THE RIGHT OF WAY

By Gilbert Parker

Volume 4. 

XXIX. THE WILD RIDEXXX. ROSALIE WARNS CHARLEYXXXI. CHARLEY STANDS AT BAYXXXII. JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORYXXXIII. THE EDGE OF LIFEXXXIV. IN AMBUSHXXXV. THE COMING OF MAXIMILIAN COUR AND ANOTHERXXXVI. BARRIERS SWEPT AWAYXXXVII. THE CHALLENGE OF PAULETTE DUBOISXXXVIII. THE CURE AND THE SEIGNEUR VISIT THE TAILORXXXIX. THE SCARLET WOMANXL. AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING

CHAPTER XXIX

THE WILD RIDE

There had been a fierce thunder-storm in the valley of the Chaudiere. Ithad come suddenly from the east, had shrieked over the village, levellingfences, carrying away small bridges, and ending in a pelting hail, whichwhitened the ground with pebbles of ice. It had swept up to VadromeMountain, and had marched furiously through the forest, carrying downhundreds of trees, drowning the roars of wild animals and the crying andfluttering of birds. One hour of ravage and rage, and then, spent andbodiless, the storm crept down the other side of the mountain and intothe next parish, whither the affrighted quack-doctor had betaken himself. After, a perfect calm, a shining sun, and a sweet smell over all theland, which had thirstily drunk the battering showers. 

In the house on Vadrome Mountain the tailor of Chaudiere had watched thestorm 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 stormof his emotions one night when a song called Champagne Charlie had had aweird and thrilling antiphonal. There had been a subsequent debacle forhimself, and then a revelation concerning Jo Portugais. Ensued hours anddays, wherein he had fought a desperate fight with the present--withhimself and the reaction from his dangerous debauch. 

The battle for his life had been fought for him by this gloomy woodsmanwho henceforth represented his past, was bound to him by a measurelessgratitude, almost a sacrament--of the damned. Of himself he had playedno conscious part in it till the worst was over. On the one side was theCure, patient, gentle, friendly, never pushing forward the Faith whichthe good man dreamed should give him refuge and peace; on the other sidewas 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 thingsalmost apart from his consciousness. Ever-recurring memories of RosalieEvanturel were driven from his mind with a painful persistence. In theshadows where his nature dwelt now he would not allow her good innocenceand truth to enter. His self-reproach was the more poignant because itwas silent. 

Watching the tempest-swept valley, the tortured forest, where wild lifewas in panic, there came upon him the old impulse to put his thoughtsinto 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 tablebefore him. Three or four times he leaned over the paper to write, butthe noise of the storm again and again drew his look to the window. Thetempest ceased almost as suddenly as it had come, and, as the firstsunlight broke through the flying clouds, he mechanically lifted a sheetof the paper and held it up to the light. It brought to his eyes thelarge water-mark, Kathleen!

A sombre look passed over his face, he shifted in his chair, then bentover the paper and began to write. Words flowed from his pen. The linesof his face relaxed, his eyes lightened; he was lost in a dream. Hethought 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 atsome materialistic words he had once used in their many talks, and hewrote:

 "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: "Showme 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 LouisTrudel 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 hadnever been able to accept; of which he had never, indeed, been able tothink, so distant had been his soul, until, against his will, his hearthad answered to the revealing call in a woman's eyes. He felt herfingers touch his breast as they did that night the iron seared him; andout 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 oldlife, this plaint ended with the same restless, unceasing question. Butthere was a difference. There was no longer the material, distant noteof a pagan mind; there was the intimate, spiritual note of a mind findinga foothold on the submerged causeway of life and time. 

As he folded up the paper to put it into his pocket, Jo Portugais enteredthe room. He threw in a corner the wet bag which had protected hisshoulders 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 andafraid and trying to hide, and the trees fall, and the roar of it likethe 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 haveseen--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 thechasse-galerie. You sell your soul to the devil; you ask him to helpyou; you deny God. You get into a canoe and call on the devil. You arelifted up, canoe and all, and you rush on down rapids, over falls, on theKimash River in the air. The devil stands behind you and shouts, and yousing, 'V'la! l'bon vent! V'la l'joli vent!' On and on you go, faster andfaster, and you forget the world, and you forget yourself, and the devilis 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 likethat?"

'M'sieu', I know it. I saw Ignace Latoile, who robbed a priest and gotdrunk on the communion wine--I saw him with the devil in the Black Canoeat the Saguenay. I could see Ignace; I could see the devil; I could seethe 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 souldwelt upon the words my friend, coming from the lips of one who knew thefulness 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 himon the arm when he walk in the woods alone, or lie down to sleep atnight, no one near. He forget that some one wait--wait--wait, till hehas suffer long enough, or till, one day, he think he is happy again, andthe Thing he did is far off like a dream--to drag him out to the death hedid not die. He forget that he is alone--all alone in the world, forever and ever and ever. "

He suddenly sank upon the floor beside Charley, and a groan burst fromhis lips. "To have no friend--ah, it is so awful!" he said. "Never tosee a face that look into yours, and know how bad are you, and doesn'tmind. For five years I have live like that. I cannot let any one be myfriend because I was that! They seem to know--everything, everybody--what I am. The little children when I pass them run away to hide. Ihave wake in the night and cry out in fear, it is so lonely. I have hearvoices round me in the woods, and I run and run and run from them, andnot leave them behind. Three times I go to the jails in Quebec to seethe prisoners behind the bars, and watch the pains on their faces, tounderstand what I escape. Five times have I go to the courts to listento murderers tried, and watch them when the Jury say Guilty! and theJudge send them to death--that I might know. Twice have I go to seemurderers hung. Once I was helper to the hangman, that I might hear andknow what the man said, what he felt. When the arms were bound, I feltthe straps on my own; when the cap come down, I gasp for breath; when thebolt is shot, I feel the wrench and the choke, and shudder go throughmyself--feel the world jerk out in the dark. When the body is bundled inthe pit, I see myself lie still under the quick-lime with the red markround 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 andglad, 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 seehim raise his riding-whip and cut me across the head. I have see himstagger and fall from the blows I give him with the knife--the knifewhich never was found--why, I not know, for I throw it on the groundbeside him! There, as I sit in the open day, a thousand times I have seehim shiver and fall, staring, staring at me as if he see a dreadfulthing. Then I stand up again and strike at him--at his ghost!--as I didthat day in the woods. Again I see him lie in his blood, straight andwhite--so large, so handsome, so still! I have shed tears--but what aretears! Blind with tears I have call out for the devils of hell to takeme with them. I have call on God to give me death. I have prayed, and Ihave cursed. Twice I have travelled to the grave where he lies. I haveknelt there and have beg him to tell the truth to God, and say that hetorture me till I kill him. I have beg him to forgive me and to haunt meno more with his bad face. But never--never--never--have I one quiethour until you come, M'sieu'; nor any joy in my heart till I tell you theblack 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 mancalled Joseph Nadeau, had been spoken between them. Out of the deliriumof his drunken trance had come Charley's recognition of the man he knewnow as Jo Portugais. But the recognition had been sent again into theobscurity whence it came, and had not been mentioned since. To outwardseeming they had gone on as before. As Charley saw the knotted brows, the staring eyes, the clinched hands, the figure of the woodsman rigid inits agony of remorse, he said to himself: "What right had I to save thisman'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 everycondition, to the last shade of the law, was satisfied, but was itjustice to the poor devil himself? There he sits with a load on him thatweighs him down every hour of his life. I called him back; I gave himlife; 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 thebrother of the Cure did for me. He drew me back. He knew I was adrunkard, but he drew me back. I might have been a murderer likePortugais. The world says I was a thief, and a thief I am until I proveto the world I am innocent--and wreck three lives! How much of Jo'sguilt is guilt? How much remorse should a man suffer to pay the debt ofa life? If the law is an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, howmuch hourly remorse and torture, such as Jo's, should balance the eye orthe tooth or the life? I wonder, now!"

He leaned over, and, helping Jo to his feet, gently forced him down upona 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 thedoor and threw it open. 

CHAPTER XXX

ROSALIE WARNS CHARLEY

Charley's eyes met Rosalie's with a look the girl had never seen in thembefore. It gave a glow to his haggard face. 

Rosalie turned to Jo and greeted him with a friendlier manner than washer wont towards him. The nearer she was to Charley, the farther awayfrom him, to her mind, was Portugais, and she became magnanimous. 

Jo nodded' awkwardly and left the room. Looking after the departingfigure, Rosalie said: "I know he has been good to you, but--but do youtrust 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 badthing he has done; and--he has been good to you. "

She paused, flushing as she felt the significance of her words, andcontinued: "Yet there is--I cannot tell what. I feel something. It isnot reasonable to go upon one's feelings; but there it is, and so I donot trust him. "

"It is the way he lives, here in these lonely woods--the mystery aroundhim. "

A change passed over her. With the first glow of meeting the object ofher visit had receded, though since her last interview with the Seigneurshe 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 beatinghard. It almost choked her, but she kept on bravely. "People saystrange and bad things about you. No one knows"--she trembled under thepainful inquiry of his eyes. Then she gained courage and went on, forshe 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 camefrom . . . And it is nobody's business. Some people do not believe inyou. 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 thingthat 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 thanshe had ever told. It was a revelation, having its origin in an honestywhich impelled a pure outspokenness to himself. Reserve, of course, there had been elsewhere, for did not she hold a secret with him? Hadshe not hidden things, equivocated else where? Yet it had been at hiswish, to protect the name of a dead man, for the repose of whose soulmasses were now said, with expensive candles burning. For this she hadno 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 evadein the future. He could solve it by none of the old intellectual means, but by the use of new faculties, slowly emerging from the unexploredfastnesses of his nature. 

"Why should you believe in me?" he asked, forcing himself to smile, yetacutely alive to the fact that a crisis was impending. "You, like alldown there in Chaudiere, know nothing of my past, are not sure that Ihaven't been a hundred times worse than you think poor Jo there. I mayhave been anything. You may be harbouring a man the law is trackingdown. "

In all that befell Rosalie Evanturel thereafter, never could come suchanother great resolute moment. There was nothing to support her in thecrisis but her own faith. It needed high courage to tell this man whohad first given her dreams, then imagination, hope, and the beauty ofdoing for another's well-being rather than for her own--to tell this manthat he was a suspected criminal. Would he hate her? Would his kindnessturn to anger? Would he despise her for even having dared to name thesuspicion which was bringing hither an austere Abbe and officers of thelaw?

"We are harbouring a man the law is tracking down, " she said with aninfinite appeal in her eyes. 

He did not quite understand. He thought that perhaps she meant Jo, andhe glanced towards the door; but she kept her eyes on him, and they toldhim that she meant himself. He chilled, as though ether were beingpoured through his veins. 

Did the world know, then, that Charley Steele was alive? Was the lawsending its officers to seize the embezzler, the ruffian who had robbedwidow and orphan?

If it were so. . . . To go back to the world whence he came, with theinjury 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 spiteof all, was beginning to have a real belief in him--where was hiscontempt for the world now! . . . And Rosalie, who trusted him--this new element rapidly grew dominant in his thoughts-to be the commoncriminal 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 thequiet 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 ithad come. Here was his resurrection, and the old life to face. 

"What did I steal?" he asked with dull apathy. "The gold vessels fromthe Catholic Cathedral of Quebec, after--after trying to blow upGovernment House with gunpowder. "

His despair passed. His face suddenly lighted. He smiled. It was soabsurd. "Really!" he said. "When was the place blown up?"

"Two days before you came here last year--it was not blown up; an attemptwas 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 appealrang from her lips. 

"I am only an honest tailor, " he answered gently. He ruled his face tocalmness, for he read the agony in the girl's face, and troubled as hewas, he wished to show her that he had no fear. 

"It is for what you were they will arrest you, " she said helplessly, andas though he needed to have all made clear to him. "Oh, Monsieur, " shecontinued, in a broken voice, "it would shame me so to have you made aprisoner in Chaudiere--before all these silly people, who turn with thewind. I should not lift my head--but yes, I should lift my head!" sheadded hurriedly. "I should tell them all they lied--every one--theidiots! 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 nordisbelieves. He said to me that if you wanted consideration, to commandhim, for in Chaudiere he had heard nothing but good of you. If youstayed, he would see that you had justice--not persecution. I saw himtwo hours ago. "

She said the last words shyly, for she was thinking why the Seigneur hadspoken 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 wasin danger of becoming prejudiced by his sentiments. 

A wave of feeling passed over Charley, a rushing wave of sympathy forthis 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 crueltynot to reassure her. 

Touching his breast, he said gravely: "By this sign here, I am not guiltyof the crime for which they come to seek me, Rosalie. Nor of any othercrime for which the law might punish me--dear, noble friend. "

He did so little to get such rich return. Her eyes leaped up to brighterdegrees of light, her face shone with a joy it had never reflectedbefore, her blood rushed to her finger-tips. She abruptly sat down ina chair and buried her face in her hands, trembling. Then, lifting herhead 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 waterin a thirsty land to a woman. 

"Oh, Monsieur, I thank you, I thank you from the depth of my heart; andmy heart is deep indeed, very, very deep--I cannot find what lies lowestin it! I thank you, because you trust me, because you make it so easyto--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 givenconfidence, has said you may. Ah, Monsieur, I am so happy!"

In very abandonment of heart she clasped her hands and came a step nearerto him, but abruptly stopped still; for, realising her action, timidityand embarrassment rushed upon her. 

Charley understood, and again his impulse was to say what was in hisheart and dare all; but resolution possessed him, and he said quickly:

"Once, Rosalie, you saved me--from death perhaps. Once your hands helpedmy pain--here. " He touched his breast. "Your words now, and what youdo, they still help me--here . . . But in a different way. Thetrouble 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 doso 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 afalse 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 ifyou go out by the back way, Mademoiselle. " He held aside the bear-skincurtain of the door that led into the next room. 

There was a frightened look in her face. "Do not fear for me, " hecontinued. "It will come right--somehow. You have done more for me thanany one has ever done or ever will do. I will remember till the lastmoment 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 foryou, " she whispered. 

CHAPTER XXXI

CHARLEY STANDS AT BAY

Charley turned quickly to the woodsman. "Listen, " he said, and he toldJo 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--notagainst personal peril, but the danger of being dragged back again intothe life he had come from, with all that it involved--the futility ofthis charge against him! To be the victim of an error--to go to the barof 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 ofwater overflows its bounds. A voice kept ringing in his ears, "I willpray for you. " Subconsciously his mind kept saying, "Rosalie--Rosalie--Rosalie!" There was nothing now that he would not do to avert his beingtaken away upon this ridiculous charge. Mistaken identity? To provethat, he must at once prove himself--who he was, whence he came. Tellthe Cure, and make it a point of honour for his secret to be kept? Butonce 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 thoughhe had come out of nothing into this very room, on that winter morningwhen 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 aman who suffered for his sake. . . . He took a step forward, asthough with sudden resolve, but there came a knocking, and, pausing, he motioned Jo to open the door. Then, turning to a shelf, he tooksomething 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, anascetic, severe man, with a face of intolerance and inflexibility. Twoconstables in plain clothes followed; one stolid, one alert, one Englishand one French, both with grim satisfaction in their faces--thesuccessful exercise of his trade is pleasant to every craftsman. Whenthey entered, Charley was standing with his back to the fireplace, hiseye-glass adjusted, one hand stroking his beard, the other held behindhis 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 friendPortugais, " Charley remarked slowly, almost apologetically. "I will takemy leave. " He made a step forward. The two constables did the same, andwould have laid their hands upon his shoulder but that the Seigneur saidtartly:

"Stand off, Jack-in-boxes!"

The two stood aside, and looked covertly at the Seigneur, whose temperseemed unusually irascible. Charley's face showed no surprise, but helooked inquiringly at the Cure. 

"If they wish to be measured for uniforms--or manners--I will see them atmy shop, " he said. 

The Seigneur chuckled. Charley stepped again towards the door. The twoconstables stood before it. Again he turned inquiringly, this timetowards 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 honourof including Monsieur among my customers? I cannot recall Monsieur'sfigure. I think I should not have forgotten it. "

It was now the old Charley Steele, with the new body, the new spirit, butwith the old skilful mind, aggravatingly polite, non-intime--theintolerant face of this father of souls irritated him. 

"I never forget a figure which has idiosyncrasy, " he added, with a blandeye wandering over the priest's gaunt form. It was his old way to strikefirst and heal after--"a kick and a lick, " as old Paddy Wier, whom heonce saved from prison, said of him. It was like bygone years of anotherlife to appear in defence when the law was tightening round a victim. The secret spring had been touched, the ancient machinery of his mindwas 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 ofjudge. The priest-brother, cold and inveterate, was like the attorneyfor the crown. The Cure was the clerk of the court, who could onlyecho the decisions of the Judge. The constables were the machinery ofthe Law, and Jo Portugais was the unwilling witness, whose evidence wouldbe the crux of the case. The prisoner--he himself was prisoner andprisoner'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 theAbbe Rossignol, chaplain and ordinary to the Archbishop of Quebec. Thegenial, sympathetic nature of the Seigneur could not even be patient withthe excessive piety of the churchman, who, in rigid righteousness, hadthrashed him cruelly as a boy. At Charley's words upon the Abbe'sfigure, gaunt and precise as a swaddled ramrod, he pulled his nose with agrunt of satisfaction. 

The Cure, the peace-maker, intervened. The tailor's meaning wassufficiently clear: if they had come to see him personally, then it wasnatural 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 tobring the Seigneur of Chaudiere"--the Seigneur stood up and bowedgravely--"and his brother, the Abbe Rossignol, who would speak with youon private business"--he ignored the presence of the constables. 

Charley bowed to the Seigneur and the Abbe, then turned inquiringlytowards the two constables. "Friends of my brother the Abbe, " said theSeigneur maliciously. 

"Their names, Monsieur?" asked Charley. 

"They have numbers, " answered the Seigneur whimsically--to the Cure'spain, for levity seemed improper at such a time. 

"Numbers of names are legally suspicious, numbers for names aresuspiciously legal, " rejoined Charley. "You have pierced the disguise ofdiscourtesy, " said the Seigneur, and, on the instant, he made up his mindthat whatever the tailor might have been, he was deserving of respect. 

"You have private business with me, Monsieur?" asked Charley of theAbbe. 

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 cathedralat Quebec and stolen the gold vessels of the altar; also with havingtried to blow up the Governor's residence. "

One of the constables handed Charley the warrant. He looked at it with acurious smile. It was so natural, yet so unnatural, to be thus in touchwith 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 othermeaningly, 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 thegentleman under suspicion. " He waved a hand at the Abbe, as at afractious child, and turned courteously to Charley. 

"Monsieur, " he said, "on the tenth of August last the cathedral at Quebecwas broken into, and the gold altar-vessels were stolen. You aresuspected. The same day an attempt was made to blow up the Governor'sresidence. You are suspected. "

"On what ground, Monsieur?"

"You appeared in this vicinity three days afterwards with an injury tothe head. Now, the incendiary received a severe blow on the head from aservant 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 muchhospitality, that he lost his footing on Mountain Street steps--youremember Mountain Street steps possibly, Monsieur?--and cracked his headon 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, butlooked calmly at the Abbe. In the pause, the Seigneur added "I forgot toadd 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 anewly 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 apreliminary trial here, he may. He is in my seigneury; he is a tenant ofthe Church here--"

"It is a grave offence that an infidel, dropping down here from, whoknows where--that an acknowledged infidel should be a tenant of theChurch!"

"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 successfulopposition to the Church. If it is true that the man you charge is aninfidel, how does that warrant suspicion?"

"Other thefts, " answered the Abbe. "A sacred iron cross was stolen fromthe door of the church of Chaudiere. I have no doubt that the thief ofthe 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 deprecatinghand towards Jo. 

"I shall not call Portugais as evidence, " he said. 

"You are conducting your own case?" asked the Seigneur, with a grimsmile. 

"It is dangerous, I believe. "

"I will take my chances, " answered Charley. "Will you tell me whatobject the criminal could have in stealing the gold vessels from thecathedral?" 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 becausethey were valuable, and the iron cross because he was an infidel! Nowhow 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 youare one because you do not deny it? There was a Man who was said toblaspheme, to have all 'the crafts and assaults of the devil'--was it Hisduty to deny it? Suppose you were accused of being a highwayman, wouldyou be less a highwayman if you denied it? Or would you be less guiltyif 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 asatisfied pull of his nose. 

"But do you seriously suggest that only infidels rob churches?" Charleypersisted. 

"I am not here to be cross-examined, " answered the Abbe harshly. "You are charged with robbing the cathedral and trying to blow up theGovernor's residence. Arrest him!" he added, turning to the constables. 

"Stand where you are, men, " sharply threatened the Seigneur. "There areno lettres de cachet nowadays, Francois, " he added tartly to his brother. 

"If it is the exclusive temptation of an infidel to rob a church, hasinfidelity also an inherent penchant for arson? Is it a patent? Why didthe 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 patensfrom the altar--"

"They were chalices, " again interrupted the Cure, with a faint smile. 

"Ah, I was not aware!" again rejoined Charley. "I repeat, what reasonhad the person who stole the chalices to try to blow up the Governor'sresidence? Is it a sign of infidelity, or--"

"You can answer for that yourself, " angrily interposed the Abbe. Thestrain was telling on his nerves. 

"It is fair to give reasons for the suspicion, " urged the Seigneuracidly. 

"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 aFrenchman as well as an infidel?"

There was silence, and Charley continued. "It is an unusual thing for aFrench Abbe to be so concerned for the safety of an English Protestant'slife 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 withthe process of the law?"

"I think Monsieur has not quite finished his argument, " said theSeigneur, 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: youhave heard that the tailor is an infidel; you have protested to the goodCure here, and the Cure is a man who has a sense of justice, and will notdrive 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 needsbe an infidel; therefore a tailor in Chaudiere, suspected of being aninfidel, stole the holy chalices. It might seem a fair case for a grandjury of clericals. But it breaks down in certain places. Your criminalis a Frenchman; the tailor of Chaudiere is an Englishman. "

The Abbe's face was contracted with stubborn annoyance, though he heldhis tongue from violence. "Do you deny that you are French?" he askedtartly. 

"I could almost endure the suspicion because of the compliment to mycommand 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, apartfrom the evidence shown, " said the Abbe, trying now to be as polite asthe tailor. 

"This is a free country. So long as the law is obeyed, one can go whereone 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 inQuebec, " said the Abbe, with angry impatience again. 

"I may not be compelled to prove anything. It is the privilege of thelaw 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 theofficers. 

"It would relieve the situation, " interposed the Seigneur, "if Monsieurcould find it possible to grant the Abbe's demand. "

Charley bowed to the Seigneur. "I do not know why I should be taken fora Frenchman or an infidel. I speak French well, I presume, but I spokeit 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 thelittle contest, even with so much at stake. This miserable, silly chargehad 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 hewas cool and thinking clearly. He measured up the Abbe in his mind, analysed him, found the vulnerable spot in his nature, the avenue to theone place lighted by a lamp of humanity. He leaned a hand upon the ledgeof the chimney where he stood, and said, in a low voice:

"Monsieur l'Abbe, it is sometimes the misfortune of just men to beterribly 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 antipathyto those men who are unable to see or to feel what you were privileged tosee 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 theywere not given what you were given? If you are right, may they, poorfolk! not be the victims of their blindness of heart--of the darknessborn 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 provehim one, but you, for conscience sake, are trying to remove him, byfixing 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 interestin setting the law upon this suspected man did you not believe him to bean infidel?"

He paused. The Abbe made no reply. The Cure was bending forwardeagerly; the Seigneur sat with his hands over the top of his cane, hischin on his hands, never taking his eyes from him, save to glance once ortwice 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 honestmind, a decent life, an austerity of living as great as that of anypriest, 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 withyou always. "

"Do you mean that a man is an infidel because he cannot say, as LouisTrudel 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 themind or the tongue can answer in the terms of that faith which youprofess. 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--ifthere 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 howto confess. You ask me to lay bare my past, to prove my identity. Forconscience sake you ask that, and I for conscience sake say I will not, Monsieur. You, when you enter your priestly life, put all your pastbehind 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 asmuch a new life as your priesthood is to you. Shall I not have the rightto say, that may not be disinterred? Have I not the right to say, Handsoff? For the past I am responsible, and for the past I will speak fromthe past; but for the deeds of the present I will speak only from thepresent. I am not a Frenchman; I did not steal the little cross from thechurch door here, nor the golden chalices in Quebec; nor did I seek toinjure the Governor's residence. I have not been in Quebec for threeyears. "

He ceased speaking, and fixed his eyes on the Abbe, who now met his lookfairly. 

"In the way of justice, there is nothing hidden that shall not berevealed, 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. TheSeigneur saw the grim look in Charley's face, and touched the Abbe on thearm. "Let us walk a little outside. Come, Cure" he added. "It is rightthat Monsieur should have a few minutes alone. It is a serious chargeagainst him, and reflection will be good for us all. "

He motioned the constables from the room. The Abby passed through thedoor into the open air, and the Cure and the Seigneur went arm in armtogether, talking earnestly. The Cure turned in the doorway. 

"Courage, Monsieur!" he said to Charley, and bowed himself out. JoPortugais followed. 

One officer took his place at the front door and the other at the backdoor, outside. 

The Abby, by himself, took to walking backward and forward under thetrees, 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 movein circles, passing the same points again and again, the points beingdistant or near to the sense as the courses of life have influenced thenature. Confession was an old principle, a light in the way, a rest-house for Jo and all his race, by inheritance, by disposition, and bypractice. Again and again Jo had come round to the rest-house since onedireful day, but had not, found his way therein. There were passwords togive 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 whoknew of the terrible thing he had done, who had saved him from theconsequences of that terrible thing, was in sore trouble, and this brokedown the gloomy guard he had kept over his dread secret. He fought thematter 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 kneltdown before him. 

"What is it you seek?" asked the door-keeper, whose face was set andforbidding. 

"To find peace, " answered the man; yet he was thinking more of another'speril than of his own soul. "What have I to do with the peace of yoursoul? Yonder is your shepherd and keeper, " said the doorkeeper, pointingto where two men walked arm in arm under the trees. 

"Shall the sinner not choose the keeper of his sins?" said the manhuskily. 

"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 nofeeling, but his eyes were keenly inquiring and intent. 

"Seven years. "

"Is the sin that held you back from the comfort of the Church a greatone?"

"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 thestern Churchman, the inveterate friend of Justice, the prejudiced priest, rigid in a pious convention, who could neither bend nor break. The sinof an infidel breaker of the law, that was one thing; the crime of a sonof the Church, which a human soul came to relate in its agony, that wasanother. He had a crass sense of justice, but there was in him a deeperthing still: the revelation of the human soul, the responsibility ofspeaking to the heart which has dropped the folds of secrecy, exposingthe skeleton of truth, grim and staring, to the eye of a secret earthlymentor. 

"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 lookedat him anxiously. "You have spoken rightly, my son. I am not here toask, but to receive. "

"Forgive me, but it is my crime I would speak of now. I choose thismoment 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 thecrime with which he was charged, and wondered what the sinner before himwas going to say. 

"Tell your story, my son, and God give your tongue the very spirit oftruth, 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 andinviolate--he had a pain at his heart; for beneath his arrogantchurchmanship there was a fanatical spirituality of a mediaeval kind. His sense of responsibility was painful and intense. The same painpossessed him always, were the sin that of a child or a Borgia. 

As he listened to the broken tale, the forest around was vocal, thechipmunks scampered from tree to tree, the woodpecker's tap-tap, tap-tap, went on over their heads, the leaves rustled and gave forth their divinesweetness, as though man and nature were at peace, and there were nostorms in sky above or soul beneath, or in the waters of life that aredeeper than "the waters under the earth. "

It was only a short time, but to the door-keeper and the wayfarer itseemed hours, for the human soul travels far and hard and long in momentsof pain and revelation. The priest in his anxiety suffered as much asthe man who did the wicked thing. When the man had finished, the priestsaid:

"Is this all?"

"It is the great sin of my life. " He shuddered, and continued: "I haveno love of life; I have no fear of death; but there is the man who savedme 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 ofChaudiere. 

"To save him, I have confessed my own sin. To you I might tell all inconfession, and the truth about him would be buried for ever. I mightnot 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 illagain, and he needs me. " He told of the tailor's besetting weakness, ofhis struggles against it, of his fall a few days before, and the cause ofit . . . 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 tosome stern, martyr-like quality in the priest. If the man would wineternal peace so, then so be it. His grim piety approved. He spoke nowwith the authority of divine justice. 

"For one year longer go on as you are, then give yourself to justice--oneyear 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 circumstancesseemed to have coiled inextricably round him. Once, at a trial in courtin other days, he had said in his ironical way: "One hasn't to fear thepenalties 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 andseclusion elsewhere? There was nothing he might ask of Portugais whichhe 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. TheCure mattered--that good man who had never intruded his piety on him; whohad been from the first a discreet friend, a gentleman, --a Christiangentleman, if there was such a sort of gentleman apart from all others. Who mattered? The Seigneur, whom he had never seen before, yet who hadshowed that day a brusque sympathy, a gruff belief in him? Who mattered?

Above all, Rosalie mattered. To escape, to go from Rosalie's presence bya 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 onewho mattered in that thought of escape escape to some other parish, tosome 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 ofhis hand. 

A hand held aside the curtain of the door entering on the next room, anda girl's troubled face looked in, but he did not see. 

Escape to some other world? And why not, after all? On the day hismemory came back he had resisted the idea in this very room. As thefatalist he had resisted it then. Now how poor seemed the reasons fornot 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. Wasthat argument not belief in Somebody or Something which governed hisgoing 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 intoknowledge. Was it not his duty to eliminate himself, rather than be anunsolvable quantity in the problem of many lives? It was neither vulgarnor cowardly to pass quietly from forces making for ruin, and so avertruin and secure happiness. To go while yet there was time, and smoothfor ever the way for others by an eternal silence--that seemed well. Punishment thereafter, the Cure would say. But was it not worth whilebeing punished, even should the Cure's fond belief in the noble fable betrue, if one saved others here? Who--God or man--had the right to takefrom him the right to destroy himself, not for fear, not through despair, but for others' sake? Had he not the right to make restitution toKathleen for having given her nothing but himself, whom she had learnedto despise? If he were God, he would say, Do justice and fear not. Andthis was justice. Suppose he were in a battle, with all these thingsbehind him, and put himself, with daring and great results, in someforlorn 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 heloved, not his country, which profited by his sacrifice--suppose thatwere 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 savehimself. It was so simple, so kind, and so decent. And he would beburied here in quiet, unconsecrated ground, a mystery, a tailor who, finding he could not mend the garment of life, cast it away, and took onhimself the mantle of eternal obscurity. No reproaches would follow him;and he would not reproach himself, for Kathleen and Billy and anotherwould be safe and free to live their lives. 

Far, far better for Rosalie! She too would be saved--free from the perilof his presence. For where could happiness come to her from him? Hemight 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 asoftening 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 doone 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 heldhard to her side. 

"I understand all. I could not go outside, I stayed there"--she pointedto the other room--"and I know why you would die. You would die to saveothers. "

"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. Youtaught me how to live, and I will follow you now. "

He saw the strange determination of her look. It startled him; he knewnot what to say. "Your father, Rosalie--"

"My father will be cared for. But who will care for you in the placewhere you are going? You will have no friends there. You shall not goalone. You will need me--in the dark. "

"It is good that I go, " he said. "It would be wicked, it would bedreadful, for you to go. "

"I go if you go, " she urged. "I will lose my soul to be with you; youwill want me--there!"

There was no mistaking her intention. Footsteps sounded outside. Theothers were coming back. To die here before her face? To bring her todeath with him? He was sick with despair. 

"Go into the next room quickly, " he said. "No matter what comes, I willnot--on my honour!"

She threw him a look of gratitude, and, as the bearskin curtain droppedbehind her, he put the phial of laudanum in his pocket. 

The door opened, and the Abbe Rossignol entered, followed by theSeigneur, the Cure, and Jo Portugais. Charley faced them calmly, andwaited. 

The Abbe's face was still cold and severe, but his voice was human as hesaid quickly: "Monsieur, I have decided to take you at your word. I amassured you are not the man who committed the crime. You probably havereasons for not establishing your identity. "

Had Charley been a prisoner in the dock, he could not have had a momentof deeper amazement--even if after the jury had said Guilty, a piece ofevidence had been handed in, proving innocence, averting the deathsentence. A wave of excitement passed over him, leaving him cold andstill. In the other room a girl put her hand to her mouth to stifle acry of joy. 

Charley bowed. "You made a mistake, Monsieur--pray do not apologise, " hesaid. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

IN AMBUSH

Weeks went by. Summer was done, autumn was upon the land. Harvest-homehad gone, and the "fall" ploughing was forward. The smell of the burningstubble, of decaying plant and fibre, was mingling with the odours of theorchards and the balsams of the forest. The leafy hill-sides, far andnear, were resplendent in scarlet and saffron and tawny red. Over thedecline of the year flickered the ruined fires of energy. 

It had been a prosperous summer in the valley. Harvests had been reapedsuch as the country had not known for years--and for years there had beengreat harvests. There had not been a death in the parish all summer, andbirths had occurred out of all usual proportion. 

When Filion Lacasse commented thereon, and mentioned the fact that eventhe Notary's wife had had the gift of twins as the crowning fulness ofthe year, Maximilian Cour, who was essentially superstitious, tapped onthe table three times, to prevent a turn in the luck. 

The baker was too late, however, for the very next day the Notary wasbrought home with a nasty gunshot wound in his leg. He had been luredinto duck-hunting on a lake twenty miles away, in the hills, and had beenaccidentally shot on an Indian reservation, called Four Mountains, wherethe Church sometimes held a mission and presented a primitive sort ofpassion-play. From there he had been brought home by his comrades, andthe doctor from the next parish summoned. The Cure assisted the doctorat first, but the task was difficult to him. At the instant when thecase was most critical the tailor of Chaudiere set his foot inside theNotary's door. A moment later he relieved the Cure and helped to probefor shot, and care for an ugly wound. 

Charley had no knowledge of surgery, but his fingers were skilful, hiseye was true, and he had intuition. The long operation over, the ruralphysician and surgeon washed his hands and then studied Charley withcurious 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 youshare the credit. "

Charley bowed. "It's a good thing not to halloo till you're out of thewoods, " 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 hisside-whiskers with smug satisfaction as he looked into a small mirror onthe 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 lookingupon the street. 

The doctor turned in surprise. He was used to being waited on, and hehad expected the tailor to follow the tradition. 

"We might--eh?" he said suggestively. "It is usually the custom toprovide refreshment, but the poor woman, madame, has been greatlyoccupied with her husband, and--"

"And the twins, " Charley put in drily--" and a house full of work, andonly one old crone in the kitchen to help. Still, I have no doubt shehas 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 RosalieEvanturel. The surgeon was so intent upon at once fortifying himselfthat he did not see the look which passed between Rosalie and the tailor. 

Rosalie had been absent for two months. Her father had been takenseriously ill the day after the critical episode in the but at VadromeMountain, and she had gone with him to the hospital at Quebec, for anoperation. The Abbe Rossignol had undertaken to see them safely to thehospital, and Jo Portugais, at his own request, was permitted to go inattendance upon M. Evanturel. 

There had been a hasty leave-taking between Charley and Rosalie, but itwas in the presence of others, and they had never spoken a word privatelytogether since the day she had said to him that where he went she wouldgo, in life or out of it. 

"You have been gone two months, " Charley said now, after their touch ofhands 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 wasleaping and her hands were trembling. The doctor, instantly busy withthe 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. Hecame close to Charley. "Now, I don't want to put upon you, Monsieur, " hesaid, "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 youfor a few days. The Cure would do, but you are young, you have a senseof things--take me? Half the fees are yours if you'll keep a sharp eyeon him--three times a day, and be with him at night a while. Fever isthe thing I'm afraid of--temperature--this way, please!" He went to thewindow, and for a minute engaged Charley in whispered conversation. "Youtake me?" he said cheerily at last, as he turned again towards Rosalie. 

"Quite, Monsieur, " answered Charley, and drew away, for he caught theodour 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 Ican, " he said. 

"Come, my dear, " the doctor said to Rosalie. "We will go and see yourfather. "

Charley's eyes had fastened on the bottles avidly. As Rosalie turned tobid him good-bye, he said to her, almost hoarsely: "Take the tray back toMadame Dauphin--please. "

She flashed a glance of inquiry at him. She was puzzled by the fire inhis eyes. With her soul in her face as she lifted the tray, out of thewarm-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. Thewoman 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 dranklike wine, it seemed so indeed, even to Charley, who worked all day inhis shop, his door wide open to the sunlight, and sat up half the nightwith Narcisse Dauphin, sometimes even taking a turn at the cradle of thetwins, while madame sat beside her husband's bed. 

To Charley the answer to Rosalie's question lay in the fact that his eyeshad never been so keen, his face so alive, or his step so buoyant as inthis week of double duty. His mind was more hopeful than it had everbeen since the day he awoke with memory restored in the silence of amountain hut. 

He had found the antidote to his great temptation, to the lurking, relentless habit which had almost killed him the night John Brown hadsung Champagne Charlie from behind the flaring lights. From adetermination to fight his own fight with no material aids, he had neveronce used the antidote sent him by the Cure's brother. 

On St. Jean Baptiste's day his proud will had failed him; intellectualforce, native power of mind, had broken like reeds under the weight of acruel temptation. But now a new force had entered into him. As hisfingers were about to reach for the spirit-bottle in the house of theNotary, and he had, for the first time in his life, made an appeal forhelp, a woman's voice had said, "It is good to live, isn't it?" and hishand was stayed. A woman's look had stilled the strife. Never before inhis life had he relied on a moral or a spiritual impulse in him. Whatof these existed in him were in unseen quantities--for which there wasneither multiple nor measure--had been primitive and hereditary, flowingin him like a feeble tincture diluted to inefficacy. 

Rosalie had resolved him back to the original elements. The quiet dayshe had spent in Chaudiere, the self-sacrifice he had been compelled tomake, 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--theuncomplicated lie and the unvarnished truth, the obvious sorrow and thepatent joy, the childish faith, and the rude wickedness so pardonablebecause so frankly brutal--had worked upon him. The elemental spirit ofit all had so invaded his nature, breaking through the crust of old habitto the new man, that, when he fell before his temptation, and his bodybecame saturated with liquor, the healthy natural being and the growingnatural mind were overpowered by the coarse onslaught, and death hadnearly followed. 

It was his first appeal to a force outside himself, to an activeprinciple unfamiliar to the voluntary working of his nature, and theanswer had been immediate and adequate. Yet what was it? He did notask; he had not got beyond the mere experience, and the old questioninghabit was in abeyance. Each new and great emotion has its dominatingmoment, its supreme occasion, before taking its place in the modulatedmoral mechanism. He was touched with helplessness. 

As he sat beside Narcisse Dauphin's bedside, one evening, the sick man onhis way to recovery, there came to him the text of a sermon he had onceheard John Brown preach: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a manlay down his life for his friend. " He had been thinking of Rosalie andthat day at Vadrome Mountain. She would not only have died with him, butshe would have died for him, if need had been. What might he give inreturn for what she gave?

The Notary interrupted his thoughts. He had lain watching Charley for along time, his brow drawn down with thought. At last he said:

"Monsieur, you have been good to me. " Charley laid a hand on the sickman'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 nofever, and I want to say some things. When I've said them, I'll feelbetter--voila! I want to make the amende honorable. I once thoughtyou were this and that--I won't say what I thought you. I said youinterfered--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 hairbehind his ears, looked at himself in the mirror opposite withsatisfaction, and added oracularly: "But how prone is the mind of man tojudge amiss! You have put bread into my mouth--no, no, Monsieur, youshall hear me! As well as doing your own work, you have done my businesssince my accident as well as a lawyer could do it; and you've given everypenny to my wife. "

"As for the work I've done, " answered Charley, "it was nothing--younotaries have easy times. You may take your turn with my shears andneedle one day. "

With a dash of patronage true to his nature, "You are wonderful for atailor, " the Notary rejoined. Charley laughed--seldom, if ever, had helaughed since coming to Chaudiere. It was, however, a curious fact thathe took a real pleasure in the work he did with his hands. In makingclothes for habitant farmers, and their sons and their sons' sons, andjackets for their wives and daughters, he had had the keenest pleasureof his life. 

He had taken his earnings with pride, if not with exultation. He knewthe Notary did not mean that he was wonderful as a tailor, but heanswered 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 yourfigure, man. "

The Notary looked in the large mirror opposite with sad content. "Ah, itwas 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-barrelgives form to a waistcoat. Tut, tut! Think of the twins in the way ofvainglory 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 inquick, broken sentences: "It wasn't an accident at Four Mountains--notquite. It was Paulette Dubois--you know the woman that lives at theSeigneur's gate? Twelve years ago she was a handsome girl. I fell inlove with her, but she left here. There were two other men. There was atimber-merchant, --and there was a lawyer after. The timber-merchant wasmarried; 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 evenvoice. 

"Turley--but that doesn't matter!" continued the Notary. "He wasmurdered, and then the lawyer came on the scene. He lived with her for ayear. She had a child by him. One day he sent the child away to a safeplace and told her he was going to turn over a new leaf--he was going tostand for Parliament, and she must go. She wouldn't go without thechild. At last he said the child was dead; and showed her thecertificate 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 messagethat her child was alive. To her it was like being born again. It wasat this time they were going to drive her from the parish. But theSeigneur and then the Cure spoke for her, and so did I--at last. "

He paused and plaintively admired himself in the mirror. He was gratefulthat he had been clean-shaved that morning, and he was content to catchthe citrine odour of the bergamot upon his hair. 

New phases of the most interesting case Charley had ever defended spreadout 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 thevital 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 knowall--ah! That I should take a stand also was important. Neither theSeigneur nor the Cure was married; I was. I have been long-suffering fora 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 theother'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 poorwanton! Yet a woman--a woman-frail creatures, as we know, and to bepitied, not made more pitiable by the stronger sex. . . . But, seenow! Why should I have perilled mine own conjugal peace, given groundfor suspicion even--for I am unfortunate, unfortunate in the exteriorwith which Dame Nature has honoured me!" Again he looked in the mirrorwith 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 whowrote the letter to her that her child was alive. I did it with highpurpose--I foresaw that she would change her ways if she thought herchild was living. Was I mistaken? No. I am an observer of humannature. Intellect conquered. 'Io triumphe'. The poor fly-away changed, led a new life. Ever since then she has tried to get the man--thelawyer--to tell her where her child is. He has not done so. He has saidthe child is dead--always. When she seemed to give up belief, then wouldcome another letter to her, telling her the child was living--but notwhere. So she would keep on writing to the man, and sometimes she wouldgo away searching--searching. To what end? Nothing! She had a lettersome months ago, for she had got restless, and a young kinsman of theSeigneur had come to visit at the seigneury for a week, and took muchnotice 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 amonly saying what every one says. Well, this is the secret of the womanPaulette Dubois. My cousin, Robespierre Dauphin, a notary in Quebec, isthe agent of the lawyer, the father of the child. He pities the poorwoman. But he is bound in professional honour to the lawyer fellow, notto betray. When visiting Robespierre once I found out the truth-byaccident. 

"I told him what I intended. He gave permission to tell the woman herchild was alive; and, if need be for her good, to affirm it over and overagain--no more. "

"And this?" said Charley, pointing to the injured leg, for he nowassociated the accident with the secret just disclosed. 

"Ah, you apprehend! You have an avocat's mind--almost. It was at FourMountains. Paulette is superstitious; so not long ago she went to livethere 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 inthe hut, she said: 'There is the man that wrote you the letters. ' Well--what! Paulette Dubois came down on me like an avalanche--Monsieur, likean avalanche! She believed the old witch; and there was I lying with anunconvincing manner"--he sighed--"lying requires practice, alas! She sawI 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 havetime to think. I am glad. You have kept me on the rack. I shall onlybe sorry if you die, for then I shall not be able to torture you till youtell me where my child is!' Monsieur, I lied to the last, lest sheshould come here and make a noise; but I'm not sure it wouldn't have beenbetter to break faith with Robespierre, and tell the poor wanton whereher child is. What would you do, Monsieur? I cannot ask the Cure or theSeigneur--I have reasons. But you have the head of a lawyer--almost--andyou 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 athousandth part so bad as one lie told to this woman, whose very life isher child. Is it a boy or a girl?"

"A boy. "

"Good! What harm can be done? A left-handed boy is all right in theworld. 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 makinga 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, hereshe is!" he gasped, and drew over to the wall. 

A voice came from outside. "Shall I play for you, Dauphin? It is asgood as medicine. "

The Notary recovered himself at once. His volatile nature sprang back toits pose. He could forget Paulette Dubois for the moment. 

"It is Maximilian Cour in the garden, " he said happily. Then he raisedhis voice. "Play on, baker; but something for convalescence--the returnof spring, the sweet assonance of memory. "

"A September air, and a gush of spring, " said the baker, trying to cranehis long neck through the window. "Ah, there you are, Dauphin! I shallgive 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 BaffledQuest of Love'. I have taken the music of the song of Alsace, 'Le Jardind'Amour', and I have made variations on it, keeping the last verse of thesong 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 hisfiddle. 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, andthough folk gathered outside and said that the baker was playing forthe 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, butvanished at once when he saw Charley's face at the window. Long ere thebaker had finished, the song was caught up from outside, and before thelast notes of the violin had died away, twenty voices were singing it inthe street, and forty feet marched away with it into the dusk. 

Darkness comes quickly in this land of brief twilight. Presentlyout of the soft shadowed stillness, broken by the note of a vagrantwhippoorwill, crept out from Maximilian Cour's old violin the musicof 'The Baffled Quest of Love'. 

The baker was not a great musician, but he had a talent, a rare gift ofpathos, and an imagination untrammelled by rigorous rules of harmony andconstruction. Whatever there was in his sentimental bosom he poured intothis one achievement of his life. It brought tears to the eyes ofNarcisse Dauphin. It opened a gate of the garden wall, and drew inside agirl's face, shining with feeling. 

Maximilian Cour spoke for more than himself that night. His philanderingspirit had, at middle age, begotten a desire to house itself in a quietplace, where the blinds could be drawn close, and the room of life madeready 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 leanbaker 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 bynight, and the starlight of her dreams. 

From the shade of the window the man the girl loved watched her as shesank upon the ground and clasped her hands before her in abandonment tothe music. He watched her when the baker, at last, overcome by his ownfeelings--and ashamed of them--got up and stole swiftly out of thegarden. 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 uponher shoulder, and she heard him say:

"Rosalie!"

CHAPTER XXXVI

BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY

Rosalie came to her feet, gasping with pleasure. She had been unhappyever since she had returned from Quebec, for though she had sometimesbeen brought in contact with Charley in the Notary's house since the dayof the operation, nothing had passed between them save the necessarycommonplaces of a sick-room, given a little extra colour, perhaps, by thesense of responsibility which fell upon them both, and by that importancewhich hidden sentiment gives to every motion. The twins had beentroublesome and ill, and Madame Dauphin had begged Rosalie to come infor 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 damnablepropinquity. The man, manlike, felt no real danger, because nothing wassaid--after everything had been said for all time at the hut on VadromeMountain. He had not realised the true situation, because of late hervoice, like his, had been even and her hand cool and steady. He had notnoticed that her eyes were like hungry fires, eating up her face--eatingaway its roundness, and leaving a pathetic beauty behind. 

It seemed to him that because there was silence--neither the written wordnor the speaking look--that all was well. He was hugging the chain ofdenial to his bosom, as though to say, "This way is safety"; he washiding his face from the beacon-lights of her eyes, which said: "This wayis home. "

Home? Pictures of home, of a home such as Maximilian Cour painted in hismusic, had passed before him now and then since that great day on VadromeMountain. A simple fireside, with frugal but comfortable fare; a fewbooks; the study of the fields and woods; the daily humble task overwhich he could meditate as his hands worked mechanically; the happy faceof a happy woman near--he had thought of home; and he had put it fromhim. No matter what the temptation, his must be, perhaps for ever, thebed and board unshared. He had had his chance in the old days, and hehad thrown it away with insolent indifference, and an unpardonablecontempt for the opinion of the world. 

Now, with a blind fatuousness which had nothing to do with his oldintellectual power, but was evidence of a primitive life of feeling, hadvaguely imagined that because there were no clinging hands, or stolenlooks, or any vow or promise, that all might go on as at present--uponthe surface. With a curious absence of his old accuracy of observationhe was treating the immediate past--his and Rosalie's past--as if it didnot 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 'BaffledQuest', with its quaint, searching pathos; and as he saw the figure ofthe girl alone in the shade of the great rose-bushes, past and presentbecame one, and the whole man was lost in that one word "Rosalie!" whichcalled 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 fellaway from Charley's mind like a garment slipping from the shoulders, andthe new man, swept off his feet by the onrush of unused and ungovernedemotions, 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 hisbreast. 

A voice came from inside the house: "Monsieur, Monsieur--ah, come, if youplease, tailor!"

The girl drew back quickly, looked up at him for one instant with atriumphant happy daring, then, suddenly covered with confusion, turned, ran to the gate, opened it, passed swiftly out, and was swallowed up inthe dusk. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE CHALLENGE OF PAULETTE DUBOIS

"Monsieur, Monsieur!" came the voice from inside the house, querulouslyand 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 thewoman 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 turnedand left the room. 

Charley found the woman in the Notary's office, which, while partlydetached from the house, did duty as sitting-room and library. WhenCharley entered, the room was only lighted by two candles, and Paulette'sface was hidden by a veil, but Charley observed the tremulousness of thefigure and the nervous decision of manner. He had seen her beforeseveral times, and he had always noticed the air, half bravado, halfshrinking, marking her walk and movements, as though two emotions werefighting in her. She was now dressed in black, save for one bright redribbon round her throat, incongruous and garish. 

When she saw Charley she started, for she had expected the servant with amessage 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 theother. "

The woman started towards the door in a rage. He stepped between. "Youcannot see the Notary. "

"I'll see his wife, then--"

"That would only put the fat in the fire. His wife would not listen toyou. She is quick-tempered, and she fancies she has reasons for notliking you. "

"She's a fool. I haven't been always particular, but as for NarcisseDauphin--"

"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 theNotary, with the Seigneur, was for you--it has cost him something eversince, 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, andlisten 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 behavedbetter than some who said they loved you?"

The woman half started up, her eyes flashing, but met a deprecatingmotion of his hand and sat down again. 

"He thought that if you knew your child lived, you would think better oflife--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 agood 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 youwere in prison, how could you find your child? You see, you have treatedthe Notary very badly. "

She was silent, and he added, slowly: "He had good reasons for nottelling you. It wasn't his own secret, and he hadn't come by it in astrictly professional way. Your child was being well cared for, and hetold you simply that it was alive--for your own sake. But he has changedhis 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 yourchild is. "

For a moment she was bewildered and overcome, then a look of gratitude, of luminous hope, covered her face, softening the hardness of itscontour, and she fell on her knees beside the table, dropped her headin 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 thatgrief 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, afriendly 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 facein a fury--"I will--"

For an instant her overpowering passion possessed her, and she stoodviolent and wilful; then, under his fixed, exacting gaze, her rageceased; she became still and grey and quiet. 

"I shall know to-morrow evening, Monsieur? Where?" Her voice was weakand distant. 

He thought for a time. "At my house-at nine o'clock, " he answered atlast. 

"Monsieur, " she said, in a choking voice, "if I get my child again, Iwill bless you to my dying day. "

"No, no; it will be Dauphin you must bless, " he said, and opened the doorfor her. As she disappeared into the dusk and silence he adjusted hiseye-glass, and stared musingly after her, though there was nothing to seesave the summer darkness, nothing to hear save the croak of the frogs inthe village pond. He was thinking of the trial of Joseph Nadeau, and ofa 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 beenbusier than usual, for winter was within hail, and careful habitantswere renewing their simple wardrobes. The Seigneur and the Cure arrivedtogether, each to order the making of a greatcoat of the Irish friezewhich the Seigneur kept in quantity at the Manor. The Seigneur was inrare spirits. And not without reason; for this was Michaelmas eve, andtomorrow would be Michaelmas day, and there was a promise to be redeemedon Michaelmas day! He had high hopes of its redemption according to hisown wishes; for he was a vain Seigneur, and he had had his way in allthings all his life, as everybody knew. Importunity with discretion washis motto, and he often vowed to the Cure that there was no other mottofor the modern world. 

The Cure's visit to the tailor's shop on this particular day had unusualinterest, for it concerned his dear ambition, the fondest aspiration ofhis life: to bring the infidel tailor (they could not but call a man aninfidel whose soul was negative--the word agnostic had not then becomeusual) 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 patientconfidence that there were several parishioners who now carried Charley'sname before the shrine of the blessed Virgin, and to the little calvariesby the road-side. The wife of Filion Lacasse never failed to pray forhim every day. The thousand dollars gained by the saddler on thetailor's advice had made her life happier ever since, for Filion hadbecome saving and prudent, and had even got her a "hired girl. " Therewere at least a half-dozen other women, including Madame Dauphin, who didthe same. 

That he might listen again to the good priest on his holy hobby, inflamedwith this passion of missionary zeal, the Seigneur, this morning, hadthrown doubt upon the ultimate success of the Cure's efforts. 

"My dear Cure" said the Seigneur, "it is true, I think, what the tailorsuggested to my brother--on my soul, I wonder the Abbe gave in, fora more obstinate fellow I never knew!--that a man is born with thedisbelieving maggot in his brain, or the butterfly of belief, orwhatever it may be called. It's constitutional--may be criminal, butconstitutional. 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. Theywere walking slowly towards the village during this conversation, and theCure, stopping short, brought his stick emphatically down in his palmseveral times, as he said:

"Ah, you will not see! You will not understand. With God all things arepossible. Were it the devil himself in human form, I should work andpray and hope, as my duty is, though he should still remain the devil tothe end. What am I? Nothing. But what the Church has done, the Churchmay do. Think of Paul and Augustine, and Constantine!"

"They were classic barbarians to whom religion was but an emotion. Thisman 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 onfare as poor as the poorest of our people eat; he gives up his hours ofsleep to nurse the sick. Dauphin might not have lived but for him. Hisheart is good, else these things were impossible. He could not actthem. "

"But that's just it, Cure. Doesn't he act them? Isn't it a whim? Whatmore likely than that, tired of the flesh-pots of Egypt, he comes here tolive 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 thetruth. My heart bleeds for him. I think I know the thing that drove himhere amongst us. It is a great temptation, which pursues him here--evenhere, 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 almostlove. You argue, and reason, but I know this, my friend, that somethingwas left out of this man when he was made, and it is that thing that wemust find, or he will die among us a ruined soul, and his gravestone willbe the monument of our shame. If he can once trust the Church, if he canonce say, 'Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit, ' then his temptationwill 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 aCure 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 humdrumCure you knew. The whole world is my field now. I have sorrowed forsin, within the bounds of this little Chaudiere. Now I sorrow forunbelief. Through this man, through much thinking on him, I have come tofeel the woe of all the world. I have come to hear the footsteps of theMaster near. My friend, it is not a legend, not a belief now, it is apresence. I owe him much, Maurice. In bringing him home, I shallunderstand what it all means--the faith that we profess. I shall intruth 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 addedanxiously. "I would keep faith with him--ah, yes, indeed!"

"I only remember that you have said the man suffers. That is nobetrayal. "

They entered the village in silence. Presently, however, the sound ofMaximilian Cour's violin, as they passed the bakery, set the Seigneur'stongue wagging again, and it wagged on till they came to the tailor'sshop. 

"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 tearscame into his eyes. 

The next few moments Charley was busy measuring the two potentates forgreatcoats. As it was his first work for them, it was necessary for theCure to write down the Seigneur's measurements, as the tailor called themoff, 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. TheSeigneur ventured a distant but self-conscious smile when the measurementof his waist was called, for he had by two inches the advantage of theCure, though they were the same age, while he was one inch better in thechest. The Seigneur was proud of his figure, and, unheeding the passingof fashions, held to the knee-breeches and silk stockings long after theyhad disappeared from the province. To the Cure he had often said thatthe only time he ever felt heretical was when in the presence of thegaitered calves of a Protestant dean. He wore his sleeves tight and hisstock 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 fiveyears old--as Von Moltke and Bismarck might have studied the field ofGravelotte. The Seigneur's remarks were highly critical, till, with afew hasty strokes on brown paper, Charley sketched in his figure with along overcoat in style much the same as his undercoat, stately andflowing and confined at the waist. 

"Admirable, most admirable!" said the Seigneur. "The likeness isastonishing"--he admired the carriage of his own head in Charley's swiftlines--"the garment in perfect taste. Form--there is nothing like formand 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. LouisTrudel had rule and measure, shears and a needle. Our friend here haseye and head, sense of form and creative gift. Ah, Cure, Cure, if I weretwenty-five, with the assistance of Monsieur, I would show the bucks inFabrique Street how to dress. What style is this called, Monsieur?" hesuddenly 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 thepost-office, where he could see Rosalie dimly moving in the shade of theshop. 

"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 askRosalie for her answer again, and he fancied himself appearing beforeher 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, thatthis coat is invented for me on the spot. "

The Cure nodded appreciatively. "Wonderful! Wonderful! But do younot think, " he added, a little wistfully--for, was he not a Frenchman, susceptible like all his race to the appearance of things?--"do you notthink it might be too fashionable for me?"

"Not a whit--not a whit, " replied the Seigneur generously. "Should not aCure 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 himgood. There are no contrasts in him. He must wear the coat. " He wavedhis walking-stick complacently, for he was thinking that the Cure's lessperfect figure would set off his own well as they walked together. "MayI have the honour to keep this as a souvenir?" he added, picking up thesketch. 

"With pleasure, " answered Charley. "You do not need it?"

"Not at all. "

The Cure looked a little disappointed, and Charley, seeing, immediatelysketched on brown paper the priestly figure in the new-created coat, a la Rossignol. On this drawing he was a little longer engaged, with theresult 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 shallhave me, and I shall have you, lest we both grow vain by looking atourselves. " 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 thepicture of himself--his vanity was as that of a child, without guile orworldliness. He was better pleased, however, to have the drawing of hisfriend by him, that vanity might not be too companionable. He thankedCharley with a beaming face, and then the two friends bowed and movedtowards 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 forthe Cure to begin. "Monsieur, " said the Cure to Charley, "you maybe ableto help us in a little difficulty. For a long time we have intendedholding a great mission with a kind of religious drama like thatperformed 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 ofthe famous drama. We will hold it at the Indian reservation of FourMountains, thus quickening our own souls and giving a good object-lessonof the great History to the Indians. "

The Cure paused rather anxiously, but Charley did not speak. His eyeswere fixed inquiringly on the Cure, and he had a sudden suspicion thatsome devious means were forward to influence him. He dismissed thethought, 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 authenticdescription of the Ober-Ammergau drama, giving details of itspresentation at different periods, and also a book of the play. Butthere is no one in the parish who reads German, and it occurred to theSeigneur and myself that, understanding French so well, by chance you mayunderstand 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 Germanbook from his pocket, and handed it over. 

"It is not so very long, " he said; "and we shall all be grateful. " Thenan inspiration came to him; his eyes lighted. 

"Monsieur, " he said, "you will notice that there are no illustrations inthe book. It is possible that you might be able to make us a fewdrawings--if we do not ask too much? It would aid greatly in the matterof costume, and you might use my library--I have a fair number ofhistories. " The Cure was almost breathless, his heart thumped as he madethe request. After a slight pause he added, hastily: "You are alwaysdoing for others. It is hardly kind to ask you; but we have some monthsto spare; there need be no haste. " Charley hastened to relieve theCure's anxiety. "Do not apologise, " he said. "I will do what I canwhen 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'veheld it in for an hour. It had to come; so there it is exploded. I seeno damage either, save to my own reputation. Monsieur, " he added toCharley, "if I had gifts like yours, nothing would hold me. I should puton 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 didnot dare turn his head for the moment. He could not speak. What didthe Seigneur know of Beauty Steele?

To hide his momentary confusion, he went over to the drawer of a cupboardin the wall, and placed the book inside. It gave him time to recoverhimself. When he turned round again his face was calm, his mannercomposed. 

"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 Ifirst read the phrase in a letter a scamp of a relative of mine wrote mefrom the West. He had met a man of the name, who had a reputation as aclever fop, a very handsome fellow. So I thought it a good phrase, andI'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 hisshears. "You will excuse me, " he said grimly, "but I must earn myliving. 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 BeautySteele!"

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE SCARLET WOMAN

Since the evening in the garden when she had been drawn into Charley'sarms, and then fled from them in joyful confusion, Rosalie had been in adream. She had not closed her eyes all night, or, if she closed them, they still saw beautiful things flashing by, to be succeeded by otherbeautiful things. It was a roseate world. To her simple nature it wasnot so important to be loved as to love. Selfishness was as yet theminor part of her. She had been giving all her life--to her mother, as achild; to sisters at the convent who had been kind to her; to the poorand 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 shehad got. A nature overflowing with impulsive affection, it must spenditself upon others. The maternal instinct was at the very core of hernature, 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 therain from heaven on the just and the unjust; on animals as on humanbeings, 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 undisciplinedardour of a girl's nature. A change had begun in the moment when she hadtearfully thrust the oil and flour in upon his excoriated breast. Latercame real awakening, and a riotous outpouring of herself in sympathy, inobservation, in a reckless kindness which must have done her harm butthat her clear intelligence balanced her actions, and because secrecy inone thing helped to restrain her in all. Yet with all the fresh overflowof her spirit, which, assisted by her new position as postmistress, madeher a conspicuous and popular figure in the parish, where officialdom hadrare honour and little labour, she had prejudices almost unworthy of her, due though they were to radical antipathy. These prejudices, one againstJo Portugais and the other against Paulette Dubois, she had never beenable entirely to overcome, though she had honestly tried. On the wayto 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 againstPaulette Dubois remained, casting a shadow on her bright spirit. 

All this day she had moved about in a mellow dream, very busy, scarcelythinking. New feelings dominated her, and she was too primitive toanalyse them and too occupied with them to realise acutely the life abouther. Work was an abstraction, resting rather than tiring her. 

Many times she had looked across at the tailor-shop, only seeing Charleyonce. 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 toCharley, she left the post-office and went quickly through the villageto a spot by the river, where was a place called the Rest of theFlaxbeaters. It was an overhanging rock which made a kind of canopy overa sweet spring, where, in the days when their labours sounded through thevalley, the flaxbeaters from the level below came to eat their meals andto rest. 

This had always been a resort for her in the months when the flax-beatersdid not use it. Since a child she had made the place her own. To thisday it is called Rosalie's Dell; for are not her sorrows and joys stilltold by those who knew and loved her? and is not the parish stillfragrant with her name? Has not her history become a living legend athousand times told?

Leaving the village behind her, Rosalie passed down the high-road tillshe 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 theriver 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 hadbrought with her a book of English poems, and as she went through thegrove she opened it, and in her pretty English repeated over and over toherself:

 "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 herown feelings, which had only needed a touch of beauty to give itexaltation. The touch had come. 

She went on abstractedly to the place where she had trysted with herthoughts only, these many years, and, sitting down, watched the sun sinkbeyond the trees, the shades of evening fall. All that had happenedsince Charley came to the parish she went over in her mind. Sheremembered the day he had said this, the day he had said that; shebrought back the night--it was etched upon her mind!--when he had saidto her, "You have saved my life, Mademoiselle!" She recalled the timeshe put the little cross back on the church-door, the ghostly footstepsin 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 onthe 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 tilllast night, had she dared to say to herself, He loves me. He seemed sofar above her--she never had thought of him as a tailor!--that she hadgiven and never dared hope to receive, had lived without anticipationlest there should come despair. Even that day at Vadrome Mountain shehad not thought he meant love, when he had said to her that he wouldremember to the last. When he had said that he would die for love'ssake, he had not meant her, but others--some one else whom he would saveby his death. Kathleen, that name which had haunted her--ah, whoeverKathleen was, or whatever Kathleen had to do with him or his life, shehad 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 armslast night? Had she not fled from that enfolding, because her heart wasso full in the hour of her triumph that she could not bear more, couldnot look longer into the eyes to which she had told her love before hiswas spoken?

In the midst of her thoughts she heard footsteps. She started up. Paulette Dubois suddenly appeared in the path below. She had takenthe river-path down from Vadrome Mountain, where she had gone to see JoPortugais, who had not yet returned from Quebec. Paulette's face wasagitated, her manner nervous. For nights she had not slept, and herapproaching 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 herfigure was lithe and supple. She dressed always a little garishly, butnow there was only that band of colour round the throat, worn last nightin the talk with Charley. 

To both women this meeting was as a personal misfortune, a mutualaffront. Each had a natural antipathy. To Rosalie the invasion of herbeloved retreat was as hateful as though the woman had purposelyintruded. 

For a moment they confronted each other without speaking, then Rosalie'snatural courtesy, her instinctive good-heartedness, overcame herirritation, 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 livedin Chaudiere, you have lived in Montreal, and people often call youMadame. "

"You know better. You know that letters come to me from Montrealaddressed Mademoiselle. "

Rosalie turned as if to go. "I do not recall what letters pass throughthe post-office. I have a good memory for forgetting. Good-evening, "she added, with an excess of courtesy. Paulette read the placid scorn inthe girl's face; she did not see and would not understand that Rosaliedid not scorn her for what she had ever done, but for something that shewas. 

"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 thedust pile!"

"I have never thought so, " answered Rosalie. "I have not liked you, butI am sorry for you, and I never thought those things. "

"You lie!" was the rejoinder; and Rosalie, turning away quickly withtrouble in her face, put her hands to her ears, and, hastening down thehillside, did not hear the words the woman called after her. 

"To-morrow every one shall know you are a thief. Run, run, run! You canhear what I say, white-face! They shall know about the little crossto-morrow. "

She followed Rosalie at a distance, her eyes blazing. As fate would haveit, she met on the highroad the least scrupulous man in the parish, aninveterate gossip, the keeper of the general store, whose only oppositionin business was the post-office shop. He was the centre of the villagetittle-tattle, and worse. With malicious speed Paulette told him how shehad seen Rosalie Evanturel nailing the little cross on the church door ofa certain night. If he wanted proof of what she said, let him ask JoPortugais. 

Having spat out her revenge, she went on to the village, and through itto her house, where she prepared to visit the shop of the tailor. Hersense of retaliation satisfied, Rosalie passed from her mind; her childonly occupied it. In another hour she would know where her child was--the tailor had promised that she should. Then perhaps she would be sorryfor the accident to the Notary; for it was an accident, in spite ofappearances. 

It was dark when Paulette entered the door of the tailor's house. Whenshe came out, a half-hour later, with elation in her carriage, and tearsof joy running down her face, she did not look about her; she did notcare whether or not any one saw her: she was possessed with only onethought--her child! She passed like a swift wind down the street, makingfor 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 camefrom the tailor's door. She had not heard a smothered cry behind her. She was not aware that in unspeakable agony another woman knocked softlyat the door of the tailor's house, and, not waiting for an answer, openedit 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 shopopening upon the little hall between. Rosalie crossed the hall and stoodin the doorway of the shop, a figure of concentrated indignation, despair, and shame. Leaning on his elbow Charley was bending over a bookin 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 hadgiven 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. Butnow there ran through his reading a thread of something not of himself orof it. He had thrilled to the archaic but clear-hearted style of the oldGerman chronicler, and the warmth he felt had passed into his voice, sothat it became louder. 

As Rosalie listened to his reading, a hundred thoughts rushed throughher mind. Paulette Dubois, the wanton woman, had just left his doorwaysecretly, yet there he was, instantly after, calmly reading a pious book!Her mind was in tumult. She could not reason, she could not rule herjudgment. She only knew that the woman had come from this house, andhurried guiltily away into the dark. She only knew that the man thewoman had left here was the man she loved--loved more than her life, forhe embodied all her past; all her present--she knew that she could notlive 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 onthe wave of her heart's fever into this room, not daring to think thisor that, not planning this or that, not accusing, not reproaching, notshaming herself and him by black suspicion, but blindly, madly demandingto 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 inher primitive feelings that threw aside all convention, because there wasno wrong in her heart; a woman, because she was possessed by a jealousywhich shamed and angered her, because its very existence put him ontrial, condemned him. Her soul was the sport of emotions and passionsstronger than herself, because the heritage, the instinct, of all therace of women, the eternal predisposition. At the moment her willwas not sufficient to rule them to obedience. She was in the firstsubservience to that power which feeds the streams of human history. 

As she now listened to Charley reading, a sudden revulsion of feelingcame over her. Some note in his voice reassured her heart--if it neededreassuring. 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 andchimed 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 herinto this room in such unmaidenly fashion--feelings that were her deepestself-welled up. Her breath came hard and broken. 

As Charley read on, a breathing seemed to answer his own. It becamequicker than his own, it pierced the stillness, it filled the room withfeeling, it came calling to him out of the silence. He swung round, andsaw 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 thetailor's bench where he worked every day, and, burying her face in herarms 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 handtouched 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 wasbeating hard, his own eyes were responding to hers. The new feelingsalive in him, the forces his love had awakened, which, last night, hadkept him sleepless, and had been upon him like a dream all day--theywere 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 saidbrokenly. "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 abetter understanding came upon him, and it made him gentle with her. 

"Ah, Rosalie, you did not think! But--but it was natural you should wishto see me. . . . "

"But, as soon as I saw you, I knew that--that--" She broke down again andwept. 

"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 drankhis. 

"Rosalie, my life!" he cried, clasping her in his arms. 

The love that was in him, new-born and but half understood, poured itselfout in broken words like her own. For him there was no outside world; nopast, no Kathleen, no Billy; no suspicion, or infidelity, or unfaith; nofear of disaster; no terrors of the future. Life was Now to him and toher: nothing brooded behind, nothing lay before. The candle splutteredand burnt low in the socket. 

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

A left-handed boy is all right in the worldDamnable propinquityHugging the chain of denial to his bosomI have a good memory for forgettingImportunity with discretion was his mottoIt is good to live, isn't it?Know how bad are you, and doesn't mindStrike first and heal after--"a kick and a lick"