Neither the +Seigneur nor the Cure was married; I was. I have been long-suffering for +a cause. My marital felicity has been bruised--bruised--but not broken." + +"There are the twins," said Charley, with a half-closed eye. + +"Could woman ask greater proof?" urged the Notary seriously, for the +other's voice had been so well masked that he did not catch its satire. +"But see my peril, and mark the ground of my interest in this poor +wanton! Yet a woman--a woman-frail creatures, as we know, and to be +pitied, not made more pitiable by the stronger sex.... But, see now! +Why should I have perilled mine own conjugal peace, given ground for +suspicion even--for I am unfortunate, unfortunate in the exterior with +which Dame Nature has honoured me!" Again he looked in the mirror with +sad complacency. + +On these words his listener offered no comment, and he continued: + +"For this reason I lifted my voice for the poor wanton. It was I who +wrote the letter to her that her child was alive. I did it with high +purpose--I foresaw that she would change her ways if she thought her +child was living. Was I mistaken? No. I am an observer of human nature. +Intellect conquered. 'Io triumphe'. The poor fly-away changed, led a new +life. Ever since then she has tried to get the man--the lawyer--to tell +her where her child is. He has not done so. He has said the child is +dead--always. When she seemed to give up belief, then would come another +letter to her, telling her the child was living--but not where. So +she would keep on writing to the man, and sometimes she would go away +searching--searching. To what end? Nothing! She had a letter some months +ago, for she had got restless, and a young kinsman of the Seigneur had +come to visit at the seigneury for a week, and took much notice of her. +There was danger. Voila, another letter." + +"From you?" + +"Monsieur, of course! Will you keep a secret--on your sacred honour?" + +"I can keep a secret without sacred honour." + +"Ah, yes, of course! You have a secret of your own--pardon me, I am +only saying what every one says. Well, this is the secret of the woman +Paulette Dubois. My cousin, Robespierre Dauphin, a notary in Quebec, +is the agent of the lawyer, the father of the child. He pities the poor +woman. But he is bound in professional honour to the lawyer fellow, +not to betray. When visiting Robespierre once I found out the truth-by +accident. + +"I told him what I intended. He gave permission to tell the woman her +child was alive; and, if need be for her good, to affirm it over and +over again--no more." + +"And this?" said Charley, pointing to the injured leg, for he now +associated the accident with the secret just disclosed. + +"Ah, you apprehend! You have an avocat's mind--almost. It was at Four +Mountains. Paulette is superstitious; so not long ago she went to live +there alone with an old half-breed woman who has second-sight. Monsieur, +it is a gift unmistakably. For as soon as the hag clapped eyes on me +in the hut, she said: 'There is the man that wrote you the letters.' +Well--what! Paulette Dubois came down on me like an avalanche--Monsieur, +like an avalanche! She believed the old witch; and there was I lying +with an unconvincing manner"--he sighed--"lying requires practice, alas! +She saw I was lying, and in a rage snatched up my gun. It went off by +accident, and brought me down. Did she relent? Not so. She helped to +bind me up, and the last words she said to me were: 'You will suffer; +you will have time to think. I am glad. You have kept me on the rack. I +shall only be sorry if you die, for then I shall not be able to torture +you till you tell me where my child is!' Monsieur, I lied to the last, +lest she should come here and make a noise; but I'm not sure it wouldn't +have been better to break faith with Robespierre, and tell the poor +wanton where her child is. What would you do, Monsieur? I cannot ask +the Cure or the Seigneur--I have reasons. But you have the head of +a lawyer--almost--and you have no local feelings, no personal +interest--eh?" + +"I should tell the truth." + +"Your reasons, Monsieur?" + +"Because the lawyer is a scoundrel. Your betrayal of his secret is not a +thousandth part so bad as one lie told to this woman, whose very life is +her child. Is it a boy or a girl?" + +"A boy." + +"Good! What harm can be done? A left-handed boy is all right in the +world. Your wife has twins--then think of the woman, the one ewe lamb of +'the poor wanton.' If you do not tell her, you will have her here making +a noise, as you say. I wonder she has not been here on your door-step." + +"I had a letter from her to-day. She is coming-ah, mon dieu!" + +"When?" + +There was a tap at the window. The Notary started. "Ah, Heaven, here she +is!" he gasped, and drew over to the wall. + +A voice came from outside. "Shall I play for you, Dauphin? It is as good +as medicine." + +The Notary recovered himself at once. His volatile nature sprang back to +its pose. He could forget Paulette Dubois for the moment. + +"It is Maximilian Cour in the garden," he said happily. Then he raised +his voice. "Play on, baker; but something for convalescence--the return +of spring, the sweet assonance of memory." + +"A September air, and a gush of spring," said the baker, trying to crane +his long neck through the window. "Ah, there you are, Dauphin! I shall +give you a sleep to-night like a balmy eve." He nodded to the tailor. +"M'sieu', you shall judge if sentiment be dead. + +"I have racked my heart to play this time. I have called it, 'The +Baffled Quest of Love'. I have taken the music of the song of Alsace, +'Le Jardin d'Amour', and I have made variations on it, keeping the last +verse of the song in my mind. You know the song, M'sieu': + + "'Quand je vais au jardin, Jardin d'amour, + Je crois entendu des pas, + Je veux fuir, et n'ose pas. + Voici la fin du jour... + Je crains et j'hesite, + Mon coeur bat plus vite + En ce sejour... + Quand je vais an jardin, jardin d'amour.'" + +The baker sat down on a stool he had brought, and began to tune his +fiddle. From inside came the voice of the Notary. + +"Play 'The Woods are Green' first," he said. "Then the other." + +The Notary possessed the one high-walled garden in the village, and +though folk gathered outside and said that the baker was playing for the +sick man, there was no one in the garden save the fiddler himself. +Once or twice a lad appeared on the top of the wall, looking over, but +vanished at once when he saw Charley's face at the window. Long ere the +baker had finished, the song was caught up from outside, and before the +last notes of the violin had died away, twenty voices were singing it in +the street, and forty feet marched away with it into the dusk. + +Darkness comes quickly in this land of brief twilight. Presently out +of the soft shadowed stillness, broken by the note of a vagrant +whippoorwill, crept out from Maximilian Cour's old violin the music of +'The Baffled Quest of Love'. + +The baker was not a great musician, but he had a talent, a rare gift of +pathos, and an imagination untrammelled by rigorous rules of harmony and +construction. Whatever there was in his sentimental bosom he poured +into this one achievement of his life. It brought tears to the eyes of +Narcisse Dauphin. It opened a gate of the garden wall, and drew inside a +girl's face, shining with feeling. + +Maximilian Cour spoke for more than himself that night. His philandering +spirit had, at middle age, begotten a desire to house itself in a quiet +place, where the blinds could be drawn close, and the room of life made +ready with all the furniture of love. So he had spoken to his violin, +and it had answered as it had never done before. The soul of the lean +baker touched the heart of a man whose life had been but a baffled +quest, and the spirit of a girl whose love was her sun by day, her moon +by night, and the starlight of her dreams. + +From the shade of the window the man the girl loved watched her as she +sank upon the ground and clasped her hands before her in abandonment to +the music. He watched her when the baker, at last, overcome by his +own feelings--and ashamed of them--got up and stole swiftly out of the +garden. He watched her till he saw her drop her face in her hands; then, +opening the door and stealing out, he came and laid a hand upon her +shoulder, and she heard him say: + +"Rosalie!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY + +Rosalie came to her feet, gasping with pleasure. She had been unhappy +ever since she had returned from Quebec, for though she had sometimes +been brought in contact with Charley in the Notary's house since the +day of the operation, nothing had passed between them save the necessary +commonplaces of a sick-room, given a little extra colour, perhaps, +by the sense of responsibility which fell upon them both, and by that +importance which hidden sentiment gives to every motion. The twins had +been troublesome and ill, and Madame Dauphin had begged Rosalie to come +in for a couple of hours every evening. Thus the tailor and the girl +who, by every rule of wisdom, should have been kept as far apart as +the poles, were played into each other's hands by human kindness and +damnable propinquity. The man, manlike, felt no real danger, because +nothing was said--after everything had been said for all time at the hut +on Vadrome Mountain. He had not realised the true situation, because of +late her voice, like his, had been even and her hand cool and steady. +He had not noticed that her eyes were like hungry fires, eating up her +face--eating away its roundness, and leaving a pathetic beauty behind. + +It seemed to him that because there was silence--neither the written +word nor the speaking look--that all was well. He was hugging the chain +of denial to his bosom, as though to say, "This way is safety"; he was +hiding his face from the beacon-lights of her eyes, which said: "This +way is home." + +Home? Pictures of home, of a home such as Maximilian Cour painted in +his music, had passed before him now and then since that great day on +Vadrome Mountain. A simple fireside, with frugal but comfortable fare; a +few books; the study of the fields and woods; the daily humble task over +which he could meditate as his hands worked mechanically; the happy face +of a happy woman near--he had thought of home; and he had put it from +him. No matter what the temptation, his must be, perhaps for ever, the +bed and board unshared. He had had his chance in the old days, and +he had thrown it away with insolent indifference, and an unpardonable +contempt for the opinion of the world. + +Now, with a blind fatuousness which had nothing to do with his old +intellectual power, but was evidence of a primitive life of feeling, had +vaguely imagined that because there were no clinging hands, or stolen +looks, or any vow or promise, that all might go on as at present--upon +the surface. With a curious absence of his old accuracy of observation +he was treating the immediate past--his and Rosalie's past--as if it did +not actually exist; as if only the other and farther past was a tragedy, +and this nearer one a dream. + +But the film fell from his eyes as Maximilian Cour played his 'Baffled +Quest', with its quaint, searching pathos; and as he saw the figure of +the girl alone in the shade of the great rose-bushes, past and present +became one, and the whole man was lost in that one word "Rosalie!" which +called her to her feet with outstretched hands. + +The tears sprang to her eyes; her face upturned to his was a mute +appeal, a speechless 'Viens ici'. + +Past, present, future, duty, apprehension, consequences, suddenly fell +away from Charley's mind like a garment slipping from the shoulders, and +the new man, swept off his feet by the onrush of unused and ungoverned +emotions, caught the girl to his arms with a desperate joy. + +"Oh, do you care, then--for me?" wept the girl, and hid her face in his +breast. + +A voice came from inside the house: "Monsieur, Monsieur--ah, come, if +you please, tailor!" + +The girl drew back quickly, looked up at him for one instant with a +triumphant happy daring, then, suddenly covered with confusion, turned, +ran to the gate, opened it, passed swiftly out, and was swallowed up in +the dusk. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. THE CHALLENGE OF PAULETTE DUBOIS + +"Monsieur, Monsieur!" came the voice from inside the house, querulously +and anxiously. Charley entered the Notary's bedroom. + +"Monsieur," said the Notary excitedly, "she is here--Paulette is here. +My wife is asleep, thank God! but old Sophie has just told me that the +woman asks to see me. Ah, Heaven above, what shall I do?" + +"Will you leave it to me?" + +"Yes, yes, Monsieur." + +"You will do exactly as I say?" + +"Ah, most sure." + +"Very well. Keep still. I will see her first. Trust to me." He turned +and left the room. + +Charley found the woman in the Notary's office, which, while partly +detached from the house, did duty as sitting-room and library. +When Charley entered, the room was only lighted by two candles, +and Paulette's face was hidden by a veil, but Charley observed the +tremulousness of the figure and the nervous decision of manner. He had +seen her before several times, and he had always noticed the air, half +bravado, half shrinking, marking her walk and movements, as though two +emotions were fighting in her. She was now dressed in black, save for +one bright red ribbon round her throat, incongruous and garish. + +When she saw Charley she started, for she had expected the servant with +a message from the Notary--her own message had been peremptory. + +"I wish to see the Notary," she said defiantly. + +"He is not able to come to you." + +"What of that?" + +"Did you expect to go to his bedroom?" + +"Why not?" She was abrupt to discourtesy. + +"You are neither physician, nor relative." + +"I have important business." + +"I transact his business for him, Madame." + +"You are a tailor." + +"I learned that; I am learning to be a notary." + +"My business is private." + +"I transact his private business too--that which his wife cannot do. +Would you prefer his wife to me? It must be either the one or the +other." + +The woman started towards the door in a rage. He stepped between. "You +cannot see the Notary." + +"I'll see his wife, then--" + +"That would only put the fat in the fire. His wife would not listen +to you. She is quick-tempered, and she fancies she has reasons for not +liking you." + +"She's a fool. I haven't been always particular, but as for Narcisse +Dauphin--" + +"He has been a good friend to you at some expense, the world says." + +The woman struggled with herself. "The world lies!" she said at last. + +"But he doesn't. The village was against you once. That was when the +Notary, with the Seigneur, was for you--it has cost him something ever +since, I'm told. You've never thanked him." + +"He has tortured me for years, the oily, smirking, lying--" + +"He has been your best friend," he interrupted. "Please sit down, and +listen to me for a moment." + +She hesitated, then did as he asked. + +"He tells me that years ago he was in love with you. Hasn't he behaved +better than some who said they loved you?" + +The woman half started up, her eyes flashing, but met a deprecating +motion of his hand and sat down again. + +"He thought that if you knew your child lived, you would think better of +life--and of yourself. He has his good points, the Notary." + +"Why doesn't he tell me where my child is?" + +"The Notary is in bed--you shot him! Don't you think it is doing you a +good turn not to have you arrested?" + +"It was an accident." + +"Oh no, it wasn't! You couldn't make a jury believe that. And if you +were in prison, how could you find your child? You see, you have treated +the Notary very badly." + +She was silent, and he added, slowly: "He had good reasons for not +telling you. It wasn't his own secret, and he hadn't come by it in a +strictly professional way. Your child was being well cared for, and he +told you simply that it was alive--for your own sake. But he has changed +his mind at last, and--" + +The woman sprang from her seat. "He will tell me--he will tell me?" + +"I will tell you." + +"Monsieur-Monsieur--ah, my God, but you are kind! How should you +know--what do you know?" + +"I give you my word that by to-morrow evening you shall know where your +child is." + +For a moment she was bewildered and overcome, then a look of gratitude, +of luminous hope, covered her face, softening the hardness of its +contour, and she fell on her knees beside the table, dropped her head in +her arms, and sobbed as if her heart would break. + +"My little lamb, my little, little lamb-my own dearest!" she sobbed. "I +shall have you again. I shall have you again--all my own!" + +He stood and watched her meditatively. He was wondering why it was that +grief like this had never touched him so before. His eyes were moist. +Though he had been many things in his life, he had never been abashed; +but a curious timidity possessed him now. + +He leaned over and touched her shoulder with a kindly abruptness, a +friendly awkwardness. "Cheer up," he said. "You shall have your child, +if Dauphin can help you to it." + +"If he ever tries to take him from me"--she sprang to her feet, her face +in a fury--"I will--" + +For an instant her overpowering passion possessed her, and she stood +violent and wilful; then, under his fixed, exacting gaze, her rage +ceased; she became still and grey and quiet. + +"I shall know to-morrow evening, Monsieur? Where?" Her voice was weak +and distant. + +He thought for a time. "At my house-at nine o'clock," he answered at +last. + +"Monsieur," she said, in a choking voice, "if I get my child again, I +will bless you to my dying day." + +"No, no; it will be Dauphin you must bless," he said, and opened the +door for her. As she disappeared into the dusk and silence he adjusted +his eye-glass, and stared musingly after her, though there was nothing +to see save the summer darkness, nothing to hear save the croak of +the frogs in the village pond. He was thinking of the trial of Joseph +Nadeau, and of a woman in the gallery, who laughed. + +"Monsieur, Monsieur," called the voice of the Notary from the bedroom. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE CURE AND THE SEIGNEUR VISIT THE TAILOR + +It had been a perfect September day. The tailor of Chaudiere had been +busier than usual, for winter was within hail, and careful habitants +were renewing their simple wardrobes. The Seigneur and the Cure arrived +together, each to order the making of a greatcoat of the Irish frieze +which the Seigneur kept in quantity at the Manor. The Seigneur was in +rare spirits. And not without reason; for this was Michaelmas eve, and +tomorrow would be Michaelmas day, and there was a promise to be redeemed +on Michaelmas day! He had high hopes of its redemption according to his +own wishes; for he was a vain Seigneur, and he had had his way in all +things all his life, as everybody knew. Importunity with discretion was +his motto, and he often vowed to the Cure that there was no other motto +for the modern world. + +The Cure's visit to the tailor's shop on this particular day had unusual +interest, for it concerned his dear ambition, the fondest aspiration of +his life: to bring the infidel tailor (they could not but call a man an +infidel whose soul was negative--the word agnostic had not then become +usual) from the chains of captivity into the freedom of the Church. +The Cure had ever clung to his fond hope; and it was due to his +patient confidence that there were several parishioners who now carried +Charley's name before the shrine of the blessed Virgin, and to the +little calvaries by the road-side. The wife of Filion Lacasse never +failed to pray for him every day. The thousand dollars gained by the +saddler on the tailor's advice had made her life happier ever since, +for Filion had become saving and prudent, and had even got her a "hired +girl." There were at least a half-dozen other women, including Madame +Dauphin, who did the same. + +That he might listen again to the good priest on his holy hobby, +inflamed with this passion of missionary zeal, the Seigneur, this +morning, had thrown doubt upon the ultimate success of the Cure's +efforts. + +"My dear Cure" said the Seigneur, "it is true, I think, what the tailor +suggested to my brother--on my soul, I wonder the Abbe gave in, for +a more obstinate fellow I never knew!--that a man is born with the +disbelieving maggot in his brain, or the butterfly of belief, or +whatever it may be called. It's constitutional--may be criminal, but +constitutional. It seems to me you would stand more chance with the Jew, +Greek, or heretic, than our infidel. He thinks too much--for a tailor, +or for nine tailors, or for one man." + +He pulled his nose, as if he had said a very good thing indeed. They +were walking slowly towards the village during this conversation, and +the Cure, stopping short, brought his stick emphatically down in his +palm several times, as he said: + +"Ah, you will not see! You will not understand. With God all things are +possible. Were it the devil himself in human form, I should work and +pray and hope, as my duty is, though he should still remain the devil +to the end. What am I? Nothing. But what the Church has done, the Church +may do. Think of Paul and Augustine, and Constantine!" + +"They were classic barbarians to whom religion was but an emotion. This +man has a brain which must be satisfied." + +"I must count him as a soul to be saved through that very intelligence, +as well as through the goodness of his daily life, which, in its +charity, shames us all. He gives all he earns to the sick and needy. He +lives on fare as poor as the poorest of our people eat; he gives up his +hours of sleep to nurse the sick. Dauphin might not have lived but for +him. His heart is good, else these things were impossible. He could not +act them." + +"But that's just it, Cure. Doesn't he act them? Isn't it a whim? What +more likely than that, tired of the flesh-pots of Egypt, he comes here +to live in the desert--for a sensation? We don't know." + +"We do know. The man has had sorrow and the man has had sin. Yes, +believe me, there is none of us that suffers as this man has suffered. +I have had many, many talks with him. Believe me, Maurice, I speak the +truth. My heart bleeds for him. I think I know the thing that drove him +here amongst us. It is a great temptation, which pursues him here--even +here, where his life is so commendable. I have seen him fighting it. I +have seen his torture, the piteous, ignoble yielding, and the struggle, +with more than mortal energy, to be master of himself." + +"It is--" the Seigneur said, then paused. + +"No, no; do not ask me. He has not confessed to me, Maurice-naturally, +nothing like that. But I know. I know and pity--ah, Maurice, I almost +love. You argue, and reason, but I know this, my friend, that something +was left out of this man when he was made, and it is that thing that +we must find, or he will die among us a ruined soul, and his gravestone +will be the monument of our shame. If he can once trust the Church, if +he can once say, 'Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,' then his +temptation will vanish, and I shall bring him in--I shall lead him +home." + +For an instant the Seigneur looked at him in amazement, for this was a +Cure he had never known. + +"Dear Cure, you are not your old self," he said gently. + +"I am not myself--yes, that is it, Maurice. I am not the old humdrum +Cure you knew. The whole world is my field now. I have sorrowed for sin, +within the bounds of this little Chaudiere. Now I sorrow for unbelief. +Through this man, through much thinking on him, I have come to feel the +woe of all the world. I have come to hear the footsteps of the Master +near. My friend, it is not a legend, not a belief now, it is a presence. +I owe him much, Maurice. In bringing him home, I shall understand what +it all means--the faith that we profess. I shall in truth feel that +it is all real. You see how much I may yet owe to him--to this infidel +tailor. I only hope I have not betrayed him," he added anxiously. "I +would keep faith with him--ah, yes, indeed!" + +"I only remember that you have said the man suffers. That is no +betrayal." + +They entered the village in silence. Presently, however, the sound of +Maximilian Cour's violin, as they passed the bakery, set the Seigneur's +tongue wagging again, and it wagged on till they came to the tailor's +shop. + +"Good-day to you, Monsieur," he said, as they entered. + +"Have you a hot goose for me?" + +"I have, but I will not press it on you," replied Charley. + +"Should you so take my question--eh?" + +"Should you so take my 'anser'?" + +The pun was new to the Seigneur, and he turned to the Cure chuckling. +"Think of that, Cure! He knows the classics." He laughed till the tears +came into his eyes. + +The next few moments Charley was busy measuring the two potentates for +greatcoats. As it was his first work for them, it was necessary for the +Cure to write down the Seigneur's measurements, as the tailor called +them off, while the Seigneur did the same when the Cure was being +measured. So intent were the three it might have been a conference of +war. The Seigneur ventured a distant but self-conscious smile when +the measurement of his waist was called, for he had by two inches the +advantage of the Cure, though they were the same age, while he was one +inch better in the chest. The Seigneur was proud of his figure, and, +unheeding the passing of fashions, held to the knee-breeches and silk +stockings long after they had disappeared from the province. To the Cure +he had often said that the only time he ever felt heretical was when in +the presence of the gaitered calves of a Protestant dean. He wore his +sleeves tight and his stock high, as in the days when William the Sailor +was king in England, and his long gold-topped Prince Regent cane was the +very acme of dignity. + +The measurement done, the three studied the fashion plates--mostly five +years old--as Von Moltke and Bismarck might have studied the field of +Gravelotte. The Seigneur's remarks were highly critical, till, with a +few hasty strokes on brown paper, Charley sketched in his figure with +a long overcoat in style much the same as his undercoat, stately and +flowing and confined at the waist. + +"Admirable, most admirable!" said the Seigneur. "The likeness is +astonishing"--he admired the carriage of his own head in Charley's swift +lines--"the garment in perfect taste. Form--there is nothing like form +and proportion in life. It is almost a religion." + +"My dear friend!" said the Cure, in amazement. + +"I know when I am in the presence of an artist and his work. Louis +Trudel had rule and measure, shears and a needle. Our friend here has +eye and head, sense of form and creative gift. Ah, Cure, Cure, if I were +twenty-five, with the assistance of Monsieur, I would show the bucks in +Fabrique Street how to dress. What style is this called, Monsieur?" he +suddenly asked, pointing to the drawing. + +"Style a la Rossignol, Seigneur," said the tailor. + +The Seigneur was flattered out of all reason. He looked across at the +post-office, where he could see Rosalie dimly moving in the shade of the +shop. + +"Ah, if I had but ordered this coat sooner!" he said regretfully. He was +thinking that to-morrow was Michaelmas day, when he was to ask Rosalie +for her answer again, and he fancied himself appearing before her in +the gentle cool of the evening, in this coat, lightly thrown back, +disclosing his embroidered waistcoat, seals, and snowy linen. "Monsieur, +I am highly complimented, believe me," he said. "Observe, Cure, that +this coat is invented for me on the spot." + +The Cure nodded appreciatively. "Wonderful! Wonderful! But do you not +think," he added, a little wistfully--for, was he not a Frenchman, +susceptible like all his race to the appearance of things?--"do you not +think it might be too fashionable for me?" + +"Not a whit--not a whit," replied the Seigneur generously. "Should not +a Cure look distinguished--be dignified? Consider the length, the line, +the eloquence of design! Ah, Monsieur, once again, you are an artist! +The Cure shall wear it--indeed but he shall! Then I shall look like him, +and perhaps get credit for some of his perfections." + +"And the Cure?" said Charley. + +"The Cure?--the Cure? Tiens, a little of my worldliness will do him +good. There are no contrasts in him. He must wear the coat." He waved +his walking-stick complacently, for he was thinking that the Cure's less +perfect figure would set off his own well as they walked together. "May +I have the honour to keep this as a souvenir?" he added, picking up the +sketch. + +"With pleasure," answered Charley. "You do not need it?" + +"Not at all." + +The Cure looked a little disappointed, and Charley, seeing, immediately +sketched on brown paper the priestly figure in the new-created coat, a +la Rossignol. On this drawing he was a little longer engaged, with the +result that the Cure was reproduced with a singular fidelity--in face, +figure, and expression a personality gentle yet important. + +"On my soul, you shall not have it!" said the Seigneur. "But you shall +have me, and I shall have you, lest we both grow vain by looking at +ourselves." He thrust the sketch of himself into the Cure's hands, and +carefully rolled up that of his friend. + +The Cure was amazed at this gift of the tailor, and delighted with the +picture of himself--his vanity was as that of a child, without guile or +worldliness. He was better pleased, however, to have the drawing of his +friend by him, that vanity might not be too companionable. He thanked +Charley with a beaming face, and then the two friends bowed and moved +towards the door. Suddenly the Cure stopped. + +"My dear Maurice," said he, "we have forgotten the important thing." + +"Think of that--we two old babblers!" said the Seigneur. He nodded for +the Cure to begin. "Monsieur," said the Cure to Charley, "you maybe +able to help us in a little difficulty. For a long time we have intended +holding a great mission with a kind of religious drama like that +performed at Ober-Ammergau, and called The Passion Play. You know of it, +Monsieur?" + +"Very well through reading, Monsieur." + +"Next Easter we propose having a Passion Play in pious imitation of +the famous drama. We will hold it at the Indian reservation of Four +Mountains, thus quickening our own souls and giving a good object-lesson +of the great History to the Indians." + +The Cure paused rather anxiously, but Charley did not speak. His eyes +were fixed inquiringly on the Cure, and he had a sudden suspicion that +some devious means were forward to influence him. He dismissed the +thought, however, for this Cure was simple as man ever was made, +straightforward as the most heretical layman might demand. + +The Cure, taking heart, again continued: "Now I possess an authentic +description of the Ober-Ammergau drama, giving details of its +presentation at different periods, and also a book of the play. But +there is no one in the parish who reads German, and it occurred to the +Seigneur and myself that, understanding French so well, by chance you +may understand German also, and would, perhaps, translate the work for +us." + +"I read German easily and speak it fairly," Charley answered, relieved; +"and you are welcome to my services." + +The Cure's pale face flushed with pleasure. He took the little German +book from his pocket, and handed it over. + +"It is not so very long," he said; "and we shall all be grateful." Then +an inspiration came to him; his eyes lighted. + +"Monsieur," he said, "you will notice that there are no illustrations +in the book. It is possible that you might be able to make us a few +drawings--if we do not ask too much? It would aid greatly in the matter +of costume, and you might use my library--I have a fair number of +histories." The Cure was almost breathless, his heart thumped as he made +the request. After a slight pause he added, hastily: "You are always +doing for others. It is hardly kind to ask you; but we have some months +to spare; there need be no haste." Charley hastened to relieve the +Cure's anxiety. "Do not apologise," he said. "I will do what I can when +I can. But as for drawing, Monsieur, it will be but amateurish." + +"Monsieur," interposed the Seigneur promptly, "if you're not an artist, +I'm damned!" + +"Maurice!" murmured the Cure reproachfully. "Can't help it, Cure. I've +held it in for an hour. It had to come; so there it is exploded. I see +no damage either, save to my own reputation. Monsieur," he added to +Charley, "if I had gifts like yours, nothing would hold me. I should put +on more airs than Beauty Steele." + +It was fortunate that, at that instant, Charley's face was turned away, +or the Seigneur would have seen it go white and startled. Charley did +not dare turn his head for the moment. He could not speak. What did the +Seigneur know of Beauty Steele? + +To hide his momentary confusion, he went over to the drawer of a +cupboard in the wall, and placed the book inside. It gave him time +to recover himself. When he turned round again his face was calm, his +manner composed. + +"And who, may I ask, is Beauty Steele?" he said. "Faith I do not know," +answered the Seigneur, taking a pinch of snuff. "It's years since I +first read the phrase in a letter a scamp of a relative of mine wrote me +from the West. He had met a man of the name, who had a reputation as a +clever fop, a very handsome fellow. So I thought it a good phrase, +and I've used it ever since on occasions. 'More airs than Beauty +Steele.'--It has a sound; it's effective, I fancy, Monsieur?" + +"Decidedly effective," answered Charley quietly. He picked up his +shears. "You will excuse me," he said grimly, "but I must earn my +living. I cannot live on my reputation." + +The Seigneur and the Cure lifted their hats--to the tailor. + +"Au revoir, Monsieur," they both said, and Charley bowed them out. + +The two friends turned to each other a little way up the street. +"Something will come of this, Cure," said the Seigneur. The Cure, whose +face had a look of happiness, pressed his arm in reply. + +Inside the tailor-shop, a voice kept saying, "More airs than Beauty +Steele!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. THE SCARLET WOMAN + +Since the evening in the garden when she had been drawn into Charley's +arms, and then fled from them in joyful confusion, Rosalie had been in +a dream. She had not closed her eyes all night, or, if she closed them, +they still saw beautiful things flashing by, to be succeeded by other +beautiful things. It was a roseate world. To her simple nature it was +not so important to be loved as to love. Selfishness was as yet the +minor part of her. She had been giving all her life--to her mother, as +a child; to sisters at the convent who had been kind to her; to the poor +and the sick of the parish; to her father, who was helpless without her; +to the tailor across the way. In each case she had given more than she +had got. A nature overflowing with impulsive affection, it must spend +itself upon others. The maternal instinct was at the very core of her +nature, and care for others was as much a habit as an instinct with her. +She had love to give, and it must be given. It had been poured like +the rain from heaven on the just and the unjust; on animals as on human +beings, and in so far as her nature, in the first spring--the very +April--of its powers, could do. + +Till Charley had come to Chaudiere, it had all been the undisciplined +ardour of a girl's nature. A change had begun in the moment when she had +tearfully thrust the oil and flour in upon his excoriated breast. Later +came real awakening, and a riotous outpouring of herself in sympathy, +in observation, in a reckless kindness which must have done her harm but +that her clear intelligence balanced her actions, and because secrecy in +one thing helped to restrain her in all. Yet with all the fresh overflow +of her spirit, which, assisted by her new position as postmistress, made +her a conspicuous and popular figure in the parish, where officialdom +had rare honour and little labour, she had prejudices almost unworthy +of her, due though they were to radical antipathy. These prejudices, +one against Jo Portugais and the other against Paulette Dubois, she had +never been able entirely to overcome, though she had honestly tried. On +the way to the hospital at Quebec, however, Jo had been so careful of +her father, so respectful when speaking of M'sieu', so regardful of +her own comfort, that her antagonism to him was lulled. But the strong +prejudice against Paulette Dubois remained, casting a shadow on her +bright spirit. + +All this day she had moved about in a mellow dream, very busy, scarcely +thinking. New feelings dominated her, and she was too primitive to +analyse them and too occupied with them to realise acutely the life +about her. Work was an abstraction, resting rather than tiring her. + +Many times she had looked across at the tailor-shop, only seeing Charley +once. She did not wish to speak with him now, nor to be near him yet; +she wanted this day for herself only. + +So it was that, soon after the Cure and the Seigneur had bade good-bye +to Charley, she left the post-office and went quickly through the +village to a spot by the river, where was a place called the Rest of the +Flaxbeaters. It was an overhanging rock which made a kind of canopy over +a sweet spring, where, in the days when their labours sounded through +the valley, the flaxbeaters from the level below came to eat their meals +and to rest. + +This had always been a resort for her in the months when the +flax-beaters did not use it. Since a child she had made the place her +own. To this day it is called Rosalie's Dell; for are not her sorrows +and joys still told by those who knew and loved her? and is not the +parish still fragrant with her name? Has not her history become a living +legend a thousand times told? + +Leaving the village behind her, Rosalie passed down the high-road till +she came to a path that led off through a grove of scattered pines. +There would be yet a half-hour's sun and then a short twilight, and the +river and the woods and the Rest of the Flax-beaters would be her +own; and she could think of the wonderful thing come upon her. She had +brought with her a book of English poems, and as she went through the +grove she opened it, and in her pretty English repeated over and over to +herself: + + "My heart is thine, and soul and body render + Faith to thy faith; I give nor hold in thrall: + Take all, dear love! thou art my life's defender; + Speak to my soul! Take life and love; take all!" + +She was lifted up by the abandonment of the verse, by the fulness of +her own feelings, which had only needed a touch of beauty to give it +exaltation. The touch had come. + +She went on abstractedly to the place where she had trysted with her +thoughts only, these many years, and, sitting down, watched the sun +sink beyond the trees, the shades of evening fall. All that had +happened since Charley came to the parish she went over in her mind. +She remembered the day he had said this, the day he had said that; she +brought back the night--it was etched upon her mind!--when he had said +to her, "You have saved my life, Mademoiselle!" She recalled the time +she put the little cross back on the church-door, the ghostly footsteps +in the church, the light, the lost hood. A shudder ran through her now, +for the mystery of that hood had never been cleared up. But the words on +the page caught her eye again: + + "My heart is thine, and soul and body render + Faith to thy faith..." + +It swallowed up the moment's agitation. Never till this day, never till +last night, had she dared to say to herself, He loves me. He seemed so +far above her--she never had thought of him as a tailor!--that she had +given and never dared hope to receive, had lived without anticipation +lest there should come despair. Even that day at Vadrome Mountain she +had not thought he meant love, when he had said to her that he would +remember to the last. When he had said that he would die for love's +sake, he had not meant her, but others--some one else whom he would save +by his death. Kathleen, that name which had haunted her--ah, whoever +Kathleen was, or whatever Kathleen had to do with him or his life, she +had no reason to fear Kathleen now. She had no reason to fear any one; +for had she not heard his words of love as he clasped her in his arms +last night? Had she not fled from that enfolding, because her heart was +so full in the hour of her triumph that she could not bear more, could +not look longer into the eyes to which she had told her love before his +was spoken? + +In the midst of her thoughts she heard footsteps. She started up. +Paulette Dubois suddenly appeared in the path below. She had taken the +river-path down from Vadrome Mountain, where she had gone to see Jo +Portugais, who had not yet returned from Quebec. Paulette's face was +agitated, her manner nervous. For nights she had not slept, and her +approaching meeting with the tailor had made her tremble all day. +Excited as she was, there was a wild sort of beauty in her face, and her +figure was lithe and supple. She dressed always a little garishly, but +now there was only that band of colour round the throat, worn last night +in the talk with Charley. + +To both women this meeting was as a personal misfortune, a mutual +affront. Each had a natural antipathy. To Rosalie the invasion of +her beloved retreat was as hateful as though the woman had purposely +intruded. + +For a moment they confronted each other without speaking, then Rosalie's +natural courtesy, her instinctive good-heartedness, overcame her +irritation, and she said quietly: + +"Good-evening, Madame." + +"I am not Madame, and you know it," answered the woman harshly. + +"I am sorry. Good-evening, Mademoiselle," rejoined Rosalie evenly. + +"You wanted to insult me. You knew I wasn't Madame." + +Rosalie shook her head. "How should I know? You have not always lived +in Chaudiere, you have lived in Montreal, and people often call you +Madame." + +"You know better. You know that letters come to me from Montreal +addressed Mademoiselle." + +Rosalie turned as if to go. "I do not recall what letters pass through +the post-office. I have a good memory for forgetting. Good-evening," she +added, with an excess of courtesy. Paulette read the placid scorn in the +girl's face; she did not see and would not understand that Rosalie did +not scorn her for what she had ever done, but for something that she +was. + +"You think I am the dirt under your feet," she said, now white, now red, +and mad with anger. "I'm not fit to speak with you--I'm a rag for the +dust pile!" + +"I have never thought so," answered Rosalie. "I have not liked you, but +I am sorry for you, and I never thought those things." + +"You lie!" was the rejoinder; and Rosalie, turning away quickly with +trouble in her face, put her hands to her ears, and, hastening down the +hillside, did not hear the words the woman called after her. + +"To-morrow every one shall know you are a thief. Run, run, run! You +can hear what I say, white-face! They shall know about the little cross +to-morrow." + +She followed Rosalie at a distance, her eyes blazing. As fate would have +it, she met on the highroad the least scrupulous man in the parish, +an inveterate gossip, the keeper of the general store, whose only +opposition in business was the post-office shop. He was the centre of +the village tittle-tattle, and worse. With malicious speed Paulette told +him how she had seen Rosalie Evanturel nailing the little cross on the +church door of a certain night. If he wanted proof of what she said, let +him ask Jo Portugais. + +Having spat out her revenge, she went on to the village, and through it +to her house, where she prepared to visit the shop of the tailor. Her +sense of retaliation satisfied, Rosalie passed from her mind; her +child only occupied it. In another hour she would know where her child +was--the tailor had promised that she should. Then perhaps she would be +sorry for the accident to the Notary; for it was an accident, in spite +of appearances. + +It was dark when Paulette entered the door of the tailor's house. When +she came out, a half-hour later, with elation in her carriage, and tears +of joy running down her face, she did not look about her; she did not +care whether or not any one saw her: she was possessed with only one +thought--her child! She passed like a swift wind down the street, making +for home and for her departure to the hiding-place of her child. + +She had not seen a figure in the shadow of a tree near by as she came +from the tailor's door. She had not heard a smothered cry behind her. +She was not aware that in unspeakable agony another woman knocked softly +at the door of the tailor's house, and, not waiting for an answer, +opened it and entered. It was Rosalie Evanturel. + + + + +CHAPTER XL. AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING + +The kitchen was empty, but light fell through the door of the shop +opening upon the little hall between. Rosalie crossed the hall and +stood in the doorway of the shop, a figure of concentrated indignation, +despair, and shame. Leaning on his elbow Charley was bending over a book +in the light of a candle on the bench be side him. He was reading aloud, +translating into English the German text of the narrative the Cure had +given him: + + "And because of this divine interposition, consequent upon their + faithful prayers and their oblations, they did perform these holy + scenes from season to season, with solemn proof of piety and godly + living, so that it seemed the life of the Lord our Shepherd was ever + present with them, as though, indeed, Ober-Ammergau were Nazareth or + Jerusalem. And the hearts of all in the land did answer daily to + that sweet and lively faith, insomuch that even in times of war the + zeal of the people became an holy zeal, and their warfare noble; so + that they did accept both victory and defeat with equal humbleness. + Because there was no war in their hearts, but peace, and they did + fight to defend and not to acquire, they buried their foe with tears + and their own with singleness of heart and quiet joy, for that they + did rest from their labours. In this manner was the great tragedy + and glory of the world made to the people a present thing, + transforming them to the body of the Life that hath neither spot nor + blemish nor..." + +Charley had not heard Rosalie enter, nor her footsteps in the hall. But +now there ran through his reading a thread of something not of himself +or of it. He had thrilled to the archaic but clear-hearted style of the +old German chronicler, and the warmth he felt had passed into his voice, +so that it became louder. + +As Rosalie listened to his reading, a hundred thoughts rushed through +her mind. Paulette Dubois, the wanton woman, had just left his doorway +secretly, yet there he was, instantly after, calmly reading a pious +book! Her mind was in tumult. She could not reason, she could not rule +her judgment. She only knew that the woman had come from this house, +and hurried guiltily away into the dark. She only knew that the man the +woman had left here was the man she loved--loved more than her life, for +he embodied all her past; all her present--she knew that she could +not live without him; all her future--for where he went she would go, +whatever the fate. + +Her judgment had been swept from its moorings. She had been carried on +the wave of her heart's fever into this room, not daring to think this +or that, not planning this or that, not accusing, not reproaching, not +shaming herself and him by black suspicion, but blindly, madly demanding +to see him, to look into his eyes, to hear his voice, to know him, +whatever he was--man, lover, or devil. She was a child-woman--a child +in her primitive feelings that threw aside all convention, because +there was no wrong in her heart; a woman, because she was possessed by +a jealousy which shamed and angered her, because its very existence +put him on trial, condemned him. Her soul was the sport of emotions and +passions stronger than herself, because the heritage, the instinct, of +all the race of women, the eternal predisposition. At the moment her +will was not sufficient to rule them to obedience. She was in the first +subservience to that power which feeds the streams of human history. + +As she now listened to Charley reading, a sudden revulsion of feeling +came over her. Some note in his voice reassured her heart--if it needed +reassuring. The quiet force of his presence stilled the tumult in her, +so that her eyes could see without mist, her heart beat without +agony; but every pulse in her was throbbing, every instinct was alive. +Presently there rushed upon her the words that had rung in her ears and +chimed in her heart at the Rest of the Flax-beaters: + + "Take all, dear love! thou art my life's defender; + Speak to my soul! Take life and love; take all." + +Feelings lying beneath the mad conflict of emotion which had sent +her into this room in such unmaidenly fashion--feelings that were her +deepest self-welled up. Her breath came hard and broken. + +As Charley read on, a breathing seemed to answer his own. It became +quicker than his own, it pierced the stillness, it filled the room with +feeling, it came calling to him out of the silence. He swung round, and +saw the girl in the doorway. + +"Rosalie!" he cried, and sprang to his feet. + +With a piteously pathetic cry, she flung herself on her knees beside the +tailor's bench where he worked every day, and, burying her face in her +arms as they rested on the bench, wept bitterly. + +"Rosalie!" he said anxiously, leaning over her. "What is the matter? +What has happened?" + +She wept more bitterly still; she made a despairing gesture. His hand +touched her hair; he dropped on a knee beside her. + +"Oh, I am so ashamed, ashamed! I have been so wicked," she murmured. + +"Rosalie, what has happened?" he urged gently. His own heart was beating +hard, his own eyes were responding to hers. The new feelings alive in +him, the forces his love had awakened, which, last night, had kept him +sleepless, and had been upon him like a dream all day--they were at +height in him now. He knew not how to command them. + +"Rosalie, dearest, tell me all!" he persisted. + +"I shall never--I have been--oh--you will never forgive me!" she said +brokenly. "I knew it wasn't true, but I couldn't help it. I saw her--the +woman--come from your house, and--" + +"Hush! For God's sake, hush!" he broke in almost harshly. Then a better +understanding came upon him, and it made him gentle with her. + +"Ah, Rosalie, you did not think! But--but it was natural you should wish +to see me...." + +"But, as soon as I saw you, I knew that--that--" She broke down again +and wept. + +"I will tell you about her, Rosalie--" His fingers stroked her hair, +and, bending over her, his face was near her hands. + +"No, no, tell me nothing--oh, if you tell me!--" + +"She came to hear from me what she ought to have heard from the Notary. +She has had great trouble--the man--her child--and I have helped her, +told her--" His face was so near now that his breath was on her hair. +She suddenly raised her head and clasped his face in her hands. + +"I knew--oh, I knew, I knew...!" she wept, and her eyes drank his. + +"Rosalie, my life!" he cried, clasping her in his arms. + +The love that was in him, new-born and but half understood, poured +itself out in broken words like her own. For him there was no outside +world; no past, no Kathleen, no Billy; no suspicion, or infidelity, or +unfaith; no fear of disaster; no terrors of the future. Life was Now to +him and to her: nothing brooded behind, nothing lay before. The candle +spluttered and burnt low in the socket. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. IT WAS MICHAELMAS DAY + +Not a cloud in the sky, and, ruling all, a sweet sun, liberal in +warmth and eager in brightness as its distance from the northern world +decreased. As Mrs. Flynn entered the door of the post-office she sang +out to Maximilian Cour, with a buoyant lilt: "Oh, isn't it the fun o' +the world to be alive!" + +The tailor over the way heard it, and lifted his head with a smile; +Rosalie Evanturel, behind the postal wicket, heard it, and her face swam +with colour. Rosalie busied herself with the letters and papers for a +moment before she answered Mrs. Flynn's greeting, for there were ringing +in her ears the words she herself had said a few days before: "It is +good to live, isn't it?" + +To-day it was so good to live that life seemed an endless being and +a tireless happy doing--a gift of labour, an inspiring daytime, and +a rejoicing sleep. Exaltation, a painful joy, and a wide embarrassing +wonderment possessed her. She met Mrs. Flynn's face at the wicket with +shining eyes and a timid smile. + +"Ah, there y'are, darlin'!" said Mrs. Flynn. "And how's the dear father +to-day?" + +"He seems about the same, thank you." + +"Ah, that's foine. Shure, if we could always be 'about the same,' we'd +do. True for you, darlin', 'tis as you say. If ould Mary Flynn could be +always ''bout the same,' the clods o' the valley would never cover her +bones. But there 'tis--we're here to-day, and away tomorrow. Shure, +though, I am not complainin'. Not I--not Mary Flynn. Teddy Flynn used +to say to me, says he: 'Niver born to know distress! Happy as worms in +a garden av cucumbers. Seventeen years in this country, Mary,' says he, +'an' nivir in the pinitintiary yet.' There y'are. Ah, the birds do be +singin' to-day! 'Tis good! 'Tis good, darlin'! You'll not mind Mary +Flynn callin' you darlin', though y'are postmistress, an' 'll be more +than that--more than that wan day--or Mary Flynn's a fool. Aye, more +than that y'll be, darlin', and y're eyes like purty brown topazzes +and y're cheeks like roses-shure, is there anny lether for Mary Flynn, +darlin'?" she hastily added as she saw the Seigneur standing in the +doorway. He had evidently been listening. + +"Ye didn't hear what y're ould fool of a cook was sayin'," she added +to the Seigneur, as Rosalie shook her head and answered: "No letters, +Madame--dear." Rosalie timidly added the dear, for there was something +so great-hearted in Mrs. Flynn that she longed to clasp her round the +neck, longed as she had never done in her life to lay her head upon +some motherly breast and pour out her heart. But it was not to be now. +Secrecy was her duty still. + +"Can't ye speak to y're ould fool of a cook, sir?" Mrs. Flynn said +again, as the Seigneur made way for her to leave the shop. + +"How did you guess?" he said to her in a low voice, his sharp eyes +peering into hers. + +"By the looks in y're face these past weeks, and the look in hers," she +whispered, and went on her way rejoicing. + +"I'll wind thim both round me finger like a wisp o' straw," she said, +going up the road with a light step, despite her weight, till she was +stopped by the malicious grocer-man of the village, whose tongue had +been wagging for hours upon an unwholesome theme. + +Meanwhile, in the post-office, the Seigneur and Rosalie were face to +face. + +"It is Michaelmas day," he said. "May I speak with you, Mademoiselle?" + +She looked at the clock. It was on the stroke of noon. The shop always +closed from twelve till half-past twelve. + +"Will you step into the parlour, Monsieur?" she said, and coming round +the counter, locked the shop-door. She was trembling and confused, +and entered the little parlour shyly. Yet her eyes met the Seigneur's +bravely. "Your father, how is he?" he said, offering her a chair. The +sunlight streaming in the window made a sort of pathway of light between +them, while they were in the shade. + +"He seems no worse, and to-day he is wheeling himself about." + +"He is stronger, then--that's good. Is there any fear that he must go to +the hospital again?" + +She inclined her head. "The doctor says he may have to go any moment. It +may be his one chance. The Cure is very kind, and says that, with your +permission, his sister will keep the office here, if--if needed." + +The Seigneur nodded briskly. "Of course, of course. But have you not +thought that we might secure another postmistress?" + +Her face clouded a little; her heart beat hard. She knew what was +coming. She dreaded it, but it was better to have it over now. + +"We could not live without it," she said helplessly. + +"What we have saved is not enough. The little my mother had must pay for +the visits to the hospital. I have kept it for that. You see, I need the +place here." + +"But you have thought, just the same. Do you not know the day?" he asked +meaningly. + +She was silent. + +"I have come to ask you to marry me--this is Michaelmas day, Rosalie." + +She did not speak. He had hopes from her silence. "If anything happened +to your father, you could not live here alone--but a young girl! Your +father may be in the hospital for a long time. You cannot afford that. +If I were to offer you money, you would refuse. If you marry me, all +that I have is yours to dispose of at your will: to make others happy, +to take you now and then from this narrow place, to see what's going on +in the world." + +"I am happy here," she said falteringly. + +"Chaudiere is the finest place in the world," he replied proudly, and as +a matter of fact. "But, for the sake of knowledge, you should see what +the rest of the world is. It helps you to understand Chaudiere better. I +ask you to be my wife, Rosalie." + +She shook her head sorrowfully. + +"You said before, it was not because I am old, not because I am rich, +not because I am Seigneur, not because I am I, that you refused me." + +She smiled at him now. "That is true," she said. + +"Then what reason can you have? None, none. 'Pon honour, I believe you +are afraid of marriage because it's marriage. By my life, there's naught +to dread. A little giving here and taking there, and it's easy. And when +a woman is all that's good, to a man, it can be done without fear or +trembling. Even the Cure would tell you that." + +"Ah, I know, I know," she said, in a voice half painful, half joyous. +"I know that it is so. But, oh, dear Monsieur, I cannot marry +you--never--never." + +He hung on bravely. "I want to make life easy and happy for you. I want +the right to do so. When trouble comes upon you--" + +"When it does I will turn to you--ah, yes, I would turn to you without +fear, dear Monsieur," she said, and her heart ached within her, for a +premonition of sorrow came upon her and filled her eyes, and made her +heart like lead within her breast. "I know how true a gentleman you +are," she added. "I could give you everything but that which is life to +me, which is being, and soul, and the beginning and the end." + +The weight of the revealing hour of her life, its wonder, its agony, +its irrevocability, was upon her. It was giving new meanings to +existence-primitive woman, child of nature as she was. All morning she +had longed to go out into the woods and bury herself among the ferns and +bracken, and laugh and weep for very excess of feeling, downright joy +and vague woe possessing her at once. She looked the Seigneur in the +eyes with consuming earnestness. + +"Oh, it is not because I am young," she said, in a low voice, "for I am +old--indeed, I am very old. It is because I cannot love you, and never +can love you in the one great way; and I will not marry without love. +My heart is fixed on that. When I marry, it will be when I love a man so +much that I cannot live without him. If he is so poor that each meal +is a miracle, it will make no difference. Oh, can't you see, can't you +feel, what I mean, Monsieur--you who are so wise and learned, and know +the world so well?" + +"Wise and learned!" he said, a little roughly, for his voice was husky +with emotion. "'Pon honour, I think I am a fool! A bewildered fool, that +knows no more of woman than my cook knows Sanscrit. Faith, a hundred +times less! For Mary Flynn's got an eye to see, and, without telling, +she knew I had a mind set on you. But Mary Flynn thought more than that, +for she has an idea that you've a mind set on some one, Rosalie. She +thought it might be me." + +"A woman is not so easily read as a man," she replied, half smiling, but +with her eyes turned to the street. A few people were gathering in front +of the house--she wondered why. + +"There is some one else--that is it, Rosalie. There is some one else. +You shall tell me who it is. You shall--" + +He stopped short, for there was a loud knocking at the shop-door, and +the voice of M. Evanturel calling: "Rosalie! Rosalie! Rosalie! Ah, come +quickly--ah, my Rosalie!" + +Without a look at the Seigneur, Rosalie rushed into the shop and +opened the front door. Her father was deathly pale, and was trembling +violently. + +"Rosalie, my bird," he cried indignantly, "they're saying you stole the +cross from the church door." + +He was now wheeled inside the shop, and people gathered round, +looking at him and Rosalie, some covertly, some as friends, some in a +half-frightened way, as though strange things were about to happen. + +"Shure, 'tis a lie, or me name's not Mary Flynn--the darlin'!" said the +Seigneur's cook, with blazing face. "Who makes this charge?" roared an +angry voice. No one had seen the Seigneur enter from the little room +beside the shop, and at the sound of the sharp voice the people fell +back, for he was as free with his stick as his tongue. + +"I do," said the grocer, to whom Paulette Dubois had told her story. + +"Ye shall be tarred and feathered before y'are a day older," said Mary +Flynn. + +Rosalie was very pale. + +The Seigneur was struck by this and by the strangeness of her look. + +"Clear the room," he said to Filion Lacasse, who was now a constable of +the parish. + +"Not yet!" said a voice at the doorway. "What is the trouble?" It was +the Cure, who had already heard rumours of the scandal, and had come at +once to Rosalie. M. Evanturel tried to speak, and could not. But Mary +Flynn did, with a face like a piece of scarlet bunting. Having finished +with a flourish, she could scarce keep her hands off the cowardly +grocer. + +The Cure turned to Rosalie. "It is absurd," he said. "Forgive me," he +added to the Seigneur. "It is better that Rosalie should answer this +charge. If she gives her word of honour, I will deny communion to +whoever slanders her hereafter." + +"She did it," said the grocer stubbornly. "She can't deny it." + +"Answer, Rosalie," said the Cure firmly. + +"Excuse me; I will answer," said a voice at the door. The tailor of +Chaudiere made his way into the shop, through the fast-gathering crowd. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. A TRIAL AND A VERDICT + +"What right have you to answer for mademoiselle?" said the Seigneur, +with a sudden rush of jealousy. Was not he alone the protector of +Rosalie Evanturel? Yet here was mystery, and it was clear the tailor +had something important to say. M. Rossignol offered the Cure a chair, +seated himself on a small bench, and gently drew Rosalie down beside +him. + +"I will make this a court," said he. "Advance, grocer." + +The grocer came forward smugly. + +"On what information do you make this charge against mademoiselle?" + +The grocer volubly related all that Paulette Dubois had said. As he +told his tale the Cure's face was a study, for the night the cross was +restored came back to him, and the events, so far as he knew them, were +in keeping with the grocer's narrative. He looked at Rosalie anxiously. +Monsieur Evanturel moaned, for he remembered he had heard Rosalie come +in very late that night. Yet he fixed his eyes on her in dog-like faith. + +"Mademoiselle will admit that this is true, I presume," said Charley. + +Rosalie looked at him intently, as though to read his very heart. It was +clear that he wished her to say yes; and what he wished was law. + +"It is quite true," answered Rosalie calmly, and all fear passed from +her. + +"But she did not steal the cross," continued Charley, in a louder voice, +that all might hear, for people were gathering fast. + +"If she didn't steal it, why was she putting it back on the church +door in the dark?" said the grocer. "Ah, hould y'r head, ould +sand-in-the-sugar!" said Mrs. Flynn, her fingers aching to get into his +hair. "Silence!" said the Seigneur severely, and looked inquiringly at +Rosalie. Rosalie looked at Charley. + +"It is not a question of why mademoiselle put the cross back," he said. +"It is a question of who took the cross away, is it not? Suppose it was +not a theft. Suppose that the person who took the relic thought to do a +pious act--for your Church, Monsieur?" + +"I do not see," the Cure answered helplessly. "It was a secret act, +therefore suspicious at least." + +"'Let your good gifts be in secret, and your Heavenly Father who seeth +in secret will reward you openly,"' answered Charley. "That, I believe, +is a principle you teach, Monsieur." + +"At one time Monsieur the tailor was thought to have taken the cross," +said the Seigneur suggestively. "Perhaps Monsieur was secretly doing +good with it?" he added. It vexed him that there should be a secret +between Rosalie and this man. + +"It had to do with me, not I with it," he answered evenly. He must +travel wide at first to convince their narrow brains. "Mademoiselle did +a kind act when she nailed that cross on the church door again--to make +a dead man rest easier in his grave." + +A hush fell upon the crowd. + +Rosalie looked at Charley in surprise; but she saw his meaning +presently--that what she did for him must seem to have been done for the +dead tailor only. Her heart beat hot with indignation, for she would, if +she but might, cry her love gladly from the hill-tops of the world. + +Alight began to break upon the Cure's mind. "Will Monsieur speak +plainly?" he said. + +"I did not see Louis Trudel take the cross, but I know that he did." + +"Louis Trudel! Louis Trudel!" interposed the Seigneur anxiously. "What +does this mean?" + +"Monsieur speaks the truth," interposed Rosalie. The Cure recalled the +death-bed of Louis Trudel, and the dying man's strange agitation. He +also recalled old Margot's death, and her wish to confess some one +else's wrong-doing. He was convinced that Charley was speaking the +truth. + +"It is true," added Charley slowly; "but you may think none the worse of +him when you know all. He took the cross for temporary use, and before +he could replace it he died." + +"How do you know what he meant, or did not mean?" said the Seigneur in +perplexity. "Did he take you into his confidence?" + +"The very closest," answered Charley grimly. + +"Yet he looked upon you as an infidel, and said hard things of you on +his death-bed," urged the Cure anxiously. He could not see the end of +the tale, and he was troubled for both the dead man and the living. + +"That was why he took me into his confidence. I will explain. I have +not the honour to have the fulness of your Christian faith, Monsieur le +Cure. I had asked him to show me a sign from heaven, and he showed it by +the little iron cross." + +"I can't make anything of that," said the Seigneur peevishly. + +Rosalie sprang to her feet. "He will not tell the whole truth, +Messieurs, but I will. With that little cross Louis Trudel would have +killed Monsieur, had it not been for me." + +A gasp of excitement went out from those who stood by. + +"But for you, Rosalie?" asked the Cure. + +"But for me. I saw Louis Trudel raise an iron against Monsieur that day +in the shop. It made me nervous--I thought he was mad. So I watched. +That night I saw a light in the tailor-shop late. I thought it strange. +I went over and peeped through the cracks of the shutters. I saw old +Louis at the fire with the little cross, red-hot. I knew he meant +trouble. I ran into the house. Old Margot was beside herself with +fear--she had seen also. I ran through the hall and saw old Louis +upstairs with the burning cross. I followed. He went into Monsieur's +room. When I got to the door"--she paused, trembling, for she saw +Charley's reproving eyes upon her--"I saw him with the cross--with the +cross raised over Monsieur." + +"He meant to threaten me," interposed Charley quickly. + +"We will have the truth!" said the Seigneur, in a husky voice. + +"The cross came down on Monsieur's bare breast." The grocer laughed +vindictively. + +"Silence!" growled the Seigneur. + +"Silence!" said Filion Lacasse, and dropped his hand on the grocer's +shoulder. "I'll baste you with a stirrup-strap." + +"The rest is well known," quickly interposed Charley. "The poor man was +mad. He thought it a pious act to mark an infidel with the cross." + +Every eye was fixed upon him. The Cure remembered Louis Trudel's last +words: "Look--look--I gave--him--the sign--of...!" Old Margot's words +also kept ringing in his ears. He turned to the Seigneur. "Monsieur," +said he, "we have heard the truth. That act of Louis Trudel was cruel +and murderous. May God forgive him! I will not say that mademoiselle did +well in keeping silent--" + +"God bless the darlin'!" cried Mrs. Flynn. + +"--but I will say that she meant to do a kind act for a man's mortal +memory--perhaps at the expense of his soul." + +"For Monsieur to take his injury in silence, to keep it secret, was +kind," said the Seigneur. "It is what our Cure here might call bearing +his cross manfully." + +"Seigneur," said the Cure reproachfully, "Seigneur, it is no subject for +jest." + +"Cure, our tailor here has treated it as a jest." + +"Let him show his breast, if it's true," said the grocer, who, beneath +his smirking, was a malignant soul. + +The Cure turned on him sharply. Seldom had any one seen the Cure roused. + +"Who are you, Ba'tiste Maxime, that your base curiosity should be +satisfied--you, whose shameless tongue clattered, whose foolish soul +rejoiced over the scandal? Must we all wear the facts of our lives--our +joys, our sorrows, and our sins--for such eyes as yours to read? Bethink +you of the evil things that you would hide--aye, every one here!" he +added loudly. "Know, all of you, what goodness of heart towards a wicked +man lay behind the secret these two have kept, that old Margot carried +to her grave. When you go to your homes, pray for as much human kindness +in you as a man of no Church or faith can show. For this child"--he +turned to Rosalie-"honour her! Go now--go in peace!" + +"One moment," said the Seigneur. "I fine Ba'tiste Maxime twenty dollars +for defamation of character. The money to go for the poor." + +"You hear that, ould sand-in-the-sugar!" said Mrs. Flynn. "Will you let +me kiss ye, darlin'?" she added to Rosalie, and, waddling over, reached +out her hands. + +Rosalie's eyes were wet as she warmly kissed the old Irishwoman, and +thereupon they entered into a friendship which was without end. + +The Seigneur drove the crowd from the shop, and shut the door. + +The Cure came to Charley. "Monsieur," said he, "I have no words. When +I remember what agonies you suffered in those hours, how bravely you +endured them--ah, Monsieur!" he added, with moist eyes, "I shall always +feel that--that you are not far from the kingdom of God." + +A silence fell upon them, for the Cure, the Seigneur, and Rosalie, as +they looked at Charley, thought of the scar like a red cross on his +breast. + +It touched Charley with a kind of awe. He smiled painfully. "Shall I +give you proof?" he said, making a motion to undo his waistcoat. + +"Monsieur!" said the Seigneur reprovingly, and holding out his hand. +"Monsieur! We are all gentlemen!" + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY + +Walking slowly, head bent, eyes unseeing, Charley was on his way to +Vadrome Mountain, with the knowledge that Jo Portugais had returned. + +The hunger for companionship was on him: to touch some mind that could +understand the deep loneliness which had settled on him since that scene +in the postoffice. It was the loneliness of a new and great separation. +He had wakened to it to-day. + +Once before, in the hut on Vadrome Mountain, he had wakened from a +grave, had been born again. Last night had come still another birth, had +come, as with Rosalie herself, knowledge, revelation, understanding. +To Rosalie the new vision had come with a vague pain of heart, without +shame, and with a wonderful happiness. Pain, shame, knowledge, and a +happiness that passed suddenly into a despairing sorrow, had come to +him. + +In finding love he had found conscience, and in finding conscience he +was on his way to another great discovery. + +Looking to where Jo Portugais' house was set among the pines, Charley +remembered the day--he saw the scene in his mind's eye--when Rosalie +entered with the letter addressed "To the sick man at the house of Jo +Portugais, at Vadrome Mountain," and he saw again her clear, unsoiled +soul in the deep inquiring eyes. + +"If you but knew"--he turned and looked down at the village below--"if +you but knew!" he said, as though to all the world. "I have the sign +from heaven--I know it now. To-day I wake to know what life means, and +I see--Rosalie! I know now--but how? In taking all she had to give. What +does she get in return? Nothing--nothing. Because I love her, because +the whole world is nothing beside her, nor life, nor twenty lives, if +I had them to give, I must say to her now: 'Rosalie, it was love that +brought you to my arms, it is love that says, Thus far and no farther. +Never again--never--never--never!' Yesterday I could have left her--died +or vanished, without real hurt to her. She would have mourned and broken +her heart and mended it again; and I should have been only a memory--of +mystery, of tenderness. Then, one day she would have married, and no +sting from my going would have remained. She would have had happiness, +and I neither shame nor despair.... To-day it is all too late. We have +drunk too deep-alas! too deep. She cannot marry another man, for ghosts +will not lie for asking, and what is mine may not be another's. She +cannot marry me, for what once was mine is mine still by ring and by +book, and I should always be haunted by a torturing shadow. Kathleen +has the right of way, not Rosalie. Ah, Rosalie, I dare not wrong you +further. Yet to marry you, even as things are, if that might be! To live +on here unrecognised? I am little like my old self, and year after year +I should grow less and less like Charley Steele.... But, no, it is not +possible!" + +He stopped short in his thoughts, and his lips tightened in bitterness. + +"God in heaven, what an impasse!" he said aloud. + +There was a sudden crackling of twigs as a man rose up from a log by the +wayside ahead of him. It was Jo Portugais, who had seen him coming, and +had waited for him. He had heard Charley's words. + +"Do you call me an impasse, M'sieu'?" Charley grasped Portugais' hand. + +"What has happened, M'sieu'?" Jo asked anxiously. There was a brief +silence, and then Charley told him of the events of the morning. + +"You know of the mark-here?" he asked, touching his breast. + +Jo nodded. "I saw, when you were ill." + +"Yet you never asked!" + +"I studied it out--I knew old Louis Trudel. Also, I saw ma'm'selle nail +the cross to the church door. Two and two together in my mind did it. I +didn't think Paulette Dubois would tell. I warned her." + +"She quarrelled with mademoiselle. It was revenge. + +"She might have been less vindictive. She had had good luck herself +lately." + +"What good luck had she, M'sieu'?" + +Charley told Jo the story of the Notary, the woman, and the child. + +Jo made no comment. They relapsed into silence. Arriving at the house, +they entered. Jo lighted his pipe, and smoked steadily for a time +without speaking. Buried in thought, Charley stood in the doorway +looking down at the village. At last he turned. + +"Where have you been these weeks past, Jo?" + +"To Quebec first, M'sieu'." + +Charley looked curiously at Jo, for there was meaning in his tone. "And +where last?" + +"To Montreal." + +Charley's face became paler, his hands suddenly clinched, for he read +the look in Jo's eyes. He knew that Jo had been looking at people and +places once so familiar; that he had seen--Kathleen. + +"Go on. Tell me all," he said heavily. + +Portugais spoke in English. The foreign language seemed to make the +truth less naked and staring to himself. He had a hard story to tell. + +"It is not to say why I go to Montreal," he began. "But I go. I have my +ears open; my eyes, she is not close. No one knows me--I am no account +of. Every one is forgot the man, Joseph Nadeau, who was try for +his life. Perhaps it is every one is forget the lawyer who save his +neck--perhaps? So I stand by the streetside. I say to a man as I look +up at sign-boards,' 'Where is that writing "M'sieu' Charles Steele," and +all the res'?' 'He is dead long ago,' say the man to me. 'A good thing +too, for he was the very devil.' 'I not understan',' I say. 'I tink that +M'sieu' Steele is a dam smart man back time.' 'He was the smartes' man +in the country, that Beauty Steele,' the man say. 'He bamboozle the jury +hevery time. He cut up bad though.'" + +Charley raised his hand with a nervous gesture of misery and impatience. + +"'Where have you been,' that man say--'where have you been all these +times not to know 'bout Charley Steele, hein?' 'In the backwoods,' I +say. 'What bring you here now?' he ask. 'I have a case,' I say. 'What +is it?' he ask. 'It is a case of a man who is punish for another man,' I +say. 'That's the thing for Charley Steele,' he laugh. 'He was great man +to root things out. Can't fool Charley Steele, we use to say here. But +he die a bad death.' 'What was the matter with him?' I say. 'He drink +too much, he spend too much, he run after a girl at Cote Dorion, and +the river-drivers do for him one night. They say it was acciden', but is +there any green on my eye? But he die trump--jus' like him. He have no +fear of devil or man,' so the man say. 'But fear of God?' I ask. 'He was +hinfidel,' he say. 'That was behin' all. He was crooked all roun'. He +rob the widow and horphan?' 'I think he too smart for that,' I speak +quick. 'I suppose it was the drink,' he say. 'He loose his grip.' 'He +was a smart man, an' he would make you all sit up, if he come back,' +I hanswer. 'If he come back!' The man laugh queer at that. 'If he +comeback, there would be hell.' 'How is that?' I say. 'Look across the +street,' he whisper. 'That was his wife.'" + +Charley choked back a cry in his throat. Jo had no intention of cutting +his story short. He had an end in view. + +"I look across the street. There she is--' Ah, that is a fine woman +to see! I have never seen but one more finer to look at--here in +Chaudiere.' The man say: 'She marry first for money, and break her +heart; now she marry for love. If Beauty Steele come back-eh! sacra! +that would be a mess. But he is at the bottom of the St Lawrence--the +courts say so, and the Church say so--and ghosts don't walk here.' 'But +if that Beauty Steele come back alive, what would happen it?' I speak. +'His wife is marry, blockhead!' he say. + +"'But the woman is his,' I hanswer. 'Do you think she would go back to a +thief she never love from the man she love?' he speak back. 'She is not +marry to the other man,' I say, 'if Beauty Steele is...' 'He is dead as +a door,' he swear. 'You see that?' he go on, nodding down the street. +'Well, that is Billy.' 'Who is Billy?' I ask. 'The brother of her,' he +say. 'Charley, he spoil Billy. Billy, he has not been the same since +Charley's death-he is so ashame of Charley. When he get drunk he talk of +nothing else. We all remember that Charley spoil him, and that make us +sorry for him.' 'Excuse me,' I say. 'I think that Billy is a dam smart +man. He is smart as Charley Steele.' 'Charley was the smartes' man in +the country,' he say again. 'I've got his practice now, but this town +will never be the same without him. Thief or no thief, I wish he is +alive here. By the Lord, I'd get drunk with him!' He was all right, that +man," Jo added finally. + +Charley's agitation was hidden. His eyes were fixed on Jo intently. +"That was Larry Rockwell. Go on," he said, in a hard metallic voice. + +"I see--her, the next night again. It is in the white stone house on the +hill. All the windows are open, an' I can hear her to sing. I not know +that song. It begin, 'Oft in the stilly night'--like that." + +Charley stiffened. It was the song Kathleen sang for him the night they +became engaged. + +"It is a good voice-that. I see her face, for there is a candle on +the piano. I come close and closter to the house. There is big +maple-trees--I am well hid. A man is beside her. He lean hover her an' +put his hand on her shoulder. 'Sing it again, Kat'leen,' he say. 'I +cannot to get enough.'" + +"Stop!" said Charley, in a strained, harsh voice. "Not yet, M'sieu'," +said Portugais. "It is good for you to hear what I say." + +"'Come, Kat'leen!' the man say, an' he blow hout the candle. I hear them +walk away, an' the door shut behin' them. Then I hear anudder voice--ah, +that is a baby--very young baby!" + +Charley quickly got to his feet. "Not another word!" he said. + +"Yes, yes, but there is one word more, M'sieu'," said Jo, standing up +and facing him firmly. "You must go back. You are not a thief. The woman +is yours. You throw your life away. What is the man to you--or the man's +brat of a child? It is all waiting for you. You mus' go back. You not +steal the money, but that Billy--it is that Billy, I know. You can +forgive your wife, and take her back, or you can say to both, Go! You +can put heverything right and begin again." + +Anger, wild words, seemed about to break from Charley's lips, but he +conquered himself. + +The old life had been brought back to him with painful acuteness and +vividness. The streets of the town, the people in the street, Billy, the +mean scoundrel, who could not leave him alone in the grave of obscurity, +Kathleen--Fairing. The voice of the child--with her voice--was in his +ears. A child! If he had had a child, perhaps----He stopped short in +his thinking, his face all at once flooding with colour. For a moment he +stood looking out of the window down towards the village. He could see +the post-office like a toy house among toy houses. At last he turned to +Jo. + +"Never again while I live, speak of this to me: of the past, of going +back, or of--of anything else," he said. "I cannot go back. I am dead +and shamed. Let the dust of forgetfulness come and cover the past. I've +begun life again here, and here I stay, and see it out. I shall work out +the problem here." He dropped a hand on the other's shoulder. "Jo," said +he, "we are both shipwrecks. Let us see how long we can float." + +"M'sieu', is it worth it?" said Portugais, remembering his confession to +the Abbe, and seeing the end of it all to himself. + +"I don't know, Jo. Let us wait and see how Fate will play us." + +"Or God, M'sieu'?" + +"God or Fate--who knows" + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. "WHO WAS KATHLEEN?" + +The painful incidents of the morning weighed heavily upon Rosalie, and +she was glad when Madame Dugal came to talk with her father, who was +ailing and irritable, and when Mrs. Flynn drove her away with a kiss on +either cheek, saying: "Don't come back, darlin', till there's roses in +both cheeks, for y'r eyes are 'atin' up yer face!" + +She had seen Charley take the path to Vadrome Mountain, and to the +Rest of the Flax-beaters she betook herself, in the blind hope that, +returning, he might pass that way. Under the influence of the fresh +air and the quiet of the woods her spirits rose, her pulse beat faster, +though a sense of foreboding and sorrow hovered round her. The two-miles +walk to her beloved retreat seemed a matter of minutes only, so busy +were her thoughts. + +Her mind was one luxurious confusion, through which travelled a ghostly +little sprite, who kept tumbling her thoughts about, sneering, smirking, +whispering--"You dare not go to confession--dare not go to confession. +You will never be the same again--never feel the same again--never think +the same again; your dreams are done! You can only love. And what will +this love do for you? What do you expect to happen--you dare not go to +confession!" + +Her reply had been the one iteration: "I love him--I love him--I love +him. We shall be together all our lives, till we are old and grey. I +shall watch him at his work, and listen to his voice. I shall read with +him and walk with him, and I shall grow to think like him a little--in +everything except religion. In everything except that. One day he will +come to think like me--to believe in God." + +In the dreamy happiness of these thoughts the colour came to her cheeks, +the roses of light gathered in her eyes. In her tremulous ardour she +scarcely realised how time passed, and her reverie deepened as the +afternoon shadows grew and the sun made to its covert behind the hills. +She was roused by a man's voice singing, just under the bluff where she +sat. To her this voice represented the battle-call, the home-call, the +life call of the universe. The song it sang was known to her. It was as +old as Rizzio. It had come from old France with Mary, had been merged +into English words and English music, and had voyaged to New France. +There it had been sung by lovers in fair vales, on wide rivers, and in +deep forests: + + "What is not mine I may not hold, + (Ah, hark the hunter's horn!), + And what is thine may not be sold, + (My love comes through the corn!); + And none shall buy + And none shall sell + What Love works well?" + +In the walk back from Vadrome Mountain, a change--a fleeting change--had +passed over Charley's mind and mood. The quiet of the woodland, the +song of the birds, the tumbling brook, the smell of the rich earth, +replenishing its strength from the gorgeous falling leaves, had soothed +him. Thoughts of Rosalie took a new form. Her image possessed him, +excluding the future, the perils that surrounded them. He had gone +through so much within the past twenty-four hours that the capacity for +suffering had almost exhausted itself, and in the reaction endearing +thoughts of Rosalie had dominion over him. It was the reassertion of +primitive man, the demands of the first element. The great problem was +still in the background. The picture of Kathleen and the other man was +pushed into the distance; thoughts of Billy and his infamy were thrust +under foot--how futile to think of them! There was Rosalie to be thought +of, the to-day and to-morrow of the new life. + +Rosalie was of to-day. How strong and womanly she had been this +morning, the girl whose life had been bounded by this Chaudiere, with +a metropolitan convent and hospital as her only glimpses of the busy +world. She would fit in anywhere--in the highest places, with her grace, +and her nobleness of mind, arcadian, passionate and beautiful. There +came upon him again the feeling of the evening before, when he saw +her standing in his doorway, the night about them, jealous affection, +undying love, in her eyes. It quickened his steps imperceptibly. He +passed a stream, and glanced down into a dark pool involuntarily. +It reflected himself clearly. He stopped short. "Is this you, Beauty +Steele?" he said, and he caught his brown beard in his hand. "Beauty +Steele had brains and no heart. You have heart, and your wits have gone +wool-gathering. No matter! + + What is not mine I may not hold, + (Ah, hark the hunter's horn!)'" + +he sang, and came quickly along the stream where the flax-beaters worked +in harvest-time, then up the hill, then--Rosalie. + +She started to her feet. "I knew you would come--I knew you would!" she +said. + +"You have been waiting here for me?" he asked breathless, taking her +hand. + +"I felt you would come. I made you," she added smiling, and, eagerly +answering the look in his eyes, threw her arms round his neck. In that +moment's joy a fresh realisation of their fate came upon him with dire +force, and a bitter protest went up from his heart, that he and she +should be sacrificed. + +Yet the impasse was there, and what could remove it--what clear the way? + +He looked down at the girl whose head was buried in happy peace on his +shoulder. She clung to him, as though in him was everlasting +protection from the sprite that kept whispering: "You dare not go to +confession--your dreams are done--you can only love." But she had no +fear now. + +As he looked down at her a swift change passed over him, and, almost for +the first time since he was a little child, his eyes filled with tears. +He hastily brushed them away, and drew her down on the seat beside him. +He was wondering how he should tell her that they must not meet like +this, that they must be apart. No matter what had happened, no matter +what love there was, it was better that they should die--that he should +die--than that they should meet like this. There was only one end to +secret meetings, and discovery was inevitable. Then, with discovery, +shame to her. For he must either marry her--how could he marry her?--or +die. For him to die would but increase her misery. + +The time had passed when it could be of any use. It passed that day in +the hut on Vadrome Mountain when she said that if he died, she would die +with him--"Where you are going you will be alone. There will be no one +to care for you, no one but me." Last night it passed for ever. She had +put her life into his hands; henceforth, there could never be a +question of giving or taking, of withdrawing or advancing, for all was +irrevocable, sealed with the great seal. Yet she must be saved. But how? + +She suddenly looked up at him. "I can ask you anything I want now, can't +I?" she said. + +"Anything, Rosalie." + +"You know that when I ask, it is because I want to know what you know, +so that I may feel as you feel. You know that, don't you? + +"I know it when you tell me, wonderful Rosalie." What a revelation it +was, this transmuting power, which could change mortal dross into the +coin of immortal wealth! + +"I want to ask you," she said, "who was Kathleen?" His blood seemed +to go cold in his veins, and he sat without answering, shocked and +dismayed. What could she know of Kathleen? + +"Can't you tell me?" she asked anxiously yet fearfully. He looked +so strange that she thought she had offended him. "Please don't mind +telling me. I should understand everything--everything. Was it some +one you loved--once?" It was hard for her to say it, but she said it +bravely. + +"No. I never loved any one in all the world, Rosalie--not till I loved +you." + +She gave a happy sigh. "Oh, it is wonderful!" she said. "It is wonderful +and good! Did you--did you love me from the very first?" + +"I think I did, though I didn't know it from the very first," he +answered slowly. His heart beat hard, for he could not guess how she +should know of Kathleen. It was absurdly impossible that she should +know. "But many have loved you!" she said proudly. "They have not shown +it," he answered grimly; then added quickly, and with aching anxiety: +"When did you hear of--of Kathleen?" + +"Oh, you are such a blind huntsman!" she laughed. "Don't you know where +my little fox was hiding? Why, in the shop, when you held the note-paper +up to the light, and looked startled, and bought all the paper we had +that was water-marked Kathleen. Do you think that was clever of me? I +don't." + +"I think it was very clever," he said. + +"Then she-Kathleen--doesn't really matter?" she asked eagerly. "Of +course she can't, if you don't love her. But does she love you? Did she +ever love you?" "Never in her life." + +"So of course it doesn't matter," she rejoined. "Hush!" she added +rapidly. "I see some one coming in the trees yonder. It may be some one +for me. Father knows I come here sometimes. Go quickly and hide behind +the rocks, please. I'll stay and see who it is. Please go--dearest." + +He kissed her, and, keeping out of sight, got to a place of safety a few +hundred feet away. + +He saw the new-comer run to Rosalie, speak to her, saw Rosalie half +turn in his own direction, then go hastily down the hillside with the +messenger. + +"It is her father!" he exclaimed, and followed at a distance. At the +village he learned that M. Evanturel had had another seizure. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. SIX MONTHS GO BY + +Spring again--budding trees and flowing sap; the earth banks removed +from the houses, and outside windows discarded; the ice tumbling and +crunching in the river; the dormant farmer raising his head to the +energy and delight of April. + +The winter had been long and hard. Never had there been severer frost or +deeper snow, and seldom had big game been so plentiful. In the snug warm +stables the cattle munched and chewed the cud; the idle, long-haired +horses grew as spirited in the keen air as in summer they were sluggish +with hard work; and the farm-hands were abroad in the dark of the early +mornings with lanterns, to feed the stock and take them out to water, +singing cheerfully. All morning spread the clamour of the flail and the +fanning-mill, the swish of the knife through the turnips and the beets, +and the sound of the saw and the axe, as the youngest man of the family, +muffled to the nose, sawed the wood into lengths or split the knots. + +Night brought the cutting and stringing of apples, the shelling of the +Indian corn, the making of rag carpets. On Saturday came the going to +market with grain, or pork, or beef, or fowls frozen like stones; the +gossip in the market-place. Then again sounded jingling sleigh-bells as, +on the return road, the habitant made for home, a glass of white whiskey +inside him, and black-eyed children in the doorway, swarming like bees +at the mouth of a hive. + +This particular winter in Chaudiere had been full of excitement and +expectation. At Easter-time there was to be the great Passion Play, +after the manner of that known as The Passion Play of Ober-Ammergau. Not +one in a hundred habitants had ever heard of Ober-Ammergau, but they had +all shared in picturesque processions of the Stations of the Cross to +some calvaire; and many had taken part in dramatic scenes arranged from +the life of Christ. Drama of a crude kind was deep in them; it showed in +gesture, speech, and temperament. + +In all the preparations Maximilian Cour was a conspicuous and useful +official. Gifted with the dramatic temperament to a degree rare in so +humble a man, he it was who really educated the people of Chaudiere in +the details of the Passion Play to be produced by the good Catholics of +the parish and the Indians of the reservation. He had gone to the Cure +every day, and the Cure had talked with him, and then had sent him to +the tailor, who had, during the past six months, withdrawn more and +more from the life about him, practically living with shut door. No one +ventured in unless on business, or were in need, or wished advice. These +he never turned empty away. + +Besides Portugais, Maximilian Cour was the one man received constantly +by the tailor. With patience and insight Charley taught the baker, by +drawings and careful explanations, the outlines of the representation, +and the baker grew proud of the association, though Charley's face used +to haunt him in his sleep. Excitable, eager, there was an elemental +adaptability in the baker, as easily leading to Avernus as to Elysium. +This appealed to Charley, realising, as he did, that Maximilian Cour +was a reputable citizen by mere accident. The baker's life had run in a +sentimental groove of religious duty; that same sentimentality would, +in other circumstances, have forced him with equal ardour into the broad +primrose path. + +In the evening hours and on Sunday Charley had worked at his drawings +for the scenery and costumes of the Play, and completed his translation +of the German text, but there had been days when he could not put pen to +paper. Life to him now was one aching emptiness--since that day at the +Rest of the Flax-beaters Rosalie had been absent. On the very morning +after their meeting by the river she had gone away with her father to +the great hospital at Montreal--not Quebec this time, on the advice of +the Seigneur--as the one chance of prolonging his life. There had +come but one letter from her since that hour when he saw her in the +Seigneur's coach with her father, moving away in the still autumn air, a +piteous appeal in her eyes. The good-bye look she gave him then was with +him day and night. + +She had written him one letter, and he had written one in reply, and no +more. Though he was wholly reckless for himself, for her he was prudent +now--there was nothing else to do. To save her--if he could but save her +from himself! If he might only put back the clock! + +In his letter to her he had simply said that it were wiser not to +write, since the acting postmistress, the Cure's sister, would note the +exchange of letters, and this would arouse suspicion. He could not +see what was best to do, what was right to do. To wait seemed the only +thing, and his one letter ended with the words: Rosalie, my life is +lived only in the thought of you. There is no hour but I think of you, +no moment but you are with me. The greatest proof of love that man can +give, I will give to you, in the hour fate wills--for us. But now, we +must wait--we must wait, Rosalie. Do not write to me, but know that if I +could go to you I would go; if I could say to you, Come, I would say it. +If the giving of my life would save you any pain or sorrow, I would give +it. + +Sitting on his bench at work, it seemed to Charley that sometimes she +was near him, and more than once he turned quickly round as though she +were, in very truth, standing beside him. He thought of her continually, +and often with an unbearable pain. He figured her in his mind as pale +and distressed, and always her eyes had the piteous terror of that last +look as she went away over the hills. + +But the weeks had worn on, then the Seigneur, who had been to Montreal, +came back with the news that Rosalie was looking as beautiful as a +picture. "Grown a woman in beauty and in stature; comely--comely as a +lady in a Watteau picture, my dear messieurs!" he had said to the Cure, +standing in the tailor's shop. + +Replying, the Cure had said: "She is in good hands, with good people, +recommended to me by an abbe there; yet I am not wholly happy about her. +When her trouble comes to her"--Charley's needle slipped and pierced +his finger to the bone--"when her father goes, as he must, I fear, there +will be no familiar face; she will hear no familiar voice." + +"Faith, there you are wrong, my dear Cure" answered the Seigneur; +"there'll be a face yonder she likes very well indeed, and a voice she's +fond of too." + +Charley's back was on them at that moment, of which he was glad, for his +face was haggard with anxiety, and it seemed hours before the Cure said: +"Whom do you mean, Maurice?" and hours before the Seigneur replied: +"Mrs. Flynn, of course. I'm sending her tomorrow." + +Mrs. Flynn had gone, and Charley had, in one sense, been made no happier +by that, for it seemed to him that Rosalie would rather that strangers' +eyes were on her than the inquisitively friendly eye of Mary Flynn. + +Weeks had grown into months, and no news came--none save that which the +Cure let fall, or was brought by the irresponsible Notary, who heard all +gossip. Only the Cure's scant news were authentic, however, and Charley +never saw the good priest but he had a secret hope of hearing him say +that Rosalie was coming back. Yet when she came back, what would, or +could, he do? There was always the crime for which he or Billy must +be punished. Concerning this crime his heart was growing harder--for +Rosalie's sake. But there was Kathleen--and Rosalie was now in the +city where she lived, and they might meet! There was one solution--if +Kathleen should die! It sickened him that he could think of that with a +sense of relief, almost of hope. If Kathleen should die, then he would +be free to marry Rosalie--into what? He still could only marry her into +the peril and menace of the law? Again, even if Kathleen did not stand +in the way, neither the Cure nor any other priest would marry him to her +without his antecedents being certified. A Protestant minister would, +perhaps, but would Rosalie give up her faith? Following him without +the blessing of the Church, she would trample under foot every dear +tradition of her life, win the scorn of all of her religion, and destroy +her own peace; for the faith of her fathers was as the breath of her +nostrils. What cruelty to her! + +But was it, after all, even true that he had but to call and she would +come? In truth it well might be that she had learned to despise him; +to feel how dastardly he had been to take her love, given in blind +simplicity, bestowed like the song of the bird upon the listening +fields--to take the plenteous fulness of her life, and give nothing in +return save the empty hand, the hopeless hour, the secret sorrow. + +Nothing could quench his misery. The physical part of him craved without +ceasing for something to allay his distress. Again and again he fought +his old enemy with desperate resolve. To fall again, to touch liquor +once more, was to end all for ever. He fought on tenaciously and +gloomily, with little of the pride of life, with nothing of the +old stubborn self-will, but with a new-awakened sense. He had found +conscience at last--and more. + +The months went by and still M. Evanturel lingered on, and Rosalie did +not come. The strain became too great at last. In the week preceding +Easter, when all the parish was busy at Four Mountains, making costumes, +rehearsing, building, putting up seats, cutting down trees, and erecting +crosses and calvaries, Charley disclosed to Jo a new intention. + +In the earlier part of the winter Jo and he had met two or three times +a week, but now Jo had come to help him with his work in the shop--two +silent, devoted companions. They understood each other, and in that +understanding were life and death. For never did Jo forget that a year +from the day he had confessed his sins he meant to give himself up to +justice. This caused him no sleepless nights. He thought more of Charley +than of himself, and every month now he went to confession, and every +day he said his prayers. He was at his prayers when Charley went to tell +him of his purpose. Charley had often seen Jo on his knees of late, and +he had wondered, but not with the old pagan mind. "Jo," he said, "I am +going away--to Montreal." + +"To Montreal!" exclaimed Jo huskily. "You are going back--to stay?" + +"Not that. I am going--to see--Rosalie Evanturel." Jo was troubled but +not dumfounded. It had slowly crept into his mind that Charley loved the +girl, though he had no real ground for suspicion. His will, however, +had been so long the slave of the other man's that he had far-off +reflections of his thoughts. He made no reply in words, but nodded his +head. + +"I want you to stay here, Jo. If I don't come back, and--and she does, +stand by her, Jo. I can trust you." "You will come back, M'sieu'--but +you will come back, then?" Jo asked heavily. + +"If I can, Jo--if I can," he answered. + +Long after he had gone, Jo wandered up and down among the trees on the +river-road, up which Charley had disappeared with Jo's dogs and sled. He +kept shaking his head mournfully. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. THE FORGOTTEN MAN + +It was Easter morning, and the good sunrise of a perfect spring made +radiant the high hill above the town. Rosy-fingered morn touched with +magic colour the masts and scattered sails of the ships upon the great +river, and spires and towers quivered with rainbow light. The city was +waking cheerfully, though the only active life was in the pealing bells +and on the deep flowing rivers. The streets were empty yet, save for +an assiduous priest or the cart of a milkman. Here and there a window +opened and a drowsy head was thrust into the eager air. These saw a +bearded countryman with his team of six dogs and his little cart +going slowly up the street. It was plain the man had come a long +distance--from the mountains in the east or south, no doubt, where +horses were few, and dogs, canoes, and oxen the means of transportation. + +As the man moved slowly through the streets, his dogs still gallantly +full of life after their hard journey, he did not stare about him after +the manner of countrymen. His movements had intelligence and freedom. +He was an unusual figure for a woodsman or river-man--he did not wear +ear-rings or a waist-sash as did the river-men, and he did not turn +in his toes like a woodsman. Yet he was plainly a man from the far +mountains. + +The man with the dogs did not heed the few curious looks turned his way, +but held his head down as though walking in familiar places. Now and +then he spoke to his dogs, and once he stopped before a newspaper +office, which had a placard bearing these lines: + +The Coming Passion Play In the Chaudiere Valley. + +He looked at it mechanically, for, though he was concerned in the +Passion Play and the Chaudiere Valley, it was an abstraction to him at +this moment. His mind was absorbed by other things. + +Though he looked neither to right nor to left, he was deeply affected by +all round him. + +At last he came to a certain street, where he and his dogs travelled +more quickly. It opened into a square, where bells were booming in the +steeple of a church. Shops and offices in the street were shut, but +a saloon-door was open, and over the doorway was the legend: Jean +Jolicoeur, Licensed to sell Wine, Beer, and other Spirituous and +Fermented Liquors. + +Nearly opposite was a lawyer's office, with a new-painted sign. It had +once read, in plain black letters, Charles Steele, Barrister, etc.; now +it read, in gold letters and many flourishes of the sign-painter's art, +Rockwell and Tremblay, Barristers, Attorneys, etc. + +Here the man looked up with trouble in his eyes. He could see dimly the +desk and the window beside which he had sat for so many years, and on +the wall a map of the city glowed with the incoming sun. + +He moved on, passing the saloon with the open door. The landlord, in his +shirt-sleeves, was standing in the doorway. He nodded, then came out to +the edge of the board-walk. + +"Come a long way, M'sieu'?" he asked. + +"Four days' journey," answered the man gruffly through his beard, +looking the landlord in the eyes. If this landlord, who in the past had +seen him so often and so closely, did not recognise him, surely no one +else would. It was, however, a curious recurrence of habit that, as he +looked at the landlord, he instinctively felt for his eye-glass, which +he had discarded when he left Chaudiere. For an instant there was an +involuntary arrest of Jean Jolicoeur's look, as though memory had been +roused, but this swiftly passed, and he said: + +"Fine dogs, them! We never get that kind hereabouts now, M'sieu'. Ever +been to the city before?" + +"I've never been far from home before," answered the Forgotten Man. + +"You'd better keep your eyes open, my friend, though you've got a sharp +pair in your head--sharp as Beauty Steele's almost. There's rascals in +the river-side drinking-places that don't let the left hand know what +the right does." + +"My dogs and I never trust anybody," said the Forgotten Man, as one of +the dogs snarled at the landlord's touch. "So I can take care of myself, +even if I haven't eyes as sharp as Beauty Steele's, whoever he is." + +The landlord laughed. "Beauty's only skin-deep, they say. Charley Steele +was a lawyer; his office was over there"--he pointed across the street. +"He went wrong. He come here too often--that wasn't my fault. He had an +eye like a hawk, and you couldn't read it. Now I can read your eye like +a book. There's a bit of spring in 'em, M'sieu'. His eyes were hard +winter-ice five feet deep and no fishing under--froze to the bed. He had +a tongue like a cross-cut saw. He's at the bottom of the St. Lawrence, +leaving a bad job behind him. + +"Have a drink--hein?" He jerked a finger backwards to the saloon door. +"It's Sunday, but stolen waters are sweet, sure!" + +The Forgotten Man shook his head. "I don't drink, thank you." + +"It'd do you good. You're dead beat. You've been travelling hard--eh?" + +"I've come a long way, and travelled all night." + +"Going on?" + +"I am going back to-morrow." + +"On business?" + +Charley nodded--he glanced involuntarily at the sign across the street. + +Jean Jolicoeur saw the look. "Lawyer's business, p'r'aps?" + +"A lawyer's business--yes." + +"Ah, if Charley Steele was here!" + +"I have as good a lawyer as--" + +The landlord laughed scornfully. "They're not made. He'd legislate the +devil out of the Pit. Where are you going to stay, M'sieu'?" + +"Somewhere cheap--along the river," answered the Forgotten Man. + +Jolicoeur's good-natured face became serious. "I'll tell you a +place--it's honest. It's the next street, a few hundred yards down, on +the left. There's a wooden fish over the door. It's called The Black +Bass--that hotel. Say I sent you. Good luck to you, countryman! Ah, la; +la, there's the second bell--I must be getting to Mass!" With a nod he +turned and went into the house. + +The Forgotten Man passed slowly up the street, into the side street, and +followed it till he came to The Black Bass, and turned into the small +stable-yard. A stable-man was stirring. He at once put his dogs into +a little pen set apart for them, saw them fed from the kitchen, and, +betaking himself to a little room behind the bar of the hotel, ordered +breakfast. The place was empty, save for the servant--the household were +at Mass. He looked round the room abstractedly. He was thinking of a +crippled man in a hospital, of a girl from a village in the Chaudiere +Valley. He thought with a shiver of a white house on the hill. He +thought of himself as he had never done before in his life. Passing +along the street, he had realised that he had no moral claim upon +anything or anybody within these precincts of his past life. The place +was a tomb to him. + +As he sat in the little back parlour of The Black Bass, eating his +frugal breakfast of eggs and bread and milk, the meaning of it all +slowly dawned upon him. Through his intellect he had known something of +humanity, but he had never known men. He had thought of men in the mass, +and despised them because of their multitudinous duplication, and their +typical weaknesses; but he had never known one man or one woman from the +subtler, surer divination of the heart. His intellect had made servants +and lures of his emotions and his heart, for even his every case in +court had been won by easy and selfish command of all those feelings in +mankind which make possible personal understanding. + +In this little back parlour it came to him with sudden force how, long +ago, he had cut himself off from any claim upon his fellows--not only by +his conduct, but by his merciless inhuman intelligence working upon the +merciful human life about him. He never remembered to have had any real +feeling till on that day with Kathleen--the day he died. The bitter +complaint of a woman he had wronged cruelly, by having married her, had +wrung from him his own first wail of life, in the one cry "Kathleen!" + +As he sat eating his simple meal his pulses were beating painfully. +Every nerve in his body seemed to pluck at the angry flesh. There +flashed across his mind in sympathetic sensation a picture. It was the +axe-factory on the river, before which he used to stand as a boy, and +watch the men naked to the waist, with huge hairy arms and streaming +faces, toiling in the red glare, the trip-hammers endlessly pounding +upon the glowing metal. In old days it had suggested pictures of gods +and demi-gods toiling in the workshops of the primeval world. So +the whole machinery of being seemed to be toiling in the light of an +awakened conscience, to the making of a man. It seemed to him that all +his life was being crowded into these hours. His past was here--its +posing, its folly, its pitiful uselessness, and its shame. Kathleen and +Billy were here, with all the problems that involved them. Rosalie was +here, with the great, the last problem. + +"Nothing matters but that--but Rosalie," he said to himself as he turned +to look out of the window at the wrangling dogs gnawing bones. "Here she +is in the midst of all I once knew, and I know that I am no more a part +of it than she is. She and Kathleen may have met face to face in +these streets--who can tell! The world is large, but there's a sort of +whipper-in of Fate, who drives the people wearing the same livery into +one corner in the end. If they met"--he rose and walked hastily up and +down--"what then? I have a feeling that Rosalie would recognise her as +plainly as though the word Kathleen were stitched on her breast." + +There was a clock on the wall. He looked at it. "It will not be safe +to go out until evening. Then I can go to the hospital, and watch her +coming out." He realised with satisfaction that many people coming from +Mass must pass the inn. There was a chance of his seeing Rosalie, if she +had gone to early Mass. This street lay in her way from the hospital. +"One look--ah, one look!" For this one look he had come. For this, and +to secure that which would save Rosalie from want always, if anything +should happen to him. This too had been greatly on his mind. There was a +way to give her what was his very own, which would rob no one and serve +her well indeed. + +Looking at his face in the mirror over the mantel, he said to himself + +"I might have had ten thousand friends, yet I have a thousand enemies, +who grin at the memory of the drunken fop down among the eels and the +cat-fish. Every chance was with me then. I come back here, and--and +Jolicoeur tells me the brutal truth. But if I had had ambition"--a wave +of the feeling of the old life passed over him--"if I had had ambition +as I was then, I should have been a monster. It was all so paltry that, +in sheer disgust, I should have kicked every ladder down that helped me +up. I should have sacrificed everything to myself." + +He stopped short and stared, for, in the mirror, he saw a girl passing +through the stable-yard towards the quarrelling dogs in the kennel. He +clapped his hand to his mouth to stop a cry. It was Rosalie. + +He did not turn round but looked at her in the mirror, as though it were +the last look he might give on earth. + +He could hear her voice speaking to the dogs: "Ah, my friends, ah, my +dears! I know you every one. Jo Portugais is here. I know your bark, +you, Harpy, and you, Lazybones, and you, Cloud and London! I know you +every one. I heard you as I came from Mass, beauty dears. Ah, you know +me, sweethearts? Ah, God bless you for coming! You have come to bring us +home; you have come to fetch us home--father and me." The paws of one of +the dogs was on her shoulder, and his nose was in her hair. + +Charley heard her words, for the window was open, and he listened and +watched now with an infinite relief in his look. Her face was half +turned towards him. It was pale-very pale and sad. It was Rosalie as of +old--thank God, as of old!--but more beautiful in the touching sadness, +the far-off longing, of her look. + +"I must go and see your master," she said to the dogs. "Down--down, +Lazybones!" + +There was no time to lose--he must not meet her ere. He went into the +outer hall hastily. The servant was passing through. "If any one +asks for Jo Portugais," he said, "say that I'll be back to-morrow +morning--I'm going across the river to-day." + +"Certainly, M'sieu'," said the girl, and smiled because of the piece of +silver he put in her hand. + +As he heard the side door open he stepped through the front doorway into +the street, and disappeared round a corner. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. ONE WAS TAKEN AND THE OTHER LEFT + +Rosalie carried to the hospital that afternoon a lighter heart than she +had known for many a day. The sight of Jo Portugais' dogs had roused +her out of the apathy which had been growing on her in this patient +but hopeless watching beside her father. She had always a smile and a +cheerful word for the poor man. A settled sorrow hung upon her face, +however, taking away its colour, but giving it a sweet gravity which +made her slave more than one young doctor of the hospital, for whom, +however, she showed no more than a friendly frankness, free from +self-consciousness. For hours she would sit in reverie beside her +sleeping father, her heart "over the water to Charley." As in a trance, +she could see him sitting at his bench, bent over his work, now and +again lifting up his head to look across to the post-office, where +another hand than hers sorted letters now. + +Day by day her father weakened and faded away. All that was possible to +medical skill had been done. As the money left by her mother dwindled, +she had no anxiety, for she knew that the life she so tenderly cherished +would not outlast the gold which lengthened out the tenuous chain of +being. This last illness of her father's had been the salvation of her +mind, the saving of her health. Maybe it had been the saving of her +soul; for at times a curious contempt of life came upon her--she who had +loved it so eagerly and fully. There descended on her then the bitter +conviction that never again would she see the man she loved. Then not +even Mrs. Flynn could call back "the fun o' the world" to her step and +her tongue and her eye. At first there had been a timid shrinking, +but soon her father and herself were brighter and better for the old +Irishwoman's presence, and she began to take comfort in Mrs. Flynn. + +Mrs. Flynn gave hopefulness to whatever life she touched, and Rosalie, +buoyant and hopeful enough by nature, responded to the living warmth and +the religion of life in the Irishwoman's heart. + +"'Tis worth the doin', ivery bit of it, darlin', the bither an' the +swate, the hard an' the aisy, the rough an' the smooth, the good an' the +bad," said Mrs. Flynn to her this very Easter morning. "Even the avil +is worth doin', if so be 'twas not mint, an' the good is in yer heart in +the ind, an' ye do be turnip' to the Almoighty, repentin' an' glad to +be aloive: provin' to Him 'twas worth while makin' the world an' you, to +want, an' worry, an' work, an' play, an' pick the flowers, an' bleed o' +the thorns, an' dhrink the sun, an' ate the dust, an' be lovin' all the +way! Ah, that's it, darlin'," persisted Mrs. Flynn, "'tis lovin' all the +way makes it aisier. There's manny kinds o' love. There's lad an' +lass, there's maid an' man. An' that last is spring, an' all the birds +singin', an' shtorms now an' thin, an' siparations, an' misthrust, an' +God in hivin bein' that aisy wid ye for bein' fools an' children, an' +bringin' ye thegither in the ind, if so be ye do be lovin' as man an' +maid should love, wid all yer heart. Thin there's the love o' man an' +wife. Shure, that's the love that lasts, if it shtarts right. Shure, +it doesn't always shtart wid the sun shinin.' 'Will ye marry me?' says +Teddy Flynn to me. 'I will,' says I. 'Then I'll come back from Canaday +to futch ye,' says he, wid a tear in his eye. + +"'For what's a man in ould Ireland that has a head for annything but +puttaties! There's land free in Canaday, an' I'm goin' to make a home +for ye, Mary,' says he, wavin' a piece of paper in the air. 'Are ye, +thin?' says I. He goes away that night, an' the next mornin' I have a +lether from him, sayin' he's shtartin' that day for Canaday. He hadn't +the heart to tell me to me face. Fwaht do I do thin? I begs, borrers, +an' stales, an' I reached that ship wan minnit before she sailed. There +was no praste aboord, but we was married six weeks afther at Quebec. And +thegither we lived wid ups an' downs--but no ups an' downs to the love +of us for twenty years, blessed be God for all His mercies!" + +Rosalie had listened with eyes that hungrily watched every expression, +ears that weighed eagerly every inflection; for she was hearing the +story of another's love, and it did not seem strange to her that a +woman, old, red-faced, and fat, should be telling it. + +Yet there were times when she wept till she was exhausted; when all her +girlhood was drowned in the overflow of her eyes; when there was a +sense of irrevocable loss upon her. Then it was, in her fear of soul +and pitiful loneliness, that her lover--the man she would have died +for--seemed to have deserted her. Then it was that a sudden hatred +against him rose up in her--to be swept away as swiftly as it came by +the memory of his broken tale of love, his passionate words: "I have +never loved any one but you in all my life, Rosalie." And also, there +was that letter from Chaudiere, which said that in the hour when the +greatest proof of his love must be given he would give it. Reading +the letter again, hatred, doubt, even sorrow, passed from her, and her +imagination pictured the hour when, disguise and secrecy ended, he would +step forward before all the world and say: "I take Rosalie Evanturel to +be my wife." Despite the gusts of emotion that swayed her at times, in +the deepest part of her being she trusted him completely. + +When she reached the hospital this Sunday afternoon her step was quick, +her smile bright--though she had not been to confession as was her duty +on Easter day. The impulse towards it had been great, but her secret was +not her own, and the passionate desire to give relief to her full heart +was overborne by thought of the man. Her soul was her own, but this +secret of their love was his as well as hers. She knew that she was the +only just judge between. + +Soon after she entered the ward, the chief surgeon said that all that +could be done for her father had now been done, and that as M. Evanturel +constantly asked to be taken back to Chaudiere (he never said to die, +though they knew what was in his mind), he might now make the journey, +partly by river, partly by land. It seemed to the delighted and excited +Rosalie that Jo Portugais had been sent to her as a surprise, and that +his team of dogs was to take her father back. + +She sat by her father's bed this beautiful, wonderful Sunday afternoon, +and talked cheerfully, and laughed a little, and told M. Evanturel of +the dogs, and together they looked out of the window to the far-off +hills, in their golden purple, beyond which, in the valley of the +Chaudiere, was their little home. With her father's hand in hers the +girl dreamed dreams again, and it seemed to her that she was the very +Rosalie Evanturel of old, whose thoughts were bounded by a river and a +hill, a post-office and a church, a catechism and a few score of books. +Here in the crowded city she had come to be a woman who, bitterly shaken +in soul, knew life's sufferings; who had, during the past few months, +read with avidity history, poetry, romance, fiction, and the drama, +English and French; for in every one she found something that said: "You +have felt that." In these long months she had learned more than she had +known or learned in all her previous life. + +As she sat looking out into the eastern sky she became conscious +of voices, and of a group of people who came slowly down the ward, +sometimes speaking to the sick and crippled. It was not a general +visitors' day, but one reserved for the few to come and say a kindly +word to the suffering, to bring some flowers and distribute books. +Rosalie had always been absent at this hour before, for she shrank from +strangers; but to-day she had stayed on unthinking. It mattered nothing +to her who came and went. Her heart was over the hills, and the only tie +she had here was with this poor cripple whose hand she held. If she +did not resent the visit of these kindly strangers, she resolutely held +herself apart from the object of their visit with a sense of distance +and cold dignity. If she had given Charley something of herself, she +had in turn taken something from him, something unlike her old self, +delicately non-intime. Knowledge of life had rationalised her emotions +to a definite degree, had given her the pride of self-repression. She +had had need of it in these surroundings, where her beauty drew not +a little dangerous attention, which she had held at arm's-length--her +great love for one man made her invulnerable. + +Now, as the visitors came near, she did not turn towards them, but still +sat, her chin on her hand, looking out across the hills, in resolute +abstraction. She felt her father's fingers press hers, as if to draw her +attention, for he, weak man, was ever ready to open his hand and heart +to any friendly soul. She took no notice, but held his hand firmly, as +though to say that she had no wish to see. + +She was conscious now that they were beside her father's bed. She hoped +that they would pass. But no, the feet stopped, there was whispering, +and then she heard a voice say, "Rather rude!" then another, "Not +wanted, that's plain!"--the first a woman's, the second a man's. Then +another voice, clear and cold, and well modulated, said to her father: +"They tell me you have been here a long time, and have had much pain. +You will be glad to go, I am sure." + +Something in the voice startled her. Some familiar sound or inflection +struck upon her ear with a far-off note, some lost tone she knew. Of +what, of whom, did this voice remind her? She turned round quickly and +caught two cold blue eyes looking at her. The face was older than her +own, handsome and still, and happy in a placid sort of way. Few gusts of +passion or of pain had passed across that face. The figure was shapely +to the newest fashion, the bonnet was perfect, the hand which held two +books was prettily gloved. Polite charity was written in her manner and +consecrated every motion. On the instant, Rosalie resented this fine +epitome of convention, this dutiful charity-monger, herself the centre +of an admiring quartet. She saw the whispering, she noted the well-bred +disguise of interest, and she met the visitor's gaze with cold courtesy. +The other read the look in her face, and a slightly pacifying smile +gathered at her lips. + +"We are glad to hear that your father is better. He has been ill a long +time?" + +Rosalie started again, for the voice perplexed her--rather, not the +voice, but the inflection, the deliberation. + +She bowed, and set her lips, but, chancing to glance at her father, she +saw that he was troubled by her manner. Flashing a look of love at him, +she adjusted the pillow under his head, and said to her questioner in a +low voice: "He is better now, thank you." + +Encouraged, the other rejoined: "May I leave one or two books for him +to read--or for you to read to him?" Then added hastily, for she saw a +curious look in Rosalie's eyes: "We can have mutual friends in books, +though we cannot be friends with each other. Books are the go-betweens +of humanity." + +Rosalie's heart leapt, she flushed, then grew slightly pale, for it +was not tone or inflection alone that disturbed her now, but words +themselves. A voice from over the hills seemed to say these things to +her. A haunting voice from over the hills had said them to her--these +very words. + +"Friends need no go-betweens," she said quietly, "and enemies should not +use them." + +She heard a voice say, "By Jove!" in a tone of surprise, as though it +were wonderful the girl from Chaudiere should have her wits about her. +So Rosalie interpreted it. + +"Have you many friends here?" asked the cold voice, meant to be kindly +and pacific. It was schooled to composure, because it gave advantage in +life's intercourse, not from any inner urbanity. + +"Some need many friends, some but a few. I come from a country where one +only needs a few." + +"Where is your country, I wonder?" said the cold echo of another voice. + +Charley had passed out of Kathleen's life--he was dead to her, his +memory scorned and buried. She loved the man to whom she supposed she +was married; she was only too glad to let the dust of death and time +cover every trace of Charley from her gaze; she would have rooted out +every particle of association: yet his influence on her had been so +great that she had unconsciously absorbed some of his idiosyncrasies--in +the tone of his voice, in his manner of speaking. To-day she had even +repeated phrases he had used. + +"Beyond the hills," said Rosalie, turning away. + +"Is it not strange?" said the voice. "That is the title of one of the +books I have just brought--'Beyond the Hills'. It is by an English +writer. This other book is French. May I leave them?" + +Rosalie inclined her head. It would make her own position less dignified +if she refused them. "Books are always welcome to my father," she said. + +There was an instant's pause, as though the fashionable lady would offer +her hand; but their eyes met, and they only bowed. The lady moved on +with a smile, leaving a perfume of heliotrope behind her. + +"Where is your country, I wonder?"--the voice of the lady rang in +Rosalie's ears. As she sat at the window again, long after the visitors +had disappeared, the words, "I wonder--I wonder--I wonder!" kept beating +in her brain. It was absurd that this woman should remind her of the +tailor of Chaudiere. + +Suddenly she was roused by her father's voice. "This is beautiful--ah, +but beautiful, Rosalie!" + +She turned towards him. He was reading the book in his hand--'Beyond the +Hills'. "Listen," he said, and he read, in English: "'Compensation +is the other name for God. How often is it that those whom disease or +accident has robbed of active life find greater inner rejoicing and a +larger spiritual itinerary! It would seem that withdrawal from the ruder +activities gives a clearer seeing. Also for these, so often, is granted +a greater love, which comes of the consecration of other lives to +theirs. And these too have their reward, for they are less encompassed +by the vanities of the world, having the joy of self-sacrifice.'" He +looked at Rosalie with an unnatural brightness in his eyes, and she +smiled at him now and stroked his hand. + +"It has been all compensation to me," he said, after a moment. "You have +been a good daughter to me, Rosalie." + +She shook her head and smiled. "Good fathers think they have good +daughters," she answered, choking back a sob. + +He closed the book and let it lie upon the coverlet. "I will sleep now," +he said, and turned on his side. She arranged his pillow, and adjusted +the bedclothes to his comfort. + +"Good-night," he said, as, with a faint hand, he drew her head down and +kissed her. "Good girl! Goodnight!" + +She patted his hand. "It is not night yet, father." + +He was already half asleep. "Good-night!" he said again, and fell into a +deep sleep. + +She sat down by the window, in her hand the book he had laid down. A +hundred thoughts were busy in her brain--of her father; of the woman who +had just left; of her lover over the hills. The woman's voice came +to her again--a far-off mockery. She opened the book mechanically and +turned over the pages. Presently her eyes were riveted to a page. On it +was written the word Kathleen. + +For a moment she sat transfixed. The word Kathleen and the haunting +voice became one, and her mind ran back to the day when she had said to +Charley: "Who is Kathleen?" + +She sprang to her feet. What should she do? Follow the woman? Find out +who and what she was? Go to the young surgeon who had accompanied them, +ask him who she was, and so learn the clue to the mystery concerning her +lover? + +In the midst of her confusion she became sharply conscious of two +things: the approach of Mrs. Flynn, and her father's heavy breathing. +Dropping the book, she leaned over her father's bed and looked closely +at him. Then she turned to the frightened and anxious Mrs. Flynn. + +"Go for the priest," she said. "He is dying." + +"I'll send some one. I'm stayin' here by you, darlin'," said the old +woman, and hurried to the room of the young surgeon for a messenger. + +As the sun went down, the cripple went out upon a long journey alone. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. "WHERE THE TREE OF LIFE IS BLOOMING--" + +As Charley walked the bank of the great river by the city where his old +life lay dead, he struggled with the new life which--long or short--must +henceforth belong to the village of the woman he loved.... But as he +fought with himself in the long night-watch it was borne in upon him +that though he had been shown the Promised Land, he might never find +there a habitation and a home. The hymn he had mockingly sung the night +he had been done to death at the Cote Dorion sang in his senses now, an +ever-present mockery: + + "On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you. + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you." + +In the uttermost corner of his intelligence he felt with sure prescience +that, however befalling, the end of all was not far off. In the exercise +of new faculties, which had more to do with the soul than with reason, +he now believed what he could not see, and recognised what was not +proved. Labour of the hand, trouble, sorrow, and perplexity, charity +and humanity, had cleared and simplified his life, had sweetened his +intelligence, and taken the place of ambition. He saw life now through +the lens of personal duty, which required that the thing nearest to +one's hand should be done first. + +But as foreboding pressed upon him there came the thought of what should +come after--to Rosalie. His thoughts took a practical form--her good +was uppermost in his mind. All Rosalie had to live on was her salary as +postmistress, for it was in every one's knowledge that the little else +she had was being sacrificed to her father's illness. Suppose, then, +that through illness or accident she lost her position, what could she +do? He might leave her what he had--but what had he? Enough to keep her +for a year or two--no more. All his earnings had gone to the poor and +the suffering of Chaudiere. + +There was one way. It had suggested itself to him so often in Chaudiere, +and had been one of the two reasons for bringing him here. There were +his dead mother's pearls and one thousand dollars in notes behind a +secret panel in the white house on the hill, in this very city where +he was. The pearls were worth over ten thousand dollars--in all, there +would be eleven thousand, enough to secure Rosalie from poverty. What +should Kathleen do with his mother's pearls, even if they were found by +her? What should she do with his money did she not loathe his memory? +Had not all his debts been paid? These pearls and this money were all +his own. + +But to get them. To go now to the white house on the hill; to face that +old life even for an hour, a knocking at the door of a haunted house--he +shrank from the thought. He would have to enter the place like a thief +in the night. + +Yet for Rosalie he must take the risk--he must go. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. THE OPEN GATE + +It was a still night, and the moon, delicately bright, gave forth that +radiance which makes spiritual to the eye the coarsest thing. Inside +the white house on the hill all was dark. Sleep had settled on it long +before midnight, for, on the morrow, its master and mistress hoped to +make a journey to the valley of the Chaudiere, where the Passion Play +was being performed by habitants and Indians. The desire to see the +play had become an infatuation in the minds of the two, eager for some +interest to relieve the monotony of a happy life. + +But as all slept, a figure in the dress of a habitant moved through the +passages of the house stealthily, yet with an assurance unusual in the +thief or housebreaker. In the darkest passages his step was sure, and +his hand fastened on latch or door-knob with perfect precision. He came +at last into a large hallway flooded by the moon, pale, watchful, +his beard frosted by the light. In the stillness of his tread and the +composed sorrow of his face he seemed like one long dead who "revisits +the glimpses of the moon." + +At last he entered a room the door of which stood wide open. In this +room had been begotten, or had had exercise, whatever of him was worth +approving in the days before he died. It was a place of books and +statues and tapestry, and the dark oak was nobly smutched of Time. This +sombre oaken wall had been handed down through four generations from +the man's great-grandfather: the breath of generations had steeped it in +human association. + +Entering, he turned for an instant with clinched hands to look at +another door across the hall. Behind that door were two people who +despised his memory, who conspired to forget his very name. This house +was the woman's, for he had given it to her the day he died. But that +she could live there with all the old associations, with memories that, +however bitter, however shaming, had a sort of sacredness, struck +into his soul with a harrowing pain. There she was whom he had +spared--himself; whose happiness had lain in his hands, and he had given +it to her. Yet her very existence robbed himself of happiness, and made +sorrowful a life dearer than his own. + +Kathleen lay asleep in that room--he fancied he could hear her +breathing; and, by the hospital on the hill, up beyond the point of +pines, in a little cottage which he could see from the great window, lay +Rosalie with sleepless eyes and wan cheeks, longing for morning and the +stir of life to help her to forget. + +For Rosalie he had come to this house once more. For her sake he was +revisiting this torture-chamber, from which he knew he must go again, +blanched and shaken, as a man goes from a tomb where his dead lie +unforgiving. + +He shut his teeth, went swiftly across the room, and beside a great +carved oak table touched a hidden spring in the side of it. The spring +snapped; the panel creaked a little and drew back. It seemed to him that +the noise he made must be heard in every part of the house, so sensitive +was his ear, so deep was the silence on which the sounds had broken. He +turned round to the doorway to listen before he put his hand within the +secret place. + +There was no sound. He turned his attention to the table. Drawing forth +two packets with a gasp of relief, he put them in his pocket, and, with +extreme care, proceeded to close the panel. By rubbing the edges of the +wood with grease from a candle on the table, he was able to readjust +the panel in silence. But, as the spring came home, he became suddenly +conscious of a presence in the room. A shiver passed through him. +He turned round-softly, quickly. He was in the shadow and near great +window-curtains, and his fingers instinctively clutched them as he saw +a figure in white at the door of the room. Slowly, strangely deliberate, +the figure moved further into the room. + +Charley's breath stopped. He felt his face flush, and a strange weakness +came on him. There before him stood Kathleen. + +She was in her night-gown, and she stood still, as though listening; +yet, as Charley looked closer, he realised that it was an unconscious, +passive listening, and that she did not know he was there. + +Her mind only was listening. She was asleep. Was it possible that his +very presence in the house had touched some old note of memory, +which, automatically responding, had carried her from her bed in this +somnambulistic trance? That subtle telegraphy between our subconscious +selves which we cannot reduce to a law, yet alarming us at times, +announced to Kathleen's mind, independent of the waking senses, the +presence once familiar to this house for so many years. In her sleep she +had involuntarily responded to the call of Charley's approach. + +Once, in the past, the night her uncle died, she had walked in her +sleep, and the memory of this flashed upon Charley now. Silently he came +closer to her. The moonlight shone on her face. He could see plainly +she was asleep. His position was painful and perilous. If she waked, the +shock to herself would be great; if she waked and saw him, what disaster +might not occur! + +Yet he had no agitation now, only clearness of mind and a curious sense +of confusion that he should see her en dishabille--the old fastidious +sense mingling with the feeling that she was now a stranger to him, and +that, waking, she would fly embarrassed from his presence, as he was +ready to fly from hers. He was about to steal to the door and escape +before she waked, but she turned round, moved through the doorway, and +glided down the hall. He followed silently. + +She moved to the staircase, then slowly down it, and through a passage +to a morning-room, where, opening a pair of French windows, she passed +out onto the lawn. He followed, not more than a dozen paces behind her. +His safety lay in getting outside, where he could easily hide among the +bushes, should someone else appear and an alarm be raised. + +She crossed the lawn swiftly, a white, ghostlike figure. In the middle +of the lawn she stopped short once as if in doubt what to do--as a +thought-reader pauses in his search for the mental scent again, ere he +rushes upon the object of his search with the certainty of instinct. + +Presently she moved on, going directly towards a gate that opened out +on the cliff above the river. In Charley's day this gate had been often +used, for it gave upon four steep wooden steps leading to a narrow shelf +of rock below. From the edge of this cliff a rope-ladder dropped fifty +feet to the river. For years he had used this rope-ladder to get down to +his boat, and often, when they were first married, Kathleen used to +come and watch him descend, and sometimes, just at the very first, would +descend also. As he stole into the grounds this evening he had noticed, +however, that the rope-ladder was gone, and that new steps were being +built. He had also mechanically observed that the gate was open. + +For an instant he watched her slowly moving towards the gate. At first +he did not realise the situation. Suddenly her danger flashed upon him. +Passing through the gateway, she must fall over the cliff. + +Her life was in his hands. + +He could rush forward swiftly and close the gate, then, raising an +alarm, get away before he was seen; or--he could escape now. + +What had he to do with her? A weird, painful suggestion crept into his +brain: he was not responsible for her, and he was responsible for +a woman up there by the hospital, whose home was the valley of the +Chaudiere! + +If Kathleen were gone, what barrier would there be between him and +Rosalie? What had he to do with this strange disposition of events? +Kathleen was never absent from her church twice on Sundays; she was +devoted to work of all sorts for the church on week-days--where was +her intervening personal Providence? If Providence permitted her to +die?--well, she had had two years of happiness with the man she loved, +at some expense to himself--was it not fair that Rosalie should have +her share? Had he the right to call upon Rosalie for constant +self-sacrifice, when, by shutting his eyes now, by being dead to +Kathleen and her need, as he was dead to the world he once knew, the way +would be clear to marry Rosalie? + +Dead--he was dead to the world and to Kathleen! Should his ghost +interpose between her and the death now within two-score feet of her? +Who could know? It was grim, it was awful, but was it not a wild kind +of justice? Who could blame? It was the old Charley Steele, the Charley +Steele of the court-room, who argued back humanity and the inherent +rightness of things. + +But it was only a moment's pause. The thoughts flashed by like the +lightning impressions of a dream, and a voice said in his ear, the voice +of the new Charley with a conscience: + +"Save her--save her!" + +Even as he was conscious of another presence on the lawn, he rushed +forward noiselessly. Stealing between Kathleen and the gate-she was +within five feet of it he closed and locked it. Then, with a quick +glance at her sleeping face-it was engraven on his memory ever +after like a dead face in a coffin--he ran along the fence among the +shrubbery. A man not fifty feet away called to him. + +"Hush--she is asleep!" Charley whispered, and disappeared. + +It was Fairing himself who saw this deed which saved Kathleen's life. +Awaking, and not finding her, he had glanced towards the window, and +had seen her on the lawn. He had rushed down to her, in time to see her +saved by a strange bearded man in habitant dress. His one glance at the +man's face, as it turned towards him, produced an extraordinary +effect upon his mind, not soon to be dispelled--a haunting, ghostlike +apparition, which kept reminding him of something or somebody, he could +not tell what or whom. The whispering voice and the breathless words, +"Hush--she is asleep!" repeated themselves over and over again in his +brain, as, taking Kathleen's hand, he led her, unresisting, and still +sleeping, back to her room. In agitated thankfulness he resolved not to +speak of the event to Kathleen, or to any one else, lest it should come +to her ears and frighten her. + +He would, however, keep a sharp lookout for the man who had saved her +life, and would reward him duly. The face of the bearded habitant came +between him and his sleep. + +Meanwhile this disturber of a woman's dreams and a man's sleep was +hurrying to an inn in the town by the waterside, where he met another +habitant with a team of dogs--Jo Portugais. Jo had not been able to bear +the misery of suspense and anxiety, and had come seeking him. There was +little speech between them. + +"You have not been found out, M'sieu'?" was Jo's anxious question. + +"No, no, but I have had a bad night, Jo. Get the dogs together." + +A little later, as Charley made ready to go back to Chaudiere, Jo said: + +"You look as if you'd had a black dream, M'sieu'." With the river +rustling by, and the trees stirring in the first breath of dawn, Charley +told Jo what had happened. + +For a moment the murderer did not speak or stir, for a struggle was +going on in his breast also; then he stooped quickly, caught his +companion's hand, and kissed it. + +"I could not have done it, M'sieu'," he said hoarsely. They parted, +Jo to remain behind as they had agreed, to be near Rosalie if needed; +Charley to return to the valley of the Chaudiere. + + + + +CHAPTER L. THE PASSION PLAY AT CHAUDIERE + +For the first time in its history Chaudiere was becoming notable in the +eyes of the outside world. + +"We'll have more girth after this," said Filion Lacasse the saddler +to the wife of the Notary, as, in front of the post-office, they stood +watching a little cavalcade of habitants going up the road towards Four +Mountains to rehearse the Passion Play. + +"If Dauphin's advice had been taken long ago, we'd have had a hotel at +Four Mountains, and the city folk would be coming here for the summer," +said Madame Dauphin, with a superior air. + +"Pish!" said a voice behind them. It was the Seigneur's groom, with a +straw in his mouth. He had a gloomy mind. + +"There isn't a house but has two or three boarders. I've got three," +said Filion Lacasse. "They come tomorrow." + +"We'll have ten at the Manor. But no good will come of it," said the +groom. + +"No good! Look at the infidel tailor!" said Madame Dauphin. "He +translated all the writing. He drew all the dresses, and made a hundred +pictures--there they are at the Cure's house." + +"He should have played Judas," said the groom malevolently. "That'd be +right for him." + +"Perhaps you don't like the Passion Play," said Madame Dauphin +disdainfully. + +"We ain't through with it yet," said the death's-head groom. + +"It is a pious and holy mission," said Madame Dauphin. "Even that Jo +Portugais worked night and day till he went away to Montreal, and he +always goes to Mass now. He's to take Pontius Pilate when he comes +back. Then look at Virginie Morrissette, that put her brother's eyes out +quarrelling--she's to play Mary Magdalene." + +"I could fit the parts better," said the groom. + +"Of course. You'd have played St. John," said the saddler--"or, maybe, +Christus himself!" + +"I'd have Paulette Dubois play Mary the sinner." + +"Magdalene repented, and knelt at the foot of the cross. She was sorry +and sinned no more," said the Notary's wife in querulous reprimand. + +"Well, Paulette does all that," said the stolid, dark-visaged groom. + +Filion Lacasse's ears pricked up. "How do you know--she hasn't come +back?" + +"Hasn't she, though! And with her child too--last night." + +"Her child!" Madame Dauphin was scandalised and amazed. + +The groom nodded. "And doesn't care who knows it. Seven years old, and +as fine a child as ever was!" + +"Narcisse--Narcisse!" called Madame Dauphin to her husband, who was +coming up the street. She hastily repeated the groom's news to him. + +The Notary stuck his hand between the buttons of his waistcoat. "Well, +well, my dear Madame," he said consequentially, "it is quite true." + +"What do you know about it--whose child is it?" she asked, with curdling +scorn. + +"'Sh-'sh!" said the Notary. Then, with an oratorical wave of his free +hand: "The Church opens her arms to all--even to her who sinned much +because she loved much, who, through woful years, searched the world for +her child and found it not--hidden away, as it was, by the duplicity +of sinful man"--and so on through tangled sentences, setting forth in +broken terms Paulette Dubois's life. + +"How do you know all about it?" asked the saddler. "I've known it for +years," said the Notary grandly--stoutly too, for he would freely risk +his wife's anger that the vain-glory of the moment might be enlarged. + +"And you keep it even from madame!" said the saddler, with a smile too +broad to be sarcastic. "Tiens! if I did that, my wife'd pick my eyes out +with a bradawl." + +"It was a professional secret," said the Notary, with a desperate +resolve to hold his position. + +"I'm going home, Dauphin--are you coming?" questioned his wife, with an +air. + +"You will remain, and hear what I've got to say. This Paulette +Dubois--she should play Mary Magdalene, for--" + +"Look--look, what's that?" said the saddler. He pointed to a wagon +coming slowly up the road. In front of it a team of dogs drew a cart. +It carried some thing covered with black. "It's a funeral! There's the +coffin. It's on Jo Portugais' little cart," added Filion Lacasse. + +"Ah, God be merciful, it's Rosalie Evanturel and Mrs. Flynn! And M'sieu' +Evanturel in the coffin!" said Madame Dauphin, running to the door of +the postoffice to call the Cure's sister. + +"There'll be use enough for the baker's Dead March now," remarked M. +Dauphin sadly, buttoning up his coat, taking off his hat, and going +forward to greet Rosalie. As he did so, Charley appeared in the doorway +of his shop. + +"Look, Monsieur," said the Notary. "This is the way Rosalie Evanturel +comes home with her father." + +"I will go for the Cure" Charley answered, turning white. He leaned +against the doorway for a moment to steady himself, then hurried up the +street. He did not dare meet Rosalie, or go near her yet. For her sake +it was better not. + +"That tailor infidel has a heart. His eyes were leaking," said the +Notary to Filion Lacasse, and went on to meet the mournful cavalcade. + + + + +CHAPTER LI. FACE TO FACE + +"If I could only understand!"--this was Rosalie's constant cry in these +weeks wherein she lay ill and prostrate after her father's burial. Once +and once only had she met Charley alone, though she knew that he was +keeping watch over her. She had first seen him the day her father was +buried, standing apart from the people, his face sorrowful, his eyes +heavy, his figure bowed. + +The occasion of their meeting alone was the first night of her return, +when the Notary and Charley had kept watch beside her father's body. + +She had gone into the little hallway, and had looked into the room of +death. The Notary was sound asleep in his arm-chair, but Charley sat +silent and moveless, his eyes gazing straight before him. She murmured +his name, and though it was only to herself, not even a whisper, he got +up quickly and came to the hall, where she stood grief-stricken, yet +with a smile of welcome, of forgiveness, of confidence. As she put out +her hand to him, and his swallowed it, she could not but say to him--so +contrary is the heart of woman, so does she demand a Yes by asserting a +No, and hunger for the eternal assurance--she could not but say: + +"You do not love me--now." + +It was but a whisper, so faint and breathless that only the heart of +love could hear it. There was no answer in words, for some one was +stirring beyond Rosalie in the dark, and a great figure heaved through +the kitchen doorway, but his hand crushed hers in his own; his heart +said to her, "My love is an undying light; it will not change for time +or tears"--the words they had read together in a little snuff-coloured +book on the counter in the shop one summer day a year ago. The words +flashed into his mind, and they were carried to hers. Her fingers +pressed his, and then Charley said, over her shoulder, to the +approaching Mrs. Flynn: "Do not let her come again, Madame. She should +get some sleep," and he put her hand in Mrs. Flynn's. "Be good to her, +as you know how, Mrs. Flynn," he added gently. + +He had won the heart of Mrs. Flynn that moment, and it may be she had a +conviction or an inspiration, for she said, in a softer voice than she +was wont to use to any one save Rosalie: + +"I'll do by her as you'd do by your own, sir," and tenderly drew Rosalie +to her own room. + +Such had been their first meeting after her return. Afterwards she was +taken ill, and the torture of his heart drove him out into the night, +to walk the road and creep round her house like a sentinel, Mrs. Flynn's +words ringing in his ears to reproach him--"I'll do by her as you would +do by your own, sir." Night after night it was the same, and Rosalie +heard his footsteps and listened and was less sorrowful, because she +knew that she was ever in his thoughts. But one day Mrs. Flynn came to +him in his shop. + +"She's wantin' a word with ye on business," she said, and gestured +towards the little house across the way. "'Tis few words ye do be +shpakin' to annybody, but if y' have kind words to shpake and good +things to say, y' naidn't be bitin' yer tongue," she added in response +to his nod, and left him. + +Charley looked after her with a troubled face. On the instant it seemed +to him that Mrs. Flynn knew all. But his second thought told him that +it was only an instinct on her part that there was something between +them--the beginning of love, maybe. + +In another half-hour he was beside Rosalie's chair. "Perhaps you are +angry," she said, as he came towards her where she sat in the great +arm-chair. She did not give him time to answer, but hurried on. "I +wanted to tell you that I have heard you every night outside, and that I +have been glad, and sorry too--so sorry for us both." + +"Rosalie! Rosalie" he said hoarsely, and dropped on a knee beside her +chair, and took her hand and kissed it. He did not dare do more. + +"I wanted to say to you," she said, dropping a hand on his shoulder, +"that I do not blame you for anything--not for anything. Yet I want you +to be sorry too. I want you to feel as sorry for me as I feel sorry for +you." + +"I am the worst man and you the best woman in the world." + +She leaned over him with tears in her eyes. "Hush!" she said. "I want to +help you--Charles. You are wise. You know ten thousand things more than +I; but I know one thing you do not understand." + +"You know and do whatever is good," he said brokenly. + +"Oh, no, no, no! But I know one thing, because I have been taught, and +because it was born with me. Perhaps much was habit with me in the past, +but now I know that one thing is true. It is God." + +She paused. "I have learned so much since--since then." + +He looked up with a groan, and put a finger on her lips. "You are +feeling bitterly sorry for me," she said. "But you must let me +speak--that is all I ask. It is all love asks. I cannot bear that you +should not share my thoughts. That is the thing that has hurt--hurt so +all these months, these long hard months, when I could not see you, and +did not know why I could not. Don't shake so, please! Hear me to the +end, and we shall both be the better after. I felt it all so cruelly, +because I did not--and I do not--understand. I rebelled, but not against +you. I rebelled against myself, against what you called Fate. Fate +is one's self, what one brings on one's self. But I had faith in +you--always--always, even when I thought I hated you." + +"Ah, hate me! Hate me! It is your loving that cuts me to the quick," he +said. "You have the magnanimity of God." + +Her eyes leapt up. "'Of God'--you believe in God!" she said eagerly. +"God is God to you? He is the one thing that has come out of all this +to me." She reached out her hand and took her Bible from a table. +"Read that to yourself," she said, and, opening the Book, pointed to a +passage. He read it: + + And they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in + the cool of the day: and Adam and his wife hid themselves from the + presence of the Lord God amongst the trees of the garden. + + And the Lord God called unto Adam, and said unto him, Where art + thou? + + And he said, I heard Thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, + because I was naked; and I hid myself. + + And He said, Who told thee that thou wart naked? Hast thou eaten of + the tree whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat? + +Closing the Book, Charley said: "I understand--I see." + +"Will you say a prayer with me?" she urged. "It is all I ask. It is the +only--the only thing I want to hurt you, because it may make you happier +in the end. What keeps us apart, I do not know. But if you will say one +prayer with me, I will keep on trusting, I will never complain, and I +will wait--wait." + +He kissed both her hands, but the look in his eyes was that of a man +being broken on the wheel. She slipped to the floor, her rosary in her +fingers. "Let us pray," she said simply, and in a voice as clear as a +child's, but with the anguish of a woman's struggling heart behind. + +He did not move. She looked at him, caught his hands in both of hers, +and cried: "But you will not deny me this! Haven't I the right to ask +it? Haven't I a right to ask of you a thousand times as much?" + +"You have the right to ask all that is mine to give life, honour, my +body in pieces inch by inch, the last that I can call my own. But, +Rosalie, this is not mine to give! How can I pray, unless I believe!" + +"You do--oh, you do believe in God," she cried passionately. + +"Rosalie--my life," he urged, hoarse misery in his voice, "the only +thing I have to give you is the bare soul of a truthful man--I am that +now at least. You have made me so. If I deceived the whole world, if I +was as the thief upon the cross, I should still be truthful to you. You +open your heart to me--let me open mine to you, to see it as it is. +Once my soul was like a watch, cased and carried in the pocket of life, +uncertain, untrue, because it was a soul made, not born. I must look at +the hands to know the time, and because it varied, because the working +did not answer to the absolute, I said: 'The soul is a lie.' You--you +have changed all that, Rosalie. My soul now is like a dial to the sun. +But the clouds are there above, and I do not know what time it is in +life. When the clouds break--if they ever break--and the sun shines, the +dial will speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth--" + +He paused, confused, for he had repeated the words of a witness taking +the oath in court. + +"'So help me God!"' she finished the oath for him. Then, with a sudden +change of manner, she came to her feet with a spring. She did not quite +understand. She was, however, dimly conscious of the power she had over +his chivalrous mind: the power of the weak over the strong--the tyranny +of the defended over the defender. She was a woman tortured beyond +bearing; and she was fighting for her very life, mad with anguish as she +struggled. + +"I do not understand you," she cried, with flashing eyes. "One minute +you say you do not believe in anything, and the next you say, 'So help +me God!'" + +"Ah, no, you said that, Rosalie," he interposed gently. + +"You said I was as magnanimous as God. You were laughing at me then, +mocking me, whose only fault is that I loved and trusted you. In the +wickedness of your heart you robbed me of happiness, you--" + +"Don't--don't! Rosalie! Rosalie!" he exclaimed in shrinking protest. + +That she had spoken to him as her deepest heart abhorred only increased +her agitated denunciation. "Yes, yes, in your mad selfishness, you did +not care for the poor girl who forgot all, lost all, and now--" +She stopped short at the sight of his white, awe stricken face. His +eye-glass seemed like a frost of death over an eye that looked upon +some shocking scene of woe. Yet he appeared not to see, for his fingers +fumbled on his waistcoat for the monocle--fumbled--vaguely, helplessly. +It was the realisation of a soul cast into the outer darkness. Her +abrupt silence came upon him like the last engulfing wave to a drowning +man--the final assurance of the end, in which there is quiet and the +deadly smother. + +"Now--I know-the truth!" he said, in a curious even tone, different +from any she had ever heard from him. It was the old Charley Steele who +spoke, the Charley Steele in whom the intellect was supreme once more. +The judicial spirit, the inveterate intelligence which put justice +before all, was alive in him, almost rejoicing in its regained +governance. The new Charley was as dead as the old had been of late, and +this clarifying moment left the grim impression behind that the old law +was not obsolete. He felt that in the abandonment of her indignation she +had mercilessly told the truth; and the irreducible quality of mind in +him which in the old days made for justice, approved. There was a new +element now, however--that conscience which never possessed him fully +until the day he saw Rosalie go travelling over the hills with her +crippled father. That picture of the girl against the twilight, her +figure silhouetted in the clear air, had come to him in sleeping and +waking dreams, the type and sign of an everlasting melancholy. As he +looked at her blindly now, he saw, not herself, but that melancholy +figure. Out of the distance his own voice said again: + +"Now--I know-the truth!" + +She had struck with a violence she did not intend, which, she knew, must +rend her own heart in the future, which put in the dice-box the last +hopes she had. But she could not have helped it--she could not have +stayed the words, though a suspended sword were to fall with the +saying. It was the cry of tradition and religion, and every home-bred, +convent-nurtured habit, the instinct of heredity, the wail of woman, for +whom destiny, or man, or nature, has arranged the disproportionate share +of life's penalties. It was the impotent rebellion against the first +curse, that man in his punishment should earn his bread by the sweat of +his brow--which he might do with joy--while the woman must work out her +ordained sentence "in sorrow all the days of her life." + +In her bitter words was the inherent revolt of the race of woman. But +now she suddenly felt that she had flung him an infinite distance from +her; that she had struck at the thing she most cherished--his belief +that she loved him; that even if she had told the truth--and she felt +she had not--it was not the truth she wished him most to feel. + +For an instant she stood looking at him, shocked and confounded, then +her changeless love rushed back on her, the maternal and protective +spirit welled up, and with a passionate cry she threw herself in the +chair again in very weakness, with outstretched hands, saying: + +"Forgive me--oh, forgive me! I did not mean it--oh, forgive your +Rosalie!" + +Stooping over her, he answered: + +"It is good for me to know the whole truth. What hurts you may give me +will pass--for life must end, and my life cannot be long enough to pay +the price of the hurts I have given you. I could bear a thousand--one +for every hour--if they could bring back the light to your eye, the joy +to your heart. Could prayer, do you think, make me sorrier than I am? I +have hurt what I would have spared from hurt at the cost of my life--and +all the lives in all the world!" he added fiercely. + +"Forgive me--oh, forgive your Rosalie!" she pleaded. "I did not know +what I was saying--I was mad." + +"It was all so sane and true," he said, like one who, on the brink of +death, finds a satisfaction in speaking the perfect truth. "I am glad to +hear the truth--I have been such a liar." + +She looked up startled, her tears blinding her. "You have not deceived +me?" she asked bitterly. "Oh, you have not deceived me--you have loved +me, have you not?" It was that which mattered, that only. Moveless and +eager, she looked--looked at him, waiting, as it were, for sentence. + +"I never lied to you, Rosalie--never!" he answered, and he touched her +hand. + +She gave a moan of relief at his words. "Oh, then, oh, then... " she +said, in a low voice, and the tears in her eyes dried away. + +"I meant that until I knew you, I kept deceiving myself and others all +my life--" + +"But without knowing it?" she said eagerly. + +"Perhaps, without quite knowing it." + +"Until you knew me?" she asked, in quick, quivering tones. + +"Till I knew you," he answered. + +"Then I have done you good--not ill?" she asked, with painful +breathlessness. + +"The only good there may be in me is you, and you only," he said, and +he choked something rising in his throat, seeing the greatness of her +heart, her dear desire to have entered into his life to his own good. He +would have said that there was no good in him at all, but that he wished +to comfort her. + +A little cry of joy broke from her lips. "Oh, that--that!" she cried, +with happy tears. "Won't you kiss me now?" she added softly. + +He clasped her in his arms, and though his eyes were dry, his heart wept +tears of blood. + + + + +CHAPTER LII. THE COMING OF BILLY + +Chaudiere had made--and lost--a reputation. The Passion Play in the +valley had become known to a whole country--to the Cure's and the +Seigneur's unavailing regret. They had meant to revive the great story +for their own people and the Indians--a homely, beautiful object-lesson, +in an Eden--like innocence and quiet and repose; but behold the world +had invaded them! The vanity of the Notary had undone them. He had +written to the great papers of the province, telling of the advent of +the play, and pilgrimages had been organised, and excursions had been +made to the spot, where a simple people had achieved a crude but noble +picture of the life and death of the Hero of Christendom. The Cure +viewed with consternation the invasion of their quiet. It was no longer +his own Chaudiere; and when, on a Sunday, his dear people were jostled +from the church to make room for strangers, his gentle eloquence seemed +to forsake him, he spoke haltingly, and his intoning of the Mass lacked +the old soothing simplicity. + +"Ah, my dear Seigneur!" he said, on the Sunday before the playing was to +end, "we have overshot the mark." + +The Seigneur nodded and turned his head away. "There is an English play +which says, 'I have shot mine arrow o'er the house and hurt my brother.' +That's it--that's it! We began with religion, and we end with greed, and +pride, and notoriety." + +"What do we want of fame! The price is too high, Maurice. Fame is not +good for the hearts and minds of simple folk." + +"It will soon be over." + +"I dread a sordid reaction." + +The Seigneur stood thinking for a moment. "I have an idea," he said at +last. "Let us have these last days to ourselves. The mission ends next +Saturday at five o'clock. We will announce that all strangers must leave +the valley by Wednesday night. Then, during those last three days, while +yet the influence of the play is on them, you can lead your own people +back to the old quiet feelings." + +"My dear Maurice--it is worthy of you! It is the way. We will announce +it to-day. And see now.... For those three days we will change the +principals; lest those who have taken the parts so long have lost the +pious awe which should be upon them. We will put new people in their +places. I will announce it at vespers presently. I have in my mind who +should play the Christ, and St. John, and St. Peter--the men are not +hard to find; but for Mary the Mother and Mary Magdalene--" + +The eyes of the two men suddenly met, a look of understanding passed +between them. + +"Will she do it?" said the Seigneur. + +The Cure nodded. "Paulette Dubois has heard the word, 'Go and sin no +more'; she will obey." + +Walking through the village as they talked, the Cure shrank back +painfully several times, for voices of strangers, singing festive songs, +rolled out upon the road. "Who can they be?" he said distressfully. + +Without a word the Seigneur went to the door of the inn whence the +sounds proceeded, and, without knocking, entered. A moment afterwards +the voices stopped, but broke out again, quieted, then once more broke +out, and presently the Seigneur issued from the door, white with anger, +three strangers behind him. All were intoxicated. + +One was violent. It was Billy Wantage, whom the years had not improved. +He had arrived that day with two companions--an excursion of curiosity +as an excuse for a "spree." + +"What's the matter with you, old stick-in-the-mud?" he shouted. "Mass is +over, isn't it? Can't we have a little guzzle between prayers?" + +By this time a crowd had gathered, among them Filion Lacasse. At a +motion from the Seigneur, and a whisper that went round quickly, a dozen +habitants swiftly sprang on the three men, pinioned their arms, and +carrying them bodily to the pump by the tavern, held them under it, one +by one, till each was soaked and sober. Then their horses and wagon were +brought, and they were given five minutes to leave the village. + +With a devilish look in his eye, and drenched and furious, Billy +was disposed to resist the command, but the faces around him were +determined, and, muttering curses, the three drove away towards the next +parish. + + + + +CHAPTER LIII. THE SEIGNEUR AND THE CURE HAVE A SUSPICION + +Presently the Seigneur and the Cure stood before the door of the +tailor-shop. The Cure was about to knock, when the Seigneur laid a hand +upon his arm. + +"There is no use; he has been gone several days," he said. + +"Gone--gone!" said the Cure. + +"I came to see him yesterday, and not finding him, I asked at the +post-office." M. Rossignol's voice lowered. "He told Mrs. Flynn he was +going into the hills, so Rosalie says." + +The Cure's face fell. "He went away also just before the play began. I +almost fear that--that we get no nearer. His mind prompts him to do good +and not evil, and yet--and yet.... I have dreamed a good dream, Maurice, +but I sometimes fear I have dreamed in vain." + +"Wait-wait!" + +M. Loisel looked towards the post-office musingly. "I have thought +sometimes that what man's prayers may not accomplish a woman's love +might do. If--but, alas, what do we know of his past! Nothing. What +do we know of his future? Nothing. What do we know of the human heart? +Nothing--nothing!" + +The Seigneur was astounded. The Cure's meaning was plain. "What do you +mean?" he asked, almost gruffly. + +"She--Rosalie--has changed--changed." In his heart he dwelt sorrowfully +upon the fact that she had not been to confession to him for many, many +months. + +"Since her father's death--since her illness?" + +"Since she went to Montreal seven months ago. Even while she was so ill +these past weeks, she never asked for me; and when I came... Ah, if it +is that her heart has gone out to the man, and his does not respond!" + +"A good thing, too!" said the other gloomily. "We don't know where he +came from, and we do know that he is a pagan." + +"Yet there she sits now, hour after hour, day after day--so changed." + +"She has lost her father," urged M. Rossignol anxiously. + +"I know the grief of children--this is not such a grief. There is +something more. But I cannot ask. If she were a sinner--but she is +without fault. Have we not watched her grow up here, mirthful, brave, +pure-souled--" + +"Fitted for any station," interposed the Seigneur huskily. Presently +he laid a hand upon the Cure's arm. "Shall I ask her again?" he said, +breathing hard. "Do you think she has found out her mistake?" + +The Cure was so taken aback that at first he could not speak. When +he realised, however, he could scarce suppress a smile at the other's +simple vanity. But he mastered himself, and said: "It is not that, +Maurice. It is not you." + +"How did you know I had asked her?" asked his friend querulously. + +"You have just told me." + +M. Rossignol felt a kind of reproval in the Cure's tone. It made him +a little nervous. "I'm an old fool, but she needed some one," he +protested. "At least I am a gentleman, and she would not be thrown +away." + +"Dear Maurice!" said the Cure, and linked his arm in the other's. "In +all respects save one, it would have been to her advantage. But youth is +the only comrade for youth. All else is evasion of life's laws." + +The Seigneur pressed his arm. "I thought you less worldly-wise than +myself; I find you more," he said. + +"Not worldly-wise. Life is deeper than the world or worldly wisdom. +Come, we will both go and see Rosalie." + +M. Rossignol suddenly stopped at the post-office door, and half turned +towards the tailor-shop. "He is young. Suppose that he drew her love his +way, but gave her nothing in return, and--" + +"If it were so"--the Cure paused, and his face darkened--"if it were so, +he should leave her forever; and so my dream would end." + +"And Rosalie?" + +"Rosalie would forget. To remember, youth must see and touch and be +near, else it wears itself out in excess of feeling. Youth feels more +deeply than age, but it must bear daily witness." + +"Upon my honour, Cure, you shall write your little philosophies for the +world," said M. Rossignol, and then knocked at the door. + +"I will go in alone, Maurice," the Cure urged. "Good-you are right," +answered the other. "I will go write the proclamation denying strangers +the valley after Wednesday. I will enforce it, too," he added, with +vigour, and, turning, walked up the street, as Mrs. Flynn admitted the +Cure to the post-office. + +A half-hour later M. Loisel again appeared at the post-office door, a +pale, beautiful face at his shoulder. + +He had not been brave enough to say what was on his mind. But as he bade +her good-bye, he plucked up needful courage. + +"Forgive me, Rosalie," he said, "but I have sometimes thought that you +have more griefs than one. I have thought"--he paused, then went on +bravely--"that there might be--there might be unwelcomed love, or love +deceived." + +A mist came before her eyes, but she quietly and firmly answered: "I +have never been deceived in love, Monsieur Loisel." + +"There, there!" he hurriedly and gently rejoined. "Do not be hurt, my +child. I only want to help you." A moment afterwards he was gone. + +As the door closed behind him, she drew herself proudly up. + +"I have never been deceived," she said aloud. "I love him--love +him--love him." + + + + +CHAPTER LIV. M. ROSSIGNOL SLIPS THE LEASH + +It was the last day of the Passion Play, and the great dramatic mission +was drawing to a close. The confidence of the Cure and the Seigneur was +restored. The prohibition against strangers had had its effect, and for +three whole days the valley had been at rest again. Apparently there was +not a stranger within its borders, save the Seigneur's brother, the Abbe +Rossignol, who had come to see the moving spectacle. + +The Abbe, on his arrival, had made inquiries concerning the tailor of +Chaudiere and Jo Portugais, as persistently about the one as the other. +Their secrets had been kept inviolate by him. + +It was disconcerting to hear the tales people told of the tailor's +charity and wisdom. It was all dangerous, for what was, accidentally, +no evil in this particular instance, might be the greatest disaster +in another case. Principle was at stake. He heard in stern silence the +Cure's happy statement that Jo Portugais had returned to the bosom of +the Church, and attended Mass regularly. + +"So it may be, my dear Abbe," said M. Loisel, "that the friendship +between him and our 'infidel' has been the means of helping Portugais. I +hope their friendship will go on unbroken for years and years." + +"I have no idea that it will," said the Abbe grimly. "That rope of +friendship may snap untimely." + +"Upon my soul, you croak like a raven!" testily broke in M. Rossignol, +who was present. "I didn't know there was so much in common between you +and my surly-jowled groom. He gets his pleasure out of croaking. 'Wait, +wait, you'll see--you'll see! Death, death, death--every man must die! +The devil has you by the hair--death--death--death!' Bah! I'm heartily +sick of croakers. I suppose, like my grunting groom, you'll say about +the Passion Play, 'No good will come of it--wait--wait--wait!' Bah!" + +"It may not be an unmixed good," answered the ascetic. + +"Well, and is there any such thing on earth as an unmixed good? The +play yesterday was worth a thousand sermons. It was meant to serve Holy +Church, and it will serve it. Was there ever anything more real--and +touching--than Paulette Dubois as Mary Magdalene yesterday?" + +"I do not approve of such reality. For that woman to play the part is to +destroy the impersonality of the scene." + +"You would demand that the Christus should be a good man, and the St. +John blameless--why shouldn't the Magdalene be a repentant woman?" + +"It might impress the people more, if the best woman in your parish were +to play the part. The fall of virtue, the ruin of innocence, would be +vividly brought home. It does good to make the innocent feel the +terror and shame of sin. That is the price the good pay for the fall of +man--sorrow and shame for those who sin." The Seigneur, rising quickly +from the table, and kicking his chair back, said angrily: "Damn +your theories!" Then, seeing the frozen look on his brother's face, +continued, more excitedly: "Yes, damn, damn, damn your theories! You +always took the crass view. I beg your pardon, Cure--I beg your pardon." + +He then went to the window, threw it open, and called to his groom. + +"Hi, there, coffin-face," he said, "bring round the horses--the quietest +one in the stable for my brother--you hear? He can't ride," he added +maliciously. + +This was his fiercest stroke, for the Abbe's secret vanity was the +belief that he looked well on a horse, and rode handsomely. + + + + +CHAPTER LV. ROSALIE PLAYS A PART + +From a tree upon a little hill rang out a bell--a deep-toned bell, +bought by the parish years before for the missions held at this very +spot. Every day it rang for an instant at the beginning of each of the +five acts. It also tolled slowly when the curtain rose upon the scene of +the Crucifixion. In this act no one spoke save the abased Magdalene, who +knelt at the foot of the cross, and on whose hair red drops fell when +the Roman soldier pierced the side of the figure on the cross. This had +been the Cure's idea. The Magdalene should speak for mankind, for the +continuing world. She should speak for the broken and contrite heart in +all ages, should be the first-fruits of the sacrifice, a flower of the +desert earth, bedewed by the blood of the Prince of Peace. + +So, in the long nights of the late winter and early spring, the Cure had +thought and thought upon what the woman should say from the foot of the +cross. At last he put into her mouth that which told the whole story of +redemption and deliverance, so far as his heart could conceive it--the +prayer for all sorts and conditions of men and the general thanksgiving +of humanity. + +During the last three days Paulette Dubois had taken the part of Mary +Magdalene. As Jo Portugais had confessed to the Abbe that notable day in +the woods at Vadrome Mountain, so she had confessed to the Cure after +so many years of agony--and the one confession fitted into the other: Jo +had once loved her, she had treated him vilely, then a man had wronged +her, and Jo had avenged her--this was the tale in brief. She it was who +laughed in the gallery of the court-room the day that Joseph Nadeau was +acquitted. + +It had pained and shocked the Cure more than any he had ever heard, but +he urged for her no penalty as Portugais had set for himself with the +austere approval of the Abbe. Paulette's presence as the Magdalene had +had a deep effect upon the people, so that she shared with Mary the +Mother the painfully real interest of the vast audience. + +Five times had the bell rung out in the perfect spring air, upon which +the balm of the forest and the refreshment of the ardent sun were +poured. The quick anger of M. Rossignol had passed away long before the +Cure, the Abbe, and himself had reached the lake and the great plateau. +Between the acts the two brothers walked up and down together, at peace +once more, and there was a suspicious moisture in the Seigneur's eyes. +The demeanour of the people had been so humble and rapt that the place +and the plateau and the valley seemed alone in creation with the lofty +drama of the ages. + +The Cure's eyes shone when he saw on a little knoll in the trees, apart +from the worshippers and spectators, Charley and Jo Portugais. His cup +of content was now full. He had felt convinced that if the tailor had +but been within these bounds during the past three days, a work were +begun which should end only at the altar of their parish church. To-day +the play became to him the engine of God for the saving of a man's soul. +Not long before the last great tableau was to appear he went to his own +little tent near the hut where the actors prepared to go upon the stage. +As he entered, some one came quickly forward from the shadow of the +trees and touched him on the arm. + +"Rosalie!" he cried in amazement, for she wore the costume of Mary +Magdalene. + +"It is I, not Paulette, who will appear," she said, a deep light in her +eyes. + +"You, Rosalie?" he asked dumfounded. "You are distrait. Trouble and +sorrow have put this in your mind. You must not do it." + +"Yes, I am going there," she said, pointing towards the great stage. +"Paulette has given me these to wear"--she touched the robe--"and I only +ask your blessing now. Oh, believe, believe me, I can speak for those +who are innocent and those who are guilty; for those who pray and those +who cannot pray; for those who confess and those who dare not! I can +speak the words out of my heart with gladness and agony, Monsieur," she +urged, in a voice vibrating with feeling. + +A luminous look came into the Cure's face. A thought leapt up in his +heart. Who could tell!--this pure girl, speaking for the whole sinful, +unbelieving, and believing world, might be the one last conquering +argument to the man. + +He could not read the agony of spirit which had driven Rosalie to +this--to confess through the words of Mary Magdalene her own woe, to say +it out to all the world, and to receive, as did Paulette Dubois, every +day after the curtain came down, absolution and blessing. She longed for +the old remembered peace. + +The Cure could not read the struggle between her love for a man and the +ineradicable habit of her soul; but he raised his hand, made the sacred +gesture over leer, and said: "Go, my child, and God be with you." + +He could not see her for tears as she hurried away to where Paulette +Dubois awaited her--the two at peace now. At the hands of the lately +despised and injurious woman Rosalie was made ready to play the part +in the last act, none knowing save the few who appeared in the final +tableau, and they at the last moment only. + +The bell began to toll. + +A thousand people fell upon their knees, and with fascinated yet abashed +and awe-struck eyes saw the great tableau of Christendom: the three +crosses against the evening sky, the Figure in the centre, the Roman +populace, the trembling Jews, the pathetic groups of disciples. A cloud +passed across the sky, the illusion grew, and hearts quivered in piteous +sympathy. There was no music now--not a sound save the sob of some +overwrought woman. The woe of an oppressed world absorbed them. Even the +stolid Indians, as Roman soldiers, shrank awe-stricken from the sacred +tragedy. Now the eyes of all were upon the central Figure, then they +shifted for a moment to John the Beloved, standing with the Mother. + +"Pauvre Mere! Pauvre Christ!" said a weeping woman aloud. + +A Roman soldier raised a spear and pierced the side of the Hero of the +World. Blood flowed, and hundreds gasped. Then there was silence--a +strange hush as of a prelude to some great event. + +"It is finished. Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit," said the +Figure. + +The hush was broken by such a sound as one hears in a forest when a +wind quivers over the earth, flutters the leaves, and then sinks +away--neither having come nor gone, but only lived and died. + +Again there was silence, and then all eyes were fixed upon the figure at +the foot of the cross-Mary the Magdalene. + +Day after day they had seen this figure rise, come forward a step, and +speak the epilogue to this moving miracle-drama. For the last three days +Paulette Dubois had turned a sorrowful face upon them, and with one +hand upraised had spoken the prayer, the prophecy, the thanksgiving, the +appeal of humanity and the ages. They looked to see the same figure now, +and waited. But as the Magdalene turned, there was a great stir in the +multitude, for the face bent upon them was that of Rosalie Evanturel. +Awe and wonder moved the people. + +Apart from the crowd, under a clump of trees, knelt a woodsman from +Vadrome Mountain, and the tailor of Chaudiere stood beside him. + +When Charley, touched by the heavy scene, saw the figure of the +Magdalene rise, he felt a curious thrill of fascination. When she +turned, and he saw the face of Rosalie, the blood rushed to his face; +then his heart seemed to stand still. Pain and shame travelled to the +farthest recesses of his nature. Jo Portugais rose to his feet with a +startled exclamation. + +Rosalie began to speak. "This is the day of which the hours shall never +cease--in it there shall be no night. He whom ye have crucified hath +saved you from the wrath to come. He hath saved others, Himself He +would not save. Even for such as I, who have secretly opened, who have +secretly entered, the doors of sin--" + +With a gasp of horror and a mad desire to take her away from the sight +of this gaping, fascinated crowd, Charley made to rush forward, but Jo +Portugais held him back. + +"Be still. You will ruin her, M'sieu'!" said Jo. + +"--even for such as I am," the beautiful voice went on, "hath He died. +And in the ages to come, women such as I, and all women who sorrow, and +all men who err and are deceived, and all the helpless world, will +know that this was the Friend of the human soul." Not a gesture, not a +movement, only that slight, pathetic figure, with pale, agonised face, +and eyes that looked--looked--looked beyond them, over their heads to +the darkening east, the clouded light of evening behind her. Her voice +rang out now valiant and clear, now searching and piteous, yet reaching +to where the farthermost person knelt, and was lost upon the lake and in +the spreading trees. + +"What ye have done may never be undone; what He hath said shall never +be unsaid. His is the Word which shall unite all languages, when ye that +are Romans shall be no more Romans, and ye that are Jews shall still be +Jews, reproached and alone. No longer shall men faint in the glare--the +shadow of the Cross shall screen them. No more shall woman bear her +black sorrows, alone; the Light of the World shall cheer her." + +As she spoke, the cloud drew back from the sunset, and the saffron glow +behind lighted the cross, and shone upon her hair, casting her face in +a gracious shadow. Her voice rose higher. "I, the Magdalene, am the +first-fruits of this sacrifice: from the foot of the cross I come. I +have sinned more than all. I have shamed all women. But I have confessed +my sin, and He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to +cleanse us from all unrighteousness." + +Her voice now became lower, but clear and even, pathetically exulting: + +"O world, forgive, as He hath forgiven you! Fall, dark curtain, and hide +this pain, and rise again upon forgiven sin and a redeemed people!" + +She stood still, with her eyes upraised, and the curtain came slowly +down. + +For a long time no one in all the gathered multitude stirred. Far over +under the trees a man sat upon the ground, his head upon his arms, and +his arms upon his knees, in a misery unmeasurable. Beside him stood a +woodsman, who knew of no word to say that might comfort him. + +A girl, in the garb of the Magdalene, entered the tent of the Cure, and, +speaking no word, knelt and received absolution of her sins. + + + + +CHAPTER LVI. MRS. FLYNN SPEAKS + +CHARLEY left Jo Portugais behind, and went home alone. He watched at a +window till he saw Rosalie return. As she passed quickly down the street +with Mrs. Flynn to her own door, he observed that her face was happier +than he had seen it for many a day. Her step was lighter, there was a +freedom in her air, a sense of confidence in her carriage. + +She bore herself as one who had done a thing which relaxed a painful +tension. There was a curious glow in her eyes and face, and this became +deeper as, showing himself at the door, she saw him, smiled, and stood +still. He came across the street and took her hand. + +"You have been away," she said softly. "For a few days," he answered. + +"Far?" + +"At Vadrome Mountain." + +"You have missed these last days of the Passion Play," she said, a +shadow in her eyes. + +"I was present to-day," he answered. + +She turned away her head quickly, for the look in his eyes told her more +than any words could have done, and Mrs. Flynn said: + +"'Tis a day for everlastin' mimory, sir. For the part she played this +day, the darlin', only such as she could play! 'Tis the innocent takin' +the shame o' the guilty, and the tears do be comin' to me eyes. 'Tis +not ould Widdy Flynn's eyes alone that's wet this day, but hearts do be +weepin' for the love o' God." + +Rosalie suddenly opened the door, and, without another look at Charley, +entered the house. + +"'Tis one in a million!" said Mrs. Flynn, in a confidential tone, for +she had a fixed idea that Rosalie loved Charley and that he loved her, +and that the only thing that stood in the way of their marriage was +religion. From the first Charley had conquered Mrs. Flynn. That he was a +tailor was a pity and a shame, but love was love, and the man had a head +on him and a heart in him; and love was love! So Mrs. Flynn said: + +"'Tis one that a man that's a man should do annything for, was it havin' +the heart cut out uv him, or givin' the last drop uv his blood. Shure, +for such as her, murder, or false witness, or givin' up the last wish or +thought a man hugged to his boosom, would be as aisy as aisy." + +Charley laughed to himself, her purpose was so obvious, but his heart +went out to her, for she was a friend, and, whatever came to him, +Rosalie would not be alone. + +"I believe every word of yours," he said, shaking her hand, "and we'll +see, you and I, that no man marries her who isn't ready to do what you +say." + +"Would you do it yourself--if it was you?" she asked, flushing for her +boldness. + +"I would," he answered. + +"Then do it," she said, and fled inside the house and shut the door. + +"Mrs. Flynn--good Mrs. Flynn!" he said, and went back sadly to his +house, and shut himself up with his thoughts. When night drew on he went +to bed, but he could not sleep. He got up after a time, and taking pen +and paper, wrote for a long time. Having finished, he took what he had +written, and placing it with the two packets-of money and pearls--which +he had brought from his old home, he addressed it to the Cure, and going +to the safe in the wall of the shop, placed them inside and locked the +door. + +Then he went to bed, and slept soundly--the deep sleep of the just. + + + + +CHAPTER LVII. A BURNING FIERY FURNACE + +Every man within the limits of the parish was in his bed, save one. He +was a stranger who, once before, had visited Chaudiere for one brief +day, when he had been saved from death at the Red Ravine, and had fled +the village that night because, as he thought, he had heard the voice of +his old friend's ghost in the trees. Since that time he had travelled +in many parishes, healing where he could, entertaining where he might, +earning money as the charlatan. He was now on his way back through the +parishes to Montreal, and his route lay through Chaudiere. He had +hoped to reach Chaudiere before nightfall--he remembered with fear the +incident from which he had fled many months before; but his horse had +broken its leg on a corduroy bridge, a few miles out from the parish in +the hills, and darkness came upon him before he could hide his wagon +in the woods and proceed afoot to Chaudiere. He had shot his horse, and +rolled it into the swift torrent beneath the bridge. + +Travelling the lonely road, he drank freely from the whiskey-horn he +carried, to keep his spirits up, so that by the time he came to the +outskirts of Chaudiere he was in a state of intoxication, and reeled +impudently along with the "Dutch courage" the liquor had given +him. Arrived at the first cluster of houses in the place, he paused +uncertain. Should he knock here or go on to the tavern? He shivered at +thought of the tavern, for it was near it he had heard Charley Steele's +voice calling to him out of the trees. If he knocked here, would the +people admit him in his present state?--he had sense enough to know that +he was very drunk. As he shook his head in owlish gravity, he saw the +church on the hill not far away. He chuckled to himself. The carpet in +the chancel and the hassocks at the altar would make a good bed. No fear +of Charley's ghost coming inside the church--it wouldn't be that kind of +a ghost. As he travelled the intervening space, shrugging his shoulders, +staggering serenely, he told himself in confidence that he would leave +the church at dawn, go to the tavern, purchase a horse as soon as might +be, and get back to his wagon. + +The church door was unlocked, and he entered and made his way to the +chancel, found surplices in the vestry and put a hassock inside one for +a pillow. Then he sat down and drew the loose rug of the chancel-floor +over him, and took another drink from the whiskey horn. Lighting his +pipe, he smoked for a while, but grew drowsy, and his pipe fell into his +lap. With eyes nearly shut he struck another match, made to light his +pipe again, but threw the match away, still burning. As he did so +the pipe dropped again from his mouth, and he fell back on the +hassock-pillow he had made. + +The lighted match fell on a surplice which had dropped from his arms +as he came from the vestry, and set it afire. In five minutes the whole +chancel was burning, and the sleeping man waked in the midst of smoke +and flame. He staggered to his feet with a terror-stricken cry, stumbled +down the aisle, through the front door, and out into the night. Reaching +the road, he turned his face again to the hill where his wagon lay hid. +If he could reach that, he would be safe; nobody would suspect him. +He clutched the whiskey-horn tight and broke into a run. As he passed +beyond the village his excited imagination heard Charley Steele's ghost +calling after him. He ran harder. The voice kept calling from Chaudiere. + +Not Charley's voice, but the voices of many people in Chaudiere were +calling. Some wakeful person had seen the glare in the church windows +and had given the alarm, and now there rang through the streets the +call-"Fire! Fire! Fire!" + +Charley and Jo were among the last to wake, for both had slept soundly, +but Jo was roused by a handful of gravel thrown at his window and a +warning cry, and a few moments later he and Charley were in the street +with a hurrying crowd. Over all the village was a red glare, lighting up +the sky, burnishing the trees. The church was a mass of flames. + +Charley was as pale as the rest of the crowd; for he thought of the +Cure, he thought of this people to whom their church meant more than +home and vastly more than friend and fortune. His heart was with them +all: not because it was their church that was burning, but because it +was something dear to them. + +Reaching the hill, he saw the Cure coming from the vestry of the burning +church, bearing some vessels of the altar. Depositing them in the arms +of his weeping sister, he turned again towards the door. People clung to +him, and would not let him go. + +"See, it is all inflames," they cried. "Your cassock is singed. You +shall not go." + +At that moment Charley and Portugais came up. A hurried question to the +Cure from Charley, a key handed over, a nod from Jo, and before the Cure +could prevent them the two men had rushed through the smoke and flame +into the vestry, Portugais holding Charley's hand. + +The crowd outside waited in a terrible anxiety. The timbers of the +chancel portion of the building seemed about to fall, and still the two +men did not appear. The people called; the Cure clinched his hands at +his side--he was too fearful even to pray. + +But now the two men appeared, loaded with the few treasures of the +church. They were scorched and singed, and the beards of both were +burned, but, stumbling and exhausted, they brought their loads to the +eager arms of the waiting habitants. + +Then from the other end of the church came a cry: "The little cross--the +little iron cross!" Then another cry: "Rosalie Evanturel! Rosalie +Evanturel!" Some one came running to the Cure. + +"Rosalie Evanturel has gone inside for the little cross on the pillar. +She is in the flames; the door has fallen in. She can't get out again." + +With a hoarse cry, Charley darted back inside the vestry door. A cry of +horror went up. + +It was only a minute and a half, but it seemed like years, and then a +man in flames appeared in the fiery porch--and not alone. He carried +a girl in his arms. He wavered even at the threshold with the timbers +swaying overhead, but, with a last effort, he plunged forward through +the furnace, and was caught by eager hands on the margin of endurable +heat. The two were smothered in quilts brought from the Cure's house, +and carried swiftly to the cool safety of the grass and trees beyond. +The woman had fainted in the flame of the church; the man dropped +insensible as they caught her from his arms. + +As they tore away Charley's coat muffling his face, and opened his +shirt, they stared in awe. The cross which Rosalie had torn from the +pillar, Charley had thrust into his bosom, and there it now lay on the +red scar made by itself in the hands of Louis Trudel. + +M. Loisel waved the people back. He raised Charley's head. The Abbe +Rossignol, who had just arrived with the Seigneur, lifted the cross from +the insensible man's breast. + +He started when he saw the scar. Then he remembered the tale he had +heard. He turned away gravely to his brother. "Was it the cross or the +woman he went for?" he asked. + +"Great God--do you ask!" the Seigneur said indignantly. "And he deserves +her," he muttered under his breath. + +Charley opened his eyes. "Is she safe?" he asked, starting up. + +"Unscathed, my son," the Cure said. + +Was this tailor-man not his son? Had he not thirsted for his soul as a +hart for the water-brooks? + +"I am very sorry for you, Monsieur," said Charley. + +"It is God's will," was the reply, in a choking voice. "It will be years +before we have another church--many, many years." + +The roof gave way with a crash, and the spire shot down into the flaming +debris. + +The people groaned. + +"It will cost sixty thousand dollars to build it up again," said Filion +Lacasse. + +"We have three thousand dollars from the Passion Play," said the Notary. +"That could go towards it." + +"We have another two thousand in the bank," said Maximilian Cour. + +"But it will take years," said the saddler disconsolately. + +Charley looked at the Cure, mournful and broken but calm. He saw the +Seigneur, gloomy and silent, standing apart. He saw the people in +scattered groups, looking more homeless than if they had no homes. Some +groups were silent; others discussed angrily the question, who was the +incendiary--that it had been set on fire seemed certain. + +"I said no good would come of the play-acting," said the Seigneur's +groom, and was flung into the ditch by Filion Lacasse. + +Presently Charley staggered to his feet, purpose in his face. These +people, from the Cure and Seigneur to the most ignorant habitant, were +hopeless and inert. The pride of their lives was gone. + +"Gather the people together," he said to the Notary and Filion Lacasse. +Then he turned to the Cure and the Seigneur. + +"With your permission, messieurs," he said, "I will do a harder thing +than I have ever done. I will speak to them all." + +Wondering, M. Loisel added his voice to the Notary's, and the word went +round. Slowly they all made their way to a spot the Cure indicated. + +Charley stood on the embankment above the road, the notables of the +parish round him. + +Rosalie had been taken to the Cure's house. In that wild moment in the +church when she had fallen insensible in Charley's arms, a new feeling +had sprung up in her. She loved him in every fibre, but she had a +strange instinct, a prescience, that she was lying on his breast for +the last time. She had wound her arms round his neck, and, as his lips +closed on hers, she had cried: "We shall die together--together." + +As she lay in the Cure's house, she thought only of that moment. + +"What are they cheering for?" she asked, as a great noise came to her +through the window. + +"Run and see," said the Cure's sister to Mrs. Flynn, and the fat woman +hurried away. + +Rosalie raised herself so that she could look out of the window. "I can +see him," she cried. + +"See whom?" asked the Cure's sister. + +"Monsieur," she answered, with a changed voice. "He is speaking. They +are cheering him." + +Ten minutes later, the Cure and the Notary entered the room. M. Loisel +came forward to Rosalie, and took her hands in his. + +"You should not have done it," he said. + +"I wanted to do something," she replied. "To get the cross for you +seemed the only payment I could make for all your goodness to me." + +"It nearly cost you your life--and the life of another," he said, +shaking his head reproachfully. + +Cheering came again from the burning church. "Why do they cheer?" she +asked. + +"Why do they cheer? Because the man we have feared, Monsieur Mallard--" + +"I never feared him," said Rosalie, scarcely above her breath. + +"Because he has taught them the way to a new church again--and at once, +at once, my child." + +"A remarkable man!" said Narcisse Dauphin. "There never was such a +speech. Never in any courtroom was there such an appeal." + +"What did he do?" asked Mademoiselle Loisel, her hand in Rosalie's. + +"Everything," answered the Cure. "There he stood in his tattered +clothes, the beard burnt to his chin, his hands scorched, his eyes +bloodshot, and he spoke--" + +"'With the tongues of men and of angels,'" said M. Dauphin +enthusiastically. + +The Cure frowned and continued: "'You look on yonder burning walls,' he +said, 'and wonder when they will rise again on this hill made sacred +by the burial of your beloved, by the christening of your children, the +marriages which have given you happy homes, and the sacraments which +are to you the laws of your lives. You give one-twentieth of your income +yearly towards your church--then give one-fortieth of all you possess +today, and your church will be begun in a month. Before a year goes +round you will come again to this venerable spot and enter another +church here. Your vows, your memories, and your hopes will be purged +by fire. All that you possess will be consecrated by your free-will +offerings.'--Ah, if I could but remember what came afterwards! It was +all eloquence, and generous and noble thought." + +"He spoke of you," said the Notary--"he spoke the truth; and the people +cheered. He said that the man outside the walls could sometimes tell +the besieged the way relief would come. Never again shall I hear such a +speech." + +"What are they going to do?" asked Rosalie, and withdrew her trembling +hand from that of Madame Dugal. + +"This very day, at my office, they will bring their offerings, and we +will begin at once," answered M. Dauphin. "There is no man in Chaudiere +but will take the stocking from the hole, the bag from the chest, the +credit from the bank, the grain from the barn for the market, or make +the note of hand to contribute one-fortieth of all he is worth for the +rebuilding of the church." + +"Notes of hand are not money," said the Cure's sister, the practical +sense ever uppermost. + +"They shall all be money--hard cash," said the Notary. "The Seigneur is +going to open a sort of bank, and take up the notes of hand, and give +bank-bills in return. To-day I go with his steward to Quebec to get the +money." + +"What does the Abbe Rossignol say?" said the Cure's sister. + +"Our church and parish are our own," interposed the Cure proudly. "We do +our duty and fear no abbe." + +"Voila!" said M. Dauphin, "he never can keep hands off. I saw him go to +Jo Portugais a little while ago. 'Remember!' he said--I can't make out +what he was after. We have enough to remember to-day, for sure." + +"Good may come of it, perhaps," said M. Loisel, looking sadly out upon +the ruins of his church. + +"See, 'tis the sunrise!" said Mrs. Flynn's voice from the corner, her +face towards the eastern window. + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII. WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL. + +In four days ten thousand dollars in notes and gold had been brought to +the office of the Notary by the faithful people of Chaudiere. All day +in turn M. Loisel and M. Rossignol sat in the office and received that +which represented one-fortieth of the value of each man's goods, estate, +and wealth--the fortieth value of a woodsawyer's cottage, or a widow's +garden. They did it impartially for all, as the Cure and three of the +best-to-do habitants had done for the Seigneur, whose four thousand +dollars had been paid in first of all. + +Charley had been confined to his room for three days, because of his +injuries and a feverish cold he had caught, and the habitants did not +disturb his quiet. But Mrs. Flynn took him broth made by Rosalie's +hands, and Rosalie fought with her desire to go to him and nurse him. +She was not, however, the Rosalie of the old impulse and impetuous +resolve--the arrow had gone too deep; she waited till she could see +his face again and look into his eyes. Not apathy, but a sense of the +inevitable was upon her, and pale and fragile, but with a calm spirit, +she waited for she knew not what. + +She felt that the day of fate was closing down. She must hold herself +ready for the hour when he would need her most. At first, when the +conviction had come to her that the end of all was near, she had +revolted. She had had impulse to go to him at all hazards, to say to +him: "Come away--anywhere, anywhere!" But that had given place to the +deeper thing in her, and something of Charley's spirit of stoic waiting +had come upon her. + +She watched the people going to the Notary's office with their tributes +and free-will offerings, and they seemed like people in a play--these +days she lived no life which was theirs. It was a dream, unimportant and +temporary. She was feeling what was behind all life, and permanent. +It could not last, but there it was; and she could not return to the +transitory till this cloud of fate was lifted. She was much too young to +suffer so, but the young ever suffer most. + +On the fourth day she saw Charley. He came from his shop and went to the +Notary's office. At first she was startled, for he was clean-shaven--the +fire had burned his beard to the skin. She saw a different man, far +removed from this life about them both--individual, singular. He was +pale, and his eye-glass, with the cleanshaven face, gave an impression +of refined separateness. She did not know that the same look was in both +their faces. She watched him till he entered the Notary's shop, then she +was called away to her duties. + +Charley had come to give his one-fortieth with the rest. When he entered +the Notary's office, the Seigneur and M. Dauphin stood up to greet him. +They congratulated him on his recovery, while feeling also that the +change in his personal appearance somehow affected their relations. +A crowd gathered round the door of the shop. When Charley made his +offering, with a statement of his goods and income, the Seigneur and +Notary did not know what to do. They were disposed to decline it, for +since Monsieur was no Catholic, it was not his duty to help. At this +moment of delicate anxiety M. Loisel entered. With a swift bright flush +to his cheek he saw the difficulty, and at once accepted freely. + +"God bless you," he said, as he took the money, and Charley left. "It +shall build the doorway of my church." + +Later in the day the Cure sent for Charley. There were grave matters +to consider, and his counsel was greatly needed. They had all come to +depend on the soundness of his judgment. It had never gone astray in +Chaudiere, they said. They owed to him this extraordinary scheme, which +would be an example to all modern Christianity. They told him so. He +said nothing in reply. + +In an hour he had planned for them a scheme for the consideration of +contractors; had drawn, with the help of M. Loisel, an architect's +rough plan of the new church, and, his old professional instincts keenly +alive, had lucidly suggested the terms and safeguards of the contracts. + +Then came the question of the money contributed. The day before, M. +Dauphin and the Seigneur's steward had arrived in safety from Quebec +with twenty thousand dollars in bank-bills. These M. Rossignol had +exchanged for the notes of hand of such of the habitants as had not +ready cash to give. All of this twenty thousand dollars had been paid +over. They had now thirty thousand dollars in cash, besides three +thousand which the Cure had at his house, the proceeds of the Passion +Play. It was proposed to send this large sum to the bank in Quebec in +another two days, when the whole contributions should be complete. + +As to the safety of the money, the timid M. Dauphin did not care to take +responsibility. Strangers were still arriving, ignorant of the fact that +the Passion Play had ceased, and some of them must be aware that this +large sum of money was in the parish--no doubt also knew that it was in +his house. It was therefore better, he urged, that M. Rossignol or the +Cure should take charge of it. M. Loisel urged that secrecy as to the +resting-place of the money was important. It was better that it should +be deposited in the most unlikely place, and with some unofficial person +who might not be supposed to have it in charge. + +"I have it!" said the Seigneur. "The money shall be placed in old Louis +Trudel's safe in the wall of the tailor-shop." + +It was so arranged, after Charley's protests of unwillingness, and +counter-appeals from the others. That evening at sundown thirty-three +thousand dollars was deposited in the safe in the old stone wall of the +tailorshop, and the lock was sealed with the parish seal. + +But the Notary's wife had wormed the secret from her husband, and she +found it hard to keep. She told it to Maximilian Cour, and he kept it. +She told it to her cousin, the wife of Filion Lacasse, and she did not +keep it. Before twenty-four hours went round, a dozen people knew it. + +The evening of the second day, another two thousand dollars was added +to the treasure, and the lock was again sealed--with the utmost secrecy. +Charley and Jo Portugais, the infidel and the murderer, were thus +the sentries to the peace of a parish, the bankers of its gifts, the +security for the future of the church of Chaudiere. Their weapons of +defence were two old pistols belonging to the Seigneur. + +"Money is the master of the unexpected," the Seigneur had said as he +handed them over. He chuckled for hours afterwards as he thought of his +epigram. That night, as he turned over in bed for the third time, as was +his custom before going to sleep, another epigram came to him--"Money is +the only fox hunted night and day." He kept repeating it over and over +again with vain pride. + +The truth of M. Rossignol's aphorisms had been demonstrated several days +before. On his return from Quebec with the twenty thousand dollars +of the Seigneur's money, M. Dauphin had dwelt with great pride on +the discretion and energy he and the steward had shown; had told +dramatically of the skill which had enabled them to make a journey of +such importance so secretly and safely; had covered himself with blushes +for his own coolness and intrepidity. Fortune had, however, favoured his +reputation and his intrepidity, for he had been pursued from the hour he +and his companion left Quebec. A taste for the picturesque had impelled +him to arrange for two relays of horses, and this fact saved him and the +twenty thousand dollars he carried. Two hours after he had left Quebec, +four determined men had got upon his trail, and had only been prevented +from overtaking him by the freshness of the horses which his dramatic +foresight had provided. + +The leader of these four pursuers was Billy Wantage, who had come to +know of the curious action of the Seigneur of Chaudiere from an intimate +friend, a clerk in the bank. Billy's fortunes were now in a bad way, +and, in desperate straits for money, he had planned this bold attempt +at the highwayman's art with two gamblers, to whom he owed money, and a +certain notorious horse-trader of whom he had made a companion of late. +Having escaped punishment for a crime once before, through Charley's +supposed death, the immunity nerved him to this later and more dangerous +enterprise. The four rode as hard as their horses would permit, but M. +Dauphin and his companion kept always an hour or more ahead, and, from +the high hills overlooking the village, Billy and his friends saw the +two enter it safely in the light of evening. + +His three friends urged Billy to turn back, since they were out of +provisions and had no shelter. It was unwise to go to a tavern or a +farmer's house, where they must certainly be suspected. Billy, however, +determined to make an effort to find the banking-place of the money, and +refused to turn back without a trial. He therefore proposed that they +should separate, going different directions, secure accommodation for +the night, rest the following day, and meet the next night at a point +indicated. This was agreed upon, and they separated. + +When the four met again, Billy had nothing to communicate, as he had +been taken ill during the night before, and had been unable to go +secretly into Chaudiere village. They separated once more. When they met +the next night Billy was accompanied by an old confederate. As he was +entering Chaudiere the previous evening, he had met John Brown, with his +painted wagon and a new mottled horse. John Brown had news of importance +to give; for, in the stable-yard of the village tavern, he had heard one +habitant confide to another that the money for the new church was kept +in the safe of the tailor-shop. John Brown was as ready to share in +Billy's second enterprise as he had been to incite him to his first +crime. + +So it was that as the Seigneur made his epigram and gloated over it, +the five men, with horses at a convenient distance, armed to the teeth, +broke stealthily into Charley's house. + +They entered silently through the kitchen window, and made their way +into the little hall. Two stood guard at the foot of the stairs, and +three crept into the shop. + +This night Jo Portugais was sleeping up-stairs, while Charley lay +upon the bench in the tailor-shop. Charley heard the door open, heard +unfamiliar steps, seized his pistol, and, springing up, with his back to +the safe, called out loudly to Jo. As he dimly saw men rush at him, +he fired. The bullet reached its mark, and one man fell dead. At that +moment a dark-lantern was turned full on Charley, and a pistol was fired +pointblank at him. + +As he fell, shot through the breast, the man who had fired dropped +the lantern with a shriek of terror. He had seen the ghost of his +brother-in-law-Charley Steele. + +With a quaking cry of warning to the others, Billy bolted from the +house, followed by his companions, two of whom were struggling with Jo +Portugais on the stairway. These now also broke and ran. + +Jo rushed into the shop, and saw, as he thought, Charley lying dead--saw +the robber dead upon the floor. His master and friend gone, the +conviction seized him that his own time had come. He would give himself +to justice now--but to God's justice, not to man's. The robbers were +four to one, and he would avenge his master's death and give his own +life to do it! It was all the thought of a second. He rushed out after +the robbers, shouting as he ran, to awake the villagers. He heard the +marauders ahead of him, and, fleet of foot, rushed on. Reaching them +as they mounted, he fired, and brought down his man--a shivering +quack-doctor, who, like his leader, had seen a sight in the tailor-shop +that struck terror to his soul. Two of the others then fired at Jo, who +had caught a horse by the head. He fell without a sound, and lay upon +his face--he did not hear the hoofs of the escaping horses nor any +other sound. He had fallen without a pang beside the quackdoctor, whose +medicines would never again quicken a pulse in his own body or any +other. + +Behind, in the village, frightened people flocked about the tailor-shop. +Within, Mrs. Flynn and the Notary crudely but tenderly bound up the +dreadful wound in Charley's side, while Rosalie pillowed his head on her +bosom. + +With a strange quietness Rosalie gave orders to the Notary and Mrs. +Flynn. There was a light in her eyes--an unnatural light--of strength +and presence of mind. Her hand was steady, and as gently as a mother +with a child she wiped the moist forehead, and poured a little brandy +between the set teeth. + +"Stand back--give him air," she said, in a voice of authority to those +who crowded round. + +People fell back in awe, for, amid tears and excitement and fear, this +girl had a strange convincing calm. By the time Charley's wound was +stopped, messengers were on the way to the Cure and the Seigneur. +By Rosalie's instructions the dead body of the robber was removed, +Charley's bed up-stairs was prepared for him, a fire was lighted, and +twenty hands were ready to do accurately her will. Now and again she +felt his pulse, and she watched his face intently. In her bitter sorrow +her heart had a sort of thankfulness, for his head was on her breast, +he was in her arms. It had been given her once more to come first to +his rescue, and with one wild cry, unheard by any one, to call out his +beloved name. + +The world of Chaudiere, roused by the shooting, had then burst in upon +them; but that one moment had been hers, no matter what came after. She +had no illusions--she knew that the end was near: the end of all for him +and for them both. + +The Cure entered and hurried forward. There was the seal of the parish +intact on the door of the safe, but at what cost! + +"He has given his life for the church," he said, then commanded all to +leave, save those needed to carry the wounded man up-stairs. + +Still it was Rosalie that directed the removal. She held his hand; she +saw that he was carefully laid down; she raised his head to a proper +height; she moistened his lips and fanned him. Meanwhile the Cure fell +upon his knees, and the noise of talk and whispering ceased in the +house. + +But presently there was loud murmuring and shuffling of feet outside +again, and Rosalie left the room hurriedly and went below to stop it. +She met the men who were bringing the body of Jo Portugais into the +shop. + +Up-stairs the Cure's voice prayed: "Of Thy mercy, O Lord, hear our +prayer. Grant that he be brought into Thy Church ere his last hour come. +Forgive, O Lord--" + +Charley stirred and opened his eyes. He saw the Cure bowed in prayer; he +heard the trembling voice. He touched the white head with his hand. + + + + +CHAPTER LIX. IN WHICH CHARLEY MEETS A STRANGER + +The Cure came to his feet with a joyful cry. "Monsieur--my son," he +said, bending over him. + +"Is it all over?" Charley asked calmly, almost cheerfully. Death now was +the only solution of life's problems, and he welcomed it from the void. + +The Cure went to the door and locked it. The deepest desire of his life +must here be uttered, his great aspiration be realised. + +"My son," he said, as he came softly to the bedside again, "you have +given to us all you had--your charity, your wisdom, your skill. You have +"--it was hard, but the man's wound was mortal, and it must be said "you +have consecrated our new church with your blood. You have given all to +us; we will give all to you--" + +There was a soft knocking at the door. He went and opened it a very +little. "He is conscious, Rosalie," he whispered. "Wait--wait--one +moment." + +Then came the Seigneur's voice saying that Jo was gone, and that all the +robbers had escaped, save the two disposed of by Charley and Jo. + +The Cure turned to the bed once more. "What did he say about Jo?" +Charley asked. + +"He is dead, my son, and the quack-doctor also. The others have +escaped." + +Charley turned his face away. "Au revoir, Jo," he said into the great +distance. + +Then there was silence for a moment, while outside the door a girl +prayed, with an old woman's arm around her. + +The Cure leaned over Charley again. "Shall not the sacraments of the +Church comfort you in your last hours?" he said. "It is the way, the +truth, and the life. It is the Voice that says: 'Peace' to the vexed +mind. Human intellect is vanity; only the soul survives. Will you not +hear the Voice? Will you not give us who love and honour you the right +to make you ours for ever? Will you not come to the bosom of that Church +for which you have given all?" + +"Tell them so," Charley said, and he motioned towards the window, under +which the people were gathered. + +With a glad exclamation the Cure hastened to the window, and, in a voice +of sorrowful exultation, spoke to the people below. + +Charley reckoned swiftly with his fate. What was there now to do? If his +wound was not mortal, what tragedy might now come! For Billy's hand--the +hand of Kathleen's brother--had brought him low. If the robbers and +murderers were captured, he must be dragged into the old life, and +to what an issue--all the old problems carried into more terrible +conditions. And Rosalie--in his half-consciousness he had felt her near +him; he felt her near him now. Rosalie--in any case, what could there +be for her? Nothing. He had heard the Cure whisper her name at the door. +She was outside-praying for him. He stretched out a hand as though he +saw her, and his lips framed her name. In his weakness and fading life +he had no anguish in the thought of her. Life and Love were growing +distant though he loved her as few love and live. She would be removed +from want by him--there were the pearls and the money in the safe with +the money of the Church; there was the letter to the Cure, his last +testament, leaving all to her. He, sleeping, would fear no foe; she, +awake in the living world, would hold him in dear remembrance. Death +were the better thing for all. Then Kathleen in her happiness would +be at peace; and even Billy might go unmolested, for, who was there to +recognise Billy, now that Portugais was dead? + +He heard the Cure's voice at the window--"Oh, my dear people, God has +given him to us at last. I go now to prepare him for his long journey, +to--" + +Charley realised and shuddered. Receive the sacraments of the Church? +Be made ready by the priest for his going hence--end all the soul's +interrogations, with the solving of his own mortal problems? Say "I +believe," confess his sins, and, receiving absolution, lie down in +peace. + +He suddenly raised himself on his elbow, flinging his body over. The +bandage of his wound was displaced, and blood gushed out upon the white +clothes of the bed. "Rosalie!" he gasped. "Rosalie, my love! +God keep..." + +As he sank back he heard the priest's anguished voice above him, calling +for help. He smiled. + +"Rosalie--" he whispered. The priest ran and unlocked the door, and +Rosalie entered, followed by the Seigneur and Mrs. Flynn. + +"Quick! Quick!" said the priest. "The bandage slipped." + +The bandage slipped--or was it slipped? Who knows! + +Blind with agony, and as in a direful dream, Rosalie made her way to the +bed. The sight of his ensanguined body roused her, and, murmuring his +name--continually murmuring his name--she assisted Mrs. Flynn to bind +up the wound again. Standing where she stood when she had stayed Louis +Trudel's arm long ago, with an infinite tenderness she touched the +scar-the scar of the cross--on his breast. Terrible as was her grief, +her heart had its comfort in the thought--who could rob her of that for +ever?--that he would die a martyr. It did not matter now who knew the +story of her love. It could not do him harm. She was ready to proclaim +it to all the world. And those who watched knew that they were in the +presence of a great human love. + +The priest made ready to receive the unconscious man into the Church. +Had Charley not said, "Tell them so?" Was it not now his duty to say the +sacred offices over a son of the Church in his last bitter hour? So it +was done while he lay unconscious. + +For hours he lay still, and then the fevered blood, poisoned by +the bullet which had brought him down, made him delirious, gave him +hallucinations--open-eyed illusions. All the time Rosalie knelt at the +foot of the bed, her piteous tearless eyes for ever fixed on his face. + +Towards evening, with an unnatural strength, he sat up in bed. + +"See," he whispered, "that woman in the corner there. She has come +to take me, but I will not go." Fantasy after fantasy possessed +him-fantasy, strangely mixed with facts of his own past. Now it was +Kathleen, now Billy, now Jo Portugais, now John Brown, now Suzon +Charlemagne at the Cote Dorion, again Jo Portugais. In strange, touching +sentences he spoke to them, as though they were present before him. At +length he stopped abruptly, and gazed straight before him--over the head +of Rosalie into the distance. + +"See," he said, pointing, "who is that? Who? I can't see his face--it +is covered. So tall-so white! He is opening his arms to me. He is +coming--closer--closer. Who is it?" + +"It is Death, my son," said the priest in his ear, with a pitying +gentleness. + +The Cure's voice seemed to calm the agitated sense, to bring it back to +the outer precincts of understanding. There was an awe-struck silence +as the dying man fumbled, fumbled, over his breast, found his eye-glass, +and, with a last feeble effort, raised it to his eye, shining now with +an unearthly fire. The old interrogation of the soul, the elemental +habit outlived all else in him. The idiosyncrasy of the mind +automatically expressed itself. + +"I beg--your--pardon," he whispered to the imagined figure, and the +light died out of his eyes, "have I--ever--been--introduced--to you?" + +"At the hour of your birth, my son," said the priest, as a sobbing cry +came from the foot of the bed. + +But Charley did not hear. His ears were for ever closed to the voices of +life and time. + + + + +CHAPTER LX. THE HAND AT THE DOOR + +The eve of the day of the memorable funeral two belated visitors to the +Passion Play arrived in the village, unknowing that it had ended, and of +the tragedy which had set a whole valley mourning; unconscious that they +shared in the bitter fortunes of the tailor-man, of whom men and women +spoke with tears. Affected by the gloom of the place, the two visitors +at once prepared for their return journey, but the manner of the +tailorman's death arrested their sympathies, touched the humanity in +them. The woman was much impressed. + +They asked to see the body of the man. They were taken to the door of +the tailor-shop, while their horses were being brought round. Within +the house itself they were met by an old Irishwoman, who, in response to +their wish "to see the brave man's body," showed them into a room where +a man lay dead with a bullet through his heart. It was the body of +Jo Portugais, whose master and friend lay in another room across the +hallway. The lady turned back in disappointment--the dead man was little +like a hero. + +The Irishwoman had meant to deceive her, for at this moment a girl who +loved the tailor was kneeling beside his body, and, if possible, Mrs. +Flynn would have no curious eyes look upon that scene. + +When the visitors came into the hall again, the man said: "There was +another; Kathleen--a woodsman." But standing by the nearly closed door, +behind which lay the dead tailor of Chaudiere--they could see the +holy candles flickering within--Kathleen whispered "We've seen the +tailor--that's enough. It's only the woodsman there. I prefer not, Tom." + +With his fingers at the latch, the man hesitated, even as Mrs. Flynn +stepped apprehensively forward; then, shrugging a shoulder, he responded +to Kathleen's hand on his arm. They went down the stairs together, and +out to their carriage. + +As they drove away, Kathleen said: "It's strange that men who do such +fine things should look so commonplace." + +"The other one might have been more uncommon," he replied. + +"I wonder!" she said, with a sigh of relief, as they passed the bounds +of the village. Then she caught herself flushing, for she suddenly +realised that the exclamation was one so often on the lips of a dead, +disgraced man whose name she once had borne. + +If the door of the little room upstairs had opened to the fingers of the +man beside her, the tailor of Chaudiere, though dead, would have been +dearly avenged. + + + + +CHAPTER LXI. THE CURE SPEAKS + +The Cure stood with his back to the ruins of the church, at his feet two +newly made graves, and all round, with wistful faces, crowds of reverent +habitants. A benignant sorrow made his voice in perfect temper with +the pensive striving of this latest day of spring. At the close of his +address he said: + +"I owe you much, my people. I owe him more, for it was given him, who +knew not God, to teach us how to know Him better. For his past, it is +not given you to know. It is hidden in the bosom of the Church. Sinner +he once was, criminal never, as one can testify who knows all"--he +turned to the Abbe Rossignol, who stood beside him, grave and +compassionate--"and his sins were forgiven him. He is the one sheaf +which you and I may carry home rejoicing from the pagan world of +unbelief. What he had in life he gave to us, and in death he leaves +to our church all that he has not left to a woman he loved--to Rosalie +Evanturel." + +There was a gasping murmur among the people, but they stilled again, and +strained to hear. + +"He leaves her a little fortune, and to us all else he had. Let us +pray for his soul, and let us comfort her who, loving deeply, reaped no +harvest of love. + +"The law may never reach his ruthless murderers, for there is none to +recognise their faces; and were they ten times punished, how should +it avail us now! Let us always remember that, in his grave, our friend +bears on his breast the little iron cross we held so dear. That is +all we could give--our dearest treasure. I pray God that, scarring his +breast in life, it may heal all his woes in death, and be a saving image +on his bosom in the Presence at the last." + +He raised his hands in benediction. + + + + +EPILOGUE + +Never again was there a Passion Play in the Chaudiere Valley. +Spring-times and harvests and long winters came and went, and a blessing +seemed to be upon the valley, for men prospered, and no untoward things +befel the people. So it was for twenty years, wherein there had been +going and coming in quiet. Some had gone upon short mortal journeys and +had come back, some upon long immortal voyages, and had never returned. +Of the last were the Seigneur and a woman once a Magdalene; but in a +house beside a beautiful church, with a noble doorway, lived the Cure, +M. Loisel, aged and serene. There never was a day, come rain or shine, +in which he was not visited by a beautiful woman, whose life was one +with the people of the valley. + +There was no sorrow in the parish which the lady did not share, with the +help of an old Irishwoman called Mrs. Flynn. Was there sickness in the +parish, her hand smoothed the pillow and soothed the pain. Was there +trouble anywhere, her face brought light to the door way. Did any suffer +ill-repute, her word helped to restore the ruined name. They did not +know that she forgave so much in all the world, because she thought she +had so much in herself to forgive. + +She was ever called "Madame Rosalie," and she cherished the name, and +gave commands that when her grave came to be made near to a certain +other grave, Madame Rosalie should be carved upon the stone. +Cheerfulness and serenity were ever with her, undisturbed by wish to +probe the mystery of the life which had once absorbed her own. She never +sought to know whence the man came; it was sufficient to know whither +he had gone, and that he had been hers for a brief dream of life. It +was better to have lived the one short thrilling hour with all its pain, +than never to have known what she knew or felt what she had felt. The +mystery deepened her romance, and she was even glad that the ruffians +who slew him were never brought to justice. To her mind they were but +part of the mystic machinery of fate. + +For her the years had given many compensations, and so she told the +Cure, one midsummer day, when she brought to visit him the orphaned +son of Paulette Dubois, graduated from his college in France and making +ready to go to the far East. + +"I have had more than I deserve--a thousand times," she said. + +The Cure smiled, and laid a gentle hand upon her own. "It is right for +you to think so," he said, "but after a long life, I am ready to say +that, one way or another, we earn all the real happiness we have. I mean +the real happiness--the moments, my child. I once had a moment full of +happiness." + +"May I ask?" she said. + +"When my heart first went out to him"--he turned his face towards the +churchyard. + +"He was a great man," she said proudly. + +The Cure looked at her benignly: she was a woman, and she had loved +the man. He had, however, come to a stage of life where greatness alone +seemed of little moment. He forbore to answer her, but he pressed her +hand. + + + ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + + A left-handed boy is all right in the world + Always hoping the best from the worst of us + Damnable propinquity + Good fathers think they have good daughters + Have not we all something to hide--with or without shame? + He has wheeled his nuptial bed into the street + He left his fellow-citizens very much alone + He had had acquaintances, but never friendships, and never loves + Hugging the chain of denial to his bosom + I have a good memory for forgetting + I am only myself when I am drunk + I should remember to forget it + Importunity with discretion was his motto + In all secrets there is a kind of guilt + Is the habit of good living mere habit and mere acting + It is good to live, isn't it? + Know how bad are you, and doesn't mind + Liquor makes me human + Nervous legs at a gallop + Pathetically in earnest + Shure, if we could always be 'about the same,' we'd do + So say your prayers, believe all you can, don't ask questions + Strike first and heal after--"a kick and a lick" + Suspicion, the bane of sick old age + Things that once charmed charm less + Was not civilisation a mistake + Who knows! + Youth is the only comrade for youth + Youth is the only comrade for youth + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Right of Way, Complete, by Gilbert Parker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIGHT OF WAY, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 6249.txt or 6249.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/4/6249/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/6249.zip b/6249.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..de9b026 --- /dev/null +++ b/6249.zip diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..acceae6 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #6249 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6249) diff --git a/old/gp76w10.txt b/old/gp76w10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..636a328 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/gp76w10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14208 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook The Right of Way, by G. Parker, Entire +#76 in our series by Gilbert Parker + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers***** + + +Title: The Right of Way, Complete + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6249] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 24, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + + + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIGHT OF WAY, PARKER, ENTIRE *** + + + +This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + + + + + +THE RIGHT OF WAY + +By Gilbert Parker + + + +CONTENTS + +Volume 1. +I. THE WAY TO THE VERDICT +II. WHAT CAME OF THE TRIAL +III. AFTER FIVE YEARS +IV. CHARLEY MAKES A DISCOVERY +V. THE WOMAN IN HELIOTROPE +VI. THE WIND AND THE SHORN LAMB +VII. "PEACE, PEACE, AND THERE IS NO PEACE!" +VIII. THE COST OF THE ORNAMENT + +Volume 2. +IX. OLD DEBTS FOR NEW +X. THE WAY IN AND THE WAY OUT +XI. THE RAISING OF THE CURTAIN +XII. THE COMING OF ROSALIE +XIII. HOW CHARLEY WENT ADVENTURING, AND WHAT HE FOUND +XIV. ROSALIE, CHARLEY, AND THE MAN THE WIDOW PLOMONDON JILTED +XV. THE MARK IN THE PAPER +XVI. MADAME DAUPHIN HAS A MISSION +XVII. THE TAILOR MAKES A MIDNIGHT FORAY +XVIII. THE STEALING OF THE CROSS + +Volume 3. +XIX. THE SIGN FROM HEAVEN +XX. THE RETURN OF THE TAILOR +XXI. THE CURE HAS AN INSPIRATION +XXII. THE WOMAN WHO SAW +XXIII. THE WOMAN WHO DID NOT TELL +XXIV. THE SEIGNEUR TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME +XXV. THE COLONEL TELLS HIS STORY +XXVI. A SONG, A BOTTLE, AND A GHOST +XXVII. OUT ON THE OLD TRAIL +XXVIII. THE SEIGNEUR GIVES A WARNING + +Volume 4. +XXIX. THE WILD RIDE +XXX. ROSALIE WARNS CHARLEY +XXXI. CHARLEY STANDS AT BAY +XXXII. JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY +XXXIII. THE EDGE OF LIFE +XXXIV. IN AMBUSH +XXXV. THE COMING OF MAXIMILIAN COUR AND ANOTHER +XXXVI. BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY +XXXVII. THE CHALLENGE OF PAULETTE DUBOIS +XXXVIII. THE CURE AND THE SEIGNEUR VISIT THE TAILOR +XXXIX. THE SCARLET WOMAN +XL. AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING + +Volume 5. +XLI. IT WAS MICHAELMAS DAY +XLII. A TRIAL AND A VERDICT +XLIII. JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY +XLIV. "WHO WAS KATHLEEN?" +XLV. SIX MONTHS GO BY +XLVI. THE FORGOTTEN MAN +XLVII. ONE WAS TAKEN AND THE OTHER LEFT +XLVIII. "WHERE THE TREE OF LIFE IS BLOOMING--" +XLIX. THE OPEN GATE + +Volume 6. +L. THE PASSION PLAY AT CHAUDIERE +LI. FACE TO FACE +LII. THE COMING OF BILLY +LIII. THE SEIGNEUR AND THE CURE HAVE A SUSPICION +LIV. M. ROSSIGNOL SLIPS THE LEASH +LV. ROSALIE PLAYS A PART +LVI. MRS. FLYNN SPEAKS +LVII. A BURNING FIERY FURNACE +LVIII. WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL +LIX. IN WHICH CHARLEY MEETS A STRANGER +LX. THE HAND AT THE DOOR +LXI. THE CURE SPEAKS + +EPILOGUE + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +In a book called 'The House of Harper', published in this year, 1912, +there are two letters of mine, concerning 'The Right of Way', written to +Henry M. Alden, editor of Harper's Magazine. To my mind those letters +should never have been published. They were purely personal. They were +intended for one man's eyes only, and he was not merely an editor but a +beloved and admired personal friend. Only to him and to W. E. Henley, as +editors, could I ever have emptied out my heart and brain; and, as may be +seen by these two letters, one written from London and the other from a +place near Southampton, I uncovered all my feelings, my hopes and my +ambitions concerning The Right of Way. Had I been asked permission to +publish them I should not have granted it. I may wear my heart upon my +sleeve for my friend, but not for the universe. + +The most scathing thing ever said in literature was said by Robert +Buchanan on Dante Gabriel Rossetti's verses--"He has wheeled his nuptial +bed into the street." Looking at these letters I have a great shrinking, +for they were meant only for the eyes of an aged man for whom I cared +enough to let him see behind the curtain. But since they have been +printed, and without a "by your leave," I will use one or two passages +in them to show in what mood, under what pressure of impulse, under what +mental and, maybe, spiritual hypnotism it was written. I first planned +it as a story of twenty-five thousand words, even as 'Valmond' was +planned as a story of five thousand words, and 'A Ladder of Swords' as a +story of twenty thousand words; but I had not written three chapters +before I saw what the destiny of the tale was to be. I had gone to +Quebec to start the thing in the atmosphere where Charley Steele +belonged, and there it was borne in upon me that it must be a three- +decker novel, not a novelette. I telegraphed to Harper & Brothers to ask +them whether it would suit them just as well if I made it into a long +novel. They telegraphed their assent at once; so I went on. At that +time Mr. F. N. Doubleday was a sort of director of Harper's firm. To him +I had told the tale in a railway train, and he had carried me off at once +to Henry M. Alden, to whom I also told it, with the result that Harper's +Magazine was wide open to it, and there in Quebec, soon after my +interview with Mr. Alden and Mr. Doubleday, the book was begun. + +The first of the letters published in The House of Harper, however, was +apparently written immediately after my return to London when the novel +was well on its way. Evidently the first paragraph of the letter was an +apology for having suddenly announced the development of the book from a +long short story to a long novel; for I used these words: + +"Yet if you really take an interest in the working of the human mind in +its relation to the vicissitudes of life, you will appreciate what I am +going to tell you, and will recognise that there is only stability in +evolution which the vulgar call chance. . . . Now, sir, perpend. +Charley Steele is going to be a novel of one hundred thousand words or +one hundred and twenty thousand--a real bang-up heartful of a novel." + +Then there follows the confidence of a friend to a friend. As I look +at the words I am not sorry that I wrote them. They were a part of me. +They were the inveterate truth, but I would not willingly have uncovered +my inner self to any except the man to whom the words were written. But +here is what I wrote: + +"I am a bit of a fool over this book. It catches me at every tender +corner of my nature. It has aroused all the old ardent dreams of youth +and springtime puissance. I cannot lay it down, and I cannot shorten it, +for story, character, soul and reflection, imagination, observation are +dragging me along after them. . . . This novel will make me or break +me--prove me human and an artist, or an affected literary bore. If you +want it you must take the risk. But, my dear Alden, you will be +investing in a man's heart--which may be a fortune or a folly. Why, +I ought to have seen--and far back in my brain I did see--that the +character of Charley Steele was a type, an idiosyncrasy of modern life, a +resultant of forces all round us, and that he would demand space in which +to live and tell his story to the world. . . . And behold with what +joy I follow him, not only lovingly but sternly and severely, noting him +down as he really is, condoning naught, forgiving naught, but above all +else, understanding him--his wilful mystification of the world, his +shameless disdain of it, but the old law of interrogation, of sad yet +eager inquiry and wonder and 'non possumus' with him to the end." + +This letter was evidently written in December, 1899, and the other went +to Mr. Alden on the 7th August, 1900; therefore, eight or nine months +later. The work had gone well. Week after week, month after month it +had unfolded itself with an almost unpardonable ease. Evidently, the +very ease with which the book was written troubled me, because I find +that in this letter of the 7th August, 1900, to Mr. Alden, I used these +words: + +"A kind of terror has seized me, and instead of sending a dozen more +chapters to you as I proposed to do, I am setting to to break this love +story anew under the stones of my most exacting criticism and troubled +regard. I go to bury myself at a solitary little seaside place" (it was +Mablethorpe in Lincolnshire), "there to live alone with Rosalie and +Charley, and if I do not know them hereafter, never ask me to write for +'Harper's' again. . . . This book has been written out of something +vital in me--I do not mean the religious part of it, I mean the humanity +that becomes one's own and part of one's self, by observation, +experience, and understanding got from dead years." + +Anyhow that shows the spirit in which the book was written, and there +must have been something in it that rang true, because not only did it +have an enormous sale and therefore a multitude of readers, but I +received hundreds of letters from people who in one way or another were +deeply interested in the story. + +The majority of them were inquisitive letters. A great many of them said +that the writer had shared in controversy as to what the relations of +Charley and Rosalie were, and asked me to set for ever queries and +controversies at rest by declaring either that the relations of these two +were what, in the way of life's stern conventions, they ought not to be, +or that Rosalie passed unscathed through the fire. I had foreseen all +this, though I could not have foreseen the passionately intense interest +which my readers would take in the life-story of these unhappy yet happy +people. I had, however, only one reply. It was that all I had meant to +say concerning Charley and Rosalie had been said in the book, to the last +word. All I had meant not to say would not be said after the book was +written. I asked them to take exactly the same view of Charley and +Rosalie as they would in real life regarding two human beings with whom +they were acquainted, and concerning whom, to their minds, there was +sufficient evidence, or not sufficient evidence, to come to a conclusion +as to what their relations were. I added that, as in real life we used +our judgment upon such things with a reasonable amount of accuracy, +I asked them to apply that judgment to Charley Steele and Rosalie +Evanturel. They and their story were there for eyes to see and read, +and when I had ended my manuscript in the year 1900 I had said the last +word I ever meant to say as to their history. The controversy therefore +continues, for the book still makes its appeal to an ever increasing +congregation of new readers. + +But another kind of letter came to me--the letter of some man who had +just such a struggle as Charley Steele, or whose father or brother or +friend had had such a struggle. Letters came from clergymen who had +preached concerning the book; from men who told me in brief their own +life problems and tragedies. These letters I prize; most of them had +the real thing in them, the human truth. + +That the book drew wide attention to the Dominion of Canada, particularly +to French Canada, and crystallised something of the life of that dear +Province, was a deep pleasure to me; and I was glad that I had been able +to culminate my efforts to portray the life of the French-Canadian as I +saw it, by a book which arrested the attention of so comprehensive a +public. + +I have seen many statements as to the original of Charley Steele, but I +have never seen a story which was true. Many people have told me that +they had seen the original of Charley Steele in an American lawyer. +They knew he was the original, because he himself had said so. The +gentleman was mistaken; I have never seen him. As with the purple cow, +I never hope to see him. Whoever he is or whatever he is, the original +Charley was an abler and a more striking man. I knew him as a boy, and +he died while I was yet a boy, taking with him, save in the memory of a +few, a rare and wonderful, if not wholly lovable personality. For over +twenty years I had carried him in my mind, wondering whether, and when, +I should-make use of him. Again and again I was tempted, but was never +convinced that his time had come; yet through all the years he was +gaining strength, securing possession of my mind, and gathering to him, +magnet-like, the thousand observations which my experience sent in his +direction. In my mind his life-story ended with his death at the Cote +Dorion. For years and years I saw his ending there. Yet it all seemed +to me so futile, despite the wonder of his personality, that I could make +nothing of him, and though always fascinated by his character I was held +back from exploiting it, because of the hopelessness of it all. It led +nowhere. It was the 'quid refert' of the philosopher, and I could not +bring myself to get any further than an interrogation mark at the end of +a life which was all scepticism, mind and matter, and nothing more. + +There came a day, however, when that all ended, when the doors were flung +wide to a new conception of the man, and of what he might have become. +I was going to America, and I paid an angry and reluctant visit to my +London tailor thirty-six hours before I was to start. A suit of clothes +had been sent home which, after an effective trying-on, was a +monstrosity. I went straight to my tailor, put on the clothes and bade +him look at them. He was a great tailor-he saw exactly what I saw, and +what I saw was bad; and when a tailor will do that, you may be quite sure +he is a good and a great man. He said the clothes were as bad as they +could be, but he added: "You shall have them before you sail, and they +shall be exactly as you want them. I'll have the foreman down." He rang +a bell. Presently the door swung open and in stepped a man with an +eyeglass in his eye. There, with a look at once reflective and +penetrating, with a figure at once slovenly and alert, was a caricature +of Charley Steele as I had known him, and of all his characteristics. +There was such a resemblance as an ugly child in a family may have to his +handsome brother. It was Charley Steele with a twist--gone to seed. +Looking at him in blank amazement, I burst out: "Good heavens, so you +didn't die, Charley Steele! You became a tailor!" + +All at once the whole new landscape of my story as it eventually became, +spread out before me. I was justified in waiting all the years. My +discontent with the futile end of the tale as I originally knew it and +saw it was justified. Charley Steele, brilliant, enigmatic and +epigrammatic, did not die at the Cote Dorion, but lived in that far +valley by Dalgrothe Mountain, and became a tailor! So far as I am +concerned he became much more. He was the beginning of a new epoch in +my literary life. I had got into subtler methods, reached more intimate +understandings, had come to a place where analysis of character had +shaken itself free--but certainly not quite free--from a natural yet +rather dangerous eloquence. + +As a play The Right of Way, skilfully and sympathetically dramatised by +Mr. Eugene Presbery, has had a career extending over several years, and +still continues to make its appearance. + + + + +NOTE + +It should not be assumed that the "Chaudiere" of this story is the real +Chaudiere of Quebec province. The name is characteristic, and for this +reason alone I have used it. + +I must also apologise to my readers for appearing to disregard a +statement made in 'The Lane that Had no Turning', that that tale was the +last I should write about French Canada. In explanation I would say that +'The Lane that Had no Turning' was written after the present book was +finished. + +G. F. + + + + + + + +THE RIGHT OF WAY + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 1. + + +I. THE WAY TO THE VERDICT +II. WHAT CAME OF THE TRIAL +III. AFTER FIVE YEARS +IV. CHARLEY MAKES A DISCOVERY +V. THE WOMAN IN HELIOTROPE +VI. THE WIND AND THE SHORN LAMB +VII. "PEACE, PEACE, AND THERE IS NO PEACE!" +VIII. THE COST OF THE ORNAMENT + + + + "They had lived and loved, and walked and worked in their own way, + and the world went by them. Between them and it a great gulf was + fixed: and they met its every catastrophe with the Quid Refert? of + the philosophers." + + "I want to talk with some old lover's ghost, + Who lived before the god of love was born." + + "There are, it may be, so many kinds of voices in the world, and + none of them is without signification." + + + + +CHAPTER I + +THE WAY TO THE VERDICT + +"Not guilty, your Honour!" + +A hundred atmospheres had seemed pressing down on the fretted people in +the crowded court-room. As the discordant treble of the huge foreman of +the jury squeaked over the mass of gaping humanity, which had twitched at +skirts, drawn purposeless hands across prickling faces, and kept nervous +legs at a gallop, the smothering weights of elastic air lifted suddenly, +a great suspiration of relief swept through the place like a breeze, and +in a far corner of the gallery a woman laughed outright. + +The judge looked up reprovingly at the gallery; the clerk of the court +angrily called "Silence!" towards the offending corner, and seven or +eight hundred eyes raced between three centres of interest--the judge, +the prisoner, and the prisoner's counsel. Perhaps more people looked at +the prisoner's counsel than at the prisoner, certainly far more than +looked at the judge. + +Never was a verdict more unexpected. If a poll had been taken of the +judgment of the population twenty-four hours before, a great majority +would have been found believing that there was no escape for the +prisoner, who was accused of murdering a wealthy timber merchant. The +minority would have based their belief that the prisoner had a chance of +escape, not on his possible innocence, not on insufficient evidence, but +on a curious faith in the prisoner's lawyer. This minority would not +have been composed of the friends of the lawyer alone, but of outside +spectators, who, because Charley Steele had never lost a criminal case, +attached to him a certain incapacity for bad luck; and of very young men, +who looked upon him as the perfect pattern of the person good to see and +hard to understand. + +During the first two days of the trial the case had gone wholly against +the prisoner, who had given his name as Joseph Nadeau. Witnesses had +heard him quarrelling with the murdered man, and the next day the body of +the victim had been found by the roadside. The prisoner was a stranger +in the lumber-camp where the deed was done, and while there had been +morose and lived apart; no one knew him; and he refused to tell even his +lawyer whence he came, or what his origin, or to bring witnesses from his +home to speak for his character. + +One by one the points had been made against him--with no perceptible +effect upon Charley Steele, who seemed the one cool, undisturbed person +in the courtroom. + +Indifferent as he seemed, seldom speaking to the prisoner, often looking +out of the windows to the cool green trees far over on the hill, absorbed +and unbusinesslike, yet judge and jury came to see, before the second day +was done, that he had let no essential thing pass, that the questions +he asked had either a pregnant aptness, opened up new avenues of +deliberation, or were touched with mystery--seemed to have a longer +reach than the moment or the hour. + +Before the end of this second day, however, more attention was upon him +than upon the prisoner, and nine-tenths of the people in the court-room +could have told how many fine linen handkerchiefs he used during the +afternoon, how many times he adjusted his monocle to look at the judge +meditatively. Probably no man, for eight hours a day, ever exasperated +and tried a judge, jury, and public, as did this man of twenty-nine years +of age, who had been known at college as Beauty Steele, and who was still +so spoken of familiarly; or was called as familiarly, Charley Steele, by +people who never had attempted to be familiar with him. + +The second day of the trial had ended gloomily for the prisoner. The +coil of evidence had drawn so close that extrication seemed impossible. +That the evidence was circumstantial, that no sign of the crime was upon +the prisoner, that he was found sleeping quietly in his bed when he was +arrested, that he had not been seen to commit the deed, did not weigh in +the minds of the general public. The man's guilt was freely believed; +not even the few who clung to the opinion that Charley Steele would yet +get him off thought that he was innocent. There seemed no flaw in the +evidence, once granted its circumstantiality. + +During the last two hours of the sitting the prisoner had looked at his +counsel in despair, for he seemed perfunctorily conducting the case: was +occupied in sketching upon the blotting-pad before him, looking out of +the window, or turning his head occasionally towards a corner where sat a +half-dozen well-dressed ladies, and more particularly towards one lady +who watched him in a puzzled way--more than once with a look of +disappointment. Only at the very close of the sitting did he appear to +rouse himself. Then, for a brief ten minutes, he cross-examined a friend +of the murdered merchant in a fashion which startled the court-room, for +he suddenly brought out the fact that the dead man had once struck a +woman in the face in the open street. This fact, sharply stated by the +prisoner's counsel, with no explanation and no comment, seemed uselessly +intrusive and malicious. His ironical smile merely irritated all +concerned. The thin, clean-shaven face of the prisoner grew more pinched +and downcast, and he turned almost pleadingly towards the judge. The +judge pulled his long side-whiskers nervously, and looked over his +glasses in severe annoyance, then hastily adjourned the sitting and left +the bench, while the prisoner saw with dismay his lawyer leave the court- +room with not even a glance towards him. + +On the morning of the third day Charley Steele's face, for the first +time, wore an expression which, by a stretch of imagination, might be +called anxious. He also took out his monocle frequently, rubbed it with +his handkerchief, and screwed it in again, staring straight before him +much of the time. But twice he spoke to the prisoner in a low voice, and +was hurriedly answered in French as crude as his own was perfect. When +he spoke, which was at rare intervals, his voice was without feeling, +concise, insistent, unappealing. It was as though the business before +him was wholly alien to him, as though he were held there against his +will, but would go on with his task bitterly to the bitter end. + +The court adjourned for an hour at noon. During this time Charley +refused to see any one, but sat alone in his office with a few biscuits +and an ominous bottle before him, till the time came for him to go back +to the court-house. Arrived there he entered by a side door, and was not +seen until the court opened once more. + +For two hours and a half the crown attorney mercilessly made out his case +against the prisoner. When he sat down, people glanced meaningly at each +other, as though the last word had been said, then looked at the +prisoner, as at one already condemned. + +Yet Charley Steele was to reply. He was not now the same man that had +conducted the case during the past two days and a half. Some great +change had passed over him. There was no longer abstraction, +indifference, or apparent boredom, or disdain, or distant stare. +He was human, intimate and eager, yet concentrated and impelling: +he was quietly, unnoticeably drunk. + +He assured the prisoner with a glance of the eye, with a word scarce +above a whisper, as he slowly rose to make his speech for the defence. + +His first words caused a new feeling in the courtroom. He was a new +presence; the personality had a changed significance. At first the +public, the jury, and the judge were curiously attracted, surprised into +a fresh interest. The voice had an insinuating quality, but it also had +a measured force, a subterranean insistence, a winning tactfulness. +Withal, a logical simplicity governed his argument. The flaneur, the +poseur--if such he was--no longer appeared. He came close to the +jurymen, leaned his hands upon the back of a chair--as it were, shut out +the public, even the judge, from his circle of interest--and talked in a +conversational tone. An air of confidence passed from him to the amazed +yet easily captivated jury; the distance between them, so gaping during +the last two days, closed suddenly up. The tension of the past +estrangement, relaxing all at once, surprised the jury into an almost +eager friendliness, as on a long voyage a sensitive traveller finds in +some exciting accident a natural introduction to an exclusive fellow- +passenger, whom he discovers as human as he had thought him offensively +distant. + +Charley began by congratulating the crown attorney on his statement of +the case. He called it masterly; he said that in its presentations it +was irrefutable; as a precis of evidence purely circumstantial it was-- +useful and interesting. But, speech-making aside, and ability--and +rhetoric--aside, and even personal conviction aside, the case should +stand or fall by its total, not its comparative, soundness. Since the +evidence was purely circumstantial, there must be no flaw in its cable of +assumption, it must be logically inviolate within itself. Starting with +assumption only, there must be no straying possibilities, no loose ends +of certainty, no invading alternatives. Was this so in the case of the +man before them? They were faced by a curious situation. So far as the +trial was concerned, the prisoner himself was the only person who could +tell them who he was, what was his past, and, if he committed the crime, +what was--the motive of it: out of what spirit--of revenge, or hatred-- +the dead man had been sent to his account. Probably in the whole history +of crime there never was a more peculiar case. Even himself the +prisoner's counsel was dealing with one whose life was hid from him +previous to the day the murdered man was discovered by the roadside. +The prisoner had not sought to prove an alibi; he had done no more than +formally plead not guilty. There was no material for defence save that +offered by the prosecution. He had undertaken the defence of the +prisoner because it was his duty as a lawyer to see that the law +justified itself; that it satisfied every demand of proof to the last +atom of certainty; that it met the final possibility of doubt with +evidence perfect and inviolate if circumstantial, and uncontradictory if +eye-witness, if tell-tale incident, were to furnish basis of proof. + +Judge, jury, and public riveted their eyes upon Charley Steele. +He had now drawn a little farther away from the jury-box; his eye took +in the judge as well; once or twice he turned, as if appealingly and +confidently, to the people in the room. It was terribly hot, the air +was sickeningly close, every one seemed oppressed--every one save a lady +sitting not a score of feet from where the counsel for the prisoner +stood. This lady's face was not one that could flush easily; it belonged +to a temperament as even as her person was symmetrically beautiful. As +Charley talked, her eyes were fixed steadily, wonderingly upon him. +There was a question in her gaze, which never in the course of the speech +was quite absorbed by the admiration--the intense admiration--she was +feeling for him. Once as he turned with a concentrated earnestness in +her direction his eyes met hers. The message he flashed her was sub- +conscious, for his mind never wavered an instant from the cause in hand, +but it said to her: + +"When this is over, Kathleen, I will come to you." For another quarter +of an hour he exposed the fallacy of purely circumstantial evidence; he +raised in the minds of his hearers the painful responsibility of the law, +the awful tyranny of miscarriage of justice; he condemned prejudice +against a prisoner because that prisoner demanded that the law should +prove him guilty instead of his proving himself innocent. If a man chose +to stand to that, to sternly assume this perilous position, the law had +no right to take advantage of it. He turned towards the prisoner and +traced his possible history: as the sensitive, intelligent son of godly +Catholic parents from some remote parish in French Canada. He drew an +imaginary picture of the home from which he might have come, and of the +parents and brothers and sisters who would have lived weeks of torture +knowing that their son and brother was being tried for his life. It +might at first glance seem quixotic, eccentric, but was it unnatural that +the prisoner should choose silence as to his origin and home, rather than +have his family and friends face the undoubted peril lying before him? +Besides, though his past life might have been wholly blameless, it would +not be evidence in his favour. It might, indeed, if it had not been +blameless, provide some element of unjust suspicion against him, furnish +some fancied motive. The prisoner had chosen his path, and events had so +far justified him. It must be clear to the minds of judge and jury that +there were fatally weak places in the circumstantial evidence offered for +the conviction of this man. + +There was the fact that no sign of the crime, no drop of blood, no +weapon, was found about him or near him, and that he was peacefully +sleeping at the moment the constable arrested him. + +There was also the fact that no motive for the crime had been shown. +It was not enough that he and the dead man had been heard quarrelling. +Was there any certainty that it was a quarrel, since no word or sentence +of the conversation had been brought into court? Men with quick tempers +might quarrel over trivial things, but exasperation did not always end in +bodily injury and the taking of life; imprecations were not so uncommon +that they could be taken as evidence of wilful murder. The prisoner +refused to say what that troubled conversation was about, but who could +question his right to take the risk of his silence being misunderstood? + +The judge was alternately taking notes and looking fixedly at the +prisoner; the jury were in various attitudes of strained attention; the +public sat open mouthed; and up in the gallery a woman with white face +and clinched hands listened moveless and staring. Charley Steele was +holding captive the emotions and the judgments of his hearers. All +antipathy had gone; there was a strange eager intimacy between the +jurymen and himself. People no longer looked with distant dislike at the +prisoner, but began to see innocence in his grim silence, disdain only in +his surly defiance. + +But Charley Steele had preserved his great stroke for the psychological +moment. He suddenly launched upon them the fact, brought out in +evidence, that the dead man had struck a woman in the face a year ago; +also that he had kept a factory girl in affluence for two years. Here +was motive for murder--if motive were to govern them--far greater than +might be suggested by excited conversation which listeners who could not +hear a word construed into a quarrel--listeners who bore the prisoner at +the bar ill-will because he shunned them while in the lumber-camp. If +the prisoner was to be hanged for motive untraceable, why should not +these two women be hanged for motive traceable! + +Here was his chance. He appeared to impeach subtly every intelligence in +the room for having had any preconviction about the prisoner's guilt. He +compelled the jury to feel that they, with him, had made the discovery of +the unsound character of the evidence. The man might be guilty, but +their personal guilt, the guilt of the law, would be far greater if they +condemned the man on violable evidence. With a last simple appeal, his +hands resting on the railing before the seat where the jury sat, his +voice low and conversational again, his eyes running down the line of +faces of the men who had his client's life in their hands, he said: + +"It is not a life only that is at stake, it is not revenge for a life +snatched from the busy world by a brutal hand that we should heed to-day, +but the awful responsibility of that thing we call the State, which, +having the power of life and death without gainsay or hindrance, should +prove to the last inch of necessity its right to take a human life. And +the right and the reason should bring conviction to every honest human +mind. That is all I have to say." + +The crown attorney made a perfunctory reply. The judge's charge was +brief, and, if anything, a little in favour of the prisoner--very little, +a casuist's little; and the jury filed out of the room. They were gone +but ten minutes. When they returned, the verdict was given: "Not guilty, +your Honour!" + +Then it was that a woman laughed in the gallery. Then a whispering voice +said across the railing which separated the public from the lawyers: +"Charley! Charley!" + +Though Charley turned and looked at the lady who spoke, he made no +response. + +A few minutes later, outside the court, as he walked quickly away, again +inscrutable and debonair, the prisoner, Joseph Nadeau, touched him on the +arm and said: + +"M'sieu', M'sieu', you have saved my life--I thank you, M'sieu'!" + +Charley Steele drew his arm away with disgust. "Get out of my sight! +You're as guilty as hell!" he said. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +WHAT CAME OF THE TRIAL + +"When this is over, Kathleen, I will come to you." So Charley Steele's +eyes had said to a lady in the court room on that last day of the great +trial. The lady had left the court-room dazed and exalted. She, with +hundreds of others, had had a revelation of Charley Steele; had had also +the great emotional experience of seeing a crowd make the 'volte face' +with their convictions; looking at a prisoner one moment with eyes of +loathing and anticipating his gruesome end, the next moment seeing him +as the possible martyr to the machinery of the law. She whose heart was +used to beat so evenly had felt it leap and swell with excitement, +awaiting the moment when the jury filed back into the court-room. Then +it stood still, as a wave might hang for an instant at its crest ere it +swept down to beat upon the shore. + +With her as with most present, the deepest feeling in the agitated +suspense was not so much that the prisoner should go free, as that the +prisoner's counsel should win his case. It was as if Charley Steele were +on trial instead of the prisoner. He was the imminent figure; it was his +fate that was in the balance--such was the antic irony of suggestion. +And the truth was, that the fates of both prisoner and counsel had been +weighed in the balance that sweltering August day. + +The prisoner was forgotten almost as soon as he had left the court-room +a free man, but wherever men and women met in Montreal that day, one name +was on the lips of all-Charley Steele! In his speech he had done two +things: he had thrown down every barrier of reserve--or so it seemed-- +and had become human and intimate. "I could not have believed it of +him," was the remark on every lip. Of his ability there never had been +a moment's doubt, but it had ever been an uncomfortable ability, it had +tortured foes and made friends anxious. No one had ever seen him show +feeling. If it was a mask, he had worn it with a curious consistency: it +had been with him as a child, at school, at college, and he had brought +it back again to the town where he was born. It had effectually +prevented his being popular, but it had made him--with his foppishness +and his originality--an object of perpetual interest. Few men had +ventured to cross swords with him. He left his fellow-citizens very much +alone. He was uniformly if distantly courteous, and he was respected in +his own profession for his uncommon powers and for an utter indifference +as to whether he had cases in court or not. + +Coming from the judge's chambers after the trial he went to his office, +receiving as he passed congratulations more effusively offered than, as +people presently found, his manner warranted. + +For he was again the formal, masked Charley Steele, looking calmly +through the interrogative eye-glass. By the time he reached his office, +greetings became more subdued. His prestige had increased immensely in +a few short hours, but he had no more friends than before. Old relations +were soon re-established. The town was proud of his ability as it had +always been, irritated by his manner as it had always been, more +prophetic of his future than it had ever been, and unconsciously grateful +for the fact that he had given them a sensation which would outlast the +summer. + +All these things concerned him little. Once the business of the court- +room was over, a thought which had quietly lain in waiting behind the +strenuous occupations of his brain leaped forward to exclude all others. + +As he entered his office he was thinking of that girl's face in the +court-room, with its flush of added beauty which he and his speech had +brought there. "What a perfect loveliness!" he said to himself as he +bathed his face and hands, and prepared to go into the street again. +"She needed just such a flush to make her supreme Kathleen!" He stood, +looking out into the square, out into the green of the trees where the +birds twittered. "Faultless--faultless in form and feature. She was so +as a child, she is so as a woman." He lighted a cigarette, and blew away +little clouds of smoke. "I will do it. I will marry her. She will have +me: I saw it in her eye. Fairing doesn't matter. Her uncle will never +consent to that, and she doesn't care enough for him. She cares, but she +doesn't care enough. . . . I will do it." + +He turned towards a cupboard into which he had put a certain bottle +before he went to the court-room two hours before. He put the key in the +lock, then stopped. "No, I think not!" he said. "What I say to her +shall not be said forensically. What a discovery I've made! I was dull, +blank, all iron and ice; the judge, the jury, the public, even Kathleen, +against me; and then that bottle in there--and I saw things like crystal! +I had a glow in my brain, I had a tingle in my fingers; and I had +success, and"--his face clouded--"He was as guilty as hell!" he added, +almost bitterly, as he put the key of the cupboard into his pocket again. + +There was a knock at the door, and a youth of about nineteen entered. + +"Hello!" he said. "I say, sir, but that speech of yours struck us all +where we couldn't say no. Even Kathleen got in a glow over it. Perhaps +Captain Fairing didn't, for he's just left her in a huff, and she's +looking--you remember those lines in the school-book: + + "'A red spot burned upon her cheek, + Streamed her rich tresses down--'" + +He laughed gaily. "I've come to ask you up to tea," he added. "The +Unclekins is there. When I told him that Kathleen had sent Fairing away +with a flea in his ear, he nearly fell off his chair. He lent me twenty +dollars on the spot. Are you coming our way?" he continued, suddenly +trying to imitate Charley's manner. Charley nodded, and they left the +office together and moved away under a long avenue of maples to where, in +the shade of a high hill, was the house of the uncle of Kathleen Wantage, +with whom she and her brother Billy lived. They walked in silence for +some time, and at last Billy said, 'a propos' of nothing: + +"Fairing hasn't a red cent." + +"You have a perambulating mind, Billy," said Charley, and bowed to a +young clergyman approaching them from the opposite direction. + +"What does that mean?" remarked Billy, and said "Hello!" to the young +clergyman, and did not wait for Charley's answer. + +The Rev. John Brown was by no means a conventional parson. He was +smoking a cigarette, and two dogs followed at his heels. He was +certainly not a fogy. He had more than a little admiration for Charley +Steele, but he found it difficult to preach when Charley was in the +congregation. He was always aware of a subterranean and half-pitying +criticism going on in the barrister's mind. John Brown knew that he +could never match his intelligence against Charley's, in spite of the +theological course at Durham, so he undertook to scotch the snake by +kindness. He thought that he might be able to do this, because Charley, +who was known to be frankly agnostical, came to his church more or less +regularly. + +The Rev. John Brown was not indifferent to what men thought of him. He +had a reputation for being "independent," but his chief independence +consisted in dressing a little like a layman, posing as the athletic +parson of the new school, consorting with ministers of the dissenting +denominations when it was sufficiently effective, and being a "good +fellow" with men easily bored by church and churchmen. He preached +theatrical sermons to societies and benevolent associations. He wanted +to be thought well of on all hands, and he was shrewd enough to know that +if he trimmed between ritualism on one hand and evangelicism on the +other, he was on a safe road. He might perforate old dogmatical +prejudices with a good deal of freedom so long as he did not begin +bringing "millinery" into the service of the church. He invested his own +personal habits with the millinery. He looked a picturesque figure with +his blond moustache, a little silk-lined brown cloak thrown carelessly +over his shoulder, a gold-headed cane, and a brisk jacket half +ecclesiastical, half military. + +He had interested Charley Steele, also he had amused him, and +sometimes he had surprised him into a sort of admiration; for Brown had +a temperament capable of little inspirations--such a literary inspiration +as might come to a second-rate actor--and Charley never belittled any +man's ability, but seized upon every sign of knowledge with the +appreciation of the epicure. + +John Brown raised his hat to Charley, then held out a hand. "Masterly- +masterly!" he said. "Permit my congratulations. It was the one thing +to do. You couldn't have saved him by making him an object of pity, by +appealing to our sympathies." + +"What do you take to be the secret, then?" asked Charley, with a look +half abstracted, half quizzical. "Terror--sheer terror. You startled +the conscience. You made defects in the circumstantial evidence, the +imminent problems of our own salvation. You put us all on trial. We +were under the lash of fear. If we parsons could only do that from the +pulpit!" + +"We will discuss that on our shooting-trip next week. Duck-shooting +gives plenty of time for theological asides. You are coming, eh?" + +John Brown scarcely noticed the sarcasm, he was so delighted at the +suggestion that he was to be included in the annual duck-shoot of the +Seven, as the little yearly party of Charley and his friends to Lake +Aubergine was called. He had angled for this invitation for two years. + +"I must not keep you," Charley said, and dismissed him with a bow. "The +sheep will stray, and the shepherd must use his crook." + +Brown smiled at the badinage, and went on his way rejoicing in the fact +that he was to share the amusements of the Seven at Lake Aubergine--the +Lake of the Mad Apple. To get hold of these seven men of repute and +position, to be admitted into this good presence!--He had a pious +exaltation, but whether it was because he might gather into the fold +erratic and agnostical sheep like Charley Steele, or because it pleased +his social ambitions, he had occasion to answer in the future. He gaily +prepared to go to the Lake of the Mad Apple, where he was fated to eat +of the tree of knowledge. + +Charley Steele and Billy Wantage walked on slowly to the house under the +hill. + +"He's the right sort," said Billy. "He's a sport. I can stand that +kind. Did you ever hear him sing? No? Well, he can sing a comic song +fit to make you die. I can sing a bit myself, but to hear him sing 'The +Man Who Couldn't Get Warm' is a show in itself. He can play the banjo +too, and the guitar--but he's best on the banjo. It's worth a dollar to +listen to his Epha-haam--that's Ephraim, you know--Ephahaam Come Home,' +and 'I Found Y' in de Honeysuckle Paitch.'" + +"He preaches, too!" said Charley drily. + +They had reached the door of the house under the hill, and Billy had no +time for further remark. He ran into the drawing-room, announcing +Charley with the words: "I say, Kathleen, I've brought the man that made +the judge sit up." + +Billy suddenly stopped, however, for there sat the judge who had tried +the case, calmly munching a piece of toast. The judge did not allow +himself the luxury of embarrassment, but bowed to Charley with a smile, +which he presently turned on Kathleen, who came as near being +disconcerted as she had ever been in her life. + +Kathleen had passed through a good deal to look so unflurried. She had +been on trial in the court-room as well as the prisoner. Important +things had been at stake with her. She and Charley Steele had known each +other since they were children. To her, even in childhood, he had been +a dominant figure. He had judicially and admiringly told her she was +beautiful--when he was twelve and she five. But he had said it without +any of those glances which usually accompanied the same sentiments in the +mouths of other lads. He had never made boy-love to her, and she had +thrilled at the praise of less splendid people than Charley Steele. He +had always piqued her, he was so superior to the ordinary enchantments +of youth, beauty, and fine linen. + +As he came and went, growing older and more characteristic, more and more +"Beauty Steele," accompanied by legends of wild deeds and days at +college, by tales of his fopperies and the fashions he had set, she +herself had grown, as he had termed it, more "decorative." He had told +her so, not in the least patronisingly, but as a simple fact in which no +sentiment lurked. He thought her the most beautiful thing he had ever +seen, but he had never regarded her save as a creation for the perfect +pleasure of the eye; he thought her the concrete glory of sensuous +purity, no more capable of sentiment than himself. He had said again and +again, as he grew older and left college and began the business of life +after two years in Europe, that sentiment would spoil her, would scatter +the charm of her perfect beauty; it would vitalise her too much, and her +nature would lose its proportion; she would be decentralised! She had +been piqued at his indifference to sentiment; she could not easily be +content without worship, though she felt none. This pique had grown +until Captain Tom Fairing crossed her path. + +Fairing was the antithesis of Charley Steele. Handsome, poor, +enthusiastic, and none too able, he was simple and straightforward, and +might be depended on till the end of the chapter. And the end of it was, +that in so far as she had ever felt real sentiment for anybody, she felt +it for Tom Fairing of the Royal Fusileers. It was not love she felt in +the old, in the big, in the noble sense, but it had behind it selection +and instinct and natural gravitation. + +Fairing declared his love. She would give him no answer. For as soon +as she was presented with the issue, the destiny, she began to look round +her anxiously. The first person to fill the perspective was Charley +Steele. As her mind dwelt on him, her uncle gave forth his judgment, +that she should never have a penny if she married Tom Fairing. This only +irritated her, it did not influence her. But there was Charley. He was +a figure, was already noted in his profession because of a few masterly +successes in criminal cases, and if he was not popular, he was +distinguished, and the world would talk about him to the end. He was +handsome, and he was well-to-do-he had a big unoccupied house on the hill +among the maples. How many people had said, What a couple they would +make-Charley Steele and Kathleen Wantage! + +So, as Fairing presented an issue to her, she concentrated her thoughts +as she had never done before on the man whom the world set apart for her, +in a way the world has. + +As she looked and looked, Charley began to look also. He had not been +enamoured of the sordid things of the world; he had been merely curious. +He thought vice was ugly; he had imagination and a sense of form. +Kathleen was beautiful. Sentiment had, so he thought, never seriously +disturbed her; he did not think it ever would. It had not affected him. +He did not understand it. He had been born non-intime. He had had +acquaintances, but never friendships, and never loves or love. But he +had a fine sense of the fitting and the proportionate, and he worshipped +beauty in so far as he could worship anything. The homage was cerebral, +intellectual, temperamental, not of the heart. As he looked out upon the +world half pityingly, half ironically, he was struck with wonder at the +disproportion which was engendered by "having heart," as it was called. +He did not find it necessary. + +Now that he had begun to think of marriage, who so suitable as Kathleen? +He knew of Fairing's adoration, but he took it as a matter of course that +she had nothing to give of the same sort in return. Her beauty was still +serene and unimpaired. He would not spoil it by the tortures of emotion. +He would try to make Kathleen's heart beat in harmony with his own; it +should not thunder out of time. He had made up his mind that he would +marry her. + +For Kathleen, with the great trial, the beginning of the end had come. +Charley's power over her was subtle, finely sensuous, and, in deciding, +there were no mere heart-impulses working for Charley. Instinct and +impulse were working in another direction. She had not committed her +mind to either man, though her heart, to a point, was committed to +Fairing. + +On the day of the trial, however, she fell wholly under that influence +which had swayed judge, jury, and public. To her the verdict of the jury +was not in favour of the prisoner at the bar--she did not think of him. +It was in favour of Charley Steele. + +And so, indifferent as to who heard, over the heads of the people in +front of her, to the accused's counsel inside the railings, she had +called, softly: "Charley! Charley!" + +Now, in the house under the hill, they were face to face, and the end was +at hand: the end of something and the beginning of something. + +There was a few moments of casual conversation, in which Billy talked as +much as anybody, and then Kathleen said: + +"What do you suppose was the man's motive for committing the murder?" + +Charley looked at Kathleen steadily, curiously, through his monocle. +It was a singular compliment she paid him. Her remark took no heed of +the verdict of the jury. He turned inquiringly towards the judge, who, +though slightly shocked by the question, recovered himself quickly. + +"What do you think it was, sir?" Charley asked quietly. + +"A woman--and revenge, perhaps," answered the judge, with a matter-of- +course air. + +A few moments afterwards the judge was carried off by Kathleen's uncle +to see some rare old books; Billy, his work being done, vanished; and +Kathleen and Charley were left alone. + +"You did not answer me in the court-room," Kathleen said. "I called to +you." + +"I wanted to hear you say them here," he rejoined. "Say what?" she +asked, a little puzzled by the tone of his voice. + +"Your congratulations," he answered. + +She held out a hand to him. "I offer them now. It was wonderful. You +were inspired. I did not think you could ever let yourself go." + +He held her hand firmly. "I promise not to do it again," he said +whimsically. + +"Why not?" + +"Have I not your congratulations?" His hand drew her slightly towards +him; she rose to her feet. + +"That is no reason," she answered, confused, yet feeling that there was a +double meaning in his words. + +"I could not allow you to be so vain," he said. "We must be +companionable. Henceforth I shall congratulate myself--Kathleen." + +There was no mistaking now. "Oh, what is it you are going to say to me?" +she asked, yet not disengaging her hand. + +"I said it all in the court-room," he rejoined; "and you heard." + +"You want me to marry you--Charley?" she asked frankly. + +"If you think there is no just impediment," he answered, with a smile. + +She drew her hand away, and for a moment there was a struggle in her +mind--or heart. He knew of what she was thinking, and he did not +consider it of serious consequence. Romance was a trivial thing, and +women were prone to become absorbed in trivialities. When the woman had +no brains, she might break her life upon a trifle. But Kathleen had an +even mind, a serene temperament. Her nerves were daily cooled in a bath +of nature's perfect health. She had never had an hour's illness in her +life. + +"There is no just or unjust impediment, Kathleen," he added presently, +and took her hand again. + +She looked him in the eyes clearly. "You really think so?" she asked. + +"I know so," he answered. "We shall be two perfect panels in one picture +of life." + + + + +CHAPTER III + +AFTER FIVE YEARS + +"You have forgotten me?" + +Charley Steele's glance was serenely non-committal as he answered drily: + +"I cannot remember doing so." + +The other man's eyelids drew down with a look of anger, then the humour +of the impertinence worked upon him, and he gave a nervous little laugh +and said: "I am John Brown." + +"Then I'm sure my memory is not at fault," remarked Charley, with an +outstretched hand. "My dear Brown! Still preaching little sermons?" + +"Do I look it?" There was a curious glitter in John Brown's eyes. "I'm +not preaching little sermons, and you know it well enough." He laughed, +but it was a hard sort of mirth. "Perhaps you forgot to remember that, +though," he sneeringly added. "It was the work of your hands." + +"That's why I should remember to forget it--I am the child of modesty." +Charley touched the corners of his mouth with his tongue, as though his +lips were dry, and his eyes wandered to a saloon a little farther down +the street. + +"Modesty is your curse," rejoined Brown mockingly. + +"Once when you preached at me you said that beauty was my curse." +Charley laughed a curt, distant little laugh which was no more the +spontaneous humour lying for ever behind his thoughts than his eye-glass +was the real sight of his eyes, though since childhood this laugh and his +eye-glass were as natural to all expression of himself as John Brown's +outward and showy frankness did not come from the real John Brown. + +John Brown looked him up and down quickly, then fastened his eyes on the +ruddy cheeks of his old friend. "Do they call you Beauty now as they +used to?" he asked, rather insolently. + +"No. They only say, 'There goes Charley Steele!'" The tongue again +touched the corners of the mouth, and the eyes wandered to the doorway +down the street, over which was written in French: "Jean Jolicoeur, +Licensed to sell wine, beer, and other spirituous and fermented liquors." + +Just then an archdeacon of the cathedral passed them, bowed gravely to +Charley, glanced at John Brown, turned colour slightly, and then with a +cold stare passed on too quickly for dignity. + +"I'm thinking of Bunyan," said the aforetime friend of Charley Steele. +"I'll paraphrase him and say: 'There, but for beauty and a monocle, walks +John Brown.'" + +Under the bitter sarcasm of the man, who, five years ago, had gone down +at last beneath his agnostic raillery, Charley's blue eye did not waver, +not a nerve stirred in his face, as he replied: "Who knows!" + +"That was what you always said--who knows! That did for John Brown." + +Charley seemed not to hear the remark. "What are you doing now?" he +asked, looking steadily at the face whence had gone all the warmth of +manhood, all that courage of life which keeps men young. The lean +parchment visage had the hunted look of the incorrigible failure, +had written on it self-indulgence, cunning, and uncertainty. + +"Nothing much," John Brown replied. + +"What last?" + +"Floated an arsenic-mine on Lake Superior." + +"Failed?" + +"More or less. There are hopes yet. I've kept the wolf from the door." + +"What are you going to do?" + +"Don't know--nothing, perhaps; I've not the courage I had." + +"I'd have thought you might find arsenic a good thing," said Charley, +holding out a silver cigarette-case, his eyes turning slowly from the +startled, gloomy face of the man before him, to the cool darkness beyond +the open doorway of that saloon on the other side of the street. + +John Brown shivered--there was something so cold-blooded in the +suggestion that he might have found arsenic a good thing. The metallic +glare of Charley's eye-glass seemed to give an added cruelty to the +words. Charley's monocle was the token of what was behind his blue eye- +one ceaseless interrogation. It was that everlasting questioning, the +ceaseless who knows! which had in the end unsettled John Brown's mind, +and driven him at last from the church and the possible gaiters of a dean +into the rough business of life, where he had been a failure. Yet as +Brown looked at Charley the old fascination came on him with a rush. +His hand suddenly caught Charley's as he took a cigarette, and he said: +"Perhaps I'll find arsenic a good thing yet." + +For reply Charley laid a hand on his arm-turned him towards the shade of +the houses opposite. Without a word they crossed the street, entered the +saloon, and passed to a little back room, Charley giving an unsympathetic +stare to some men at the bar who seemed inclined to speak to him. + +As the two passed into the small back room with the frosted door, one of +the strangers said to the other: "What does he come here for, if he's too +proud to speak! What's a saloon for! I'd like to smash that eye-glass +for him!" + +"He's going down-hill fast," said the other. "He drinks steady--steady." + +"Tiens--tiens!" interposed Jean Jolicoeur, the landlord. "It is not +harm to him. He drink all day, an' he walk a crack like a bee-line." + +"He's got the handsomest wife in this city. If I was him, I'd think more +of myself," answered the Englishman. + +"How you think more--hein? You not come down more to my saloon?" + +"No, I wouldn't come to your saloon, and I wouldn't go to Theophile +Charlemagne's shebang at the Cote Dorion." + +"You not like Charlemagne's hotel?" said a huge black-bearded pilot, +standing beside the landlord. "Oh, I like Charlemagne's hotel, and I +like to talk to Suzon Charlemagne, but I'm not married, Rouge Gosselin--" + +"If he go to Charlemagne's hotel, and talk some more too mooch to dat +Suzon Charlemagne, he will lose dat glass out of his eye," interrupted +Rouge Gosselin. + +"Who say he been at dat place?" said Jean Jolicoeur. "He bin dere four +times las' month, and dat Suzon Charlemagne talk'bout him ever since. +When dat Narcisse Bovin and Jacques Gravel come down de river, he better +keep away from dat Cote Dorion," sputtered Rouge Gosselin. "Dat's a long +story short, all de same for you--bagosh!" + +Rouge Gosselin flung off his glass of white whiskey, and threw after it a +glass of cold water. + +"Tiens! you know not M'sieu' Charley Steele," said Jean Jolicoeur, and +turned on his heel, nodding his head sagely. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +CHARLEY MAKES A DISCOVERY + +A hot day a month later Charley Steele sat in his office staring before +him into space, and negligently smoking a cigarette. Outside there was a +slow clacking of wheels, and a newsboy was crying "La Patrie! La Patrie! +All about the War in France! All about the massacree!" Bells--wedding- +bells--were ringing also, and the jubilant sounds, like the call of the +newsboy, were out of accord with the slumberous feeling of the afternoon. +Charley Steele turned his head slowly towards the window. The branches +of a maple-tree half crossed it, and the leaves moved softly in the +shadow they made. His eye went past the tree and swam into the tremulous +white heat of the square, and beyond to where in the church-tower the +bells were ringing-to the church doors, from which gaily dressed folk +were issuing to the carriages, or thronged the pavement, waiting for the +bride and groom to come forth into a new-created world--for them. + +Charley looked through his monocle at the crowd reflectively, his head +held a little to one side in a questioning sort of way, on his lips the +ghost of a smile--not a reassuring smile. Presently he leaned forward +slightly and the monocle dropped from his eye. He fumbled for it, raised +it, blew on it, rubbed it with his handkerchief, and screwed it carefully +into his eye again, his rather bushy brow gathering over it strongly, his +look sharpened to more active thought. He stared straight across the +square at a figure in heliotrope, whose face was turned to a man in +scarlet uniform taller than herself two glowing figures towards whom many +other eyes than his own were directed, some curiously, some disdain +fully, some sadly. But Charley did not see the faces of those who looked +on; he only saw two people--one in heliotrope, one in scarlet. + +Presently his white firm hand went up and ran through his hair nervously, +his comely figure settled down in the chair, his tongue touched the +corners of his red lips, and his eyes withdrew from the woman in +heliotrope and the man in scarlet, and loitered among the leaves of the +tree at the window. The softness of the green, the cool health of the +foliage, changed the look of his eye from something cold and curious to +something companionable, and scarcely above a whisper two words came from +his lips: + +"Kathleen! Kathleen!" + +By the mere sound of the voice it would have been hard to tell what the +words meant, for it had an inquiring cadence and yet a kind of distant +doubt, a vague anxiety. The face conveyed nothing--it was smooth, fresh, +and immobile. The only point where the mind and meaning of the man +worked according to the law of his life was at the eye, where the monocle +was caught now as in a vise. Behind this glass there was a troubled +depth which belied the self-indulgent mouth, the egotism speaking loudly +in the red tie, the jewelled finger, the ostentatiously simple yet +sumptuous clothes. + +At last he drew in a sharp, sibilant breath, clicked his tongue--a sound +of devil-may-care and hopelessness at once--and turned to a little +cupboard behind him. The chair squeaked on the floor as he turned, and +he frowned, shivered a little, and kicked it irritably with his heel. + +From the cupboard he took a bottle of liqueur, and, pouring out a small +glassful, drank it off eagerly. As he put the bottle away, he said +again, in an abstracted fashion, "Kathleen!" + +Then, seating himself at the table, as if with an effort towards energy, +he rang a bell. A clerk entered. "Ask Mr. Wantage to come for a +moment," he said. "Mr. Wantage has gone to the church--to the wedding," +was the reply. + +"Oh, very well. He will be in again this afternoon?" + +"Sure to, sir." + +"Just so. That will do." + +The clerk retired, and Charley, rising, unlocked a drawer, and taking out +some books and papers, laid them on the table. Intently, carefully, he +began to examine them, referring at the same time to a letter which had +lain open at his hand while he had been sitting there. For a quarter of +an hour he studied the books and papers, then, all at once, his fingers +fastened on a point and stayed. Again he read the letter lying beside +him. A flush crimsoned his face to his hair--a singular flush of shame, +of embarrassment, of guilt--a guilt not his own. His breath caught in +his throat. + +"Billy!" he gasped. "Billy, by God!" + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE WOMAN IN HELIOTROPE + +The flush was still on Charley's face when the door opened slowly, and a +lady dressed in heliotrope silk entered, and came forward. Without a +word Charley rose, and, taking a step towards her, offered a chair; at +the same time noticing her heightened colour, and a certain rigid +carriage not in keeping with her lithe and graceful figure. There was no +mistaking the quiver of her upper lip--a short lip which did not hide a +wonderfully pretty set of teeth. + +With a wave of the hand she declined the seat. Glancing at the books and +papers lying on the table, she flashed an inquiry at his flushed face, +and, misreading the cause, with slow, quiet point, in which bitterness or +contempt showed, she said meaningly: + +"What a slave you are!" + +"Behold the white man work!" he said good-naturedly, the flush passing +slowly from his face. With apparent negligence he pushed the letter and +the books and papers a little to one side, but really to place them +beyond the range of her angry eyes. She shrugged her shoulders at his +action. + +"For 'the fatherless children and widows, and all that are desolate and +oppressed?'" she said, not concealing her malice, for at the wedding she +had just left all her married life had rushed before her in a swift +panorama, and the man in scarlet had fixed the shooting pictures in her +mind. + +Again a flush swept up Charley's face and seemed to blur his sight. His +monocle dropped the length of its silken tether, and he caught it and +slowly adjusted it again as he replied evenly: + +"You always hit the nail on the head, Kathleen." There was a kind of +appeal in his voice, a sort of deprecation in his eye, as though he would +be friends with her, as though, indeed, there was in his mind some secret +pity for her. + +Her look at his face was critical and cold. It was plain that she was +not prepared for any extra friendliness on his part--there seemed no +reason why he should add to his usual courtesy a note of sympathy to the +sound of her name on his lips. He had not fastened the door of the +cupboard from which he had taken the liqueur, and it had swung open a +little, disclosing the bottle and the glass. She saw. Her face took on +a look of quiet hardness. + +"Why did you not come to the wedding? She was your cousin. People asked +where you were. You knew I was going." + +"Did you need me?" he asked quietly, and his eyes involuntarily swept +to the place where he had seen the heliotrope and scarlet make a glow of +colour on the other side of the square. "You were not alone." + +She misunderstood him. Her mind had been overwrought, and she caught +insinuation in his voice. "You mean Tom Fairing!" Her eyes blazed. +"You are quite right--I did not need you. Tom Fairing is a man that +all the world trusts save you." + +"Kathleen!" The words were almost a cry. "For God's sake! I have never +thought of 'trusting' men where you are concerned. I believe in no man" +--his voice had a sharp bitterness, though his face was smooth and +unemotional--"but I trust you, and believe in you. Yes, upon my soul and +honour, Kathleen." + +As he spoke she turned quickly and stepped towards the window, an +involuntary movement of agitation. He had touched a chord. But even as +she reached the window and glanced down to the hot, dusty street, she +heard a loud voice below, a reckless, ribald sort of voice, calling to +some one to, "Come and have a drink." + +"Billy!" she said involuntarily, and looked down, then shrank back +quickly. She turned swiftly on her husband. "Your soul and honour, +Charley!" she said slowly. "Look at what you've made of Billy! Look at +the company he keeps--John Brown, who hasn't even decency enough to keep +away from the place he disgraced. Billy is always with him. You ruined +John Brown, with your dissipation and your sneers at religion and your- +'I-wonder-nows!' Of what use have you been, Charley? Of what use to +anyone in the world? You think of nothing but eating, and drinking, and +playing the fop." + +He glanced down involuntarily, and carefully flicked some cigarette-ash +from his waistcoat. The action arrested her speech for a moment, and +then, with a little shudder, she continued: "The best they can say of you +is, 'There goes Charley Steele!'" + +"And the worst?" he asked. He was almost smiling now, for he admired +her anger, her scorn. He knew it was deserved, and he had no idea of +making any defence. He had said all in that instant's cry, "Kathleen!" +--that one awakening feeling of his life so far. She had congealed the +word on his lips by her scorn, and now he was his old debonair, +dissipated self, with the impertinent monocle in his eye and a jest upon +his tongue. + +"Do you want to know the worst they say?" she asked, growing pale to the +lips. "Go and stand behind the door of Jolicoeur's saloon. Go to any +street corner, and listen. Do you think I don't know what they say? Do +you think the world doesn't talk about the company you keep? Haven't I +seen you going into Jolicoeur's saloon when I was walking on the other +side of the street? Do you think that all the world, and I among the +rest, are blind? Oh, you fop, you fool, you have ruined my brother, you +have ruined my life, and I hate and despise you for a cold-blooded, +selfish coward!" + +He made a deprecating gesture and stared--a look of most curious inquiry. +They had been married for five years, and during that time they had never +been anything but persistently courteous to each other. He had never on +any occasion seen her face change colour, or her manner show chagrin or +emotion. Stately and cold and polite, she had fairly met his ceaseless +foppery and preciseness of manner. But people had said of her, "Poor +Kathleen Steele!" for her spotless name stood sharply off from his +negligence and dissipation. They called her "Poor Kathleen Steele!" in +sympathy, though they knew that she had not resisted marriage with the +well-to-do Charley Steele, while loving a poor captain in the Royal +Fusileers. She preserved social sympathy by a perfect outward decorum, +though the man of the scarlet coat remained in the town and haunted the +places where she appeared, and though the eyes of the censorious world +were watching expectantly. No voice was raised against her. Her cold +beauty held the admiration of all women, for she was not eager for men's +company, and she kept her poise even with the man in scarlet near her, +glacially complacent, beautifully still, disconcertingly emotionless. +They did not know that the poise with her was to an extent as much a pose +as Charley's manner was to him. + +"I hate you and despise you for a cold-blooded, selfish coward!" So that +was the way Kathleen felt! Charley's tongue touched his lips quickly, +for they were arid, and he slowly said: + +"I assure you I have not tried to influence Billy. I have no remembrance +of his imitating me in anything. Won't you sit down? It is very +fatiguing, this heat." + +Charley was entirely himself again. His words concerning Billy Wantage +might have been either an impeachment of Billy's character and, by +deduction, praise of his own, or it may have been the insufferable egoism +of the fop, well used to imitators. The veil between the two, which for +one sacred moment had seemed about to lift, was fallen now, leaded and +weighted at the bottom. + +"I suppose you would say the same about John Brown! It is disconcerting +at least to think that we used to sit and listen to Mr. Brown as he waved +his arms gracefully in his surplice and preached sentimental sermons. +I suppose you will say, what we have heard you say before, that you only +asked questions. Was that how you ruined the Rev. John Brown-- +and Billy?" + +Charley was very thirsty, and because of that perhaps, his voice had an +unusually dry tone as he replied: "I asked questions of John Brown; I +answer them to Billy. It is I that am ruined!" + +There was that in his voice she did not understand, for though long used +to his paradoxical phrases and his everlasting pose--as it seemed to her +and all the world--there now rang through his words a note she had never +heard before. For a fleeting instant she was inclined to catch at some +hidden meaning, but her grasp of things was uncertain. She had been +thrown off her balance, or poise, as Charley had, for an unwonted second, +been thrown off his pose, and her thought could not pierce beneath the +surface. + +"I suppose you will be flippant at Judgment Day," she said with a bitter +laugh, for it seemed to her a monstrous thing that they should be such an +infinite distance apart. + +"Why should one be serious then? There will be no question of an alibi, +or evidence for the defence--no cross-examination. A cut-and-dried +verdict!" + +She ignored his words. "Shall you be at home to dinner?" she rejoined +coldly, and her eyes wandered out of the window again to that spot across +the square where heliotrope and scarlet had met. + +"I fancy not," he answered, his eyes turned away also--towards the +cupboard containing the liqueur. "Better ask Billy; and keep him in, +and talk to him--I really would like you to talk to him. He admires you +so much. I wish--in fact I hope you will ask Billy to come and live with +us," he added half abstractedly. He was trying to see his way through a +sudden confusion of ideas. Confusion was rare to him, and his senses, +feeling the fog, embarrassed by a sudden air of mystery and a cloud of +futurity, were creeping to a mind-path of understanding. + +"Don't be absurd," she said coldly. "You know I won't ask him, and you +don't want him." + +"I have always said that decision is the greatest of all qualities--even +when the decision is bad. It saves so much worry, and tends to health." +Suddenly he turned to the desk and opened a tin box. "Here is further +practice for your admirable gift." He opened a paper. "I want you to +sign off for this building--leaving it to my absolute disposal." He +spread the paper out before her. + +She turned pale and her lips tightened. She looked at him squarely in +the eyes. "My wedding-gift!" she said. Then she shrugged her +shoulders. A moment she hesitated, and in that moment seemed to congeal. +"You need it?" she asked distantly. + +He inclined his head, his eye never leaving hers. With a swift angry +motion she caught the glove from her left hand, and, doubling it back, +dragged it off. A smooth round ring came off with it and rolled upon the +floor. + +Stooping, he picked up the ring, and handed it back to her, saying: +"Permit me." It was her wedding-ring. She took it with a curious +contracted look and put it on the finger again, then pulled off the other +glove quietly. "Of course one uses the pen with the right hand," she +said calmly. + +"Involuntary act of memory," he rejoined slowly, as she took the pen in +her hand. "You had spoken of a wedding, this was a wedding-gift, and-- +that's right, sign there!" + +There was a brief pause, in which she appeared to hesitate, and then she +wrote her name in a large firm hand, and, throwing down the pen, caught +up her gloves, and began to pull them on viciously. + +"Thanks. It is very kind of you," he said. He put the document in the +tin box, and took out another, as without a word, but with a grave face +in which scorn and trouble were mingled, she now turned towards the door. + +"Can you spare a minute longer?" he said, and advanced towards her, +holding the new document in his hand. "Fair exchange is no robbery. +Please take this. No, not with the right hand; the left is better luck +--the better the hand, the better the deed," he added with a whimsical +squint and a low laugh, and he placed the paper in her left hand. "Item +No. 2 to take the place of item No. 1." + +She scrutinised the paper. Wonder filled her face. "Why, this is a deed +of the homestead property--worth three times as much!" she said. +"Why--why do you do this?" + +"Remember that questions ruin people sometimes," he answered, and stepped +to the door and turned the handle, as though to show her out. She was +agitated and embarrassed now. She felt she had been unjust, and yet she +felt that she could not say what ought to be said, if all the rules were +right. + +"Thank you," she said simply. "Did you think of this when--when you +handed me back the ring?" + +"I never had an inspiration in my life. I was born with a plan of +campaign." + +"I suppose I ought to--kiss you!" she said in some little confusion. + +"It might be too expensive," he answered, with a curious laugh. Then he +added lightly: "This was a fair exchange"--he touched the papers--"but I +should like you to bear witness, madam, that I am no robber!" He opened +the door. Again there was that curious penetrating note in his voice, +and that veiled look. She half hesitated, but in the pause there was a +loud voice below and a quick foot on the stairs. + +"It's Billy!" she said sharply, and passed out. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE WIND AND THE SHORN LAMB + +A half-hour later Charley Steele sat in his office alone with Billy +Wantage, his brother-in-law, a tall, shapely fellow of twenty-four. +Billy had been drinking, his face was flushed, and his whole manner was +indolently careless and irresponsible. In spite of this, however, his +grey eyes were nervously fixed on Charley, and his voice was shaky as he +said, in reply to a question as to his finances: "That's my own business, +Charley." + +Charley took a long swallow from the tumbler of whiskey and soda beside +him, and, as he drew some papers towards him, answered quietly: "I must +make it mine, Billy, without a doubt." + +The tall youth shifted in his chair and essayed to laugh. + +"You've never been particular about your own business. Pshaw, what's the +use of preaching to me!" + +Charley pushed his chair back, and his look had just a touch of surprise, +a hint of embarrassment. This youth, then, thought him something of a +fool: read him by virtue of his ornamentations, his outer idiosyncrasy! +This boy, whose iniquity was under his finger on that table, despised him +for his follies, and believed in him less than his wife--two people who +had lived closer to him than any others in the world. Before he answered +he lifted the glass beside him and drank to the last drop, then slowly +set it down and said, with a dangerous smile: + +"I have always been particular about other people's finances, and the +statement that you haven't isn't preaching, it's an indictment--so it is, +Billy." + +"An indictment!" Billy bit his finger-nails now, and his voice shook. + +"That's what the jury would say, and the judge would do the preaching. +You have stolen twenty-five thousand dollars of trust-moneys!" + +For a moment there was absolute silence in the room. From outside in the +square came the Marche-t'en! of a driver, and the loud cackling laugh of +some loafer at the corner. Charley's look imprisoned his brother-in-law, +and Billy's eyes were fixed in a helpless stare on Charley's finger, +which held like a nail the record of his infamy. + +Billy drew himself back with a jerk of recovery, and said with bravado, +but with fear in look and motion: "Don't stare like that. The thing's +done, and you can't undo it, and that's all there is about it." Charley +had been staring at the youth-staring and not seeing him really, but +seeing his wife and watching her lips say again: "You are ruining Billy!" +He was not sober, but his mind was alert, his eccentric soul was getting +kaleidoscopic glances at strange facts of life as they rushed past his +mind into a painful red obscurity. + +"Oh yes, it can be undone, and it's not all there is about it!" he +answered quietly. + +He got up suddenly, went to the door, locked it, put the key in his +pocket, and, coming back, sat down again beside the table. + +Billy watched him with shrewd, hunted eyes. What did Charley mean to do? +To give him in charge? To send him to jail? To shut him out from the +world where he had enjoyed himself so much for years and years? Never to +go forth free among his fellows! Never to play the gallant with all the +pretty girls he knew! Never to have any sports, or games, or tobacco, or +good meals, or canoeing in summer, or tobogganing in winter, or moose- +hunting, or any sort of philandering! + +The thoughts that filled his mind now were not those of regret for his +crime, but the fears of the materialist and sentimentalist, who revolted +at punishment and all the shame and deprivation it would involve. + +"What did you do with the money?" said Charley, after a minute's +silence, in which two minds had travelled far. + +"I put it into mines." + +"What mines?" + +"Out on Lake Superior." + +"What sort of mines?" + +"Arsenic." + +Charley's eye-glass dropped, and rattled against the gold button of his +white waistcoat. + +"In arsenic-mines!" He put the monocle to his eye again. "On whose +advice?" + +"John Brown's." + +"John Brown's!" Charley Steele's ideas were suddenly shaken and +scattered by a man's name, as a bolting horse will crumple into confusion +a crowd of people. So this was the way his John Brown had come home to +roost. He lifted the empty whiskey-glass to his lips and drained air. +He was terribly thirsty; he needed something to pull himself together. +Five years of dissipation had not robbed him of his splendid native +ability, but it had, as it were, broken the continuity of his will and +the sequence of his intellect. + +"It was not investment?" he asked, his tongue thick and hot in his +mouth. + +"No. What would have been the good?" + +"Of course. Speculation--you bought heavily to sell on an expected +rise?" + +"Yes." + +There was something so even in Charley's manner and tone that Billy +misinterpreted it. It seemed hopeful that Charley was going to make the +best of a bad job. + +"You see," Billy said eagerly, "it seemed dead certain. He showed me the +way the thing was being done, the way the company was being floated, how +the market in New York was catching hold. It looked splendid. I thought +I could use the money for a week or so, then put it back, and have a nice +little scoop, at no one's cost. I thought it was a dead-sure thing--and +I was hard up, and Kathleen wouldn't lend me any more. If Kathleen had +only done the decent thing--" + +A sudden flush of anger swept over Charley's face--never before in his +life had that face been so sensitive, never even as a child. Something +had waked in the odd soul of Beauty Steele. + +"Don't be a sweep--leave Kathleen out of it!" he said, in a sharp, +querulous voice--a voice unnatural to himself, suggestive of little use, +as though he were learning to speak, using strange words stumblingly +through a melee of the emotions. It was not the voice of Charley Steele +the fop, the poseur, the idlest man in the world. + +"What part of the twenty-five thousand went into the arsenic?" he said, +after a pause. There was no feeling in the voice now; it was again even +and inquiring. + +"Nearly all." + +"Don't lie. You've been living freely. Tell the truth, or--or I'll know +the reason why, Billy." + +"About two-thirds-that's the truth. I had debts, and I paid them." + +"And you bet on the races?" + +"Yes." + +"And lost?" + +"Yes. See here, Charley; it was the most awful luck--" + +"Yes, for the fatherless children and widows, and all that are +oppressed!" + +Charley's look again went through and beyond the culprit, and he recalled +his wife's words and his own reply. A quick contempt and a sort of +meditative sarcasm were in the tone. It was curious, too, that he could +smile, but the smile did not encourage Billy Wantage now. + +"It's all gone, I suppose?" he added. + +"All but about a hundred dollars." + +"Well, you have had your game; now you must pay for it." + +Billy had imagination, and he was melodramatic. He felt danger ahead. + +"I'll go and shoot myself!" he said, banging the table with his fist so +that the whiskey-tumbler shook. + +He was hardly prepared for what followed. Charley's nerves had been +irritated; his teeth were on edge. This threat, made in such a cheap, +insincere way, was the last thing in the world he could bear to hear. +He knew that Billy lied; that if there was one thing Billy would not do, +shooting himself was that one thing. His own life was very sweet to +Billy Wantage. Charley hated him the more at that moment because he +was Kathleen's brother. For if there was one thing he knew of Kathleen, +it was that she could not do a mean thing. Cold, unsympathetic she might +be, cruel at a pinch perhaps, but dishonourable--never! This weak, +cowardly youth was her brother! No one had ever seen such a look on +Charley Steele's face as came upon it now--malicious, vindictive. He +stooped over Billy in a fury. + +"You think I'm a fool and an ass--you ignorant, brainless, lying cub! +You make me a thief before all the world by forging my name, and stealing +the money for which I am responsible, and then you rate me so low that +you think you'll bamboozle me by threats of suicide. You haven't the +courage to shoot yourself--drunk or sober. And what do you think would +be gained by it? Eh, what do you think would be gained? You can't see +that you'd insult your sister as well as--as rob me." + +Billy Wantage cowered. This was not the Charley Steele he had known, +not like the man he had seen since a child. There was something almost +uncouth in this harsh high voice, these gauche words, this raw accent; +but it was powerful and vengeful, and it was full of purpose. Billy +quivered, yet his adroit senses caught at a straw in the words, "as rob +me!" Charley was counting it a robbery of himself, not of the widows and +orphans! That gave him a ray of hope. In a paroxysm of fear, joined to +emotional excitement, he fell upon his knees, and pleaded for mercy--for +the sake of one chance in life, for the family name, for Kathleen's sake, +for the sake of everything he had ruthlessly dishonoured. Tears came +readily to his eyes, real tears--of excitement; but he could measure, +too, the strength of his appeal. + +"If you'll stand by me in this, I'll pay you back every cent, Charley," +he cried. "I will, upon my soul and honour! You shan't lose a penny, +if you'll only see me through. I'll work my fingers off to pay it back +till the last hour of my life. I'll be straight till the day I die--so +help me God!" + +Charley's eyes wandered to the cupboard where the liqueurs were. If he +could only decently take a drink! But how could he with this boy +kneeling before him? His breath scorched his throat. + +"Get up!" he said shortly. "I'll see what I can do--to-morrow. Go away +home. Don't go out again to-night. And come here at ten o'clock in the +morning." + +Billy took up his hat, straightened his tie, carefully brushed the dust +from his knees, and, seizing Charley's hand, said: "You're the best +fellow in the world, Charley." He went towards the door, dusting his +face of emotion as he had dusted his knees. The old selfish, shrewd look +was again in his eyes. Charley's gaze followed him gloomily. Billy +turned the handle of the door. It was locked. + +Charley came forward and unlocked it. As Billy passed through, Charley, +looking sharply in his face, said hoarsely: "By Heaven, I believe you're +not worth it!" Then he shut the door again and locked it. + +He almost ran back and opened the cupboard. Taking out the bottle of +liqueur, he filled a glass and drank it off. Three times he did this, +then seated himself at the table with a sigh of relief and no emotion in +his face. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +"PEACE, PEACE, AND THERE IS NO PEACE"' + +The sun was setting by the time Charley was ready to leave his office. +Never in his life had he stayed so late in "the halls of industry," as +he flippantly called his place of business. The few cases he had won so +brilliantly since the beginning of his career, he had studied at night in +his luxurious bedroom in the white brick house among the maples on the +hill. In every case, as at the trial of Joseph Nadeau, the man who +murdered the timber-merchant, the first prejudice of judge and jury had +given way slowly before the deep-seeing mind, which had as rare a power +of analysis as for generalisation, and reduced masses of evidence to +phrases; and verdicts had been given against all personal prejudice--to +be followed outside the court by the old prejudice, the old look askance +at the man called Beauty Steele. + +To him it had made no difference at any time. He cared for neither +praise nor blame. In his actions a materialist, in his mind he was a +watcher of life, a baffled inquirer whose refuge was irony, and whose +singular habits had in five years become a personal insult to the +standards polite society and Puritan morality had set up. Perhaps the +insult had been intended, for irregularities were committed with an +insolent disdain for appearances. He did nothing secretly; his page of +life was for him who cared to read. He played cards, he talked +agnosticism, he went on shooting expeditions which became orgies, he +drank openly in saloons, he whose forefathers had been gentlemen of King +George, and who sacrificed all in the great American revolution for +honour and loyalty--statesmen, writers, politicians, from whom he had +direct inheritance, through stirring, strengthening forces, in the +building up of laws and civilisation in a new land. Why he chose to be +what he was--if he did choose--he alone could answer. His personality +had impressed itself upon his world, first by its idiosyncrasies and +afterwards by its enigmatical excesses. + +What was he thinking of as he laid the papers away in the tin box in a +drawer, locked it, and put the key in his pocket? He had found to the +smallest detail Billy's iniquity, and he was now ready to shoulder the +responsibility, to save the man, who, he knew, was scarce worth the +saving. But Kathleen--there was what gave him pause. As he turned to +the window and looked out over the square he shuddered. He thought of +the exchange of documents he had made with her that day, and he had a +sense of satisfaction. This defalcation of Billy's would cripple him, +for money had flown these last few years. He had had heavy losses, and +he had dug deep into his capital. Down past the square ran a cool avenue +of beeches to the water, and he could see his yacht at anchor. On the +other side of the water, far down the shore, was a house which had been +begun as a summer cottage, and had ended in being a mansion. A few +Moorish pillars, brought from Algiers for the decoration of the entrance, +had necessitated the raising of the roof, and then all had to be in +proportion, and the cottage became like an appanage to a palace. +So it had gone, and he had cared so little about it all, and for the +consequences. He had this day secured Kathleen from absolute poverty, no +matter what happened, and that had its comfort. His eyes wandered among +the trees. He could see the yellow feathers of the oriole and catch the +note of the whippoorwill, and from the great church near the voices of +the choir came over. He could hear the words "Lord, now lettest thou thy +servant depart in peace, according to thy word." + +Depart in peace--how much peace was there in the world? Who had it? The +remembrance of what Kathleen said to him at the door--"I suppose I ought +to kiss you"--came to him, was like a refrain in his ears. + +"Peace is the penalty of silence and inaction," he said to himself +meditatively. "Where there is action there is no peace. If the brain +and body fatten, then there is peace. Kathleen and I have lived at +peace, I suppose. I never said a word to her that mightn't be put down +in large type and pasted on my tombstone, and she never said a word to +me--till to-day--that wasn't like a water-colour picture. Not till +to-day, in a moment's strife and trouble, did I ever get near her. And +we've lived in peace. Peace? Where is the right kind of peace? Over +there is old Sainton. He married a rich woman, he has had the platter of +plenty before him always, he wears ribbons and such like baubles given by +the Queen, but his son had to flee the country. There's Herring. He +doesn't sleep because his daughter is going to marry an Italian count. +There's Latouche. His place in the cabinet is begotten in corruption, +in the hotbed of faction war. There's Kenealy. His wife has led him a +dance of deep damnation. There's the lot of them--every one, not an +ounce of peace among them, except with old Casson, who weighs eighteen +stone, lives like a pig, grows stuffier in mind and body every day, and +drinks half a bottle of whiskey every night. There's no one else--yes, +there is!" + +He was looking at a small black-robed figure with clean-shaven face, +white hair, and shovel-hat, who passed slowly along the wooden walk +beneath, with meditative content in his face. + +"There's peace," he said with a laugh. "I've known Father Hallon for +twenty-five years, and no man ever worked so hard, ever saw more trouble, +ever shared other people's bad luck mere than he; ever took the bit in +his teeth, when it was a matter of duty, stronger than he; and yet +there's peace; he has it; a peace that passes all understanding--mine +anyhow. I've never had a minute's real peace. The World, or Nature, or +God, or It, whatever the name is, owes me peace. And how is It to give +it? Why, by answering my questions. Now it's a curious thing that the +only person I ever met who could answer any questions of mine--answer +them in the way that satisfies--is Suzon. She works things down to +phrases. She has wisdom in the raw, and a real grip on life, and yet all +the men she has known have been river-drivers and farmers, and a few men +from town who mistook the sort of Suzon she is. Virtuous and straight, +she's a born child of Aphrodite too--by nature. She was made for love. +A thousand years ago she would have had a thousand loves! And she thinks +the world is a magnificent place, and she loves it, and wallows--fairly +wallows--in content. Now which is right: Suzon or Father Hallon-- +Aphrodite or the Nazarene? Which is peace--as the bird and the beast +of the field get it--the fallow futile content, or--" + +He suddenly stopped, hiccoughed, then hurriedly drawing paper before him, +he sat down. For an hour he wrote. It grew darker. He pushed the table +nearer the window, and the singing of the choir in the church came in +upon him as his pen seemed to etch words into the paper, firm, eccentric, +meaning. What he wrote that evening has been preserved, and the yellow +sheets lie loosely in a black despatch-box which contains the few records +Charley Steele left behind him. What he wrote that night was the note of +his mind, the key to all those strange events through which he began to +move two hours after the lines were written: + + Over thy face is a veil of white sea-mist, + Only thine eyes shine like stars; bless or blight me, + I will hold close to the leash at thy wrist, + O Aphrodite! + + Thou in the East and I here in the West, + Under our newer skies purple and pleasant: + Who shall decide which is better--attest, + Saga or peasant? + + Thou with Serapis, Osiris, and Isis, + I with Jehovah, in vapours and shadows; + Thou with the gods' joy-enhancing devices, + Sweet-smelling meadows! + + What is there given us?--Food and some raiment, + Toiling to reach to some Patmian haven, + Giving up all for uncertain repayment, + Feeding the raven! + + Striving to peer through the infinite azure, + Alternate turning to earthward and falling, + Measuring life with Damastian measure, + Finite, appalling. + + What does it matter! They passed who with Homer + Poured out the wine at the feet of their idols: + Passing, what found they? To-come a misnomer, + It and their idols? + + Sacristan, acolyte, player, or preacher, + Each to his office, but who holds the key? + Death, only Death--thou, the ultimate teacher + Wilt show it to me. + + And when the forts and the barriers fall, + Shall we then find One the true, the almighty, + Wisely to speak with the worst of us all-- + Ah, Aphrodite! + + Waiting, I turn from the futile, the human, + Gone is the life of me, laughing with youth + Steals to learn all in the face of a woman, + Mendicant Truth! + +Rising with a bitter laugh, and murmuring the last lines, he thrust the +papers into a drawer, locked it, and going quickly from the room, he went +down-stairs. His horse and cart were waiting for him, and he got in. + +The groom looked at him inquiringly. "The Cote Dorion!" he said, and +they sped away through the night. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE COST OF THE ORNAMENT + +One, two, three, four, five, six miles. The sharp click of the iron +hoofs on the road; the strong rush of the river; the sweet smell of the +maple and the pungent balsam; the dank rich odour of the cedar swamp; the +cry of the loon from the water; the flaming crane in the fishing-boat; +the fisherman, spear in hand, staring into the dark waters tinged with +sombre red; the voice of a lonely settler keeping time to the ping of the +axe as, lengthening out his day to nightly weariness, he felled a tree; +river-drivers' camps spotted along the shore; huge cribs or rafts which +had swung down the great stream for scores of miles, the immense oars +motionless, the little houses on the timbers blinking with light; and +from cheerful raftsmen coming the old familiar song of the rivers: + + "En roulant, ma boule roulant, + En roulant ma boule!" + +Not once had Charley Steele turned his head as the horse sped on. His +face was kept straight along the line of the road; he seemed not to see +or to hear, to be unresponsive to sound or scene. The monocle at his eye +was like a veil to hide the soul, a defence against inquiry, itself the +unceasing question, a sort of battery thrown forward, a kind of field- +casemate for a lonely besieged spirit. + +It was full of suggestion. It might have been the glass behind which +showed some mediaeval relic, the body of some ancient Egyptian king whose +life had been spent in doing wonders and making signs--the primitive, +anthropomorphic being. He might have been a stone man, for any motion +that he made. Yet looking at him closely you would have seen discontent +in the eye, a kind of glaze of the sardonic over the whole face. + +What is the good! the face asked. What is there worth doing? it said. +What a limitless futility! it urged, fain to be contradicted too, as the +grim melancholy of the figure suggested. + +"To be an animal and soak in the world," he thought to himself--" that is +natural; and the unnatural is civilisation, and the cheap adventure of +the mind into fields of baffling speculation, lighted by the flickering +intelligences of dead speculators, whose seats we have bought in the +stock-exchange of mortality, and exhaust our lives in paying for. To +eat, to drink, to lie fallow, indifferent to what comes after, to roam +like the deer, and to fight like the tiger--" + +He came to a dead stop in his thinking. "To fight like the tiger!" He +turned his head quickly now to where upon a raft some river-drivers were +singing: + + "And when a man in the fight goes down, + Why, we will carry him home!" + +"To fight like the tiger!" Ravage--the struggle to possess from all the +world what one wished for one's self, and to do it without mercy and +without fear-that was the clear plan in the primitive world, where action +was more than speech and dominance than knowledge. Was not civilisation +a mistake, and religion the insinuating delusion designed to cover it up; +or, if not designed, accepted by the original few who saw that humanity +could not turn back, and must even go forward with illusions, lest in +mere despair all men died and the world died with them? + +His eyes wandered to the raft where the men were singing, and he +remembered the threat made: that if he came again to the Cote Dorion he +"would get what for!" He remembered the warning of Rouge Gosselin +conveyed by Jolicoeur, and a sinister smile crossed over his face. The +contradictions of his own thoughts came home to him suddenly, for was it +not the case that his physical strength alone, no matter what his skill, +would be of small service to him in a dark corner of contest? Primitive +ideas could only hold in a primitive world. His real weapon was his +brain, that which civilisation had given him in lieu of primitive prowess +and the giant's strength. + +They had come to a long piece of corduroy-road, and the horse's hoofs +struck rumbling hollow sounds from the floor of cedar logs. There was a +swamp on one side where fire-flies were flickering, and there flashed +into Charley Steele's mind some verses he had once learned at school: + + "They made her a grave too cold and damp + For a soul so warm and true--" + +It kept repeating itself in his brain in a strange dreary monotone. + +"Stop the horse. I'll walk the rest of the way," he said presently to +the groom. "You needn't come for me, Finn; I'll walk back as far as the +Marochal Tavern. At twelve sharp I'll be there. Give yourself a drink +and some supper"--he put a dollar into the man's hand--"and no white +whiskey, mind: a bottle of beer and a leg of mutton, that's the thing." +He nodded his head, and by the light of the moon walked away smartly down +the corduroy-road through the shadows of the swamp. Finn the groom +looked after him. + +"Well, if he ain't a queer dick! A reg'lar 'centric--but a reg'lar +brick, cutting a wide swathe as he goes. He's a tip-topper; and he's a +sort of tough too--a sort of a kind of a tough. Well, it's none of my +business. Get up!" he added to the horse, and turning round in the road +with difficulty, he drove back a mile to the Tavern Marochal for his beer +and mutton--and white whiskey. + +Charley stepped on briskly, his shining leather shoes, straw hat, and +light cane in no good keeping with his surroundings. He was thinking +that he had never been in such a mood for talk with Suzon Charlemagne. +Charlemagne's tavern of the Cote Dorion was known over half a province, +and its patrons carried news of it half across a continent. Suzon +Charlemagne--a girl of the people, a tavern-girl, a friend of sulking, +coarse river-drivers! But she had an alert precision of brain, an +instinct that clove through wastes of mental underbrush to the tree of +knowledge. Her mental sight was as keen and accurate as that which runs +along the rifle-barrel of the great hunter with the red deer in view. +Suzon Charlemagne no company for Charley Steele? What did it matter! He +had entered into other people's lives to-day, had played their games with +them and for them, and now he would play his own game, live his own life +in his own way through the rest of this day. He thirsted for some sort +of combat, for the sharp contrasts of life, for the common and the base; +he thirsted even for the white whiskey against which he had warned +his groom. He was reckless--not blindly, but wilfully, wildly reckless, +caring not at all what fate or penalty might come his way. + +"What do I care!" he said to himself. "I shall never squeal at any +penalty. I shall never say in the great round-up that I was weak and +I fell. I'll take my gruel expecting it, not fearing it--if there is +to be any gruel anywhere, or any round-up anywhere!" + +A figure suddenly appeared coming round the bend of the road before him. +It was Rouge Gosselin. Rouge Gosselin was inclined to speak. Some +satanic whim or malicious foppery made Charley stare him blankly in the +face. The monocle and the stare stopped the bon soir and the friendly +warning on Rouge Gosselin's tongue, and the pilot passed on with a +muttered oath. + +Gosselin had not gone far, however, before he suddenly stopped and +laughed outright, for at the bottom he had great good-nature, in keeping +with his "six-foot" height, and his temper was friendly if quick. It +seemed so absurd, so audacious, that a man could act like Charley Steele, +that he at once became interested in the phenomenon, and followed slowly +after Charley, saying as he went: "Tiens, there will be things to watch +to-night!" + +Before Charley was within five hundred yards of the tavern he could hear +the laughter and song coming from the old seigneury which Theophile +Charlemagne called now the Cote Dorion Hotel, after the name given to the +point on which the house stood. Low and wide-roofed, with dormer windows +and a wide stoop in front, and walls three feet thick, behind, on the +river side, it hung over the water, its narrow veranda supported by +piles, with steps down to the water-side. Seldom was there an hour when +boats were not tied to these steps. Summer and winter the tavern was a +place of resort. Inside, the low ceiling, the broad rafters, the great +fireplace, the well-worn floor, the deep windows, the wooden cross let +into the wall, and the varied and picturesque humanity frequenting this +great room, gave it an air of romance. Yet there were people who called +the tavern a "shebang"--slander as it was against Suzon Charlemagne, +which every river-driver and woodsman and habitant who frequented the +place would have resented with violence. It was because they thought +Charley Steele slandered the girl and the place in his mind, that the +river-drivers had sworn they would make it hot for him if he came again. +Charley was the last man in the world to undeceive them by words. + +When he coolly walked into the great room, where a half-dozen of them +were already assembled, drinking white "whiskey-wine," he had no +intention of setting himself right. He raised his hat cavalierly to +Suzon and shook hands with her. + +He took no notice of the men around him. "Brandy, please!" he said. +"Why do I drink, do you say?" he added, as Suzon placed the bottle and +glass before him. + +She was silent for an instant, then she said gravely: "Perhaps because +you like it; perhaps because something was left out of you when you were +made, and--" + +She paused and went no further, for a red-shirted river-driver with brass +rings in his ears came close to them, and called gruffly for whiskey. He +glowered at Charley, who looked at him indolently, then raised his glass +towards Suzon and drank the brandy. + +"Pish!" said Red Shirt, and, turning round, joined his comrades. It was +clear he wanted a pretext to quarrel. + +"Perhaps because you like it; perhaps because something was left out of +you when you were made--" Charley smiled pleasantly as Suzon came over to +him again. "You've answered the question," he said, "and struck the +thing at the centre. Which is it? The difficulty to decide which has +divided the world. If it's only a physical craving, it means that we are +materialists naturally, and that the soil from which the grape came is +the soil that's in us; that it is the body feeding on itself all the +time; that like returns to like, and we live a little together, and then +mould together for ever and ever, amen. If it isn't a natural craving-- +like to like--it's a proof of immortality, for it represents the wild +wish to forget the world, to be in another medium. + +"I am only myself when I am drunk. Liquor makes me human. At other times +I'm merely Charley Steele! Now isn't it funny, this sort of talk here?" + +"I don't know about that," she answered, "if, as you say, it's natural. +This tavern's the only place I have to think in, and what seems to you +funny is a sort of ordinary fact to me." + +"Right again, ma belle Suzon. Nothing's incongruous. I've never felt so +much like singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs as when I've been +drinking. I remember the last time I was squiffy I sang all the way home +that old nursery hymn: + + "'On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you. + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!'" + +"I should have liked to hear you sing it--sure!" said Suzon, laughing. + +Charley tossed off a quarter-tumbler of brandy, which, instead of +flushing the face, seemed only to deepen the whiteness of the skin, +showing up more brightly the spots of colour in the cheeks, that white +and red which had made him known as Beauty Steele. With a whimsical +humour, behind which was the natural disposition of the man to do what he +listed without thinking of the consequences, he suddenly began singing, +in a voice shaken a little now by drink, but full of a curious magnetism: + + "On the other side of Jordan--" + +"Oh, don't; please don't!" said the girl, in fear, for she saw two +river-drivers entering the door, one of whom had sworn he would do for +Charley Steele if ever he crossed his path. + +"Oh, don't--M'sieu' Charley!" she again urged. The "Charley" caught his +ear, and the daring in his eye brightened still more. He was ready for +any change or chance to-night, was standing on the verge of any +adventure, the most reckless soul in Christendom. + + "On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you!" + +What more incongruous thing than this flaneur in patent leathers and red +tie, this "hell-of-a-fellow with a pane of glass in his eye," as Jake +Hough, the horse-doctor, afterwards said, surrounded by red and blue- +shirted river-men, woodsmen, loafers, and toughs, singing a sacred song +with all the unction of a choir-boy; with a magnetism, too, that did its +work in spite of all prejudice? It was as if he were counsel in one of +those cases when, the minds and sympathies of judge and jury at first +arrayed against him, he had irresistibly cloven his way to their +judgment--not stealing away their hearts, but governing, dominating their +intelligences. Whenever he had done this he had been drinking hard, was +in a mental world created by drink, serene, clear-eyed, in which his +brain worked like an invincible machine, perfect and powerful. Was it +the case that, as he himself suggested, he was never so natural as when +under this influence? That then and only then the real man spoke, that +then and only then the primitive soul awakened, that it supplied the +thing left out of him at birth? + + "There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!" + +One, two verses he sang as the men, at first snorting and scornful, +shuffled angrily; then Jake Hough, the English horse-doctor, roared in +the refrain: + + "There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!" + +Upon which, carried away, every one of them roared, gurgled, or shouted + + "There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you!" + +Rouge Gosselin, who had entered during the singing, now spoke up quickly +in French: + +"A sermon now, M'sieu'!" + +Charley took his monocle out of his eye and put it back again. Now each +man present seemed singled out for an attack by this little battery of +glass. He did not reply directly to Rouge Gosselin, but standing +perfectly still, with one hand resting on the counter at which Suzon +stood, he prepared to speak. + +Suzon did not attempt to stop him now, but gazed at him in a sort of awe. +These men present were Catholics, and held religion in superstitious +respect, however far from practising its precepts. Many of them had been +profane and blasphemous in their time; may have sworn "sacre bapteme!" +one of the worst oaths of their race; but it had been done in the +wildness of anger, and they were little likely to endure from Charley +Steele any word that sounded like blasphemy. Besides, the world said +that he was an infidel, and that was enough for bitter prejudice. + +In the pause--very short--before Charley began speaking, Suzon's +fingers stole to his on the counter and pressed them quickly. He made no +response; he was scarcely aware of it. He was in a kind of dream. In an +even, conversational tone, in French at once idiomatic and very simple, +he began: + +"My dear friends, this is a world where men get tired. If they work they +get tired, and if they play they get tired. If they look straight ahead +of them they walk straight, but then they get blind by-and-by; if they +look round them and get open-eyed, their feet stumble and they fall. It +is a world of contradictions. If a man drinks much he loses his head, +and if he doesn't drink at all he loses heart. If he asks questions he +gets into trouble, and if he doesn't ask them he gets old before his +time. Take the hymn we have just sung: + + "'On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you!' + +"We all like that, because we get tired, and it isn't always summer, and +nothing blooms all the year round. We get up early and we work late, and +we sleep hard, and when the weather is good and wages good, and there's +plenty in the house, we stay sober and we sadly sing, 'On the other side +of Jordan'; but when the weather's heavy and funds scarce, and the pork +and molasses and bread come hard, we get drunk, and we sing the comic +chanson 'Brigadier, vows avez raison!' We've been singing a sad song +to-night when we're feeling happy. We didn't think whether it was sad or +not, we only knew it pleased our ears, and we wanted those sweet fields +of Eden, and the blooming tree of life, and the rest under the tree. But +ask a question or two. Where is the other side of Jordan? Do you go up +to it, or down to it? And how do you go? And those sweet fields of +Eden, what do they look like, and how many will they hold? Isn't it +clear that the things that make us happiest in this world are the things +we go for blind?" + +He paused. Now a dozen men came a step or two nearer, and crowded close +together, looking over each others' shoulders at him with sharp, +wondering eyes. + +"Isn't that so?" he continued. "Do you realise that no man knows where +that Jordan and those fields are, and what the flower of the tree of life +looks like? Let us ask a question again. Why is it that the one being +in all the world who could tell us anything about it, the one being who +had ever seen Jordan or Eden or that tree of life-in fact, the one of all +creation who could describe heaven, never told? Isn't it queer? Here he +was--that one man-standing just as I am among you, and round him were the +men who followed him, all ordinary men, with ordinary curiosity. And he +said he had come down from heaven, and for years they were with him, and +yet they never asked him what that heaven was like: what it looked like, +what it felt like, what sort of life they lived there, what manner of +folk were the angels, what was the appearance of God. Why didn't they +ask, and why didn't he answer? People must have kept asking that +question afterwards, for a man called John answered it. He described, +as only an oriental Jew would or could, a place all precious stones and +gold and jewels and candles, in oriental language very splendid and +auriferous. But why didn't those twelve men ask the One Man who knew, +and why didn't the One answer? And why didn't the One tell without being +asked?" + +He paused again, and now there came a shuffling and a murmuring, a +curious rumble, a hard breathing, for Charley had touched with steely +finger the tender places in the natures of these Catholics, who, whatever +their lives, held fast to the immemorial form, the sacredness of Mother +Church. They were ever ready to step into the galley which should bear +them all home, with the invisible rowers of God at the oars, down the +wild rapids, to the haven of St. Peter. There was savagery in their +faces now. + +He saw, and he could not refrain from smiling as he stretched out his +hand to them again with a little quieting gesture, and continued +soothingly: + +"But why should we ask? There's a thing called electricity. Well, you +know that if you take a slice out of anything, less remains behind. We +can take the air out of this room, and scarcely leave any in it. + +"We take a drink out of a bottle, and certainly there isn't as much left +in it! But the queer thing is that with this electricity you take it +away and just as much remains. It goes out from your toe, rushes away to +Timbuctoo, and is back in your toe before you can wink. Why? No one +knows. What's the good of asking? You can't see it: you can only see +what it does. What good would it do us if we knew all about it? There +it is, and it's going to revolutionise the world. It's no good asking-- +no one knows what it is and where it comes from, or what it looks like. +It's better to go it blind, because you feel the power, though you can't +see where it comes from. You can't tell where the fields of Eden are, +but you believe they're somewhere, and that you'll get to them some day. +So say your prayers, believe all you can, don't ask questions, and don't +try to answer 'em; and remember that Charley Steele preached to you the +fear of the Lord at the Cote Dorion, and wound up the service with the +fine old hymn: + + "'I'll away, I'll away, to the promised land--'" + +A whole verse of this camp-meeting hymn he sang in an ominous silence +now, for it had crept into their minds that the hymn they had previously +sung so loudly was a Protestant hymn, and that this was another +Protestant hymn of the rankest sort. When he stopped singing and pushed +over his glass for Suzon to fill it, the crowd were noiseless and silent +for a moment, for the spell was still on them. They did not recover +themselves until they saw him lift his glass to Suzon, his back on them, +again insolently oblivious of them all. They could not see his face, but +they could see the face of Suzon Charlemagne, and they misunderstood the +light in her eye, the flush on her cheek. They set it down to a personal +interest in Charley Steele. + +Charley had, however, thrown a spell over her in another fashion. In her +eye, in her face, was admiration, the sympathy of a strong intelligence, +the wonder of a mind in the presence of its master, but they thought they +saw passion, love, desire, in her face--in the face of their Suzon, the +pride of the river, the flower of the Cote Dorion. Not alone because +Charley had blasphemed against religion did they hate him at this moment, +but because every heart was scorched with envy and jealousy--the black +unreasoning jealousy which the unlettered, the dull, the crude, feels for +the lettered, the able and the outwardly refined. + +Charley was back again in the unfriendly climate of his natural life. +Suzon felt the troubled air round them, saw the dark looks on the faces +of the men, and was at once afraid and elated. She loved the glow of +excitement, she had a keen sense of danger, but she also felt that in any +possible trouble to-night the chances of escape would be small for the +man before her. + +He pushed out his glass again. She mechanically poured brandy into it. + +"You've had more than enough," she said, in a low voice. + +"Every man knows his own capacity, Suzon. Love me little, love me long," +he added, again raising his glass to her, as the men behind suddenly +moved forward upon the bar. + +"Don't--for God's sake!" she whispered hastily. "Do go--or there'll be +trouble!" + +The black face of Theophile Charlemagne was also turned anxiously in +Charley's direction as he pushed out glasses for those who called for +liquor. + +"Oh, do, do go--like a good soul!" Suzon urged. Charley laughed +disdainfully. "Like a good soul!" Had it come to this, that Suzon +pleaded with him as if he were a foolish, obstreperous child! + +"Faithless and unbelieving!" he said to Suzon in English. "Didn't I +play my game well a minute ago--eh--eh--eh, Suzon?" + +"Oh, yes, yes, M'sieu'," she replied in English; "but now you are +differen' and so are they. You must goah, so, you must!" + +He laughed again, a queer sardonic sort of laugh, yet he put out his hand +and touched the girl's arm lightly with a forefinger. "I am a Quaker +born; I never stir till the spirit moves me," he said. + +He scented conflict, and his spirits rose at the thought. Some reckless +demon of adventure possessed him; some fatalistic courage was upon him. +So far as the eye could see, the liquor he had drunk had done no more +than darken the blue of his eye, for his hand was steady, his body was +well poised, his look was direct; there seemed some strange electric +force in leash behind his face, a watchful yet nonchalant energy of +spirit, joined to an indolent pose of body. As the girl looked at him +something of his unreckoning courage passed into her. Somehow she +believed in him, felt that by some wild chance he might again conquer +this truculent element now almost surrounding him. She spoke quickly to +her step-father. "He won't go. What can we do?" + +"You go, and he'll follow," said Theophile, who didn't want a row-- +a dangerous row-in his house. + +"No, he won't," she said; "and I don't believe they'd let him follow me." + +There was no time to say more. The crowd were insistent and restless +now. They seemed to have a plan of campaign, and they began to carry it +out. First one, then another, brushed roughly against Charley. Cool and +collected, he refused to accept the insults. + +"Pardon," he said, in each case; "I am very awkward." + +He smiled all the time; he seemed waiting. The pushing and crowding +became worse. "Don't mention it," he said. "You should learn how to +carry your liquor in your legs." + +Suddenly he changed from apology to attack. He talked at them with a +cheerful scorn, a deprecating impertinence, as though they were children; +he chided them with patient imprecations. This confused them for a +moment and cleared a small space around him. There was no defiance in +his aspect, no aggressiveness of manner; he was as quiet as though it +were a drawing-room and he a master of monologues. He hurled original +epithets at them in well-cadenced French, he called them what he listed, +but in language which half-veiled the insults--the more infuriating to +his hearers because they did not perfectly understand. + +Suddenly a low-set fellow, with brass rings in his ears, pulled off his +coat and threw it on the floor. "I'll eat your heart," he said, and +rolled up blue sleeves along a hairy arm. + +"My child," said Charley, "be careful what you eat. Take up your coat +again, and learn that it is only dogs that delight to bark and bite. Our +little hands were never made to tear each other's eyes." + +The low-set fellow made a rush forward, but Rouge Gosselin held him back. +"No, no, Jougon," he said. "I have the oldest grudge." + +Jougon struggled with Rouge Gosselin. "Be good, Jougon," said Charley. + +As he spoke a heavy tumbler flew from the other side of the room. +Charley saw the missile thrown and dodged. It missed his temple, but +caught the rim of his straw hat, carrying it off his head, and crashed +into a lantern hanging against the wall, putting out the light. The room +was only lighted now by another lantern on the other side of the room. +Charley stooped, picked up his hat, and put it on his head again coolly. + +"Stop that, or I'll clear the bar!" cried Theophile Charlemagne, taking +the pistol Suzon slipped into his hand. The sight of the pistol drove +the men wild, and more than one snatched at the knife in his belt. + +At that instant there pushed forward into the clear space beside Charley +Steele the great figure of Jake Hough, the horse-doctor, the strongest +man, and the most popular Englishman on the river. He took his stand by +Charley, raised his great hand, smote him in the small of his back, and +said: + +"By the Lord, you have sand, and I'll stand by you!" Under the friendly +but heavy stroke the monocle shot from Charley's eye the length of the +string. Charley lifted it again, put it up, and staring hard at Jake, +coolly said: + +"I beg your pardon--but have I ever--been introduced to you?" + +What unbelievable indifference to danger, what disdain to friendliness, +made Charley act as he did is a matter for speculation. It was throwing +away his one chance; it was foppery on the scaffold--an incorrigible +affectation or a relentless purpose. + +Jake Hough strode forward into the crowd, rage in his eye. "Go to the +devil, then, and take care of yourself!" he said roughly. + +"Please," said Charley. + +They were the last words he uttered that night, for suddenly the other +lantern went out, there was a rush and a struggle, a muffled groan, a +shrill woman's voice, a scramble and hurrying feet, a noise of a +something splashing heavily in the water outside. When the lights were +up again the room was empty, save for Theophile Charlemagne, Jake Hough, +and Suzon, who lay in a faint on the floor with a nasty bruise on her +forehead. + +A score of river-drivers were scattering into the country-side, and +somewhere in the black river, alive or dead, was Charley Steele. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +He had had acquaintances, but never friendships, and never loves +He has wheeled his nuptial bed into the street +He left his fellow-citizens very much alone +I am only myself when I am drunk +I should remember to forget it +Liquor makes me human +Nervous legs at a gallop +So say your prayers, believe all you can, don't ask questions +Was not civilisation a mistake +Who knows! + + + + + + +THE RIGHT OF WAY + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 2. + + +IX. OLD DEBTS FOR NEW +X. THE WAY IN AND THE WAY OUT +XI. THE RAISING OF THE CURTAIN +XII. THE COMING OF ROSALIE +XIII. HOW CHARLEY WENT ADVENTURING, AND WHAT HE FOUND +XIV. ROSALIE, CHARLEY, AND THE MAN THE WIDOW PLOMONDON JILTED +XV. THE MARK IN THE PAPER +XVI. MADAME DAUPHIN HAS A MISSION +XVII. THE TAILOR MAKES A MIDNIGHT FORAY +XVIII. THE STEALING OF THE CROSS + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +OLD DEBTS FOR NEW + +Jo Portugtais was breaking the law of the river--he was running a little +raft down the stream at night, instead of tying up at sundown and camping +on the shore, or sitting snugly over cooking-pot by the little wooden +caboose on his raft. But defiance of custom and tradition was a habit +with Jo Portugais. He had lived in his own way many a year, and he was +likely to do so till the end, though he was a young man yet. He had many +professions, or rather many gifts, which he practised as it pleased him. +He was river-driver, woodsman, hunter, carpenter, guide, as whim or +opportunity came to him. On the evening when Charley Steele met with his +mishap he was a river-driver--or so it seemed. He had been up nor'west a +hundred and fifty miles, and he had come down-stream alone with his raft- +which in the usual course should take two men to guide it--through +slides, over rapids, and in strong currents. Defying the code of the +river, with only one small light at the rear of his raft, he voyaged the +swift current towards his home, which, when he arrived opposite the Cote +Dorion, was still a hundred miles below. He had watched the lights in +the river-drivers' camps, had seen the men beside the fires, and had +drifted on, with no temptation to join in the songs floating out over the +dark water, to share the contents of the jugs raised to boisterous lips, +or to thrust his hand into the greasy cooking-pot for a succulent bone. + +He drifted on until he came opposite Charlemagne's tavern. Here the +current carried him inshore. He saw the dim light, he saw dark figures +in the bar-room, he even got a glimpse of Suzon Charlemagne. He dropped +the house behind quickly, but looked back, leaning on the oar and +thinking how swift was the rush of the current past the tavern. His eyes +were on the tavern door and the light shining through it. Suddenly the +light disappeared, and the door vanished into darkness. He heard a +scuffle, and then a heavy splash. + +"There's trouble there," said Jo Portugais, straining his eyes through +the night, for a kind of low roar, dwindling to a loud whispering, and +then a noise of hurrying feet, came down the stream, and he could dimly +see dark figures running away into the night by different paths. + +"Some dirty work, very sure," said Jo Portugais, and his eyes travelled +back over the dark water like a lynx's, for the splash was in his ear, +and a sort of prescience possessed him. He could not stop his raft. It +must go on down the current, or be swerved to the shore, to be fastened. + +"God knows, it had an ugly sound," said Jo Portugais, and again strained +his eyes and ears. He shifted his position and took another oar, where +the raft-lantern might not throw a reflection upon the water. He saw a +light shine again through the tavern doorway, then a dark object block +the light, and a head thrust forward towards the river as though +listening. + +At this moment he fancied he saw something in the water nearing him. He +stretched his neck. Yes, there was something. + +"It's a man. God save us--was it murder?" said Jo Portugais, and +shuddered. "Was it murder?" + +The body moved more swiftly than the raft. There was a hand thrust up-- +two hands. + +"He's alive!" said Jo Portugais, and, hurriedly pulling round his waist +a rope tied to a timber, jumped into the water. + +Three minutes later, on the raft, he was examining a wound in the head of +an insensible man. + +As his hand wandered over the body towards the heart, it touched +something that rattled against a button. He picked it up mechanically +and held it to the light. It was an eye-glass. + +"My God!" said Jo Portugais, and peered into the man's face. "It's +him." Then he remembered the last words the man had spoken to him-- +"Get out of my sight. You're as guilty as hell!" But his heart yearned +towards the man nevertheless. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE WAY IN AND THE WAY OUT + +In his own world of the parish of Chaudiere Jo Portugais was counted a +widely travelled man. He had adventured freely on the great rivers and +in the forests, and had journeyed up towards Hudson's Bay farther than +any man in seven parishes. + +Jo's father and mother had both died in one year--when he was twenty- +five. That year had turned him from a clean-shaven cheerful boy into a +morose bearded man who looked forty, for it had been marked by his +disappearance from Chaudiere and his return at the end of it, to find his +mother dead and his father dying broken-hearted. What had driven Jo from +home only his father knew; what had happened to him during that year only +Jo himself knew, and he told no one, not even his dying father. + +A mystery surrounded him, and no one pierced it. He was a figure apart +in Chaudiere parish. A dreadful memory that haunted him, carried him out +of the village, which clustered round the parish church, into Vadrome +Mountain, three miles away, where he lived apart from all his kind. It +was here he brought the man with the eye-glass one early dawn, after two +nights and two days on the river, pulling him up the long hill in a low +cart with his strong faithful dogs, hitching himself with them and +toiling upwards through the dark. In his three-roomed hut he laid his +charge down upon a pile of bear-skins, and tended him with a strange +gentleness, bathing the wound in the head and binding it again and again. + +The next morning the sick man opened his eyes heavily. He then began +fumbling mechanically on his breast. At last his fingers found his +monocle. He feebly put it to his eye, and looked at Jo in a strange, +questioning, uncomprehending way. + +"I beg--your pardon," he said haltingly, "have I ever--been intro--" +Suddenly his eyes closed, a frown gathered on his forehead. After a +minute his eyes opened again, and he gazed with painful, pathetic +seriousness at Jo. This grew to a kind of childish terror; then slowly, +as a shadow passes, the perplexity, anxiety and terror cleared away, and +left his forehead calm, his eyes unvexed and peaceful. The monocle +dropped, and he did not heed it. At length he said wearily, and with an +incredibly simple dependence: + +"I am thirsty now." + +Jo lifted a wooden bowl to his lips, and he drank, drank, drank to +repletion. When he had finished he patted Jo's shoulder. + +"I am always thirsty," he said. "I shall be hungry too. I always am." + +Jo brought him some milk and bread in a bowl. When the sick man had +eaten and drunk the bowlful to the last drop and crumb, he lay back with +a sigh of content, but trembling from weakness and the strain, though +Jo's hand had been under his head, and he had been fed like a little +child. + +All day he lay and watched Jo as he worked, as he came and went. +Sometimes he put his hand to his head and said to Jo: "It hurts." +Then Jo would cool the wound with fresh water from the mountain spring, +and he would drag down the bowl to drink from it greedily. + +It was as though he could never get enough water to drink. So the first +day in the hut at Vadrome Mountain passed without questioning on the part +of either Charley Steele or his host. + +With good reason. Jo Portugais saw that memory was gone; that the past +was blotted out. He had watched that first terrible struggle of memory +to reassert itself, as the eyes mechanically looked out upon new and +strange surroundings, but it was only the automatic habit of the sight, +the fumbling of the blind soul in its cell-fumbling for the latch which +it could not find, for the door which would not open. The first day on +the raft, as Charley had opened his eyes upon the world again after that +awful night at the Cote Dorion, Jo. had seen that same blank +uncomprehending look--as it were, the first look of a mind upon the +world. This time he saw, and understood what he saw, and spoke as men +speak, but with no knowledge or memory behind it--only the involuntary +action of muscle and mind repeated from the vanished past. + +Charley Steele was as a little child, and having no past, and +comprehending in the present only its limited physical needs and motions, +he had no hope, no future, no understanding. In three days he was upon +his feet, and in four he walked out of doors and followed Jo into the +woods, and watched him fell a tree and do a woodsman's work. Indoors he +regarded all Jo did with eager interest and a pleased, complacent look, +and readily did as he was told. He seldom spoke--not above three or four +times a day, and then simply and directly, and only concerning his wants. +From first to last he never asked a question, and there was never any +inquiry by look or word. A hundred and twenty miles lay between him and +his old home, between him and Kathleen and Billy and Jean Jolicoeur's +saloon, but between him and his past life the unending miles of eternity +intervened. He was removed from it as completely as though he were dead +and buried. + +A month went by. Sometimes Jo went down to the village below, and then, +at first, he locked the door of the house behind him upon Charley. +Against this Charley made no motion and said no word, but patiently +awaited Jo's return. So it was that, at last, Jo made no attempt to lock +the door, but with a nod or a good-bye left him alone. When Charley saw +him returning he would go to meet him, and shake hands with him, and say +"Good-day," and then would come in with him and help him get supper or do +the work of the house. + +Since Charley came no one had visited the house, for there were no paths +beyond it, and no one came to the Vadrome Mountain, save by chance. But +after two months had gone the Cure came. Twice a year the Cure made it a +point to visit Jo in the interests of his soul, though the visits came to +little, for Jo never went to confession, and seldom to mass. On this +occasion the Cure arrived when Jo was out in the woods. He discovered +Charley. Charley made no answer to his astonished and friendly greeting, +but watched him with a wide-eyed anxiety till the Cure seated himself at +the door to await Jo's coming. Presently, as he sat there, Charley, who +had studied his face as a child studies the unfamiliar face of a +stranger, brought him a bowl of bread and milk and put it in his hands. +The Cure smiled and thanked him, and Charley smiled in return and said: +"It is very good." + +As the Cure ate, Charley watched him with satisfaction, and nodded at him +kindly. + +When Jo came he lied to the Cure. He said he had found Charley wandering +in the woods, with a wound in his head, and had brought him home with him +and cared for him. Forty miles away he had found him. + +The Cure was perplexed. What was there to do? He believed what Jo said. +So far as he knew, Jo had never lied to him before, and he thought he +understood Jo's interest in this man with the look of a child and no +memory: Jo's life was terribly lonely; he had no one to care for, and no +one cared for him; here was what might comfort him! Through this +helpless man might come a way to Jo's own good. So he argued with +himself. + +What to do? Tell the story to the world by writing to the newspaper at +Quebec? Jo pooh-poohed this. Wait till the man's memory came back? +Would it come back--what chance was there of its ever coming back? Jo +said that they ought to wait and see--wait awhile, and then, if his +memory did not return, they would try to find his friends, by publishing +his story abroad. + +Chaudiere was far from anywhere: it knew little of the world, and the +world knew naught of it, and this was a large problem for the Cure. +Perhaps Jo was right, he thought. The man was being well cared for, and +what more could be wished at the moment? The Cure was a simple man, and +when Jo urged that if the sick man could get well anywhere in the world +it would be at Vadrome Mountain in Chaudiere, the Cure's parochial pride +was roused, and he was ready to believe all Jo said. He also saw reason +in Jo's request that the village should not be told of the sick man's +presence. Before he left, the Cure knelt down and prayed, "for the good +of this poor mortal's soul and body." + +As he prayed, Charley knelt down also, and kept his eyes-calm unwondering +eyes-full fixed on the good M. Loisel, whose grey hair, thin peaceful +face, and dark brown eyes made a noble picture of patience and devotion. + +When the Cure shook him by the hand, murmuring in good-bye, "God be +gracious to thee, my son," Charley nodded in a friendly way. He watched +the departing figure till it disappeared over the crest of the hill. + +This day marked an epoch in the solitude of the hut on Vadrome Mountain. +Jo had an inspiration. He got a second set of carpenter's tools, and +straightway began to build a new room to the house. He gave the extra +set of tools to Charley with an encouraging word. For the first time +since he had been brought here, Charley's face took on a look of +interest. In half-an-hour he was at work, smiling and perspiring, and +quickly learning the craft. He seldom spoke, but he sometimes laughed a +mirthful, natural boy's laugh of good spirits and contentment. From that +day his interest in things increased, and before two months went round, +while yet it was late autumn, he looked in perfect health. He ate +moderately, drank a great deal of water, and slept half the circle of the +clock each day. His skin was like silk; the colour of his face was as +that of an apple; he was more than ever Beauty Steele. The Cure came +two or three times, and Charley spoke to him but never held conversation, +and no word concerning the past ever passed his tongue, nor did he have +memory of what was said to him from one day to the next. A hundred ways +Jo had tried to rouse his memory. But the words Cote Dorion had no +meaning to him, and he listened blankly to all names and phrases once so +familiar. Yet he spoke French and English in a slow, passive, +involuntary way. All was automatic, mechanical. + +The weeks again wore on, and autumn became winter, and then at last one +day the Cure came, bringing his brother, a great Parisian surgeon lately +arrived from France on a short visit. The Cure had told his brother the +story, and had been met by a keen, astonished interest in the unknown man +on Vadrome Mountain. A slight pressure on the brain from accident had +before now produced loss of memory--the great man's professional +curiosity was aroused: he saw a nice piece of surgical work ready +to his hand; he asked to be taken to Vadrome Mountain. + +Now the Cure had lived long out of the world, and was not in touch with +the swift-minded action and adventuring intellects of such men as his +brother, Marcel Loisel. Was it not tempting Providence, a surgical +operation? He was so used to people getting ill and getting well without +a doctor--the nearest was twenty miles distant--or getting ill and dying +in what seemed a natural and preordained way, that to cut open a man's +head and look into his brain, and do this or that to his skull, seemed +almost sinful. Was it not better to wait and see if the poor man would +not recover in God's appointed time? + +In answer to his sensitively eager and diverse questions, Marcel Loisel +replied that his dear Cure was merely mediaeval, and that he had +sacrificed his mental powers on the altar of a simple faith, which might +remove mountains but was of no value in a case like this, where, clearly, +surgery was the only providence. + +At this the Cure got to his feet, came over, laid his hand on his +brother's shoulder, and said, with tears in his eyes: + +"Marcel, you shock me. Indeed you shock me!" + +Then he twisted a knot in his cassock cords, and added "Come then, +Marcel. We will go to him. And may God guide us aright!" + +That afternoon the two grey-haired men visited Vadrome Mountain, and +there they found Charley at work in the little room that the two men had +built. Charley nodded pleasantly when the Cure introduced his brother, +but showed no further interest at first. He went on working at the +cupboard under his hand. His cap was off and his hair was a little +rumpled where the wound had been, for he had a habit of rubbing the place +now and then--an abstracted, sensitive motion--although he seemed to +suffer no pain. The surgeon's eyes fastened on the place, and as Charley +worked and his brother talked, he studied the man, the scar, the contour +of the head. At last he came up to Charley and softly placed his fingers +on the scar, feeling the skull. Charley turned quickly. + +There was something in the long, piercing look of the surgeon which +seemed to come through limitless space to the sleeping and imprisoned +memory of Charley's sick mind. A confused, anxious, half-fearful look +crept into the wide blue eyes. It was like a troubled ghost, flitting +along the boundaries of sight and sense, and leaving a chill and a +horrified wonder behind. The surgeon gazed on, and the trouble in +Charley's eye passed to his face, stayed an instant. Then he turned away +to Jo Portugais. "I am thirsty now," he said, and he touched his lips in +the way he was wont to do in those countless ages ago, when, millions +upon millions of miles away, people said: "There goes Charley Steele!" + +"I am thirsty now," and that touch of the lip with the tongue, were a +revelation to the surgeon. + +A half-hour later he was walking homeward with the Cure. Jo accompanied +them for a distance. As they emerged into the wider road-paths that +began half-way down the mountain, the Cure, who had watched his brother's +face for a long time in silence, said: + +"What is in your mind, Marcel?" The surgeon turned with a half-smile. + +"He is happy now. No memory, no conscience, no pain, no responsibility, +no trouble--nothing behind or before. Is it good to bring him back?" + +The Cure had thought it all over, and he had wholly changed his mind +since that first talk with his brother. "To save a mind, Marcel!" he +said. + +"Then to save a soul?" suggested the surgeon. "Would he thank me?" + +"It is our duty to save him." + +"Body and mind and soul, eh? And if I look after the body and the mind?" + +"His soul is in God's hands, Marcel." + +"But will he thank me? How can you tell what sorrows, what troubles, he +has had? What struggles, temptations, sins? He has none now, of any +sort; not a stain, physical or moral." + +"That is not life, Marcel." + +"Well, well, you have changed. This morning it was I who would, and you +hesitated." + +"I see differently now, Marcel." + +The surgeon put a hand playfully on his brother's shoulder. + +"Did you think, my dear Prosper, that I should hesitate? Am I a +sentimentalist? But what will he say? + +"We need not think of that, Marcel." + +"But yet suppose that with memory come again sin and shame--even crime?" + +"We will pray for him." "But if he isn't a Catholic?" + +"One must pray for sinners," said the Curb, after a silence. + +This time the surgeon laid a hand on the shoulder of his brother +affectionately. "Upon my soul, dear Prosper, you almost persuade me to +be reactionary and mediaeval." + +The Curb turned half uneasily towards Jo, who was following at a little +distance. This seemed hardly the sort of thing for him to hear. + +"You had better return now, Jo," he said. + +"As you wish, M'sieu'," Jo answered, then looked inquiringly at the +surgeon. + +"In about five days, Portugais. Have you a steady hand and a quick eye?" + +Jo spread out his hands in deprecation, and turned to the Curb, as though +for him to answer. + +"Jo is something of a physician and surgeon too, Marcel. He has a gift. +He has cured many in the parish with his herbs and tinctures, and he has +set legs and arms successfully." + +The surgeon eyed Jo humorously, but kindly. "He is probably as good a +doctor as some of us. Medicine is a gift, surgery is a gift and an art. +You shall hear from me, Portugais." He looked again keenly at Jo. "You +have not given him 'herbs and tinctures'?" + +"Nothing, M'sieu'." + +"Very sensible. Good-day, Portugais." + +"Good-day, my son," said the priest, and raised his fingers in +benediction, as Jo turned and quickly retraced his steps. + +"Why did you ask him if he had given the poor man any herbs or tinctures, +Marcel?" said the priest. + +"Because those quack tinctures have whiskey in them." + +"What do you mean?" + +"Whiskey in any form would be bad for him," the surgeon answered +evasively. + +But to himself he kept saying: "The man was a drunkard--he was a +drunkard." + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE RAISING OF THE CURTAIN + +M. Marcel Loisel did his work with a masterly precision, with the aid of +his brother and Portugais. The man under the instruments, not wholly +insensible, groaned once or twice. Once or twice, too, his eyes opened +with a dumb hunted look, then closed as with an irresistible weariness. +When the work was over, and every stain or sign of surgery removed, sleep +came down on the bed--a deep and saturating sleep, which seemed to fill +the room with peace. For hours the surgeon sat beside the couch, now and +again feeling the pulse, wetting the hot lips, touching the forehead with +his palm. At last, with a look of satisfaction, he came forward to where +Jo and the Cure sat beside the fire. + +"It is all right," he said. "Let him sleep as long as he will." He +turned again to the bed. "I wish I could stay to see the end of it. +Is there no chance, Prosper?" he added to the priest. + +"Impossible, Marcel. You must have sleep. You have a seventy-mile drive +before you to-morrow, and sixty the next day. You can only reach the +port now by starting at daylight to-morrow." + +So it was that Marcel Loisel, the great surgeon, was compelled to leave +Chaudiere before he knew that the memory of the man who had been under +his knife had actually returned to him. He had, however, no doubt in +his own mind, and he was confident that there could be no physical harm +from the operation. Sleep was the all-important thing. In it lay the +strength for the shock of the awakening--if awakening of memory there +was to be. + +Before he left he stooped over Charley and said musingly: "I wonder what +you will wake up to, my friend?" Then he touched the wound with a light +caressing finger. "It was well done, well done," he murmured proudly. + +A moment afterwards he was hurrying down the hill to the open road, where +a cariole awaited the Cure and himself. + +For a day and a half Charley slept, and Jo watched him with an +affectionate solicitude. Once or twice, becoming anxious, because of the +heavy breathing and the motionless sleep, he had forced open the teeth, +and poured a little broth between. + +Just before dawn on the second morning, worn out and heavy with slumber, +Jo lay down by the piled-up fire and dropped into a sleep that wrapped +him like a blanket, folding him away into a drenching darkness. + +For a time there was a deep silence, troubled only by Jo's deep +breathing, which seemed itself like the pulse of the silence. Charley +appeared not to be breathing at all. He was lying on his back, seemingly +lifeless. Suddenly on the snug silence there was a sharp sound. A tree +outside snapped with the frost. + +Charley awoke. The body seemed not to awake, for it did not stir, but +the eyes opened wide and full, looking straight before them--straight up +to the brown smoke-stained rafters, along which were ranged guns and +fishing-tackle, axes and bear-traps. Full clear blue eyes, healthy and +untired as a child's fresh from an all-night's drowse, they looked and +looked. Yet, at first, the body did not stir; only the mind seemed to be +awakening, the soul creeping out from slumber into the day. Presently, +however, as the eyes gazed, there stole into them a wonder, a trouble, an +anxiety. For a moment they strained at the rafters and the crude weapons +and implements there, then the body moved, quickly, eagerly, and turned +to see the flickering shadows made by the fire and the simple order of +the room. + +A minute more, and Charley was sitting on the side of his couch, dazed +and staring. This hut, this fire, the figure by the hearth in a sound +sleep-his hand went to his head: it felt the bandage there! + +He remembered now! Last night at the Cote Dorion! Last night he had +talked with Suzon Charlemagne at the Cote Dorion; last night he had drunk +harder than he had ever drunk in his life, he had defied, chaffed, +insulted the river-drivers. The whole scene came back: the faces of +Suzon and her father; Suzon's fingers on his for an instant; the glass of +brandy beside him; the lanterns on the walls; the hymn he sang; the +sermon he preached--he shuddered a little; the rumble of angry noises +round him; the tumbler thrown; the crash of the lantern, and only one +light left in the place! Then Jake Hough and his heavy hand, the flying +monocle, and his disdainful, insulting reply; the sight of the pistol in +the hand of Suzon's father; then a rush, a darkness, and his own fierce +plunge towards the door, beyond which were the stars and the cool night +and the dark river. Curses, hands that battered and tore at him, the +doorway reached, and then a blow on the head and--falling, falling, +falling, and distant noises growing more distant, and suddenly and +sweetly--absolute silence. + +Again he shuddered. Why? He remembered that scene in his office +yesterday with Kathleen, and the one later with Billy. A sensitive chill +swept all over him, making his flesh creep, and a flush sped over his +face from chin to brow. To-day he must pick up all these threads again, +must make things right for Billy, must replace the money he had stolen, +must face Kathleen again he shuddered. Was he at the Cote Dorion still? +He looked round him. No, this was not the sort of house to be found at +the Cote Dorion. Clearly this was the hut of a hunter. Probably he had +been fished out of the river by this woodsman and brought here. He felt +his head. The wound was fresh and very sore. He had played for death, +with an insulting disdain, yet here he was alive. + +Certainly he was not intended to be drowned or knifed--he remembered the +knives he saw unsheathed--or kicked or pummelled into the hereafter. It +was about ten o'clock when he had had his "accident"--he affected a +smile, yet somehow he did not smile easily--it must be now about five, +for here was the morning creeping in behind the deer-skin blind at the +window. + +Strange that he felt none the worse for his mishap, and his tongue was as +clean and fresh as if he had been drinking milk last night, and not very +doubtful brandy at the Cote Dorion. No fever in his hands, no headache, +only the sore skull, so well and tightly bandaged but a wonderful thirst, +and an intolerable hunger. He smiled. When had he ever been hungry for +breakfast before? Here he was with a fine appetite: it was like coals of +fire heaped on his head by Nature for last night's business at the Cote +Dorion. How true it was that penalties did not always come with-- +indiscretions. Yet, all at once, he flushed again to the forehead, for a +curious sense of shame flashed through his whole being, and one Charley +Steele--the Charley Steele of this morning, an unknown, unadventuring, +onlooking Charley Steele--was viewing with abashed eyes the Charley +Steele who had ended a doubtful career in the coarse and desperate +proceedings of last night. With a nervous confusion he sought refuge in +his eye-glass. His fingers fumbled over his waistcoat, but did not find +it. The weapon of defence and attack, the symbol of interrogation and +incomprehensibility, was gone. Beauty Steele was under the eyes of +another self, and neither disdain, nor contempt, nor the passive stare, +were available. He got suddenly to his feet, and started forward, as +though to find refuge from himself. + +The abrupt action sent the blood to his head, and feeling a blindness +come over him, he put both hands up to his temples, and sank back on the +couch, dizzy and faint. + +His motions waked Jo Portugais, who scrambled from the floor, and came +towards him. + +"M'sieu'," he said, "you must not. You are faint." He dropped his hands +supportingly to Charley's shoulders. + +Charley nodded, but did not yet look up. His head throbbed sorely. +"Water--please!" he said. + +In an instant Jo was beside him again, with a bowl of fresh water at his +lips. He drank, drank, drank, until the great bowl was drained to the +last drop. + +"Whew! That was good!" he said, and looked up at Jo with a smile. +"Thank you, my friend; I haven't the honour of your acquaintance, but--" + +He stopped suddenly and stared at Jo. Inquiry, mystification, were in +his look. + +"Have I ever seen you before?" he said. "Who knows, M'sieu'!" + +Since Jo had stood before Charley in the dock near six years ago he had +greatly changed. The marks of smallpox, a heavy beard, grey hair, and +solitary life had altered him beyond Charley's recognition. + +Jo could hardly speak. His legs were trembling under him, for now he +knew that Charley Steele was himself again. He was no longer the simple, +quiet man-child of three days ago, and of these months past, but the man +who had saved him from hanging, to whom he owed a debt he dare not +acknowledge. Jo's brain was in a muddle. Now that the great crisis was +over, now that the expected thing had come, and face to face with the +cure, he had neither tongue, nor strength, nor wit. His words stuck in +his throat where his heart was, and for a minute his eyes had a kind of +mist before them. + +Meanwhile Charley's eyes were upon him, curious, fixed, abstracted. + +"Is this your house?" + +"It is, M'sieu'." + +"You fished me out of the river by the Cote Dorion?" He still held his +head with his hands, for it throbbed so, but his eyes were intent on his +companion. + +"Yes, M'sieu'." + +Charley's hand mechanically fumbled for his monocle. Jo turned quickly +to the wall, and taking it by its cord from the nail where it had been +for these long months, handed it over. Charley took it and mechanically +put it in his eye. "Thank you, my friend," he said. "Have I been +conscious at all since you rescued me last night?" he asked. + +"In a way, M'sieu'." + +"Ah, well, I can't remember, but it was very kind of you--I do thank you +very much. Do you think you could find me something to eat? I beg your +pardon--it isn't breakfast-time, of course, but I was never so hungry in +my life!" + +"In a minute, M'sieu'--in one minute. But lie down, you must lie down a +little. You got up too quick, and it makes your head throb. You have +had nothing to eat." + +"Nothing, since yesterday noon, and very little then. I didn't eat +anything at the Cote Dorion, I remember." He lay back on the couch and +closed his eyes. The throbbing in his head presently stopped, and he +felt that if he ate something he could go to sleep again, it was so +restful in this place--a whole day's sleep and rest, how good it would be +after last night's racketing! Here was primitive and material comfort, +the secret of content, if you liked! Here was this poor hunter-fellow, +with enough to eat and to drink, earning it every day by every day's +labour, and, like Robinson Crusoe no doubt, living in a serene self- +sufficiency and an elysian retirement. Probably he had no +responsibilities in the world, with no one to say him nay, himself only +to consider in all the universe: a divine conception of adequate life. +Yet himself, Charley Steele, an idler, a waster, with no purpose in life, +with scarcely the necessity to earn his bread-never, at any rate, until +lately--was the slave of the civilisation to which he belonged. Was +civilisation worth the game? + +His hand involuntarily went to his head. It changed the course of his +thoughts. He must go back to-day to put Billy's crime right, to replace +the trust-moneys Billy had taken by forging his brother-in-law's name. +Not a moment must be lost. No doubt he was within driving distance of +his office, and, bandaged head or no bandaged head, last night's +disgraceful doings notwithstanding, it was his duty to face the wondering +eyes--what did he care for wondering eyes? hadn't he been making eyes +wonder all his life?--face the wondering eyes in the little city, and set +a crooked business straight. Fool and scoundrel certainly Billy was, but +there was Kathleen! + +His lips tightened; he had a strange anxious flutter of the heart. When +had his heart fluttered like this? When had he ever before considered +Kathleen's feelings as to his personal conduct so delicately? Well, +since yesterday he did feel it, and a sudden sense of pity sprang up in +him--vague, shamefaced pity, which belied the sudden egotistical flourish +with which he put his monocle to his eye and tried futilely to smile in +the old way. + +He had lain with his eyes closed. They opened now, and he saw his host +spreading a newspaper as a kind of cloth on a small rough table, and +putting some food upon it-bread, meat, and a bowl of soup. It was +thoughtful of this man to make his soup overnight-he saw Jo lift it from +beside the fire where it had been kept hot. A good fellow-an excellent +fellow, this woodsman. + +His head did not throb now, and he drew himself up slowly on his elbow- +then, after a moment, lifted himself to a sitting posture. + +"What is your name, my friend?" he said. + +"Jo Portugais, M'sieu'," Jo answered, and brought a candle and put it on +the table, then lifted the tin-plate from over the bowl of savoury soup. + +Never before had Charley Steele sat down to such a breakfast. A roll and +a cup of coffee had been enough, and often too much, for him. Yet now he +could not wait to eat the soup with a spoon, but lifted the bowl and took +a long draught of it, and set it down with a sigh of content. Then he +broke bread into the soup--large pieces of black oat bread--until the +bowl was a mass of luscious pulp. This he ate almost ravenously, his eye +wandering avidly the while to the small piece of meat beside the bowl. +What meat was it? It looked like venison, yet summer was not the time +for venison. What did it matter! Jo sat on a bench beside the fire, his +face turned towards his guest, dreading the moment when the man he had +nursed and cared for, with whom he had eaten and drunk for so long, +should know the truth about himself. He could not tell him all there was +to tell, he was taking another means of letting him know. + +Charley did not speak. Hunger was a new sensation, a delicious thing, +too good to be broken by talking. He ate till he had cleared away the +last crumbs of bread and meat and drunk the last drop of soup. He looked +at the woodsman as though wondering if he would bring more. Jo evidently +thought he had had enough, for he did not move. Charley's glance +withdrew from Jo, and busied itself with the few crumbs remaining upon +the table. He saw a little piece of bread on the floor. He picked it up +and ate it with relish, laughing to himself. + +"How long will it take us to get to town? Can we do it this morning?" + +"Not this morning, M'sieu'," said Jo, in a sort of hoarse whisper. + +"How many hours would it take?" + +He was gathering the last crumbs of his feast with his hand, and looking +casually down at the newspaper spread as a table-cloth. + +All at once his hand stopped, his eyes became fixed on a spot in the +paper. He gave a hoarse, guttural cry, like an animal in agony. His +lips became dry, his hand wiped a blinding mist from his eyes. + +Jo watched him with an intense alarm and a horrified curiosity. He felt +a base coward for not having told Charley what this paper contained. +Never had he seen such a look as this. He felt his beads, and told them +over and over again, as Charley Steele, in a dry, croaking sort of +whisper, read, in letters that seemed monstrous symbols of fire, a record +of himself: + +"To-day, by special license from the civil and ecclesiastical courts [the +paragraph in the paper began], was married, at St. Theobald's Church, +Mrs. Charles Steele, daughter of the late Hon. Julien Wantage, and niece +of the late Eustace Wantage, Esq., to Captain Thomas Fairing, of the +Royal Fusileers--" + +Charley snatched at the top of the paper and read the date "Tenth of +February, 18-!" It was August when he was at the Cote Dorion, the 5th +August, 18-, and this paper was February 10th, 18-. He read on, in the +month-old paper, with every nerve in his body throbbing now: a fierce +beating that seemed as if it must burst the heart and the veins: + +"--Captain Thomas Fairing, of the Royal Fusileers, whose career in our +midst has been marked by an honourable sense of public and private duty. +Our fellow-citizens will unite with us in congratulating the bride, whose +previous misfortunes have only increased the respect in which she is +held. If all remember the obscure death of her first husband (though the +body was not found, there has never been a doubt of his death), and the +subsequent discovery that he had embezzled trust-moneys to the extent of +twenty-five thousand dollars, thereby setting the final seal of shame +upon a misspent life, destined for brilliant and powerful uses, all +have conspired to forget the association of our beautiful and admired +townswoman with his career. It is painful to refer to these +circumstances, but it is only within the past few days that the estate of +the misguided man has been wound up, and the money he embezzled restored +to its rightful owners; and it is better to make these remarks now than +repeat them in the future, only to arouse painful memories in quarters +where we should least desire to wound. + +"In her new life, blessed by a romantic devotion known and admired by +all, Mrs. Fairing and her husband will be followed by the affectionate +good wishes of the whole community." + +The man on the hearth-stone shrank back at the sight of the still, white +face, in which the eyes were like sparks of fire. His impulse had been +to go over and offer the hand of sympathy to the stricken man, but his +simple mind grasped the fact that no one might, with impunity, invade +this awful quiet. Charley was frozen in body, but his brain was awake +with the heat of "a burning fiery furnace." + +Seven months of unconscious life-seven months of silence--no sight, no +seeing, no knowing; seven months of oblivion, in which the world had +buried him out of ken in an unknown grave of infamy! Seven months--and +Kathleen was married again to the man she had always loved. To the world +he himself was a rogue and thief. Billy had remained silent--Billy, whom +he had so befriended, had let decent men heap scorn and reproaches on his +memory. Here was what the world thought of him--he read the lines over +again, his eyes scorching, but his finger steady, as it traced the lines +slowly: "the obscure death . . . . ." "embezzled trustmoneys . . . +. ." "the final seal of shame upon a misspent life!" + +These were the epitaphs on the tombstone of Charley Steele; dead and +buried, out of sight, out of repute, soon to be out of mind and out of +memory, save as a warning to others--an old example raked out of the +dust-bin of time by the scavengers of morality, to toss at all who trod +the paths of dalliance. + +What was there to do? Go back? Go back and knock at Kathleen's door, +another Enoch Arden, and say: "I have come to my own again?" Return and +tell Tom Fairing to go his way and show his face no more? Break up this +union, this marriage of love in which these two rejoiced? Summon +Kathleen out of her illegal intercourse with the man who had been true to +her all these years? + +To what end? What had he ever done for her that he might destroy her +now? What sort of Spartan tragedy was this, that the woman who had been +the victim of circumstances, who had been the slave to a tie he never +felt, yet which had been as iron-bound to her, should now be brought out +to be mangled body and soul for no fault of her own? What had she done? +What had she ever done to give him right to touch so much as a hair of +her head? + +Go back, and bring Billy to justice, and clear his own name? Go back, +and send Kathleen's brother, the forger, to jail? What an achievement +in justice! Would not the world have a right to say that the only decent +thing he could do was to eliminate himself from the equation? What +profit for him in the great summing-up, that he was technically innocent +of this one thing, and that to establish his innocence he broke a woman's +heart and destroyed a boy's life? To what end! It was the murderer +coming back as a ghost to avenge himself for being hanged. Suppose he +went back--the death's-head at the feast--what would there be for himself +afterwards; for any one for whom he was responsible? Living at that +price? + +To die and end it all, to disappear from this petty life where he had +done so little, and that little ill? To die? + +No. There was in him some deep, if obscure, fatalism after all. If he +had been meant to die now, why had he not gone to the bottom of the river +that yesterday at the Cote Dorion? Why had he been saved by this yokel +at the fire, and brought here to lie in oblivion in this mountain hut, +wrapped in silence and lost to the world? Why had his brain and senses +lain fallow all these months, a vacuous vegetation, an empty +consciousness? Was it fate? Did it not seem probable that the Great +Machine had, in its automatic movement, tossed him up again on the shores +of Time because he had not fallen on the trap-door predestined for his +eternal exit? + +It was clear to him that death by his own hand was futile, and that if +there were trap-doors set for him alone, it were well to wait until he +trod upon them and fell through in his appointed hour in the movement of +the Great Machine. + +What to do--where to live--how to live? + +He got slowly to his feet and took a step forward half blindly. The man +on the bench stirred. Crossing the room he dropped a hand on the man's +shoulder. "Open the blind, my friend." + +Jo Portugais got to his feet quickly, eyes averted--he did not dare look +into Charley's face--and went over and drew back the deer-skin blind. +The clear, crisp sunlight of a frosty morning broke gladly into the room. +Charley turned and blew out the candle on the table where he had eaten, +then walked feebly to the window. Standing on the crest of the mountain +the hut looked down through a clearing, flanked by forest trees. + +It was a goodly scene. The green and frosted foliage of the pines and +cedars; the flowery tracery of frost hanging like cobwebs everywhere; the +poudre sparkle in the air; the hills of silver and emerald sloping down +to the valley miles away, where the village clustered about the great old +parish church; the smoke from a hundred chimneys, in purple spirals, +rising straight up in the windless air; over all peace and a perfect +silence. + +Charley mechanically fixed his eye-glass and stood with hands resting on +the window-sill, looking, looking out upon a new world. + +At length he turned. + +"Is there anything I can do for you, M'sieu'?" said Jo huskily. + +Charley held out his hand and clasped Jo's. "Tell me about all these +months," he said. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +THE COMING OF ROSALIE + +Charley Steele saw himself as he had been through the eyes of another. +He saw the work that he had done in the carpentering shed, and had no +memory of it. The real Charley Steele had been enveloped in oblivion for +seven months. During that time a mild phantom of himself had wandered, +as it were in a somnambulistic dream, through the purlieus of life. +Open-eyed, but with the soul asleep, all idiosyncrasy laid aside, all +acquired impressions and influences vanished, he had been walking in the +world with no more complexity of mind than a new-born child, nothing +intervening between the sight of the eyes and the original sense. + +Now, when the real Charley Steele emerged again, the folds of mind and +soul unrolling to the million-voiced creation and touched by the antenna +of a various civilisation, the phantom Charley was gone once more into +obscurity. The real Charley could remember naught of the other, could +feel naught, save, as in the stirring industrious day, one remembers that +he has dreamed a strange dream the night before, and cannot recall it, +though the overpowering sense of it remains. + +He saw the work of his hands, the things he had made with adze and plane, +with chisel and hammer, but nothing seemed familiar save the smell of the +glue pot, which brought back in a cloudy impression curious unfamiliar +feelings. Sights, sounds, motions, passed in a confused way through his +mind as the smell of the glue crept through his nostrils; and he +struggled hard to remember. But no--seven months of his life were gone +for ever. Yet he knew and felt that a vast change had gone over him, had +passed through him. While the soul had lain fallow, while the body had +been growing back to childlike health again, and Nature had been pouring +into his sick senses her healing balm; while the medicaments of peace and +sleep and quiet labour had been having their way with him, he had been +reorganised, renewed, flushed of the turgid silt of dissipation. For his +sins and weaknesses there had been no gall and vinegar to drink. + +As Charley stood looking round the workshop, Jo entered, shaking the snow +from his moccasined feet. "The Cure, M'sieu' Loisel, has come," he said. +Charley turned, and, without a word, followed Jo into the house. There, +standing at the window and looking down at the village beneath, was the +Cure. As Charley entered, M. Loisel carne forward with outstretched +hand. + +"I am glad to see you well again, Monsieur," he said, and his cool thin +hand held Charley's for a moment, as he looked him benignly in the eye. + +With a kind of instinct as to the course he must henceforth pursue, +Charley replied simply, dropping his eye-glass as he met that clear +soluble look of the priest--such a well of simplicity he had never before +seen. Only naked eye could meet that naked eye, imperfect though his own +sight was. + +"It is good of you to feel so, and to come and tell me so," he answered +quietly. "I have been a great trouble, I know." + +There was none of the old pose in his manner, none of the old cryptic +quality in his words. + +"We were anxious for your sake--and for the sake of your friends, +Monsieur." + +Charley evaded the suggestion. "I cannot easily repay your kindness and +that of Jo Portugais, my good friend here," he rejoined. + +"M'sieu'," replied Jo, his face turned away, and his foot pushing a log +on the fire, "you have repaid it." + +Charley shook his head. "I am in a conspiracy of kindness," he said. +"It is all a mystery to me. For why should one expect such treatment +from strangers, when, besides all, one can never make any real return, +not even to pay for board and lodging!" + +"'I was a stranger and ye took me in,"' said the Cure, smiling by no +means sentimentally. "So said the Friend of the World." + +Charley looked the Curb steadily in the eyes. He was thinking how simply +this man had said these things; as if, indeed, they were part of his +life; as though it were usual speech with him, a something that belonged, +not an acquired language. There was the old impulse to ask a question, +and he put the monocle to his eye, but his lips did not open, and the +eye-glass fell again. He had seen familiarity with sacred names and +things in the uneducated, in excited revivalists, worked up to a state +clairvoyant and conversational with the Creator; but he had never heard +an educated man speak as this man did. + +At last Charley said: "Your brother--Portugais tells me that your +brother, the surgeon, has gone away. I should have liked to thank him +--if no more." + +"I have written him of your good recovery. He will be glad, I know. But +my brother, from one stand-point--a human stand-point--had scruples. +These I did not share, but they were strong in him, Monsieur. Marcel +asked himself--" He stopped suddenly and looked towards Jo. + +Charley saw the look, and said quickly: "Speak plainly. Portugais is my +friend." + +Jo turned slowly towards him, and a light seemed to come to his eyes--a +shining something that resolved itself into a dog-like fondness, an utter +obedience, a strange intense gratitude. + +"Marcel asked himself," the Cure continued, "whether you would thank him +for bringing you back to--to life and memory. I fear he was trying to +see what I should say--I fear so. Marcel said, 'Suppose that he should +curse me for it? Who knows what he would be brought back to--to what +suffering and pain, perhaps?' Marcel said that." + +"And you replied, Monsieur le Cure?" + +"I replied that Nature required you to answer that question for yourself, +and whether bitterly or gladly, it was your duty to take up your life and +live it out. Besides, it was not you alone that had to be considered. +One does not live alone or die alone in this world. There were your +friends to consider." + +"And because I had no friends here, you were compelled to think for me!" +answered Charley calmly. "Truth is, it was not a question of my friends, +for what I was during those seven months, or what I am now, can make no +difference to them." + +He looked the Cure in the eyes steadily, and as though he would convey +his intentions without words. The Curb understood. The habit of +listening to the revelations of the human heart had given him something +of that clairvoyance which can only be pursued by the primitive mind, +unvexed by complexity. + +"It is, then, as though you had not come to life again? It is as though +you had no past, Monsieur?" + +"It is that, Monsieur." + +Jo suddenly turned and left the room, for he heard a step on the frosty +snow without. + +"You will remain here, Monsieur?" said the Cure. "I cannot tell." + +The Cure had the bravery of simple souls with a duty to perform. He +fastened his eyes on Charley. "Monsieur, is there any reason why you +should not stay here? I ask it now, man to man--not as a priest of my +people, but as man to man." + +Charley did not answer for a moment. He was wondering how he should put +his reply. But his look did not waver, and the Cure saw the honesty of +the gaze. At length he replied: "If you mean, have I committed any crime +which the law may punish?--I answer no, Monsieur. If you mean, have I +robbed or killed, or forged--or wronged a woman as men wrong women? No. +These, I take it, are the things that matter first. For the rest, you +can think of me as badly as you will, or as well, for what I do +henceforth is the only thing that really concerns the world, Monsieur le +Cure." + +The Cure came forward and put out his hand with a kindly gesture. +"Monsieur, you have suffered," he said. + +"Never, never at all, Monsieur. Never for a moment, until I was dropped +down here like a stone from a sling. I had life by the throat; now it +has me there--that is all." + +"You are not a Catholic, Monsieur?" asked the priest, almost pleadingly, +and as though the question had been much on his mind. + +"No, Monsieur." + +The Cure made no rejoinder. If he was not a Catholic, what matter +what he was? If he was not a Catholic, were he Buddhist, pagan, or +Protestant, the position for them personally was the same. "I am very +sorry," he said gently. "I might have helped you had you been a +Catholic." + +The eye-glass came like lightning to the eye, and a caustic, questioning +phrase was on the tongue, but Charley stopped himself in time. For, +apart from all else, this priest had been his friend in calamity, had +acted with a charming sensibility. The eye-glass troubled the Cure, and +the look on Charley's face troubled him still more, but it passed as +Charley said, in a voice as simple as the Cure's own: + +"You may still help me as you have already done. I give you my word, +too"--strange that he touched his lips with his tongue as he did in the +old days when his mind turned to Jean Jolicoeur's saloon--"that I will do +nothing to cause regret for your humanity and--and Christian kindness." +Again the tongue touched the lips--a wave of the old life had swept over +him, the old thirst had rushed upon him. Perhaps it was the force of +this feeling which made him add, with a curious energy, "I give you my +word, Monsieur le Cure." At that moment the door opened and Jo entered. + +"M'sieu'," he said to Charley, "a registered parcel has come for you. +It has been brought by the postmaster's daughter. She will give it to no +one but yourself." + +Charley's face paled, and the Cure's was scarcely less pale. In +Charley's mind was the question, Who had discovered his presence here? +Was he not, then, to escape? Who should send him parcels through the +post? + +The Cure was perturbed. Was he, then, to know who this man was--his name +and history? Was the story of his life now to be told? + +Charley broke the silence. "Tell the girl to come in." Instantly +afterwards the postmaster's daughter entered. The look of the girl's +face, at once delicate and rosy with health, almost put the question of +the letter out of his mind for an instant. Her dark eyes met his as he +came forward with outstretched hand. + +"This is addressed, as you will see, 'To the Sick Man at the House of Jo +Portugais, at Vadrome Mountain.' Are you that person, Monsieur?" she +asked. + +As she handed the parcel, Charley's eyes scanned her face quickly. How +did this habitant girl come by this perfect French accent, this refined +manner? He did not know the handwriting on the parcel; he hastily tore +it open. Inside were a few dozen small packets. Here also was a sheet +of paper. He opened and read it quickly. It said: + + Monsieur, I am not sure that you have recovered your memory and your + health, and I am also not sure that in such case you will thank me + for my work. If you think I have done you an injury, pray accept my + profound apologies. Monsieur, you have been a drunkard. If you + would reverse the record now, these powders, taken at opportune + moments, will aid you. Monsieur, with every expression of my good- + will, and the hope that you will convey to me without reserve your + feelings on this delicate matter, I append my address in Paris, and + I have the honour to subscribe myself, with high consideration, + Monsieur, yours faithfully, + MARCEL LOISEL. + +The others looked at him with varied feelings as he read. Curiosity, +inquiry, expectation, were common to them all, but with each was a +different personal feeling. The Cure's has been described. Jo +Portugais' mind was asking if this meant that the man who had come +into his life must now go out of it; and the girl was asking who was +this mysterious man, like none she had ever seen or known. + +Without hesitation Charley handed over the letter to the Cure, who took +it with surprise, read it with amazement, and handed it back with a flush +on his face. + +"Thank you," said Charley to the girl. "It is good of you to bring it +all this way. May I ask--" + +"She is Mademoiselle Rosalie Evanturel," said the Cure smiling. + +"I am Charles Mallard," said Charley slowly. "Thank you. I will go now, +Monsieur Mallard," the girl said, lifting her eyes to his face. He +bowed. As she turned and went towards the door her eyes met his. She +blushed. + +"Wait, Mademoiselle; I will go back with you," said the Cure kindly. He +turned to Charley and held out his hand. "God be with you, Monsieur-- +Charles," he said. "Come and see me soon." Remembering that his brother +had written that the man was a drunkard, his eyes had a look of pity. +This was the man's own secret and his. It was a way to the man's heart; +he would use it. + +As the two went out of the door, the girl looked back. Charley was +putting the surgeon's letter into the fire, and did not see her; yet she +blushed again. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +HOW CHARLEY WENT ADVENTURING AND WHAT HE FOUND + +A week passed. Charley's life was running in a tiny circle, but his mind +was compassing large revolutions. The events of the last few days had +cut deep. His life had been turned upside down. All his predispositions +had been suddenly brought to check, his habits turned upon the flank and +routed, his mental postures flung into confusion. He had to start life +again; but it could not be in the way of any previous travel of mind or +body. The line of cleavage was sharp and wide, and the only connection +with the past was in the long-reaching influence of evil habits, which +crept from their coverts, now and again, to mock him as his old self had +mocked life--to mock him and to tempt him. Through seven months of +healthy life for his body, while brain and will were sleeping, the whole +man had made long strides towards recreation. But with the renewal of +will and mind the old weaknesses, roused by memory, began to emerge +intermittently, as water rises from a spring. There was something +terrible in this repetition of sensation--the law of habit answering +to the machine-like throbbing of memory, as, a kaleidoscope turning, +turning, its pictures pass a certain point at fixed intervals--an +automatic recurrence. He found himself at times touching his lips with +his tongue, and with this act came the dry throat, the hot eye, the +restless hand feeling for a glass that eluded his fingers. + +Twice in one week did this fever surge up in him, and it caught him in +those moments when, exhausted by the struggle of his mind to adapt itself +to the new conditions, his senses were delicately susceptible. Visions +of Jolicoeur's saloon came to his mind's eye. With a singular +separateness, a new-developed dual sense, he saw himself standing in the +summer heat, looking over to the cool dark doorway of the saloon, and he +caught again the smell of the fresh-drawn beer. He was conscious of +watching himself do this and that, of seeing himself move here and there. +He began to look upon Charley Steele as a man he had known--he, Charles +Mallard, had known--while he had to suffer for what Charley Steele had +done. Then, all at once, as he was thinking and dreaming and seeing, +there would seize upon him the old appetite, coincident with the seizure +of his brain by the old sense of cynicism at its worst--such a worst as +had made him insult Jake Hough when the rough countryman was ready to +take his part that wild night at the Cote Dorion. + +At such moments life became a conflict--almost a terror--for as yet he +had not swung into line with the new order of things. In truth, there +was no order of things; for one life was behind him and the new one was +not yet decided upon, save that here he would stay--here out of the +world, out of the game, far from old associations, cut off, and to be for +ever cut off, from all that he had ever known or seen or felt or loved! +. . . Loved! When did he ever love? If love was synonymous with +unselfishness, with the desire to give greater than the desire to get, +then he had never known love. He realised now that he had given Kathleen +only what might be given across a dinner-table--the sensuous tribute of +a temperament, passionate without true passion or faith or friendship. +Kathleen had known that he gave her nothing worth the having; for in some +meagre sense she knew what love was, and had given it meagrely, after her +nature, to another man, preserving meanwhile the letter of the law, +respecting that bond which he had shamed by his excesses. + +Kathleen was now sitting at another man's table--no, probably at his own +table--his, Charley Steele's own table in his own house--the house he had +given her by deed of gift the day he died. Tom Fairing was sitting where +he used to sit, talking across the table--not as he used to talk--looking +into Kathleen's face as he had never looked. He was no more to them than +a dark memory. "Well, why should I be more?" he asked himself. "I am +dead, if not buried. They think me down among the fishes. My game is +done; and when she gets older and understands life better, Kathleen will +say, 'Poor Charley--he might have been anything!' She'll be sure to say +that some day, for habit and memory go round in a circle and pass the +same point again and again. For me--they take me by the throat--" He +put his hand up as if to free his throat from a grip, his tongue touched +his lips, his hands grew restless. + +"It comes back on me like a fit of ague, this miserable thirst. If I +were within sight of Jolicoeur's saloon, I should be drinking hard this +minute. But I'm here, and--" His hand felt his pocket, and he took out +the powders the great surgeon had sent him. + +"He knew--how did he know that I was a drunkard? Does a man carry in his +face the tale he would not tell? Jo says I didn't talk of the past, that +I never had delirium, that I never said a word to suggest who I was, or +where I came from. Then how did the doctor--man know? I suppose every +particular habit carries its own signal, and the expert knows the +ciphers." He opened the paper containing the powders, and looked round +for water, then paused, folded the paper up, and put it in his pocket +again. He went over to the window and looked out. His shoulders set +square. "No, no, no, not a speck on my tongue!" he said. "What I can't +do of my own will is not worth doing. It's too foolish, to yield to the +shadow of an old appetite. I play this game alone--here in Chaudiere." + +He looked out and down. The sweet sun of early spring was shining +hard, and the snow was beginning to pack, to hang like a blanket on the +branches, to lie like a soft coverlet over all the forest and the fields. +Far away on the frozen river were saplings stuck up to show where the ice +was safe--a long line of poles from shore to shore--and carioles were +hurrying across to the village. Being market-day, the place was alive +with the cheerful commerce of the habitant. The bell of the parish +church was ringing. The sound of it came up distantly and peacefully. +Charley drew a long breath, turned away to a pail of water, filled a +dipper half full, and drank it off gaspingly. Then he returned to the +window with a look of relief. + +"That does it," he said. "The horrible thing is gone again--out of my +brain and out of my throat." + +As he stood there, Jo came up the hill with a bundle in his arms. +Charley watched him for a moment, half whimsically, half curiously. Yet +he sighed once too as Portugais opened the door and came into the room. +"Well done, Jo!" said he. "You have 'em?" + +"Yes, M'sieu'. A good suit, and I believe they'll fit. Old Trudel says +it's the best suit he's made in a year. I'm afraid he'll not make many +more suits, old Trudel. + +"He's very bad. When he goes there'll be no tailor--ah, old Trudel will +be missed for sure, M'sieu'!" + +Jo spread the clothes out on the table--a coat, waistcoat, and trousers +of fulled cloth, grey and bulky, and smelling of the loom and the +tailor's iron. Charley looked at them interestedly, then glanced at the +clothes he had on, the suit that had belonged to him last year--grave- +clothes. + +He drew himself up as though rousing from a dream. "Come, Jo, clear out, +and you shall have your new habitant in a minute," he said. Portugais +left the room, and when he came back, Charley was dressed in the suit of +grey fulled cloth. It was loose, but comfortable, and save for the +refined face--on which a beard was growing now--and the eye-glass, he +might easily have passed for a farmer. When he put on the dog-skin fur +cap and a small muffler round his neck, it was the costume of the +habitant complete. + +Yet it was no disguise, for it was part of the life that Charles Mallard, +once Charley Steele, should lead henceforth. + +He turned to the door and opened it. "Good-bye, Portugais," he said. + +Jo was startled. "Where are you going, M'sieu'?" + +"To the village." + +"What to do, M'sieu'?" + +"Who knows?" + +"You will come back?" Jo asked anxiously. + +"Before sundown, Jo. Good-bye!" + +This was the first long walk he had taken since he had become himself +again. The sweet, cold air, with a bracing wind in his face, gave peace +to the nerves but now strained and fevered in the fight with appetite. +His mind cleared, and he drank in the sunny air and the pungent smell of +the balsams. His feet light with moccasins, he even ran a distance, +enjoying the glow from a fast-beating pulse. + +As he came into the high-road, people passed him in carioles and sleighs. +Some eyed him curiously. What did he mean to do? What object had he in +coming to the village? What did he expect? As he entered the village +his pace slackened. He had no destination, no object. He was simply +aware that his new life was beginning. + +He passed a little house on which was a sign, "Narcisse Dauphin, Notary." +It gave him a curious feeling. It was the old life before him. "Charles +Mallard, Notary?"--No, that was not for him. Everything that reminded +him of the past, that brought him in touch with it, must be set aside. +He moved on. Should he go to the Cure? No; one thing at a time, and +today he wanted his thoughts for himself. More people passed him, and +spoke of him to each other, though there was no coarse curiosity--the +habitant has manners. + +Presently he passed a low shop with a divided door. The lower half was +closed, the upper open, and the winter sun was shining full into the +room, where a bright fire burned. + +Charley looked up. Over the door was painted, in straggling letters: +"Louis Trudel, Tailor." He looked inside. There, on a low table, bent +over his work, with a needle in his hand, sat Louis Trudel the tailor. +Hearing footsteps, feeling a shadow, he looked up. Charley started at +the look of the shrunken, yellow face; for if ever death had set his +seal, it was on that haggard parchment. The tailor's yellow eyes ran +from Charley's face to his clothes. + +"I knew they'd fit," he said, with a snarl. "Drove me hard, too!" + +Charley had an inspiration. He opened the halfdoor, and entered. + +"Do you want help?" he said, fixing his eyes on the tailor's, steady and +persistent. + +"What's the good of wanting--I can't get it," was the irritable reply, as +he uncrossed his legs. + +Charley took the iron out of his hand. "I'll press, if you'll show me +how," he said. + +"I don't want a fiddling ten-minutes' help like that." + +"It isn't fiddling. I'm going to stay, if you think I'll do." + +"You are going to stop-every day?" The old man's voice quavered a +little. + +"Precisely that." Charley wetted a seam with water as he had often seen +tailors do. He dropped the hot iron on the seam, and sniffed with +satisfaction. + +"Who are you?" said the tailor. + +"A man who wants work. The Cure knows. It's all right. Shall I stay?" + +The tailor nodded, and sat down with a colour in his face. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +ROSALIE, CHARLEY, AND THE MAN THE WIDOW PLOMONDON JILTED + +From the moment there came to the post-office the letter addressed to +"The Sick Man at the House of Jo Portugais at Vadrome Mountain," Rosalie +Evanturel dreamed dreams. Mystery, so fascinating a thing in all the +experiences of life, took hold of her. The strange man in the lonely +hut on the hill, the bandaged head, the keen, piercing blue eyes, the +monocle, like a masked battery of the mind, levelled at her--all appealed +to that life she lived apart from the people with whom she had daily +commerce. Her world was a world of books and dreams, and simple, +practical duties of life. Most books were romance to her, for most were +of a life to which she had not been educated. Even one or two purely +Protestant books of missionary enterprise, found in a box in her dead +mother's room, had had all the charms of poetry and adventure. It was +all new, therefore all delightful, even when the Protestant sentiments +shocked her as being not merely untrue, but hurting that aesthetic sense +never remote from the mind of the devout Catholic. + +She had blushed when monsieur had first looked at her, in the hut on +Vadrome Mountain, not because there was any soft sentiment about him in +her heart--how could there be for a man she had but just seen!--but +because her feelings, her imagination, were all at high temperature; +because the man compelled attention. The feeling sprang from a deep +sensibility, a natural sense, not yet made incredulous by the ironies of +life. These had never presented themselves to her in a country, in a +parish, where people said of fortune and misfortune, happiness and +sorrow, "C'est le bon Dieu!"--always "C'est le bon Dieu!" + +In some sense it was a pity that she had brains above the ordinary, that +she had had a good education and nice tastes. It was the cultivation of +the primitive and idealistic mind, which could not rationalise a sense of +romance, of the altruistic, by knowledge of life. As she sat behind the +post-office counter she read all sorts of books that came her way. When +she learned English so as to read it almost as easily as she read French, +her greatest joy was to pore over Shakespeare, with a heart full of +wonder, and, very often, eyes full of tears--so near to the eyes of her +race. Her imagination inhabited Chaudiere with a different folk, living +in homes very unlike these wide, sweeping-roofed structures, with double +windows and clean-scrubbed steps, tall doors, and wide, uncovered stoops. +Her people--people of bright dreaming--were not quarrelsome, or childish, +or merely traditional, like the habitants. They were picturesque and +able and simple, doing good things in disguise, succouring distress, +yielding their lives without thought for a cause, or a woman, and loving +with an undying love. + +Charley was of these people--from the first instant she saw him. The +Cure, the Avocat, and the Seigneur were also of them, but placidly, +unimportantly. "The Sick Man at Jo Portugais' House" came out of a +mysterious distance. Something in his eyes said, "I have seen, I have +known," told her that when he spoke she would answer freely, that they +were kinsfolk in some hidden way. Her nature was open and frank; she +lived upon the house-tops, as it were, going in and out of the lives of +the people of Chaudiere with neighbourly sympathy and understanding. Yet +she knew that she was not of them, and they knew that, poor as she was, +in her veins flowed the blood of the old nobility of France. For this +the Cure could vouch. Her official position made her the servant of the +public, and she did her duty with naturalness. + +She had been a figure in the parish ever since the day she returned from +the convent at Quebec, and took her dead mother's place in the home and +the parish. She had a quick temper, but there was not a cheerless note +in her nature, and there was scarce a dog or a horse in the parish but +knew her touch, and responded to it. Squirrels ate out of her hand, she +had even tamed two partridges, and she kept in her little garden a bear +she had brought up from a cub. Her devotion to her crippled father was +in keeping with her quick response to every incident of sorrow or joy in +the parish--only modified by wilful prejudices scarcely in keeping with +her unselfishness. + +As Mrs. Flynn, the Seigneur's Irish cook, said of her: "Shure, she's not +made all av wan piece, the darlin'! She'll wear like silk, but she's not +linen for everybody's washin'." And Mrs. Flynn knew a thing or two, as +was conceded by all in Chaudiere. No gossip was Mrs. Flynn, but she knew +well what was going on in the parish, and she had strong views upon all +subjects, and a special interest in the welfare of two people in +Chaudiere. One of these was the Seigneur, who, when her husband died, +leaving behind him a name for wit and neighbourliness, and nothing else, +proposed that she should come to be his cook. In spite of her protest +that what was "fit for Teddy was not fit for a gintleman of quality," the +Seigneur had had his way, never repenting of his choice. Mrs. Flynn's +cooking was not her only good point. She had the rarest sense and an +unfailing spring of good-nature--life bubbled round her. It was she that +had suggested the crippled M. Evanturel to the Seigneur when the office +of postmaster became vacant, and the Seigneur had acted on her +suggestion, henceforth taking greater interest in Rosalie. + +It was Mrs. Flynn who gave Rosalie information concerning Charley's +arrival at the shop of Louis Trudel the tailor. The morning after +Charley came, Mrs. Flynn had called for a waistcoat of the Seigneur, who +was expected home from a visit to Quebec. She found Charley standing at +a table pressing seams, and her quick eye took him in with knowledge and +instinct. She was the one person, save Rosalie, who could always divert +old Louis, and this morning she puckered his sour face with amusement by +the story of the courtship of the widow Plomondon and Germain Boily the +horse-trainer, whose greatest gift was animal-training, and greatest +weakness a fondness for widows, temporary and otherwise. Before she left +the shop, with the stranger's smile answering to her nod, she had made up +her mind that Charley was a tailor by courtesy only. So she told Rosalie +a few moments afterwards. + +"'Tis a man, darlin', that's seen the wide wurruld. 'Tis himisperes he +knows, not parrishes. Fwhat's he doin' here, I dun'no'. Fwhere's he +come from, I dun'no'. French or English, I dun'no'. But a gintleman +born, I know. 'Tis no tailor, darlin', but tailorin' he'll do as aisy as +he'll do a hunderd other things anny day. But how he shlipped in here, +an' when he shlipped in here, an' what's he come for, an' how long he's +stayin', an' meanin' well, or doin' ill, I dun'no', darlin', I dun' +no'." + +"I don't think he'll do ill, Mrs. Flynn," said Rosalie, in English. + +"An' if ye haven't seen him, how d'ye know?" asked Mrs. Flynn, taking a +pinch of snuff. + +"I have seen him--but not in the tailor-shop. I saw him at Jo Portugais' +a fortnight ago." + +"Aisy, aisy, darlin'. At Jo Portugais'--that's a quare place for a +stranger. 'Tis not wid Jo's introducshun I'd be comin' to Chaudiere." + +"He comes with the Cure's introduction." + +"An' how d'ye know that, darlin'?" + +"The Curb was at Jo Portugais' with monsieur when I went there." + +"You wint there!" + +"To take him a letter--the stranger." "What's his name, darlin'?" + +"The letter I took him was addressed, 'To the Sick Man at Jo Portugais' +House at Vadrome Mountain.'" + +"Ah, thin, the Cure knows. 'Tis some rich man come to get well, and +plays at bein' tailor. But why didn't the letther come to his name, +I wander now? That's what I wander." + +Rosalie shook her head, and looked reflectively through the window +towards the tailor-shop. + +"How manny times have ye seen him?" + +"Only once;" answered Rosalie truthfully. She did not, however, tell +Mrs. Flynn that she had thrice walked nearly to Vadrome Mountain in the +hope of seeing him again; and that she had gone to her favourite resort, +the Rest of the Flax-Beaters, lying in the way of the riverpath from +Vadrome Mountain, on the chance of his passing. She did not tell Mrs. +Flynn that there had scarcely been a waking hour when she had not thought +of him. + +"What Portugais knows, he'll not be tellin'," said Mrs. Flynn, after a +moment. "An' 'tis no business of ours, is it, darlin'? Shure, there's +Jo comin' out of the tailor-shop now!" + +They both looked out of the window, and saw Jo encounter Filion Lacasse +the saddler, and Maximilian Cour the baker. The three stood in the +middle of the street for a minute, Jo talking freely. He was usually +morose and taciturn, but now he spoke as though eager to unburden his +mind--Charley and he had agreed upon what should be said to the people of +Chaudiere. + +The sight of the confidences among the three was too much for Mrs. Flynn. +She opened the door of the post office and called to Jo. "Like three +crows shtandin' there!" she said. "Come in--ma'm'selle says come in, +and tell your tales here, if they're fit to hear, Jo Portugais. Who are +you to say no when ma'm'selle bids!" she added. + +Very soon afterwards Jo was inside the post-office, telling his tale with +the deliberation of a lesson learned by heart. + +"It's all right, as ma'm'selle knows," he said. "The Cure was there when +ma'm'selle brought a letter to M'sieu' Mallard. The Cure knows all. +M'sieu' come to my house sick-and he stayed there. There is nothing like +the pine-trees and the junipers to cure some things. He was with me very +quiet some time. The Cure come and come. He knows. When m'sieu' got +well, he say, 'I will not go from Chaudiere; I will stay. I am poor, and +I will earn my bread here.' At first, when he is getting well, he is +carpent'ring. He makes cupboards and picture-frames. The Cure has one +of the cupboards in the sacristy; the frames he puts on the Stations of +the Cross in the church." + +"That's good enough for me!" said Maximilian Cour. "Did he make them +for nothing?" asked Filion Lacasse solemnly. + +"Not one cent did he ask. What's more, he's working for Louis Trudel for +nothing. He come through the village yesterday; he see Louis old and +sick on his bench, and he set down and go to work." + +"That's good enough for me," said the saddler. "If a man work for the +Church for nothing, he is a Christian. If he work for Louis Trudel for +nothing, he is a fool--first-class--or a saint. I wouldn't work for +Louis Trudel if he give me five dollars a day." + +"Tiens! the man that work for Louis Trudel work for the Church, for all +old Louis makes goes to the Church in the end--that is his will. The +Notary knows," said Maximilian Cour. + +"See there, now," interposed Mrs. Flynn, pointing across the street to +the tailor-shop. "Look at that grocer-man stickin' in his head; and +there's Magloire Cadoret and that pig of a barber, Moise Moisan, starin' +through the dure, an'--" + +As she spoke, the barber and his companion suddenly turned their faces to +the street, and started forward with startled exclamations, the grocer +following. They all ran out from the post-office. Not far up the street +a crowd was gathering. Rosalie locked the office-door and followed the +others quickly. + +In front of the Hotel Trois Couronnes a painful thing was happening. +Germain Boily, the horse-trainer, fresh from his disappointment with the +widow Plomondon, had driven his tamed moose up to the Trois Couronnes, +and had drunk enough whiskey to make him ill-tempered. He had then begun +to "show off" the animal, but the savage instincts of the moose being +roused, he had attacked his master, charging with wide-branching horns, +and striking with his feet. Boily was too drunk to fight intelligently. +He went down under the hoofs of the enraged animal, as his huge boar- +hound, always with him, fastened on the moose's throat, dragged him to +the ground, and tore gaping wounds in his neck. + +It was all the work of a moment. People ran from the doorways and +sidewalks, but stayed at a comfortable distance until the moose was +dragged down; then they made to approach the insensible man. Before any +one could reach him, however, the great hound, with dripping fangs, +rushed to his master's body, and, standing over it, showed his teeth +savagely. The hotel-keeper approached, but the bristles of the hound +stood up, he prepared to attack, and the landlord drew back in haste. +Then M. Dauphin, the Notary, who had joined the crowd, held out a hand +coaxingly, and with insinuating rhetoric drew a little nearer than the +landlord had done; but he retreated precipitously as the hound crouched +back for a spring. Some one called for a gun, and Filion Lacasse ran +into his shop. The animal had now settled down on his master's body, his +bloodshot eyes watching in menace. The one chance seemed to be to shoot +him, and there must be no bungling, lest his prostrate master suffer at +the same time. The crowd had melted away into the houses, and were now +standing at doorways and windows, ready for instant retreat. + +Filion Lacasse's gun was now at disposal, but who would fire it? Jo +Portugais was an expert shot, and he reached out a hand for the weapon. + +As he did so, Rosalie Evanturel cried: "Wait, oh, wait!" Before any one +could interfere she moved along the open space to the mad beast, speaking +soothingly, and calling his name. + +The crowd held their breath. A woman fainted. Some wrung their hands, +and Jo Portugais, with blanched face, stood with gun half raised. With +assured kindness of voice and manner, Rosalie walked deliberately over to +the hound. At first the animal's bristles came up, and he prepared to +spring, but murmuring to him, she held out her hand, and presently laid +it on his huge head. With a growl of subjection, the dog drew from the +body of his master, and licked Rosalie's fingers as she knelt beside +Boily and felt his heart. She put her arm round the dog's neck, and said +to the crowd, "Some one come--only one--ah, yes, you, Monsieur!" she +added, as Charley, who had just arrived on the scene, came forward. +"Only you, if you can lift him. Take him to my house." + +Her arm still round the dog, she talked to him, as Charley came forward, +and, lifting up the body of the little horse-trainer, drew him across his +shoulder. The hound at first resented the act, but under Rosalie's touch +became quiet, and followed at their heels towards the post-office, +licking the wounded man's hands as they hung down. Inside M. Evanturel's +house the injured man was laid upon a couch. Charley examined his +wounds, and, finding them severe, advised that the Cure be sent for, +while he and Jo Portugais set about restoring him to consciousness. +Jo had skill of a sort, and his crude medicaments were efficacious. + +When the Cure came, the injured man was handed over to his care, and he +arranged that in the evening Boily should be removed to his house, to +await the arrival of the doctor from the next parish. + +This was Charley's public introduction to the people of Chaudiere, and it +was his second meeting with Rosalie Evanturel. + +The incident brought him into immediate prominence. Before he left the +post-office, Filion Lacasse, Maximilian Cour, and Mrs. Flynn had given +forth his history, as related by Jo Portugais. The village was agog with +excitement. + +But attention was not centred on himself, for Rosalie's courage had set +the parish talking. When the Notary stood on the steps of the saddler's +shop, and with fine rhetoric proposed a vote of admiration for the girl, +the cheering could be heard inside the post-office, and it brought Mrs. +Flynn outside. + +"'Tis for her, the darlin'--for Ma'm'selle Rosalie--they're splittin' +their throats!" she said to Charley as he was making his way from the +sick man's room to the street door. "Did ye iver see such an eye an' +hand? That avil baste that's killed two Injins already--an' all the men +o' the place sneakin' behind dures, an' she walkin' up cool as leaf in +mornin' dew, an' quietin' the divil's own! Did ye iver see annything +like it, sir--you that's seen so much?" + +"Madame, it is not touch of hand alone, or voice alone," answered +Charley. + +"Shure, 'tis somethin' kin in baste an' maid, you're manin' thin?" + +"Quite so, Madame." + +"Simple like, an' understandin' what Noah understood in that ark av his +--for talk to the bastes he must have, explainin' what was for thim to +do." + +"Like that, Madame." + +"Thrue for you, sir, 'tis as you say. There's language more than tongue +of man can shpake. But listen, thin, to me"--her voice got lower-- +"for 'tis not the furst time, a thing like that, the lady she is-- +granddaughter of a Seigneur, and descinded from nobility in France! 'Tis +not the furst time to be doin' brave things. Just a shlip of a girl she +was, three years ago, afther her mother died, an' she was back from +convint. A woman come to the parish an' was took sick in the house of +her brother--from France she was. Small-pox they said at furst. 'Twas +no small-pox, but plague, got upon the seas. Alone she was in the house +--her brother left her alone, the black-hearted coward. The people +wouldn't go near the place. The Cure was away. Alone the woman was-- +poor soul! Who wint--who wint and cared for her? Who do ye think, sir?" + +"Mademoiselle?" + +"None other. 'Go tell Mrs. Flynn,' says she, 'to care for my father till +I come back,' an' away she wint to the house of plague. A week she +stayed, an' no one wint near her. Alone she was with the woman and the +plague. 'Lave her be,' said the Cure when he come back; "tis for the +love of God. God is with her--lave her be, and pray for her,' says he. +An' he wint himself, but she would not let him in. ''Tis my work,' says +she. ''Tis God's work for me to do,' says she. 'An' the woman will live +if 'tis God's will,' says she. 'There's an agnus dei on her breast,' +says she. 'Go an' pray,' says she. Pray the Cure did, an' pray did we +all, but the woman died of the plague. All alone did Rosalie draw her to +the grave on a stone-boat down the lane, an' over the hill, an' into the +churchyard. An' buried her with her own hands at night, no one knowin' +till the mornin', she did. So it was. An' the burial over, she wint +back an' burned the house to the ground--sarve the villain right that +lave the sick woman alone! An' her own clothes she burned, an' put on +the clothes I brought her wid me own hand. An' for that thing she did, +the love o' God in her heart, is it for Widdy Flynn or Cure or anny other +to forgit? Shure the Cure was for iver broken-hearted, for that he was +sick abed for days an' could not go to the house when the woman died, an' +say to Rosalie, 'Let me in for her last hour.' But the word of Rosalie +--shure 'twas as good as the words of a praste, savin' the Cure prisince +wheriver he may be!" + +This was the story of Rosalie which Mrs. Flynn told Charley, as he stood +at the street door of the post-office. When she had finished, Charley +went back into the room where Rosalie sat beside the sick man's couch, +the hound at her feet. She came forward, surprised, for he had bade her +good-bye but a few minutes before. + +"May I sit and watch for an hour longer, Mademoiselle?" he said. "You +will have your duties in the post-office." + +"Monsieur--it is good of you," she answered. + +For two hours Charley watched her going in and out, whispering directions +to Mrs. Flynn, doing household duty, bringing warmth in with her, and +leaving light behind her. + +It was afternoon when he returned to his bench in the tailor-shop, and +was received by old Louis Trudel in peevish silence. For an hour they +worked in silence, and then the tailor said: + +"A brave girl--that. We will work till nine to-night!" + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +THE MARK IN THE PAPER + +Chaudiere was nearing the last of its nine-days' wonder. It had filed +past the doorway of the tailor-shop; it had loitered on the other side of +the street; it had been measured for more clothes than in three months +past--that it might see Charley at work in the shop, cross-legged on a +bench, or wielding the goose, his eye glass in his eye. Here was +sensation indeed, for though old M. Rossignol, the Seigneur, had an eye- +glass, it was held to his eye--a large bone-bound thing with a little +gold handle; but no one in Chaudiere had ever worn a glass in his eye +like that. Also, no one in Chaudiere had ever looked quite like +"M'sieu'"--for so it was that, after the first few days (a real tribute +to his importance and sign of the interest he created) Charley came to be +called "M'sieu'," and the Mallard was at last entirely dropped. + +Presently people came and stood at the tailor's door and talked, or +listened to Louis Trudel and M'sieu' talking. And it came to be noised +abroad that the stranger talked as well as the Cure and better than the +Notary. By-and-by they associated his eye-glass with his talent, so that +it seemed, as it were, to be the cause of it. Yet their talk was ever of +simple subjects, of everyday life about them, now and then of politics, +occasionally of the events of the world filtered to them through vast +tracts of country. There was one subject which, however, was barred; +perhaps because there was knowledge abroad that M'sieu' was not a +Catholic, perhaps because Charley himself adroitly changed the +conversation when it veered that way. + +Though the parish had not quite made up its mind about him, there were a +number of things in his favour. In the first place, the Cure seemed +satisfied; secondly, he minded his own business. Also, he was working +for Louis Trudel for nothing. These things Jo Portugais diligently +impressed on the minds of all who would listen. + +From above the frosted part of the windows of the post-office, in the +corner where she sorted letters, Rosalie could look over at the tailor's +shop at an angle; could sometimes even see M'sieu' standing at the long +table with a piece of chalk, a pair of shears, or a measure. She watched +the tailor-shop herself, but it annoyed her when she saw any one else do +so. She resented--she was a woman and loved monopoly--all inquiry +regarding M'sieu', so frequently addressed to her. + +One afternoon, as Charley came out, on his way to the house on Vadrome +Mountain, she happened to be outside. He saw her, paused, lifted his fur +cap, and crossed the street to her. + +"Have you, perhaps, paper, pens, and ink for sale, Mademoiselle?" + +"Yes, oh yes; come in, Monsieur Mallard." + +"Ah, it is nice of you to remember me," he answered. "I see you every +day--often," she answered. + +"Of course, we are neighbours," he responded. "The man--the horse- +trainer--is quite well again?" + +"He has gone home almost well," she answered. She placed pens, paper, +and ink before him. "Will these do?" + +"Perfectly," he answered mechanically, and laid a few pens and a bottle +of ink beside the paper. + +"You were very brave that day," he said--they had not talked together +since, though seeing each other so often. + +"Oh, no; I knew he would make friends with me--the hound." + +"Of course," he rejoined. + +"We should show animals that we trust them," she said, in some confusion, +for being near him made her heart throb painfully. + +He did not answer. Presently his eye glanced at the paper again, and was +arrested. He ran his fingers over it, and a curious look flashed across +his face. He held the paper up to the light quickly, and looked through +it. It was thin, half-foreign paper, without lines, and there was a +water-mark in it-large, shadowy, filmy--Kathleen. + +It was paper made in the mills which had belonged to Kathleen's uncle. +This water-mark was made to celebrate their marriage-day. Only for one +year had this paper been made, and then the trade in it was stopped. It +had gone its ways down the channels of commerce, and here it was in his +hand, a reminder, not only of the old life, but, as it were, the +parchment for the new. There it was, a piece of plain good paper, ready +for pen and ink and his letter to the Cure's brother in Paris--the only +letter he would ever write, ever again until he died, so he told himself; +but hold it up to the light and there was the name over which his letter +must be written--Kathleen, invisible but permanent, obscured, but brought +to life by the raising of a hand. + +The girl caught the flash of feeling in his face, saw him holding the +paper up to the light, and then, with an abstracted air, calmly lay it +down. + +"That will do, thank you," he said. "Give me the whole packet." She +wrapped it up for him without a word, and he laid down a two-dollar note, +the last he had in the world. + +"How much of this paper have you?" he asked. The girl looked under the +counter. "Six packets," she said. "Six, and a few sheets over." + +"I will take it all. But keep it for me, for a week, or perhaps a +fortnight, will you?" He did not need all this paper to write letters +upon, yet he meant to buy all the paper of this sort that the shop +contained. But he must get money from Louis Trudel--he would speak about +it to-morrow. + +"Monsieur does not want me to sell even the loose sheets?" + +"No. I like the paper, and I will take it all." + +"Very good, Monsieur." + +Her heart was beating hard. All this man did had peculiar significance +to her. His look seemed to say: "Do not fear. I will tell you things." + +She gave him the parcel and the change, and he turned to go. "You read +much?" he asked, almost casually, yet deeply interested in the charm and +intelligence of her face. + +"Why, yes, Monsieur," she answered quickly. "I am always reading." + +He did not speak at once. He was wondering whether, in this primitive +place, such a mind and nature would be the wiser for reading; whether it +were not better to be without a mental aspiration, which might set up +false standards. + +"What are you reading now?" he asked, with his hand on the door. + +"Antony and Cleopatra, also Enoch Arden," she answered, in good English, +and without accent. + +His head turned quickly towards her, but he did not speak. + +"Enoch Arden is terrible," she added eagerly. "Don't you think so, +Monsieur?" + +"It is very painful," he answered. "Good-night." He opened the door and +went out. + +She ran to the door and watched him go down the street. For a little she +stood thinking, then, turning to the counter, and snatching up a sheet of +the paper he had bought, held it up to the light. She gave a cry of +amazement. + +"Kathleen!" she exclaimed. + +She thought of the start he gave when he looked at the water-mark; she +thought of the look on his face when he said he would buy all this paper +she had. + +"Who was Kathleen?" she whispered, as though she was afraid some one +would hear. "Who was Kathleen!" she said again resentfully. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +MADAME DAUPHIN HAS A MISSION + +One day Charley began to know the gossip of the village about him from a +source less friendly than Jo Portugais. The Notary's wife, bringing her +boy to be measured for a suit of broadcloth, asked Charley if the things +Jo had told about him were true, and if it was also true that he was a +Protestant, and perhaps an Englishman. As yet, Charley had been asked +no direct questions, for the people of Chaudiere had the consideration +of their temperament; but the Notary's wife was half English, and being +a figure in the place, she took to herself more privileges than did old +Madame Dugal, the Cure's sister. + +To her ill-disguised impertinence in English, as bad as her French and as +fluent, Charley listened with quiet interest. When she had finished her +voluble statement she said, with a simper and a sneer-for, after all, a +Notary's wife must keep her position--"And now, what is the truth about +it? And are you a Protestant?" + +There was a sinister look in old Trudel's eyes as, cross-legged on his +table, he listened to Madame Dauphin. He remembered the time, twenty- +five years ago, when he had proposed to this babbling woman, and had been +rejected with scorn--to his subsequent satisfaction; for there was no +visible reason why any one should envy the Notary, in his house or out of +it. Already Trudel had a respect for the tongue of M'sieu'. He had not +talked much the few days he had been in the shop, but, as the old man had +said to Filion Lacasse the saddler, his brain was like a pair of shears-- +it went clip, clip, clip right through everything. He now hoped that his +new apprentice, with the hand of a master-workman, would go clip, clip +through madame's inquisitiveness. He was not disappointed, for he heard +Charley say: + +"One person in the witness-box at a time, Madame. Till Jo Portugais is +cross-examined and steps down, I don't see what I can do!" + +"But you are a Protestant!" said the woman snappishly. This man was +only a tailor, dressed in fulled cloth, and no doubt his past life would +not bear inspection; and she was the Notary's wife, and had said to +people in the village that she would find out the man's history from +himself. + +"That is one good reason why I should not go to confession," he replied +casually, and turned to a table where he had been cutting a waistcoat-- +for the first time in his life. + +"Do you think I'm going to stand your impertinence? Do you know who I +am?" + +Charley calmly put up his monocle. He looked at the foolish little woman +with so cruel a flash of the eye that she shrank back. + +"I should know you anywhere," he said. + +"Come, Stephan," she said nervously to her boy, and pulled him towards +the door. + +On the instant Charley's feeling changed. Was he then going to carry the +old life into the new, and rebuke a silly garish woman whose faults were +generic more than personal? He hurried forward to the door and +courteously opened it for her. + +"Permit me, Madame," he said. + +She saw that there was nothing ironical in this politeness. She had a +sudden apprehension of an unusual quality called "the genteel," for no +storekeeper in Chaudiere ever opened or shut a shop-door for anybody. +She smiled a vacuous smile; she played "the lady" terribly, as, with a +curious conception of dignity, she held her body stiff as a ramrod, and +with a prim merci sailed into the street. + +This gorgeous exit changed her opinion of the man she had been unable to +catechise. Undoubtedly he had snubbed her--that was the word she used in +her mind--but his last act had enabled her, in the sight of several +habitants and even of Madame Dugal, "to put on airs," as the charming +Madame Dugal said afterwards. + +Thinking it better to give the impression that she had had a successful +interview, she shook her head mysteriously when asked about M'sieu', and +murmured, "He is quite the gentleman!" which she thought a socially +distinguished remark. + +When she had gone, Charley turned to old Louis. + +"I don't want to turn your customers away," he said quietly, "but there +it is! I don't need to answer questions as a part of the business, do +I?" + +There was a sour grin on the face of old Trudel. He grunted some +inaudible answer, then, after a pause, added: "I'd have been hung for +murder, if she'd answered the question I asked her once as I wanted her +to." + +He opened and shut his shears with a sardonic gesture. + +Charley smiled, and went to the window. For a minute he stood watching +Madame Dauphin and Rosalie at the post-office door. The memory of his +talk with Rosalie was vivid to him at the moment. He was thinking also +that he had not a penny in the world to pay for the rest of the paper he +had bought. He turned round and put on his coat slowly. + +"What are you doing that for?" asked the old man, with a kind of snarl, +yet with trepidation. + +"I don't think I'll work any more to-day." + +"Not work! Smoke of the devil, isn't Sunday enough to play in? You're +not put out by that fool wife of Dauphin's?" + +"Oh no--not that! I want an understanding about wages." + +To Louis the dread crisis had come. He turned a little green, for he was +very miserly-for the love of God. + +He had scarcely realised what was happening when Charley first sat down +on the bench beside him. He had been taken by surprise. Apart from the +excitement of the new experience, he had profited by the curiosity of the +public, for he had orders enough to keep him busy until summer, and he +had had to give out work to two extra women in the parish, though he had +never before had more than one working for him. But his ruling passion +was strong in him. He always remembered with satisfaction that once when +the Cure was absent and he was supposed to be dying, a priest from +another parish came, and, the ministrations over, he had made an offering +of a gold piece. When the young priest hesitated, his fingers had crept +back to the gold piece, closed on it, and drawn it back beneath the +coverlet again. He had then peacefully fallen asleep. It was a gracious +memory. + +"I don't need much, I don't want a great deal," continued Charley when +the tailor did not answer, "but I have to pay for my bed and board, and I +can't do it on nothing." + +"How have you done it so far?" peevishly replied the tailor. + +"By working after hours at carpentering up there"--he made a gesture +towards Vadrome Mountain. "But I can't go on doing that all the time, +or I'll be like you too soon." + +"Be like me!" The voice of the tailor rose shrilly. + +"Be like me! What's the matter with me?" + +"Only that you're in a bad way before your time, and that you mayn't get +out of this hole without stepping into another. You work too hard, +Monsieur Trudel." + +"What do you want--wages?" + +Charley inclined his head. "If you think I'm worth them." + +The tailor viciously snipped a piece of cloth. "How can I pay you wages, +if you stand there doing nothing?" "This is my day for doing nothing," +Charley answered pleasantly, for the tailor-man amused him, and the +whimsical mental attitude of his past life was being brought to the +surface by this odd figure, with big spectacles pushed up on a yellow +forehead, and shrunken hands viciously clutching the shears. + +"You don't mean to say you're not going to work to-day, and this suit of +clothes promised for to-morrow night--for the Manor House too!" + +With a piece of chalk Charley idly made heads on brown paper. "After +all, why should clothes be the first thing in one's mind--when they are +some one else's! It's a beautiful day outside. I've never felt the sun +so warm and the air so crisp and sweet--never in all my life." + +"Then where have you lived?" snapped out the tailor with a sneer. +"You must be a Yankee--they have only what we leave over down there!" +--he jerked his head southward. "We don't stop to look at weather here. +I suppose you did where you come from?" + +Charley smiled in a distant sort of way. "Where I came from, when we +weren't paid for our work we always stopped to consider our health--and +the weather. I don't want a great deal. I put it to you honestly. Do +you want me? If you do, will you give me enough to live on--enough to +buy a suit of clothes a year, to pay for food and a room? If I work for +you for nothing, I have to live on others for nothing, or kill myself as +you're doing." + +There was no answer at once, and Charley went on: "I came to you because +I saw you wanted help badly. I saw that you were hard-pushed and sick--" + +"I wasn't sick," interrupted the tailor with a snarl. + +"Well, overworked, which is the same thing in the end. I did the best I +could: I gave you my hands--awkward enough they were at first, I know, +but--" + +"It's a lie. They weren't awkward," churlishly cut in the tailor. + +"Well, perhaps they weren't so awkward, but they didn't know quite what +to do--" + +"You knew as well as if you'd been taught," came back in a growl. + +"Well, then, I wasn't awkward, and I had a knack for the work. What was +more, I wanted work. I wanted to work at the first thing that appealed +to me. I had no particular fancy for tailoring--you get bowlegged in +time!"--the old spirit was fighting with the new--"but here you were at +work, and there I was idle, and I had been ill, and some one who wasn't +responsible for me--a stranger-worked for me and cared for me. Wasn't it +natural, when you were playing the devil with yourself, that I should +step in and give you a hand? You've been better since--isn't that so?" +The tailor did not answer. + +"But I can't go on as we are, though I want only enough to keep me +going," Charley continued. + +"And if I don't give you what you want, you'll leave?" + +"No. I'm never going to leave you. I'm going to stay here, for you'll +never get another man so cheap; and it suits me to stay--you need some +one to look after you." + +A curious soft look suddenly flashed into the tailor's eyes. + +"Will you take on the business after I'm gone?" he asked at last. +"It's along time to look ahead, I know," he added quickly, for not in +words would he acknowledge the possibility of the end. + +"I should think so," Charley answered, his eyes on the bright sun and the +soft snow on the trees beyond the window. + +The tailor snatched up a pattern and figured on it for a moment. +Then he handed it to Charley. "Will that do?" he asked with anxious, +acquisitive look, his yellow eyes blinking hard. + +Charley looked at it musingly, then said "Yes, if you give me a room +here." + +"I meant board and lodging too," said Louis Trudel with an outburst of +eager generosity, for, as it was, he had offered about one-half of what +Charley was worth to him. + +Charley nodded. "Very well, that will do," he said, and took off his +coat and went to work. For a long time they worked silently. The tailor +was in great good-humour; for the terrible trial was over, and he now had +an assistant who would be a better tailor than himself. There would be +more profit, more silver nails for the church door, and more masses for +his soul. + +"The Cure says you are all right. . . . When will you come here?" he +said at last. + +"To-morrow night I shall sleep here," answered Charley. + +So it was arranged that Charley should come to live in the tailor's +house, to sleep in the room which the tailor had provided for a wife +twenty-five years before--even for her that was now known as Madame +Dauphin. + +All morning the tailor chuckled to himself. When they sat down at noon +to a piece of venison which Charley had prepared himself--taking the +frying-pan out of the hands of Margot Patry, the old servant, and cooking +it to a turn--Louis Trudel saw his years lengthen to an indefinite +period. He even allowed himself to nervously stand up, bow, shake +Charley's hand jerkingly, and say: + +"M'sieu', I care not what you are or where you come from, or even if +you're a Protestant, perhaps an Englishman. You're a gentleman and a +tailor, and old Louis Trudel will not forget you. It shall be as you +said this morning--it is no day for work. We will play, and the clothes +for the Manor can go to the devil. Smoke of hell-fire, I will go and +have a pipe with that, poor wretch the Notary!" + +So, a wonderful thing happened. Louis Trudel, on a week-day and a +market-day, went to smoke a pipe with Narcisse Dauphin, and to tell him +that M. Mallard was going to stay with him for ever, at fine wages. He +also announced that he had paid this whole week's wages in advance; but +he did not tell what he did not know--that half the money had already +been given to old Margot, whose son lay ill at home with a broken leg, +and whose children were living on bread and water. Charley had slowly +drawn from the woman the story of her life as he sat by the kitchen fire +and talked to her, while her master was talking to the Notary. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THE TAILOR MAKES A MIDNIGHT FORAY + +Since the day Charley had brought home the paper bought at the post- +office, and water-marked Kathleen, he had, at odd times, written down +his thoughts, and promptly torn the paper up again or put it in the fire. +In the repression of the new life, in which he must live wholly alone, so +far as all past habits of mind were concerned, it was a relief to record +his passing reflections, as he had been wont to do when the necessity for +it was less. Writing them here was like the bursting of an imprisoned +stream; it was relaxing the ceaseless eye of vigilance; freeing an +imprisoned personality. This personality was not yet merged into that +which must take its place, must express itself in the involuntary acts +which tell of a habit of mind and body--no longer the imitative and the +histrionic, but the inherent and the real. + +On the afternoon of the day that old Louis agreed to give him wages, and +went to smoke a pipe with the Notary, Charley scribbled down his thoughts +on this matter of personality and habit. + +"Who knows," he wrote, "which is the real self? A child comes into the +world gin-begotten, with the instinct for liquor in his brain, like the +scent of the fox in the nostrils of the hound. And that seems the real. +But the same child caught up on the hands of chance is carried into +another atmosphere, is cared for by ginhating minds and hearts: habit +fastens on him--fair, decent, and temperate habit--and he grows up like +the Cure yonder, a brother of Aaron. Which is the real? Is the instinct +for the gin killed, or covered? Is the habit of good living mere habit +and mere acting, in which the real man never lives his real life, or is +it the real life? + +"Who knows! Here am I, born with a question in my mouth, with the ever- +present 'non possumus' in me. Here am I, to whom life was one poor +futility; to whom brain was but animal intelligence abnormally developed; +to whom speechless sensibility and intelligence was the only reality; to +whom nothing from beyond ever sent a flash of conviction, an intimation, +into my soul--not one. To me God always seemed a being of dreams, the +creation of a personal need and helplessness, the despairing cry of the +victims of futility--And here am I flung like a stone from a sling into +this field where men believe in God as a present and tangible being; who +reply to all life's agonies and joys and exultations with the words +'C'est le bon Dieu.' And what shall I become? Will habit do its work, +and shall I cease to be me? Shall I, in the permanency of habit, become +like unto this tailor here, whose life narrows into one sole cause; whose +only wish is to have the Church draw the coverlet of forgiveness and +safety over him; who has solved all questions in a blind belief or an +inherited predisposition--which? This stingy, hard, unhappy man--how +should he know what I am denied! Or does he know? Is it all illusion? +If there is a God who receives such devotion, to the exclusion of natural +demand and spiritual anxieties, why does not this tailor 'let his light +so shine before men that they may see his good works, and glorify his +Father which is in heaven?' That is it. Therefore, wherefore, tailor- +man? Therefore, wherefore, God? Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor- +man!" + +Seated on his bench in the shop, with his eyes ever and anon raised +towards the little post-office opposite, he wrote these words. +Afterwards he sat and thought till the shadows deepened, and the tailor +came in to supper. Then he took up the pieces of paper, and, going to +the fire, which was still lighted of an evening, thrust them inside. + +Louis Trudel saw the paper burning, and, glancing down, he noticed that +one piece--the last--had slipped to the floor and was lying under the +table. He saw the pencil still in Charley's hand. Forthwith his natural +suspicion leaped up, and the cunning of the monomaniac was upon him. +With all his belief in le bon Dieu and the Church, Louis Trudel trusted +no one. One eye was ever open to distrust man, while the other was ever +closed with blind belief in Heaven. + +As Charley stooped to put wood in the fire, the tailor thrust a foot +forward and pushed the piece of paper further under the table. + +That night the tailor crept down into the shop, felt for the paper in the +dark, found it, and carried it away to his room. All kinds of thoughts +had raged through his diseased mind. It was a letter, perhaps, and if a +letter, then he would gain some facts about the man's life. But if it +was a letter, why did he burn it? It was said that he never received a +letter and never sent one, therefore it was little likely to be a letter. +if not a letter, then what could it be? Perhaps the man was English and +a spy of the English government, for was there not disaffection in some +of the parishes? Perhaps it was a plan of robbery. To such a state of +hallucination did his weakened mind come, that he forgot the kindly +feeling he had had for this stranger who had worked for him without pay. +Suspicion, the bane of sick old age, was hot on him. He remembered that +M'sieu' had put an arm through his when they went upstairs, and that now +increased suspicion. Why should the man have been so friendly? To lull +him into confidence, perhaps, and then to rob and murder him in his +sleep. Thank God, his ready money was well hid, and the rest was safe in +the bank far away! He crept back to his room with the paper in his hand. +It was the last sheet of what Charley had written, and had been +accidentally brushed off on the floor. It was in French, and, holding +the candle close, he slowly deciphered the crabbed, characteristic +handwriting. + +His eyes dilated, his yellow cheeks took on spots of unhealthy red, his +hand trembled. Anger seized him, and he mumbled the words over and over +again to himself. Twice or thrice, as the paper lay in one hand, he +struck it with the clinched fist of the other, muttering and distraught. + +"This tailor here. . . . This stingy, hard, unhappy man. . . . If +there is a God! . . . Therefore, wherefore, tailor-man? . . . +Therefore, wherefore, God? . . . Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor- +man!" + +Hatred of himself, blasphemy, the profane and hellish humour of--of the +infidel! A Protestant heretic--he was already damned; a robber--you +could put him in jail; a spy--you could shoot him or tar and feather him; +a murderer--you could hang him. But an infide--this was a deadly poison, +a black danger, a being capable of all crimes. An infidel--"Therefore, +wherefore, tailor-man? . . . Therefore, wherefore, God? . . . +Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!" + +The devil laughing--the devil incarnate come to mock a poor tailor, to +sow plague through a parish where all were at peace in the bosom of the +Church. The tailor had three ruling passions--cupidity, vanity, and +religion. Charley had now touched the three, and the whole man was +alive. His cupidity had been flattered by the unpaid service of a +capable assistant, but now he saw that he was paying the devil a wage. +His vanity was overwhelmed by a satanic ridicule. His religion and his +God had been assaulted in so shameful a way that no punishment could be +great enough for the man of hell. In religion he was a fanatic; he was a +demented fanatic now. + +He thrust the paper into his pocket, then crept out into the hall and to +the door of Charley's bedroom. He put his ear to the door. After a +moment he softly raised the latch, and opened the door and listened +again. 'M'sieu' was in a deep sleep. + +Louis Trudel scarcely knew why he had listened, why he had opened the +door and stood looking at the figure in the bed, barely definable in the +semi-darkness of the room. If he had meant harm to the helpless man, he +had brought no weapon; if he had been curious, there the man was +peacefully sleeping! + +His sick, morbid imagination was so alive, that he scarcely knew what he +did. As he stood there listening, hatred and horror in his heart, a +voice said to him: "Thou shalt do no murder." The words kept ringing in +his ears. Yet he had not thought of murder. The fancied command itself +was his first temptation towards such a deed. He had thought of raising +the parish, of condign punishment of many sorts, but not this. As he +closed the door softly, killing entered his mind and stayed there. "Thou +shalt not" had been the first instigation to "Thou shalt." + +It haunted him as he returned to his room, undressed himself, and went +to bed. He could not sleep. "Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!" +The challenge had been to himself. He must respond to it. The duty lay +with him; he must answer this black infidel for the Church, for faith, +for God. + +The more he thought of it, the more Charley's face came before him, with +the monocle shining and hard in the eye. The monocle haunted him. That +was the infidel's sign. "Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!" What +sign should he show? + +Presently he sat up straight in bed. In another minute he was out and +dressing. Five minutes later he was on his way to the parish church. +When he reached it he took a tool from his pocket and unscrewed a small +iron cross from the front door. It was a cross which had been blessed by +the Pope, and had been brought to Chaudiere by the beloved mother of the +Cure, now dead. + +"When I have done with it I will put it back," he said, as he thrust it +inside his shirt, and hurried stealthily back to his house. As he got +into bed he gave a noiseless, mirthless laugh. All night he lay with his +yellow eyes wide open, gazing at the ceiling. He was up at dawn, +hovering about the fire in the shop. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +THE STEALING OF THE CROSS + +If Charley had been less engaged with his own thoughts, he would have +noticed the curious baleful look in the eyes of the tailor; but he was +deeply absorbed in a struggle that had nothing to do with Louis Trudel. + +The old fever of thirst and desire was upon him. All morning the door of +Jolicoeur's saloon was opening and shutting before his mind's eye, and +there was a smell of liquor everywhere. It was in his nostrils when the +hot steam rose from the clothes he was pressing, in the thick odour of +the fulled cloth, in the melting snow outside the door. + +Time and again he felt that he must run out of the shop and away to the +little tavern where white whiskey was sold to unwise habitants. But he +fought on. Here was the heritage of his past, the lengthening chain of +slavery to his old self--was it his real self? Here was what would +prevent him from forgetting all that he had been and not been, all the +happiness he might have had, all that he had lost--the ceaseless +reminder. He was still the victim to a poison which gave not only a +struggle of body, but a struggle of soul--if he had a soul. + +"If he had a soul!" The phrase kept repeating itself to him even as he +fought the fever in his throat, resisting the temptation to take that +medicine which the Curb's brother had sent him. + +"If he had a soul!" The thinking served as an antidote, for by the +ceaseless iteration his mind was lulled into a kind of drowse. Again and +again he went to the pail of water that stood on the window-sill, and +lifting it to his lips, drank deep and full, to quench the wearing +thirst. + +"If he had a soul!" He looked at Louis Trudel, silent and morose, the +clammy yellow of a great sickness in his face and hands, but his mind +only intent on making a waistcoat--and the end of all things very near! +The words he had written the night before came to him: "Therefore, +wherefore, tailor-man? Therefore, wherefore, God? . . . Show me a +sign from Heaven, tailor-man!" As if in reply to his thoughts there came +the sound of singing, and of bells ringing in the parish church. + +A procession with banners was coming near. It was a holy day, and +Chaudiere was mindful of its duties. The wanderers of the parish had +come home for Easter. All who belonged to Chaudiere and worked in the +woods or shanties, or lived in big cities far away, were returned--those +who could return--to take the holy communion in the parish church. +Yesterday the parish had been alive with a pious hilarity. The great +church had been crowded beyond the doors, the streets had been full of +cheerily dressed habitants. There had, however, come a sudden chill to +the seemly rejoicings--the little iron cross blessed by the Pope had been +stolen from the door of the church! + +The fact had been told to the Cure as he said the Mass, and from the +altar steps, before going to the pulpit, he referred to the robbery with +poignant feeling; for the relic had belonged to a martyr of the Church, +who, two centuries before, had laid down his life for the Master on the +coast of Africa. + +Louis Trudel had heard the Cure's words, and in his place at the rear of +the church he smiled sourly to himself. In due time the little cross +should be returned, but it had work to do first. He did not take the +holy communion this Easter day, or go to confession as was his wont. +Not, however, until a certain day later did the Cure realise this, though +for thirty years the tailor had never omitted his Easter-time duties. + +The people guessed and guessed, but they knew not on whom to cast +suspicion at first. No sane Catholic of Chaudiere could possibly have +taken the holy thing. Presently a murmur crept about that M'sieu' might +have been the thief. He was not a Catholic, and--who could tell? Who +knew where he came from? Who knew what he had been? Perhaps a jail- +bird-robber-murderer! Charley, however, stitched on, intent upon his own +struggle. + +The procession passed the doorway: men bearing banners with sacred texts, +acolytes swinging censers, a figure of the Saviour carved in wood borne +aloft, the Cure under a silk canopy, and a long line of habitants +following with sacred song. People fell upon their knees in the street +as the procession passed, and the Cure's face was bent here and there, +his hand raised in blessing. + +Old Louis got up from his bench, and, putting on a coat over his wool +jacket, hastened to the doorway, knelt down, made the sign of the cross, +and said a prayer. Then he turned quickly towards Charley, who, looking +at the procession, then at the tailor, then back again at the procession, +smiled. + +Charley was hardly conscious of what he did. His mind had ranged far +beyond this scene to the large issues which these symbols represented. +Was it one universal self-deception? Was this "religion" the pathetic, +the soul-breaking make-believe of mortality? So he smiled--at himself, +at his own soul, which seemed alone in this play, the skeleton in armour, +the thing that did not belong. His own words written that fateful day +before he died at the Cote Dorion came to him: + +"Sacristan, acolyte, player, or preacher, Each to his office, but who +holds the key? Death, only Death, thou, the ultimate teacher, Wilt show +it to me!" + +He was suddenly startled from his reverie, through which the procession +was moving--a cloud of witnesses. It was the voice of Louis Trudel, +sharp and piercing: + +"Don't you believe in God and the Son of God?" + +"God knows!" answered Charley slowly in reply--an involuntary +exclamation of helplessness, an automatic phrase deflected from its first +significance to meet a casual need of the mind. Yet it seemed like +satire, like a sardonic, even vulgar, humour. So it struck Louis Trudel, +who snatched up a hot iron from the fire and rushed forward with a snarl. +So astounded was Charley that he did not stir. He was not prepared for +the sudden onslaught. He did not put up his hand even, but stared at the +tailor, who, within a foot of him, stopped short with the iron poised. + +Louis Trudel repented in time. With the cunning of the monomaniac he +realised that an attack now might frustrate his great stroke. It would +bring the village to his shop door, precipitate the crisis upon the wrong +incident. + +As it chanced, only one person in Chaudiere saw the act. That was +Rosalie Evanturel across the way. She saw the iron raised, and looked +for M'sieu' to knock the tailor down; but, instead, she beheld the tailor +go back and put the iron on the fire again. She saw also that M'sieu' +was speaking, though she could hear no words. + +Charley's words were simple enough. "I beg your pardon, Monsieur," he +said across the room to old Louis; "I meant no offence at all. I was +trying to think it out in a human sort of way. I suppose I wanted a sign +from Heaven--wanted too much, no doubt." + +The tailor's lips twitched, and his hand convulsively clutched the shears +at his side. + +"It is no matter now," he answered shortly. "I have had signs from +Heaven; perhaps you will have one too!" + +"It would be worth while," rejoined Charley musingly. Charley wondered +bitterly if he had made an irreparable error in saying those ill-chosen +words. This might mean a breach between them, and so make his position +in the parish untenable. He had no wish to go elsewhere--where could he +go? It mattered little what he was, tinker or tailor. He had now only +to work his way back to the mind of the peasant; to be an animal with +intelligence; to get close to mother earth, and move down the declivity +of life with what natural wisdom were possible. It was his duty to adapt +himself to the mind of such as this tailor; to acquire what the tailor +and his like had found--an intolerant belief and an inexpensive security, +to be got through yielding his nature to the great religious dream. And +what perfect tranquillity, what smooth travelling found therein. + +Gazing across the street towards the little post-office, he saw Rosalie +Evanturel at the window. He fell to thinking about her. Rosalie, on her +part, kept wondering what old Louis' violence meant. + +Presently she saw a half-dozen men come quickly down the street, and, +before they reached the tailorshop, stand in a group talking excitedly. +Afterwards one came forward from the others quickly--Filion Lacasse the +saddler. He stopped short at the tailor's door. Looking at Charley, he +exclaimed roughly: + +"If you don't hand out the cross you stole from the church door, we'll +tar and feather you, M'sieu'." Charley looked up, surprised. It had +never occurred to him that they could associate him with the theft. +"I know nothing of the cross," he said quietly. "You're the only heretic +in the place. You've done it. Who are you? What are you doing here in +Chaudiere?" + +"Working at my trade," was Charley's quiet answer. He looked towards +Louis Trudel, as though to see how he took this ugly charge. + +Old Louis responded at once. "Get away with you, Filion Lacasse," he +croaked. "Don't come here with your twaddle. M'sieu' hasn't stole the +cross. What does he want with a cross? He's not a Catholic." + +"If he didn't steal the cross, why, he didn't," answered the saddler; +"but if he did, what'll you say for yourself, Louis? You call yourself a +good Catholic--bah!--when you've got a heretic living with you." + +"What's that to you?" growled the tailor, and reached out a nervous hand +towards the iron. "I served at the altar before you were born. Sacre! +I'll make your grave-clothes yet, and be a good Catholic when you're in +the churchyard. Be off with you. Ach," he sharply added, when Filion +did not move, "I'll cut your hair for you!" He scrambled off the bench +with his shears. + +Filion Lacasse disappeared with his friends, and the old man settled back +on his bench. + +Charley, looking up quietly from his work, said "Thank you, Monsieur." + +He did not notice what an evil look was in Louis Trudel's face as it +turned towards him, but Rosalie Evanturel, standing outside, saw it; and +she stole back to the post-office ill at ease and wondering. + +All that day she watched the tailor's shop, and even when the door was +shut in the evening, her eyes were fastened on the windows. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Is the habit of good living mere habit and mere acting +Suspicion, the bane of sick old age + + + + + + +THE RIGHT OF WAY + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 3. + + + +XIX. THE SIGN FROM HEAVEN +XX. THE RETURN OF THE TAILOR +XXI. THE CURE HAS AN INSPIRATION +XXII. THE WOMAN WHO SAW +XXIII. THE WOMAN WHO DID NOT TELL +XXIV. THE SEIGNEUR TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME +XXV. THE COLONEL TELLS HIS STORY +XXVI. A SONG, A BOTTLE, AND A GHOST +XXVII. OUT ON THE OLD TRAIL +XXVIII. THE SEIGNEUR GIVES A WARNING + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +THE SIGN FROM HEAVEN + +The agitation and curiosity possessing Rosalie all day held her in the +evening when the wooden shutters of the tailor's shop were closed and +only a flickering light showed through the cracks. She was restless and +uneasy during supper, and gave more than one unmeaning response to the +remarks of her crippled father, who, drawn up for supper in his wheel- +chair, was more than usually inclined to gossip. + +Damase Evanturel's mind was stirred concerning the loss of the iron +cross; the threat made by Filion Lacasse and his companions troubled him. +The one person beside the Cure, Jo Portugais, and Louis Trudel, to whom +M'sieu' talked much, was the postmaster, who sometimes met him of an +evening as he was taking the air. More than once he had walked behind +the wheel-chair and pushed it some distance, making the little crippled +man gossip of village matters. + +As the two sat at supper the postmaster was inclined to take a serious +view of M'sieu's position. He railed at Filion Lacasse; he called the +suspicious habitants clodhoppers, who didn't know any better--which was +a tribute to his own superior birth; and at last, carried away by a +feverish curiosity, he suggested that Rosalie should go and look through +the cracks in the shutters of the tailor-shop and find out what was going +on within. This was indignantly rejected by Rosalie, but the more she +thought, the more uneasy she became. She ceased to reply to her father's +remarks, and he at last relapsed into gloom, and said that he was tired +and would go to bed. Thereupon she wheeled him inside his bedroom, bade +him good-night, and left him to his moodiness, which, however, was soon +absorbed in a deep sleep, for the mind of the little grey postmaster +could no more hold trouble or thought than a sieve. + +Left alone, Rosalie began to be tortured. What were they doing in the +house opposite? + +Go and look through the windows? But she had never spied on people in +her life! Yet would it be spying? Would it not be pardonable? In the +interest of the man who had been attacked in the morning by the tailor, +who had been threatened by the saddler, and concerning whom she had seen +a signal pass between old Louis and Filion Lacasse, would it not be a +humane thing to do? It might be foolish and feminine to be anxious, but +did she not mean well, and was it not, therefore, honourable? + +The mystery inflamed her imagination. Charley's passiveness when he was +assaulted by old Louis and afterwards threatened by the saddler seemed to +her indifference to any sort of danger--the courage of the hopeless life, +maybe. Instantly her heart overflowed with sympathy. Monsieur was not a +Catholic perhaps? Well, so much the more he should be befriended, for he +was so much the more alone and helpless. If a man was born a Protestant +--or English--he could not help it, and should not be punished in this +world for it, since he was sure to be punished in the next. + +Her mind became more and more excited. The postoffice had been long +since closed, and her father was asleep--she could hear him snoring. It +was ten o'clock, and there was still a light in the tailor's shop. +Usually the light went out before nine o'clock. She went to the post- +office door and looked out. The streets were empty; there was not a +light burning anywhere, save in the house of the Notary. Down towards +the river a sleigh was making its way over the thin snow of spring, and +screeching on the stones. Some late revellers, moving homewards from the +Trois Couronnes, were roaring at the top of their voices the habitant +chanson, 'Le Petit Roger Bontemps': + + "For I am Roger Bontemps, + Gai, gai, gai! + With drink I am full and with joy content, + Gai, gaiment!" + +The chanson died away as she stood there, and still the light was burning +in the shop opposite. A thought suddenly came to her. She would go over +and see if the old housekeeper, Margot Patry, had gone to bed. Here was +the solution to the problem, the satisfaction of modesty and propriety. + +She crossed the street quickly, hurried round the corner of the house, +and was passing the side-window of the shop, when a crack in the shutters +caught her eye. She heard something fall on the floor within. Could it +be that the tailor and M'sieu' were working at so late an hour? She had +an irresistible impulse, and glued her eye to the crack. + +But presently she started back with a smothered cry. There by the great +fireplace stood Louis Trudel picking up a red-hot cross with a pair of +pincers. Grasping the iron firmly just below the arms of the cross, the +tailor held it up again. He looked at it with a wild triumph, yet with a +malignancy little in keeping with the object he held--the holy relic he +had stolen from the door of the parish church. The girl gave a low cry +of dismay. + +She saw old Louis advance stealthily towards the door of the shop leading +into the house. In bewilderment, she stood still an instant, then, with +a sudden impulse, she ran to the kitchen-door and tried it softly. It +was not locked. She opened it, entered quickly, and found old Margot +standing in the middle of the room in her night-dress. + +"Oh, Rosalie, Rosalie!" cried the old woman, "something's going to +happen. M'sieu' Trudel has been queer all evening. I peeped in the key- +hole of the shop just now, and--" + +"Yes, yes, I've seen too. Come!" said Rosalie, and going quickly to the +door, opened it, and passed through to another room. Here she opened +another door, leading into the hall between the shop and the house. +Entering the hall, she saw a glimmer of light above. It was the reddish +glow of the iron cross held by old Louis. She crept softly up the stone +steps. She heard a door open very quietly. She hurried now, and came to +the landing. She saw the door of Charley's room open--all the village +knew what room he slept in--and the moonlight was streaming in at the +window. + +She saw the sleeping man on the bed, and the tailor standing over him. +Charley was lying with one arm thrown above his head; the other lay over +the side of the bed. + +As she rushed forward, divining old Louis' purpose, the fiery cross +descended, and a voice cried: "'Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man!'" + +This voice was drowned by that of another, which, gasping with agony out +of a deep sleep, as the body sprang upright, cried: "God-oh God!" +Rosalie's hand grasped old Louis' arm too late. The tailor sprang back +with a horrible laugh, striking her aside, and rushed out to the landing. + +"Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!" cried Rosalie, and, snatching a scarf from her +bosom, thrust it in upon the excoriated breast, as Charley, hardly +realising what had happened, choked back moans of pain. + +"What did he do?" he gasped. + +"The iron cross from the church door!" she answered. "A minute, one +minute, Monsieur!" + +She rushed out upon the landing in time to see the tailor stumble on the +stairs and fall head forwards to the bottom, at the feet of Margot Patry. + +Rosalie paid no heed to the fallen man. "Oil! flour! Quick!" she +cried. "Quick! Quick!" She stepped over the body of the tailor, +snatched at Margot's arm, and dragged her into the kitchen. "Quick-oil +and flour!" + +The old woman showed her where they were, moaning and whining. + +"He tried to kill Monsieur," cried Rosalie, "burned him on the breast +with the holy cross!" + +With oil and flour she hurried back, over the body of the tailor, up the +stairs, and into Charley's room. Charley was now out of bed and half +dressed, though choking with pain, and preserving consciousness only by a +great effort. + +"Good Mademoiselle!" he said. + +She took the scarf off gently, soaked it in oil and splashed it with +flour, and laid it quickly back on the burnt flesh. + +Margot came staggering into the room. + +"I cannot rouse him. I cannot rouse him. He is dead! He is dead!" she +whimpered. + +"He--" + +Charley swayed forward towards the woman, recovered himself, and said: + +"Now not a word of what he did to me, remember. Not one word, or you +will go to jail with him. If you keep quiet, I'll say nothing. He +didn't know what he was doing." He turned to Rosalie. "Not a word of +this, please," he moaned. "Hide the cross." + +He moved towards the door. Rosalie saw his purpose, and ran out ahead of +him and down the stairs to where the tailor lay prone on his face, one +hand still holding the pincers. The little iron cross lay in a dark +corner. Stooping, she lifted up the tailor's head, then felt his heart. + +"He is not dead," she cried. "Quick, Margot, some water," she added, to +the whimpering woman. Margot tottered away, and came again presently +with the water. + +"I will go for some one to help," Rosalie said, rising to her feet, as +she saw Charley come slowly down the staircase, his face white with +misery. She ran and took his arm to help him down. + +"No, no, dear Mademoiselle," he said; "I shall be all right presently. +You must get help to carry him up stairs. Bring the Notary; he and I can +carry him up." + +"You, Monsieur! You--it would kill you! You are terribly hurt." + +"I must help to carry him, else people will be asking questions," he +answered painfully. "He is going to die. It must not be known--you +understand!" His eyes searched the floor until they found the cross. +Rosalie picked it up with the pincers. "It must not be known what he did +to me," Charley said to the muttering and weeping old woman. He caught +her shoulder with his hand, for she seemed scarcely to heed. + +She nodded. "Yes, yes, M'sieu', I will never speak." Rosalie was +standing in the door. "Go quickly, Mademoiselle," he said. She +disappeared with the iron cross, and flying across the street, thrust it +inside the post-office, then ran to the house of the Notary. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +THE RETURN OF THE TAILOR + +Twenty minutes later the tailor was lying in his bed, breathing, but +still unconscious, the Notary, M'sieu', and the doctor of the next +parish, who by chance was in Chaudiere, beside him. Charley's face was +drawn and haggard with pain, for he had helped to carry old Louis to bed, +though every motion of his arms gave him untold agony. In the doorway +stood Rosalie and Margot Patry. + +"Will he live?" asked the Notary. + +The doctor shook his head. "A few hours, perhaps. He fell downstairs?" + +Charley nodded. There was silence for some time, as the doctor went on +with his ministrations, and the Notary sat drumming his fingers on the +little table beside the bed. The two women stole away to the kitchen, +where Rosalie again pressed secrecy on Margot. In the interest of the +cause she had even threatened Margot with a charge of complicity. She +had heard the phrase "accessory before the fact," and she used it now +with good effect. + +Then she took some fresh flour and oil, and thrust them inside the +bedroom door where Charley now sat clinching his hands and fighting down +the pain. Careful as ever of his personal appearance, however, he had +brushed every speck of flour from his clothes, and buttoned his coat up +to the neck. + +Nearly an hour passed, and then the Cure appeared. When he entered the +sick man's room, Charley followed, and again Rosalie and old Margot came +and stood within the doorway. + +"Peace be to this house!" said the Cure. He had a few minutes of +whispered conversation with the doctor, and then turned to Charley. + +"He fell down-stairs, Monsieur? You saw him fall?" + +"I was in my room--I heard him fall, Cure." + +"Had he been ill during the day?" + +"He appeared to be feeble, and he seemed moody." + +"More than usual, Monsieur?" The Cure had heard of the incident of the +morning when Filion Lacasse accused Charley of stealing the cross. + +"Rather more than usual, Monsieur." + +The Cure turned towards the door. "You, Mademoiselle Rosalie, how came +you to know?" + +"I was in the kitchen with Margot, who was not well." + +The Cure looked at Margot, who tearfully nodded. "I was ill," she said, +"and Rosalie was here with me. She helped M'sieu' and me. Rosalie is a +good girl, and kind to me," she whimpered. + +The Cure seemed satisfied, and after looking at the sick man for a +moment, he came close to Charley. "I am deeply pained at what happened +to-day," he said courteously. "I know you have had nothing to do with +the beloved little cross." + +The Notary tried to draw near and listen, but the Cure's look held him +back. The doctor was busy with his patient. + +"You are only just, Monsieur," said Charley in response, wishing that +these kind eyes were fixed anywhere than on his face. + +All at once the Cure laid a hand upon his arm. "You are ill," he said +anxiously. "You look very ill indeed. See, Vaudrey," he added to the +doctor, "you have another patient here!" + +The friendly, oleaginous doctor came over and peered into Charley's face. +"Ill-sure enough!" he said. "Look at this sweat!" he pointed to the +drops of perspiration on Charley's forehead. "Where do you suffer?" + +"Severe pains all through my body," Charley answered simply, for it +seemed easier to tell the truth, as near as might be. + +"I must look to you," said the doctor. "Go and lie down, and I will come +to you." + +Charley bowed, but did not move. Just then two things drew the attention +of all: the tailor showed returning consciousness, and there was noise of +many voices outside the house and the tramping of feet below-stairs. + +"Go and tell them no one must come up," said the doctor to the Notary, +and the Cure made ready to say the last offices for the dying. + +Presently the noise below-stairs diminished, and the priest's voice rose +in the office, vibrating and touching. The two women sank to their +knees, the doctor followed, his eyes still fixed on the dying man. +Presently, however, Charley did the same; for something penetrating and +reasonable in the devotion touched him. + +All at once Louis Trudel opened his eyes. Staring round with acute +excitement, his eyes fell on the Cure, then upon Charley. + +"Stop--stop, M'sieu' le Cure!" he cried. "There's other work to do." +He gasped and was convulsed, but the pallor of his face was alive with +fire from the distempered eyes. He snatched from his breast the paper +Charley had neglected to burn. He thrust it into the Curb's hand. + +"See--see!" he croaked. "He is an infidel--black infidel--from hell!" +His voice rose in a kind of shriek, piercing to every corner of the +house. He pointed at Charley with shaking finger. + +"He wrote it there--on that paper. He doesn't--believe in God." + +His strength failed him, his hand clutched tremblingly at the air. He +laughed, a dry, crackling laugh, and his mouth opened twice or thrice to +speak, but gasping breaths only came forth. With a last effort, however- +-as the priest, shocked, stretched out his hand and said: "Have done, +have done, Trudel!"--he cried, in a voice that quavered shrilly: + +"He asked--tailor-man--sign--from--Heaven. Look-look!" He pointed +wildly at Charley. "I--gave him--sign of--" + +But that was the end. With a shudder the body collapsed in a formless +heap, and the tailor-man was gone to tell of the work he had done for his +faith on earth. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +THE CURE HAS AN INSPIRATION + +White and malicious faces peered through the doorway. There was an ugly +murmur coming up the staircase. Many habitants had heard Louis Trudel's +last words, and had passed them on with vehement exaggeration. + +Chaudiere had been touched in its most superstitious corner. +Protestantism was a sin, but atheism was a crime against humanity. +The Protestant might be the victim of a mistake, but the atheist was the +deliberate son of darkness, the source of fearful dangers. An atheist in +their midst was like a scorpion in a flower-bed--no one could tell when +and where he would sting. Rough misdemeanours among them had been many, +there had once been a murder in the parish, but the undefined horrors of +infidelity were more shameful than crimes the eye could see. + +To the minds of these excited people the tailor-man's death was due to +the infidel before them. They were ready to do all that might become a +Catholic intent to avenge the profaned honour of the Church and the +faith. Bodily harm was the natural form for their passion to take. + +"Bring him out--let us have him!" they cried with fierce gestures, to +which Rosalie Evanturel turned a pained, indignant face. + +As the Curb stood with the paper in his hand, his face set and bitter, +Rosalie made a step forward. She meant to tell the truth about Louis +Trudel, and show how good this man was, who stood charged with an +imaginary crime. But she met the warning eye of the man himself, calm +and resolute, she saw the suffering in the face, endured with what +composure! and she felt instantly that she must obey him, and that--who +could tell?--his plan might be the best in the end. She looked at the +Cure anxiously. What would he say and do? In the Cure's heart and +mind a great struggle was going on. All his inherent prejudice, the +hereditary predisposition of centuries, the ingrain hatred of atheism, +were alive in him, hardening his mind against the man before him. His +first impulse was to let Charley take his fate at the hands of the people +of Chaudiere, whatever it might be. But as he looked at the man, as he +recalled their first meeting, and remembered the simple, quiet life he +had lived among them--charitable, and unselfish--the barriers of creed +and habit fell down, and tears unbidden rushed into his eyes. + +The Cure had, all at once, the one great inspiration of his life--its one +beautiful and supreme imagining. For thus he reasoned swiftly: + +Here he was, a priest who had shepherded a flock of the faithful passed +on to him by another priest before him, who again had received them from +a guardian of the fold--a family of faithful Catholics whose thoughts +never strayed into forbidden realms. He had done no more than keep them +faithful and prevent them from wandering--counselling, admonishing, +baptising, and burying, giving in marriage and blessing, sending them on +their last great journey with the cachet of Holy Church upon them. But +never once, never in all his life, had he brought a lost soul into the +fold. If he died to-night, he could not say to St. Peter, when he +arrived at Heaven's gate: "See, I have saved a soul!" Before +the Throne he could not say to Him who cried: "Go ye into all the world +and preach the gospel to every creature"--he could not say: "Lord, +by Thy grace I found this soul in the wilderness, in the dark and the +loneliness, having no God to worship, denial and rebellion in his heart; +and behold, I took him to my breast, and taught him in Thy name, and led +him home to Thy haven, the Church!" + +Thus it was that the Cure dreamed a dream. He would set his life to +saving this lost soul. He would rescue him from the outer darkness. + +His face suffused, he handed the paper in his hand back to the man who +had written the words upon it. Then he lifted his hand against the +people at the door and the loud murmuring behind them. + +"Peace--peace!" he said, as though from the altar. "Leave this room of +death, I command you. Go at once to your homes. This man"--he pointed +to Charley--"is my friend. Who seeks to harm him, would harm me. Go +hence and pray. Pray for yourselves, pray for him, and for me; and pray +for the troubled soul of Louis Trudel. Go in peace." + +Soon afterwards the house was empty, save for the Cure, Charley, old +Margot, and the Notary. + +That night Charley sat in the tailor's bedroom, rigid and calm, though +racked with pain, and watched the candles flickering beside the dead +body. He was thinking of the Cure's last words to the people. + +"I wonder--I wonder," he said, and through his eyeglass he stared at the +crucifix that threw a shadow on the dead man's face. Morning found him +there. As dawn crept in he rose to his feet. "Whither now?" he said, +like one in a dream. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +THE WOMAN WHO SAW + +Up to the moment of her meeting with Charley, Rosalie Evanturel's life +had been governed by habit, which was lightly coloured by temperament. +Since the eventful hour on Vadrome Mountain it had become a life of +temperament, in which habit was involuntary and mechanical. She did her +daily duties with a good heart, but also with a sense superior to the +practical action. This grew from day to day, until, in the tragical days +wherein she had secretly played a great part, she moved as in a dream, +but a dream so formal that no one saw any change taking place in her, +or associated her with the events happening across the way. + +She had been compelled to answer many questions, for it was known she was +in the tailor's house when Louis Trudel fell down-stairs, but what more +was there to tell than that she had run for the Notary, and sent word to +the Cure, and that she was present when the tailor died, charging M'sieu' +with being an infidel? At first she was ill disposed to answer any +questions, but she soon felt that attitude would only do harm. For the +first time in her life she was face to face with moral problems--the +beginning of sorrow, of knowledge, and of life. + +In all secrets there is a kind of guilt, however beautiful or joyful they +may be, or for what good end they may be set to serve. Secrecy means +evasion, and evasion means a problem to the moral mind. To the primitive +mind, with its direct yes and no, there is danger of it becoming a +tragical problem ere it is realised that truth is various and diverse. +Perhaps even with that Mary who hid the matter in her heart--the +exquisite tragedy and glory of Christendom--there was a delicate feeling +of guilt, the guilt of the hidden though lofty and beautiful thing. + +If secrecy was guilt, then Charley and Rosalie were bound together by a +bond as strong as death: Rosalie held the key to a series of fateful days +and doings. + +In ordinary course, they might have known each other for five years and +not have come to this sensitive and delicate association. With one great +plunge she had sprung into the river of understanding. In the moment +that she had thrust her scarf into his scorched breast, in that little +upper room, the work of years had been done. + +As long as he lived, that mark must remain on M'sieu's breast--the red, +smooth scar of a cross! She had seen the sort of shining scar a bad burn +makes, and at thought of it she flushed, trembled, and turned her head +away, as though some one were watching her. Even in the night she +flushed and buried her face in the pillow when the thought flashed +through her mind; though when she had soaked the scarf in oil and flour +and laid it on the angry wound she had not flushed at all, was +determined, quiet, and resourceful. + +That incident had made her from a girl into a woman, from a child of the +convent into a child of the world. She no longer thought and felt as she +had done before. What she did think or feel could not easily have been +set down, for her mind was one tremulous confusion of unusual thoughts, +her heart was beset by new feelings, her imagination, suddenly finding +itself, was trying its wings helplessly. The past was full of wonder and +event, the present full of surprises. + +There was M'sieu' established already in Louis Trudel's place, having +been granted a lease of the house and shop by the Curte, on the part of +the parish, to which the property had been left; receiving also a gift of +the furniture and of old Margot, who remained where she had been so many +years. She could easily see Charley at work--pale and suffering still +--for the door was generally open in the sweet April weather, with the +birds singing, and the trees bursting into blossom. Her wilful +imagination traced the cross upon his breast--it almost seemed as if it +were outside upon his clothes, exposed to every eye, a shining thing all +fire, not a wound inside, for which old Margot prepared oiled linen now. + +The parish was as perturbed as her own mind, for the mystery of the +stolen cross had never been cleared up, and a few still believed that +M'sieu' had taken it. They were of those who kept hinting at dark things +which would yet be worked upon the infidel in the tailor's shop. These +were they to whom the Curb's beautiful ambition did not appeal. He had +said that if the man were an infidel, then they must pray that he be +brought into the fold; but a few were still suspicious, and they said in +Rosalie's presence: "Where is the little cross? M'sieu' knows." + +He did know. That was the worst of it. The cross was in her possession. +Was it not necessary, then, to quiet suspicion for his sake? She had +locked the relic away in a cupboard in her bedroom, and she carried the +key of it always in her pocket. Every day she went and looked at it, as +at some ghostly token. To her it was a symbol, not of supernatural +things, but of life in its new reality to her. It was M'sieu', it was +herself, it was their secret--she chafed inwardly that Margot should +share a part of that secret. If it were only between their two selves-- +between M'sieu' and herself! If Margot--she paused suddenly, for she was +going to say, If Margot would only die! She was not wicked enough to +wish that; yet in the past few weeks she had found herself capable of +thinking things beyond the bounds of any past experience. + +She found a solution at last. She would go to-night secretly and nail +the cross again on the church door, and so stop the chatter of evil +tongues. The moon set very early now, and as every one in Chaudiere was +supposed to be in bed by ten o'clock, the chances of not being seen were +in her favour. She received the final impetus to her resolution by a +quarrelsome and threatening remark of Jo Portugais to some sharp-tongued +gossip in the post-office. She was glad that Jo should defend M'sieu', +but she was jealous of his friendship for the tailor. Besides, did there +not appear to be a secret between Jo and M'sieu'? Was it not possible +that Jo knew where M'sieu' came from, and all about him? Of late Jo had +come in and gone out of the shop oftener than in the past, had even +brought her bunches of mosses for her flower-pots, the first budding +lilacs, and some maple-sugar made from the trees on Vadrome Mountain. +She remembered that when she was a girl at school, years ago--ten years +ago--Jo Portugais, then scarcely out of his teens, a cheerful, pleasant, +quick-tempered lad, had brought her bunches of the mountain-ash berry; +that once he had mended the broken runner of her sled; and yet another +time had sent her a birch-bark valentine at the convent, where it was +confiscated by the Mother Superior. Since those days he had become a +dark morose figure, living apart from men, never going to confession, +seldom going to Mass, unloving and unlovable. + +There was only one other person in the parish more unloved. That was the +woman called Paulette Dubois, who lived in the little house at the outer +gate of the Manor. Paulette Dubois had a bad name in the parish--so bad +that all women shunned her, and few men noticed her. Yet no one could +say that at the present time she did not live a careful life, justifying, +so far as eye could see, the protection of the Seigneur, M. Rossignol, +a man of queer habits and queerer dress, a dabbler in physical science, +a devout Catholic, and a constant friend of the Cure. He it was who, +when an effort was made to drive Paulette out of the parish, had said +that she should not go unless she wished; that, having been born in +Chaudiere, she had a right to live there and die there; and if she had +sinned there, the parish was in some sense to blame. Though he had no +lodge-gates, and though the seigneury was but a great wide low-roofed +farmhouse, with an observatory, and a chimney-piece dating from the time +of Louis the Fourteenth, the Seigneur gave Paulette Dubois a little hut +at his outer gate, which had been there since the great Count Frontenac +visited Chaudiere. Probably Rosalie spoke to Paulette Dubois more often +than did any one else in the parish, but that was because the woman came +for little things at the shop, and asked for letters, and every week sent +one--to a man living in Montreal. She sent these letters, but not more +than once in six months did she get a reply, and she had not had one in +a whole year. Yet every week she asked, and Rosalie found it hard to +answer her politely, and sometimes showed it. + +So it was that the two disliked each other without good cause, save that +they were separated by a chasm as wide as a sea. The one disliked the +other because she must recognise her; the other chafed because she could +be recognised by Rosalie officially only. + +The late afternoon of the day in which Rosalie decided to nail the cross +on the church door again, Paulette arrived to ask for letters at the +moment that the office wicket was closed, and Rosalie had answered that +it was after office hours, and had almost closed the door in her face. +As she turned away Jo Portugais came out of the tailor-shop opposite. He +saw Paulette, and stood still an instant. She did the same. A strange +look passed across the face of each, then they turned and went in +opposite directions. + +Never in her life had time gone so slowly with Rosalie. She watched the +clock. A dozen times she went to the front door and looked out. She +tried to read--it was no use; she tried to spin-her fingers trembled; she +sorted the letters in the office again, and rearranged every letter and +parcel and paper in its little pigeonhole--then did it all over again. +She took out again the letter Paulette had dropped in the letter-box; it +was addressed in the name of the man at Montreal. She looked at it in a +kind of awe, as she had ever done the letters of this woman who was +without the pale. They had a sense of mystery, an air of forbidden +imagination. + +She put the letter back, went to the door again, and looked out. It was +now time to go. Drawing a hood over her head, she stepped out into the +night. There was a little frost, though spring was well forward, and the +smell of the rich earth and the budding trees was sweet to the sense. +The moon had just set, but the stars were shining, and here and there +patches of snow on the hillside and in the fields added to the light. +Yet it was not bright enough to see far, and as Rosalie moved down the +street she did not notice a figure at a little distance behind, walking +on the new-springing grass by the roadside. All was quiet at the tavern; +there was no light in the Notary's house--as a rule, he sat up late, +reading; and even the fiddle of Maximilian Cour, the baker, was silent. +The Cure's windows were dark, and the church with its white tin spire +stood up sentinel-like above the village. + +Rosalie had the fateful cross in her hand as she softly opened the gate +of the churchyard and approached the great oak doors. Taking a screw- +driver and some screws from her pocket, she felt with a finger for the +old screw-holes in the door. Then she began her work, looking fearfully +round once or twice at first. Presently, however, because the screws +were larger than the old ones, it became much harder; the task called +forth more strength, and drove all thought of being seen out of her mind +for a space. At last, however, she gave the final turn to the handle, +and every screw was in its place, its top level and smooth with the iron +of the cross. She stopped and looked round again with an uneasy feeling. +She could see no one, hear no one, but she began to tremble, and, +overcome, she fell on her knees before the door, and, with her fingers on +the foot of the little cross, prayed passionately; for herself, for +Monsieur. + +Suddenly she heard footsteps inside the church. They were coming towards +the doorway, nearer and nearer. At first she was so struck with terror +that she could not move. Then with a little cry she sprang to her feet, +rushed to the gate, threw it open, ran out into the road, ind wildly on +towards home. She did not stop for at least three hundred yards. +Turning and looking back she saw at the church door a pale round light. +With another cry she sped on, and did not pause till she reached the +house. Then, bursting in and locking the door, she hurried to her room, +undressed quickly, got into bed without saying her prayers, and buried +her face in the pillow, shivering and overwrought. + +The footsteps she had heard were those of the Cure and Jo Portugais. The +Cure had sent for Jo to do some last work upon a little altar, to be used +the next day for the first time. The carpenter and the carver in wood +who were responsible for the work had fallen victims to white whiskey on +the very last day of their task, and had been driven from the church by +the Cure, who then sent for Jo. Rosalie had not seen the light at the +shrine, as it was on the side of the church farthest from the village. + +Their labour finished, the two came towards the front door, the Cure's +lantern in his hand. Opening the door, Jo heard the sound of footsteps +and saw a figure flying down the road. As the Cure came out +abstractedly, he glanced sorrowfully towards the place where the little +cross was used to be. He gave a wondering cry, and almost dropped the +lantern. + +"See, see, Portugais," he said, "our little cross again!" Jo nodded. +"So it seems, Monsieur," he said. + +At that instant he saw a hood lying on the ground, and as the Cure held +up the lantern, peering at the little cross, he hastily picked it up and +thrust it inside his coat. + +"Strange--very strange!" said the Cure. "It must have been done while +we were inside. It was not there when we entered." + +"We entered by the vestry door," said Jo. + +"Ah, true-true," responded the Cure. + +"It comes as it went," said Jo. "You can't account for some things." + +The Cure turned and looked at Jo curiously. "Are you then so +superstitious, Jo? Nonsense; it is the work of human hands--very human +hands," he added sadly. + +"There is nothing to show," said the Cure, seeing Jo's glance round. + +"As you see, M'sieu' le Cure." + +"Well, it is a mystery which time no doubt will clear up. Meanwhile, let +us be thankful to God," said the Cure. + +They parted, the Cure going through a side-gate into his own garden, +Jo passing out of the churchyard-gate through which Rosalie had gone. +He looked down the road towards the village. + +"Well!" said a voice in his ear. Paulette Dubois stood before him. + +"It was you, then," he said, with a glowering look. "What did you want +with it?" + +"What do you want with the hood in your coat there?" She threw her head +back with a spiteful laugh. "Whose do you think it is?" he said +quietly. + +"You and the schoolmaster made verses about her once." + +"It was Rosalie Evanturel?" he asked, with aggravating composure. + +"You have the hood-look at it! You saw her running down the road; I saw +her come, watched her, and saw her go. She is a thief--pretty Rosalie-- +thief and postmistress! No doubt she takes letters too." + +"The ones you wait for, and that never come--eh?" Her face darkened with +rage and hatred. "I will tell the world she's a thief," she sneered. + +"Who will believe you?" + +"You will." She was hard and fierce, and looked him in the eyes +squarely. "You'll give evidence quick enough, if I ask you." + +"I wouldn't do anything you asked me to-nothing, if it was to save my +life." + +"I'll prove her a thief without you. She can't deny it." + +"If you try it, I'll--" He stopped, husky and shaking. + +"You'll kill me, eh? You killed him, and you didn't hang. Oh no, you +wouldn't kill me, Jo," she added quickly, in a changed voice. "You've +had enough of that kind of thing. If I'd been you, I'd rather have hung +--ah, sure!" She suddenly came close to him. "Do you hate me so bad, +Jo?" she said anxiously. "It's eight years--do you hate me so bad as +then?" + +"You keep your tongue off Rosalie Evanturel," he said, and turned on his +heel. + +She caught his arm. "We're both bad, Jo. Can't we be friends?" she +said eagerly, her voice shaking. + +He did not reply. + +"Don't drive a woman too hard," she said between her teeth. + +"Threats! Pah!" he rejoined. "What do you think I'm made of?" + +"I'll find that out," she said, and, turning on her heel, ran down the +road towards the Manor House. "What had Rosalie to do with the cross?" +Jo said to himself. "This is her hood." He took it out and looked at +it. "It's her hood--but what did she want with the cross?" + +He hurried on, and as he neared the post-office he saw the figure of a +woman in the road. At first he thought it might be Rosalie, but as he +came nearer he saw it was not. The woman was muttering and crying. She +wandered to and fro bewilderedly. He came up, caught her by the arm, and +looked into her face. + +It was old Margot Patry. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +THE WOMAN WHO DID NOT TELL + +"Oh, M'sieu', I am afraid." + +"Afraid of what, Margot?" + +"Of the last moment, M'sieu' le Cure." + +"There will be no last moment to your mind--you will not know it when it +comes, Margot." + +The woman trembled. "I am not sorry to die. But I am afraid; it is so +lonely, M'sieu' le Cure." + +"God is with us, Margot." + +"When we are born we do not know. It is on the shoulders of others. +When we die we know, and we have to answer." + +"Is the answering so hard, Margot?" + +The woman shook her head feebly and sadly, but did not speak. + +"You have been a good mother, Margot." She made no sign. + +"You have been a good neighbour; you have done unto others as you would +be done by." + +She scarcely seemed to hear. + +"You have been a good servant--doing your duty in season and out of +season; honest and just and faithful." + +The woman's fingers twitched on the coverlet, and she moved her head +restlessly. + +The Curb almost smiled, for it seemed as if Margot were finding herself +wanting. Yet none in Chaudiere but knew that she had lived a blameless +life--faithful, friendly, a loving and devoted mother, whose health had +been broken by sleepless attendance at sick-beds by night, while doing +her daily work at the house of the late Louis Trudel. + +"I will answer for the way you have done your duty, Margot," said the +Cure. "You have been a good daughter of the Church." + +He paused a minute, and in the pause some one rose from a chair by the +window and looked out on the sunset sky. It was Charley. The woman +heard, and turned her eyes towards him. "Do you wish him to go?" asked +the Cure. + +"No, no--oh no, M'sieu'!" she said eagerly. She had asked all day that +either Rosalie or M'sieu' should be in the room with her. It would seem +as though she were afraid she had not courage enough to keep the secret +of the cross without their presence. Charley had yielded to her request, +while he shrank from granting it. Yet, as he said to himself, the woman +was keeping his secret--his and Rosalie's--and she had some right to make +demand. + +When the Cure asked the question of old Margot, he turned expectantly, +and with a sense of relief. He thought it strange that the Cure should +wish him to remain. The Cure, on his part, was well pleased to have him +in the influence of a Christian death-bed. A time must come when the +last confidences of the dying woman could be given to no ears but his +own, but meanwhile it was good that M'sieu' should be there. + +"M'sieu' le Cure," said the dying woman, "must I tell all?" + +"All what, Margot?" + +"All that is sin?" + +"There is no must, Margot." + +"If you should ask me, M'sieu'--" + +She paused, and the man at the window turned and looked curiously at her. +He saw the problem in the woman's mind: had she the right to die with the +secret of another's crime upon her mind? + +"The priest does not ask, Margot: it is you who confess your sins. That +is between you and God." + +The Cure spoke firmly, for he wanted the man at the window to clearly +understand. + +"But if there are the sins of others, and you know, and they trouble your +soul, M'sieu'?" + +"You have nothing to do with the sins of others; it is enough to repent +of your own sins. The priest has nothing to do with any sins but those +confessed by the sinner to himself. Your own sins are your sole concern +to-night, Margot." + +The woman's face seemed to clear a little, and her eyes wandered to the +man at the window with less anxiety. Charley was wondering whether, +after all, she would have the courage to keep her word, whether spiritual +terror would surmount the moral attitude of honour. He was also +wondering how much right he had to put the strain upon the woman in her +desperate hour. "How long did the doctor say I could live?" the woman +asked presently. + +"Till morning, perhaps, Margot." + +"I should like to live till sunrise," she answered, "till after +breakfast. Rosalie makes good tea," she added musingly. + +The Cure almost smiled. "There is the Living Bread, my daughter." + +She nodded. "But I should like to see the sunrise and have Rosalie bring +me tea," she persisted. + +"Very well, Margot. We will ask God for that." + +Her mind flew back again to the old question. + +"Is it wrong to keep a secret?" she asked, her face turned away from the +man at the window. + +"If it is the secret of a sin, and the sin is your own--yes, Margot." + +"And if the sin is not your own?" + +"If you share the sin, and if the secret means injury to others, and a +wrong is being done, and the law can right that wrong, then you must go +to the law, not to your priest." + +The Cure's look was grave, even anxious, for he saw that the old woman's +mind was greatly disturbed. But her face cleared now, and stayed so. +"It has all been a mix and a muddle," she answered; "and it hurt my poor +head, M'sieu' le Cure, but now I think I under stand. I am not afraid; +I will confess." + +The Cure had made it clear to her that she could carry to her grave the +secret of the little cross and the work it had done, and so keep her word +and still not injure her chances of salvation. She was content. She no +longer needed the helpful presence of M'sieu' or Rosalie. Charley +instinctively felt what was in her mind, and came towards the bed. + +"I will tell Mademoiselle Rosalie about the tea," he said to her. + +She looked up at him, almost smiling. "Thank you, good M'sieu'," she +said. + +"I will confess now, M'sieu' le Cure" she continued. Charley left the +room. + +Towards morning Margot waked out of a brief sleep, and found the Cure and +his sister and others about her bed. + +"Is it near sunrise?" she whispered. + +"It is just sunrise. See; God has been good," answered the Cure, drawing +open the blind and letting in the first golden rays. + +Rosalie entered the room with a cup of tea, and came towards the bed. + +Old Margot looked at the girl, at the tea, and then at the Cure. + +"Drink the tea for me, Rosalie," she whispered. Rosalie did as she was +asked. + +She looked round feebly; her eyes were growing filmy. "I never gave--so +much--trouble--before," she managed to say. "I never had--so much-- +attention.... I can keep--a secret too," she said, setting her lips +feebly with pride. "But I--never--had--so much--attention--before; have +I--Rosalie?" + +Rosalie did not need to answer, for the woman was gone. The crowning +interest of her life had come all at the last moment, as it were, and she +had gone away almost gladly and with a kind of pride. + +Rosalie also had a hidden pride: the secret was now her very own--hers +and M'sieu's. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +THE SEIGNEUR TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME + +It was St. Jean Baptiste's day, and French Canada was en fete. Every +seigneur, every cure, every doctor, every notary--the chief figures in a +parish--and every habitant was bent for a happy holiday, dressed in his +best clothes, moved in his best spirits, in the sweet summer weather. + +Bells were ringing, flags were flying, every road and lane was filled +with caleches and wagons, and every dog that could draw a cart pulled big +and little people, the old and the blind and the mendicant, the happy and +the sour, to the village, where there were to be sports and speeches, +races upon the river, and a review of the militia, arranged by the member +of the Legislature for the Chaudiere-half of the county. French soldiers +in English red coats and carrying British flags were straggling along the +roads to join the battalion at the volunteers' camp three miles from the +town, and singing: + + "Brigadier, respondez Pandore-- + Brigadier, vous avez raison." + +It was not less incongruous and curious when one group presently broke +out into 'God save the Queen', and another into the 'Marseillaise', and +another still into 'Malbrouck s'en va t'en guerre'. At last songs and +soldiers were absorbed in the battalion at the rendezvous, and 1the long +dusty march to the village gave a disciplined note to the gaiety of the +militant habitant. + +At high noon Chaudiere was filled to overflowing. There were booths and +tents everywhere--all sorts of cheap-jacks vaunted their wares, merry-go- +rounds and swings and shooting-galleries filled the usual spaces in the +perspective. The Cure, M. Rossignol the Seigneur, and the Notary stood +on the church steps viewing the scene and awaiting the approach of the +soldier-citizens. The Seigneur and the Cure had ceased listening to the +babble of M. Dauphin, who seemed not to know that his audience closed its +ears and found refuge in a "Well, well!" or "Think of that!" or an +abstracted "You surprise me!" + +The Notary talked on with eager gesture and wreathing smile, shaking back +his oiled ringlets as though they trespassed on his smooth, somewhat +jaundiced cheeks, until it began to dawn upon him that there was no coin +of real applause to be got at this mint. Fortune favoured him at the +critical juncture, for the tailor walked slowly past them, looking +neither to right nor to left, his eyes cast upon the ground, apparently +oblivious to all round him. Almost opposite the church door, however, +Charley was suddenly stopped by Filion Lacasse, who ran out from a group +before the tavern, and, standing in front of him with outstretched hand, +said loudly: + +"M'sieu', it's all right. What you said done it, sure! I'm a thousand +dollars richer to-day. You may be an infidel, but you have a head, and +you save me money, and you give away your own, and that's good enough for +me,"--he wrung Charley's hand,--"and I don't care who knows it--sacre!" + +Charley did not answer him, but calmly withdrew his hand, smiled, raised +his hat at the lonely cheer the saddler raised, and passed on, scarce +conscious of what had happened. Indeed he was indifferent to it, for he +had a matter on his mind this day which bitterly absorbed him. + +But the Notary was not indifferent. "Look there, what do you think of +that?" he asked querulously. "I am glad to see that Lacasse treats +Monsieur well," said the Cure. + +"What do you think of that, Monsieur?" repeated the Notary excitedly to +the Seigneur. + +The Seigneur put his large gold-handled glass to his eye and looked +interestedly after Charley for a moment, then answered: "Well, Dauphin, +what?" + +"He's been giving Filion Lacasse advice about the old legacy business, +and Filion's taken it; and he's got a thousand dollars; and now there's +all that fuss. And four months ago Filion wanted to tar and feather him +for being just what he is to-day--an infidel--an infidel!" + +He was going to say something else, but he did not like the look the Cure +turned on him, and he broke off short. + +"Do you regret that he gave Lacasse good advice?" asked the Cure. + +"It's taking bread out of other men's mouths." + +"It put bread into Filion's mouth. Did you ever give Lacasse advice? +The truth now, Dauphin!" said the Seigneur drily. + +"Yes, Monsieur, and sound advice too, within the law-precedent and code +and every legal fact behind." The Seigneur was a man of laconic speech. +"Tut, tut, Dauphin; precedent and code and legal fact are only good when +there's brain behind 'em. The tailor yonder has brains." + +"Ah, but what does he know about the law?" answered Dauphin, with +acrimonious voice but insinuating manner, for he loved to stand well with +the Seigneur. + +"Enough for the saddler evidently," sharply rejoined the Seigneur. + +Dauphin was fighting for his life, as it were. His back was to the wall. +If this man was to be allowed to advise the habitants of Chaudiere on +their disputes and "going to law," where would his own prestige be? +His vanity had been deeply wounded. + +"It's guesswork with him. Let him stick to his trade as I stick to mine. +That sort of thing only does harm." + +"He puts a thousand dollars into the saddler's pocket: that's a positive +good. He may or may not take thereby ten dollars out of your pocket: +that's a negative injury. In this case there was no injury, for you had +already cost Lacasse--how much had you cost him, Dauphin?" continued the +Seigneur, with a half-malicious smile. "I've been out of Chaudiere for +near a year; I don't know the record--how much, eh, Dauphin?" + +The Notary was too offended to answer. He shook his ringlets back +angrily, and a scarlet spot showed on each straw-coloured cheek. + +"Twenty dollars is what Lacasse paid our dear Dauphin," said the Cure +benignly, "and a very proper charge. Lacasse probably gave Monsieur +there quite as much, and Monsieur will give it to the first poor man he +meets, or send it to the first sick person of whom he hears." + +"My own opinion is, he's playing some game here," said the Notary. + +"We all play games," said the Seigneur. "His seems to give him hard work +and little luxury. Will you bring him to see me at the Manor, my dear +Cure?" he added. "He will not go. I have asked him." + +"Then I shall visit him at his tailor-shop," said the Seigneur. "I need +a new suit." + +"But you always had your clothes made in Quebec, Monsieur," said the +Notary, still carping. + +"We never had such a tailor," answered the Seigneur. + +"We'll hear more of him before we're done with him," obstinately urged +the Notary. + +"It would give Dauphin the greatest pleasure if our tailor proved to be a +murderer or a robber. I suppose you believe that he stole our little +cross here," the Cure added, turning to the church door, where his eye +lingered lovingly on the relic, hanging on a pillar just inside, whither +he had had it removed. + +"I'm not sure yet he hadn't something to do with it," was the stubborn +response. + +"If he did, may it bring him peace at last!" said the Cure piously. +"I have set my heart on nailing him to our blessed faith as that cross +is fixed to the pillar yonder--'I will fasten him like a nail in a sure +place,' says the Book. I take it hard that my friend Dauphin will not +help me on the way. Suppose the man were evil, then the Church should +try to snatch him like a brand from the burning. But suppose that in his +past there was no wrong necessary to be hidden in the present--and this +I believe with all my heart; suppose that he was wronged, not wronging: +then how much more should the Church strive to win him to the light! +Why, man, have you no pride in Holy Church? I am ashamed of you, +Dauphin, with your great intelligence, your wide reading. With our +knowledge of the world we should be broader." + +The Seigneur's eyes were turned away, for there was in them at once +humour and a suspicious moisture. Of all men in the world he most +admired the Cure, for his utter truth and nobility; but he could not +help smiling at his enthusiasm--his dear Cure turned evangelist like any +"Methody"!--and at the appeal of the Notary on the ground of knowledge +of the world. He was wise enough to count himself an old fogy, a +provincial, and "a simon-pure habitant," but of the three he only had any +knowledge of life. As men of the world the Cure and the Notary were sad +failures, though they stood for much in Chaudiere. Yet this detracted +nothing from the fine gentlemanliness of the Cure or the melodramatic +courtesy of the Notary. + +Amused and touched as the Seigneur had been at the Cure's words, he +turned now and said: "Always on the weaker side, Cure; always hoping the +best from the worst of us." + +"I am only following an example at my door--you taught us all charity and +justice," answered M. Loisel, looking meaningly at the Seigneur. There +was silence a little while, for all three were thinking of the woman of +the hut, at the gate of the Seigneur's manor. + +On this topic M. Dauphin was not voluble. His original kindness to the +woman had given him many troubled hours at home, for Madame Dauphin had +construed his human sympathy into the dark and carnal desires of the +heart, and his truthful eloquence had made his case the worse. A +miserable sentimentalist, the Notary was likely to be misunderstood for +ever, and one or two indiscretions of his extreme youth had been a weapon +against him through the long years of a blameless married life. + +He heaved a sigh of sympathy with the Cure now. "She has not come back +yet?" he said to the Seigneur. "No sign of her. She locked up and +stepped out, so my housekeeper says, about the time--" + +"The day of old Margot's funeral," interposed the Notary. "She'd had a +letter that day, a letter she'd been waiting for, and abroad she went-- +alas! the flyaway--from bad to worse, I fear--ah me!" + +The Seigneur turned sharply on him. "Who told you she had a letter that +day, for which she had been waiting?" he said. + +"Monsieur Evanturel." + +The Seigneur's face became sterner still. "What business had he to know +that she received a letter that day?" + +"He is postmaster," innocently replied the Notary. "He is the devil!" +said the Seigneur tartly. "I beg your pardon, Cure; but it is +Evanturel's business not to know what letters go to and fro in that +office. He should be blind and dumb, so far as we all are concerned." + +"Remember that Evanturel is a cripple," the Cure answered gently. "I am +glad, very glad it was not Rosalie." + +"Rosalie has more than usual sense for her sex," gruffly but kindly +answered the Seigneur, a look of friendliness in his eyes. "I shall talk +to her about her father; I can't trust myself to speak to the man." + +"Rosalie is down there with Madame Dauphin," said the Notary, pointing. +"Shall I ask her to come?" + +The Seigneur nodded. He was magistrate and magnate, and he was the +guarantor of the post-office, and of Rosalie and her father. His eyes +fixed in reverie on Rosalie; he and the Cure passively waited her +approach. + +She came over, pale and a little anxious, but with a courageous look. +She had a vague sense of trouble, and she feared it might be the little +cross, that haunting thing of all these months. + +When she came near, the Cure greeted her courteously, and then, taking +the Notary by the arm, led him away. + +The Seigneur and Rosalie being left alone, the girl said: "You wish to +speak with me, Monsieur?" + +The Seigneur scrutinised her sharply. Though her colour came and went, +her look was frank and fearless. She had had many dark hours since that +fateful month of April. At night, trying to sleep, she had heard the +ghostly footsteps in the church, which had sent her flying homeward. +Then, there was the hood. She had waited on and on, fearing word would +come that it had been found in the churchyard, and that she had been seen +putting the cross back upon the church door. As day after day passed she +had come at length to realise that, whatever had happened to the hood, +she was not suspected. Yet the whole train of circumstances had a +supernatural air, for the Cure and Jo Portugais had not made public their +experience on the eventful night; she had been educated in a land of +legend and superstition, and a deep impression had been made upon her +mind, giving to her other new emotions a touch of pathos, of imagination, +and adding character to her face. The old Seigneur stroked his chin as +he looked at her. He realised that a change had come upon her, that she +had developed in some surprising way. + +"What has happened--who has happened, Mademoiselle Rosalie?" he asked. +He had suddenly made up his mind about that look in her face--he thought +it the woman in her which answers to the call of man, not perhaps any +particular man, but man the attractive influence, the complement. + +Her eyes dropped, then raised frankly to his. "I don't know,"--adding, +with a quick humour, for he had been very friendly with her, and joked +with her in his dry way all her life; "do you, Monsieur?" + +He pulled his nose with a quick gesture habitual to him, and answered +slowly and meaningly: "The government's a good husband and pays regular +wages, Mademoiselle. I'd stick to government." + +"I am not asking for a divorce, Monsieur." + +He pulled his nose again delightedly--so many people were pathetically +in earnest in Chaudiere--even the Cure's humour was too mediaeval and +obvious. He had never before thought Rosalie so separate from them all. +All at once he had a new interest in her. His cheek flushed a little, +his eye kindled, humour relaxed his lips. + +"No other husband would intrude so little," he rejoined. + +"True, there's little love lost between us, Monsieur." She felt +exhilaration in talking with him, a kind of joy in measuring word against +word; yet a year ago she would have done no more than smile respectfully +and give a demure reply if the Seigneur had spoken to her like this. + +The Seigneur noted the mixed emotions in her face and the delicate +alertness of expression. As a man of the world, he was inclined to +believe that only one kind of experience can bring such looks to a +woman's face. He saw in her the awakening of the deeper interests of +life, the tremulous apprehension of nascent emotions and passions which, +at some time or other, give beauty and importance to the nature of every +human being. It did not occur to him that the tailor--the mysterious +figure in the parish--might be responsible. He was observant, but not +imaginative; he was moved by what he saw, in a quiet, unexplainable +manner. + +"The government is the best sort of husband. From the other sort you +would get more kisses and less ha'pence," he continued. + +"That might be a satisfactory balance-sheet, Monsieur." + +"Take care, Mademoiselle Rosalie," he rejoined, half seriously, "that you +don't miss the ha'pence before you get the kisses." + +She turned pale in very fear. What was he going to say? Was the post- +office to be taken from them? She came straight to the point. + +"What have I done wrong, Monsieur? I've never kept the mail-stage +waiting; I've never left the mailbag unlocked; I've never been late in +opening the wicket; I've never been careless, and no one's ever +complained of a lost letter." + +The Seigneur saw her agitation, and was sorry for her. He came to the +point as she had done: + +"We will have you made postmistress--you alone, Rosalie Evanturel. I've +made up my mind to that. But you'll promise not to get married--eh? +Anyhow, there's no one in the parish for you to marry. You're too well- +born and you've been too well educated for a habitant's wife--and the +Cure or I can't marry you." + +He was not taken back to see her flush deeply, and it pleased him to see +this much life rising to his own touch, this much revelation to give his +mind a new interest. He had come to that age when the mind is surprised +to find that the things that once charmed charm less, and the things once +hated are less acutely repulsive. He saw her embarrassment. He did not +know that this was the first time that she had ever thought of marriage +since it ceased to be a dream of girlhood, and, by reason of thinking +much on a man, had become a possibility, which, however, she had never +confessed to herself. Here she was faced by it now in the broad open +day: a plain, hard statement, unrelieved by aught save the humour of the +shrewd eyes bent upon her. + +She did not answer him at once. "Do you promise not to marry so useless +a thing as man, and to remain true to the government?" he continued. + +"If I wished to marry a man, I should not let the government stand in my +way," she said, in brave confusion. + +"But do you wish to marry any man?" he asked abruptly, even petulantly. + +"I have not asked myself that question, Monsieur, and--should you ask it, +unless--" she said, and paused with as pretty and whimsical a glance of +merriment as could well be. + +He burst out laughing at the swift turn she had given her reply, and at +the double suggestion. Then he suddenly changed. A curious expression +filled his eyes. A smile, almost beautiful, came to his lips. + +"'Pon my honour," he said, in a low tone, "you have me caught! And I beg +to say--I beg to say," he added, with a flush mounting in his own face, a +sudden inspiration in his look, "that if you do not think me too old and +crabbed and ugly, and can endure me, I shall be profoundly happy if you +will marry me, Rosalie." + +He stood upright, holding himself very hard, for this idea had shot into +his mind all in an instant, though, unknown to himself, it had been +growing for years, cherished by many a kind act to her father and by a +simple gratitude on her part. He had spoken without feeling the +absurdity of the proposal. He had never married, and he was unprepared +to make any statement on such a theme; but now, having made it somehow, +he would stand by it, in spite of any and all criticism. He had known +Rosalie since her birth, her education was as good as a convent could +secure, she was the granddaughter of a notable seigneur, and here she +was, as fine a type of health, beauty and character as man could wish-- +and he was only fifty! Life was getting lonelier for him every day, +and, after all, why should he leave distant relations and the Church his +worldly goods? All this flashed through his mind as he waited for her +answer. Now it seemed to him that he had meant to say this thing for +many years. He had seen an awakening in her--he had suddenly been +awakened himself. + +"Monsieur, Monsieur," she said in a bewildered way, "do not amuse +yourself at my expense." + +"Would it be that, then?" he said, with a smile, behind which there was +determination and self-will. "I want you to marry me; I do with all my +heart. You shall have those ha'pence, and the kisses too, if so be you +will take them--or not, as you will, Rosalie." + +"Monsieur," she gasped, for something caught her in the throat, and the +tears started to her eyes, "ask me to forget that you have ever said +those words. Oh, Monsieur, it is not possible, it never could be +possible! I am only the postmaster's daughter." + +"You are my wife, if you will but say the word," he answered, "and I as +proud a husband as the land holds!" + +"You were always kind to me, Monsieur," she rejoined, her lips trembling; +"won't you be so still?" + +"I am too old?" he asked. + +"Oh no, it is not that," she replied. + +"You have as good manners as my mother had. You need not fear comparison +with any lady in the land. Have I not known you all your life? I know +the way you have come, and your birth is as good as mine." + +"Ah, it is not that, Monsieur!" + +"I give you my word that I do not come to you because no one else would +have me," he said with a curious simplicity. "I never asked a woman to +marry me--never! You are the first. There was talk once--but it was all +false. I never meant to ask any one to marry me. But I have the wish +now which I never had in my youth. I thought best of myself always; now, +I think--I think better of you than--" + +"Oh, Monsieur, I beg of you, no more! I cannot; oh, I cannot--" + +"You--but no; I will not ask you, Mademoiselle. If you have some one +else in your heart, or want some one else there, that is your affair, not +mine--undoubtedly. I would have tried to make you happy; you would have +had peace and comfort all your life; you could have trusted me--but there +it is. . . ." He felt all at once that he was unfair to her, that he +had thrust upon her too hard a problem in too troubled an hour. + +"I could trust you with my life, Monsieur Rossignol," she replied. "And +I love you in a way that a man may be loved to no one's harm or sorrow: +it is true that!" She raised her eyes to his simply, trustingly. + +He looked at her steadily for a moment. "If you change your mind--" + +She shook her head sadly. + +"Good, then," he went on, for he thought it wise not to press her now, +though he had no intention of taking her no as final. "I'll keep an eye +on you. You'll need me some day soon; I can do things that the Cure +can't, perhaps." His manner changed still more. "Now to business," he +continued. "Your father has been talking about letters received and sent +from the post-office. That is punishable. I am responsible for you +both, and if it is reported, if the woman were to report it--you know +the letter I mean--there would be trouble. You do not talk. Now I am +going to ask the government to make you sole postmistress, with full +responsibility. Then you must govern your father--he hasn't as much +sense as you." + +"Monsieur, we owe you so much! I am deeply grateful, and, whatever you +do for us, you may rely on me to do my duty." + +They could scarcely hear each other speak now, for the soldiers were +coming nearer, and the fife-and-drum bands were screeching, 'Louis the +King was a Soldier'. + +"Then you will keep the government as your husband?" he asked, with +forced humour, as he saw the Cure and the Notary approaching. + +"It is less trouble, Seigneur," she answered, with a smile of relief. + +M. Rossignol turned to the Cure and the Notary. "I have just offered +Mademoiselle a husband she might rule in place of a government that rules +her, and she has refused," he said in the Cure's ear, with a dry laugh. + +"She's a sensible girl, is Rosalie," said the Cure, not apprehending. + +The soldiers were now opposite the church, and riding at their head was +the battalion Colonel, also member of the Legislature. + +They all moved down, and Rosalie disappeared in the crowd. As the +Seigneur and the Cure greeted the Colonel, the latter said: + +"At luncheon I'll tell you one of the bravest things ever seen. Happened +half-hour ago at the Red Ravine. Man who did it wore an eye-glass--said +he was a tailor." + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +THE COLONEL TELLS HIS STORY + +The Colonel had lunched very well indeed. He had done justice to every +dish set before him; he had made a little speech, congratulating himself +on having such a well-trained body of men to command, and felicitating +Chaudiere from many points of view. He was in great good-humour with +himself, and when the Notary asked him--it was at the Manor, with the +soldiers resting on the grass without--about the tale of bravery he had +promised them, he brought his fist down on the table with great intensity +but little noise, and said: + +"Chaudiere may well be proud of it. I shall refer to it in the +Legislature on the question of roads and bridges--there ought to be a +stone fence on that dangerous road by the Red Ravine--Have I your +attention?" + +He stood up, for he was an excitable and voluble Colonel, and he loved +oration as a cat does milk. With a knife he drew a picture of the locale +on the table cloth. "Here I was riding on my sorrel, all my noble +fellows behind, the fife and drums going as at Louisburg--that day! +Martial ardour united to manliness and local pride--follow me? Here we +were, Red Ravine left, stump fences and waving fields of grain right. +From military point of view, bad position--ravine, stump fence, brave +soldiers in the middle, food for powder--catch it?--see?" + +He emptied his glass, drew a long breath, and again began, the carving- +knife cutting a rhetorical path before him. "I was engaged upon the +military problem--demonstration in force, no scouts ahead, no rearguard, +ravine on the right, stump fence on the left, red coats, fife-and-drum +band, concealed enemy--follow me? Observant mind always sees problems +everywhere--unresting military genius accustoms intelligence to all +possible contingencies--'stand what I mean?" + +The Seigneur took a pinch of snuff, and the Cure, whose mind was +benevolent, listened with the gravest interest. + +"At the juncture when, in my mind's eye, I saw my gallant fellows +enfiladed with a terrible fire, caught in a trap, and I, despairing, +spurring on to die at their headhave I your attention?--just at that +moment there appeared between the ravine and the road ahead a man. He +wore an eye-glass; he seemed an unconcerned spectator of our movements +--so does the untrained, unthinking eye look out upon destiny! Not far +away was a wagon, in it a man. Wagon bisecting our course from a cross- +road--" + +He drew a line on the table-cloth with the carvingknife, and the Notary +said: "Yes, yes, the concession road." + +"So, Messieurs. There were we, a battalion and a fife-and-drum band; +there was the man with the eyeglass, the indifferent spectator, yet the +engine of fate; there was the wagon, a mottled horse, and a man driving-- +catch it? The mottled horse took fright at our band, which at that +instant strikes up 'The Chevalier Drew his Sabre'. He shies from the +road with a leap, the man falls backwards into the wagon, and the reins +drop. The horse dashes from the road into the open, and rushes on to the +ravine. What good now to stop the fifes and drums-follow me? What can +we, an armed force, bandoleered, knapsacked, sworded, rifled, impetuous, +brave, what can we do before this tragedy? The man in the wagon +senseless, the flying horse, the ravine, death! How futile the power of +man--'stand what I mean?" + +"Why didn't your battalion shoot the horse?" said the Seigneur drily, +taking a pinch of snuff. "Monsieur," said the Colonel, "see the irony, +the implacable irony of fate--we had only blank cartridge! But see you, +here was this one despised man with an eye-glass, a tailor--takes nine +tailors to make a man!--between the ravine and the galloping tragedy. +His spirit arrayed itself like an army with banners, prepared to wrestle +with death as Jacob wrestled with his shadow all the night 'sieur le +Cure!" + +The Cure bowed; the Notary shook back his oiled locks in excitement. + +"Awoke a whole man--nine-ninths, as in Adam--in the obscure soul of the +tailor, and, rushing forward, he seized the mottled horse by the bridle +as he galloped upon the chasm: The horse dragged him on--dragged him on +--on--on. We, an army, so to speak, stood and watched the Tailor and the +Tragedy! All seemed lost, but, by the decree of fate--" + +"The will of God," said the Cure softly. + +"By the great decree, the man was able to stop the horse, not a half- +dozen feet from the ravine. The horse and the insensible driver were +spared death--death. So, Messieurs, does bravery come from unexpected +places--see?" + +The Seigneur, the Cure, and even the Notary clapped their hands, and +murmured praises of the tailor-man. But the Colonel did not yet take his +seat. + +"But now, mark the sequel," he said. "As I galloped over, I saw the +tailor look into the wagon, and turn away quickly. He waited by the +horse till I came near, and then walked off without a word. I rode up, +and tapped him with my sword upon the shoulder. 'A noble deed, my good +man,' said I. 'I approve of your conduct, and I will remember it in the +Legislature when I address the committee of the whole house on roads and +bridges.' What do you think was his reply to my affable words? When I +tapped him approvingly on the shoulder a second time, he screwed his eye- +glass in his eye, and, with no emotion, though my own eyes were full of +tears, he said, in a tone of affront, 'Look after the man there, +constable,' and pointed to the wagon. Constable--mon Dieu! Gross +manners even for a tailor!" + +"I had not thought his manners bad," said the Cure, as the Colonel sat +down, gulped a glass of brandy-andwater, and mopped his forehead. + +"A most remarkable tailor," said the Seigneur, peering into his snuff- +box. + +"And the driver of the mottled horse?" asked the Notary. + +"Knocked senseless. One of my captains soon restored him. He followed +us into the village. He is a quack-doctor. I suppose he is now selling +tinctures, pulling teeth, and driving away rheumatics. He gave me his +card. I told him he should leave one on the tailor." + +With a flourish he threw a professional card upon the table, before the +Cure. + +The Cure picked it up and read: + + JOHN BROWN, B.A., M.D., + + Healer of Ailments that Defy the Ordinary Skill of Ordinary + Medical Men. Rheumatism, Sciatica, Headache, Toothache, + Asthma, Ague, Pleurisy, Gout, and all Chronic Diseases Yield + Instantly to the Power of his Medicines. + + Dr. Brown will publicly treat the most stubborn cases, laying + himself open to the derision of mankind if he does not instantly + give relief and benefit. His whole career has been a blessing to + his fellows, and his journey now through this country, fresh from + his studies in the Orient, is to introduce his remedies to a + suffering world, for the conquest of malady, not for personal + profit. + + JOHN BROWN, B.A., M.D., + + Specialist in Chronic Diseases and General Practitioner. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +A SONG, A BOTTLE, AND A GHOST + +All day John Brown, ex-clergyman and quack-doctor, harangued the people +of Chaudiere from his gaily-painted wagon. He had the perfect gift of +the charlatan, and he had discovered his metier. Inclined to the +picturesque by nature, melodramatic and empirical, his earlier career had +been the due fruit of habit and education. As a dabbler in mines he had +been out of his element. He lacked the necessary reticence, and arsenic +had not availed him, though it had tempted Billy Wantage to forgery; and +because Billy hid himself behind the dismal opportunity of silence, had +ruined the name of a dead man called Charley Steele. Since Charley's +death John Brown had never seen Billy: he had left the town one woful +day an hour after Billy had told him of the discovery Charley had made. +From a far corner of the country he had read the story of Charley's +death; of the futile trial of the river-drivers afterwards, ending in +acquittal, and the subsequent discovery of the theft of the widows' and +orphans' trust-moneys. + +On this St. Jean Baptiste's day he was thinking of anything and +everything else but Charley Steele. Nothing could have been a better +advertisement for him than the perilous incident at the Red Ravine. +Falling backwards when the horse suddenly bolted, his head had struck the +medicine-chest, and he had lain insensible till brought back to +consciousness by the good offices of the voluble Colonel. He had not, +therefore, seen Charley. It was like him that his sense of gratitude +to the unknown tailor should be presently lost in exploiting the interest +he created in the parish. His piebald horse, his white "plug" hat, his +gaily painted wagon, his flamboyant manner, and, above all, the +marvellous tale of his escape from death, were more exciting to the +people of Chaudiere than the militia, the dancing-bears, the shooting- +galleries, or the boat-races. He could sing extremely well--had he not +trained his own choir when he was a parson? had not Billy approved his +comic songs?--and these comic songs, now sandwiched between his cures +and his sales, created much laughter. He cured headaches, toothaches, +rheumatism, and all sorts of local ailments "with despatch." +He miraculously juggled away pains by what he called his Pain Paint, +and he stopped a cough by a laugh and a dose of his Golden Pectoral. +In the exuberance of trade, which steadily increased till sundown, +he gave no thought to the tailor, to whom, however, he had sent by a +messenger a two-dollar bill and two bottles of Pain Paint, with the +lordly announcement that he would call in the evening and "present his +compliments and his thanks." The messenger left the Pain Paint on the +door-step of the tailor-shop, and the two dollars he promptly spent at +the Trois Couronnes. + +Rosalie Evanturel rescued the bottles from the doorstep and awaited +Charley's return to his shop, that she might take them over to him, and +so have an excuse to speak with him; for to-day her heart and mind were +full of him. He had done a brave thing for the medicine-man, and had +then fled from public gaze as a brave man should. There was no one to +compare with him. Not even the Cure was his superior in ability, and +certainly he was a greater man--though seemingly only a tailor--than M. +Rossignol. M. Rossignol--she flushed. Who could have believed that the +Seigneur would say those words to her this morning--to her, Rosalie +Evanturel, who hadn't five hundred dollars to her name? That she should +be asked to be Madame Rossignol! Confusion mingled with her simple +pride, and she ran out into the street, to where her father sat listening +to the medicine-man singing, in doubtful French: + + "I am a waterman bold, + Oh, I'm a waterman bold: + But for my lass I have great fear, + Yes, in the isles I have great fear, + For she is young, and I am old, + And she is bien gentille!" + +It was night now. The militia had departed, their Colonel roaring +commands at them out of a little red drill-book; the older people had +gone to their homes, but festive youth hovered round the booths and +sideshows, the majority enjoying themselves at some expense in the +medicine-man's encampment. + +As Rosalie ran towards the crowd she turned a wistful glance to the +tailor-shop. Not a sign of life there! She imagined M'sieu' to be at +Vadrome Mountain, until, glancing round the crowd at the quack-doctor's +wagon, she saw Jo Portugais gloomily watching the travelling tinker of +human bodies. Evidently M'sieu' was not at Vadrome Mountain. + +He was not far from her. At the side of the road, under a huge maple- +tree with wide-spreading branches, Charley stood and watched John Brown +performing behind the flaring oil-lights stuck on poles round his wagon, +his hat now on, now off; now singing a comic song in English---'I found +Y' in de Honeysuckle Paitch;' now a French chanson--'En Revenant de St. +Alban;' now treating a stiff neck or a bent back, or giving momentary +help to the palsy of an old man, or again making a speech. + +Charley was in touch again with the old life, but in a kind of fantasy +only--a staring, high-coloured dream. This man--John Brown--had gone +down before his old ironical questioning, had been, indirectly, the means +of disgracing his name. A step forward to that wagon, a word uttered, +a look, and he would have to face again the life he had put by for ever, +would have to meet a hard problem and settle it--to what misery and +tragedy, who might say? Under this tree he was M. Mallard, the infidel +tailor, whose life was slowly entering into the life of this place called +Chaudiere, slowly being acted upon by habit, which, automatically +repeated, at length becomes character. Out in that red light, before +that garish wagon, he would be Charley Steele, barrister, 'flaneur', and +fop, who, according to the world, had misused a wife, misled her brother, +robbed widows and orphans, squandered a fortune, become drunkard and +wastrel, and at last had lost his life in a disorderly tavern at the Cote +Dorion. This man before him had contributed to his disgrace; but once he +had contributed to John Brown's disgrace; and to-day he had saved John +Brown's life. They were even. + +All the night before, all this morning, he had fought a fierce battle +with his past--with a raging thirst. The old appetite had swept over him +fiercely. All day he had moved in a fevered conflict, which had lifted +him away from the small movements of everyday life into a region where +only were himself and one strong foe, who tirelessly strove with him. +In his old life he had never had a struggle of any sort. His emotions +had been cloaked, his soul masked, there had been a film before his eyes, +he had worn an armour of selfishness on a life which had no deep +problems, because it had no deep feelings--a life never rising to the +intellectual prowess for which it was fitted, save when under the +stimulus of liquor. + +From the moment he had waked from a long seven months' sleep in the hut +on Vadrome Mountain, new deep feelings had come to him as he faced +problems of life. Fighting had begun from that hour--a fighting which +was putting his nature through bitter mortal exercises, yet, too, giving +him a sense of being he had never known. He had now the sweetness of +earning daily bread by the work of his hands; of giving to the poor, the +needy, and the afflicted; of knowing for the first time in his life that +he was not alone in the world. Out of the grey dawn of life a woman's +voice had called to him; the look of her face had said to him: "Viens +ici! Viens ici!"--"Come to me! Come to me!" + +But with that call there was the answer of his soul, the desolating cry +of the dispossessed Lear-" Never--never--never--never--never!" + +He had not questioned himself concerning Rosalie--had dared not to do so. +But now, as he stood under the great tree, within hand-touch of the old +life, in imminent danger of being thrust back into it, the question of +Rosalie came upon him with all the force of months of feeling behind it. +Thus did he argue with himself: + +"Do I love her? And if I love her, what is to be done? Marry her, with +a wife living? Marry her while charged with a wretched crime? Would +that be love? But suppose I never were discovered, and we might live +here for ever, I as 'Monsieur Mallard,' in peace and quiet all the days +of our life? Would that be love? . . . Could there be love with a +vital secret, like, a cloud between, out of which, at any hour, might +spring discovery? Could I build our life upon a silence which must be a +lie? Would I not have to face the question, Does any one know cause or +just impediment why this woman should not be married to this man? Tell +Rosalie all, and let the law separate myself and Kathleen? That would +mean Billy's ruin and imprisonment, and Kathleen's shame, and it might +not bring Rosalir. She is a Catholic, and her Church would not listen to +it. Would I have the right to bring trouble into her life? To wrong one +woman should seem enough for one lifetime!" + +At that instant Rosalie, who had been on the outskirts of the crowd, +moved into his line of vision. The glare from the lights fell on her +face as she stood by her father's chair, looking curiously at the quack- +doctor who, having sold many bottles of his medicines, noy picked up a +guitar and began singing an old dialect chanson of Saintonge: + + "Voici, the day has come + When Rosette leaves her home! + With fear she walks in the sun, + For Raoul is ninety year, + And she not twenty-one. + La petit' Rosette, + She is not twenty-one. + + "He takes her by the hand, + And to the church they go; + By parents 'twas well meant, + But is Rosette content? + 'Tis gold and ninety year + She walks in the sun with fear, + La petit' Rosette, + Not twenty-one as yet!" + +Charley's eyes, which had watched her these months past, noted the +deepening colour of the face, the glow in the eyes, the glances of keen +but agitated interest towards the singer. He could not translate her +looks; and she, on her part, had she been compelled to do so, could only +have set down a confusion of sensations. + +In Rosette she saw herself, Rosalie Evanturel; in the man "de quatre- +vingt-dix ans," who was to marry this Rosette of Saintonge, she saw M. +Rossignol. Disconcerting pictures of a possible life with the Seigneur +flitted before her mind. She beheld herself, young, fresh-cheeked, with +life beating high and all the impulses of youth panting to use, sitting +at the head of the seigneury table. She saw herself in the great pew at +Mass, stiff with dignity, old in the way of manorial pride--all laughter +dead in her, all spring-time joy overshadowed by the grave decorum of the +Manor, all the imagination of her dreaming spirit chilled by the presence +of age, however kindly and quaint and cheerful. + +She shuddered, and dropped her eyes upon the ground, as, to the laughter +and giggling of old and young gathered round the wagon, the medicine-man +sang: + + "He takes her by the hand, + And to her chamber fair--" + +Then, suddenly turning, she vanished into the night, followed by the +feeble inquiry of her father's eyes, the anxious look in Charley's. + +Charley could not read her tale. He had, however, a hot impulse to +follow and ask her if she would vanish from the scene if the medicine-man +should sing of Rosette and a man of thirty, not ninety, years. The fight +he had had all day with his craving for drink had made him feverish, and +all his emotions--unregulated, under the command of his will only--were +in high temperature. A reckless feeling seized him. He would go to +Rosalie, look into her eyes, and tell her that he loved her, no matter +what the penalty of fate. He had never loved a human being, and the +sudden impulse to cry out in the new language was driving him to follow +the girl whose spirit for ever called to him. + +He made a step forward to follow her, but stopped short, recalled to +caution and his danger by the voice of the medicine-man: + +"I had a friend once--good fellow, bad fellow, cleverest chap I ever +knew. Tremendous fop--ladies loved him--cheeks like roses--tongue like +sulphuric acid. Beautiful to look at. Clothes like a fashion-plate--got +any fashion-plates in Chaudiere? 'who's your tailor?'" he added, in the +slang of the hour, with a loud laugh, then stopped suddenly and took off +his hat. "I forgot," he added, with upturned eyes and a dramatic +seriousness, "your tailor saved my life to-day-henceforth I am the friend +of all tailors. Well, to continue. My friend that was--I call him my +friend, though he ruined me and ruined others,--didn't mean to, but he +did just the same,--he came to a bad end. But he was a great man while +he lived. And what I'm coming to is this, the song he used to sing when, +in youthful exuberance, we went on the war-path like our young friend +over there"--he pointed to a young habitant farmer, who was trying hard +to preserve equilibrium--"Brown's Golden Pectoral will cure that cough, +my friend!" he added, as the young man, gloomily ashamed of the laughter +of the crowd, hiccoughed and turned away to the tree under which Charley +Steele stood. "Well," he went on, "I was going to say that my friend's +name was Charley, and the song he used to sing when the roosters waked +the morn was called 'Champagne Charlie.' He was called 'Champagne +Charlie'--till he came to a bad end." + +He twanged his guitar, cleared his throat, winked at Maximilian Cour the +baker, and began: + + "The way I gained my title's by a hobby which I've got + Of never letting others pay, however long the shot; + Whoever drinks at my expense is treated all the same; + Whoever calls himself my friend, I make him drink champagne. + Some epicures like Burgundy, Hock, Claret, and Moselle, + But Moet's vintage only satisfies this champagne swell. + What matter if I go to bed and head is muddled thick, + A bottle in the morning sets me right then very quick. + Champagne Charlie is my name; + Champagne Charlie is my name. + Who's the man with the heart so young, + Who's the man with the ginger tongue? + Champagne Charlie is his name!" + +Under the tree, Charley Steele listened to this jaunty epitaph on his old +self. At the first words of the coarse song there rushed on him the +dreaded thirst. He felt his veins beating with desire, with anger, +disgust, and shame; for there was John Brown, to the applause of the +crowd, imitating his old manner, his voice, his very look. He started +forward, but the drunken young habitant lurched sideways under the tree +and collapsed upon the ground, a bottle of whiskey falling out of his +pocket and rolling almost to his own feet. + + "Champagne Charlie is my name," + +sang the medicine-man. All Charley's old life surged up in him as dyked +water suddenly bursts bounds and spreads destruction. He had an +uncontrollable impulse. As a starving animal snatches at the first food +offered it, he stooped, with a rattle in his throat, seized the bottle, +uncorked it, put it to his lips, and drank--drank--drank. + +Then he turned and plunged away into the trees. The sound of the song +followed him. It came to him, the last refrain, sung loudly to the +laughter of the crowd, in imitation of his own voice as it used to be +--it had been a different voice during this past year. He turned with +headlong intention, and, as the last notes of the song and the applause +that followed it, died away, threw back his head and sang out of the +darkness: + + "Champagne Charlie is my name--" + +With a shrill laugh, like the half-mad cry of an outcast soul, he flung +away farther into the trees. + +There was a sudden silence. The crowd turned with half-apprehensive +laughter to the trees. Upon John Brown the effect was startling. His +face blanched, his eyes grew large with terror, his mouth opened in +helpless agitation. Charley Steele was lying under the waters of the +great river, his bones rotting there for a year, yet here was his voice +coming out of the night, in response to his own grotesque imitation of +the dead man. Seeing his agitation, women turned pale, men felt their +flesh creep, imagination gave a thrilling coldness to the air. For a +moment the silence was unbroken. Then John Brown stretched out his hand +and said, in a hoarse whisper: + +"It was his voice--Charley's voice, and he's been dead a year!" + +Within half-an-hour, in utter collapse and fright, he was being driven to +the next parish by two young habitants whom he paid to accompany him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +OUT ON THE OLD TRAIL + +There was one person in the crowd surrounding the medicine-man's wagon +who had none of that superstitious thrill which had scattered the +habitants into little awe-stricken groups, and then by twos and threes to +their homes; none of that fear which had reduced the quack-doctor to such +nervous collapse that he would not spend the night in the village. Jo +Portugais had recognised the voice--that of Charley Steele the lawyer who +had saved him from hanging years ago. It was little like the voice of +M'sieu'! There was that in it which frightened him. He waited until he +had seen the quackdoctor start for the next parish, then he went slowly +down the street. There were people still about, so he walked on towards +the river. When he returned, the street was empty. Keeping in the +shadow of the trees, he went to Charley's house. There was a light in a +window. He went to the back door and tried it. It was not locked, and, +without knocking, he stepped inside the kitchen. Here was no light, and +he passed into the hallway and on to a little room opening from the +tailorshop. He knocked; then, not waiting for response, opened the door +and entered. + +Charley was standing before a mirror, holding a pair of scissors. He +turned abruptly, and said forbiddingly: "I am at my toilet!" + +Then, turning again to the mirror, with a shrug of the shoulders, he +raised the shears to his beard. Before he could use them, Jo's hand was +on his arm. + +"Stop that, M'sieu'!" he said huskily. + +Charley had drunk nearly a whole bottle of cheap whiskey within an hour. +He was intoxicated, but, as had ever been the case with him, his brain +was working clearly, his hand was steady; he was in that wide dream of +clear-seeing and clear-knowing which, in old days, had given him glimpses +of the real life from which, in the egotism of the non-intime, he had +been shut out. Looking at Jo now, he was possessed by a composed +intoxication like that in which he had moved during that last night at +the Cote Dorion. + +But now, with the baleful crust of egotism gone, with every nerve of +life exposed, with conscience struggling to its feet from the torpor of +thirty-odd vacant years, he was as two men in one, with different lives +and different souls, yet as inseparable in their misery as those poor +victims of Gallic tyranny, chained back to back and thrown into the +Seine. + +Jo's words, insistent and eager, suddenly roused in him some old memory, +which stayed his hand. + +"Why should I stop?" he asked quietly, and smiling that smile which had +infuriated the river-drivers at the Cote Dorion. + +"Are you going back, M'sieu?" + +"Back where?" Charley's eyes were fixed on Jo with a penetrating +intensity, heightened to a strange abstraction, as though he saw not Jo +alone, but something great distances beyond. + +Jo did not answer this question directly. "Some one came to-day--he is +gone; some one may come to-morrow--and stay," he said meaningly. + +Charley went over to the fire and sat down on a bench, opening and +shutting the scissors mechanically. Jo was in the light, and Charley's +eyes again studied him hard. + +His memory was industriously feeling its way into the baffling distance. + +"What if some one did come-and stay?" he urged quietly. + +"You might be recognised without the beard." + +"What difference would it make?" Charley's memory was creeping close to +the hidden door. It was feeling-feeling for the latch. + +"You know best, M'sieu'." + +"But what do you know?" Charley's face now had a strained look, and he +touched his lips with his tongue. "What John Brown knows, M'sieu'." + +There flashed across Charley's mind the fatal newspaper he had read on +the day he awakened to memory again in the but on Vadrome Mountain. He +remembered that he had put it in the fire. But Jo might have read it +before it was spread upon the bench-put it there of purpose for him to +read. Yet what reason could Jo have for being silent, for hiding his +secret? + +There was silence for a space, in which Charley's eyes were like unmoving +sparks of steel. He did not see Jo's face--it was in a mist--he was +searching, searching, searching. All at once he felt the latch of the +hidden door under his finger; he saw a court-room, a judge and jury, and +hundreds of excited faces, himself standing in the midst. He saw twelve +men file slowly into the room and take their seats-all save one, who +stood still in his place and said: "Not guilty, your Honour!" He saw the +prisoner leave the box and step down a free man. He saw himself coming +out into the staring summer day. He watched the prisoner come to him and +touch his arm, and say: "Thank you, M'sieu'. You have saved my life." +He saw himself turn to this man: + +He roused from his trance, he staggered to his feet, the shears rattled +to the floor. Lurching forward, he caught Jo Portugais by the throat, +and said, as he had said outside the court-room years ago: + +"Get out of my sight. You're as guilty as hell!" + +His grip tightened--tightened on Jo's throat. Jo did not move, though +his face grew black. Then, suddenly, the hands relaxed, a bluish +paleness swept over the face, and Charley fell sidewise to the floor +before Jo could catch him. + +All night, alone, the murderer struggled with death over the body of the +lawyer who had saved his life. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +THE SEIGNEUR GIVES A WARNING + +Rosalie had watched a shut door for five days--a door from which, for +months past, had come all the light and glow of her life. It framed a +figure which had come to represent to her all that meant hope and soul +and conscience-and love. The morning after St. Jean Baptiste's day she +had awaited the opening door, but it had remained closed. Ensued +watchful hours, and then from Jo Portugais she had learned that M'sieu' +had been ill and near to death. She had been told the weird story of the +medicine-man and the ghostly voice, and, without reason, she took the +incident as a warning, and associated it with the man across the way. +She was come of a superstitious race, and she herself had heard and seen +things of which she never had been able to speak--the footsteps in the +church the night she had screwed the little cross to the door again; the +tiny round white light by the door of the church; the hood which had +vanished into the unknown. One mystery fed another. It seemed to her as +if some dreadful event were forward; and all day she kept her eyes fixed +on the tailor's door. + +Dead--if M'sieu' should die! If M'sieu' should die--it needed all her +will to prevent herself from going over and taking things in her own +hands, being his nurse, his handmaid, his slave. Duty--to the +government, to her father? Her heart cried out that her duty lay where +all her life was eddying to one centre. What would the world say? She +was not concerned for that, save for him. What, then, would M'sieu' say? +That gave her pause. The Seigneur's words the day before had driven her +back upon a tide of emotions which carried her far out upon that sea +where reason and life's conventions are derelicts, where Love sails with +reckless courage down the shoreless main. + +"If I could only be near him!" she kept saying to herself. "It is my +right. I would give my life, my soul for his. I was with him before +when his life was in danger. It was my hand that saved him. It was my +love that tended him. It was my soul that kept his secret. It was my +faith that spoke for him. It was my heart that ached for him. It is my +heart that aches for him now as none other in all the world can. No one +on earth could care as I care. Who could there be?" Something whispered +in her ear, "Kathleen!" The name haunted her, as the little cross had +done. Misery and anger possessed her, and she fought on with herself +through dark hours. + +Thus five days had gone, until at last a wagon was brought to the door of +the tailor-shop, and M'sieu' came out, leaning on the arm of Jo +Portugais. There were several people in the street at the time, and they +kept whispering that M'sieu' had been at death's door. He was pale and +haggard, with dark hollows under the eyes. Just as he got into the wagon +the Cure came up. They shook hands. The Cure looked him earnestly in +the face, his lips moved, but no one could have told what he said. As +the wagon started, Charley looked across to the post-office. Rosalie was +standing a little back from the door, but she stepped forward now. Their +eyes met. Her heart beat faster, for there was a look in his eyes she +had never seen before--a look of human helplessness, of deep anxiety. It +was meant for her--for herself alone. She could not trust herself to go +and speak to him. She felt that she must burst into tears. So, with a +look of pity and pain, she watched the wagon go down the street. + +Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!--the Seigneur's gold-headed cane rattled on the +front door of the tailor-shop. It was plain to be seen his business was +urgent. + +Madame Dauphin came hurrying from the postoffice, followed by Maximilian +Cour and Filion Lacasse. "Ah, M'sieu', the tailor will not answer. +There's no use knocking--not a bit, M'sieu' Rossignol," said Madame. + +The Seigneur turned querulously upon the Notary's wife, yet with a glint +of hard humour in his eye. He had no love for Madame Dauphin. He +thought she took unfair advantages of M. Dauphin, whom also he did not +love, but whose temperament did him credit. + +"How should Madame know whether or no the gentleman will answer? Does +Madame share the gentleman's confidence, perhaps?" he remarked. + +Madame did not reply at once. She turned on the saddler and the baker. +"I hope you'll learn a lesson," she cried triumphantly. "I've always +said the tailor was quite the gentleman; and now you see how your betters +call him. No, M'sieu', the gentleman will not answer," she added to the +Seigneur. + +"He is in bed yet, Madame?" + +"His bed is empty there, M'sieu'," she said, impressively, and pointing. + +"I suppose I should trust you in this matter; I suppose you should know. +But, Dauphin--what does Dauphin say?" + +The saddler laughed outright. Maximilian Cour suddenly blushed in +sympathy with Madame Dauphin, who now saw the drift of the Seigneur's +remarks, and was sensibly agitated, as the Seigneur had meant her to be. +Had she not turned Dauphin's human sympathies into a crime? Had not the +Notary supported the Seigneur in his friendly offices to Paulette Dubois; +and had not Madame troubled her husband's life because of it? Madame +bridled up now--with discretion, for it was not her cue to offend the +Seigneur. + +"All the village knows his bed's empty there, M'sieu'," she said, with +tightening lips. + +"I am subtracted from the total, then?" he asked drily. + +"You have been away for the last five days--" + +"Come, now, how did you know that?" + +"Everybody knows it. You went away with the Colonel and the soldiers on +St. Jean Baptiste's day. Since then M'sieu' the tailor has been ill. I +should think Mrs. Flynn would have told you that, M'sieu'." + +"H'm! Would you? Well, Mrs. Flynn has been away too--and you didn't +know that! What is the matter with Monsieur Mallard?" + +"Some kind of fever. On St. Jean Baptiste's day he was taken ill, and +that animal Portugais took care of him all night--I wonder how M'sieu' +can have the creature about! That St. Jean Baptiste's night was an awful +night. Have you heard of what happened, M'sieu'? Ghost or no ghost--" + +"Come, come, I want to know about the tailor, not of ghosts," impatiently +interrupted the Seigneur. "Tiens! M'sieu', the tailor was ill for three +days here, and he would let no one except the Cure and Jo Portugais near +him. I went myself to clean up and make some broth, but that toad of a +Portugais shut the door in my face. The Cure told us to go home and +leave M'sieu' with Portugais. He must be very sick to have that black +sheep about him--and no doctor either." + +The saddler spoke up now. "I took him a bottle of good brandy and some +buttermilk-pop and seed cake--I would give him a saddle if he had a +horse--he got my thousand dollars for me! Well, he took them, but what +do you think? He sent them right off to the shantyman, Gugon, who has a +broken leg. Infidel or no, I'm on his side for sure. And God blesses a +cheerful giver, I'm told." + +It was the baker's chance, and he took it. "I played 'The Heart Bowed +Down'-it is English-under his window, two nights ago, and he sent word +for me to come and play it again in the kitchen. Ah, that is a good +song, 'The Heart Bowed Down.'" + +"You'd be a better baker if you fiddled less," said Madame Dauphin, +annoyed at being dropped out of the conversation. + +"The soul must be fed, Madame," rejoined the baker, with asperity. + +"Where is the tailor now?" said the Seigneur shortly. "At Portugais's +on Vadrome Mountain. They say he looked like a ghost when he went. +Rosalie Evanturel saw him, but she has no tongue in her head this +morning," added Madame. + +The Seigneur moved away. "Good-bye to you--I am obliged to you, Madame. +Good-bye, Lacasse. Come and fiddle to me some night, Cour." + +He bowed to the obsequious three, and then bent his steps towards the +post-office. They seemed about to follow him, but he stopped them with a +look. The men raised their bonnets-rouges, the woman bowed low, and the +Seigneur entered the post-office door. + +From the shadows of the office Rosalie had watched the little group +before the door of the tailor-shop. She saw the Seigneur coming across +the street. Suddenly she flushed deeply, for there came to her mind the +song the quack-doctor sang: + + "Voila, the day has come + When Rosette leaves her home! + With fear she walks in the sun, + For Raoul is ninety year, + And she not twenty-one." + +As M. Rossignol's figure darkened the doorway, she pretended to be busy +behind the wicket, and not to see him. He was not sure, but he thought +it quite possible that she had seen him coming, and he put her +embarrassment down to shyness. Naturally the poor child was not given +the chance every day to receive an offer of marriage from a seigneur. +He had made up his mind that she would be sure to accept him if he asked +her a second time. + +"Ah, Ma'm'selle Rosalie," he said gaily, "what have you to say that you +should not come before a magistrate at once?" + +"Nothing, if Monsieur Rossignol is to be the magistrate," she replied, +with forced lightness. + +"Good!" He looked at her quizzically through his gold-handled glass. +"I can't frighten you, I see. Well, you must wait a little; you shall be +sworn in postmistress in three days." His voice lowered, became more +serious. "Tell me," he said, "do you know what is the matter with the +gentleman across the way?" Turning, he looked across to the tailor-shop, +as though he expected "the gentleman" to appear, and he did not see her +turn pale. When his look fell on her again, she was self-controlled. + +"I do not know, Monsieur." + +"You have been opposite him here these months past--did you ever see +anything not--not as it should be?" + +"With him, Monsieur? Never." + +"It is as though the infidel behaved like a good Catholic and a +Christian?" + +"There are good Catholics in Chaudiere who do not behave like +Christians." + +"What would you say, for instance, about his past?" + +"What should I say about his past, Monsieur? What should I know?" + +"You should know more than any one else in Chaudiere. The secrets of his +breast might well be bared to you." + +She started and crimsoned. Before her eyes there came a mist obscuring +the Seigneur, and for an instant shutting out the world. The secrets of +his breast--what did he mean? Did he know that on Monsieur's breast was +the red scar which . . . + +M. Rossignol's voice seemed coming from an infinite distance, and as it +came, the mist slowly passed from her eyes. + +"You will know, Mademoiselle Rosalie," he was saying, "that while I +suggested that the secrets of his breast might well be bared to you, I +meant that as an honest lady and faithful postmistress they were not. It +was my awkward joke--a stupid gambolling by an old man who ought to know +better." + +She did not answer, and he continued: + +"You know that you are trusted. Pray accept my apologies." + +She was herself again. "Monsieur," she said quietly; "I know nothing of +his past. I want to know nothing. It does not seem to me that it is my +business. The world is free for a man to come and go in, if he keeps the +law and does no ill--is it not? But, in any case, I know nothing. Since +you have said so much, I shall say this, and betray no 'secrets of his +breast'--that he has received no letter through this office since the day +he first came from Vadrome Mountain." + +The Seigneur smiled. "A wonderful tailor! How does he carry on business +without writing letters?" + +"There was a large stock of everything left by Louis Trudel, and not long +ago a commercial traveller was here with everything." + +"You think he has nothing to hide, then?" + +"Have not we all something to hide--with or without shame?" she asked +simply. + +"You have more sense than any woman in Chaudiere, Mademoiselle." + +She shook her head, yet she raised her eyes gratefully to him. + +"I put faith in what you say," he continued. "Now listen. My brother, +the Abbe, chaplain to the Archbishop, is coming here. He has heard of +'the infidel' of our parish. He is narrow and intolerant--the Abbe. He +is going to stir up trouble against the tailor. We are a peaceful people +here, and like to be left alone. We are going on very well as we are. +So I wanted to talk to Monsieur to-day. I must make up my own mind how +to act. The tailor-shop is the property of the Church. An infidel +occupies it, so it is said; the Abbe does not like that. I believe there +are other curious suspicions about Monsieur: that he is a robber, or +incendiary, or something of the sort. The Abbe may take a stand, and the +Cure's position will be difficult. What is more, my brother has friends +here, fanatics like himself. He has been writing to them. They are men +capable of doing unpleasant things--the Abbe certainly is. It is fair to +warn the tailor. Shall I leave it to you? Do not frighten him. But +there is no doubt he should be warned--fair play, fair play! I hear +nothing but good of him from those whose opinions I value. But, you see, +every man's history in this parish and in every parish of the province is +known. This man, for us, has no history. The Cure even admits there are +some grounds for calling him an infidel, but, as you know, he would keep +the man here, not drive him out from among us. I have not told the Cure +about the Abbe yet. I wished first to talk with you. The Abbe may come +at any moment. I have been away, and only find his letters to-day." + +"You wish me to tell Monsieur?" interrupted Rosalie, unable to hold +silence any longer. More than once during the Seigneur's disclosure she +had felt that she must cry out and fiercely repel the base insinuations +against the man she loved. + +"You would do it with discretion. You are friendly with him, are you +not?--you talk with him now and then?" + +She inclined her head. "Very well, Monsieur. I will go to Vadrome +Mountain to-morrow," she said quietly. Anger, apprehension, indignation, +possessed her, but she held herself firmly. The Seigneur was doing a +friendly thing; and, in any case, she could have no quarrel with him. +There was danger to the man she loved, however, and every faculty was +alive. + +"That's right. He shall have his chance to evade the Abbe if he wishes," +answered M. Rossignol. + +There was silence for a moment, in which she was scarcely conscious of +his presence; then he leaned over the counter towards her, and spoke in a +low voice. + +"What I said the other day I meant. I do not change my mind--I am too +old for that. Yet I'm young enough to know that you may change yours." + +"I cannot change, Monsieur," she said tremblingly. + +"But you will change. I knew your mother well, I know how anxious she +was for your future. I told her once that I should keep an eye on you +always. Her father was my father's good friend. I knew you when you +were in the cradle--a little brown-haired babe. I watched you till you +went to the convent. I saw you come back to take up the duties which +your mother laid down, alas!--" + +"Monsieur--!" she said choking, and with a troubled little gesture. + +"You must let me speak, Rosalie. We got your father this post-office. +It is a poor living, but it keeps a roof over your head. You have never +failed us you have always fulfilled our hopes. But the best years of +your life are going, and your education and your nature have not their +chance. Oh, I've not watched you all these years for nothing. I never +meant to ask you to marry me. It came to me, though, all at once, and +I know that it has been in my mind all these years--far back in my mind. +I don't ask you for my own sake alone. Your father may grow very ill-- +who can tell what may happen!" + +"I should be postmistress still," she said sadly. + +"As a young girl you could not have the responsibility here alone. And +you should not waste your life it is a fine, full spirit; let the lean, +the poor-spirited, go singly. You should be mated. You can't marry any +of the young farmers of Chaudiere. 'Tis impossible. I can give you +enough for any woman's needs--the world may be yours to see and use to +your heart's content. I can give, too"--he drew himself up proudly--" +the unused emotions of a lifetime." This struck him as a very fine and +important thing to say. + +"Ah, Monsieur, that is not enough," she responded. "What more can you +want?" + +She looked up with a tearful smile. "I will tell you one day, Monsieur." + +"What day?" + +"I have not picked it out in the calendar." + +"Fix the day, and I will wait till then. I will not open my mouth again +till then." + +"Michaelmas day, then, Monsieur," she answered mechanically and at +haphazard, but with an urged gaiety, for a great depression was on her. + +"Good. Till Michaelmas day, then!" He pulled his long nose, laughing +silently. . . . "I leave the tailor in your hands. Give every man +his chance, I say. The Abbe is a hard man, but our hearts are soft--eh, +eh, very soft!" He raised his hat and turned to the door. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Always hoping the best from the worst of us +Have not we all something to hide--with or without shame? +In all secrets there is a kind of guilt +Pathetically in earnest +Things that once charmed charm less + + + + + + +THE RIGHT OF WAY + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 4. + + + +XXIX. THE WILD RIDE +XXX. ROSALIE WARNS CHARLEY +XXXI. CHARLEY STANDS AT BAY +XXXII. JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY +XXXIII. THE EDGE OF LIFE +XXXIV. IN AMBUSH +XXXV. THE COMING OF MAXIMILIAN COUR AND ANOTHER +XXXVI. BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY +XXXVII. THE CHALLENGE OF PAULETTE DUBOIS +XXXVIII. THE CURE AND THE SEIGNEUR VISIT THE TAILOR +XXXIX. THE SCARLET WOMAN +XL. AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +THE WILD RIDE + +There had been a fierce thunder-storm in the valley of the Chaudiere. It +had come suddenly from the east, had shrieked over the village, levelling +fences, carrying away small bridges, and ending in a pelting hail, which +whitened the ground with pebbles of ice. It had swept up to Vadrome +Mountain, and had marched furiously through the forest, carrying down +hundreds of trees, drowning the roars of wild animals and the crying and +fluttering of birds. One hour of ravage and rage, and then, spent and +bodiless, the storm crept down the other side of the mountain and into +the next parish, whither the affrighted quack-doctor had betaken himself. +After, a perfect calm, a shining sun, and a sweet smell over all the +land, which had thirstily drunk the battering showers. + +In the house on Vadrome Mountain the tailor of Chaudiere had watched the +storm with sympathetic interest. It was in accord with his own feelings. +He had had a hard fight for months past, and had gone down in the storm +of his emotions one night when a song called Champagne Charlie had had a +weird and thrilling antiphonal. There had been a subsequent debacle for +himself, and then a revelation concerning Jo Portugais. Ensued hours and +days, wherein he had fought a desperate fight with the present--with +himself and the reaction from his dangerous debauch. + +The battle for his life had been fought for him by this gloomy woodsman +who henceforth represented his past, was bound to him by a measureless +gratitude, almost a sacrament--of the damned. Of himself he had played +no conscious part in it till the worst was over. On the one side was the +Cure, patient, gentle, friendly, never pushing forward the Faith which +the good man dreamed should give him refuge and peace; on the other side +was the murderer, who typified unrest, secretiveness, an awful isolation, +and a remorse which had never been put into words or acts of restitution. +For six days the tailor-shop and the life at Chaudiere had been things +almost apart from his consciousness. Ever-recurring memories of Rosalie +Evanturel were driven from his mind with a painful persistence. In the +shadows where his nature dwelt now he would not allow her good innocence +and truth to enter. His self-reproach was the more poignant because it +was silent. + +Watching the tempest-swept valley, the tortured forest, where wild life +was in panic, there came upon him the old impulse to put his thoughts +into words, "and so be rid of them," as he was wont to say in other days. +Taking from his pocket some slips of paper, he laid them on the table +before him. Three or four times he leaned over the paper to write, but +the noise of the storm again and again drew his look to the window. The +tempest ceased almost as suddenly as it had come, and, as the first +sunlight broke through the flying clouds, he mechanically lifted a sheet +of the paper and held it up to the light. It brought to his eyes the +large water-mark, Kathleen! + +A sombre look passed over his face, he shifted in his chair, then bent +over the paper and began to write. Words flowed from his pen. The lines +of his face relaxed, his eyes lightened; he was lost in a dream. He +thought of the present, and he wrote: + + "Wave walls to seaward, + Storm-clouds to leeward, + Beaten and blown by the winds of the West; + Sail we encumbered + Past isles unnumbered, + But never to greet the green island of Rest." + +He thought of Father Loisel. He had seen the good man's lips tremble at +some materialistic words he had once used in their many talks, and he +wrote: + + "Lips that now tremble, + Do you dissemble + When you deny that the human is best?-- + Love, the evangel, + Finds the Archangel? + Is that a truth when this may be a jest? + + "Star-drifts that glimmer + Dimmer and dimmer, + What do ye know of my weal or my woe? + Was I born under + The sun or the thunder? + What do I come from? and where do I go? + + "Rest, shall it ever + Come? Is endeavour + But a vain twining and twisting of cords? + Is faith but treason; + Reason, unreason, + But a mechanical weaving of words?" + +He thought of Louis Trudel, in his grave, and his own questioning: "Show +me a sign from Heaven, tailorman!" and he wrote: + + "What is the token, + Ever unbroken, + Swept down the spaces of querulous years, + Weeping or singing + That the Beginning + Of all things is with us, and sees us, and hears?" + +He made an involuntary motion of his hand to his breast, where old Louis +Trudel had set a sign. So long as he lived, it must be there to read: +a shining smooth scar of excoriation, a sacred sign of the faith he had +never been able to accept; of which he had never, indeed, been able to +think, so distant had been his soul, until, against his will, his heart +had answered to the revealing call in a woman's eyes. He felt her +fingers touch his breast as they did that night the iron seared him; and +out of this first intimacy of his soul he wrote: + + "What is the token? + Bruised and broken, + Bend I my life to a blossoming rod? + Shall then the worst things + Come to the first things, + Finding the best of all, last of all, God?" + +Like the cry of his "Aphrodite," written that last afternoon of the old +life, this plaint ended with the same restless, unceasing question. But +there was a difference. There was no longer the material, distant note +of a pagan mind; there was the intimate, spiritual note of a mind finding +a foothold on the submerged causeway of life and time. + +As he folded up the paper to put it into his pocket, Jo Portugais entered +the room. He threw in a corner the wet bag which had protected his +shoulders from the rain, hung his hat on a peg of the chimney-piece, +nodded to Charley, and put a kettle on the little fire. + +"A big storm, M'sieu'," Jo said presently as he put some tea into a pot. + +"I have never seen a great storm in a forest before," answered Charley, +and came nearer to the window through which the bright sun streamed. + +"It always does me good," said Jo. "Every bird and beast is awake and +afraid and trying to hide, and the trees fall, and the roar of it like +the roar of the chasse-galerie on the Kimash River." + +"The Kimash River--where is it?" + +Jo shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows!" + +"Is it a legend, then?" + +"It is a river." + +"And the chasse-galerie?" + +"That is true, M'sieu', no matter what any one thinks. I know; I have +seen--I have seen with my own eyes." Jo was excited now. + +"I am listening." He took a cup of tea from Portugais and drank eagerly. + +"The Kimash River, M'sieu', that is the river in the air. On it is the +chasse-galerie. You sell your soul to the devil; you ask him to help +you; you deny God. You get into a canoe and call on the devil. You are +lifted up, canoe and all, and you rush on down rapids, over falls, on the +Kimash River in the air. The devil stands behind you and shouts, and you +sing, 'V'la! l'bon vent! V'la l'joli vent!' On and on you go, faster and +faster, and you forget the world, and you forget yourself, and the devil +is with you in the air--in the chasse-galerie on the Kimash River." + +"Jo," said Charley Steele, "do you honestly think there's a river like +that?" + +'M'sieu', I know it. I saw Ignace Latoile, who robbed a priest and got +drunk on the communion wine--I saw him with the devil in the Black Canoe +at the Saguenay. I could see Ignace; I could see the devil; I could see +the Kimash River. I shall ride myself some day. + +"Ride where?" + +"What does it matter where?" + +"Why should you ride?" + +"Because you ride fast with the devil." + +"What is the good of riding fast?" + +"In the rush a man forget." + +"What does he forget, my friend?" + +There was a pause, in which a man with a load of crime upon his soul +dwelt upon the words my friend, coming from the lips of one who knew the +fulness of his iniquity. Then he answered: + +"In the noise he forget that a voice is calling in his ear, 'You did It!' +He forget what he see in his dreams. He forget the hand that touch him +on the arm when he walk in the woods alone, or lie down to sleep at +night, no one near. He forget that some one wait--wait--wait, till he +has suffer long enough, or till, one day, he think he is happy again, and +the Thing he did is far off like a dream--to drag him out to the death he +did not die. He forget that he is alone--all alone in the world, for +ever and ever and ever." + +He suddenly sank upon the floor beside Charley, and a groan burst from +his lips. "To have no friend--ah, it is so awful!" he said. "Never to +see a face that look into yours, and know how bad are you, and doesn't +mind. For five years I have live like that. I cannot let any one be my +friend because I was that! They seem to know--everything, everybody-- +what I am. The little children when I pass them run away to hide. I +have wake in the night and cry out in fear, it is so lonely. I have hear +voices round me in the woods, and I run and run and run from them, and +not leave them behind. Three times I go to the jails in Quebec to see +the prisoners behind the bars, and watch the pains on their faces, to +understand what I escape. Five times have I go to the courts to listen +to murderers tried, and watch them when the Jury say Guilty! and the +Judge send them to death--that I might know. Twice have I go to see +murderers hung. Once I was helper to the hangman, that I might hear and +know what the man said, what he felt. When the arms were bound, I felt +the straps on my own; when the cap come down, I gasp for breath; when the +bolt is shot, I feel the wrench and the choke, and shudder go through +myself--feel the world jerk out in the dark. When the body is bundled in +the pit, I see myself lie still under the quick-lime with the red mark +round my throat." + +Charley touched him on the shoulder. "Jo--poor Jo, my friend!" he said. +Jo raised his eyes, red with an unnatural fire, deep with gratitude. + +"As I sit at my dinner, with the sun shining and the woods green and +glad, and all the world gay, I have see what happened all over again. +I have see his strong hands; his bad face laugh at my words; I have see +him raise his riding-whip and cut me across the head. I have see him +stagger and fall from the blows I give him with the knife--the knife +which never was found--why, I not know, for I throw it on the ground +beside him! There, as I sit in the open day, a thousand times I have see +him shiver and fall, staring, staring at me as if he see a dreadful +thing. Then I stand up again and strike at him--at his ghost!--as I did +that day in the woods. Again I see him lie in his blood, straight and +white--so large, so handsome, so still! I have shed tears--but what are +tears! Blind with tears I have call out for the devils of hell to take +me with them. I have call on God to give me death. I have prayed, and I +have cursed. Twice I have travelled to the grave where he lies. I have +knelt there and have beg him to tell the truth to God, and say that he +torture me till I kill him. I have beg him to forgive me and to haunt me +no more with his bad face. But never--never--never--have I one quiet +hour until you come, M'sieu'; nor any joy in my heart till I tell you the +black truth--M'sieu'! M'sieu!" + +He buried his face between Charley's feet, and held them with his hands. + +Charley laid a hand on the shaggy head as though it were that of a child. +"Be still--be still, Jo," he said gently. + +Since that night of St. Jean Baptiste's festival, no word of the past, +of the time when Charley turned aside the revanche of justice from a man +called Joseph Nadeau, had been spoken between them. Out of the delirium +of his drunken trance had come Charley's recognition of the man he knew +now as Jo Portugais. But the recognition had been sent again into the +obscurity whence it came, and had not been mentioned since. To outward +seeming they had gone on as before. As Charley saw the knotted brows, +the staring eyes, the clinched hands, the figure of the woodsman rigid in +its agony of remorse, he said to himself: "What right had I to save this +man's life? To have paid for his crime would have been easier for him. +I knew he was guilty. Perhaps it was my duty to see that every +condition, to the last shade of the law, was satisfied, but was it +justice to the poor devil himself? There he sits with a load on him that +weighs him down every hour of his life. I called him back; I gave him +life; but I gave him memory and remorse, and the ghosts that haunt him: +the voice in his ear, the touch on his arm, the some one that is +'waiting--waiting--waiting!' That is what I did, and that is what the +brother of the Cure did for me. He drew me back. He knew I was a +drunkard, but he drew me back. I might have been a murderer like +Portugais. The world says I was a thief, and a thief I am until I prove +to the world I am innocent--and wreck three lives! How much of Jo's +guilt is guilt? How much remorse should a man suffer to pay the debt of +a life? If the law is an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, how +much hourly remorse and torture, such as Jo's, should balance the eye or +the tooth or the life? I wonder, now!" + +He leaned over, and, helping Jo to his feet, gently forced him down upon +a bench near. "All right, Jo, my friend," he said. "I understand. +We'll drink the gall together." + +They sat and looked at each other in silence. + +At length Charley leaned over and touched Jo on the shoulder. + +"Why did you want to save yourself?" he said. + +At that instant there was a knock at the door, and a voice said: +"Monsieur!--Monsieur!" + +Jo sprang to his feet with a sharp exclamation, then went heavily to the +door and threw it open. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +ROSALIE WARNS CHARLEY + +Charley's eyes met Rosalie's with a look the girl had never seen in them +before. It gave a glow to his haggard face. + +Rosalie turned to Jo and greeted him with a friendlier manner than was +her wont towards him. The nearer she was to Charley, the farther away +from him, to her mind, was Portugais, and she became magnanimous. + +Jo nodded' awkwardly and left the room. Looking after the departing +figure, Rosalie said: "I know he has been good to you, but--but do you +trust him, Monsieur?" + +"Does not everybody in Chaudiere trust him?" + +"There is one who does not, though perhaps that's of no consequence." + +"Why do you not trust him?" + +"I don't know. I never knew him do a bad thing; I never heard of a bad +thing he has done; and--he has been good to you." + +She paused, flushing as she felt the significance of her words, and +continued: "Yet there is--I cannot tell what. I feel something. It is +not reasonable to go upon one's feelings; but there it is, and so I do +not trust him." + +"It is the way he lives, here in these lonely woods--the mystery around +him." + +A change passed over her. With the first glow of meeting the object of +her visit had receded, though since her last interview with the Seigneur +she had not rested a moment, in her anxiety to warn him of his danger. +"Oh, no," she said, lifting her eyes frankly to his: "oh, no, Monsieur! +It is not that. There is mystery about you!" She felt her heart beating +hard. It almost choked her, but she kept on bravely. "People say +strange and bad things about you. No one knows"--she trembled under the +painful inquiry of his eyes. Then she gained courage and went on, for +she must make it clear she trusted him, that she took him at his word, +before she told him of the peril before him--"No one knows where you came +from . . . and it is nobody's business. Some people do not believe in +you. But I believe in you--I should believe in you if every one doubted; +for there is no feeling in me that says, 'He has done some wicked thing +that stands-between us.' It isn't the same as with Portugais, you see-- +naturally, it could not be the same." + +She seemed not to realise that she was telling more of her own heart than +she had ever told. It was a revelation, having its origin in an honesty +which impelled a pure outspokenness to himself. Reserve, of course, +there had been elsewhere, for did not she hold a secret with him? Had +she not hidden things, equivocated else where? Yet it had been at his +wish, to protect the name of a dead man, for the repose of whose soul +masses were now said, with expensive candles burning. For this she had +no repentance; she was without logic where this man's good was at stake. + +Charley had before him a problem, which he now knew he never could evade +in the future. He could solve it by none of the old intellectual means, +but by the use of new faculties, slowly emerging from the unexplored +fastnesses of his nature. + +"Why should you believe in me?" he asked, forcing himself to smile, yet +acutely alive to the fact that a crisis was impending. "You, like all +down there in Chaudiere, know nothing of my past, are not sure that I +haven't been a hundred times worse than you think poor Jo there. I may +have been anything. You may be harbouring a man the law is tracking +down." + +In all that befell Rosalie Evanturel thereafter, never could come such +another great resolute moment. There was nothing to support her in the +crisis but her own faith. It needed high courage to tell this man who +had first given her dreams, then imagination, hope, and the beauty of +doing for another's well-being rather than for her own--to tell this man +that he was a suspected criminal. Would he hate her? Would his kindness +turn to anger? Would he despise her for even having dared to name the +suspicion which was bringing hither an austere Abbe and officers of the +law? + +"We are harbouring a man the law is tracking down," she said with an +infinite appeal in her eyes. + +He did not quite understand. He thought that perhaps she meant Jo, and +he glanced towards the door; but she kept her eyes on him, and they told +him that she meant himself. He chilled, as though ether were being +poured through his veins. + +Did the world know, then, that Charley Steele was alive? Was the law +sending its officers to seize the embezzler, the ruffian who had robbed +widow and orphan? + +If it were so. . . . To go back to the world whence he came, with the +injury he must do to others, and the punishment also that he must suffer, +if he did not tell the truth about Billy! And Chaudiere, which, in spite +of all, was beginning to have a real belief in him--where was his +contempt for the world now! . . . And Rosalie, who trusted him-- +this new element rapidly grew dominant in his thoughts-to be the common +criminal in her eyes! + +His paleness gave way to a flush as like her own as could be. + +"You mean me?" he asked quietly. + +She had thought that his flush meant anger, and she was surprised at the +quiet tone. She nodded assent. "For what crime?" he asked. + +"For stealing." + +His heart seemed to stand still. Then, it had come in spite of all it +had come. Here was his resurrection, and the old life to face. + +"What did I steal?" he asked with dull apathy. "The gold vessels from +the Catholic Cathedral of Quebec, after--after trying to blow up +Government House with gunpowder." + +His despair passed. His face suddenly lighted. He smiled. It was so +absurd. "Really!" he said. "When was the place blown up?" + +"Two days before you came here last year--it was not blown up; an attempt +was made." + +"Ah, I did not know. Why was the attempt made to blow it up?" + +"Some Frenchman's hatred of the English, they say." + +"But I am not French." + +"They do not know. You speak French as perfectly as English--ah, +Monsieur, Monsieur, I believe you are whatever you say." Pain and appeal +rang from her lips. + +"I am only an honest tailor," he answered gently. He ruled his face to +calmness, for he read the agony in the girl's face, and troubled as he +was, he wished to show her that he had no fear. + +"It is for what you were they will arrest you," she said helplessly, and +as though he needed to have all made clear to him. "Oh, Monsieur," she +continued, in a broken voice, "it would shame me so to have you made a +prisoner in Chaudiere--before all these silly people, who turn with the +wind. I should not lift my head--but yes, I should lift my head!" she +added hurriedly. "I should tell them all they lied--every one--the +idiots! The Seigneur--" + +"Well, what of the Seigneur-Rosalie?" + +Her own name on his lips--the sound of it dimmed her eyes. + +"Monsieur Rossignol does not know you. He neither believes nor +disbelieves. He said to me that if you wanted consideration, to command +him, for in Chaudiere he had heard nothing but good of you. If you +stayed, he would see that you had justice--not persecution. I saw him +two hours ago." + +She said the last words shyly, for she was thinking why the Seigneur had +spoken as he did--that he had taken her opinion of Monsieur as his guide, +and she had not scrupled to impress him with her views. The Seigneur was +in danger of becoming prejudiced by his sentiments. + +A wave of feeling passed over Charley, a rushing wave of sympathy for +this simple girl, who, out of a blind confidence, risked so much for him. +Risk there certainly was, if she--if she cared for him. It was cruelty +not to reassure her. + +Touching his breast, he said gravely: "By this sign here, I am not guilty +of the crime for which they come to seek me, Rosalie. Nor of any other +crime for which the law might punish me--dear, noble friend." + +He did so little to get such rich return. Her eyes leaped up to brighter +degrees of light, her face shone with a joy it had never reflected +before, her blood rushed to her finger-tips. She abruptly sat down in +a chair and buried her face in her hands, trembling. Then, lifting her +head slowly, after a moment she spoke in a tone that told him her faith, +her gratitude--not for reassurance, but for confidence, which is as water +in a thirsty land to a woman. + +"Oh, Monsieur, I thank you, I thank you from the depth of my heart; and +my heart is deep indeed, very, very deep--I cannot find what lies lowest +in it! I thank you, because you trust me, because you make it so easy +to--to be your friend; to say 'I know' when any one might doubt you. +One has no right to speak for another till--till the other has given +confidence, has said you may. Ah, Monsieur, I am so happy!" + +In very abandonment of heart she clasped her hands and came a step nearer +to him, but abruptly stopped still; for, realising her action, timidity +and embarrassment rushed upon her. + +Charley understood, and again his impulse was to say what was in his +heart and dare all; but resolution possessed him, and he said quickly: + +"Once, Rosalie, you saved me--from death perhaps. Once your hands helped +my pain--here." He touched his breast. "Your words now, and what you +do, they still help me--here . . . but in a different way. The +trouble is in my heart, Rosalie. You are glad of my confidence? Well, +I will give you more. . . . I cannot go back to my old life. To do +so would injure others--some who have never injured me and some who have. +That is why. That is why I do not wish to be taken to Quebec now on a +false charge. That is all I can say. Is it enough?" + +She was about to answer, but Jo Portugais entered, exclaiming. +"M'sieu'," he cried, "men are coming with the Seigneur and Cure." + +Charley nodded at Jo, then turned to Rosalie. "You need not be seen if +you go out by the back way, Mademoiselle." He held aside the bear-skin +curtain of the door that led into the next room. + +There was a frightened look in her face. "Do not fear for me," he +continued. "It will come right--somehow. You have done more for me than +any one has ever done or ever will do. I will remember till the last +moment of my life. Good-bye." + +He laid a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her from the room. + +"God protect you! The Blessed Virgin speak for you! I will pray for +you," she whispered. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +CHARLEY STANDS AT BAY + +Charley turned quickly to the woodsman. "Listen," he said, and he told +Jo how things stood. + +"You will not hide, M'sieu'? There is time," Jo asked. + +"I will not hide, Jo." + +"What will you do?" + +"I'll decide when they come." + +There was silence for a moment, then the sound of voices on the hill- +side. + +Charley's soul rose up in revolt against the danger that faced him--not +against personal peril, but the danger of being dragged back again into +the life he had come from, with all that it involved--the futility of +this charge against him! To be the victim of an error--to go to the bar +of justice with the hand of injustice on his arm! + +All at once the love of this new life welled up in him, as a spring of +water overflows its bounds. A voice kept ringing in his ears, "I will +pray for you." Subconsciously his mind kept saying, "Rosalie--Rosalie-- +Rosalie!" There was nothing now that he would not do to avert his being +taken away upon this ridiculous charge. Mistaken identity? To prove +that, he must at once prove himself--who he was, whence he came. Tell +the Cure, and make it a point of honour for his secret to be kept? But +once told, the new life would no longer stand by itself as the new life, +cut off from all contact with the past. Its success, its possibility, +must lie in its absolute separateness, with obscurity behind--as though +he had come out of nothing into this very room, on that winter morning +when memory returned. + +It was clear that he must, somehow, evade the issue. He glanced at Jo, +whose eyes, strained and painful, were fixed upon the door. Here was a +man who suffered for his sake. . . . He took a step forward, as +though with sudden resolve, but there came a knocking, and, pausing, +he motioned Jo to open the door. Then, turning to a shelf, he took +something from it hastily, and kept it in his hand. + +Jo roused himself with an effort, and opened to the knocking. + +Three people entered: the Seigneur, the Cure, and the Abbe Rossignol, an +ascetic, severe man, with a face of intolerance and inflexibility. Two +constables in plain clothes followed; one stolid, one alert, one English +and one French, both with grim satisfaction in their faces--the +successful exercise of his trade is pleasant to every craftsman. When +they entered, Charley was standing with his back to the fireplace, his +eye-glass adjusted, one hand stroking his beard, the other held behind +his back. + +The Cure came forward and shook hands in an eager friendly way. + +"My dear Monsieur," said he, "I hope that you are better." + +"I am quite well, thank you, Monsieur le Cure," answered Charley. +"I shall get back to work on Monday, I hope." + +"Yes, yes, that is good," responded the Cure, and seemed confused. +He turned uneasily to the Seigneur. "You have come to see my friend +Portugais," Charley remarked slowly, almost apologetically. "I will take +my leave." He made a step forward. The two constables did the same, and +would have laid their hands upon his shoulder but that the Seigneur said +tartly: + +"Stand off, Jack-in-boxes!" + +The two stood aside, and looked covertly at the Seigneur, whose temper +seemed unusually irascible. Charley's face showed no surprise, but he +looked inquiringly at the Cure. + +"If they wish to be measured for uniforms--or manners--I will see them at +my shop," he said. + +The Seigneur chuckled. Charley stepped again towards the door. The two +constables stood before it. Again he turned inquiringly, this time +towards the Cure. The Cure did not speak. + +"It is you we wish to see, tailor," said the Abbe Rossignol. + +Soft-tongued irony leaped to Charley's lips: "Have I, then, the honour +of including Monsieur among my customers? I cannot recall Monsieur's +figure. I think I should not have forgotten it." + +It was now the old Charley Steele, with the new body, the new spirit, but +with the old skilful mind, aggravatingly polite, non-intime--the +intolerant face of this father of souls irritated him. + +"I never forget a figure which has idiosyncrasy," he added, with a bland +eye wandering over the priest's gaunt form. It was his old way to strike +first and heal after--"a kick and a lick," as old Paddy Wier, whom he +once saved from prison, said of him. It was like bygone years of another +life to appear in defence when the law was tightening round a victim. +The secret spring had been touched, the ancient machinery of his mind +was working almost automatically. + +The illusion was considerable, for the Seigneur had taken the only arm- +chair in the room, a little apart, as it were, filling the place of +judge. The priest-brother, cold and inveterate, was like the attorney +for the crown. The Cure was the clerk of the court, who could only +echo the decisions of the Judge. The constables were the machinery of +the Law, and Jo Portugais was the unwilling witness, whose evidence would +be the crux of the case. The prisoner--he himself was prisoner and +prisoner's counsel. + +A good struggle was forward. + +He had enraged the Abbe as much as he had delighted the Abbe's brother; +for nothing gave the Seigneur such pleasure as the discomfiture of the +Abbe Rossignol, chaplain and ordinary to the Archbishop of Quebec. The +genial, sympathetic nature of the Seigneur could not even be patient with +the excessive piety of the churchman, who, in rigid righteousness, had +thrashed him cruelly as a boy. At Charley's words upon the Abbe's +figure, gaunt and precise as a swaddled ramrod, he pulled his nose with a +grunt of satisfaction. + +The Cure, the peace-maker, intervened. The tailor's meaning was +sufficiently clear: if they had come to see him personally, then it was +natural for him to wish to know the names and stations of his guests, +and their business. The Seigneur was aware that the tailor did know, +and he enjoyed the 'sang-froid' with which he was meeting the situation. + +"Monsieur," said the Cure, in a mollifying voice, "I have ventured to +bring the Seigneur of Chaudiere"--the Seigneur stood up and bowed +gravely--"and his brother, the Abbe Rossignol, who would speak with you +on private business"--he ignored the presence of the constables. + +Charley bowed to the Seigneur and the Abbe, then turned inquiringly +towards the two constables. "Friends of my brother the Abbe," said the +Seigneur maliciously. + +"Their names, Monsieur?" asked Charley. + +"They have numbers," answered the Seigneur whimsically--to the Cure's +pain, for levity seemed improper at such a time. + +"Numbers of names are legally suspicious, numbers for names are +suspiciously legal," rejoined Charley. "You have pierced the disguise of +discourtesy," said the Seigneur, and, on the instant, he made up his mind +that whatever the tailor might have been, he was deserving of respect. + +"You have private business with me, Monsieur?" asked Charley of the +Abbe. + +The Abbe shook his head. "The business is not private, in one sense. +These men have come to charge you with having broken into the cathedral +at Quebec and stolen the gold vessels of the altar; also with having +tried to blow up the Governor's residence." + +One of the constables handed Charley the warrant. He looked at it with a +curious smile. It was so natural, yet so unnatural, to be thus in touch +with the habits of far-off times. + +"On what information is this warrant issued?" he asked. + +"That is for the law to show in due course," said the priest. + +"Pardon me; it is for the law to show now. I have a right to know." + +The constables shifted from one foot to the other, looked at each other +meaningly, and instinctively felt their weapons. + +"I believe," said the Seigneur evenly, "that--" The Abbe interrupted. +"He can have information at his trial." + +"Excuse me, but the warrant has my endorsement," said the Seigneur, "and, +as the justice most concerned, I shall give proper information to the +gentleman under suspicion." He waved a hand at the Abbe, as at a +fractious child, and turned courteously to Charley. + +"Monsieur," he said, "on the tenth of August last the cathedral at Quebec +was broken into, and the gold altar-vessels were stolen. You are +suspected. The same day an attempt was made to blow up the Governor's +residence. You are suspected." + +"On what ground, Monsieur?" + +"You appeared in this vicinity three days afterwards with an injury to +the head. Now, the incendiary received a severe blow on the head from a +servant of the Governor. You see the connection, Monsieur?" + +"Where is the servant of the Governor, Monsieur?" + +"Dead, unfortunately. He told the story so often, to so much +hospitality, that he lost his footing on Mountain Street steps--you +remember Mountain Street steps possibly, Monsieur?--and cracked his head +on the last stone." + +There was silence for a moment. If the thing had not been so serious, +Charley must have laughed outright. If he but disclosed his identity, +how easy to dispose of this silly charge! He did not reply at once, but +looked calmly at the Abbe. In the pause, the Seigneur added "I forgot to +add that the man had a brown beard. You have a brown beard, Monsieur." + +"I had not when I arrived here." + +Jo Portugais spoke. "That is true, M'sieu'; and what is more, I know a +newly shaved face when I see it, and M'sieu's was tanned with the sun. +It is foolish, that!" + +"This is not the place for evidence," said the Abbe sharply. + +"Excuse me, Abbe," said his brother; "if Monsieur wishes to have a +preliminary trial here, he may. He is in my seigneury; he is a tenant of +the Church here--" + +"It is a grave offence that an infidel, dropping down here from, who +knows where--that an acknowledged infidel should be a tenant of the +Church!" + +"The devil is a tenant of the Almighty, if creation is the Almighty's," +said Charley. + +"Satan is a prisoner," snapped the Abbe. + +"With large domains for exercise," retorted Charley, "and in successful +opposition to the Church. If it is true that the man you charge is an +infidel, how does that warrant suspicion?" + +"Other thefts," answered the Abbe. "A sacred iron cross was stolen from +the door of the church of Chaudiere. I have no doubt that the thief of +the gold vessels of the cathedral was the thief of the iron cross." + +"It is not true," sullenly broke in Jo Portugais. + +"What proof have you?" said the Seigneur. Charley waved a deprecating +hand towards Jo. + +"I shall not call Portugais as evidence," he said. + +"You are conducting your own case?" asked the Seigneur, with a grim +smile. + +"It is dangerous, I believe." + +"I will take my chances," answered Charley. "Will you tell me what +object the criminal could have in stealing the gold vessels from the +cathedral?" he added, turning to the Abbe. + +"They were gold!" + +"And for taking the cross from the door of the church in Chaudiere?" + +"It was sacred, and he was an infidel, and hated it." + +"I do not see the logic of the argument. He stole the vessels because +they were valuable, and the iron cross because he was an infidel! Now +how do you know that the suspected criminal was an infidel, Monsieur?" + +"It is well known." + +"Has he ever said so?" + +"He does not deny it." + +"If you were charged with being an opium-eater, does it follow that you +are one because you do not deny it? There was a Man who was said to +blaspheme, to have all 'the crafts and assaults of the devil'--was it His +duty to deny it? Suppose you were accused of being a highwayman, would +you be less a highwayman if you denied it? Or would you be less guilty +if you denied it?" + +"That is beside the case," said the priest with acerbity. + +"Faith, I think it is the case itself," said the Seigneur with a +satisfied pull of his nose. + +"But do you seriously suggest that only infidels rob churches?" Charley +persisted. + +"I am not here to be cross-examined," answered the Abbe harshly. +"You are charged with robbing the cathedral and trying to blow up the +Governor's residence. Arrest him!" he added, turning to the constables. + +"Stand where you are, men," sharply threatened the Seigneur. "There are +no lettres de cachet nowadays, Francois," he added tartly to his brother. + +"If it is the exclusive temptation of an infidel to rob a church, has +infidelity also an inherent penchant for arson? Is it a patent? Why did +the infidel blow up the Governor's residence?" continued Charley. + +"He did not blow it up, he only tried," interposed the Cure softly. + +"I was not aware," said Charley. "Well, did the man who stole the patens +from the altar--" + +"They were chalices," again interrupted the Cure, with a faint smile. + +"Ah, I was not aware!" again rejoined Charley. "I repeat, what reason +had the person who stole the chalices to try to blow up the Governor's +residence? Is it a sign of infidelity, or--" + +"You can answer for that yourself," angrily interposed the Abbe. The +strain was telling on his nerves. + +"It is fair to give reasons for the suspicion," urged the Seigneur +acidly. + +"As I said before, Francois, this is not the fifteenth century." + +"He hated the English government," said the Abbe. "I do not understand," +responded Charley. "Am I then to suppose that the alleged criminal was a +Frenchman as well as an infidel?" + +There was silence, and Charley continued. "It is an unusual thing for a +French Abbe to be so concerned for the safety of an English Protestant's +life and housing . . . the Governor is a Protestant--eh? That is, +indeed, a zeal almost Christian--or millennial." + +The Abby turned to the Seigneur. "Are you going to interfere longer with +the process of the law?" + +"I think Monsieur has not quite finished his argument," said the +Seigneur, with a twist of the mouth. + +"If the man was a Frenchman, why do you suspect the tailor of Chaudiere?" +asked Charley softly. "Of course I understand the reason behind all: you +have heard that the tailor is an infidel; you have protested to the good +Cure here, and the Cure is a man who has a sense of justice, and will not +drive a poor man from his parish by Christian persecution--without cause. +Since certain dates coincide and impulses urge, you suspect the tailor. +Again, according to your mind, a man who steals holy vessels must needs +be an infidel; therefore a tailor in Chaudiere, suspected of being an +infidel, stole the holy chalices. It might seem a fair case for a grand +jury of clericals. But it breaks down in certain places. Your criminal +is a Frenchman; the tailor of Chaudiere is an Englishman." + +The Abbe's face was contracted with stubborn annoyance, though he held +his tongue from violence. "Do you deny that you are French?" he asked +tartly. + +"I could almost endure the suspicion because of the compliment to my +command of your charming language." + +"Prove that you are an Englishman. No one knows where you came from; +no one knows what you are. You are a fair subject for suspicion, apart +from the evidence shown," said the Abbe, trying now to be as polite as +the tailor. + +"This is a free country. So long as the law is obeyed, one can go where +one wills without question, I take it." + +"There is a law of vagrancy." + +"I am a householder, a tenant of the Church, not a vagrant." + +"Monsieur, you can have your choice of proving these things here or in +Quebec," said the Abbe, with angry impatience again. + +"I may not be compelled to prove anything. It is the privilege of the +law to prove the crime against me." + +"You are a very remarkable tailor," said the Abbe sarcastically. + +"I have not had the honour of making you even a cassock, I think. +Monsieur le Cure, I believe, approves of those I make for him. +He has a good figure, however." + +"You refuse to identify yourself?" asked the Abbe, with asperity. + +"I am not aware that you possess any right to ask me to do so." + +The Abbe's thin lips clipped-to like shears. He turned again towards the +officers. + +"It would relieve the situation," interposed the Seigneur, "if Monsieur +could find it possible to grant the Abbe's demand." + +Charley bowed to the Seigneur. "I do not know why I should be taken for +a Frenchman or an infidel. I speak French well, I presume, but I spoke +it from the cradle. I speak English with equally good accent," he added, +with the glimmer of a smile; for there was a kind of exhilaration in the +little contest, even with so much at stake. This miserable, silly charge +had that behind it which might open up a grave, make its dead to walk, +fright folk from their senses, and destroy their peace for ever. Yet he +was cool and thinking clearly. He measured up the Abbe in his mind, +analysed him, found the vulnerable spot in his nature, the avenue to the +one place lighted by a lamp of humanity. He leaned a hand upon the ledge +of the chimney where he stood, and said, in a low voice: + +"Monsieur l'Abbe, it is sometimes the misfortune of just men to be +terribly unjust. 'For conscience sake' is another name for prejudice-- +for those antipathies which, natural to us, are, at the same time, trap- +doors, for our just intentions. You, Monsieur, have a radical antipathy +to those men who are unable to see or to feel what you were privileged to +see and feel from the time of your birth. You know that you are right. +Do you think that those who do not see as you do are wicked because they +were not given what you were given? If you are right, may they, poor +folk! not be the victims of their blindness of heart--of the darkness +born with them, or of the evils that overtake them? For conscience sake, +you would crush out evil. To you an infidel--so called--is an evil-doer, +a peril to the peace of God. You drive him out from among the faithful. +You heard that a tailor of Chaudiere was an infidel. You did not prove +him one, but you, for conscience sake, are trying to remove him, by +fixing on him a crime of which he may, with slight show of reason, +be suspected. But I ask you, would you have taken the same deep interest +in setting the law upon this suspected man did you not believe him to be +an infidel?" + +He paused. The Abbe made no reply. The Cure was bending forward +eagerly; the Seigneur sat with his hands over the top of his cane, his +chin on his hands, never taking his eyes from him, save to glance once or +twice at his brother. Jo Portugais was crouched on the bench, watching. + +"I do not know what makes an infidel," Charley went on. "Is it an honest +mind, a decent life, an austerity of living as great as that of any +priest, a neighbourliness that gives and takes in fairness--" + +"No, no, no," interposed the Cure eagerly. "So you have lived here, +Monsieur; I can vouch for that. Charity and a good heart have gone with +you always." + +"Do you mean that a man is an infidel because he cannot say, as Louis +Trudel said to me, 'Do you believe in God?' and replies, as I replied, +'God knows!' Is that infidelity? If God is God, He alone knows when the +mind or the tongue can answer in the terms of that faith which you +profess. He knows the secret desires of our hearts, and what we believe, +and what we do not believe; He knows better than we ourselves know--if +there is a God. Does a man conjure God, if he does not believe in God? +'God knows!' is not a statement of infidelity. With me it was a phrase +--no more. You ask me to bare my inmost soul. I have not learned how +to confess. You ask me to lay bare my past, to prove my identity. For +conscience sake you ask that, and I for conscience sake say I will not, +Monsieur. You, when you enter your priestly life, put all your past +behind you. It is dead for ever: all its deeds and thoughts and desires, +all its errors--sins. I have entered on a life here which is to me as +much a new life as your priesthood is to you. Shall I not have the right +to say, that may not be disinterred? Have I not the right to say, Hands +off? For the past I am responsible, and for the past I will speak from +the past; but for the deeds of the present I will speak only from the +present. I am not a Frenchman; I did not steal the little cross from the +church door here, nor the golden chalices in Quebec; nor did I seek to +injure the Governor's residence. I have not been in Quebec for three +years." + +He ceased speaking, and fixed his eyes on the Abbe, who now met his look +fairly. + +"In the way of justice, there is nothing hidden that shall not be +revealed, nor secret that shall not be made known," answered the Abbe. +"Prove that you were not in Quebec on the day the robbery was committed." +There was silence. The Abbe's pertinacity was too difficult. The +Seigneur saw the grim look in Charley's face, and touched the Abbe on the +arm. "Let us walk a little outside. Come, Cure" he added. "It is right +that Monsieur should have a few minutes alone. It is a serious charge +against him, and reflection will be good for us all." + +He motioned the constables from the room. The Abby passed through the +door into the open air, and the Cure and the Seigneur went arm in arm +together, talking earnestly. The Cure turned in the doorway. + +"Courage, Monsieur!" he said to Charley, and bowed himself out. Jo +Portugais followed. + +One officer took his place at the front door and the other at the back +door, outside. + +The Abby, by himself, took to walking backward and forward under the +trees, buried in gloomy reflection. Jo Portugais caught his sleeve. + +"Come with me for a moment, M'sieu'," he said. "It is important." + +The Abby followed him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY + +Jo Portugais had fastened down a secret with clasps heavier than iron, +and had long stood guard over it. But life is a wheel, and natures move +in circles, passing the same points again and again, the points being +distant or near to the sense as the courses of life have influenced the +nature. Confession was an old principle, a light in the way, a rest- +house for Jo and all his race, by inheritance, by disposition, and by +practice. Again and again Jo had come round to the rest-house since one +direful day, but had not, found his way therein. There were passwords to +give at the door, there was the tale of the journey to tell to the door- +keeper. And this tale he had not been ready to tell. But the man who +knew of the terrible thing he had done, who had saved him from the +consequences of that terrible thing, was in sore trouble, and this broke +down the gloomy guard he had kept over his dread secret. He fought the +matter out with himself, and, the battle ended, he touched the door- +keeper on the arm, beckoned him to a lonely place in the trees, and knelt +down before him. + +"What is it you seek?" asked the door-keeper, whose face was set and +forbidding. + +"To find peace," answered the man; yet he was thinking more of another's +peril than of his own soul. "What have I to do with the peace of your +soul? Yonder is your shepherd and keeper," said the doorkeeper, pointing +to where two men walked arm in arm under the trees. + +"Shall the sinner not choose the keeper of his sins?" said the man +huskily. + +"Who has been the keeper all these years? Who has given you peace?" + +"I have had no keeper; I have had no peace these many years." + +"How many years?" The Abbe's voice was low and even, and showed no +feeling, but his eyes were keenly inquiring and intent. + +"Seven years." + +"Is the sin that held you back from the comfort of the Church a great +one?" + +"The greatest, save one." + +"What would be the greatest?" + +"To curse God." + +"The next?" + +"To murder." + +The other's whole manner changed on the instant. He was no longer the +stern Churchman, the inveterate friend of Justice, the prejudiced priest, +rigid in a pious convention, who could neither bend nor break. The sin +of an infidel breaker of the law, that was one thing; the crime of a son +of the Church, which a human soul came to relate in its agony, that was +another. He had a crass sense of justice, but there was in him a deeper +thing still: the revelation of the human soul, the responsibility of +speaking to the heart which has dropped the folds of secrecy, exposing +the skeleton of truth, grim and staring, to the eye of a secret earthly +mentor. + +"If it has been hidden all these years, why do you tell it now, my son?" + +"It is the only way." + +"Why was it hidden?" + +"I have come to confess," answered the man bitterly. The priest looked +at him anxiously. "You have spoken rightly, my son. I am not here to +ask, but to receive." + +"Forgive me, but it is my crime I would speak of now. I choose this +moment that another should not suffer for what he did not do." + +The priest thought of the man they had left in the little house, and the +crime with which he was charged, and wondered what the sinner before him +was going to say. + +"Tell your story, my son, and God give your tongue the very spirit of +truth, that nothing be forgotten and nothing excused." + +There was a fleeting pause, in which the colour left the priest's face, +and, as he opened the door of his mind--of the Church, secret and +inviolate--he had a pain at his heart; for beneath his arrogant +churchmanship there was a fanatical spirituality of a mediaeval kind. +His sense of responsibility was painful and intense. The same pain +possessed him always, were the sin that of a child or a Borgia. + +As he listened to the broken tale, the forest around was vocal, the +chipmunks scampered from tree to tree, the woodpecker's tap-tap, tap-tap, +went on over their heads, the leaves rustled and gave forth their divine +sweetness, as though man and nature were at peace, and there were no +storms in sky above or soul beneath, or in the waters of life that are +deeper than "the waters under the earth." + +It was only a short time, but to the door-keeper and the wayfarer it +seemed hours, for the human soul travels far and hard and long in moments +of pain and revelation. The priest in his anxiety suffered as much as +the man who did the wicked thing. When the man had finished, the priest +said: + +"Is this all?" + +"It is the great sin of my life." He shuddered, and continued: "I have +no love of life; I have no fear of death; but there is the man who saved +me years ago, who got me freedom. He has had great sorrow and trouble, +and I would live for his sake--because he has no friend." + +"Who is the man?" + +The other pointed to where the little house was hidden among the trees. +The priest almost gasped his amazement, but waited. + +Thereupon the woodsman told the whole truth concerning the tailor of +Chaudiere. + +"To save him, I have confessed my own sin. To you I might tell all in +confession, and the truth about him would be buried for ever. I might +not confess at all unless I confessed my own sin. You will save him, +father?" he asked anxiously. + +"I will save him," was the reply of the priest. + +"I want to give myself to justice; but he has been ill, and he may be ill +again, and he needs me." He told of the tailor's besetting weakness, of +his struggles against it, of his fall a few days before, and the cause of +it . . . told all to the man of silence. + +"You wish to give yourself to justice?" + +"I shall have no peace unless." + +There was something martyr-like in the man's attitude. It appealed to +some stern, martyr-like quality in the priest. If the man would win +eternal peace so, then so be it. His grim piety approved. He spoke now +with the authority of divine justice. + +"For one year longer go on as you are, then give yourself to justice--one +year from to-day, my son. Is it enough?" + +"It is enough." + +"Absolvo te!" said the priest. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +THE EDGE OF LIFE + +Meantime Charley was alone with his problem. The net of circumstances +seemed to have coiled inextricably round him. Once, at a trial in court +in other days, he had said in his ironical way: "One hasn't to fear the +penalties of one's sins, but the damnable accident of discovery." + +To try to escape now, or, with the assistance of Jo Portugais, +when en route to Quebec in charge of the constables, and find refuge and +seclusion elsewhere? There was nothing he might ask of Portugais which +he would not do. To escape--and so acknowledge a guilt not his own! +Well, what did it matter! Who mattered? He knew only too well. The +Cure mattered--that good man who had never intruded his piety on him; who +had been from the first a discreet friend, a gentleman,--a Christian +gentleman, if there was such a sort of gentleman apart from all others. +Who mattered? The Seigneur, whom he had never seen before, yet who had +showed that day a brusque sympathy, a gruff belief in him? Who mattered? + +Above all, Rosalie mattered. To escape, to go from Rosalie's presence by +a dark way, as it were, like a thief in the night--was that possible? +His escape would work upon her mind. She would first wonder, then doubt, +and then believe at last that he was a common criminal. She was the one +who mattered in that thought of escape escape to some other parish, to +some other province, to some other country--to some other world! + +To some other world? He looked at a little bottle he held in the palm of +his hand. + +A hand held aside the curtain of the door entering on the next room, and +a girl's troubled face looked in, but he did not see. + +Escape to some other world? And why not, after all? On the day his +memory came back he had resisted the idea in this very room. As the +fatalist he had resisted it then. Now how poor seemed the reasons for +not having ended it all that day! If his appointed time had been come, +the river would have ended him then--that had been his argument. Was +that argument not belief in Somebody or Something which governed his +going or staying? Was it not preordination? Was not fatalism, then, +the cheapest sort of belief in an unchangeable Somebody or Something, +representing purpose and law and will? Attribute to anything power, +and there was God, whatever His qualities, personality, or being. + +The little phial of laudanum was in his hand to loosen life into +knowledge. Was it not his duty to eliminate himself, rather than be an +unsolvable quantity in the problem of many lives? It was neither vulgar +nor cowardly to pass quietly from forces making for ruin, and so avert +ruin and secure happiness. To go while yet there was time, and smooth +for ever the way for others by an eternal silence--that seemed well. +Punishment thereafter, the Cure would say. But was it not worth while +being punished, even should the Cure's fond belief in the noble fable be +true, if one saved others here? Who--God or man--had the right to take +from him the right to destroy himself, not for fear, not through despair, +but for others' sake? Had he not the right to make restitution to +Kathleen for having given her nothing but himself, whom she had learned +to despise? If he were God, he would say, Do justice and fear not. And +this was justice. Suppose he were in a battle, with all these things +behind him, and put himself, with daring and great results, in some +forlorn hope--to die; and he died, ostensibly a hero for his country, +but, in his heart of hearts, to throw his life away to save some one he +loved, not his country, which profited by his sacrifice--suppose that +were the case, what would the world say? + +"He saved others, himself he could not save"--flashed through his mind, +possessed him. He could save others; but it was clear he could not save +himself. It was so simple, so kind, and so decent. And he would be +buried here in quiet, unconsecrated ground, a mystery, a tailor who, +finding he could not mend the garment of life, cast it away, and took on +himself the mantle of eternal obscurity. No reproaches would follow him; +and he would not reproach himself, for Kathleen and Billy and another +would be safe and free to live their lives. + +Far, far better for Rosalie! She too would be saved--free from the peril +of his presence. For where could happiness come to her from him? He +might not love her; he might not marry her; and it were well to go now, +while yet love was not a habit, but an awakening, a realisation of life. +His death would settle this sad question for ever. To her he would be a +softening memory as time went on. + +The girl who had watched by the curtain stepped softly inside the room +. . . . she divined his purpose. He was so intent he did not hear. + +"I will do it," he said to himself. "It is better to go than to stay. +I have never done a good thing for love of any human being. I will do +one now." + +He turned towards the window through which the sunlight streamed. +Stepping forward into the sun, he uncorked the bottle. + +There was a quick step behind him, and the girl's voice said clearly: + +"If you go, I go also." + +He turned swiftly, cold with amazement, the blood emptied from his heart. + +Rosalie stood a little distance from him, her face pale, her hands held +hard to her side. + +"I understand all. I could not go outside, I stayed there"--she pointed +to the other room--"and I know why you would die. You would die to save +others." + +"Rosalie!" he protested in a hoarse voice, and could say nothing more. + +"You think that I will stay, if you go! No, no, no--I will not. You +taught me how to live, and I will follow you now." + +He saw the strange determination of her look. It startled him; he knew +not what to say. "Your father, Rosalie--" + +"My father will be cared for. But who will care for you in the place +where you are going? You will have no friends there. You shall not go +alone. You will need me--in the dark." + +"It is good that I go," he said. "It would be wicked, it would be +dreadful, for you to go." + +"I go if you go," she urged. "I will lose my soul to be with you; you +will want me--there!" + +There was no mistaking her intention. Footsteps sounded outside. The +others were coming back. To die here before her face? To bring her to +death with him? He was sick with despair. + +"Go into the next room quickly," he said. "No matter what comes, I will +not--on my honour!" + +She threw him a look of gratitude, and, as the bearskin curtain dropped +behind her, he put the phial of laudanum in his pocket. + +The door opened, and the Abbe Rossignol entered, followed by the +Seigneur, the Cure, and Jo Portugais. Charley faced them calmly, and +waited. + +The Abbe's face was still cold and severe, but his voice was human as he +said quickly: "Monsieur, I have decided to take you at your word. I am +assured you are not the man who committed the crime. You probably have +reasons for not establishing your identity." + +Had Charley been a prisoner in the dock, he could not have had a moment +of deeper amazement--even if after the jury had said Guilty, a piece of +evidence had been handed in, proving innocence, averting the death +sentence. A wave of excitement passed over him, leaving him cold and +still. In the other room a girl put her hand to her mouth to stifle a +cry of joy. + +Charley bowed. "You made a mistake, Monsieur--pray do not apologise," he +said. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +IN AMBUSH + +Weeks went by. Summer was done, autumn was upon the land. Harvest-home +had gone, and the "fall" ploughing was forward. The smell of the burning +stubble, of decaying plant and fibre, was mingling with the odours of the +orchards and the balsams of the forest. The leafy hill-sides, far and +near, were resplendent in scarlet and saffron and tawny red. Over the +decline of the year flickered the ruined fires of energy. + +It had been a prosperous summer in the valley. Harvests had been reaped +such as the country had not known for years--and for years there had been +great harvests. There had not been a death in the parish all summer, and +births had occurred out of all usual proportion. + +When Filion Lacasse commented thereon, and mentioned the fact that even +the Notary's wife had had the gift of twins as the crowning fulness of +the year, Maximilian Cour, who was essentially superstitious, tapped on +the table three times, to prevent a turn in the luck. + +The baker was too late, however, for the very next day the Notary was +brought home with a nasty gunshot wound in his leg. He had been lured +into duck-hunting on a lake twenty miles away, in the hills, and had been +accidentally shot on an Indian reservation, called Four Mountains, where +the Church sometimes held a mission and presented a primitive sort of +passion-play. From there he had been brought home by his comrades, and +the doctor from the next parish summoned. The Cure assisted the doctor +at first, but the task was difficult to him. At the instant when the +case was most critical the tailor of Chaudiere set his foot inside the +Notary's door. A moment later he relieved the Cure and helped to probe +for shot, and care for an ugly wound. + +Charley had no knowledge of surgery, but his fingers were skilful, his +eye was true, and he had intuition. The long operation over, the rural +physician and surgeon washed his hands and then studied Charley with +curious admiration. + +"Thank you, Monsieur," he said, as he dried his hands on a towel. +"I couldn't have done it without you. It's a pretty good job; and you +share the credit." + +Charley bowed. "It's a good thing not to halloo till you're out of the +woods," he said. "Our friend there has a bad time before him--hein?" + +"I take you. It is so." The man of knives and tinctures pulled his +side-whiskers with smug satisfaction as he looked into a small mirror on +the wall. "Do you chance to know if madame has any cordials or spirits?" +he added, straightening his waistcoat and adjusting his cravat. + +"It is likely," answered Charley, and moved away to the window looking +upon the street. + +The doctor turned in surprise. He was used to being waited on, and he +had expected the tailor to follow the tradition. + +"We might--eh?" he said suggestively. "It is usually the custom to +provide refreshment, but the poor woman, madame, has been greatly +occupied with her husband, and--" + +"And the twins," Charley put in drily--" and a house full of work, and +only one old crone in the kitchen to help. Still, I have no doubt she +has thought of the cordials too. Women are the slaves of custom--ah, +here they are, as I said, and--" + +He stopped short, for in the doorway, with a tray, stood Rosalie +Evanturel. The surgeon was so intent upon at once fortifying himself +that he did not see the look which passed between Rosalie and the tailor. + +Rosalie had been absent for two months. Her father had been taken +seriously ill the day after the critical episode in the but at Vadrome +Mountain, and she had gone with him to the hospital at Quebec, for an +operation. The Abbe Rossignol had undertaken to see them safely to the +hospital, and Jo Portugais, at his own request, was permitted to go in +attendance upon M. Evanturel. + +There had been a hasty leave-taking between Charley and Rosalie, but it +was in the presence of others, and they had never spoken a word privately +together since the day she had said to him that where he went she would +go, in life or out of it. + +"You have been gone two months," Charley said now, after their touch of +hands and voiceless greeting. "Two months yesterday," she answered. + +"At sundown," he replied, in an even voice. + +"The Angelus was ringing," she answered calmly, though her heart was +leaping and her hands were trembling. The doctor, instantly busy with +the cordial, had not noticed what they said. + +"Won't you join me?" he asked, offering a glass to Charley. + +"Spirits do not suit me," answered Charley. "Matter of constitution," +rejoined the doctor, and buttoned up his coat, preparing to depart. He +came close to Charley. "Now, I don't want to put upon you, Monsieur," he +said, "but this sick man is valuable in the parish--you take me? Well, +it's a difficult, delicate case, and I'd be glad if I could rely on you +for a few days. The Cure would do, but you are young, you have a sense +of things--take me? Half the fees are yours if you'll keep a sharp eye +on him--three times a day, and be with him at night a while. Fever is +the thing I'm afraid of--temperature--this way, please!" He went to the +window, and for a minute engaged Charley in whispered conversation. "You +take me?" he said cheerily at last, as he turned again towards Rosalie. + +"Quite, Monsieur," answered Charley, and drew away, for he caught the +odour of the doctor's breath, and a cold perspiration broke out over him. +He felt the old desire for drink sweeping through him. "I will do what I +can," he said. + +"Come, my dear," the doctor said to Rosalie. "We will go and see your +father." + +Charley's eyes had fastened on the bottles avidly. As Rosalie turned to +bid him good-bye, he said to her, almost hoarsely: "Take the tray back to +Madame Dauphin--please." + +She flashed a glance of inquiry at him. She was puzzled by the fire in +his eyes. With her soul in her face as she lifted the tray, out of the +warm-beating life in her, she said in a low tone: + +"It is good to live, isn't it?" + +He nodded and smiled, and the trouble slowly passed from his eyes. The +woman in her had conquered his enemy. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + +THE COMING OF MAXIMILIAN COUR AND ANOTHER + +"It is good to live, isn't it?" In the autumn weather when the air drank +like wine, it seemed so indeed, even to Charley, who worked all day in +his shop, his door wide open to the sunlight, and sat up half the night +with Narcisse Dauphin, sometimes even taking a turn at the cradle of the +twins, while madame sat beside her husband's bed. + +To Charley the answer to Rosalie's question lay in the fact that his eyes +had never been so keen, his face so alive, or his step so buoyant as in +this week of double duty. His mind was more hopeful than it had ever +been since the day he awoke with memory restored in the silence of a +mountain hut. + +He had found the antidote to his great temptation, to the lurking, +relentless habit which had almost killed him the night John Brown had +sung Champagne Charlie from behind the flaring lights. From a +determination to fight his own fight with no material aids, he had never +once used the antidote sent him by the Cure's brother. + +On St. Jean Baptiste's day his proud will had failed him; intellectual +force, native power of mind, had broken like reeds under the weight of a +cruel temptation. But now a new force had entered into him. As his +fingers were about to reach for the spirit-bottle in the house of the +Notary, and he had, for the first time in his life, made an appeal for +help, a woman's voice had said, "It is good to live, isn't it?" and his +hand was stayed. A woman's look had stilled the strife. Never before in +his life had he relied on a moral or a spiritual impulse in him. What +of these existed in him were in unseen quantities--for which there was +neither multiple nor measure--had been primitive and hereditary, flowing +in him like a feeble tincture diluted to inefficacy. + +Rosalie had resolved him back to the original elements. The quiet days +he had spent in Chaudiere, the self-sacrifice he had been compelled to +make, the human sins, such as those of Jo Portugais and Louis Trudel, +with which he had had to do, the simplicity of the life around him--the +uncomplicated lie and the unvarnished truth, the obvious sorrow and the +patent joy, the childish faith, and the rude wickedness so pardonable +because so frankly brutal--had worked upon him. The elemental spirit of +it all had so invaded his nature, breaking through the crust of old habit +to the new man, that, when he fell before his temptation, and his body +became saturated with liquor, the healthy natural being and the growing +natural mind were overpowered by the coarse onslaught, and death had +nearly followed. + +It was his first appeal to a force outside himself, to an active +principle unfamiliar to the voluntary working of his nature, and the +answer had been immediate and adequate. Yet what was it? He did not +ask; he had not got beyond the mere experience, and the old questioning +habit was in abeyance. Each new and great emotion has its dominating +moment, its supreme occasion, before taking its place in the modulated +moral mechanism. He was touched with helplessness. + +As he sat beside Narcisse Dauphin's bedside, one evening, the sick man on +his way to recovery, there came to him the text of a sermon he had once +heard John Brown preach: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man +lay down his life for his friend." He had been thinking of Rosalie and +that day at Vadrome Mountain. She would not only have died with him, but +she would have died for him, if need had been. What might he give in +return for what she gave? + +The Notary interrupted his thoughts. He had lain watching Charley for a +long time, his brow drawn down with thought. At last he said: + +"Monsieur, you have been good to me." Charley laid a hand on the sick +man's arm. + +"I don't see that. But if you won't talk, I'll believe you think so." + +The Notary shook his head. "I've not been talking for an hour, I've no +fever, and I want to say some things. When I've said them, I'll feel +better--voila! I want to make the amende honorable. I once thought +you were this and that--I won't say what I thought you. I said you +interfered--giving advice to people, as you did to Filion Lacasse, +and taking the bread out of my mouth. I said that!" + +He paused, raised himself on his elbow, smoothed back his grizzled hair +behind his ears, looked at himself in the mirror opposite with +satisfaction, and added oracularly: "But how prone is the mind of man to +judge amiss! You have put bread into my mouth--no, no, Monsieur, you +shall hear me! As well as doing your own work, you have done my business +since my accident as well as a lawyer could do it; and you've given every +penny to my wife." + +"As for the work I've done," answered Charley, "it was nothing--you +notaries have easy times. You may take your turn with my shears and +needle one day." + +With a dash of patronage true to his nature, "You are wonderful for a +tailor," the Notary rejoined. Charley laughed--seldom, if ever, had he +laughed since coming to Chaudiere. It was, however, a curious fact that +he took a real pleasure in the work he did with his hands. In making +clothes for habitant farmers, and their sons and their sons' sons, and +jackets for their wives and daughters, he had had the keenest pleasure +of his life. + +He had taken his earnings with pride, if not with exultation. He knew +the Notary did not mean that he was wonderful as a tailor, but he +answered to the suggestion. + +"You liked that last coat I made for you, then," he said drily; +"I believe you wore it when you were shot. It was the thing for your +figure, man." + +The Notary looked in the large mirror opposite with sad content. "Ah, it +was a good figure, the first time I went to that hut at Four Mountains!" + +"We can't always be young. You have a waist yet, and your chest-barrel +gives form to a waistcoat. Tut, tut! Think of the twins in the way of +vainglory and hypocrisy." + +"'Twins' and 'hypocrisy'; there you have struck the nail on the head, +tailor. There is the thing I'm going to tell you about." + +After a cautious glance at the door and the window, Dauphin continued in +quick, broken sentences: "It wasn't an accident at Four Mountains--not +quite. It was Paulette Dubois--you know the woman that lives at the +Seigneur's gate? Twelve years ago she was a handsome girl. I fell in +love with her, but she left here. There were two other men. There was a +timber-merchant,--and there was a lawyer after. The timber-merchant was +married; the lawyer wasn't. She lived at first with the timber-merchant. +He was killed--murdered in the woods." + +"What was the timber-merchant's name?" interrupted Charley in an even +voice. + +"Turley--but that doesn't matter!" continued the Notary. "He was +murdered, and then the lawyer came on the scene. He lived with her for a +year. She had a child by him. One day he sent the child away to a safe +place and told her he was going to turn over a new leaf--he was going to +stand for Parliament, and she must go. She wouldn't go without the +child. At last he said the child was dead; and showed her the +certificate of death. Then she came back here, and for a while, alas! +she disgraced the parish. But all at once she changed--she got a message +that her child was alive. To her it was like being born again. It was +at this time they were going to drive her from the parish. But the +Seigneur and then the Cure spoke for her, and so did I--at last." + +He paused and plaintively admired himself in the mirror. He was grateful +that he had been clean-shaved that morning, and he was content to catch +the citrine odour of the bergamot upon his hair. + +New phases of the most interesting case Charley had ever defended spread +out before him--the case which had given him his friend Jo Portugais, +which had turned his own destiny. Yet he could not quite trace in it the +vital association of this vain Notary now in the confessional mood. + +"You behaved very well," said Charley tentatively. + +"Ah, you say that, knowing so little! What will you say when you know +all--ah! That I should take a stand also was important. Neither the +Seigneur nor the Cure was married; I was. I have been long-suffering for +a cause. My marital felicity has been bruised--bruised--but not broken." + +"There are the twins," said Charley, with a half-closed eye. + +"Could woman ask greater proof?" urged the Notary seriously, for the +other's voice had been so well masked that he did not catch its satire. +"But see my peril, and mark the ground of my interest in this poor +wanton! Yet a woman--a woman-frail creatures, as we know, and to be +pitied, not made more pitiable by the stronger sex. . . . But, see +now! Why should I have perilled mine own conjugal peace, given ground +for suspicion even--for I am unfortunate, unfortunate in the exterior +with which Dame Nature has honoured me!" Again he looked in the mirror +with sad complacency. + +On these words his listener offered no comment, and he continued: + +"For this reason I lifted my voice for the poor wanton. It was I who +wrote the letter to her that her child was alive. I did it with high +purpose--I foresaw that she would change her ways if she thought her +child was living. Was I mistaken? No. I am an observer of human +nature. Intellect conquered. 'Io triumphe'. The poor fly-away changed, +led a new life. Ever since then she has tried to get the man--the +lawyer--to tell her where her child is. He has not done so. He has said +the child is dead--always. When she seemed to give up belief, then would +come another letter to her, telling her the child was living--but not +where. So she would keep on writing to the man, and sometimes she would +go away searching--searching. To what end? Nothing! She had a letter +some months ago, for she had got restless, and a young kinsman of the +Seigneur had come to visit at the seigneury for a week, and took much +notice of her. There was danger. Voila, another letter." + +"From you?" + +"Monsieur, of course! Will you keep a secret--on your sacred honour?" + +"I can keep a secret without sacred honour." + +"Ah, yes, of course! You have a secret of your own--pardon me, I am +only saying what every one says. Well, this is the secret of the woman +Paulette Dubois. My cousin, Robespierre Dauphin, a notary in Quebec, is +the agent of the lawyer, the father of the child. He pities the poor +woman. But he is bound in professional honour to the lawyer fellow, not +to betray. When visiting Robespierre once I found out the truth-by +accident. + +"I told him what I intended. He gave permission to tell the woman her +child was alive; and, if need be for her good, to affirm it over and over +again--no more." + +"And this?" said Charley, pointing to the injured leg, for he now +associated the accident with the secret just disclosed. + +"Ah, you apprehend! You have an avocat's mind--almost. It was at Four +Mountains. Paulette is superstitious; so not long ago she went to live +there alone with an old half-breed woman who has second-sight. Monsieur, +it is a gift unmistakably. For as soon as the hag clapped eyes on me in +the hut, she said: 'There is the man that wrote you the letters.' Well-- +what! Paulette Dubois came down on me like an avalanche--Monsieur, like +an avalanche! She believed the old witch; and there was I lying with an +unconvincing manner"--he sighed--"lying requires practice, alas! She saw +I was lying, and in a rage snatched up my gun. It went off by accident, +and brought me down. Did she relent? Not so. She helped to bind me up, +and the last words she said to me were: 'You will suffer; you will have +time to think. I am glad. You have kept me on the rack. I shall only +be sorry if you die, for then I shall not be able to torture you till you +tell me where my child is!' Monsieur, I lied to the last, lest she +should come here and make a noise; but I'm not sure it wouldn't have been +better to break faith with Robespierre, and tell the poor wanton where +her child is. What would you do, Monsieur? I cannot ask the Cure or the +Seigneur--I have reasons. But you have the head of a lawyer--almost--and +you have no local feelings, no personal interest--eh?" + +"I should tell the truth." + +"Your reasons, Monsieur?" + +"Because the lawyer is a scoundrel. Your betrayal of his secret is not a +thousandth part so bad as one lie told to this woman, whose very life is +her child. Is it a boy or a girl?" + +"A boy." + +"Good! What harm can be done? A left-handed boy is all right in the +world. Your wife has twins--then think of the woman, the one ewe lamb of +'the poor wanton.' If you do not tell her, you will have her here making +a noise, as you say. I wonder she has not been here on your door-step." + +"I had a letter from her to-day. She is coming-ah, mon dieu!" + +"When?" + +There was a tap at the window. The Notary started. "Ah, Heaven, here +she is!" he gasped, and drew over to the wall. + +A voice came from outside. "Shall I play for you, Dauphin? It is as +good as medicine." + +The Notary recovered himself at once. His volatile nature sprang back to +its pose. He could forget Paulette Dubois for the moment. + +"It is Maximilian Cour in the garden," he said happily. Then he raised +his voice. "Play on, baker; but something for convalescence--the return +of spring, the sweet assonance of memory." + +"A September air, and a gush of spring," said the baker, trying to crane +his long neck through the window. "Ah, there you are, Dauphin! I shall +give you a sleep to-night like a balmy eve." He nodded to the tailor. +"M'sieu', you shall judge if sentiment be dead. + +"I have racked my heart to play this time. I have called it, 'The Baffled +Quest of Love'. I have taken the music of the song of Alsace, 'Le Jardin +d'Amour', and I have made variations on it, keeping the last verse of the +song in my mind. You know the song, M'sieu': + + "'Quand je vais au jardin, Jardin d'amour, + Je crois entendu des pas, + Je veux fuir, et n'ose pas. + Voici la fin du jour . . . + Je crains et j'hesite, + Mon coeur bat plus vite + En ce sejour . . . + Quand je vais an jardin, jardin d'amour.'" + +The baker sat down on a stool he had brought, and began to tune his +fiddle. From inside came the voice of the Notary. + +"Play 'The Woods are Green' first," he said. "Then the other." + +The Notary possessed the one high-walled garden in the village, and +though folk gathered outside and said that the baker was playing for +the sick man, there was no one in the garden save the fiddler himself. +Once or twice a lad appeared on the top of the wall, looking over, but +vanished at once when he saw Charley's face at the window. Long ere the +baker had finished, the song was caught up from outside, and before the +last notes of the violin had died away, twenty voices were singing it in +the street, and forty feet marched away with it into the dusk. + +Darkness comes quickly in this land of brief twilight. Presently +out of the soft shadowed stillness, broken by the note of a vagrant +whippoorwill, crept out from Maximilian Cour's old violin the music +of 'The Baffled Quest of Love'. + +The baker was not a great musician, but he had a talent, a rare gift of +pathos, and an imagination untrammelled by rigorous rules of harmony and +construction. Whatever there was in his sentimental bosom he poured into +this one achievement of his life. It brought tears to the eyes of +Narcisse Dauphin. It opened a gate of the garden wall, and drew inside a +girl's face, shining with feeling. + +Maximilian Cour spoke for more than himself that night. His philandering +spirit had, at middle age, begotten a desire to house itself in a quiet +place, where the blinds could be drawn close, and the room of life made +ready with all the furniture of love. So he had spoken to his violin, +and it had answered as it had never done before. The soul of the lean +baker touched the heart of a man whose life had been but a baffled quest, +and the spirit of a girl whose love was her sun by day, her moon by +night, and the starlight of her dreams. + +From the shade of the window the man the girl loved watched her as she +sank upon the ground and clasped her hands before her in abandonment to +the music. He watched her when the baker, at last, overcome by his own +feelings--and ashamed of them--got up and stole swiftly out of the +garden. He watched her till he saw her drop her face in her hands; +then, opening the door and stealing out, he came and laid a hand upon +her shoulder, and she heard him say: + +"Rosalie!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + +BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY + +Rosalie came to her feet, gasping with pleasure. She had been unhappy +ever since she had returned from Quebec, for though she had sometimes +been brought in contact with Charley in the Notary's house since the day +of the operation, nothing had passed between them save the necessary +commonplaces of a sick-room, given a little extra colour, perhaps, by the +sense of responsibility which fell upon them both, and by that importance +which hidden sentiment gives to every motion. The twins had been +troublesome and ill, and Madame Dauphin had begged Rosalie to come in +for a couple of hours every evening. Thus the tailor and the girl who, +by every rule of wisdom, should have been kept as far apart as the poles, +were played into each other's hands by human kindness and damnable +propinquity. The man, manlike, felt no real danger, because nothing was +said--after everything had been said for all time at the hut on Vadrome +Mountain. He had not realised the true situation, because of late her +voice, like his, had been even and her hand cool and steady. He had not +noticed that her eyes were like hungry fires, eating up her face--eating +away its roundness, and leaving a pathetic beauty behind. + +It seemed to him that because there was silence--neither the written word +nor the speaking look--that all was well. He was hugging the chain of +denial to his bosom, as though to say, "This way is safety"; he was +hiding his face from the beacon-lights of her eyes, which said: "This way +is home." + +Home? Pictures of home, of a home such as Maximilian Cour painted in his +music, had passed before him now and then since that great day on Vadrome +Mountain. A simple fireside, with frugal but comfortable fare; a few +books; the study of the fields and woods; the daily humble task over +which he could meditate as his hands worked mechanically; the happy face +of a happy woman near--he had thought of home; and he had put it from +him. No matter what the temptation, his must be, perhaps for ever, the +bed and board unshared. He had had his chance in the old days, and he +had thrown it away with insolent indifference, and an unpardonable +contempt for the opinion of the world. + +Now, with a blind fatuousness which had nothing to do with his old +intellectual power, but was evidence of a primitive life of feeling, had +vaguely imagined that because there were no clinging hands, or stolen +looks, or any vow or promise, that all might go on as at present--upon +the surface. With a curious absence of his old accuracy of observation +he was treating the immediate past--his and Rosalie's past--as if it did +not actually exist; as if only the other and farther past was a tragedy, +and this nearer one a dream. + +But the film fell from his eyes as Maximilian Cour played his 'Baffled +Quest', with its quaint, searching pathos; and as he saw the figure of +the girl alone in the shade of the great rose-bushes, past and present +became one, and the whole man was lost in that one word "Rosalie!" which +called her to her feet with outstretched hands. + +The tears sprang to her eyes; her face upturned to his was a mute appeal, +a speechless 'Viens ici'. + +Past, present, future, duty, apprehension, consequences, suddenly fell +away from Charley's mind like a garment slipping from the shoulders, and +the new man, swept off his feet by the onrush of unused and ungoverned +emotions, caught the girl to his arms with a desperate joy. + +"Oh, do you care, then--for me?" wept the girl, and hid her face in his +breast. + +A voice came from inside the house: "Monsieur, Monsieur--ah, come, if you +please, tailor!" + +The girl drew back quickly, looked up at him for one instant with a +triumphant happy daring, then, suddenly covered with confusion, turned, +ran to the gate, opened it, passed swiftly out, and was swallowed up in +the dusk. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + +THE CHALLENGE OF PAULETTE DUBOIS + +"Monsieur, Monsieur!" came the voice from inside the house, querulously +and anxiously. Charley entered the Notary's bedroom. + +"Monsieur," said the Notary excitedly, "she is here--Paulette is here. +My wife is asleep, thank God! but old Sophie has just told me that the +woman asks to see me. Ah, Heaven above, what shall I do?" + +"Will you leave it to me?" + +"Yes, yes, Monsieur." + +"You will do exactly as I say?" + +"Ah, most sure." + +"Very well. Keep still. I will see her first. Trust to me." He turned +and left the room. + +Charley found the woman in the Notary's office, which, while partly +detached from the house, did duty as sitting-room and library. When +Charley entered, the room was only lighted by two candles, and Paulette's +face was hidden by a veil, but Charley observed the tremulousness of the +figure and the nervous decision of manner. He had seen her before +several times, and he had always noticed the air, half bravado, half +shrinking, marking her walk and movements, as though two emotions were +fighting in her. She was now dressed in black, save for one bright red +ribbon round her throat, incongruous and garish. + +When she saw Charley she started, for she had expected the servant with a +message from the Notary--her own message had been peremptory. + +"I wish to see the Notary," she said defiantly. + +"He is not able to come to you." + +"What of that?" + +"Did you expect to go to his bedroom?" + +"Why not?" She was abrupt to discourtesy. + +"You are neither physician, nor relative." + +"I have important business." + +"I transact his business for him, Madame." + +"You are a tailor." + +"I learned that; I am learning to be a notary." + +"My business is private." + +"I transact his private business too--that which his wife cannot do. +Would you prefer his wife to me? It must be either the one or the +other." + +The woman started towards the door in a rage. He stepped between. "You +cannot see the Notary." + +"I'll see his wife, then--" + +"That would only put the fat in the fire. His wife would not listen to +you. She is quick-tempered, and she fancies she has reasons for not +liking you." + +"She's a fool. I haven't been always particular, but as for Narcisse +Dauphin--" + +"He has been a good friend to you at some expense, the world says." + +The woman struggled with herself. "The world lies!" she said at last. + +"But he doesn't. The village was against you once. That was when the +Notary, with the Seigneur, was for you--it has cost him something ever +since, I'm told. You've never thanked him." + +"He has tortured me for years, the oily, smirking, lying--" + +"He has been your best friend," he interrupted. "Please sit down, and +listen to me for a moment." + +She hesitated, then did as he asked. + +"He tells me that years ago he was in love with you. Hasn't he behaved +better than some who said they loved you?" + +The woman half started up, her eyes flashing, but met a deprecating +motion of his hand and sat down again. + +"He thought that if you knew your child lived, you would think better of +life--and of yourself. He has his good points, the Notary." + +"Why doesn't he tell me where my child is?" + +"The Notary is in bed--you shot him! Don't you think it is doing you a +good turn not to have you arrested?" + +"It was an accident." + +"Oh no, it wasn't! You couldn't make a jury believe that. And if you +were in prison, how could you find your child? You see, you have treated +the Notary very badly." + +She was silent, and he added, slowly: "He had good reasons for not +telling you. It wasn't his own secret, and he hadn't come by it in a +strictly professional way. Your child was being well cared for, and he +told you simply that it was alive--for your own sake. But he has changed +his mind at last, and--" + +The woman sprang from her seat. "He will tell me--he will tell me?" + +"I will tell you." + +"Monsieur-Monsieur--ah, my God, but you are kind! How should you know-- +what do you know?" + +"I give you my word that by to-morrow evening you shall know where your +child is." + +For a moment she was bewildered and overcome, then a look of gratitude, +of luminous hope, covered her face, softening the hardness of its +contour, and she fell on her knees beside the table, dropped her head +in her arms, and sobbed as if her heart would break. + +"My little lamb, my little, little lamb-my own dearest!" she sobbed. +"I shall have you again. I shall have you again--all my own!" + +He stood and watched her meditatively. He was wondering why it was that +grief like this had never touched him so before. His eyes were moist. +Though he had been many things in his life, he had never been abashed; +but a curious timidity possessed him now. + +He leaned over and touched her shoulder with a kindly abruptness, a +friendly awkwardness. "Cheer up," he said. "You shall have your child, +if Dauphin can help you to it." + +"If he ever tries to take him from me"--she sprang to her feet, her face +in a fury--"I will--" + +For an instant her overpowering passion possessed her, and she stood +violent and wilful; then, under his fixed, exacting gaze, her rage +ceased; she became still and grey and quiet. + +"I shall know to-morrow evening, Monsieur? Where?" Her voice was weak +and distant. + +He thought for a time. "At my house-at nine o'clock," he answered at +last. + +"Monsieur," she said, in a choking voice, "if I get my child again, I +will bless you to my dying day." + +"No, no; it will be Dauphin you must bless," he said, and opened the door +for her. As she disappeared into the dusk and silence he adjusted his +eye-glass, and stared musingly after her, though there was nothing to see +save the summer darkness, nothing to hear save the croak of the frogs in +the village pond. He was thinking of the trial of Joseph Nadeau, and of +a woman in the gallery, who laughed. + +"Monsieur, Monsieur," called the voice of the Notary from the bedroom. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + +THE CURE AND THE SEIGNEUR VISIT THE TAILOR + +It had been a perfect September day. The tailor of Chaudiere had been +busier than usual, for winter was within hail, and careful habitants +were renewing their simple wardrobes. The Seigneur and the Cure arrived +together, each to order the making of a greatcoat of the Irish frieze +which the Seigneur kept in quantity at the Manor. The Seigneur was in +rare spirits. And not without reason; for this was Michaelmas eve, and +tomorrow would be Michaelmas day, and there was a promise to be redeemed +on Michaelmas day! He had high hopes of its redemption according to his +own wishes; for he was a vain Seigneur, and he had had his way in all +things all his life, as everybody knew. Importunity with discretion was +his motto, and he often vowed to the Cure that there was no other motto +for the modern world. + +The Cure's visit to the tailor's shop on this particular day had unusual +interest, for it concerned his dear ambition, the fondest aspiration of +his life: to bring the infidel tailor (they could not but call a man an +infidel whose soul was negative--the word agnostic had not then become +usual) from the chains of captivity into the freedom of the Church. +The Cure had ever clung to his fond hope; and it was due to his patient +confidence that there were several parishioners who now carried Charley's +name before the shrine of the blessed Virgin, and to the little calvaries +by the road-side. The wife of Filion Lacasse never failed to pray for +him every day. The thousand dollars gained by the saddler on the +tailor's advice had made her life happier ever since, for Filion had +become saving and prudent, and had even got her a "hired girl." There +were at least a half-dozen other women, including Madame Dauphin, who did +the same. + +That he might listen again to the good priest on his holy hobby, inflamed +with this passion of missionary zeal, the Seigneur, this morning, had +thrown doubt upon the ultimate success of the Cure's efforts. + +"My dear Cure" said the Seigneur, "it is true, I think, what the tailor +suggested to my brother--on my soul, I wonder the Abbe gave in, for +a more obstinate fellow I never knew!--that a man is born with the +disbelieving maggot in his brain, or the butterfly of belief, or +whatever it may be called. It's constitutional--may be criminal, but +constitutional. It seems to me you would stand more chance with the Jew, +Greek, or heretic, than our infidel. He thinks too much--for a tailor, +or for nine tailors, or for one man." + +He pulled his nose, as if he had said a very good thing indeed. They +were walking slowly towards the village during this conversation, and the +Cure, stopping short, brought his stick emphatically down in his palm +several times, as he said: + +"Ah, you will not see! You will not understand. With God all things are +possible. Were it the devil himself in human form, I should work and +pray and hope, as my duty is, though he should still remain the devil to +the end. What am I? Nothing. But what the Church has done, the Church +may do. Think of Paul and Augustine, and Constantine!" + +"They were classic barbarians to whom religion was but an emotion. This +man has a brain which must be satisfied." + +"I must count him as a soul to be saved through that very intelligence, +as well as through the goodness of his daily life, which, in its charity, +shames us all. He gives all he earns to the sick and needy. He lives on +fare as poor as the poorest of our people eat; he gives up his hours of +sleep to nurse the sick. Dauphin might not have lived but for him. His +heart is good, else these things were impossible. He could not act +them." + +"But that's just it, Cure. Doesn't he act them? Isn't it a whim? What +more likely than that, tired of the flesh-pots of Egypt, he comes here to +live in the desert--for a sensation? We don't know." + +"We do know. The man has had sorrow and the man has had sin. Yes, +believe me, there is none of us that suffers as this man has suffered. +I have had many, many talks with him. Believe me, Maurice, I speak the +truth. My heart bleeds for him. I think I know the thing that drove him +here amongst us. It is a great temptation, which pursues him here--even +here, where his life is so commendable. I have seen him fighting it. +I have seen his torture, the piteous, ignoble yielding, and the struggle, +with more than mortal energy, to be master of himself." + +"It is--" the Seigneur said, then paused. + +"No, no; do not ask me. He has not confessed to me, Maurice-naturally, +nothing like that. But I know. I know and pity--ah, Maurice, I almost +love. You argue, and reason, but I know this, my friend, that something +was left out of this man when he was made, and it is that thing that we +must find, or he will die among us a ruined soul, and his gravestone will +be the monument of our shame. If he can once trust the Church, if he can +once say, 'Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,' then his temptation +will vanish, and I shall bring him in--I shall lead him home." + +For an instant the Seigneur looked at him in amazement, for this was a +Cure he had never known. + +"Dear Cure, you are not your old self," he said gently. + +"I am not myself--yes, that is it, Maurice. I am not the old humdrum +Cure you knew. The whole world is my field now. I have sorrowed for +sin, within the bounds of this little Chaudiere. Now I sorrow for +unbelief. Through this man, through much thinking on him, I have come to +feel the woe of all the world. I have come to hear the footsteps of the +Master near. My friend, it is not a legend, not a belief now, it is a +presence. I owe him much, Maurice. In bringing him home, I shall +understand what it all means--the faith that we profess. I shall in +truth feel that it is all real. You see how much I may yet owe to him-- +to this infidel tailor. I only hope I have not betrayed him," he added +anxiously. "I would keep faith with him--ah, yes, indeed!" + +"I only remember that you have said the man suffers. That is no +betrayal." + +They entered the village in silence. Presently, however, the sound of +Maximilian Cour's violin, as they passed the bakery, set the Seigneur's +tongue wagging again, and it wagged on till they came to the tailor's +shop. + +"Good-day to you, Monsieur," he said, as they entered. + +"Have you a hot goose for me?" + +"I have, but I will not press it on you," replied Charley. + +"Should you so take my question--eh?" + +"Should you so take my 'anser'?" + +The pun was new to the Seigneur, and he turned to the Cure chuckling. +"Think of that, Cure! He knows the classics." He laughed till the tears +came into his eyes. + +The next few moments Charley was busy measuring the two potentates for +greatcoats. As it was his first work for them, it was necessary for the +Cure to write down the Seigneur's measurements, as the tailor called them +off, while the Seigneur did the same when the Cure was being measured. +So intent were the three it might have been a conference of war. The +Seigneur ventured a distant but self-conscious smile when the measurement +of his waist was called, for he had by two inches the advantage of the +Cure, though they were the same age, while he was one inch better in the +chest. The Seigneur was proud of his figure, and, unheeding the passing +of fashions, held to the knee-breeches and silk stockings long after they +had disappeared from the province. To the Cure he had often said that +the only time he ever felt heretical was when in the presence of the +gaitered calves of a Protestant dean. He wore his sleeves tight and his +stock high, as in the days when William the Sailor was king in England, +and his long gold-topped Prince Regent cane was the very acme of dignity. + +The measurement done, the three studied the fashion plates--mostly five +years old--as Von Moltke and Bismarck might have studied the field of +Gravelotte. The Seigneur's remarks were highly critical, till, with a +few hasty strokes on brown paper, Charley sketched in his figure with a +long overcoat in style much the same as his undercoat, stately and +flowing and confined at the waist. + +"Admirable, most admirable!" said the Seigneur. "The likeness is +astonishing"--he admired the carriage of his own head in Charley's swift +lines--"the garment in perfect taste. Form--there is nothing like form +and proportion in life. It is almost a religion." + +"My dear friend!" said the Cure, in amazement. + +"I know when I am in the presence of an artist and his work. Louis +Trudel had rule and measure, shears and a needle. Our friend here has +eye and head, sense of form and creative gift. Ah, Cure, Cure, if I were +twenty-five, with the assistance of Monsieur, I would show the bucks in +Fabrique Street how to dress. What style is this called, Monsieur?" he +suddenly asked, pointing to the drawing. + +"Style a la Rossignol, Seigneur," said the tailor. + +The Seigneur was flattered out of all reason. He looked across at the +post-office, where he could see Rosalie dimly moving in the shade of the +shop. + +"Ah, if I had but ordered this coat sooner!" he said regretfully. +He was thinking that to-morrow was Michaelmas day, when he was to ask +Rosalie for her answer again, and he fancied himself appearing before +her in the gentle cool of the evening, in this coat, lightly thrown back, +disclosing his embroidered waistcoat, seals, and snowy linen. "Monsieur, +I am highly complimented, believe me," he said. "Observe, Cure, that +this coat is invented for me on the spot." + +The Cure nodded appreciatively. "Wonderful! Wonderful! But do you +not think," he added, a little wistfully--for, was he not a Frenchman, +susceptible like all his race to the appearance of things?--"do you not +think it might be too fashionable for me?" + +"Not a whit--not a whit," replied the Seigneur generously. "Should not a +Cure look distinguished--be dignified? Consider the length, the line, +the eloquence of design! Ah, Monsieur, once again, you are an artist! +The Cure shall wear it--indeed but he shall! Then I shall look like him, +and perhaps get credit for some of his perfections." + +"And the Cure?" said Charley. + +"The Cure?--the Cure? Tiens, a little of my worldliness will do him +good. There are no contrasts in him. He must wear the coat." He waved +his walking-stick complacently, for he was thinking that the Cure's less +perfect figure would set off his own well as they walked together. "May +I have the honour to keep this as a souvenir?" he added, picking up the +sketch. + +"With pleasure," answered Charley. "You do not need it?" + +"Not at all." + +The Cure looked a little disappointed, and Charley, seeing, immediately +sketched on brown paper the priestly figure in the new-created coat, +a la Rossignol. On this drawing he was a little longer engaged, with the +result that the Cure was reproduced with a singular fidelity--in face, +figure, and expression a personality gentle yet important. + +"On my soul, you shall not have it!" said the Seigneur. "But you shall +have me, and I shall have you, lest we both grow vain by looking at +ourselves." He thrust the sketch of himself into the Cure's hands, +and carefully rolled up that of his friend. + +The Cure was amazed at this gift of the tailor, and delighted with the +picture of himself--his vanity was as that of a child, without guile or +worldliness. He was better pleased, however, to have the drawing of his +friend by him, that vanity might not be too companionable. He thanked +Charley with a beaming face, and then the two friends bowed and moved +towards the door. Suddenly the Cure stopped. + +"My dear Maurice," said he, "we have forgotten the important thing." + +"Think of that--we two old babblers!" said the Seigneur. He nodded for +the Cure to begin. "Monsieur," said the Cure to Charley, "you maybe able +to help us in a little difficulty. For a long time we have intended +holding a great mission with a kind of religious drama like that +performed at Ober-Ammergau, and called The Passion Play. You know of it, +Monsieur?" + +"Very well through reading, Monsieur." + +"Next Easter we propose having a Passion Play in pious imitation of +the famous drama. We will hold it at the Indian reservation of Four +Mountains, thus quickening our own souls and giving a good object-lesson +of the great History to the Indians." + +The Cure paused rather anxiously, but Charley did not speak. His eyes +were fixed inquiringly on the Cure, and he had a sudden suspicion that +some devious means were forward to influence him. He dismissed the +thought, however, for this Cure was simple as man ever was made, +straightforward as the most heretical layman might demand. + +The Cure, taking heart, again continued: "Now I possess an authentic +description of the Ober-Ammergau drama, giving details of its +presentation at different periods, and also a book of the play. But +there is no one in the parish who reads German, and it occurred to the +Seigneur and myself that, understanding French so well, by chance you may +understand German also, and would, perhaps, translate the work for us." + +"I read German easily and speak it fairly," Charley answered, relieved; +"and you are welcome to my services." + +The Cure's pale face flushed with pleasure. He took the little German +book from his pocket, and handed it over. + +"It is not so very long," he said; "and we shall all be grateful." Then +an inspiration came to him; his eyes lighted. + +"Monsieur," he said, "you will notice that there are no illustrations in +the book. It is possible that you might be able to make us a few +drawings--if we do not ask too much? It would aid greatly in the matter +of costume, and you might use my library--I have a fair number of +histories." The Cure was almost breathless, his heart thumped as he made +the request. After a slight pause he added, hastily: "You are always +doing for others. It is hardly kind to ask you; but we have some months +to spare; there need be no haste." Charley hastened to relieve the +Cure's anxiety. "Do not apologise," he said. "I will do what I can +when I can. But as for drawing, Monsieur, it will be but amateurish." + +"Monsieur," interposed the Seigneur promptly, "if you're not an artist, +I'm damned!" + +"Maurice!" murmured the Cure reproachfully. "Can't help it, Cure. I've +held it in for an hour. It had to come; so there it is exploded. I see +no damage either, save to my own reputation. Monsieur," he added to +Charley, "if I had gifts like yours, nothing would hold me. I should put +on more airs than Beauty Steele." + +It was fortunate that, at that instant, Charley's face was turned away, +or the Seigneur would have seen it go white and startled. Charley did +not dare turn his head for the moment. He could not speak. What did +the Seigneur know of Beauty Steele? + +To hide his momentary confusion, he went over to the drawer of a cupboard +in the wall, and placed the book inside. It gave him time to recover +himself. When he turned round again his face was calm, his manner +composed. + +"And who, may I ask, is Beauty Steele?" he said. "Faith I do not know," +answered the Seigneur, taking a pinch of snuff. "It's years since I +first read the phrase in a letter a scamp of a relative of mine wrote me +from the West. He had met a man of the name, who had a reputation as a +clever fop, a very handsome fellow. So I thought it a good phrase, and +I've used it ever since on occasions. 'More airs than Beauty Steele.' +--It has a sound; it's effective, I fancy, Monsieur?" + +"Decidedly effective," answered Charley quietly. He picked up his +shears. "You will excuse me," he said grimly, "but I must earn my +living. I cannot live on my reputation." + +The Seigneur and the Cure lifted their hats--to the tailor. + +"Au revoir, Monsieur," they both said, and Charley bowed them out. + +The two friends turned to each other a little way up the street. +"Something will come of this, Cure," said the Seigneur. The Cure, +whose face had a look of happiness, pressed his arm in reply. + +Inside the tailor-shop, a voice kept saying, "More airs than Beauty +Steele!" + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + +THE SCARLET WOMAN + +Since the evening in the garden when she had been drawn into Charley's +arms, and then fled from them in joyful confusion, Rosalie had been in a +dream. She had not closed her eyes all night, or, if she closed them, +they still saw beautiful things flashing by, to be succeeded by other +beautiful things. It was a roseate world. To her simple nature it was +not so important to be loved as to love. Selfishness was as yet the +minor part of her. She had been giving all her life--to her mother, as a +child; to sisters at the convent who had been kind to her; to the poor +and the sick of the parish; to her father, who was helpless without her; +to the tailor across the way. In each case she had given more than she +had got. A nature overflowing with impulsive affection, it must spend +itself upon others. The maternal instinct was at the very core of her +nature, and care for others was as much a habit as an instinct with her. +She had love to give, and it must be given. It had been poured like the +rain from heaven on the just and the unjust; on animals as on human +beings, and in so far as her nature, in the first spring--the very April +--of its powers, could do. + +Till Charley had come to Chaudiere, it had all been the undisciplined +ardour of a girl's nature. A change had begun in the moment when she had +tearfully thrust the oil and flour in upon his excoriated breast. Later +came real awakening, and a riotous outpouring of herself in sympathy, in +observation, in a reckless kindness which must have done her harm but +that her clear intelligence balanced her actions, and because secrecy in +one thing helped to restrain her in all. Yet with all the fresh overflow +of her spirit, which, assisted by her new position as postmistress, made +her a conspicuous and popular figure in the parish, where officialdom had +rare honour and little labour, she had prejudices almost unworthy of her, +due though they were to radical antipathy. These prejudices, one against +Jo Portugais and the other against Paulette Dubois, she had never been +able entirely to overcome, though she had honestly tried. On the way +to the hospital at Quebec, however, Jo had been so careful of her father, +so respectful when speaking of M'sieu', so regardful of her own comfort, +that her antagonism to him was lulled. But the strong prejudice against +Paulette Dubois remained, casting a shadow on her bright spirit. + +All this day she had moved about in a mellow dream, very busy, scarcely +thinking. New feelings dominated her, and she was too primitive to +analyse them and too occupied with them to realise acutely the life about +her. Work was an abstraction, resting rather than tiring her. + +Many times she had looked across at the tailor-shop, only seeing Charley +once. She did not wish to speak with him now, nor to be near him yet; +she wanted this day for herself only. + +So it was that, soon after the Cure and the Seigneur had bade good-bye to +Charley, she left the post-office and went quickly through the village +to a spot by the river, where was a place called the Rest of the +Flaxbeaters. It was an overhanging rock which made a kind of canopy over +a sweet spring, where, in the days when their labours sounded through the +valley, the flaxbeaters from the level below came to eat their meals and +to rest. + +This had always been a resort for her in the months when the flax-beaters +did not use it. Since a child she had made the place her own. To this +day it is called Rosalie's Dell; for are not her sorrows and joys still +told by those who knew and loved her? and is not the parish still +fragrant with her name? Has not her history become a living legend a +thousand times told? + +Leaving the village behind her, Rosalie passed down the high-road till +she came to a path that led off through a grove of scattered pines. +There would be yet a half-hour's sun and then a short twilight, and the +river and the woods and the Rest of the Flax-beaters would be her own; +and she could think of the wonderful thing come upon her. She had +brought with her a book of English poems, and as she went through the +grove she opened it, and in her pretty English repeated over and over to +herself: + + "My heart is thine, and soul and body render + Faith to thy faith; I give nor hold in thrall: + Take all, dear love! thou art my life's defender; + Speak to my soul! Take life and love; take all!" + +She was lifted up by the abandonment of the verse, by the fulness of her +own feelings, which had only needed a touch of beauty to give it +exaltation. The touch had come. + +She went on abstractedly to the place where she had trysted with her +thoughts only, these many years, and, sitting down, watched the sun sink +beyond the trees, the shades of evening fall. All that had happened +since Charley came to the parish she went over in her mind. She +remembered the day he had said this, the day he had said that; she +brought back the night--it was etched upon her mind!--when he had said +to her, "You have saved my life, Mademoiselle!" She recalled the time +she put the little cross back on the church-door, the ghostly footsteps +in the church, the light, the lost hood. A shudder ran through her now, +for the mystery of that hood had never been cleared up. But the words on +the page caught her eye again: + + "My heart is thine, and soul and body render + Faith to thy faith . . ." + +It swallowed up the moment's agitation. Never till this day, never till +last night, had she dared to say to herself, He loves me. He seemed so +far above her--she never had thought of him as a tailor!--that she had +given and never dared hope to receive, had lived without anticipation +lest there should come despair. Even that day at Vadrome Mountain she +had not thought he meant love, when he had said to her that he would +remember to the last. When he had said that he would die for love's +sake, he had not meant her, but others--some one else whom he would save +by his death. Kathleen, that name which had haunted her--ah, whoever +Kathleen was, or whatever Kathleen had to do with him or his life, she +had no reason to fear Kathleen now. She had no reason to fear any one; +for had she not heard his words of love as he clasped her in his arms +last night? Had she not fled from that enfolding, because her heart was +so full in the hour of her triumph that she could not bear more, could +not look longer into the eyes to which she had told her love before his +was spoken? + +In the midst of her thoughts she heard footsteps. She started up. +Paulette Dubois suddenly appeared in the path below. She had taken +the river-path down from Vadrome Mountain, where she had gone to see Jo +Portugais, who had not yet returned from Quebec. Paulette's face was +agitated, her manner nervous. For nights she had not slept, and her +approaching meeting with the tailor had made her tremble all day. +Excited as she was, there was a wild sort of beauty in her face, and her +figure was lithe and supple. She dressed always a little garishly, but +now there was only that band of colour round the throat, worn last night +in the talk with Charley. + +To both women this meeting was as a personal misfortune, a mutual +affront. Each had a natural antipathy. To Rosalie the invasion of her +beloved retreat was as hateful as though the woman had purposely +intruded. + +For a moment they confronted each other without speaking, then Rosalie's +natural courtesy, her instinctive good-heartedness, overcame her +irritation, and she said quietly: + +"Good-evening, Madame." + +"I am not Madame, and you know it," answered the woman harshly. + +"I am sorry. Good-evening, Mademoiselle," rejoined Rosalie evenly. + +"You wanted to insult me. You knew I wasn't Madame." + +Rosalie shook her head. "How should I know? You have not always lived +in Chaudiere, you have lived in Montreal, and people often call you +Madame." + +"You know better. You know that letters come to me from Montreal +addressed Mademoiselle." + +Rosalie turned as if to go. "I do not recall what letters pass through +the post-office. I have a good memory for forgetting. Good-evening," +she added, with an excess of courtesy. Paulette read the placid scorn in +the girl's face; she did not see and would not understand that Rosalie +did not scorn her for what she had ever done, but for something that she +was. + +"You think I am the dirt under your feet," she said, now white, now red, +and mad with anger. "I'm not fit to speak with you--I'm a rag for the +dust pile!" + +"I have never thought so," answered Rosalie. "I have not liked you, but +I am sorry for you, and I never thought those things." + +"You lie!" was the rejoinder; and Rosalie, turning away quickly with +trouble in her face, put her hands to her ears, and, hastening down the +hillside, did not hear the words the woman called after her. + +"To-morrow every one shall know you are a thief. Run, run, run! You can +hear what I say, white-face! They shall know about the little cross +to-morrow." + +She followed Rosalie at a distance, her eyes blazing. As fate would have +it, she met on the highroad the least scrupulous man in the parish, an +inveterate gossip, the keeper of the general store, whose only opposition +in business was the post-office shop. He was the centre of the village +tittle-tattle, and worse. With malicious speed Paulette told him how she +had seen Rosalie Evanturel nailing the little cross on the church door of +a certain night. If he wanted proof of what she said, let him ask Jo +Portugais. + +Having spat out her revenge, she went on to the village, and through it +to her house, where she prepared to visit the shop of the tailor. Her +sense of retaliation satisfied, Rosalie passed from her mind; her child +only occupied it. In another hour she would know where her child was-- +the tailor had promised that she should. Then perhaps she would be sorry +for the accident to the Notary; for it was an accident, in spite of +appearances. + +It was dark when Paulette entered the door of the tailor's house. When +she came out, a half-hour later, with elation in her carriage, and tears +of joy running down her face, she did not look about her; she did not +care whether or not any one saw her: she was possessed with only one +thought--her child! She passed like a swift wind down the street, making +for home and for her departure to the hiding-place of her child. + +She had not seen a figure in the shadow of a tree near by as she came +from the tailor's door. She had not heard a smothered cry behind her. +She was not aware that in unspeakable agony another woman knocked softly +at the door of the tailor's house, and, not waiting for an answer, opened +it and entered. It was Rosalie Evanturel. + + + + +CHAPTER XL + +AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING + +The kitchen was empty, but light fell through the door of the shop +opening upon the little hall between. Rosalie crossed the hall and stood +in the doorway of the shop, a figure of concentrated indignation, +despair, and shame. Leaning on his elbow Charley was bending over a book +in the light of a candle on the bench be side him. He was reading aloud, +translating into English the German text of the narrative the Cure had +given him: + + "And because of this divine interposition, consequent upon their + faithful prayers and their oblations, they did perform these holy + scenes from season to season, with solemn proof of piety and godly + living, so that it seemed the life of the Lord our Shepherd was ever + present with them, as though, indeed, Ober-Ammergau were Nazareth or + Jerusalem. And the hearts of all in the land did answer daily to + that sweet and lively faith, insomuch that even in times of war the + zeal of the people became an holy zeal, and their warfare noble; so + that they did accept both victory and defeat with equal humbleness. + Because there was no war in their hearts, but peace, and they did + fight to defend and not to acquire, they buried their foe with tears + and their own with singleness of heart and quiet joy, for that they + did rest from their labours. In this manner was the great tragedy + and glory of the world made to the people a present thing, + transforming them to the body of the Life that hath neither spot nor + blemish nor . . ." + +Charley had not heard Rosalie enter, nor her footsteps in the hall. But +now there ran through his reading a thread of something not of himself or +of it. He had thrilled to the archaic but clear-hearted style of the old +German chronicler, and the warmth he felt had passed into his voice, so +that it became louder. + +As Rosalie listened to his reading, a hundred thoughts rushed through +her mind. Paulette Dubois, the wanton woman, had just left his doorway +secretly, yet there he was, instantly after, calmly reading a pious book! +Her mind was in tumult. She could not reason, she could not rule her +judgment. She only knew that the woman had come from this house, and +hurried guiltily away into the dark. She only knew that the man the +woman had left here was the man she loved--loved more than her life, for +he embodied all her past; all her present--she knew that she could not +live without him; all her future--for where he went she would go, +whatever the fate. + +Her judgment had been swept from its moorings. She had been carried on +the wave of her heart's fever into this room, not daring to think this +or that, not planning this or that, not accusing, not reproaching, not +shaming herself and him by black suspicion, but blindly, madly demanding +to see him, to look into his eyes, to hear his voice, to know him, +whatever he was--man, lover, or devil. She was a child-woman--a child in +her primitive feelings that threw aside all convention, because there was +no wrong in her heart; a woman, because she was possessed by a jealousy +which shamed and angered her, because its very existence put him on +trial, condemned him. Her soul was the sport of emotions and passions +stronger than herself, because the heritage, the instinct, of all the +race of women, the eternal predisposition. At the moment her will +was not sufficient to rule them to obedience. She was in the first +subservience to that power which feeds the streams of human history. + +As she now listened to Charley reading, a sudden revulsion of feeling +came over her. Some note in his voice reassured her heart--if it needed +reassuring. The quiet force of his presence stilled the tumult in her, +so that her eyes could see without mist, her heart beat without agony; +but every pulse in her was throbbing, every instinct was alive. +Presently there rushed upon her the words that had rung in her ears and +chimed in her heart at the Rest of the Flax-beaters: + + "Take all, dear love! thou art my life's defender; + Speak to my soul! Take life and love; take all." + +Feelings lying beneath the mad conflict of emotion which had sent her +into this room in such unmaidenly fashion--feelings that were her deepest +self-welled up. Her breath came hard and broken. + +As Charley read on, a breathing seemed to answer his own. It became +quicker than his own, it pierced the stillness, it filled the room with +feeling, it came calling to him out of the silence. He swung round, and +saw the girl in the doorway. + +"Rosalie!" he cried, and sprang to his feet. + +With a piteously pathetic cry, she flung herself on her knees beside the +tailor's bench where he worked every day, and, burying her face in her +arms as they rested on the bench, wept bitterly. + +"Rosalie!" he said anxiously, leaning over her. "What is the matter? +What has happened?" + +She wept more bitterly still; she made a despairing gesture. His hand +touched her hair; he dropped on a knee beside her. + +"Oh, I am so ashamed, ashamed! I have been so wicked," she murmured. + +"Rosalie, what has happened?" he urged gently. His own heart was +beating hard, his own eyes were responding to hers. The new feelings +alive in him, the forces his love had awakened, which, last night, had +kept him sleepless, and had been upon him like a dream all day--they +were at height in him now. He knew not how to command them. + +"Rosalie, dearest, tell me all!" he persisted. + +"I shall never--I have been--oh--you will never forgive me!" she said +brokenly. "I knew it wasn't true, but I couldn't help it. I saw her-- +the woman--come from your house, and--" + +"Hush! For God's sake, hush!" he broke in almost harshly. Then a +better understanding came upon him, and it made him gentle with her. + +"Ah, Rosalie, you did not think! But--but it was natural you should wish +to see me. . . ." + +"But, as soon as I saw you, I knew that--that--" She broke down again and +wept. + +"I will tell you about her, Rosalie--" His fingers stroked her hair, and, +bending over her, his face was near her hands. + +"No, no, tell me nothing--oh, if you tell me!--" + +"She came to hear from me what she ought to have heard from the Notary. +She has had great trouble--the man--her child--and I have helped her, +told her--" His face was so near now that his breath was on her hair. +She suddenly raised her head and clasped his face in her hands. + +"I knew--oh, I knew, I knew . . . !" she wept, and her eyes drank +his. + +"Rosalie, my life!" he cried, clasping her in his arms. + +The love that was in him, new-born and but half understood, poured itself +out in broken words like her own. For him there was no outside world; no +past, no Kathleen, no Billy; no suspicion, or infidelity, or unfaith; no +fear of disaster; no terrors of the future. Life was Now to him and to +her: nothing brooded behind, nothing lay before. The candle spluttered +and burnt low in the socket. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +A left-handed boy is all right in the world +Damnable propinquity +Hugging the chain of denial to his bosom +I have a good memory for forgetting +Importunity with discretion was his motto +It is good to live, isn't it? +Know how bad are you, and doesn't mind +Strike first and heal after--"a kick and a lick" + + + + + + +THE RIGHT OF WAY + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 5. + + + +XLI. IT WAS MICHAELMAS DAY +XLII. A TRIAL AND A VERDICT +XLIII. JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY +XLIV. "WHO WAS KATHLEEN?" +XLV. SIX MONTHS GO BY +XLVI. THE FORGOTTEN MAN +XLVII. ONE WAS TAKEN AND THE OTHER LEFT +XLVIII. "WHERE THE TREE OF LIFE IS BLOOMING--" +XLIX. THE OPEN GATE + + + + +CHAPTER XLI + +IT WAS MICHAELMAS DAY + +Not a cloud in the sky, and, ruling all, a sweet sun, liberal in +warmth and eager in brightness as its distance from the northern world +decreased. As Mrs. Flynn entered the door of the post-office she sang +out to Maximilian Cour, with a buoyant lilt: "Oh, isn't it the fun o' the +world to be alive!" + +The tailor over the way heard it, and lifted his head with a smile; +Rosalie Evanturel, behind the postal wicket, heard it, and her face swam +with colour. Rosalie busied herself with the letters and papers for a +moment before she answered Mrs. Flynn's greeting, for there were ringing +in her ears the words she herself had said a few days before: "It is good +to live, isn't it?" + +To-day it was so good to live that life seemed an endless being and +a tireless happy doing--a gift of labour, an inspiring daytime, and +a rejoicing sleep. Exaltation, a painful joy, and a wide embarrassing +wonderment possessed her. She met Mrs. Flynn's face at the wicket with +shining eyes and a timid smile. + +"Ah, there y'are, darlin'!" said Mrs. Flynn. "And how's the dear father +to-day?" + +"He seems about the same, thank you." + +"Ah, that's foine. Shure, if we could always be 'about the same,' we'd +do. True for you, darlin', 'tis as you say. If ould Mary Flynn could +be always "bout the same,' the clods o' the valley would never cover her +bones. But there 'tis--we're here to-day, and away tomorrow. Shure, +though, I am not complainin'. Not I--not Mary Flynn. Teddy Flynn used +to say to me, says he: 'Niver born to know distress! Happy as worms in a +garden av cucumbers. Seventeen years in this country, Mary,' says he, +'an' nivir in the pinitintiary yet.' There y'are. Ah, the birds do be +singin' to-day! 'Tis good! 'Tis good, darlin'! You'll not mind Mary +Flynn callin' you darlin', though y'are postmistress, an' 'll be more +than that--more than that wan day--or Mary Flynn's a fool. Aye, more +than that y'll be, darlin', and y're eyes like purty brown topazzes and +y're cheeks like roses-shure, is there anny lether for Mary Flynn, +darlin'?" she hastily added as she saw the Seigneur standing in the +doorway. He had evidently been listening. + +"Ye didn't hear what y're ould fool of a cook was sayin'," she added to +the Seigneur, as Rosalie shook her head and answered: "No letters, +Madame--dear." Rosalie timidly added the dear, for there was something +so great-hearted in Mrs. Flynn that she longed to clasp her round the +neck, longed as she had never done in her life to lay her head upon some +motherly breast and pour out her heart. But it was not to be now. +Secrecy was her duty still. + +"Can't ye speak to y're ould fool of a cook, sir?" Mrs. Flynn said +again, as the Seigneur made way for her to leave the shop. + +"How did you guess?" he said to her in a low voice, his sharp eyes +peering into hers. + +"By the looks in y're face these past weeks, and the look in hers," she +whispered, and went on her way rejoicing. + +"I'll wind thim both round me finger like a wisp o' straw," she said, +going up the road with a light step, despite her weight, till she was +stopped by the malicious grocer-man of the village, whose tongue had been +wagging for hours upon an unwholesome theme. + +Meanwhile, in the post-office, the Seigneur and Rosalie were face to +face. + +"It is Michaelmas day," he said. "May I speak with you, Mademoiselle?" + +She looked at the clock. It was on the stroke of noon. The shop always +closed from twelve till half-past twelve. + +"Will you step into the parlour, Monsieur?" she said, and coming round +the counter, locked the shop-door. She was trembling and confused, and +entered the little parlour shyly. Yet her eyes met the Seigneur's +bravely. "Your father, how is he?" he said, offering her a chair. The +sunlight streaming in the window made a sort of pathway of light between +them, while they were in the shade. + +"He seems no worse, and to-day he is wheeling himself about." + +"He is stronger, then--that's good. Is there any fear that he must go to +the hospital again?" + +She inclined her head. "The doctor says he may have to go any moment. +It may be his one chance. The Cure is very kind, and says that, with +your permission, his sister will keep the office here, if--if needed." + +The Seigneur nodded briskly. "Of course, of course. But have you not +thought that we might secure another postmistress?" + +Her face clouded a little; her heart beat hard. She knew what was +coming. She dreaded it, but it was better to have it over now. + +"We could not live without it," she said helplessly. + +"What we have saved is not enough. The little my mother had must pay for +the visits to the hospital. I have kept it for that. You see, I need +the place here." + +"But you have thought, just the same. Do you not know the day?" he +asked meaningly. + +She was silent. + +"I have come to ask you to marry me--this is Michaelmas day, Rosalie." + +She did not speak. He had hopes from her silence. "If anything happened +to your father, you could not live here alone--but a young girl! Your +father may be in the hospital for a long time. You cannot afford that. +If I were to offer you money, you would refuse. If you marry me, all +that I have is yours to dispose of at your will: to make others happy, +to take you now and then from this narrow place, to see what's going on +in the world." + +"I am happy here," she said falteringly. + +"Chaudiere is the finest place in the world," he replied proudly, and as +a matter of fact. "But, for the sake of knowledge, you should see what +the rest of the world is. It helps you to understand Chaudiere better. +I ask you to be my wife, Rosalie." + +She shook her head sorrowfully. + +"You said before, it was not because I am old, not because I am rich, not +because I am Seigneur, not because I am I, that you refused me." + +She smiled at him now. "That is true," she said. + +"Then what reason can you have? None, none. 'Pon honour, I believe you +are afraid of marriage because it's marriage. By my life, there's naught +to dread. A little giving here and taking there, and it's easy. And +when a woman is all that's good, to a man, it can be done without fear or +trembling. Even the Cure would tell you that." + +"Ah, I know, I know," she said, in a voice half painful, half joyous. +"I know that it is so. But, oh, dear Monsieur, I cannot marry you-- +never--never." + +He hung on bravely. "I want to make life easy and happy for you. I want +the right to do so. When trouble comes upon you--" + +"When it does I will turn to you--ah, yes, I would turn to you without +fear, dear Monsieur," she said, and her heart ached within her, for a +premonition of sorrow came upon her and filled her eyes, and made her +heart like lead within her breast. "I know how true a gentleman you +are," she added. "I could give you everything but that which is life +to me, which is being, and soul, and the beginning and the end." + +The weight of the revealing hour of her life, its wonder, its agony, its +irrevocability, was upon her. It was giving new meanings to existence- +primitive woman, child of nature as she was. All morning she had longed +to go out into the woods and bury herself among the ferns and bracken, +and laugh and weep for very excess of feeling, downright joy and vague +woe possessing her at once. She looked the Seigneur in the eyes with +consuming earnestness. + +"Oh, it is not because I am young," she said, in a low voice, "for I am +old--indeed, I am very old. It is because I cannot love you, and never +can love you in the one great way; and I will not marry without love. My +heart is fixed on that. When I marry, it will be when I love a man so +much that I cannot live without him. If he is so poor that each meal is +a miracle, it will make no difference. Oh, can't you see, can't you +feel, what I mean, Monsieur--you who are so wise and learned, and know +the world so well?" + +"Wise and learned!" he said, a little roughly, for his voice was husky +with emotion. "'Pon honour, I think I am a fool! A bewildered fool, +that knows no more of woman than my cook knows Sanscrit. Faith, a +hundred times less! For Mary Flynn's got an eye to see, and, without +telling, she knew I had a mind set on you. But Mary Flynn thought more +than that, for she has an idea that you've a mind set on some one, +Rosalie. She thought it might be me." + +"A woman is not so easily read as a man," she replied, half smiling, but +with her eyes turned to the street. A few people were gathering in front +of the house--she wondered why. + +"There is some one else--that is it, Rosalie. There is some one else. +You shall tell me who it is. You shall--" + +He stopped short, for there was a loud knocking at the shop-door, and the +voice of M. Evanturel calling: "Rosalie! Rosalie! Rosalie! Ah, come +quickly--ah, my Rosalie!" + +Without a look at the Seigneur, Rosalie rushed into the shop and opened +the front door. Her father was deathly pale, and was trembling +violently. + +"Rosalie, my bird," he cried indignantly, "they're saying you stole the +cross from the church door." + +He was now wheeled inside the shop, and people gathered round, looking +at him and Rosalie, some covertly, some as friends, some in a half- +frightened way, as though strange things were about to happen. + +"Shure, 'tis a lie, or me name's not Mary Flynn--the darlin'!" said the +Seigneur's cook, with blazing face. "Who makes this charge?" roared an +angry voice. No one had seen the Seigneur enter from the little room +beside the shop, and at the sound of the sharp voice the people fell +back, for he was as free with his stick as his tongue. + +"I do," said the grocer, to whom Paulette Dubois had told her story. + +"Ye shall be tarred and feathered before y'are a day older," said Mary +Flynn. + +Rosalie was very pale. + +The Seigneur was struck by this and by the strangeness of her look. + +"Clear the room," he said to Filion Lacasse, who was now a constable of +the parish. + +"Not yet!" said a voice at the doorway. "What is the trouble?" It was +the Cure, who had already heard rumours of the scandal, and had come at +once to Rosalie. M. Evanturel tried to speak, and could not. But Mary +Flynn did, with a face like a piece of scarlet bunting. Having finished +with a flourish, she could scarce keep her hands off the cowardly grocer. + +The Cure turned to Rosalie. "It is absurd," he said. "Forgive me," he +added to the Seigneur. "It is better that Rosalie should answer this +charge. If she gives her word of honour, I will deny communion to +whoever slanders her hereafter." + +"She did it," said the grocer stubbornly. "She can't deny it." + +"Answer, Rosalie," said the Cure firmly. + +"Excuse me; I will answer," said a voice at the door. The tailor of +Chaudiere made his way into the shop, through the fast-gathering crowd. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII + +A TRIAL AND A VERDICT + +"What right have you to answer for mademoiselle?" said the Seigneur, +with a sudden rush of jealousy. Was not he alone the protector of +Rosalie Evanturel? Yet here was mystery, and it was clear the tailor had +something important to say. M. Rossignol offered the Cure a chair, +seated himself on a small bench, and gently drew Rosalie down beside him. + +"I will make this a court," said he. "Advance, grocer." + +The grocer came forward smugly. + +"On what information do you make this charge against mademoiselle?" + +The grocer volubly related all that Paulette Dubois had said. As he +told his tale the Cure's face was a study, for the night the cross was +restored came back to him, and the events, so far as he knew them, were +in keeping with the grocer's narrative. He looked at Rosalie anxiously. +Monsieur Evanturel moaned, for he remembered he had heard Rosalie come in +very late that night. Yet he fixed his eyes on her in dog-like faith. + +"Mademoiselle will admit that this is true, I presume," said Charley. + +Rosalie looked at him intently, as though to read his very heart. It was +clear that he wished her to say yes; and what he wished was law. + +"It is quite true," answered Rosalie calmly, and all fear passed from +her. + +"But she did not steal the cross," continued Charley, in a louder voice, +that all might hear, for people were gathering fast. + +"If she didn't steal it, why was she putting it back on the church door +in the dark?" said the grocer. "Ah, hould y'r head, ould sand-in-the- +sugar!" said Mrs. Flynn, her fingers aching to get into his hair. +"Silence!" said the Seigneur severely, and looked inquiringly at +Rosalie. Rosalie looked at Charley. + +"It is not a question of why mademoiselle put the cross back," he said. +"It is a question of who took the cross away, is it not? Suppose it was +not a theft. Suppose that the person who took the relic thought to do a +pious act--for your Church, Monsieur?" + +"I do not see," the Cure answered helplessly. "It was a secret act, +therefore suspicious at least." + +"'Let your good gifts be in secret, and your Heavenly Father who seeth in +secret will reward you openly,"' answered Charley. "That, I believe, is +a principle you teach, Monsieur." + +"At one time Monsieur the tailor was thought to have taken the cross," +said the Seigneur suggestively. "Perhaps Monsieur was secretly doing +good with it?" he added. It vexed him that there should be a secret +between Rosalie and this man. + +"It had to do with me, not I with it," he answered evenly. He must +travel wide at first to convince their narrow brains. "Mademoiselle did +a kind act when she nailed that cross on the church door again--to make +a dead man rest easier in his grave." + +A hush fell upon the crowd. + +Rosalie looked at Charley in surprise; but she saw his meaning presently +--that what she did for him must seem to have been done for the dead +tailor only. Her heart beat hot with indignation, for she would, if +she but might, cry her love gladly from the hill-tops of the world. + +Alight began to break upon the Cure's mind. "Will Monsieur speak +plainly?" he said. + +"I did not see Louis Trudel take the cross, but I know that he did." + +"Louis Trudel! Louis Trudel!" interposed the Seigneur anxiously. "What +does this mean?" + +"Monsieur speaks the truth," interposed Rosalie. The Cure recalled the +death-bed of Louis Trudel, and the dying man's strange agitation. He +also recalled old Margot's death, and her wish to confess some one else's +wrong-doing. He was convinced that Charley was speaking the truth. + +"It is true," added Charley slowly; "but you may think none the worse of +him when you know all. He took the cross for temporary use, and before +he could replace it he died." + +"How do you know what he meant, or did not mean?" said the Seigneur in +perplexity. "Did he take you into his confidence?" + +"The very closest," answered Charley grimly. + +"Yet he looked upon you as an infidel, and said hard things of you on his +death-bed," urged the Cure anxiously. He could not see the end of the +tale, and he was troubled for both the dead man and the living. + +"That was why he took me into his confidence. I will explain. I have +not the honour to have the fulness of your Christian faith, Monsieur le +Cure. I had asked him to show me a sign from heaven, and he showed it by +the little iron cross." + +"I can't make anything of that," said the Seigneur peevishly. + +Rosalie sprang to her feet. "He will not tell the whole truth, +Messieurs, but I will. With that little cross Louis Trudel would have +killed Monsieur, had it not been for me." + +A gasp of excitement went out from those who stood by. + +"But for you, Rosalie?" asked the Cure. + +"But for me. I saw Louis Trudel raise an iron against Monsieur that day +in the shop. It made me nervous--I thought he was mad. So I watched. +That night I saw a light in the tailor-shop late. I thought it strange. +I went over and peeped through the cracks of the shutters. I saw old +Louis at the fire with the little cross, red-hot. I knew he meant +trouble. I ran into the house. Old Margot was beside herself with fear +--she had seen also. I ran through the hall and saw old Louis upstairs +with the burning cross. I followed. He went into Monsieur's room. When +I got to the door"--she paused, trembling, for she saw Charley's +reproving eyes upon her--"I saw him with the cross--with the cross raised +over Monsieur." + +"He meant to threaten me," interposed Charley quickly. + +"We will have the truth!" said the Seigneur, in a husky voice. + +"The cross came down on Monsieur's bare breast." The grocer laughed +vindictively. + +"Silence!" growled the Seigneur. + +"Silence!" said Filion Lacasse, and dropped his hand on the grocer's +shoulder. "I'll baste you with a stirrup-strap." + +"The rest is well known," quickly interposed Charley. "The poor man was +mad. He thought it a pious act to mark an infidel with the cross." + +Every eye was fixed upon him. The Cure remembered Louis Trudel's last +words: "Look--look--I gave--him--the sign--of . . . !" Old Margot's +words also kept ringing in his ears. He turned to the Seigneur. +"Monsieur," said he, "we have heard the truth. That act of Louis Trudel +was cruel and murderous. May God forgive him! I will not say that +mademoiselle did well in keeping silent--" + +"God bless the darlin'!" cried Mrs. Flynn. + +"--but I will say that she meant to do a kind act for a man's mortal +memory--perhaps at the expense of his soul." + +"For Monsieur to take his injury in silence, to keep it secret, was +kind," said the Seigneur. "It is what our Cure here might call bearing +his cross manfully." + +"Seigneur," said the Cure reproachfully, "Seigneur, it is no subject for +jest." + +"Cure, our tailor here has treated it as a jest." + +"Let him show his breast, if it's true," said the grocer, who, beneath +his smirking, was a malignant soul. + +The Cure turned on him sharply. Seldom had any one seen the Cure roused. + +"Who are you, Ba'tiste Maxime, that your base curiosity should be +satisfied--you, whose shameless tongue clattered, whose foolish soul +rejoiced over the scandal? Must we all wear the facts of our lives--our +joys, our sorrows, and our sins--for such eyes as yours to read? Bethink +you of the evil things that you would hide--aye, every one here!" he +added loudly. "Know, all of you, what goodness of heart towards a wicked +man lay behind the secret these two have kept, that old Margot carried to +her grave. When you go to your homes, pray for as much human kindness in +you as a man of no Church or faith can show. For this child"--he turned +to Rosalie-"honour her! Go now--go in peace!" + +"One moment," said the Seigneur. "I fine Ba'tiste Maxime twenty dollars +for defamation of character. The money to go for the poor." + +"You hear that, ould sand-in-the-sugar!" said Mrs. Flynn. "Will you let +me kiss ye, darlin'?" she added to Rosalie, and, waddling over, reached +out her hands. + +Rosalie's eyes were wet as she warmly kissed the old Irishwoman, and +thereupon they entered into a friendship which was without end. + +The Seigneur drove the crowd from the shop, and shut the door. + +The Cure came to Charley. "Monsieur," said he, "I have no words. +When I remember what agonies you suffered in those hours, how bravely you +endured them--ah, Monsieur!" he added, with moist eyes, "I shall always +feel that--that you are not far from the kingdom of God." + +A silence fell upon them, for the Cure, the Seigneur, and Rosalie, as +they looked at Charley, thought of the scar like a red cross on his +breast. + +It touched Charley with a kind of awe. He smiled painfully. "Shall I +give you proof?" he said, making a motion to undo his waistcoat. + +"Monsieur!" said the Seigneur reprovingly, and holding out his hand. +"Monsieur! We are all gentlemen!" + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII + +JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY + +Walking slowly, head bent, eyes unseeing, Charley was on his way to +Vadrome Mountain, with the knowledge that Jo Portugais had returned. + +The hunger for companionship was on him: to touch some mind that could +understand the deep loneliness which had settled on him since that scene +in the postoffice. It was the loneliness of a new and great separation. +He had wakened to it to-day. + +Once before, in the hut on Vadrome Mountain, he had wakened from a grave, +had been born again. Last night had come still another birth, had come, +as with Rosalie herself, knowledge, revelation, understanding. To +Rosalie the new vision had come with a vague pain of heart, without +shame, and with a wonderful happiness. Pain, shame, knowledge, and a +happiness that passed suddenly into a despairing sorrow, had come to him. + +In finding love he had found conscience, and in finding conscience he was +on his way to another great discovery. + +Looking to where Jo Portugais' house was set among the pines, Charley +remembered the day--he saw the scene in his mind's eye--when Rosalie +entered with the letter addressed "To the sick man at the house of Jo +Portugais, at Vadrome Mountain," and he saw again her clear, unsoiled +soul in the deep inquiring eyes. + +"If you but knew"--he turned and looked down at the village below-- +"if you but knew!" he said, as though to all the world. "I have the +sign from heaven--I know it now. To-day I wake to know what life means, +and I see--Rosalie! I know now--but how? In taking all she had to give. +What does she get in return? Nothing--nothing. Because I love her, +because the whole world is nothing beside her, nor life, nor twenty +lives, if I had them to give, I must say to her now: 'Rosalie, it was +love that brought you to my arms, it is love that says, Thus far and no +farther. Never again--never--never--never!' Yesterday I could have left +her--died or vanished, without real hurt to her. She would have mourned +and broken her heart and mended it again; and I should have been only a +memory--of mystery, of tenderness. Then, one day she would have married, +and no sting from my going would have remained. She would have had +happiness, and I neither shame nor despair. . . . To-day it is all +too late. We have drunk too deep-alas! too deep. She cannot marry +another man, for ghosts will not lie for asking, and what is mine may not +be another's. She cannot marry me, for what once was mine is mine still +by ring and by book, and I should always be haunted by a torturing +shadow. Kathleen has the right of way, not Rosalie. Ah, Rosalie, +I dare not wrong you further. Yet to marry you, even as things are, +if that might be! To live on here unrecognised? I am little like my +old self, and year after year I should grow less and less like Charley +Steele. . . . But, no, it is not possible!" + +He stopped short in his thoughts, and his lips tightened in bitterness. + +"God in heaven, what an impasse!" he said aloud. + +There was a sudden crackling of twigs as a man rose up from a log by the +wayside ahead of him. It was Jo Portugais, who had seen him coming, and +had waited for him. He had heard Charley's words. + +"Do you call me an impasse, M'sieu'?" Charley grasped Portugais' hand. + +"What has happened, M'sieu'?" Jo asked anxiously. There was a brief +silence, and then Charley told him of the events of the morning. + +"You know of the mark-here?" he asked, touching his breast. + +Jo nodded. "I saw, when you were ill." + +"Yet you never asked!" + +"I studied it out--I knew old Louis Trudel. Also, I saw ma'm'selle nail +the cross to the church door. Two and two together in my mind did it. +I didn't think Paulette Dubois would tell. I warned her." + +"She quarrelled with mademoiselle. It was revenge. + +"She might have been less vindictive. She had had good luck herself +lately." + +"What good luck had she, M'sieu'?" + +Charley told Jo the story of the Notary, the woman, and the child. + +Jo made no comment. They relapsed into silence. Arriving at the house, +they entered. Jo lighted his pipe, and smoked steadily for a time +without speaking. Buried in thought, Charley stood in the doorway +looking down at the village. At last he turned. + +"Where have you been these weeks past, Jo?" + +"To Quebec first, M'sieu'." + +Charley looked curiously at Jo, for there was meaning in his tone. "And +where last?" + +"To Montreal." + +Charley's face became paler, his hands suddenly clinched, for he read the +look in Jo's eyes. He knew that Jo had been looking at people and places +once so familiar; that he had seen--Kathleen. + +"Go on. Tell me all," he said heavily. + +Portugais spoke in English. The foreign language seemed to make the +truth less naked and staring to himself. He had a hard story to tell. + +"It is not to say why I go to Montreal," he began. "But I go. I have my +ears open; my eyes, she is not close. No one knows me--I am no account +of. Every one is forgot the man, Joseph Nadeau, who was try for his +life. Perhaps it is every one is forget the lawyer who save his neck-- +perhaps? So I stand by the streetside. I say to a man as I look up at +sign-boards,' 'Where is that writing "M'sieu' Charles Steele," and all +the res'?' 'He is dead long ago,' say the man to me. 'A good thing too, +for he was the very devil.' 'I not understan',' I say. 'I tink that +M'sieu' Steele is a dam smart man back time.' 'He was the smartes' man +in the country, that Beauty Steele,' the man say. 'He bamboozle the jury +hevery time. He cut up bad though.'" + +Charley raised his hand with a nervous gesture of misery and impatience. + +"'Where have you been,' that man say--'where have you been all these +times not to know 'bout Charley Steele, hein?' 'In the backwoods,' +I say. 'What bring you here now?' he ask. 'I have a case,' I say. +'What is it?' he ask. 'It is a case of a man who is punish for another +man,' I say. 'That's the thing for Charley Steele,' he laugh. 'He was +great man to root things out. Can't fool Charley Steele, we use to say +here. But he die a bad death.' 'What was the matter with him?' I say. +'He drink too much, he spend too much, he run after a girl at Cote +Dorion, and the river-drivers do for him one night. They say it was +acciden', but is there any green on my eye? But he die trump--jus' like +him. He have no fear of devil or man,' so the man say. 'But fear of +God?' I ask. 'He was hinfidel,' he say. 'That was behin' all. He was +crooked all roun'. He rob the widow and horphan?' 'I think he too smart +for that,' I speak quick. 'I suppose it was the drink,' he say. 'He +loose his grip.' 'He was a smart man, an' he would make you all sit up, +if he come back,' I hanswer. 'If he come back!' The man laugh queer at +that. 'If he comeback, there would be hell.' 'How is that?' I say. +'Look across the street,' he whisper. 'That was his wife.'" + +Charley choked back a cry in his throat. Jo had no intention of cutting +his story short. He had an end in view. + +"I look across the street. There she is--' Ah, that is a fine woman +to see! I have never seen but one more finer to look at--here in +Chaudiere.' The man say: 'She marry first for money, and break her heart; +now she marry for love. If Beauty Steele come back-eh! sacra! that +would be a mess. But he is at the bottom of the St Lawrence--the courts +say so, and the Church say so--and ghosts don't walk here.' 'But if that +Beauty Steele come back alive, what would happen it?' I speak. 'His wife +is marry, blockhead!' he say. + +"'But the woman is his,' I hanswer. 'Do you think she would go back to a +thief she never love from the man she love?' he speak back. 'She is not +marry to the other man,' I say, 'if Beauty Steele is . . .' 'He is +dead as a door,' he swear. 'You see that?' he go on, nodding down the +street. 'Well, that is Billy.' 'Who is Billy?' I ask. 'The brother of +her,' he say. 'Charley, he spoil Billy. Billy, he has not been the same +since Charley's death-he is so ashame of Charley. When he get drunk he +talk of nothing else. We all remember that Charley spoil him, and that +make us sorry for him.' 'Excuse me,' I say. 'I think that Billy is a +dam smart man. He is smart as Charley Steele.' 'Charley was the +smartes' man in the country,' he say again. 'I've got his practice now, +but this town will never be the same without him. Thief or no thief, +I wish he is alive here. By the Lord, I'd get drunk with him!' He was +all right, that man," Jo added finally. + +Charley's agitation was hidden. His eyes were fixed on Jo intently. +"That was Larry Rockwell. Go on," he said, in a hard metallic voice. + +"I see--her, the next night again. It is in the white stone house on the +hill. All the windows are open, an' I can hear her to sing. I not know +that song. It begin, 'Oft in the stilly night'--like that." + +Charley stiffened. It was the song Kathleen sang for him the night they +became engaged. + +"It is a good voice-that. I see her face, for there is a candle on the +piano. I come close and closter to the house. There is big maple-trees +--I am well hid. A man is beside her. He lean hover her an' put his +hand on her shoulder. 'Sing it again, Kat'leen,' he say. 'I cannot to +get enough.'" + +"Stop!" said Charley, in a strained, harsh voice. "Not yet, M'sieu'," +said Portugais. "It is good for you to hear what I say." + +"'Come, Kat'leen!' the man say, an' he blow hout the candle. I hear them +walk away, an' the door shut behin' them. Then I hear anudder voice--ah, +that is a baby--very young baby!" + +Charley quickly got to his feet. "Not another word!" he said. + +"Yes, yes, but there is one word more, M'sieu'," said Jo, standing up and +facing him firmly. "You must go back. You are not a thief. The woman +is yours. You throw your life away. What is the man to you--or the +man's brat of a child? It is all waiting for you. You mus' go back. +You not steal the money, but that Billy--it is that Billy, I know. You +can forgive your wife, and take her back, or you can say to both, Go! +You can put heverything right and begin again." + +Anger, wild words, seemed about to break from Charley's lips, but he +conquered himself. + +The old life had been brought back to him with painful acuteness and +vividness. The streets of the town, the people in the street, Billy, the +mean scoundrel, who could not leave him alone in the grave of obscurity, +Kathleen--Fairing. The voice of the child--with her voice--was in his +ears. A child! If he had had a child, perhaps----He stopped short in +his thinking, his face all at once flooding with colour. For a moment he +stood looking out of the window down towards the village. He could see +the post-office like a toy house among toy houses. At last he turned to +Jo. + +"Never again while I live, speak of this to me: of the past, of going +back, or of--of anything else," he said. "I cannot go back. I am dead +and shamed. Let the dust of forgetfulness come and cover the past. I've +begun life again here, and here I stay, and see it out. I shall work out +the problem here." He dropped a hand on the other's shoulder. "Jo," +said he, "we are both shipwrecks. Let us see how long we can float." + +"M'sieu', is it worth it?" said Portugais, remembering his confession to +the Abbe, and seeing the end of it all to himself. + +"I don't know, Jo. Let us wait and see how Fate will play us." + +"Or God, M'sieu'?" + +"God or Fate--who knows" + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV + +"WHO WAS KATHLEEN?" + +The painful incidents of the morning weighed heavily upon Rosalie, and +she was glad when Madame Dugal came to talk with her father, who was +ailing and irritable, and when Mrs. Flynn drove her away with a kiss on +either cheek, saying: "Don't come back, darlin', till there's roses in +both cheeks, for y'r eyes are 'atin' up yer face!" + +She had seen Charley take the path to Vadrome Mountain, and to the +Rest of the Flax-beaters she betook herself, in the blind hope that, +returning, he might pass that way. Under the influence of the fresh air +and the quiet of the woods her spirits rose, her pulse beat faster, +though a sense of foreboding and sorrow hovered round her. The two-miles +walk to her beloved retreat seemed a matter of minutes only, so busy were +her thoughts. + +Her mind was one luxurious confusion, through which travelled a ghostly +little sprite, who kept tumbling her thoughts about, sneering, smirking, +whispering--"You dare not go to confession--dare not go to confession. +You will never be the same again--never feel the same again--never think +the same again; your dreams are done! You can only love. And what will +this love do for you? What do you expect to happen--you dare not go to +confession!" + +Her reply had been the one iteration: "I love him--I love him--I love +him. We shall be together all our lives, till we are old and grey. +I shall watch him at his work, and listen to his voice. I shall read +with him and walk with him, and I shall grow to think like him a little +--in everything except religion. In everything except that. One day he +will come to think like me--to believe in God." + +In the dreamy happiness of these thoughts the colour came to her cheeks, +the roses of light gathered in her eyes. In her tremulous ardour she +scarcely realised how time passed, and her reverie deepened as the +afternoon shadows grew and the sun made to its covert behind the hills. +She was roused by a man's voice singing, just under the bluff where she +sat. To her this voice represented the battle-call, the home-call, the +life call of the universe. The song it sang was known to her. It was as +old as Rizzio. It had come from old France with Mary, had been merged +into English words and English music, and had voyaged to New France. +There it had been sung by lovers in fair vales, on wide rivers, and in +deep forests: + + "What is not mine I may not hold, + (Ah, hark the hunter's horn!), + And what is thine may not be sold, + (My love comes through the corn!); + And none shall buy + And none shall sell + What Love works well?" + +In the walk back from Vadrome Mountain, a change--a fleeting change-- +had passed over Charley's mind and mood. The quiet of the woodland, +the song of the birds, the tumbling brook, the smell of the rich earth, +replenishing its strength from the gorgeous falling leaves, had soothed +him. Thoughts of Rosalie took a new form. Her image possessed him, +excluding the future, the perils that surrounded them. He had gone +through so much within the past twenty-four hours that the capacity for +suffering had almost exhausted itself, and in the reaction endearing +thoughts of Rosalie had dominion over him. It was the reassertion of +primitive man, the demands of the first element. The great problem was +still in the background. The picture of Kathleen and the other man was +pushed into the distance; thoughts of Billy and his infamy were thrust +under foot--how futile to think of them! There was Rosalie to be thought +of, the to-day and to-morrow of the new life. + +Rosalie was of to-day. How strong and womanly she had been this +morning, the girl whose life had been bounded by this Chaudiere, with a +metropolitan convent and hospital as her only glimpses of the busy world. +She would fit in anywhere--in the highest places, with her grace, and her +nobleness of mind, arcadian, passionate and beautiful. There came upon +him again the feeling of the evening before, when he saw her standing in +his doorway, the night about them, jealous affection, undying love, in +her eyes. It quickened his steps imperceptibly. He passed a stream, and +glanced down into a dark pool involuntarily. It reflected himself +clearly. He stopped short. "Is this you, Beauty Steele?" he said, and +he caught his brown beard in his hand. "Beauty Steele had brains and no +heart. You have heart, and your wits have gone wool-gathering. No +matter! + + What is not mine I may not hold, + (Ah, hark the hunter's horn!)'" + +he sang, and came quickly along the stream where the flax-beaters worked +in harvest-time, then up the hill, then--Rosalie. + +She started to her feet. "I knew you would come--I knew you would!" she +said. + +"You have been waiting here for me?" he asked breathless, taking her +hand. + +"I felt you would come. I made you," she added smiling, and, eagerly +answering the look in his eyes, threw her arms round his neck. In that +moment's joy a fresh realisation of their fate came upon him with dire +force, and a bitter protest went up from his heart, that he and she +should be sacrificed. + +Yet the impasse was there, and what could remove it--what clear the way? + +He looked down at the girl whose head was buried in happy peace on his +shoulder. She clung to him, as though in him was everlasting protection +from the sprite that kept whispering: "You dare not go to confession-- +your dreams are done--you can only love." But she had no fear now. + +As he looked down at her a swift change passed over him, and, almost for +the first time since he was a little child, his eyes filled with tears. +He hastily brushed them away, and drew her down on the seat beside him. +He was wondering how he should tell her that they must not meet like +this, that they must be apart. No matter what had happened, no matter +what love there was, it was better that they should die--that he should +die--than that they should meet like this. There was only one end to +secret meetings, and discovery was inevitable. Then, with discovery, +shame to her. For he must either marry her--how could he marry her? +--or die. For him to die would but increase her misery. + +The time had passed when it could be of any use. It passed that day in +the hut on Vadrome Mountain when she said that if he died, she would die +with him--"Where you are going you will be alone. There will be no one +to care for you, no one but me." Last night it passed for ever. She had +put her life into his hands; henceforth, there could never be a question +of giving or taking, of withdrawing or advancing, for all was +irrevocable, sealed with the great seal. Yet she must be saved. +But how? + +She suddenly looked up at him. "I can ask you anything I want now, can't +I?" she said. + +"Anything, Rosalie." + +"You know that when I ask, it is because I want to know what you know, so +that I may feel as you feel. You know that, don't you? + +"I know it when you tell me, wonderful Rosalie." What a revelation it +was, this transmuting power, which could change mortal dross into the +coin of immortal wealth! + +"I want to ask you," she said, "who was Kathleen?" His blood seemed to +go cold in his veins, and he sat without answering, shocked and dismayed. +What could she know of Kathleen? + +"Can't you tell me?" she asked anxiously yet fearfully. He looked so +strange that she thought she had offended him. "Please don't mind +telling me. I should understand everything--everything. Was it some one +you loved--once?" It was hard for her to say it, but she said it +bravely. + +"No. I never loved any one in all the world, Rosalie--not till I loved +you." + +She gave a happy sigh. "Oh, it is wonderful!" she said. "It is +wonderful and good! Did you--did you love me from the very first?" + +"I think I did, though I didn't know it from the very first," he answered +slowly. His heart beat hard, for he could not guess how she should know +of Kathleen. It was absurdly impossible that she should know. "But many +have loved you!" she said proudly. "They have not shown it," he +answered grimly; then added quickly, and with aching anxiety: "When did +you hear of--of Kathleen?" + +"Oh, you are such a blind huntsman!" she laughed. "Don't you know where +my little fox was hiding? Why, in the shop, when you held the note-paper +up to the light, and looked startled, and bought all the paper we had +that was water-marked Kathleen. Do you think that was clever of me? I +don't." + +"I think it was very clever," he said. + +"Then she-Kathleen--doesn't really matter?" she asked eagerly. "Of +course she can't, if you don't love her. But does she love you? Did she +ever love you?" "Never in her life." + +"So of course it doesn't matter," she rejoined. "Hush!" she added +rapidly. "I see some one coming in the trees yonder. It may be some one +for me. Father knows I come here sometimes. Go quickly and hide behind +the rocks, please. I'll stay and see who it is. Please go--dearest." + +He kissed her, and, keeping out of sight, got to a place of safety a few +hundred feet away. + +He saw the new-comer run to Rosalie, speak to her, saw Rosalie half turn +in his own direction, then go hastily down the hillside with the +messenger. + +"It is her father!" he exclaimed, and followed at a distance. At the +village he learned that M. Evanturel had had another seizure. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV + +SIX MONTHS GO BY + +Spring again--budding trees and flowing sap; the earth banks removed from +the houses, and outside windows discarded; the ice tumbling and crunching +in the river; the dormant farmer raising his head to the energy and +delight of April. + +The winter had been long and hard. Never had there been severer frost or +deeper snow, and seldom had big game been so plentiful. In the snug warm +stables the cattle munched and chewed the cud; the idle, long-haired +horses grew as spirited in the keen air as in summer they were sluggish +with hard work; and the farm-hands were abroad in the dark of the early +mornings with lanterns, to feed the stock and take them out to water, +singing cheerfully. All morning spread the clamour of the flail and the +fanning-mill, the swish of the knife through the turnips and the beets, +and the sound of the saw and the axe, as the youngest man of the family, +muffled to the nose, sawed the wood into lengths or split the knots. + +Night brought the cutting and stringing of apples, the shelling of the +Indian corn, the making of rag carpets. On Saturday came the going to +market with grain, or pork, or beef, or fowls frozen like stones; the +gossip in the market-place. Then again sounded jingling sleigh-bells as, +on the return road, the habitant made for home, a glass of white whiskey +inside him, and black-eyed children in the doorway, swarming like bees at +the mouth of a hive. + +This particular winter in Chaudiere had been full of excitement and +expectation. At Easter-time there was to be the great Passion Play, +after the manner of that known as The Passion Play of Ober-Ammergau. Not +one in a hundred habitants had ever heard of Ober-Ammergau, but they had +all shared in picturesque processions of the Stations of the Cross to +some calvaire; and many had taken part in dramatic scenes arranged from +the life of Christ. Drama of a crude kind was deep in them; it showed in +gesture, speech, and temperament. + +In all the preparations Maximilian Cour was a conspicuous and useful +official. Gifted with the dramatic temperament to a degree rare in so +humble a man, he it was who really educated the people of Chaudiere in +the details of the Passion Play to be produced by the good Catholics of +the parish and the Indians of the reservation. He had gone to the Cure +every day, and the Cure had talked with him, and then had sent him to the +tailor, who had, during the past six months, withdrawn more and more from +the life about him, practically living with shut door. No one ventured +in unless on business, or were in need, or wished advice. These he never +turned empty away. + +Besides Portugais, Maximilian Cour was the one man received constantly +by the tailor. With patience and insight Charley taught the baker, by +drawings and careful explanations, the outlines of the representation, +and the baker grew proud of the association, though Charley's face used +to haunt him in his sleep. Excitable, eager, there was an elemental +adaptability in the baker, as easily leading to Avernus as to Elysium. +This appealed to Charley, realising, as he did, that Maximilian Cour was +a reputable citizen by mere accident. The baker's life had run in a +sentimental groove of religious duty; that same sentimentality would, +in other circumstances, have forced him with equal ardour into the broad +primrose path. + +In the evening hours and on Sunday Charley had worked at his drawings for +the scenery and costumes of the Play, and completed his translation of +the German text, but there had been days when he could not put pen to +paper. Life to him now was one aching emptiness--since that day at the +Rest of the Flax-beaters Rosalie had been absent. On the very morning +after their meeting by the river she had gone away with her father to the +great hospital at Montreal--not Quebec this time, on the advice of the +Seigneur--as the one chance of prolonging his life. There had come but +one letter from her since that hour when he saw her in the Seigneur's +coach with her father, moving away in the still autumn air, a piteous +appeal in her eyes. The good-bye look she gave him then was with him day +and night. + +She had written him one letter, and he had written one in reply, and no +more. Though he was wholly reckless for himself, for her he was prudent +now--there was nothing else to do. To save her--if he could but save her +from himself! If he might only put back the clock! + +In his letter to her he had simply said that it were wiser not to write, +since the acting postmistress, the Cure's sister, would note the exchange +of letters, and this would arouse suspicion. He could not see what was +best to do, what was right to do. To wait seemed the only thing, and his +one letter ended with the words: Rosalie, my life is lived only in the +thought of you. There is no hour but I think of you, no moment but you +are with me. The greatest proof of love that man can give, I will give +to you, in the hour fate wills--for us. But now, we must wait--we must +wait, Rosalie. Do not write to me, but know that if I could go to you I +would go; if I could say to you, Come, I would say it. If the giving of +my life would save you any pain or sorrow, I would give it. + +Sitting on his bench at work, it seemed to Charley that sometimes she was +near him, and more than once he turned quickly round as though she were, +in very truth, standing beside him. He thought of her continually, and +often with an unbearable pain. He figured her in his mind as pale and +distressed, and always her eyes had the piteous terror of that last look +as she went away over the hills. + +But the weeks had worn on, then the Seigneur, who had been to Montreal, +came back with the news that Rosalie was looking as beautiful as a +picture. "Grown a woman in beauty and in stature; comely--comely as a +lady in a Watteau picture, my dear messieurs!" he had said to the Cure, +standing in the tailor's shop. + +Replying, the Cure had said: "She is in good hands, with good people, +recommended to me by an abbe there; yet I am not wholly happy about her. +When her trouble comes to her"--Charley's needle slipped and pierced his +finger to the bone--"when her father goes, as he must, I fear, there will +be no familiar face; she will hear no familiar voice." + +"Faith, there you are wrong, my dear Cure" answered the Seigneur; +"there'll be a face yonder she likes very well indeed, and a voice she's +fond of too." + +Charley's back was on them at that moment, of which he was glad, for his +face was haggard with anxiety, and it seemed hours before the Cure said: +"Whom do you mean, Maurice?" and hours before the Seigneur replied: +"Mrs. Flynn, of course. I'm sending her tomorrow." + +Mrs. Flynn had gone, and Charley had, in one sense, been made no happier +by that, for it seemed to him that Rosalie would rather that strangers' +eyes were on her than the inquisitively friendly eye of Mary Flynn. + +Weeks had grown into months, and no news came--none save that which the +Cure let fall, or was brought by the irresponsible Notary, who heard all +gossip. Only the Cure's scant news were authentic, however, and Charley +never saw the good priest but he had a secret hope of hearing him say +that Rosalie was coming back. Yet when she came back, what would, or +could, he do? There was always the crime for which he or Billy must be +punished. Concerning this crime his heart was growing harder--for +Rosalie's sake. But there was Kathleen--and Rosalie was now in the +city where she lived, and they might meet! There was one solution-- +if Kathleen should die! It sickened him that he could think of that with +a sense of relief, almost of hope. If Kathleen should die, then he would +be free to marry Rosalie--into what? He still could only marry her into +the peril and menace of the law? Again, even if Kathleen did not stand +in the way, neither the Cure nor any other priest would marry him to her +without his antecedents being certified. A Protestant minister would, +perhaps, but would Rosalie give up her faith? Following him without the +blessing of the Church, she would trample under foot every dear tradition +of her life, win the scorn of all of her religion, and destroy her own +peace; for the faith of her fathers was as the breath of her nostrils. +What cruelty to her! + +But was it, after all, even true that he had but to call and she would +come? In truth it well might be that she had learned to despise him; +to feel how dastardly he had been to take her love, given in blind +simplicity, bestowed like the song of the bird upon the listening fields +--to take the plenteous fulness of her life, and give nothing in return +save the empty hand, the hopeless hour, the secret sorrow. + +Nothing could quench his misery. The physical part of him craved without +ceasing for something to allay his distress. Again and again he fought +his old enemy with desperate resolve. To fall again, to touch liquor +once more, was to end all for ever. He fought on tenaciously and +gloomily, with little of the pride of life, with nothing of the old +stubborn self-will, but with a new-awakened sense. He had found +conscience at last--and more. + +The months went by and still M. Evanturel lingered on, and Rosalie did +not come. The strain became too great at last. In the week preceding +Easter, when all the parish was busy at Four Mountains, making costumes, +rehearsing, building, putting up seats, cutting down trees, and erecting +crosses and calvaries, Charley disclosed to Jo a new intention. + +In the earlier part of the winter Jo and he had met two or three times +a week, but now Jo had come to help him with his work in the shop--two +silent, devoted companions. They understood each other, and in that +understanding were life and death. For never did Jo forget that a year +from the day he had confessed his sins he meant to give himself up to +justice. This caused him no sleepless nights. He thought more of +Charley than of himself, and every month now he went to confession, and +every day he said his prayers. He was at his prayers when Charley went +to tell him of his purpose. Charley had often seen Jo on his knees of +late, and he had wondered, but not with the old pagan mind. "Jo," he +said, "I am going away--to Montreal." + +"To Montreal!" exclaimed Jo huskily. "You are going back--to stay?" + +"Not that. I am going--to see--Rosalie Evanturel." Jo was troubled but +not dumfounded. It had slowly crept into his mind that Charley loved the +girl, though he had no real ground for suspicion. His will, however, had +been so long the slave of the other man's that he had far-off reflections +of his thoughts. He made no reply in words, but nodded his head. + +"I want you to stay here, Jo. If I don't come back, and--and she does, +stand by her, Jo. I can trust you." "You will come back, M'sieu'--but +you will come back, then?" Jo asked heavily. + +"If I can, Jo--if I can," he answered. + +Long after he had gone, Jo wandered up and down among the trees on the +river-road, up which Charley had disappeared with Jo's dogs and sled. +He kept shaking his head mournfully. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI + +THE FORGOTTEN MAN + +It was Easter morning, and the good sunrise of a perfect spring made +radiant the high hill above the town. Rosy-fingered morn touched with +magic colour the masts and scattered sails of the ships upon the great +river, and spires and towers quivered with rainbow light. The city was +waking cheerfully, though the only active life was in the pealing bells +and on the deep flowing rivers. The streets were empty yet, save for an +assiduous priest or the cart of a milkman. Here and there a window +opened and a drowsy head was thrust into the eager air. These saw a +bearded countryman with his team of six dogs and his little cart going +slowly up the street. It was plain the man had come a long distance-- +from the mountains in the east or south, no doubt, where horses were few, +and dogs, canoes, and oxen the means of transportation. + +As the man moved slowly through the streets, his dogs still gallantly +full of life after their hard journey, he did not stare about him after +the manner of countrymen. His movements had intelligence and freedom. +He was an unusual figure for a woodsman or river-man--he did not wear +ear-rings or a waist-sash as did the river-men, and he did not turn in +his toes like a woodsman. Yet he was plainly a man from the far +mountains. + +The man with the dogs did not heed the few curious looks turned his way, +but held his head down as though walking in familiar places. Now and +then he spoke to his dogs, and once he stopped before a newspaper office, +which had a placard bearing these lines: + +The Coming Passion Play In the Chaudiere Valley. + +He looked at it mechanically, for, though he was concerned in the Passion +Play and the Chaudiere Valley, it was an abstraction to him at this +moment. His mind was absorbed by other things. + +Though he looked neither to right nor to left, he was deeply affected by +all round him. + +At last he came to a certain street, where he and his dogs travelled +more quickly. It opened into a square, where bells were booming in +the steeple of a church. Shops and offices in the street were shut, +but a saloon-door was open, and over the doorway was the legend: Jean +Jolicoeur, Licensed to sell Wine, Beer, and other Spirituous and +Fermented Liquors. + +Nearly opposite was a lawyer's office, with a new-painted sign. It had +once read, in plain black letters, Charles Steele, Barrister, etc.; now +it read, in gold letters and many flourishes of the sign-painter's art, +Rockwell and Tremblay, Barristers, Attorneys, etc. + +Here the man looked up with trouble in his eyes. He could see dimly the +desk and the window beside which he had sat for so many years, and on the +wall a map of the city glowed with the incoming sun. + +He moved on, passing the saloon with the open door. The landlord, in his +shirt-sleeves, was standing in the doorway. He nodded, then came out to +the edge of the board-walk. + +"Come a long way, M'sieu'?" he asked. + +"Four days' journey," answered the man gruffly through his beard, looking +the landlord in the eyes. If this landlord, who in the past had seen him +so often and so closely, did not recognise him, surely no one else would. +It was, however, a curious recurrence of habit that, as he looked at the +landlord, he instinctively felt for his eye-glass, which he had discarded +when he left Chaudiere. For an instant there was an involuntary arrest +of Jean Jolicoeur's look, as though memory had been roused, but this +swiftly passed, and he said: + +"Fine dogs, them! We never get that kind hereabouts now, M'sieu'. Ever +been to the city before?" + +"I've never been far from home before," answered the Forgotten Man. + +"You'd better keep your eyes open, my friend, though you've got a sharp +pair in your head--sharp as Beauty Steele's almost. There's rascals in +the river-side drinking-places that don't let the left hand know what the +right does." + +"My dogs and I never trust anybody," said the Forgotten Man, as one of +the dogs snarled at the landlord's touch. "So I can take care of myself, +even if I haven't eyes as sharp as Beauty Steele's, whoever he is." + +The landlord laughed. "Beauty's only skin-deep, they say. Charley +Steele was a lawyer; his office was over there"--he pointed across the +street. "He went wrong. He come here too often--that wasn't my fault. +He had an eye like a hawk, and you couldn't read it. Now I can read your +eye like a book. There's a bit of spring in 'em, M'sieu'. His eyes were +hard winter-ice five feet deep and no fishing under--froze to the bed. +He had a tongue like a cross-cut saw. He's at the bottom of the St. +Lawrence, leaving a bad job behind him. + +"Have a drink--hein?" He jerked a finger backwards to the saloon door. +"It's Sunday, but stolen waters are sweet, sure!" + +The Forgotten Man shook his head. "I don't drink, thank you." + +"It'd do you good. You're dead beat. You've been travelling hard--eh?" + +"I've come a long way, and travelled all night." + +"Going on?" + +"I am going back to-morrow." + +"On business?" + +Charley nodded--he glanced involuntarily at the sign across the street. + +Jean Jolicoeur saw the look. "Lawyer's business, p'r'aps?" + +"A lawyer's business--yes." + +"Ah, if Charley Steele was here!" + +"I have as good a lawyer as--" + +The landlord laughed scornfully. "They're not made. He'd legislate the +devil out of the Pit. Where are you going to stay, M'sieu'?" + +"Somewhere cheap--along the river," answered the Forgotten Man. + +Jolicoeur's good-natured face became serious. "I'll tell you a place-- +it's honest. It's the next street, a few hundred yards down, on the +left. There's a wooden fish over the door. It's called The Black Bass +--that hotel. Say I sent you. Good luck to you, countryman! Ah, la; +la, there's the second bell--I must be getting to Mass!" With a nod he +turned and went into the house. + +The Forgotten Man passed slowly up the street, into the side street, +and followed it till he came to The Black Bass, and turned into the small +stable-yard. A stable-man was stirring. He at once put his dogs into +a little pen set apart for them, saw them fed from the kitchen, and, +betaking himself to a little room behind the bar of the hotel, ordered +breakfast. The place was empty, save for the servant--the household were +at Mass. He looked round the room abstractedly. He was thinking of a +crippled man in a hospital, of a girl from a village in the Chaudiere +Valley. He thought with a shiver of a white house on the hill. He +thought of himself as he had never done before in his life. Passing +along the street, he had realised that he had no moral claim upon +anything or anybody within these precincts of his past life. The place +was a tomb to him. + +As he sat in the little back parlour of The Black Bass, eating his frugal +breakfast of eggs and bread and milk, the meaning of it all slowly dawned +upon him. Through his intellect he had known something of humanity, but +he had never known men. He had thought of men in the mass, and despised +them because of their multitudinous duplication, and their typical +weaknesses; but he had never known one man or one woman from the subtler, +surer divination of the heart. His intellect had made servants and lures +of his emotions and his heart, for even his every case in court had been +won by easy and selfish command of all those feelings in mankind which +make possible personal understanding. + +In this little back parlour it came to him with sudden force how, long +ago, he had cut himself off from any claim upon his fellows--not only by +his conduct, but by his merciless inhuman intelligence working upon the +merciful human life about him. He never remembered to have had any real +feeling till on that day with Kathleen--the day he died. The bitter +complaint of a woman he had wronged cruelly, by having married her, had +wrung from him his own first wail of life, in the one cry "Kathleen!" + +As he sat eating his simple meal his pulses were beating painfully. +Every nerve in his body seemed to pluck at the angry flesh. There +flashed across his mind in sympathetic sensation a picture. It was the +axe-factory on the river, before which he used to stand as a boy, and +watch the men naked to the waist, with huge hairy arms and streaming +faces, toiling in the red glare, the trip-hammers endlessly pounding upon +the glowing metal. In old days it had suggested pictures of gods and +demi-gods toiling in the workshops of the primeval world. So the whole +machinery of being seemed to be toiling in the light of an awakened +conscience, to the making of a man. It seemed to him that all his life +was being crowded into these hours. His past was here--its posing, its +folly, its pitiful uselessness, and its shame. Kathleen and Billy were +here, with all the problems that involved them. Rosalie was here, with +the great, the last problem. + +"Nothing matters but that--but Rosalie," he said to himself as he turned +to look out of the window at the wrangling dogs gnawing bones. "Here she +is in the midst of all I once knew, and I know that I am no more a part +of it than she is. She and Kathleen may have met face to face in these +streets--who can tell! The world is large, but there's a sort of +whipper-in of Fate, who drives the people wearing the same livery into +one corner in the end. If they met"--he rose and walked hastily up and +down--"what then? I have a feeling that Rosalie would recognise her as +plainly as though the word Kathleen were stitched on her breast." + +There was a clock on the wall. He looked at it. "It will not be safe to +go out until evening. Then I can go to the hospital, and watch her +coming out." He realised with satisfaction that many people coming from +Mass must pass the inn. There was a chance of his seeing Rosalie, if she +had gone to early Mass. This street lay in her way from the hospital. +"One look--ah, one look!" For this one look he had come. For this, and +to secure that which would save Rosalie from want always, if anything +should happen to him. This too had been greatly on his mind. There was +a way to give her what was his very own, which would rob no one and serve +her well indeed. + +Looking at his face in the mirror over the mantel, he said to himself + +"I might have had ten thousand friends, yet I have a thousand enemies, +who grin at the memory of the drunken fop down among the eels and the +cat-fish. Every chance was with me then. I come back here, and--and +Jolicoeur tells me the brutal truth. But if I had had ambition"--a wave +of the feeling of the old life passed over him--"if I had had ambition as +I was then, I should have been a monster. It was all so paltry that, in +sheer disgust, I should have kicked every ladder down that helped me up. +I should have sacrificed everything to myself." + +He stopped short and stared, for, in the mirror, he saw a girl passing +through the stable-yard towards the quarrelling dogs in the kennel. He +clapped his hand to his mouth to stop a cry. It was Rosalie. + +He did not turn round but looked at her in the mirror, as though it were +the last look he might give on earth. + +He could hear her voice speaking to the dogs: "Ah, my friends, ah, my +dears! I know you every one. Jo Portugais is here. I know your bark, +you, Harpy, and you, Lazybones, and you, Cloud and London! I know you +every one. I heard you as I came from Mass, beauty dears. Ah, you know +me, sweethearts? Ah, God bless you for coming! You have come to bring +us home; you have come to fetch us home--father and me." The paws of one +of the dogs was on her shoulder, and his nose was in her hair. + +Charley heard her words, for the window was open, and he listened and +watched now with an infinite relief in his look. Her face was half +turned towards him. It was pale-very pale and sad. It was Rosalie as of +old--thank God, as of old!--but more beautiful in the touching sadness, +the far-off longing, of her look. + +"I must go and see your master," she said to the dogs. "Down--down, +Lazybones!" + +There was no time to lose--he must not meet her ere. He went into the +outer hall hastily. The servant was passing through. "If any one asks +for Jo Portugais," he said, "say that I'll be back to-morrow morning--I'm +going across the river to-day." + +"Certainly, M'sieu'," said the girl, and smiled because of the piece of +silver he put in her hand. + +As he heard the side door open he stepped through the front doorway into +the street, and disappeared round a corner. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII + +ONE WAS TAKEN AND THE OTHER LEFT + +Rosalie carried to the hospital that afternoon a lighter heart than she +had known for many a day. The sight of Jo Portugais' dogs had roused her +out of the apathy which had been growing on her in this patient but +hopeless watching beside her father. She had always a smile and a +cheerful word for the poor man. A settled sorrow hung upon her face, +however, taking away its colour, but giving it a sweet gravity which made +her slave more than one young doctor of the hospital, for whom, however, +she showed no more than a friendly frankness, free from self- +consciousness. For hours she would sit in reverie beside her sleeping +father, her heart "over the water to Charley." As in a trance, she could +see him sitting at his bench, bent over his work, now and again lifting +up his head to look across to the post-office, where another hand than +hers sorted letters now. + +Day by day her father weakened and faded away. All that was possible to +medical skill had been done. As the money left by her mother dwindled, +she had no anxiety, for she knew that the life she so tenderly cherished +would not outlast the gold which lengthened out the tenuous chain of +being. This last illness of her father's had been the salvation of her +mind, the saving of her health. Maybe it had been the saving of her +soul; for at times a curious contempt of life came upon her--she who had +loved it so eagerly and fully. There descended on her then the bitter +conviction that never again would she see the man she loved. Then not +even Mrs. Flynn could call back "the fun o' the world" to her step and +her tongue and her eye. At first there had been a timid shrinking, but +soon her father and herself were brighter and better for the old +Irishwoman's presence, and she began to take comfort in Mrs. Flynn. + +Mrs. Flynn gave hopefulness to whatever life she touched, and Rosalie, +buoyant and hopeful enough by nature, responded to the living warmth and +the religion of life in the Irishwoman's heart. + +"'Tis worth the doin', ivery bit of it, darlin', the bither an' the +swate, the hard an' the aisy, the rough an' the smooth, the good an' the +bad," said Mrs. Flynn to her this very Easter morning. "Even the avil is +worth doin', if so be 'twas not mint, an' the good is in yer heart in the +ind, an' ye do be turnip' to the Almoighty, repentin' an' glad to be +aloive: provin' to Him 'twas worth while makin' the world an' you, to +want, an' worry, an' work, an' play, an' pick the flowers, an' bleed o' +the thorns, an' dhrink the sun, an' ate the dust, an' be lovin' all the +way! Ah, that's it, darlin'," persisted Mrs. Flynn, "'tis lovin' all the +way makes it aisier. There's manny kinds o' love. There's lad an' lass, +there's maid an' man. An' that last is spring, an' all the birds +singin', an' shtorms now an' thin, an' siparations, an' misthrust, an' +God in hivin bein' that aisy wid ye for bein' fools an' children, an' +bringin' ye thegither in the ind, if so be ye do be lovin' as man an' +maid should love, wid all yer heart. Thin there's the love o' man an' +wife. Shure, that's the love that lasts, if it shtarts right. Shure, +it doesn't always shtart wid the sun shinin.' 'Will ye marry me?' says +Teddy Flynn to me. 'I will,' says I. 'Then I'll come back from Canaday +to futch ye,' says he, wid a tear in his eye. + +"'For what's a man in ould Ireland that has a head for annything but +puttaties! There's land free in Canaday, an' I'm goin' to make a home +for ye, Mary,' says he, wavin' a piece of paper in the air. 'Are ye, +thin?' says I. He goes away that night, an' the next mornin' I have a +lether from him, sayin' he's shtartin' that day for Canaday. He hadn't +the heart to tell me to me face. Fwaht do I do thin? I begs, borrers, +an' stales, an' I reached that ship wan minnit before she sailed. There +was no praste aboord, but we was married six weeks afther at Quebec. And +thegither we lived wid ups an' downs--but no ups an' downs to the love of +us for twenty years, blessed be God for all His mercies!" + +Rosalie had listened with eyes that hungrily watched every expression, +ears that weighed eagerly every inflection; for she was hearing the story +of another's love, and it did not seem strange to her that a woman, old, +red-faced, and fat, should be telling it. + +Yet there were times when she wept till she was exhausted; when all her +girlhood was drowned in the overflow of her eyes; when there was a sense +of irrevocable loss upon her. Then it was, in her fear of soul and +pitiful loneliness, that her lover--the man she would have died for-- +seemed to have deserted her. Then it was that a sudden hatred against +him rose up in her--to be swept away as swiftly as it came by the memory +of his broken tale of love, his passionate words: "I have never loved any +one but you in all my life, Rosalie." And also, there was that letter +from Chaudiere, which said that in the hour when the greatest proof of +his love must be given he would give it. Reading the letter again, +hatred, doubt, even sorrow, passed from her, and her imagination pictured +the hour when, disguise and secrecy ended, he would step forward before +all the world and say: "I take Rosalie Evanturel to be my wife." Despite +the gusts of emotion that swayed her at times, in the deepest part of her +being she trusted him completely. + +When she reached the hospital this Sunday afternoon her step was quick, +her smile bright--though she had not been to confession as was her duty +on Easter day. The impulse towards it had been great, but her secret was +not her own, and the passionate desire to give relief to her full heart +was overborne by thought of the man. Her soul was her own, but this +secret of their love was his as well as hers. She knew that she was the +only just judge between. + +Soon after she entered the ward, the chief surgeon said that all that +could be done for her father had now been done, and that as M. Evanturel +constantly asked to be taken back to Chaudiere (he never said to die, +though they knew what was in his mind), he might now make the journey, +partly by river, partly by land. It seemed to the delighted and excited +Rosalie that Jo Portugais had been sent to her as a surprise, and that +his team of dogs was to take her father back. + +She sat by her father's bed this beautiful, wonderful Sunday afternoon, +and talked cheerfully, and laughed a little, and told M. Evanturel of the +dogs, and together they looked out of the window to the far-off hills, in +their golden purple, beyond which, in the valley of the Chaudiere, was +their little home. With her father's hand in hers the girl dreamed +dreams again, and it seemed to her that she was the very Rosalie +Evanturel of old, whose thoughts were bounded by a river and a hill, +a post-office and a church, a catechism and a few score of books. Here +in the crowded city she had come to be a woman who, bitterly shaken in +soul, knew life's sufferings; who had, during the past few months, read +with avidity history, poetry, romance, fiction, and the drama, English +and French; for in every one she found something that said: "You have +felt that." In these long months she had learned more than she had known +or learned in all her previous life. + +As she sat looking out into the eastern sky she became conscious of +voices, and of a group of people who came slowly down the ward, sometimes +speaking to the sick and crippled. It was not a general visitors' day, +but one reserved for the few to come and say a kindly word to the +suffering, to bring some flowers and distribute books. Rosalie had +always been absent at this hour before, for she shrank from strangers; +but to-day she had stayed on unthinking. It mattered nothing to her who +came and went. Her heart was over the hills, and the only tie she had +here was with this poor cripple whose hand she held. If she did not +resent the visit of these kindly strangers, she resolutely held herself +apart from the object of their visit with a sense of distance and cold +dignity. If she had given Charley something of herself, she had in turn +taken something from him, something unlike her old self, delicately non- +intime. Knowledge of life had rationalised her emotions to a definite +degree, had given her the pride of self-repression. She had had need of +it in these surroundings, where her beauty drew not a little dangerous +attention, which she had held at arm's-length--her great love for one man +made her invulnerable. + +Now, as the visitors came near, she did not turn towards them, but still +sat, her chin on her hand, looking out across the hills, in resolute +abstraction. She felt her father's fingers press hers, as if to draw her +attention, for he, weak man, was ever ready to open his hand and heart to +any friendly soul. She took no notice, but held his hand firmly, as +though to say that she had no wish to see. + +She was conscious now that they were beside her father's bed. She hoped +that they would pass. But no, the feet stopped, there was whispering, +and then she heard a voice say, "Rather rude!" then another, "Not +wanted, that's plain!"--the first a woman's, the second a man's. Then +another voice, clear and cold, and well modulated, said to her father: +"They tell me you have been here a long time, and have had much pain. +You will be glad to go, I am sure." + +Something in the voice startled her. Some familiar sound or inflection +struck upon her ear with a far-off note, some lost tone she knew. Of +what, of whom, did this voice remind her? She turned round quickly and +caught two cold blue eyes looking at her. The face was older than her +own, handsome and still, and happy in a placid sort of way. Few gusts of +passion or of pain had passed across that face. The figure was shapely +to the newest fashion, the bonnet was perfect, the hand which held two +books was prettily gloved. Polite charity was written in her manner and +consecrated every motion. On the instant, Rosalie resented this fine +epitome of convention, this dutiful charity-monger, herself the centre of +an admiring quartet. She saw the whispering, she noted the well-bred +disguise of interest, and she met the visitor's gaze with cold courtesy. +The other read the look in her face, and a slightly pacifying smile +gathered at her lips. + +"We are glad to hear that your father is better. He has been ill a long +time?" + +Rosalie started again, for the voice perplexed her--rather, not the +voice, but the inflection, the deliberation. + +She bowed, and set her lips, but, chancing to glance at her father, she +saw that he was troubled by her manner. Flashing a look of love at him, +she adjusted the pillow under his head, and said to her questioner in a +low voice: "He is better now, thank you." + +Encouraged, the other rejoined: "May I leave one or two books for him to +read--or for you to read to him?" Then added hastily, for she saw a +curious look in Rosalie's eyes: "We can have mutual friends in books, +though we cannot be friends with each other. Books are the go-betweens +of humanity." + +Rosalie's heart leapt, she flushed, then grew slightly pale, for +it was not tone or inflection alone that disturbed her now, but words +themselves. A voice from over the hills seemed to say these things to +her. A haunting voice from over the hills had said them to her--these +very words. + +"Friends need no go-betweens," she said quietly, "and enemies should not +use them." + +She heard a voice say, "By Jove!" in a tone of surprise, as though it +were wonderful the girl from Chaudiere should have her wits about her. +So Rosalie interpreted it. + +"Have you many friends here?" asked the cold voice, meant to be kindly +and pacific. It was schooled to composure, because it gave advantage in +life's intercourse, not from any inner urbanity. + +"Some need many friends, some but a few. I come from a country where one +only needs a few." + +"Where is your country, I wonder?" said the cold echo of another voice. + +Charley had passed out of Kathleen's life--he was dead to her, his memory +scorned and buried. She loved the man to whom she supposed she was +married; she was only too glad to let the dust of death and time cover +every trace of Charley from her gaze; she would have rooted out every +particle of association: yet his influence on her had been so great that +she had unconsciously absorbed some of his idiosyncrasies--in the tone of +his voice, in his manner of speaking. To-day she had even repeated +phrases he had used. + +"Beyond the hills," said Rosalie, turning away. + +"Is it not strange?" said the voice. "That is the title of one of the +books I have just brought--'Beyond the Hills'. It is by an English +writer. This other book is French. May I leave them?" + +Rosalie inclined her head. It would. make her own position less +dignified if she refused them. "Books are always welcome to my father," +she said. + +There was an instant's pause, as though the fashionable lady would offer +her hand; but their eyes met, and they only bowed. The lady moved on +with a smile, leaving a perfume of heliotrope behind her. + +"Where is your country, I wonder?"--the voice of the lady rang in +Rosalie's ears. As she sat at the window again, long after the visitors +had disappeared, the words, "I wonder--I wonder--I wonder!" kept beating +in her brain. It was absurd that this woman should remind her of the +tailor of Chaudiere. + +Suddenly she was roused by her father's voice. "This is beautiful--ah, +but beautiful, Rosalie!" + +She turned towards him. He was reading the book in his hand--'Beyond the +Hills'. "Listen," he said, and he read, in English: "'Compensation is +the other name for God. How often is it that those whom disease or +accident has robbed of active life find greater inner rejoicing and a +larger spiritual itinerary! It would seem that withdrawal from the ruder +activities gives a clearer seeing. Also for these, so often, is granted +a greater love, which comes of the consecration of other lives to theirs. +And these too have their reward, for they are less encompassed by the +vanities of the world, having the joy of self-sacrifice.'" He looked at +Rosalie with an unnatural brightness in his eyes, and she smiled at him +now and stroked his hand. + +"It has been all compensation to me," he said, after a moment. "You have +been a good daughter to me, Rosalie." + +She shook her head and smiled. "Good fathers think they have good +daughters," she answered, choking back a sob. + +He closed the book and let it lie upon the coverlet. "I will sleep now," +he said, and turned on his side. She arranged his pillow, and adjusted +the bedclothes to his comfort. + +"Good-night," he said, as, with a faint hand, he drew her head down and +kissed her. "Good girl! Goodnight!" + +She patted his hand. "It is not night yet, father." + +He was already half asleep. "Good-night!" he said again, and fell into +a deep sleep. + +She sat down by the window, in her hand the book he had laid down. A +hundred thoughts were busy in her brain--of her father; of the woman who +had just left; of her lover over the hills. The woman's voice came to +her again--a far-off mockery. She opened the book mechanically and +turned over the pages. Presently her eyes were riveted to a page. +On it was written the word Kathleen. + +For a moment she sat transfixed. The word Kathleen and the haunting +voice became one, and her mind ran back to the day when she had said to +Charley: "Who is Kathleen?" + +She sprang to her feet. What should she do? Follow the woman? Find out +who and what she was? Go to the young surgeon who had accompanied them, +ask him who she was, and so learn the clue to the mystery concerning her +lover? + +In the midst of her confusion she became sharply conscious of two things: +the approach of Mrs. Flynn, and her father's heavy breathing. Dropping +the book, she leaned over her father's bed and looked closely at him. +Then she turned to the frightened and anxious Mrs. Flynn. + +"Go for the priest," she said. "He is dying." + +"I'll send some one. I'm stayin' here by you, darlin'," said the old +woman, and hurried to the room of the young surgeon for a messenger. + +As the sun went down, the cripple went out upon a long journey alone. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII + +"WHERE THE TREE OF LIFE IS BLOOMING--" + +As Charley walked the bank of the great river by the city where his old +life lay dead, he struggled with the new life which--long or short--must +henceforth belong to the village of the woman he loved. . . . But as +he fought with himself in the long night-watch it was borne in upon him +that though he had been shown the Promised Land, he might never find +there a habitation and a home. The hymn he had mockingly sung the night +he had been done to death at the Cote Dorion sang in his senses now, an +ever-present mockery: + + "On the other side of Jordan, + In the sweet fields of Eden, + Where the tree of life is blooming, + There is rest for you. + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for the weary, + There is rest for you." + +In the uttermost corner of his intelligence he felt with sure prescience +that, however befalling, the end of all was not far off. In the exercise +of new faculties, which had more to do with the soul than with reason, he +now believed what he could not see, and recognised what was not proved. +Labour of the hand, trouble, sorrow, and perplexity, charity and +humanity, had cleared and simplified his life, had sweetened his +intelligence, and taken the place of ambition. He saw life now through +the lens of personal duty, which required that the thing nearest to one's +hand should be done first. + +But as foreboding pressed upon him there came the thought of what should +come after--to Rosalie. His thoughts took a practical form--her good was +uppermost in his mind. All Rosalie had to live on was her salary as +postmistress, for it was in every one's knowledge that the little else +she had was being sacrificed to her father's illness. Suppose, then, +that through illness or accident she lost her position, what could she +do? He might leave her what he had--but what had he? Enough to keep her +for a year or two--no more. All his earnings had gone to the poor and +the suffering of Chaudiere. + +There was one way. It had suggested itself to him so often in Chaudiere, +and had been one of the two reasons for bringing him here. There were +his dead mother's pearls and one thousand dollars in notes behind a +secret panel in the white house on the hill, in this very city where he +was. The pearls were worth over ten thousand dollars--in all, there +would be eleven thousand, enough to secure Rosalie from poverty. What +should Kathleen do with his mother's pearls, even if they were found by +her? What should she do with his money did she not loathe his memory? +Had not all his debts been paid? These pearls and this money were all +his own. + +But to get them. To go now to the white house on the hill; to face that +old life even for an hour, a knocking at the door of a haunted house--he +shrank from the thought. He would have to enter the place like a thief +in the night. + +Yet for Rosalie he must take the risk--he must go. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX + +THE OPEN GATE + +It was a still night, and the moon, delicately bright, gave forth that +radiance which makes spiritual to the eye the coarsest thing. Inside the +white house on the hill all was dark. Sleep had settled on it long +before midnight, for, on the morrow, its master and mistress hoped to +make a journey to the valley of the Chaudiere, where the Passion Play was +being performed by habitants and Indians. The desire to see the play had +become an infatuation in the minds of the two, eager for some interest to +relieve the monotony of a happy life. + +But as all slept, a figure in the dress of a habitant moved through the +passages of the house stealthily, yet with an assurance unusual in the +thief or housebreaker. In the darkest passages his step was sure, and +his hand fastened on latch or door-knob with perfect precision. He came +at last into a large hallway flooded by the moon, pale, watchful, his +beard frosted by the light. In the stillness of his tread and the +composed sorrow of his face he seemed like one long dead who "revisits +the glimpses of the moon." + +At last he entered a room the door of which stood wide open. In this +room had been begotten, or had had exercise, whatever of him was worth +approving in the days before he died. It was a place of books and +statues and tapestry, and the dark oak was nobly smutched of Time. This +sombre oaken wall had been handed down through four generations from the +man's great-grandfather: the breath of generations had steeped it in +human association. + +Entering, he turned for an instant with clinched hands to look at another +door across the hall. Behind that door were two people who despised his +memory, who conspired to forget his very name. This house was the +woman's, for he had given it to her the day he died. But that she could +live there with all the old associations, with memories that, however +bitter, however shaming, had a sort of sacredness, struck into his soul +with a harrowing pain. There she was whom he had spared--himself; whose +happiness had lain in his hands, and he had given it to her. Yet her +very existence robbed himself of happiness, and made sorrowful a life +dearer than his own. + +Kathleen lay asleep in that room--he fancied he could hear her breathing; +and, by the hospital on the hill, up beyond the point of pines, in a +little cottage which he could see from the great window, lay Rosalie with +sleepless eyes and wan cheeks, longing for morning and the stir of life +to help her to forget. + +For Rosalie he had come to this house once more. For her sake he was +revisiting this torture-chamber, from which he knew he must go again, +blanched and shaken, as a man goes from a tomb where his dead lie +unforgiving. + +He shut his teeth, went swiftly across the room, and beside a great +carved oak table touched a hidden spring in the side of it. The spring +snapped; the panel creaked a little and drew back. It seemed to him that +the noise he made must be heard in every part of the house, so sensitive +was his ear, so deep was the silence on which the sounds had broken. He +turned round to the doorway to listen before he put his hand within the +secret place. + +There was no sound. He turned his attention to the table. Drawing forth +two packets with a gasp of relief, he put them in his pocket, and, with +extreme care, proceeded to close the panel. By rubbing the edges of the +wood with grease from a candle on the table, he was able to readjust the +panel in silence. But, as the spring came home, he became suddenly +conscious of a presence in the room. A shiver passed through him. He +turned round-softly, quickly. He was in the shadow and near great +window-curtains, and his fingers instinctively clutched them as he saw a +figure in white at the door of the room. Slowly, strangely deliberate, +the figure moved further into the room. + +Charley's breath stopped. He felt his face flush, and a strange weakness +came on him. There before him stood Kathleen. + +She was in her night-gown, and she stood still, as though listening; yet, +as Charley looked closer, he realised that it was an unconscious, passive +listening, and that she did not know he was there. + +Her mind only was listening. She was asleep. Was it possible that his +very presence in the house had touched some old note of memory, which, +automatically responding, had carried her from her bed in this +somnambulistic trance? That subtle telegraphy between our subconscious +selves which we cannot reduce to a law, yet alarming us at times, +announced to Kathleen's mind, independent of the waking senses, the +presence once familiar to this house for so many years. In her sleep +she had involuntarily responded to the call of Charley's approach. + +Once, in the past, the night her uncle died, she had walked in her sleep, +and the memory of this flashed upon Charley now. Silently he came closer +to her. The moonlight shone on her face. He could see plainly she was +asleep. His position was painful and perilous. If she waked, the shock +to herself would be great; if she waked and saw him, what disaster might +not occur! + +Yet he had no agitation now, only clearness of mind and a curious sense +of confusion that he should see her en dishabille--the old fastidious +sense mingling with the feeling that she was now a stranger to him, and +that, waking, she would fly embarrassed from his presence, as he was +ready to fly from hers. He was about to steal to the door and escape +before she waked, but she turned round, moved through the doorway, and +glided down the hall. He followed silently. + +She moved to the staircase, then slowly down it, and through a passage to +a morning-room, where, opening a pair of French windows, she passed out +onto the lawn. He followed, not more than a dozen paces behind her. +His safety lay in getting outside, where he could easily hide among the +bushes, should someone else appear and an alarm be raised. + +She crossed the lawn swiftly, a white, ghostlike figure. In the middle +of the lawn she stopped short once as if in doubt what to do--as a +thought-reader pauses in his search for the mental scent again, ere he +rushes upon the object of his search with the certainty of instinct. + +Presently she moved on, going directly towards a gate that opened out on +the cliff above the river. In Charley's day this gate had been often +used, for it gave upon four steep wooden steps leading to a narrow shelf +of rock below. From the edge of this cliff a rope-ladder dropped fifty +feet to the river. For years he had used this rope-ladder to get down to +his boat, and often, when they were first married, Kathleen used to come +and watch him descend, and sometimes, just at the very first, would +descend also. As he stole into the grounds this evening he had noticed, +however, that the rope-ladder was gone, and that new steps were being +built. He had also mechanically observed that the gate was open. + +For an instant he watched her slowly moving towards the gate. At first +he did not realise the situation. Suddenly her danger flashed upon him. +Passing through the gateway, she must fall over the cliff. + +Her life was in his hands. + +He could rush forward swiftly and close the gate, then, raising an alarm, +get away before he was seen; or--he could escape now. + +What had he to do with her? A weird, painful suggestion crept into his +brain: he was not responsible for her, and he was responsible for a woman +up there by the hospital, whose home was the valley of the Chaudiere! + +If Kathleen were gone, what barrier would there be between him and +Rosalie? What had he to do with this strange disposition of events? +Kathleen was never absent from her church twice on Sundays; she was +devoted to work of all sorts for the church on week-days--where was her +intervening personal Providence? If Providence permitted her to die?-- +well, she had had two years of happiness with the man she loved, at some +expense to himself--was it not fair that Rosalie should have her share? +Had he the right to call upon Rosalie for constant self-sacrifice, when, +by shutting his eyes now, by being dead to Kathleen and her need, as he +was dead to the world he once knew, the way would be clear to marry +Rosalie? + +Dead--he was dead to the world and to Kathleen! Should his ghost +interpose between her and the death now within two-score feet of her? +Who could know? It was grim, it was awful, but was it not a wild kind of +justice? Who could blame? It was the old Charley Steele, the Charley +Steele of the court-room, who argued back humanity and the inherent +rightness of things. + +But it was only a moment's pause. The thoughts flashed by like the +lightning impressions of a dream, and a voice said in his ear, the voice +of the new Charley with a conscience: + +"Save her--save her!" + +Even as he was conscious of another presence on the lawn, he rushed +forward noiselessly. Stealing between Kathleen and the gate-she was +within five feet of it he closed and locked it. Then, with a quick +glance at her sleeping face-it was engraven on his memory ever after like +a dead face in a coffin--he ran along the fence among the shrubbery. A +man not fifty feet away called to him. + +"Hush--she is asleep!" Charley whispered, and disappeared. + +It was Fairing himself who saw this deed which saved Kathleen's life. +Awaking, and not finding her, he had glanced towards the window, and had +seen her on the lawn. He had rushed down to her, in time to see her +saved by a strange bearded man in habitant dress. His one glance at the +man's face, as it turned towards him, produced an extraordinary effect +upon his mind, not soon to be dispelled--a haunting, ghostlike +apparition, which kept reminding him of something or somebody, he could +not tell what or whom. The whispering voice and the breathless words, +"Hush--she is asleep!" repeated themselves over and over again in his +brain, as, taking Kathleen's hand, he led her, unresisting, and still +sleeping, back to her room. In agitated thankfulness he resolved not to +speak of the event to Kathleen, or to any one else, lest it should come +to her ears and frighten her. + +He would, however, keep a sharp lookout for the man who had saved her +life, and would reward him duly. The face of the bearded habitant came +between him and his sleep. + +Meanwhile this disturber of a woman's dreams and a man's sleep was +hurrying to an inn in the town by the waterside, where he met another +habitant with a team of dogs--Jo Portugais. Jo had not been able to bear +the misery of suspense and anxiety, and had come seeking him. There was +little speech between them. + +"You have not been found out, M'sieu'?" was Jo's anxious question. + +"No, no, but I have had a bad night, Jo. Get the dogs together." + +A little later, as Charley made ready to go back to Chaudiere, Jo said: + +"You look as if you'd had a black dream, M'sieu'." With the river +rustling by, and the trees stirring in the first breath of dawn, Charley +told Jo what had happened. + +For a moment the murderer did not speak or stir, for a struggle was going +on in his breast also; then he stooped quickly, caught his companion's +hand, and kissed it. + +"I could not have done it, M'sieu'," he said hoarsely. They parted, Jo +to remain behind as they had agreed, to be near Rosalie if needed; +Charley to return to the valley of the Chaudiere. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Good fathers think they have good daughters +Shure, if we could always be 'about the same,' we'd do + + + + + + +THE RIGHT OF WAY + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 6. + + + +L. THE PASSION PLAY AT CHAUDIERE +LI. FACE TO FACE +LII. THE COMING OF BILLY +LIII. THE SEIGNEUR AND THE CURE HAVE A SUSPICION +LIV. M. ROSSIGNOL SLIPS THE LEASH +LV. ROSALIE PLAYS A PART +LVI. MRS. FLYNN SPEAKS +LVII. A BURNING FIERY FURNACE +LVIII. WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL +LIX. IN WHICH CHARLEY MEETS A STRANGER +LX. THE HAND AT THE DOOR +LXI. THE CURE SPEAKS +EPILOGUE + + + +CHAPTER L + +THE PASSION PLAY AT CHAUDIERE + +For the first time in its history Chaudiere was becoming notable in the +eyes of the outside world. + +"We'll have more girth after this," said Filion Lacasse the saddler to +the wife of the Notary, as, in front of the post-office, they stood +watching a little cavalcade of habitants going up the road towards Four +Mountains to rehearse the Passion Play. + +"If Dauphin's advice had been taken long ago, we'd have had a hotel at +Four Mountains, and the city folk would be coming here for the summer," +said Madame Dauphin, with a superior air. + +"Pish!" said a voice behind them. It was the Seigneur's groom, with a +straw in his mouth. He had a gloomy mind. + +"There isn't a house but has two or three boarders. I've got three," +said Filion Lacasse. "They come tomorrow." + +"We'll have ten at the Manor. But no good will come of it," said the +groom. + +"No good! Look at the infidel tailor!" said Madame Dauphin. "He +translated all the writing. He drew all the dresses, and made a hundred +pictures--there they are at the Cure's house." + +"He should have played Judas," said the groom malevolently. "That'd be +right for him." + +"Perhaps you don't like the Passion Play," said Madame Dauphin +disdainfully. + +"We ain't through with it yet," said the death's-head groom. + +"It is a pious and holy mission," said Madame Dauphin. "Even that Jo +Portugais worked night and day till he went away to Montreal, and he +always goes to Mass now. He's to take Pontius Pilate when he comes back. +Then look at Virginie Morrissette, that put her brother's eyes out +quarrelling--she's to play Mary Magdalene." + +"I could fit the parts better," said the groom. + +"Of course. You'd have played St. John," said the saddler--" or, maybe, +Christus himself!" + +"I'd have Paulette Dubois play Mary the sinner." + +"Magdalene repented, and knelt at the foot of the cross. She was sorry +and sinned no more," said the Notary's wife in querulous reprimand. + +"Well, Paulette does all that," said the stolid, dark-visaged groom. + +Filion Lacasse's ears pricked up. "How do you know--she hasn't come +back?" + +"Hasn't she, though! And with her child too--last night." + +"Her child!" Madame Dauphin was scandalised and amazed. + +The groom nodded. "And doesn't care who knows it. Seven years old, and +as fine a child as ever was!" + +"Narcisse--Narcisse!" called Madame Dauphin to her husband, who was +coming up the street. She hastily repeated the groom's news to him. + +The Notary stuck his hand between the buttons of his waistcoat. "Well, +well, my dear Madame," he said consequentially, "it is quite true." + +"What do you know about it--whose child is it?" she asked, with curdling +scorn. + +"'Sh-'sh!" said the Notary. Then, with an oratorical wave of his free +hand: "The Church opens her arms to all--even to her who sinned much +because she loved much, who, through woful years, searched the world for +her child and found it not--hidden away, as it was, by the duplicity of +sinful man"--and so on through tangled sentences, setting forth in broken +terms Paulette Dubois's life. + +"How do you know all about it?" asked the saddler. "I've known it for +years," said the Notary grandly--stoutly too, for he would freely risk +his wife's anger that the vain-glory of the moment might be enlarged. + +"And you keep it even from madame!" said the saddler, with a smile too +broad to be sarcastic. "Tiens! if I did that, my wife'd pick my eyes +out with a bradawl." + +"It was a professional secret," said the Notary, with a desperate resolve +to hold his position. + +"I'm going home, Dauphin--are you coming?" questioned his wife, with an +air. + +"You will remain, and hear what I've got to say. This Paulette Dubois-- +she should play Mary Magdalene, for--" + +"Look--look, what's that?" said the saddler. He pointed to a wagon +coming slowly up the road. In front of it a team of dogs drew a cart. +It carried some thing covered with black. "It's a funeral! There's the +coffin. It's on Jo Portugais' little cart," added Filion Lacasse. + +"Ah, God be merciful, it's Rosalie Evanturel and Mrs. Flynn! And M'sieu' +Evanturel in the coffin!" said Madame Dauphin, running to the door of +the postoffice to call the Cure's sister. + +"There'll be use enough for the baker's Dead March now," remarked M. +Dauphin sadly, buttoning up his coat, taking off his hat, and going +forward to greet Rosalie. As he did so, Charley appeared in the doorway +of his shop. + +"Look, Monsieur," said the Notary. "This is the way Rosalie Evanturel +comes home with her father." + +"I will go for the Cure" Charley answered, turning white. He leaned +against the doorway for a moment to steady himself, then hurried up the +street. He did not dare meet Rosalie, or go near her yet. For her sake +it was better not. + +"That tailor infidel has a heart. His eyes were leaking," said the +Notary to Filion Lacasse, and went on to meet the mournful cavalcade. + + + + +CHAPTER LI + +FACE TO FACE + +"If I could only understand!"--this was Rosalie's constant cry in these +weeks wherein she lay ill and prostrate after her father's burial. Once +and once only had she met Charley alone, though she knew that he was +keeping watch over her. She had first seen him the day her father was +buried, standing apart from the people, his face sorrowful, his eyes +heavy, his figure bowed. + +The occasion of their meeting alone was the first night of her return, +when the Notary and Charley had kept watch beside her father's body. + +She had gone into the little hallway, and had looked into the room of +death. The Notary was sound asleep in his arm-chair, but Charley sat +silent and moveless, his eyes gazing straight before him. She murmured +his name, and though it was only to herself, not even a whisper, he got +up quickly and came to the hall, where she stood grief-stricken, yet with +a smile of welcome, of forgiveness, of confidence. As she put out her +hand to him, and his swallowed it, she could not but say to him--so +contrary is the heart of woman, so does she demand a Yes by asserting a +No, and hunger for the eternal assurance--she could not but say: + +"You do not love me--now." + +It was but a whisper, so faint and breathless that only the heart of love +could hear it. There was no answer in words, for some one was stirring +beyond Rosalie in the dark, and a great figure heaved through the kitchen +doorway, but his hand crushed hers in his own; his heart said to her, "My +love is an undying light; it will not change for time or tears"--the +words they had read together in a little snuff-coloured book on the +counter in the shop one summer day a year ago. The words flashed into +his mind, and they were carried to hers. Her fingers pressed his, and +then Charley said, over her shoulder, to the approaching Mrs. Flynn: "Do +not let her come again, Madame. She should get some sleep," and he put +her hand in Mrs. Flynn's. "Be good to her, as you know how, Mrs. Flynn," +he added gently. + +He had won the heart of Mrs. Flynn that moment, and it may be she had a +conviction or an inspiration, for she said, in a softer voice than she +was wont to use to any one save Rosalie: + +"I'll do by her as you'd do by your own, sir," and tenderly drew Rosalie +to her own room. + +Such had been their first meeting after her return. Afterwards she was +taken ill, and the torture of his heart drove him out into the night, to +walk the road and creep round her house like a sentinel, Mrs. Flynn's +words ringing in his ears to reproach him--"I'll do by her as you would +do by your own, sir." Night after night it was the same, and Rosalie +heard his footsteps and listened and was less sorrowful, because she knew +that she was ever in his thoughts. But one day Mrs. Flynn came to him in +his shop. + +"She's wantin' a word with ye on business," she said, and gestured +towards the little house across the way. "'Tis few words ye do be +shpakin' to annybody, but if y' have kind words to shpake and good things +to say, y' naidn't be bitin' yer tongue," she added in response to his +nod, and left him. + +Charley looked after her with a troubled face. On the instant it seemed +to him that Mrs. Flynn knew all. But his second thought told him that it +was only an instinct on her part that there was something between them-- +the beginning of love, maybe. + +In another half-hour he was beside Rosalie's chair. "Perhaps you are +angry," she said, as he came towards her where she sat in the great arm- +chair. She did not give him time to answer, but hurried on. "I wanted +to tell you that I have heard you every night outside, and that I have +been glad, and sorry too--so sorry for us both." + +"Rosalie! Rosalie" he said hoarsely, and dropped on a knee beside her +chair, and took her hand and kissed it. He did not dare do more. + +"I wanted to say to you," she said, dropping a hand on his shoulder, +"that I do not blame you for anything--not for anything. Yet I want you +to be sorry too. I want you to feel as sorry for me as I feel sorry for +you." + +"I am the worst man and you the best woman in the world." + +She leaned over him with tears in her eyes. "Hush!" she said. "I want +to help you--Charles. You are wise. You know ten thousand things more +than I; but I know one thing you do not understand." + +"You know and do whatever is good," he said brokenly. + +"Oh, no, no, no! But I know one thing, because I have been taught, and +because it was born with me. Perhaps much was habit with me in the past, +but now I know that one thing is true. It is God." + +She paused. "I have learned so much since--since then." + +He looked up with a groan, and put a finger on her lips. "You are +feeling bitterly sorry for me," she said. "But you must let me speak-- +that is all I ask. It is all love asks. I cannot bear that you should +not share my thoughts. That is the thing that has hurt--hurt so all +these months, these long hard months, when I could not see you, and did +not know why I could not. Don't shake so, please! Hear me to the end, +and we shall both be the better after. I felt it all so cruelly, because +I did not--and I do not--understand. I rebelled, but not against you. +I rebelled against myself, against what you called Fate. Fate is one's +self, what one brings on one's self. But I had faith in you--always-- +always, even when I thought I hated you." + +"Ah, hate me! Hate me! It is your loving that cuts me to the quick," he +said. "You have the magnanimity of God." + +Her eyes leapt up. "'Of God'--you believe in God!" she said eagerly. +"God is God to you? He is the one thing that has come out of all this to +me." She reached out her hand and took her Bible from a table. "Read +that to yourself," she said, and, opening the Book, pointed to a passage. +He read it: + + And they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in + the cool of the day: and Adam and his wife hid themselves from the + presence of the Lord God amongst the trees of the garden. + + And the Lord God called unto Adam, and said unto him, Where art + thou? + + And he said, I heard Thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, + because I was naked; and I hid myself. + + And He said, Who told thee that thou wart naked? Hast thou eaten of + the tree whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat? + +Closing the Book, Charley said: "I understand--I see." + +"Will you say a prayer with me?" she urged. "It is all I ask. It is +the only--the only thing I want to hurt you, because it may make you +happier in the end. What keeps us apart, I do not know. But if you will +say one prayer with me, I will keep on trusting, I will never complain, +and I will wait--wait." + +He kissed both her hands, but the look in his eyes was that of a man +being broken on the wheel. She slipped to the floor, her rosary in her +fingers. "Let us pray," she said simply, and in a voice as clear as a +child's, but with the anguish of a woman's struggling heart behind. + +He did not move. She looked at him, caught his hands in both of hers, +and cried: "But you will not deny me this! Haven't I the right to ask +it? Haven't I a right to ask of you a thousand times as much?" + +"You have the right to ask all that is mine to give life, honour, my body +in pieces inch by inch, the last that I can call my own. But, Rosalie, +this is not mine to give! How can I pray, unless I believe!" + +"You do--oh, you do believe in God," she cried passionately. + +"Rosalie--my life," he urged, hoarse misery in his voice, "the only thing +I have to give you is the bare soul of a truthful man--I am that now at +least. You have made me so. If I deceived the whole world, if I was as +the thief upon the cross, I should still be truthful to you. You open +your heart to me--let me open mine to you, to see it as it is. Once +my soul was like a watch, cased and carried in the pocket of life, +uncertain, untrue, because it was a soul made, not born. I must look at +the hands to know the time, and because it varied, because the working +did not answer to the absolute, I said: 'The soul is a lie.' You--you +have changed all that, Rosalie. My soul now is like a dial to the sun. +But the clouds are there above, and I do not know what time it is in +life. When the clouds break--if they ever break--and the sun shines, the +dial will speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth--" + +He paused, confused, for he had repeated the words of a witness taking +the oath in court. + +"'So help me God!"' she finished the oath for him. Then, with a sudden +change of manner, she came to her feet with a spring. She did not quite +understand. She was, however, dimly conscious of the power she had over +his chivalrous mind: the power of the weak over the strong--the tyranny +of the defended over the defender. She was a woman tortured beyond +bearing; and she was fighting for her very life, mad with anguish as she +struggled. + +"I do not understand you," she cried, with flashing eyes. "One minute +you say you do not believe in anything, and the next you say, 'So help me +God!'" + +"Ah, no, you said that, Rosalie," he interposed gently. + +"You said I was as magnanimous as God. You were laughing at me then, +mocking me, whose only fault is that I loved and trusted you. In the +wickedness of your heart you robbed me of happiness, you--" + +"Don't--don't! Rosalie! Rosalie!" he exclaimed in shrinking protest. + +That she had spoken to him as her deepest heart abhorred only increased +her agitated denunciation. "Yes, yes, in your mad selfishness, you did +not care for the poor girl who forgot all, lost all, and now--" She +stopped short at the sight of his white, awe stricken face. His eye- +glass seemed like a frost of death over an eye that looked upon some +shocking scene of woe. Yet he appeared not to see, for his fingers +fumbled on his waistcoat for the monocle--fumbled--vaguely, helplessly. +It was the realisation of a soul cast into the outer darkness. Her +abrupt silence came upon him like the last engulfing wave to a drowning +man--the final assurance of the end, in which there is quiet and the +deadly smother. + +"Now--I know-the truth!" he said, in a curious even tone, different from +any she had ever heard from him. It was the old Charley Steele who +spoke, the Charley Steele in whom the intellect was supreme once more. +The judicial spirit, the inveterate intelligence which put justice before +all, was alive in him, almost rejoicing in its regained governance. The +new Charley was as dead as the old had been of late, and this clarifying +moment left the grim impression behind that the old law was not obsolete. +He felt that in the abandonment of her indignation she had mercilessly +told the truth; and the irreducible quality of mind in him which in the +old days made for justice, approved. There was a new element now, +however--that conscience which never possessed him fully until the day he +saw Rosalie go travelling over the hills with her crippled father. That +picture of the girl against the twilight, her figure silhouetted in the +clear air, had come to him in sleeping and waking dreams, the type and +sign of an everlasting melancholy. As he looked at her blindly now, he +saw, not herself, but that melancholy figure. Out of the distance his +own voice said again: + +"Now--I know-the truth!" + +She had struck with a violence she did not intend, which, she knew, must +rend her own heart in the future, which put in the dice-box the last +hopes she had. But she could not have helped it--she could not have +stayed the words, though a suspended sword were to fall with the saying. +It was the cry of tradition and religion, and every home-bred, convent- +nurtured habit, the instinct of heredity, the wail of woman, for whom +destiny, or man, or nature, has arranged the disproportionate share of +life's penalties. It was the impotent rebellion against the first curse, +that man in his punishment should earn his bread by the sweat of his +brow--which he might do with joy--while the woman must work out her +ordained sentence "in sorrow all the days of her life." + +In her bitter words was the inherent revolt of the race of woman. But +now she suddenly felt that she had flung him an infinite distance from +her; that she had struck at the thing she most cherished--his belief that +she loved him; that even if she had told the truth--and she felt she had +not--it was not the truth she wished him most to feel. + +For an instant she stood looking at him, shocked and confounded, then her +changeless love rushed back on her, the maternal and protective spirit +welled up, and with a passionate cry she threw herself in the chair again +in very weakness, with outstretched hands, saying: + +"Forgive me--oh, forgive me! I did not mean it--oh, forgive your +Rosalie!" + +Stooping over her, he answered: + +"It is good for me to know the whole truth. What hurts you may give me +will pass--for life must end, and my life cannot be long enough to pay +the price of the hurts I have given you. I could bear a thousand--one +for every hour--if they could bring back the light to your eye, the joy +to your heart. Could prayer, do you think, make me sorrier than I am? +I have hurt what I would have spared from hurt at the cost of my life-- +and all the lives in all the world!" he added fiercely. + +"Forgive me--oh, forgive your Rosalie!" she pleaded. "I did not know +what I was saying--I was mad." + +"It was all so sane and true," he said, like one who, on the brink of +death, finds a satisfaction in speaking the perfect truth. "I am glad to +hear the truth--I have been such a liar." + +She looked up startled, her tears blinding her. "You have not deceived +me?" she asked bitterly. "Oh, you have not deceived me--you have loved +me, have you not?" It was that which mattered, that only. Moveless and +eager, she looked--looked at him, waiting, as it were, for sentence. + +"I never lied to you, Rosalie--never!" he answered, and he touched her +hand. + +She gave a moan of relief at his words. "Oh, then, oh, then . . . " +she said, in a low voice, and the tears in her eyes dried away. + +"I meant that until I knew you, I kept deceiving myself and others all my +life--" + +"But without knowing it?" she said eagerly. + +"Perhaps, without quite knowing it." + +"Until you knew me?" she asked, in quick, quivering tones. + +"Till I knew you," he answered. + +"Then I have done you good--not ill?" she asked, with painful +breathlessness. + +"The only good there may be in me is you, and you only," he said, and he +choked something rising in his throat, seeing the greatness of her heart, +her dear desire to have entered into his life to his own good. He would +have said that there was no good in him at all, but that he wished to +comfort her. + +A little cry of joy broke from her lips. "Oh, that--that!" she cried, +with happy tears. "Won't you kiss me now?" she added softly. + +He clasped her in his arms, and though his eyes were dry, his heart wept +tears of blood. + + + + +CHAPTER LII + +THE COMING OF BILLY + +Chaudiere had made--and lost--a reputation. The Passion Play in the +valley had become known to a whole country--to the Cure's and the +Seigneur's unavailing regret. They had meant to revive the great story +for their own people and the Indians--a homely, beautiful object-lesson, +in an Eden--like innocence and quiet and repose; but behold the world had +invaded them! The vanity of the Notary had undone them. He had written +to the great papers of the province, telling of the advent of the play, +and pilgrimages had been organised, and excursions had been made to the +spot, where a simple people had achieved a crude but noble picture of the +life and death of the Hero of Christendom. The Cure viewed with +consternation the invasion of their quiet. It was no longer his own +Chaudiere; and when, on a Sunday, his dear people were jostled from the +church to make room for strangers, his gentle eloquence seemed to forsake +him, he spoke haltingly, and his intoning of the Mass lacked the old +soothing simplicity. + +"Ah, my dear Seigneur!" he said, on the Sunday before the playing was to +end, "we have overshot the mark." + +The Seigneur nodded and turned his head away. "There is an English play +which says, 'I have shot mine arrow o'er the house and hurt my brother.' +That's it--that's it! We began with religion, and we end with greed, +and pride, and notoriety." + +"What do we want of fame! The price is too high, Maurice. Fame is not +good for the hearts and minds of simple folk." + +"It will soon be over." + +"I dread a sordid reaction." + +The Seigneur stood thinking for a moment. "I have an idea," he said at +last. "Let us have these last days to ourselves. The mission ends next +Saturday at five o'clock. We will announce that all strangers must leave +the valley by Wednesday night. Then, during those last three days, while +yet the influence of the play is on them, you can lead your own people +back to the old quiet feelings." + +"My dear Maurice--it is worthy of you! It is the way. We will announce +it to-day. And see now. . . . For those three days we will change +the principals; lest those who have taken the parts so long have lost the +pious awe which should be upon them. We will put new people in their +places. I will announce it at vespers presently. I have in my mind who +should play the Christ, and St. John, and St. Peter--the men are not hard +to find; but for Mary the Mother and Mary Magdalene--" + +The eyes of the two men suddenly met, a look of understanding passed +between them. + +"Will she do it?" said the Seigneur. + +The Cure nodded. "Paulette Dubois has heard the word, 'Go and sin no +more'; she will obey." + +Walking through the village as they talked, the Cure shrank back +painfully several times, for voices of strangers, singing festive songs, +rolled out upon the road. "Who can they be?" he said distressfully. + +Without a word the Seigneur went to the door of the inn whence the sounds +proceeded, and, without knocking, entered. A moment afterwards the +voices stopped, but broke out again, quieted, then once more broke out, +and presently the Seigneur issued from the door, white with anger, three +strangers behind him. All were intoxicated. + +One was violent. It was Billy Wantage, whom the years had not improved. +He had arrived that day with two companions--an excursion of curiosity +as an excuse for a "spree." + +"What's the matter with you, old stick-in-the-mud?" he shouted. "Mass +is over, isn't it? Can't we have a little guzzle between prayers?" + +By this time a crowd had gathered, among them Filion Lacasse. At a +motion from the Seigneur, and a whisper that went round quickly, a dozen +habitants swiftly sprang on the three men, pinioned their arms, and +carrying them bodily to the pump by the tavern, held them under it, one +by one, till each was soaked and sober. Then their horses and wagon were +brought, and they were given five minutes to leave the village. + +With a devilish look in his eye, and drenched and furious, Billy was +disposed to resist the command, but the faces around him were determined, +and, muttering curses, the three drove away towards the next parish. + + + + +CHAPTER LIII + +THE SEIGNEUR AND THE CURE HAVE A SUSPICION + +Presently the Seigneur and the Cure stood before the door of the tailor- +shop. The Cure was about to knock, when the Seigneur laid a hand upon +his arm. + +"There is no use; he has been gone several days," he said. + +"Gone--gone!" said the Cure. + +"I came to see him yesterday, and not finding him, I asked at the post- +office." M. Rossignol's voice lowered. "He told Mrs. Flynn he was going +into the hills, so Rosalie says." + +The Cure's face fell. "He went away also just before the play began. +I almost fear that--that we get no nearer. His mind prompts him to do +good and not evil, and yet--and yet. . . . I have dreamed a good +dream, Maurice, but I sometimes fear I have dreamed in vain." + +"Wait-wait!" + +M. Loisel looked towards the post-office musingly. "I have thought +sometimes that what man's prayers may not accomplish a woman's love might +do. If--but, alas, what do we know of his past! Nothing. What do we +know of his future? Nothing. What do we know of the human heart? +Nothing--nothing!" + +The Seigneur was astounded. The Cure's meaning was plain. "What do you +mean?" he asked, almost gruffly. + +"She--Rosalie--has changed--changed." In his heart he dwelt sorrowfully +upon the fact that she had not been to confession to him for many, many +months. + +"Since her father's death--since her illness?" + +"Since she went to Montreal seven months ago. Even while she was so ill +these past weeks, she never asked for me; and when I came . . . Ah, if +it is that her heart has gone out to the man, and his does not respond!" + +"A good thing, too!" said the other gloomily. "We don't know where he +came from, and we do know that he is a pagan." + +"Yet there she sits now, hour after hour, day after day--so changed." + +"She has lost her father," urged M. Rossignol anxiously. + +"I know the grief of children--this is not such a grief. There is +something more. But I cannot ask. If she were a sinner--but she is +without fault. Have we not watched her grow up here, mirthful, brave, +pure-souled--" + +"Fitted for any station," interposed the Seigneur huskily. Presently he +laid a hand upon the Cure's arm. "Shall I ask her again?" he said, +breathing hard. "Do you think she has found out her mistake?" + +The Cure was so taken aback that at first he could not speak. When he +realised, however, he could scarce suppress a smile at the other's simple +vanity. But he mastered himself, and said: "It is not that, Maurice. It +is not you." + +"How did you know I had asked her?" asked his friend querulously. + +"You have just told me." + +M. Rossignol felt a kind of reproval in the Cure's tone. It made him a +little nervous. "I'm an old fool, but she needed some one," he +protested. "At least I am a gentleman, and she would not be thrown +away." + +"Dear Maurice!" said the Cure, and linked his arm in the other's. "In +all respects save one, it would have been to her advantage. But youth is +the only comrade for youth. All else is evasion of life's laws." + +The Seigneur pressed his arm. "I thought you less worldly-wise than +myself; I find you more," he said. + +"Not worldly-wise. Life is deeper than the world or worldly wisdom. +Come, we will both go and see Rosalie." + +M. Rossignol suddenly stopped at the post-office door, and half turned +towards the tailor-shop. "He is young. Suppose that he drew her love +his way, but gave her nothing in return, and--" + +"If it were so"--the Cure paused, and his face darkened--"if it were so, +he should leave her forever; and so my dream would end." + +"And Rosalie?" + +"Rosalie would forget. To remember, youth must see and touch and be +near, else it wears itself out in excess of feeling. Youth feels more +deeply than age, but it must bear daily witness." + +"Upon my honour, Cure, you shall write your little philosophies for the +world," said M. Rossignol, and then knocked at the door. + +"I will go in alone, Maurice," the Cure urged. "Good-you are right," +answered the other. "I will go write the proclamation denying strangers +the valley after Wednesday. I will enforce it, too," he added, with +vigour, and, turning, walked up the street, as Mrs. Flynn admitted the +Cure to the post-office. + +A half-hour later M. Loisel again appeared at the post-office door, a +pale, beautiful face at his shoulder. + +He had not been brave enough to say what was on his mind. But as he bade +her good-bye, he plucked up needful courage. + +"Forgive me, Rosalie," he said, "but I have sometimes thought that you +have more griefs than one. I have thought"--he paused, then went on +bravely--"that there might be--there might be unwelcomed love, or love +deceived." + +A mist came before her eyes, but she quietly and firmly answered: "I have +never been deceived in love, Monsieur Loisel." + +"There, there!" he hurriedly and gently rejoined. "Do not be hurt, my +child. I only want to help you." A moment afterwards he was gone. + +As the door closed behind him, she drew herself proudly up. + +"I have never been deceived," she said aloud. "I love him--love him--love +him." + + + + +CHAPTER LIV + +M. ROSSIGNOL SLIPS THE LEASH + +It was the last day of the Passion Play, and the great dramatic mission +was drawing to a close. The confidence of the Cure and the Seigneur was +restored. The prohibition against strangers had had its effect, and for +three whole days the valley had been at rest again. Apparently there was +not a stranger within its borders, save the Seigneur's brother, the Abbe +Rossignol, who had come to see the moving spectacle. + +The Abbe, on his arrival, had made inquiries concerning the tailor of +Chaudiere and Jo Portugais, as persistently about the one as the other. +Their secrets had been kept inviolate by him. + +It was disconcerting to hear the tales people told of the tailor's +charity and wisdom. It was all dangerous, for what was, accidentally, +no evil in this particular instance, might be the greatest disaster in +another case. Principle was at stake. He heard in stern silence the +Cure's happy statement that Jo Portugais had returned to the bosom of the +Church, and attended Mass regularly. + +"So it may be, my dear Abbe," said M. Loisel, "that the friendship +between him and our 'infidel' has been the means of helping Portugais. +I hope their friendship will go on unbroken for years and years." + +"I have no idea that it will," said the Abbe grimly. "That rope of +friendship may snap untimely." + +"Upon my soul, you croak like a raven!" testily broke in M. Rossignol, +who was present. "I didn't know there was so much in common between you +and my surly-jowled groom. He gets his pleasure out of croaking. 'Wait, +wait, you'll see--you'll see! Death, death, death--every man must die! +The devil has you by the hair--death--death--death!' Bah! I'm heartily +sick of croakers. I suppose, like my grunting groom, you'll say about +the Passion Play, 'No good will come of it--wait--wait--wait!' Bah!" + +"It may not be an unmixed good," answered the ascetic. + +"Well, and is there any such thing on earth as an unmixed good? The play +yesterday was worth a thousand sermons. It was meant to serve Holy +Church, and it will serve it. Was there ever anything more real--and +touching--than Paulette Dubois as Mary Magdalene yesterday?" + +"I do not approve of such reality. For that woman to play the part is to +destroy the impersonality of the scene." + +"You would demand that the Christus should be a good man, and the St. +John blameless--why shouldn't the Magdalene be a repentant woman?" + +"It might impress the people more, if the best woman in your parish were +to play the part. The fall of virtue, the ruin of innocence, would be +vividly brought home. It does good to make the innocent feel the terror +and shame of sin. That is the price the good pay for the fall of man-- +sorrow and shame for those who sin." The Seigneur, rising quickly from +the table, and kicking his chair back, said angrily: "Damn your +theories!" Then, seeing the frozen look on his brother's face, +continued, more excitedly: "Yes, damn, damn, damn your theories! You +always took the crass view. I beg your pardon, Cure--I beg your pardon." + +He then went to the window, threw it open, and called to his groom. + +"Hi, there, coffin-face," he said, "bring round the horses--the quietest +one in the stable for my brother--you hear? He can't ride," he added +maliciously. + +This was his fiercest stroke, for the Abbe's secret vanity was the belief +that he looked well on a horse, and rode handsomely. + + + + +CHAPTER LV + +ROSALIE PLAYS A PART + +From a tree upon a little hill rang out a bell--a deep-toned bell, bought +by the parish years before for the missions held at this very spot. +Every day it rang for an instant at the beginning of each of the five +acts. It also tolled slowly when the curtain rose upon the scene of the +Crucifixion. In this act no one spoke save the abased Magdalene, who +knelt at the foot of the cross, and on whose hair red drops fell when the +Roman soldier pierced the side of the figure on the cross. This had been +the Cure's idea. The Magdalene should speak for mankind, for the +continuing world. She should speak for the broken and contrite heart in +all ages, should be the first-fruits of the sacrifice, a flower of the +desert earth, bedewed by the blood of the Prince of Peace. + +So, in the long nights of the late winter and early spring, the Cure had +thought and thought upon what the woman should say from the foot of the +cross. At last he put into her mouth that which told the whole story of +redemption and deliverance, so far as his heart could conceive it--the +prayer for all sorts and conditions of men and the general thanksgiving +of humanity. + +During the last three days Paulette Dubois had taken the part of Mary +Magdalene. As Jo Portugais had confessed to the Abbe that notable day in +the woods at Vadrome Mountain, so she had confessed to the Cure after so +many years of agony--and the one confession fitted into the other: Jo had +once loved her, she had treated him vilely, then a man had wronged her, +and Jo had avenged her--this was the tale in brief. She it was who +laughed in the gallery of the court-room the day that Joseph Nadeau was +acquitted. + +It had pained and shocked the Cure more than any he had ever heard, but +he urged for her no penalty as Portugais had set for himself with the +austere approval of the Abbe. Paulette's presence as the Magdalene had +had a deep effect upon the people, so that she shared with Mary the +Mother the painfully real interest of the vast audience. + +Five times had the bell rung out in the perfect spring air, upon which +the balm of the forest and the refreshment of the ardent sun were poured. +The quick anger of M. Rossignol had passed away long before the Cure, the +Abbe, and himself had reached the lake and the great plateau. Between +the acts the two brothers walked up and down together, at peace once +more, and there was a suspicious moisture in the Seigneur's eyes. The +demeanour of the people had been so humble and rapt that the place and +the plateau and the valley seemed alone in creation with the lofty drama +of the ages. + +The Cure's eyes shone when he saw on a little knoll in the trees, apart +from the worshippers and spectators, Charley and Jo Portugais. His cup +of content was now full. He had felt convinced that if the tailor had +but been within these bounds during the past three days, a work were +begun which should end only at the altar of their parish church. To-day +the play became to him the engine of God for the saving of a man's soul. +Not long before the last great tableau was to appear he went to his own +little tent near the hut where the actors prepared to go upon the stage. +As he entered, some one came quickly forward from the shadow of the trees +and touched him on the arm. + +"Rosalie!" he cried in amazement, for she wore the costume of Mary +Magdalene. + +"It is I, not Paulette, who will appear," she said, a deep light in her +eyes. + +"You, Rosalie?" he asked dumfounded. "You are distrait. Trouble and +sorrow have put this in your mind. You must not do it." + +"Yes, I am going there," she said, pointing towards the great stage. +"Paulette has given me these to wear"--she touched the robe--"and I only +ask your blessing now. Oh, believe, believe me, I can speak for those +who are innocent and those who are guilty; for those who pray and those +who cannot pray; for those who confess and those who dare not! I can +speak the words out of my heart with gladness and agony, Monsieur," she +urged, in a voice vibrating with feeling. + +A luminous look came into the Cure's face. A thought leapt up in his +heart. Who could tell!--this pure girl, speaking for the whole sinful, +unbelieving, and believing world, might be the one last conquering +argument to the man. + +He could not read the agony of spirit which had driven Rosalie to this +--to confess through the words of Mary Magdalene her own woe, to say it +out to all the world, and to receive, as did Paulette Dubois, every day +after the curtain came down, absolution and blessing. She longed for the +old remembered peace. + +The Cure could not read the struggle between her love for a man and the +ineradicable habit of her soul; but he raised his hand, made the sacred +gesture over leer, and said: "Go, my child, and God be with you." + +He could not see her for tears as she hurried away to where Paulette +Dubois awaited her--the two at peace now. At the hands of the lately +despised and injurious woman Rosalie was made ready to play the part in +the last act, none knowing save the few who appeared in the final +tableau, and they at the last moment only. + +The bell began to toll. + +A thousand people fell upon their knees, and with fascinated yet abashed +and awe-struck eyes saw the great tableau of Christendom: the three +crosses against the evening sky, the Figure in the centre, the Roman +populace, the trembling Jews, the pathetic groups of disciples. A cloud +passed across the sky, the illusion grew, and hearts quivered in piteous +sympathy. There was no music now--not a sound save the sob of some +overwrought woman. The woe of an oppressed world absorbed them. Even +the stolid Indians, as Roman soldiers, shrank awe-stricken from the +sacred tragedy. Now the eyes of all were upon the central Figure, then +they shifted for a moment to John the Beloved, standing with the Mother. + +"Pauvre Mere! Pauvre Christ!" said a weeping woman aloud. + +A Roman soldier raised a spear and pierced the side of the Hero of the +World. Blood flowed, and hundreds gasped. Then there was silence--a +strange hush as of a prelude to some great event. + +"It is finished. Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit," said the +Figure. + +The hush was broken by such a sound as one hears in a forest when a wind +quivers over the earth, flutters the leaves, and then sinks away--neither +having come nor gone, but only lived and died. + +Again there was silence, and then all eyes were fixed upon the figure at +the foot of the cross-Mary the Magdalene. + +Day after day they had seen this figure rise, come forward a step, and +speak the epilogue to this moving miracle-drama. For the last three days +Paulette Dubois had turned a sorrowful face upon them, and with one hand +upraised had spoken the prayer, the prophecy, the thanksgiving, the +appeal of humanity and the ages. They looked to see the same figure now, +and waited. But as the Magdalene turned, there was a great stir in the +multitude, for the face bent upon them was that of Rosalie Evanturel. +Awe and wonder moved the people. + +Apart from the crowd, under a clump of trees, knelt a woodsman from +Vadrome Mountain, and the tailor of Chaudiere stood beside him. + +When Charley, touched by the heavy scene, saw the figure of the Magdalene +rise, he felt a curious thrill of fascination. When she turned, and he +saw the face of Rosalie, the blood rushed to his face; then his heart +seemed to stand still. Pain and shame travelled to the farthest recesses +of his nature. Jo Portugais rose to his feet with a startled +exclamation. + +Rosalie began to speak. "This is the day of which the hours shall never +cease--in it there shall be no night. He whom ye have crucified hath +saved you from the wrath to come. He hath saved others, Himself He would +not save. Even for such as I, who have secretly opened, who have +secretly entered, the doors of sin--" + +With a gasp of horror and a mad desire to take her away from the sight of +this gaping, fascinated crowd, Charley made to rush forward, but Jo +Portugais held him back. + +"Be still. You will ruin her, M'sieu'!" said Jo. + +"--even for such as I am," the beautiful voice went on, "hath He died. +And in the ages to come, women such as I, and all women who sorrow, and +all men who err and are deceived, and all the helpless world, will know +that this was the Friend of the human soul." Not a gesture, not a +movement, only that slight, pathetic figure, with pale, agonised face, +and eyes that looked--looked--looked beyond them, over their heads to the +darkening east, the clouded light of evening behind her. Her voice rang +out now valiant and clear, now searching and piteous, yet reaching to +where the farthermost person knelt, and was lost upon the lake and in the +spreading trees. + +"What ye have done may never be undone; what He hath said shall never be +unsaid. His is the Word which shall unite all languages, when ye that +are Romans shall be no more Romans, and ye that are Jews shall still be +Jews, reproached and alone. No longer shall men faint in the glare--the +shadow of the Cross shall screen them. No more shall woman bear her +black sorrows, alone; the Light of the World shall cheer her." + +As she spoke, the cloud drew back from the sunset, and the saffron glow +behind lighted the cross, and shone upon her hair, casting her face in a +gracious shadow. Her voice rose higher. "I, the Magdalene, am the +first-fruits of this sacrifice: from the foot of the cross I come. +I have sinned more than all. I have shamed all women. But I have +confessed my sin, and He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and +to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." + +Her voice now became lower, but clear and even, pathetically exulting: + +"O world, forgive, as He hath forgiven you! Fall, dark curtain, and hide +this pain, and rise again upon forgiven sin and a redeemed people!" + +She stood still, with her eyes upraised, and the curtain came slowly +down. + +For a long time no one in all the gathered multitude stirred. Far over +under the trees a man sat upon the ground, his head upon his arms, and +his arms upon his knees, in a misery unmeasurable. Beside him stood a +woodsman, who knew of no word to say that might comfort him. + +A girl, in the garb of the Magdalene, entered the tent of the Cure, and, +speaking no word, knelt and received absolution of her sins. + + + + +CHAPTER LVI + +MRS. FLYNN SPEAKS + +CHARLEY left Jo Portugais behind, and went home alone. He watched at a +window till he saw Rosalie return. As she passed quickly down the street +with Mrs. Flynn to her own door, he observed that her face was happier +than he had seen it for many a day. Her step was lighter, there was a +freedom in her air, a sense of confidence in her carriage. + +She bore herself as one who had done a thing which relaxed a painful +tension. There was a curious glow in her eyes and face, and this became +deeper as, showing himself at the door, she saw him, smiled, and stood +still. He came across the street and took her hand. + +"You have been away," she said softly. "For a few days," he answered. + +"Far?" + +"At Vadrome Mountain." + +"You have missed these last days of the Passion Play," she said, a shadow +in her eyes. + +"I was present to-day," he answered. + +She turned away her head quickly, for the look in his eyes told her more +than any words could have done, and Mrs. Flynn said: + +"'Tis a day for everlastin' mimory, sir. For the part she played this +day, the darlin', only such as she could play! 'Tis the innocent takin' +the shame o' the guilty, and the tears do be comin' to me eyes. 'Tis not +ould Widdy Flynn's eyes alone that's wet this day, but hearts do be +weepin' for the love o' God." + +Rosalie suddenly opened the door, and, without another look at Charley, +entered the house. + +"'Tis one in a million!" said Mrs. Flynn, in a confidential tone, for +she had a fixed idea that Rosalie loved Charley and that he loved her, +and that the only thing that stood in the way of their marriage was +religion. From the first Charley had conquered Mrs. Flynn. That he was +a tailor was a pity and a shame, but love was love, and the man had a +head on him and a heart in him; and love was love! So Mrs. Flynn said: + +"'Tis one that a man that's a man should do annything for, was it havin' +the heart cut out uv him, or givin' the last drop uv his blood. Shure, +for such as her, murder, or false witness, or givin' up the last wish or +thought a man hugged to his boosom, would be as aisy as aisy." + +Charley laughed to himself, her purpose was so obvious, but his heart +went out to her, for she was a friend, and, whatever came to him, Rosalie +would not be alone. + +"I believe every word of yours," he said, shaking her hand, "and we'll +see, you and I, that no man marries her who isn't ready to do what you +say." + +"Would you do it yourself--if it was you?" she asked, flushing for her +boldness. + +"I would," he answered. + +"Then do it," she said, and fled inside the house and shut the door. + +"Mrs. Flynn--good Mrs. Flynn!" he said, and went back sadly to his +house, and shut himself up with his thoughts. When night drew on he went +to bed, but he could not sleep. He got up after a time, and taking pen +and paper, wrote for a long time. Having finished, he took what he had +written, and placing it with the two packets-of money and pearls--which +he had brought from his old home, he addressed it to the Cure, and going +to the safe in the wall of the shop, placed them inside and locked the +door. + +Then he went to bed, and slept soundly--the deep sleep of the just. + + + + +CHAPTER LVII + +A BURNING FIERY FURNACE + +Every man within the limits of the parish was in his bed, save one. He +was a stranger who, once before, had visited Chaudiere for one brief day, +when he had been saved from death at the Red Ravine, and had fled the +village that night because, as he thought, he had heard the voice of his +old friend's ghost in the trees. Since that time he had travelled in +many parishes, healing where he could, entertaining where he might, +earning money as the charlatan. He was now on his way back through the +parishes to Montreal, and his route lay through Chaudiere. He had hoped +to reach Chaudiere before nightfall--he remembered with fear the incident +from which he had fled many months before; but his horse had broken its +leg on a corduroy bridge, a few miles out from the parish in the hills, +and darkness came upon him before he could hide his wagon in the woods +and proceed afoot to Chaudiere. He had shot his horse, and rolled it +into the swift torrent beneath the bridge. + +Travelling the lonely road, he drank freely from the whiskey-horn he +carried, to keep his spirits up, so that by the time he came to the +outskirts of Chaudiere he was in a state of intoxication, and reeled +impudently along with the "Dutch courage" the liquor had given him. +Arrived at the first cluster of houses in the place, he paused uncertain. +Should he knock here or go on to the tavern? He shivered at thought of +the tavern, for it was near it he had heard Charley Steele's voice +calling to him out of the trees. If he knocked here, would the people +admit him in his present state?--he had sense enough to know that he was +very drunk. As he shook his head in owlish gravity, he saw the church on +the hill not far away. He chuckled to himself. The carpet in the +chancel and the hassocks at the altar would make a good bed. No fear of +Charley's ghost coming inside the church--it wouldn't be that kind of a +ghost. As he travelled the intervening space, shrugging his shoulders, +staggering serenely, he told himself in confidence that he would leave +the church at dawn, go to the tavern, purchase a horse as soon as might +be, and get back to his wagon. + +The church door was unlocked, and he entered and made his way to the +chancel, found surplices in the vestry and put a hassock inside one for a +pillow. Then he sat down and drew the loose rug of the chancel-floor +over him, and took another drink from the whiskey horn. Lighting his +pipe, he smoked for a while, but grew drowsy, and his pipe fell into his +lap. With eyes nearly shut he struck another match, made to light his +pipe again, but threw the match away, still burning. As he did so the +pipe dropped again from his mouth, and he fell back on the hassock-pillow +he had made. + +The lighted match fell on a surplice which had dropped from his arms as +he came from the vestry, and set it afire. In five minutes the whole +chancel was burning, and the sleeping man waked in the midst of smoke and +flame. He staggered to his feet with a terror-stricken cry, stumbled +down the aisle, through the front door, and out into the night. Reaching +the road, he turned his face again to the hill where his wagon lay hid. +If he could reach that, he would be safe; nobody would suspect him. He +clutched the whiskey-horn tight and broke into a run. As he passed +beyond the village his excited imagination heard Charley Steele's ghost +calling after him. He ran harder. The voice kept calling from +Chaudiere. + +Not Charley's voice, but the voices of many people in Chaudiere were +calling. Some wakeful person had seen the glare in the church windows +and had given the alarm, and now there rang through the streets the call- +"Fire! Fire! Fire!" + +Charley and Jo were among the last to wake, for both had slept soundly, +but Jo was roused by a handful of gravel thrown at his window and a +warning cry, and a few moments later he and Charley were in the street +with a hurrying crowd. Over all the village was a red glare, lighting up +the sky, burnishing the trees. The church was a mass of flames. + +Charley was as pale as the rest of the crowd; for he thought of the Cure, +he thought of this people to whom their church meant more than home and +vastly more than friend and fortune. His heart was with them all: not +because it was their church that was burning, but because it was +something dear to them. + +Reaching the hill, he saw the Cure coming from the vestry of the burning +church, bearing some vessels of the altar. Depositing them in the arms +of his weeping sister, he turned again towards the door. People clung to +him, and would not let him go. + +"See, it is all inflames," they cried. "Your cassock is singed. You +shall not go." + +At that moment Charley and Portugais came up. A hurried question to the +Cure from Charley, a key handed over, a nod from Jo, and before the Cure +could prevent them the two men had rushed through the smoke and flame +into the vestry, Portugais holding Charley's hand. + +The crowd outside waited in a terrible anxiety. The timbers of the +chancel portion of the building seemed about to fall, and still the two +men did not appear. The people called; the Cure clinched his hands at +his side--he was too fearful even to pray. + +But now the two men appeared, loaded with the few treasures of the +church. They were scorched and singed, and the beards of both were +burned, but, stumbling and exhausted, they brought their loads to the +eager arms of the waiting habitants. + +Then from the other end of the church came a cry: "The little cross--the +little iron cross!" Then another cry: "Rosalie Evanturel! Rosalie +Evanturel!" Some one came running to the Cure. + +"Rosalie Evanturel has gone inside for the little cross on the pillar. +She is in the flames; the door has fallen in. She can't get out again." + +With a hoarse cry, Charley darted back inside the vestry door. A cry of +horror went up. + +It was only a minute and a half, but it seemed like years, and then a man +in flames appeared in the fiery porch--and not alone. He carried a girl +in his arms. He wavered even at the threshold with the timbers swaying +overhead, but, with a last effort, he plunged forward through the +furnace, and was caught by eager hands on the margin of endurable heat. +The two were smothered in quilts brought from the Cure's house, and +carried swiftly to the cool safety of the grass and trees beyond. The +woman had fainted in the flame of the church; the man dropped insensible +as they caught her from his arms. + +As they tore away Charley's coat muffling his face, and opened his shirt, +they stared in awe. The cross which Rosalie had torn from the pillar, +Charley had thrust into his bosom, and there it now lay on the red scar +made by itself in the hands of Louis Trudel. + +M. Loisel waved the people back. He raised Charley's head. The Abbe +Rossignol, who had just arrived with the Seigneur, lifted the cross from +the insensible man's breast. + +He started when he saw the scar. Then he remembered the tale he had +heard. He turned away gravely to his brother. "Was it the cross or the +woman he went for?" he asked. + +"Great God--do you ask!" the Seigneur said indignantly. "And he +deserves her," he muttered under his breath. + +Charley opened his eyes. "Is she safe?" he asked, starting up. + +"Unscathed, my son," the Cure said. + +Was this tailor-man not his son? Had he not thirsted for his soul as a +hart for the water-brooks? + +"I am very sorry for you, Monsieur," said Charley. + +"It is God's will," was the reply, in a choking voice. "It will be years +before we have another church--many, many years." + +The roof gave way with a crash, and the spire shot down into the flaming +debris. + +The people groaned. + +"It will cost sixty thousand dollars to build it up again," said Filion +Lacasse. + +"We have three thousand dollars from the Passion Play," said the Notary. +"That could go towards it." + +"We have another two thousand in the bank," said Maximilian Cour. + +"But it will take years," said the saddler disconsolately. + +Charley looked at the Cure, mournful and broken but calm. He saw the +Seigneur, gloomy and silent, standing apart. He saw the people in +scattered groups, looking more homeless than if they had no homes. Some +groups were silent; others discussed angrily the question, who was the +incendiary--that it had been set on fire seemed certain. + +"I said no good would come of the play-acting," said the Seigneur's +groom, and was flung into the ditch by Filion Lacasse. + +Presently Charley staggered to his feet, purpose in his face. These +people, from the Cure and Seigneur to the most ignorant habitant, were +hopeless and inert. The pride of their lives was gone. + +"Gather the people together," he said to the Notary and Filion Lacasse. +Then he turned to the Cure and the Seigneur. + +"With your permission, messieurs," he said, "I will do a harder thing +than I have ever done. I will speak to them all." + +Wondering, M. Loisel added his voice to the Notary's, and the word went +round. Slowly they all made their way to a spot the Cure indicated. + +Charley stood on the embankment above the road, the notables of the +parish round him. + +Rosalie had been taken to the Cure's house. In that wild moment in the +church when she had fallen insensible in Charley's arms, a new feeling +had sprung up in her. She loved him in every fibre, but she had a +strange instinct, a prescience, that she was lying on his breast for the +last time. She had wound her arms round his neck, and, as his lips +closed on hers, she had cried: "We shall die together--together." + +As she lay in the Cure's house, she thought only of that moment. + +"What are they cheering for?" she asked, as a great noise came to her +through the window. + +"Run and see," said the Cure's sister to Mrs. Flynn, and the fat woman +hurried away. + +Rosalie raised herself so that she could look out of the window. "I can +see him," she cried. + +"See whom?" asked the Cure's sister. + +"Monsieur," she answered, with a changed voice. "He is speaking. They +are cheering him." + +Ten minutes later, the Cure and the Notary entered the room. M. Loisel +came forward to Rosalie, and took her hands in his. + +"You should not have done it," he said. + +"I wanted to do something," she replied. "To get the cross for you +seemed the only payment I could make for all your goodness to me." + +"It nearly cost you your life--and the life of another," he said, shaking +his head reproachfully. + +Cheering came again from the burning church. "Why do they cheer?" she +asked. + +"Why do they cheer? Because the man we have feared, Monsieur Mallard--" + +"I never feared him," said Rosalie, scarcely above her breath. + +"Because he has taught them the way to a new church again--and at once, +at once, my child." + +"A remarkable man!" said Narcisse Dauphin. "There never was such a +speech. Never in any courtroom was there such an appeal." + +"What did he do?" asked Mademoiselle Loisel, her hand in Rosalie's. + +"Everything," answered the Cure. "There he stood in his tattered +clothes, the beard burnt to his chin, his hands scorched, his eyes +bloodshot, and he spoke--" + +"'With the tongues of men and of angels,'" said M. Dauphin +enthusiastically. + +The Cure frowned and continued: "'You look on yonder burning walls,' he +said, 'and wonder when they will rise again on this hill made sacred by +the burial of your beloved, by the christening of your children, the +marriages which have given you happy homes, and the sacraments which are +to you the laws of your lives. You give one-twentieth of your income +yearly towards your church--then give one-fortieth of all you possess +today, and your church will be begun in a month. Before a year goes +round you will come again to this venerable spot and enter another church +here. Your vows, your memories, and your hopes will be purged by fire. +All that you possess will be consecrated by your free-will offerings.' +--Ah, if I could but remember what came afterwards! It was all +eloquence, and generous and noble thought." + +"He spoke of you," said the Notary--"he spoke the truth; and the people +cheered. He said that the man outside the walls could sometimes tell the +besieged the way relief would come. Never again shall I hear such a +speech." + +"What are they going to do?" asked Rosalie, and withdrew her trembling +hand from that of Madame Dugal. + +"This very day, at my office, they will bring their offerings, and we +will begin at once," answered M. Dauphin. "There is no man in Chaudiere +but will take the stocking from the hole, the bag from the chest, the +credit from the bank, the grain from the barn for the market, or make the +note of hand to contribute one-fortieth of all he is worth for the +rebuilding of the church." + +"Notes of hand are not money," said the Cure's sister, the practical +sense ever uppermost. + +"They shall all be money--hard cash," said the Notary. "The Seigneur is +going to open a sort of bank, and take up the notes of hand, and give +bank-bills in return. To-day I go with his steward to Quebec to get the +money." + +"What does the Abbe Rossignol say?" said the Cure's sister. + +"Our church and parish are our own," interposed the Cure proudly. "We do +our duty and fear no abbe." + +"Voila!" said M. Dauphin, "he never can keep hands off. I saw him go to +Jo Portugais a little while ago. 'Remember!' he said--I can't make out +what he was after. We have enough to remember to-day, for sure." + +"Good may come of it, perhaps," said M. Loisel, looking sadly out upon +the ruins of his church. + +"See, 'tis the sunrise!" said Mrs. Flynn's voice from the corner, her +face towards the eastern window. + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII + +WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL + +In four days ten thousand dollars in notes and gold had been brought to +the office of the Notary by the faithful people of Chaudiere. All day in +turn M. Loisel and M. Rossignol sat in the office and received that which +represented one-fortieth of the value of each man's goods, estate, and +wealth--the fortieth value of a woodsawyer's cottage, or a widow's +garden. They did it impartially for all, as the Cure and three of the +best-to-do habitants had done for the Seigneur, whose four thousand +dollars had been paid in first of all. + +Charley had been confined to his room for three days, because of his +injuries and a feverish cold he had caught, and the habitants did not +disturb his quiet. But Mrs. Flynn took him broth made by Rosalie's +hands, and Rosalie fought with her desire to go to him and nurse him. +She was not, however, the Rosalie of the old impulse and impetuous +resolve--the arrow had gone too deep; she waited till she could see his +face again and look into his eyes. Not apathy, but a sense of the +inevitable was upon her, and pale and fragile, but with a calm spirit, +she waited for she knew not what. + +She felt that the day of fate was closing down. She must hold herself +ready for the hour when he would need her most. At first, when the +conviction had come to her that the end of all was near, she had +revolted. She had had impulse to go to him at all hazards, to say to +him: "Come away--anywhere, anywhere!" But that had given place to the +deeper thing in her, and something of Charley's spirit of stoic waiting +had come upon her. + +She watched the people going to the Notary's office with their tributes +and free-will offerings, and they seemed like people in a play--these +days she lived no life which was theirs. It was a dream, unimportant +and temporary. She was feeling what was behind all life, and permanent. +It could not last, but there it was; and she could not return to the +transitory till this cloud of fate was lifted. She was much too young to +suffer so, but the young ever suffer most. + +On the fourth day she saw Charley. He came from his shop and went to the +Notary's office. At first she was startled, for he was clean-shaven--the +fire had burned his beard to the skin. She saw a different man, far +removed from this life about them both--individual, singular. He was +pale, and his eye-glass, with the cleanshaven face, gave an impression of +refined separateness. She did not know that the same look was in both +their faces. She watched him till he entered the Notary's shop, then she +was called away to her duties. + +Charley had come to give his one-fortieth with the rest. When he entered +the Notary's office, the Seigneur and M. Dauphin stood up to greet him. +They congratulated him on his recovery, while feeling also that the +change in his personal appearance somehow affected their relations. +A crowd gathered round the door of the shop. When Charley made his +offering, with a statement of his goods and income, the Seigneur and +Notary did not know what to do. They were disposed to decline it, for +since Monsieur was no Catholic, it was not his duty to help. At this +moment of delicate anxiety M. Loisel entered. With a swift bright flush +to his cheek he saw the difficulty, and at once accepted freely. + +"God bless you," he said, as he took the money, and Charley left. "It +shall build the doorway of my church." + +Later in the day the Cure sent for Charley. There were grave matters to +consider, and his counsel was greatly needed. They had all come to +depend on the soundness of his judgment. It had never gone astray in +Chaudiere, they said. They owed to him this extraordinary scheme, which +would be an example to all modern Christianity. They told him so. He +said nothing in reply. + +In an hour he had planned for them a scheme for the consideration of +contractors; had drawn, with the help of M. Loisel, an architect's rough +plan of the new church, and, his old professional instincts keenly alive, +had lucidly suggested the terms and safeguards of the contracts. + +Then came the question of the money contributed. The day before, M. +Dauphin and the Seigneur's steward had arrived in safety from Quebec with +twenty thousand dollars in bank-bills. These M. Rossignol had exchanged +for the notes of hand of such of the habitants as had not ready cash to +give. All of this twenty thousand dollars had been paid over. They had +now thirty thousand dollars in cash, besides three thousand which the +Cure had at his house, the proceeds of the Passion Play. It was proposed +to send this large sum to the bank in Quebec in another two days, when +the whole contributions should be complete. + +As to the safety of the money, the timid M. Dauphin did not care to take +responsibility. Strangers were still arriving, ignorant of the fact that +the Passion Play had ceased, and some of them must be aware that this +large sum of money was in the parish--no doubt also knew that it was in +his house. It was therefore better, he urged, that M. Rossignol or the +Cure should take charge of it. M. Loisel urged that secrecy as to the +resting-place of the money was important. It was better that it should +be deposited in the most unlikely place, and with some unofficial person +who might not be supposed to have it in charge. + +"I have it!" said the Seigneur. "The money shall be placed in old Louis +Trudel's safe in the wall of the tailor-shop." + +It was so arranged, after Charley's protests of unwillingness, and +counter-appeals from the others. That evening at sundown thirty-three +thousand dollars was deposited in the safe in the old stone wall of the +tailorshop, and the lock was sealed with the parish seal. + +But the Notary's wife had wormed the secret from her husband, and she +found it hard to keep. She told it to Maximilian Cour, and he kept it. +She told it to her cousin, the wife of Filion Lacasse, and she did not +keep it. Before twenty-four hours went round, a dozen people knew it. + +The evening of the second day, another two thousand dollars was added to +the treasure, and the lock was again sealed--with the utmost secrecy. +Charley and Jo Portugais, the infidel and the murderer, were thus the +sentries to the peace of a parish, the bankers of its gifts, the security +for the future of the church of Chaudiere. Their weapons of defence were +two old pistols belonging to the Seigneur. + +"Money is the master of the unexpected," the Seigneur had said as he +handed them over. He chuckled for hours afterwards as he thought of his +epigram. That night, as he turned over in bed for the third time, as was +his custom before going to sleep, another epigram came to him--"Money is +the only fox hunted night and day." He kept repeating it over and over +again with vain pride. + +The truth of M. Rossignol's aphorisms had been demonstrated several days +before. On his return from Quebec with the twenty thousand dollars of +the Seigneur's money, M. Dauphin had dwelt with great pride on the +discretion and energy he and the steward had shown; had told dramatically +of the skill which had enabled them to make a journey of such importance +so secretly and safely; had covered himself with blushes for his own +coolness and intrepidity. Fortune had, however, favoured his reputation +and his intrepidity, for he had been pursued from the hour he and his +companion left Quebec. A taste for the picturesque had impelled him to +arrange for two relays of horses, and this fact saved him and the twenty +thousand dollars he carried. Two hours after he had left Quebec, four +determined men had got upon his trail, and had only been prevented from +overtaking him by the freshness of the horses which his dramatic +foresight had provided. + +The leader of these four pursuers was Billy Wantage, who had come to know +of the curious action of the Seigneur of Chaudiere from an intimate +friend, a clerk in the bank. Billy's fortunes were now in a bad way, +and, in desperate straits for money, he had planned this bold attempt at +the highwayman's art with two gamblers, to whom he owed money, and a +certain notorious horse-trader of whom he had made a companion of late. +Having escaped punishment for a crime once before, through Charley's +supposed death, the immunity nerved him to this later and more dangerous +enterprise. The four rode as hard as their horses would permit, but M. +Dauphin and his companion kept always an hour or more ahead, and, from +the high hills overlooking the village, Billy and his friends saw the two +enter it safely in the light of evening. + +His three friends urged Billy to turn back, since they were out of +provisions and had no shelter. It was unwise to go to a tavern or a +farmer's house, where they must certainly be suspected. Billy, however, +determined to make an effort to find the banking-place of the money, and +refused to turn back without a trial. He therefore proposed that they +should separate, going different directions, secure accommodation for the +night, rest the following day, and meet the next night at a point +indicated. This was agreed upon, and they separated. + +When the four met again, Billy had nothing to communicate, as he had been +taken ill during the night before, and had been unable to go secretly +into Chaudiere village. They separated once more. When they met the +next night Billy was accompanied by an old confederate. As he was +entering Chaudiere the previous evening, he had met John Brown, with his +painted wagon and a new mottled horse. John Brown had news of importance +to give; for, in the stable-yard of the village tavern, he had heard one +habitant confide to another that the money for the new church was kept in +the safe of the tailor-shop. John Brown was as ready to share in Billy's +second enterprise as he had been to incite him to his first crime. + +So it was that as the Seigneur made his epigram and gloated over it, the +five men, with horses at a convenient distance, armed to the teeth, broke +stealthily into Charley's house. + +They entered silently through the kitchen window, and made their way into +the little hall. Two stood guard at the foot of the stairs, and three +crept into the shop. + +This night Jo Portugais was sleeping up-stairs, while Charley lay upon +the bench in the tailor-shop. Charley heard the door open, heard +unfamiliar steps, seized his pistol, and, springing up, with his back to +the safe, called out loudly to Jo. As he dimly saw men rush at him, he +fired. The bullet reached its mark, and one man fell dead. At that +moment a dark-lantern was turned full on Charley, and a pistol was fired +pointblank at him. + +As he fell, shot through the breast, the man who had fired dropped the +lantern with a shriek of terror. He had seen the ghost of his brother- +in-law-Charley Steele. + +With a quaking cry of warning to the others, Billy bolted from the house, +followed by his companions, two of whom were struggling with Jo Portugais +on the stairway. These now also broke and ran. + +Jo rushed into the shop, and saw, as he thought, Charley lying dead-- +saw the robber dead upon the floor. His master and friend gone, the +conviction seized him that his own time had come. He would give himself +to justice now--but to God's justice, not to man's. The robbers were +four to one, and he would avenge his master's death and give his own life +to do it! It was all the thought of a second. He rushed out after the +robbers, shouting as he ran, to awake the villagers. He heard the +marauders ahead of him, and, fleet of foot, rushed on. Reaching them as +they mounted, he fired, and brought down his man--a shivering quack- +doctor, who, like his leader, had seen a sight in the tailor-shop that +struck terror to his soul. Two of the others then fired at Jo, who had +caught a horse by the head. He fell without a sound, and lay upon his +face--he did not hear the hoofs of the escaping horses nor any other +sound. He had fallen without a pang beside the quackdoctor, whose +medicines would never again quicken a pulse in his own body or any other. + +Behind, in the village, frightened people flocked about the tailor-shop. +Within, Mrs. Flynn and the Notary crudely but tenderly bound up the +dreadful wound in Charley's side, while Rosalie pillowed his head on her +bosom. + +With a strange quietness Rosalie gave orders to the Notary and Mrs. +Flynn. There was a light in her eyes--an unnatural light--of strength +and presence of mind. Her hand was steady, and as gently as a mother +with a child she wiped the moist forehead, and poured a little brandy +between the set teeth. + +"Stand back--give him air," she said, in a voice of authority to those +who crowded round. + +People fell back in awe, for, amid tears and excitement and fear, this +girl had a strange convincing calm. By the time Charley's wound was +stopped, messengers were on the way to the Cure and the Seigneur. By +Rosalie's instructions the dead body of the robber was removed, Charley's +bed up-stairs was prepared for him, a fire was lighted, and twenty hands +were ready to do accurately her will. Now and again she felt his pulse, +and she watched his face intently. In her bitter sorrow her heart had a +sort of thankfulness, for his head was on her breast, he was in her arms. +It had been given her once more to come first to his rescue, and with one +wild cry, unheard by any one, to call out his beloved name. + +The world of Chaudiere, roused by the shooting, had then burst in upon +them; but that one moment had been hers, no matter what came after. She +had no illusions--she knew that the end was near: the end of all for him +and for them both. + +The Cure entered and hurried forward. There was the seal of the parish +intact on the door of the safe, but at what cost! + +"He has given his life for the church," he said, then commanded all to +leave, save those needed to carry the wounded man up-stairs. + +Still it was Rosalie that directed the removal. She held his hand; she +saw that he was carefully laid down; she raised his head to a proper +height; she moistened his lips and fanned him. Meanwhile the Cure fell +upon his knees, and the noise of talk and whispering ceased in the house. + +But presently there was loud murmuring and shuffling of feet outside +again, and Rosalie left the room hurriedly and went below to stop it. +She met the men who were bringing the body of Jo Portugais into the shop. + +Up-stairs the Cure's voice prayed: "Of Thy mercy, O Lord, hear our +prayer. Grant that he be brought into Thy Church ere his last hour come. +Forgive, O Lord--" + +Charley stirred and opened his eyes. He saw the Cure bowed in prayer; he +heard the trembling voice. He touched the white head with his hand. + + + + +CHAPTER LIX + +IN WHICH CHARLEY MEETS A STRANGER + +The Cure came to his feet with a joyful cry. "Monsieur--my son," he +said, bending over him. + +"Is it all over?" Charley asked calmly, almost cheerfully. Death now +was the only solution of life's problems, and he welcomed it from the +void. + +The Cure went to the door and locked it. The deepest desire of his life +must here be uttered, his great aspiration be realised. + +"My son," he said, as he came softly to the bedside again, "you have +given to us all you had--your charity, your wisdom, your skill. You have +"--it was hard, but the man's wound was mortal, and it must be said "you +have consecrated our new church with your blood. You have given all to +us; we will give all to you--" + +There was a soft knocking at the door. He went and opened it a very +little. "He is conscious, Rosalie," he whispered. "Wait--wait--one +moment." + +Then came the Seigneur's voice saying that Jo was gone, and that all the +robbers had escaped, save the two disposed of by Charley and Jo. + +The Cure turned to the bed once more. "What did he say about Jo?" +Charley asked. + +"He is dead, my son, and the quack-doctor also. The others have +escaped." + +Charley turned his face away. "Au revoir, Jo," he said into the great +distance. + +Then there was silence for a moment, while outside the door a girl +prayed, with an old woman's arm around her. + +The Cure leaned over Charley again. "Shall not the sacraments of the +Church comfort you in your last hours?" he said. "It is the way, the +truth, and the life. It is the Voice that says: 'Peace' to the vexed +mind. Human intellect is vanity; only the soul survives. Will you not +hear the Voice? Will you not give us who love and honour you the right +to make you ours for ever? Will you not come to the bosom of that Church +for which you have given all?" + +"Tell them so," Charley said, and he motioned towards the window, under +which the people were gathered. + +With a glad exclamation the Cure hastened to the window, and, in a voice +of sorrowful exultation, spoke to the people below. + +Charley reckoned swiftly with his fate. What was there now to do? If +his wound was not mortal, what tragedy might now come! For Billy's hand +--the hand of Kathleen's brother--had brought him low. If the robbers +and murderers were captured, he must be dragged into the old life, and to +what an issue--all the old problems carried into more terrible +conditions. And Rosalie--in his half-consciousness he had felt her near +him; he felt her near him now. Rosalie--in any case, what could there be +for her? Nothing. He had heard the Cure whisper her name at the door. +She was outside-praying for him. He stretched out a hand as though he +saw her, and his lips framed her name. In his weakness and fading life +he had no anguish in the thought of her. Life and Love were growing +distant though he loved her as few love and live. She would be removed +from want by him--there were the pearls and the money in the safe with +the money of the Church; there was the letter to the Cure, his last +testament, leaving all to her. He, sleeping, would fear no foe; she, +awake in the living world, would hold him in dear remembrance. Death +were the better thing for all. Then Kathleen in her happiness would be +at peace; and even Billy might go unmolested, for, who was there to +recognise Billy, now that Portugais was dead? + +He heard the Cure's voice at the window--"Oh, my dear people, God has +given him to us at last. I go now to prepare him for his long journey, +to--" + +Charley realised and shuddered. Receive the sacraments of the Church? +Be made ready by the priest for his going hence--end all the soul's +interrogations, with the solving of his own mortal problems? Say "I +believe," confess his sins, and, receiving absolution, lie down in peace. + +He suddenly raised himself on his elbow, flinging his body over. The +bandage of his wound was displaced, and blood gushed out upon the white +clothes of the bed. "Rosalie!" he gasped. "Rosalie, my love! God keep +. . . " + +As he sank back he heard the priest's anguished voice above him, calling +for help. He smiled. + +"Rosalie--" he whispered. The priest ran and unlocked the door, and +Rosalie entered, followed by the Seigneur and Mrs. Flynn. + +"Quick! Quick!" said the priest. "The bandage slipped." + +The bandage slipped--or was it slipped? Who knows! + +Blind with agony, and as in a direful dream, Rosalie made her way to the +bed. The sight of his ensanguined body roused her, and, murmuring his +name--continually murmuring his name--she assisted Mrs. Flynn to bind up +the wound again. Standing where she stood when she had stayed Louis +Trudel's arm long ago, with an infinite tenderness she touched the scar- +the scar of the cross--on his breast. Terrible as was her grief, her +heart had its comfort in the thought--who could rob her of that for +ever?--that he would die a martyr. It did not matter now who knew the +story of her love. It could not do him harm. She was ready to proclaim +it to all the world. And those who watched knew that they were in the +presence of a great human love. + +The priest made ready to receive the unconscious man into the Church. +Had Charley not said, "Tell them so?" Was it not now his duty to say the +sacred offices over a son of the Church in his last bitter hour? So it +was done while he lay unconscious. + +For hours he lay still, and then the fevered blood, poisoned by the +bullet which had brought him down, made him delirious, gave him +hallucinations--open-eyed illusions. All the time Rosalie knelt at the +foot of the bed, her piteous tearless eyes for ever fixed on his face. + +Towards evening, with an unnatural strength, he sat up in bed. + +"See," he whispered, "that woman in the corner there. She has come to +take me, but I will not go." Fantasy after fantasy possessed him- +fantasy, strangely mixed with facts of his own past. Now it was +Kathleen, now Billy, now Jo Portugais, now John Brown, now Suzon +Charlemagne at the Cote Dorion, again Jo Portugais. In strange, touching +sentences he spoke to them, as though they were present before him. At +length he stopped abruptly, and gazed straight before him--over the head +of Rosalie into the distance. + +"See," he said, pointing, "who is that? Who? I can't see his face--it +is covered. So tall-so white! He is opening his arms to me. He is +coming--closer--closer. Who is it?" + +"It is Death, my son," said the priest in his ear, with a pitying +gentleness. + +The Cure's voice seemed to calm the agitated sense, to bring it back to +the outer precincts of understanding. There was an awe-struck silence as +the dying man fumbled, fumbled, over his breast, found his eye-glass, +and, with a last feeble effort, raised it to his eye, shining now with an +unearthly fire. The old interrogation of the soul, the elemental habit +outlived all else in him. The idiosyncrasy of the mind automatically +expressed itself. + +"I beg--your--pardon," he whispered to the imagined figure, and the light +died out of his eyes, "have I--ever--been--introduced--to you?" + +"At the hour of your birth, my son," said the priest, as a sobbing cry +came from the foot of the bed. + +But Charley did not hear. His ears were for ever closed to the voices of +life and time. + + + + +CHAPTER LX + +THE HAND AT THE DOOR + +The eve of the day of the memorable funeral two belated visitors to the +Passion Play arrived in the village, unknowing that it had ended, and of +the tragedy which had set a whole valley mourning; unconscious that they +shared in the bitter fortunes of the tailor-man, of whom men and women +spoke with tears. Affected by the gloom of the place, the two visitors +at once prepared for their return journey, but the manner of the +tailorman's death arrested their sympathies, touched the humanity in +them. The woman was much impressed. + +They asked to see the body of the man. They were taken to the door of +the tailor-shop, while their horses were being brought round. Within the +house itself they were met by an old Irishwoman, who, in response to +their wish "to see the brave man's body," showed them into a room where a +man lay dead with a bullet through his heart. It was the body of Jo +Portugais, whose master and friend lay in another room across the +hallway. The lady turned back in disappointment--the dead man was little +like a hero. + +The Irishwoman had meant to deceive her, for at this moment a girl who +loved the tailor was kneeling beside his body, and, if possible, Mrs. +Flynn would have no curious eyes look upon that scene. + +When the visitors came into the hall again, the man said: "There was +another; Kathleen--a woodsman." But standing by the nearly closed door, +behind which lay the dead tailor of Chaudiere--they could see the holy +candles flickering within--Kathleen whispered "We've seen the tailor-- +that's enough. It's only the woodsman there. I prefer not, Tom." + +With his fingers at the latch, the man hesitated, even as Mrs. Flynn +stepped apprehensively forward; then, shrugging a shoulder, he responded +to Kathleen's hand on his arm. They went down the stairs together, and +out to their carriage. + +As they drove away, Kathleen said: "It's strange that men who do such +fine things should look so commonplace." + +"The other one might have been more uncommon," he replied. + +"I wonder!" she said, with a sigh of relief, as they passed the bounds +of the village. Then she caught herself flushing, for she suddenly +realised that the exclamation was one so often on the lips of a dead, +disgraced man whose name she once had borne. + +If the door of the little room upstairs had opened to the fingers of the +man beside her, the tailor of Chaudiere, though dead, would have been +dearly avenged. + + + + +CHAPTER LXI + +THE CURE SPEAKS + +The Cure stood with his back to the ruins of the church, at his feet two +newly made graves, and all round, with wistful faces, crowds of reverent +habitants. A benignant sorrow made his voice in perfect temper with the +pensive striving of this latest day of spring. At the close of his +address he said: + +"I owe you much, my people. I owe him more, for it was given him, who +knew not God, to teach us how to know Him better. For his past, it is +not given you to know. It is hidden in the bosom of the Church. Sinner +he once was, criminal never, as one can testify who knows all"--he turned +to the Abbe Rossignol, who stood beside him, grave and compassionate-- +"and his sins were forgiven him. He is the one sheaf which you and I may +carry home rejoicing from the pagan world of unbelief. What he had in +life he gave to us, and in death he leaves to our church all that he has +not left to a woman he loved--to Rosalie Evanturel." + +There was a gasping murmur among the people, but they stilled again, and +strained to hear. + +"He leaves her a little fortune, and to us all else he had. Let us pray +for his soul, and let us comfort her who, loving deeply, reaped no +harvest of love. + +"The law may never reach his ruthless murderers, for there is none to +recognise their faces; and were they ten times punished, how should it +avail us now! Let us always remember that, in his grave, our friend +bears on his breast the little iron cross we held so dear. That is all +we could give--our dearest treasure. I pray God that, scarring his +breast in life, it may heal all his woes in death, and be a saving image +on his bosom in the Presence at the last." + +He raised his hands in benediction. + + + + +EPILOGUE + +Never again was there a Passion Play in the Chaudiere Valley. Spring- +times and harvests and long winters came and went, and a blessing seemed +to be upon the valley, for men prospered, and no untoward things befel +the people. So it was for twenty years, wherein there had been going and +coming in quiet. Some had gone upon short mortal journeys and had come +back, some upon long immortal voyages, and had never returned. Of the +last were the Seigneur and a woman once a Magdalene; but in a house +beside a beautiful church, with a noble doorway, lived the Cure, M. +Loisel, aged and serene. There never was a day, come rain or shine, in +which he was not visited by a beautiful woman, whose life was one with +the people of the valley. + +There was no sorrow in the parish which the lady did not share, with the +help of an old Irishwoman called Mrs. Flynn. Was there sickness in the +parish, her hand smoothed the pillow and soothed the pain. Was there +trouble anywhere, her face brought light to the door way. Did any suffer +ill-repute, her word helped to restore the ruined name. They did not +know that she forgave so much in all the world, because she thought she +had so much in herself to forgive. + +She was ever called "Madame Rosalie," and she cherished the name, and +gave commands that when her grave came to be made near to a certain other +grave, Madame Rosalie should be carved upon the stone. Cheerfulness and +serenity were ever with her, undisturbed by wish to probe the mystery of +the life which had once absorbed her own. She never sought to know +whence the man came; it was sufficient to know whither he had gone, and +that he had been hers for a brief dream of life. It was better to have +lived the one short thrilling hour with all its pain, than never to have +known what she knew or felt what she had felt. The mystery deepened her +romance, and she was even glad that the ruffians who slew him were never +brought to justice. To her mind they were but part of the mystic +machinery of fate. + +For her the years had given many compensations, and so she told the Cure, +one midsummer day, when she brought to visit him the orphaned son of +Paulette Dubois, graduated from his college in France and making ready to +go to the far East. + +"I have had more than I deserve--a thousand times," she said. + +The Cure smiled, and laid a gentle hand upon her own. "It is right for +you to think so," he said, "but after a long life, I am ready to say +that, one way or another, we earn all the real happiness we have. I mean +the real happiness--the moments, my child. I once had a moment full of +happiness." + +"May I ask?" she said. + +"When my heart first went out to him"--he turned his face towards the +churchyard. + +"He was a great man," she said proudly. + +The Cure looked at her benignly: she was a woman, and she had loved the +man. He had, however, come to a stage of life where greatness alone +seemed of little moment. He forbore to answer her, but he pressed her +hand. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Youth is the only comrade for youth + + + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS FOR THE ENTIRE "RIGHT OF WAY": + +A left-handed boy is all right in the world +Always hoping the best from the worst of us +Damnable propinquity +Good fathers think they have good daughters +Have not we all something to hide--with or without shame? +He has wheeled his nuptial bed into the street +He left his fellow-citizens very much alone +He had had acquaintances, but never friendships, and never loves +Hugging the chain of denial to his bosom +I have a good memory for forgetting +I am only myself when I am drunk +I should remember to forget it +Importunity with discretion was his motto +In all secrets there is a kind of guilt +Is the habit of good living mere habit and mere acting +It is good to live, isn't it? +Know how bad are you, and doesn't mind +Liquor makes me human +Nervous legs at a gallop +Pathetically in earnest +Shure, if we could always be 'about the same,' we'd do +So say your prayers, believe all you can, don't ask questions +Strike first and heal after--"a kick and a lick" +Suspicion, the bane of sick old age +Things that once charmed charm less +Was not civilisation a mistake +Who knows! +Youth is the only comrade for youth + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIGHT OF WAY, PARKER, ENTIRE *** + +********** This file should be named gp76w10.txt or gp76w10.zip *********** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, gp76w11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, gp76w10a.txt + +This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance +of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. +Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections, +even years after the official publication date. + +Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. + +Most people start at our Web sites at: +http://gutenberg.net or +http://promo.net/pg + +These Web sites include award-winning information about Project +Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new +eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!). + + +Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement +can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is +also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the +indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an +announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter. + +http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or +ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03 + +Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90 + +Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want, +as it appears in our Newsletters. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours +to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text +files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+ +We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002 +If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total +will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks! +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users. + +Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated): + +eBooks Year Month + + 1 1971 July + 10 1991 January + 100 1994 January + 1000 1997 August + 1500 1998 October + 2000 1999 December + 2500 2000 December + 3000 2001 November + 4000 2001 October/November + 6000 2002 December* + 9000 2003 November* +10000 2004 January* + + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created +to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people +and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut, +Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, +Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts, +Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New +Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, +Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South +Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West +Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming. + +We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones +that have responded. + +As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list +will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states. +Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state. + +In answer to various questions we have received on this: + +We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally +request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and +you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have, +just ask. + +While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are +not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting +donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to +donate. + +International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about +how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made +deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are +ways. + +Donations by check or money order may be sent to: + +Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +PMB 113 +1739 University Ave. +Oxford, MS 38655-4109 + +Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment +method other than by check or money order. + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by +the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN +[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are +tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fund-raising +requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be +made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +You can get up to date donation information online at: + +http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html + + +*** + +If you can't reach Project Gutenberg, +you can always email directly to: + +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> + +Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message. + +We would prefer to send you information by email. + + +**The Legal Small Print** + + +(Three Pages) + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks, +is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart +through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project"). +Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook +under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market +any commercial products without permission. + +To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may +receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims +all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation, +and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated +with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including +legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the +following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook, +[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook, +or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + eBook or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word + processing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the eBook (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the + gross profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation" + the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were + legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent + periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to + let us know your plans and to work out the details. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of +public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed +in machine readable form. + +The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time, +public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses. +Money should be paid to the: +"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or +software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at: +hart@pobox.com + +[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only +when distributed free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by +Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be +used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be +they hardware or software or any other related product without +express permission.] + +*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/gp76w10.zip b/old/gp76w10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d771ecc --- /dev/null +++ b/old/gp76w10.zip |