THE RIGHT OF WAY

By Gilbert Parker

Volume 6. 

L. THE PASSION PLAY AT CHAUDIERELI. FACE TO FACELII. THE COMING OF BILLYLIII. THE SEIGNEUR AND THE CURE HAVE A SUSPICIONLIV. M. ROSSIGNOL SLIPS THE LEASHLV. ROSALIE PLAYS A PARTLVI. MRS. FLYNN SPEAKSLVII. A BURNING FIERY FURNACELVIII. WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALLLIX. IN WHICH CHARLEY MEETS A STRANGERLX. THE HAND AT THE DOORLXI. THE CURE SPEAKSEPILOGUE

CHAPTER L

THE PASSION PLAY AT CHAUDIERE

For the first time in its history Chaudiere was becoming notable in theeyes of the outside world. 

"We'll have more girth after this, " said Filion Lacasse the saddler tothe wife of the Notary, as, in front of the post-office, they stoodwatching a little cavalcade of habitants going up the road towards FourMountains to rehearse the Passion Play. 

"If Dauphin's advice had been taken long ago, we'd have had a hotel atFour Mountains, and the city folk would be coming here for the summer, "said Madame Dauphin, with a superior air. 

"Pish!" said a voice behind them. It was the Seigneur's groom, with astraw in his mouth. He had a gloomy mind. 

"There isn't a house but has two or three boarders. I've got three, "said Filion Lacasse. "They come tomorrow. "

"We'll have ten at the Manor. But no good will come of it, " said thegroom. 

"No good! Look at the infidel tailor!" said Madame Dauphin. "Hetranslated all the writing. He drew all the dresses, and made a hundredpictures--there they are at the Cure's house. "

"He should have played Judas, " said the groom malevolently. "That'd beright for him. "

"Perhaps you don't like the Passion Play, " said Madame Dauphindisdainfully. 

"We ain't through with it yet, " said the death's-head groom. 

"It is a pious and holy mission, " said Madame Dauphin. "Even that JoPortugais worked night and day till he went away to Montreal, and healways goes to Mass now. He's to take Pontius Pilate when he comes back. Then look at Virginie Morrissette, that put her brother's eyes outquarrelling--she's to play Mary Magdalene. "

"I could fit the parts better, " said the groom. 

"Of course. You'd have played St. John, " said the saddler--" or, maybe, Christus himself!"

"I'd have Paulette Dubois play Mary the sinner. "

"Magdalene repented, and knelt at the foot of the cross. She was sorryand sinned no more, " said the Notary's wife in querulous reprimand. 

"Well, Paulette does all that, " said the stolid, dark-visaged groom. 

Filion Lacasse's ears pricked up. "How do you know--she hasn't comeback?"

"Hasn't she, though! And with her child too--last night. "

"Her child!" Madame Dauphin was scandalised and amazed. 

The groom nodded. "And doesn't care who knows it. Seven years old, andas fine a child as ever was!"

"Narcisse--Narcisse!" called Madame Dauphin to her husband, who wascoming up the street. She hastily repeated the groom's news to him. 

The Notary stuck his hand between the buttons of his waistcoat. "Well, well, my dear Madame, " he said consequentially, "it is quite true. "

"What do you know about it--whose child is it?" she asked, with curdlingscorn. 

"'Sh-'sh!" said the Notary. Then, with an oratorical wave of his freehand: "The Church opens her arms to all--even to her who sinned muchbecause she loved much, who, through woful years, searched the world forher child and found it not--hidden away, as it was, by the duplicity ofsinful man"--and so on through tangled sentences, setting forth in brokenterms Paulette Dubois's life. 

"How do you know all about it?" asked the saddler. "I've known it foryears, " said the Notary grandly--stoutly too, for he would freely riskhis wife's anger that the vain-glory of the moment might be enlarged. 

"And you keep it even from madame!" said the saddler, with a smile toobroad to be sarcastic. "Tiens! if I did that, my wife'd pick my eyesout with a bradawl. "

"It was a professional secret, " said the Notary, with a desperate resolveto hold his position. 

"I'm going home, Dauphin--are you coming?" questioned his wife, with anair. 

"You will remain, and hear what I've got to say. This Paulette Dubois--she should play Mary Magdalene, for--"

"Look--look, what's that?" said the saddler. He pointed to a wagoncoming slowly up the road. In front of it a team of dogs drew a cart. It carried some thing covered with black. "It's a funeral! There's thecoffin. It's on Jo Portugais' little cart, " added Filion Lacasse. 

"Ah, God be merciful, it's Rosalie Evanturel and Mrs. Flynn! And M'sieu'Evanturel in the coffin!" said Madame Dauphin, running to the door ofthe postoffice to call the Cure's sister. 

"There'll be use enough for the baker's Dead March now, " remarked M. Dauphin sadly, buttoning up his coat, taking off his hat, and goingforward to greet Rosalie. As he did so, Charley appeared in the doorwayof his shop. 

"Look, Monsieur, " said the Notary. "This is the way Rosalie Evanturelcomes home with her father. "

"I will go for the Cure" Charley answered, turning white. He leanedagainst the doorway for a moment to steady himself, then hurried up thestreet. He did not dare meet Rosalie, or go near her yet. For her sakeit was better not. 

"That tailor infidel has a heart. His eyes were leaking, " said theNotary to Filion Lacasse, and went on to meet the mournful cavalcade. 

CHAPTER LI

FACE TO FACE

"If I could only understand!"--this was Rosalie's constant cry in theseweeks wherein she lay ill and prostrate after her father's burial. Onceand once only had she met Charley alone, though she knew that he waskeeping watch over her. She had first seen him the day her father wasburied, standing apart from the people, his face sorrowful, his eyesheavy, his figure bowed. 

The occasion of their meeting alone was the first night of her return, when the Notary and Charley had kept watch beside her father's body. 

She had gone into the little hallway, and had looked into the room ofdeath. The Notary was sound asleep in his arm-chair, but Charley satsilent and moveless, his eyes gazing straight before him. She murmuredhis name, and though it was only to herself, not even a whisper, he gotup quickly and came to the hall, where she stood grief-stricken, yet witha smile of welcome, of forgiveness, of confidence. As she put out herhand to him, and his swallowed it, she could not but say to him--socontrary is the heart of woman, so does she demand a Yes by asserting aNo, and hunger for the eternal assurance--she could not but say:

"You do not love me--now. "

It was but a whisper, so faint and breathless that only the heart of lovecould hear it. There was no answer in words, for some one was stirringbeyond Rosalie in the dark, and a great figure heaved through the kitchendoorway, but his hand crushed hers in his own; his heart said to her, "Mylove is an undying light; it will not change for time or tears"--thewords they had read together in a little snuff-coloured book on thecounter in the shop one summer day a year ago. The words flashed intohis mind, and they were carried to hers. Her fingers pressed his, andthen Charley said, over her shoulder, to the approaching Mrs. Flynn: "Donot let her come again, Madame. She should get some sleep, " and he puther hand in Mrs. Flynn's. "Be good to her, as you know how, Mrs. Flynn, "he added gently. 

He had won the heart of Mrs. Flynn that moment, and it may be she had aconviction or an inspiration, for she said, in a softer voice than shewas wont to use to any one save Rosalie:

"I'll do by her as you'd do by your own, sir, " and tenderly drew Rosalieto her own room. 

Such had been their first meeting after her return. Afterwards she wastaken ill, and the torture of his heart drove him out into the night, towalk the road and creep round her house like a sentinel, Mrs. Flynn'swords ringing in his ears to reproach him--"I'll do by her as you woulddo by your own, sir. " Night after night it was the same, and Rosalieheard his footsteps and listened and was less sorrowful, because she knewthat she was ever in his thoughts. But one day Mrs. Flynn came to him inhis shop. 

"She's wantin' a word with ye on business, " she said, and gesturedtowards the little house across the way. "'Tis few words ye do beshpakin' to annybody, but if y' have kind words to shpake and good thingsto say, y' naidn't be bitin' yer tongue, " she added in response to hisnod, and left him. 

Charley looked after her with a troubled face. On the instant it seemedto him that Mrs. Flynn knew all. But his second thought told him that itwas only an instinct on her part that there was something between them--the beginning of love, maybe. 

In another half-hour he was beside Rosalie's chair. "Perhaps you areangry, " she said, as he came towards her where she sat in the great arm-chair. She did not give him time to answer, but hurried on. "I wantedto tell you that I have heard you every night outside, and that I havebeen glad, and sorry too--so sorry for us both. "

"Rosalie! Rosalie" he said hoarsely, and dropped on a knee beside herchair, and took her hand and kissed it. He did not dare do more. 

"I wanted to say to you, " she said, dropping a hand on his shoulder, "that I do not blame you for anything--not for anything. Yet I want youto be sorry too. I want you to feel as sorry for me as I feel sorry foryou. "

"I am the worst man and you the best woman in the world. "

She leaned over him with tears in her eyes. "Hush!" she said. "I wantto help you--Charles. You are wise. You know ten thousand things morethan I; but I know one thing you do not understand. "

"You know and do whatever is good, " he said brokenly. 

"Oh, no, no, no! But I know one thing, because I have been taught, andbecause it was born with me. Perhaps much was habit with me in the past, but now I know that one thing is true. It is God. "

She paused. "I have learned so much since--since then. "

He looked up with a groan, and put a finger on her lips. "You arefeeling bitterly sorry for me, " she said. "But you must let me speak--that is all I ask. It is all love asks. I cannot bear that you shouldnot share my thoughts. That is the thing that has hurt--hurt so allthese months, these long hard months, when I could not see you, and didnot know why I could not. Don't shake so, please! Hear me to the end, and we shall both be the better after. I felt it all so cruelly, becauseI did not--and I do not--understand. I rebelled, but not against you. I rebelled against myself, against what you called Fate. Fate is one'sself, what one brings on one's self. But I had faith in you--always--always, even when I thought I hated you. "

"Ah, hate me! Hate me! It is your loving that cuts me to the quick, " hesaid. "You have the magnanimity of God. "

Her eyes leapt up. "'Of God'--you believe in God!" she said eagerly. "God is God to you? He is the one thing that has come out of all this tome. " She reached out her hand and took her Bible from a table. "Readthat to yourself, " she said, and, opening the Book, pointed to a passage. He read it:

 And they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day: and Adam and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God amongst the trees of the garden. 

 And the Lord God called unto Adam, and said unto him, Where art thou?

 And he said, I heard Thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself. 

 And He said, Who told thee that thou wart naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat?

Closing the Book, Charley said: "I understand--I see. "

"Will you say a prayer with me?" she urged. "It is all I ask. It isthe only--the only thing I want to hurt you, because it may make youhappier in the end. What keeps us apart, I do not know. But if you willsay one prayer with me, I will keep on trusting, I will never complain, and I will wait--wait. "

He kissed both her hands, but the look in his eyes was that of a manbeing broken on the wheel. She slipped to the floor, her rosary in herfingers. "Let us pray, " she said simply, and in a voice as clear as achild's, but with the anguish of a woman's struggling heart behind. 

He did not move. She looked at him, caught his hands in both of hers, and cried: "But you will not deny me this! Haven't I the right to askit? Haven't I a right to ask of you a thousand times as much?"

"You have the right to ask all that is mine to give life, honour, my bodyin pieces inch by inch, the last that I can call my own. But, Rosalie, this is not mine to give! How can I pray, unless I believe!"

"You do--oh, you do believe in God, " she cried passionately. 

"Rosalie--my life, " he urged, hoarse misery in his voice, "the only thingI have to give you is the bare soul of a truthful man--I am that now atleast. You have made me so. If I deceived the whole world, if I was asthe thief upon the cross, I should still be truthful to you. You openyour heart to me--let me open mine to you, to see it as it is. Oncemy soul was like a watch, cased and carried in the pocket of life, uncertain, untrue, because it was a soul made, not born. I must look atthe hands to know the time, and because it varied, because the workingdid not answer to the absolute, I said: 'The soul is a lie. ' You--youhave changed all that, Rosalie. My soul now is like a dial to the sun. But the clouds are there above, and I do not know what time it is inlife. When the clouds break--if they ever break--and the sun shines, thedial will speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth--"

He paused, confused, for he had repeated the words of a witness takingthe oath in court. 

"'So help me God!"' she finished the oath for him. Then, with a suddenchange of manner, she came to her feet with a spring. She did not quiteunderstand. She was, however, dimly conscious of the power she had overhis chivalrous mind: the power of the weak over the strong--the tyrannyof the defended over the defender. She was a woman tortured beyondbearing; and she was fighting for her very life, mad with anguish as shestruggled. 

"I do not understand you, " she cried, with flashing eyes. "One minuteyou say you do not believe in anything, and the next you say, 'So help meGod!'"

"Ah, no, you said that, Rosalie, " he interposed gently. 

"You said I was as magnanimous as God. You were laughing at me then, mocking me, whose only fault is that I loved and trusted you. In thewickedness of your heart you robbed me of happiness, you--"

"Don't--don't! Rosalie! Rosalie!" he exclaimed in shrinking protest. 

That she had spoken to him as her deepest heart abhorred only increasedher agitated denunciation. "Yes, yes, in your mad selfishness, you didnot care for the poor girl who forgot all, lost all, and now--" Shestopped short at the sight of his white, awe stricken face. His eye-glass seemed like a frost of death over an eye that looked upon someshocking scene of woe. Yet he appeared not to see, for his fingersfumbled on his waistcoat for the monocle--fumbled--vaguely, helplessly. It was the realisation of a soul cast into the outer darkness. Herabrupt silence came upon him like the last engulfing wave to a drowningman--the final assurance of the end, in which there is quiet and thedeadly smother. 

"Now--I know-the truth!" he said, in a curious even tone, different fromany she had ever heard from him. It was the old Charley Steele whospoke, the Charley Steele in whom the intellect was supreme once more. The judicial spirit, the inveterate intelligence which put justice beforeall, was alive in him, almost rejoicing in its regained governance. Thenew Charley was as dead as the old had been of late, and this clarifyingmoment left the grim impression behind that the old law was not obsolete. He felt that in the abandonment of her indignation she had mercilesslytold the truth; and the irreducible quality of mind in him which in theold days made for justice, approved. There was a new element now, however--that conscience which never possessed him fully until the day hesaw Rosalie go travelling over the hills with her crippled father. Thatpicture of the girl against the twilight, her figure silhouetted in theclear air, had come to him in sleeping and waking dreams, the type andsign of an everlasting melancholy. As he looked at her blindly now, hesaw, not herself, but that melancholy figure. Out of the distance hisown voice said again:

"Now--I know-the truth!"

She had struck with a violence she did not intend, which, she knew, mustrend her own heart in the future, which put in the dice-box the lasthopes she had. But she could not have helped it--she could not havestayed the words, though a suspended sword were to fall with the saying. It was the cry of tradition and religion, and every home-bred, convent-nurtured habit, the instinct of heredity, the wail of woman, for whomdestiny, or man, or nature, has arranged the disproportionate share oflife's penalties. It was the impotent rebellion against the first curse, that man in his punishment should earn his bread by the sweat of hisbrow--which he might do with joy--while the woman must work out herordained sentence "in sorrow all the days of her life. "

In her bitter words was the inherent revolt of the race of woman. Butnow she suddenly felt that she had flung him an infinite distance fromher; that she had struck at the thing she most cherished--his belief thatshe loved him; that even if she had told the truth--and she felt she hadnot--it was not the truth she wished him most to feel. 

For an instant she stood looking at him, shocked and confounded, then herchangeless love rushed back on her, the maternal and protective spiritwelled up, and with a passionate cry she threw herself in the chair againin very weakness, with outstretched hands, saying:

"Forgive me--oh, forgive me! I did not mean it--oh, forgive yourRosalie!"

Stooping over her, he answered:

"It is good for me to know the whole truth. What hurts you may give mewill pass--for life must end, and my life cannot be long enough to paythe price of the hurts I have given you. I could bear a thousand--onefor every hour--if they could bring back the light to your eye, the joyto your heart. Could prayer, do you think, make me sorrier than I am?I have hurt what I would have spared from hurt at the cost of my life--and all the lives in all the world!" he added fiercely. 

"Forgive me--oh, forgive your Rosalie!" she pleaded. "I did not knowwhat I was saying--I was mad. "

"It was all so sane and true, " he said, like one who, on the brink ofdeath, finds a satisfaction in speaking the perfect truth. "I am glad tohear the truth--I have been such a liar. "

She looked up startled, her tears blinding her. "You have not deceivedme?" she asked bitterly. "Oh, you have not deceived me--you have lovedme, have you not?" It was that which mattered, that only. Moveless andeager, she looked--looked at him, waiting, as it were, for sentence. 

"I never lied to you, Rosalie--never!" he answered, and he touched herhand. 

She gave a moan of relief at his words. "Oh, then, oh, then . . . "she said, in a low voice, and the tears in her eyes dried away. 

"I meant that until I knew you, I kept deceiving myself and others all mylife--"

"But without knowing it?" she said eagerly. 

"Perhaps, without quite knowing it. "

"Until you knew me?" she asked, in quick, quivering tones. 

"Till I knew you, " he answered. 

"Then I have done you good--not ill?" she asked, with painfulbreathlessness. 

"The only good there may be in me is you, and you only, " he said, and hechoked something rising in his throat, seeing the greatness of her heart, her dear desire to have entered into his life to his own good. He wouldhave said that there was no good in him at all, but that he wished tocomfort her. 

A little cry of joy broke from her lips. "Oh, that--that!" she cried, with happy tears. "Won't you kiss me now?" she added softly. 

He clasped her in his arms, and though his eyes were dry, his heart wepttears of blood. 

CHAPTER LII

THE COMING OF BILLY

Chaudiere had made--and lost--a reputation. The Passion Play in thevalley had become known to a whole country--to the Cure's and theSeigneur's unavailing regret. They had meant to revive the great storyfor their own people and the Indians--a homely, beautiful object-lesson, in an Eden--like innocence and quiet and repose; but behold the world hadinvaded them! The vanity of the Notary had undone them. He had writtento the great papers of the province, telling of the advent of the play, and pilgrimages had been organised, and excursions had been made to thespot, where a simple people had achieved a crude but noble picture of thelife and death of the Hero of Christendom. The Cure viewed withconsternation the invasion of their quiet. It was no longer his ownChaudiere; and when, on a Sunday, his dear people were jostled from thechurch to make room for strangers, his gentle eloquence seemed to forsakehim, he spoke haltingly, and his intoning of the Mass lacked the oldsoothing simplicity. 

"Ah, my dear Seigneur!" he said, on the Sunday before the playing was toend, "we have overshot the mark. "

The Seigneur nodded and turned his head away. "There is an English playwhich says, 'I have shot mine arrow o'er the house and hurt my brother. 'That's it--that's it! We began with religion, and we end with greed, and pride, and notoriety. "

"What do we want of fame! The price is too high, Maurice. Fame is notgood for the hearts and minds of simple folk. "

"It will soon be over. "

"I dread a sordid reaction. "

The Seigneur stood thinking for a moment. "I have an idea, " he said atlast. "Let us have these last days to ourselves. The mission ends nextSaturday at five o'clock. We will announce that all strangers must leavethe valley by Wednesday night. Then, during those last three days, whileyet the influence of the play is on them, you can lead your own peopleback to the old quiet feelings. "

"My dear Maurice--it is worthy of you! It is the way. We will announceit to-day. And see now. . . . For those three days we will changethe principals; lest those who have taken the parts so long have lost thepious awe which should be upon them. We will put new people in theirplaces. I will announce it at vespers presently. I have in my mind whoshould play the Christ, and St. John, and St. Peter--the men are not hardto find; but for Mary the Mother and Mary Magdalene--"

The eyes of the two men suddenly met, a look of understanding passedbetween them. 

"Will she do it?" said the Seigneur. 

The Cure nodded. "Paulette Dubois has heard the word, 'Go and sin nomore'; she will obey. "

Walking through the village as they talked, the Cure shrank backpainfully several times, for voices of strangers, singing festive songs, rolled out upon the road. "Who can they be?" he said distressfully. 

Without a word the Seigneur went to the door of the inn whence the soundsproceeded, and, without knocking, entered. A moment afterwards thevoices stopped, but broke out again, quieted, then once more broke out, and presently the Seigneur issued from the door, white with anger, threestrangers behind him. All were intoxicated. 

One was violent. It was Billy Wantage, whom the years had not improved. He had arrived that day with two companions--an excursion of curiosityas an excuse for a "spree. "

"What's the matter with you, old stick-in-the-mud?" he shouted. "Massis over, isn't it? Can't we have a little guzzle between prayers?"

By this time a crowd had gathered, among them Filion Lacasse. At amotion from the Seigneur, and a whisper that went round quickly, a dozenhabitants swiftly sprang on the three men, pinioned their arms, andcarrying them bodily to the pump by the tavern, held them under it, oneby one, till each was soaked and sober. Then their horses and wagon werebrought, and they were given five minutes to leave the village. 

With a devilish look in his eye, and drenched and furious, Billy wasdisposed to resist the command, but the faces around him were determined, and, muttering curses, the three drove away towards the next parish. 

CHAPTER LIII

THE SEIGNEUR AND THE CURE HAVE A SUSPICION

Presently the Seigneur and the Cure stood before the door of the tailor-shop. The Cure was about to knock, when the Seigneur laid a hand uponhis arm. 

"There is no use; he has been gone several days, " he said. 

"Gone--gone!" said the Cure. 

"I came to see him yesterday, and not finding him, I asked at the post-office. " M. Rossignol's voice lowered. "He told Mrs. Flynn he was goinginto the hills, so Rosalie says. "

The Cure's face fell. "He went away also just before the play began. I almost fear that--that we get no nearer. His mind prompts him to dogood and not evil, and yet--and yet. . . . I have dreamed a gooddream, Maurice, but I sometimes fear I have dreamed in vain. "

"Wait-wait!"

M. Loisel looked towards the post-office musingly. "I have thoughtsometimes that what man's prayers may not accomplish a woman's love mightdo. If--but, alas, what do we know of his past! Nothing. What do weknow of his future? Nothing. What do we know of the human heart?Nothing--nothing!"

The Seigneur was astounded. The Cure's meaning was plain. "What do youmean?" he asked, almost gruffly. 

"She--Rosalie--has changed--changed. " In his heart he dwelt sorrowfullyupon the fact that she had not been to confession to him for many, manymonths. 

"Since her father's death--since her illness?"

"Since she went to Montreal seven months ago. Even while she was so illthese past weeks, she never asked for me; and when I came . . . Ah, ifit is that her heart has gone out to the man, and his does not respond!"

"A good thing, too!" said the other gloomily. "We don't know where hecame from, and we do know that he is a pagan. "

"Yet there she sits now, hour after hour, day after day--so changed. "

"She has lost her father, " urged M. Rossignol anxiously. 

"I know the grief of children--this is not such a grief. There issomething more. But I cannot ask. If she were a sinner--but she iswithout fault. Have we not watched her grow up here, mirthful, brave, pure-souled--"

"Fitted for any station, " interposed the Seigneur huskily. Presently helaid a hand upon the Cure's arm. "Shall I ask her again?" he said, breathing hard. "Do you think she has found out her mistake?"

The Cure was so taken aback that at first he could not speak. When herealised, however, he could scarce suppress a smile at the other's simplevanity. But he mastered himself, and said: "It is not that, Maurice. Itis not you. "

"How did you know I had asked her?" asked his friend querulously. 

"You have just told me. "

M. Rossignol felt a kind of reproval in the Cure's tone. It made him alittle nervous. "I'm an old fool, but she needed some one, " heprotested. "At least I am a gentleman, and she would not be thrownaway. "

"Dear Maurice!" said the Cure, and linked his arm in the other's. "Inall respects save one, it would have been to her advantage. But youth isthe only comrade for youth. All else is evasion of life's laws. "

The Seigneur pressed his arm. "I thought you less worldly-wise thanmyself; I find you more, " he said. 

"Not worldly-wise. Life is deeper than the world or worldly wisdom. Come, we will both go and see Rosalie. "

M. Rossignol suddenly stopped at the post-office door, and half turnedtowards the tailor-shop. "He is young. Suppose that he drew her lovehis way, but gave her nothing in return, and--"

"If it were so"--the Cure paused, and his face darkened--"if it were so, he should leave her forever; and so my dream would end. "

"And Rosalie?"

"Rosalie would forget. To remember, youth must see and touch and benear, else it wears itself out in excess of feeling. Youth feels moredeeply than age, but it must bear daily witness. "

"Upon my honour, Cure, you shall write your little philosophies for theworld, " said M. Rossignol, and then knocked at the door. 

"I will go in alone, Maurice, " the Cure urged. "Good-you are right, "answered the other. "I will go write the proclamation denying strangersthe valley after Wednesday. I will enforce it, too, " he added, withvigour, and, turning, walked up the street, as Mrs. Flynn admitted theCure to the post-office. 

A half-hour later M. Loisel again appeared at the post-office door, apale, beautiful face at his shoulder. 

He had not been brave enough to say what was on his mind. But as he badeher good-bye, he plucked up needful courage. 

"Forgive me, Rosalie, " he said, "but I have sometimes thought that youhave more griefs than one. I have thought"--he paused, then went onbravely--"that there might be--there might be unwelcomed love, or lovedeceived. "

A mist came before her eyes, but she quietly and firmly answered: "I havenever been deceived in love, Monsieur Loisel. "

"There, there!" he hurriedly and gently rejoined. "Do not be hurt, mychild. I only want to help you. " A moment afterwards he was gone. 

As the door closed behind him, she drew herself proudly up. 

"I have never been deceived, " she said aloud. "I love him--love him--lovehim. "

CHAPTER LIV

M. ROSSIGNOL SLIPS THE LEASH

It was the last day of the Passion Play, and the great dramatic missionwas drawing to a close. The confidence of the Cure and the Seigneur wasrestored. The prohibition against strangers had had its effect, and forthree whole days the valley had been at rest again. Apparently there wasnot a stranger within its borders, save the Seigneur's brother, the AbbeRossignol, who had come to see the moving spectacle. 

The Abbe, on his arrival, had made inquiries concerning the tailor ofChaudiere and Jo Portugais, as persistently about the one as the other. Their secrets had been kept inviolate by him. 

It was disconcerting to hear the tales people told of the tailor'scharity and wisdom. It was all dangerous, for what was, accidentally, no evil in this particular instance, might be the greatest disaster inanother case. Principle was at stake. He heard in stern silence theCure's happy statement that Jo Portugais had returned to the bosom of theChurch, and attended Mass regularly. 

"So it may be, my dear Abbe, " said M. Loisel, "that the friendshipbetween him and our 'infidel' has been the means of helping Portugais. I hope their friendship will go on unbroken for years and years. "

"I have no idea that it will, " said the Abbe grimly. "That rope offriendship may snap untimely. "

"Upon my soul, you croak like a raven!" testily broke in M. Rossignol, who was present. "I didn't know there was so much in common between youand my surly-jowled groom. He gets his pleasure out of croaking. 'Wait, wait, you'll see--you'll see! Death, death, death--every man must die!The devil has you by the hair--death--death--death!' Bah! I'm heartilysick of croakers. I suppose, like my grunting groom, you'll say aboutthe Passion Play, 'No good will come of it--wait--wait--wait!' Bah!"

"It may not be an unmixed good, " answered the ascetic. 

"Well, and is there any such thing on earth as an unmixed good? The playyesterday was worth a thousand sermons. It was meant to serve HolyChurch, and it will serve it. Was there ever anything more real--andtouching--than Paulette Dubois as Mary Magdalene yesterday?"

"I do not approve of such reality. For that woman to play the part is todestroy the impersonality of the scene. "

"You would demand that the Christus should be a good man, and the St. John blameless--why shouldn't the Magdalene be a repentant woman?"

"It might impress the people more, if the best woman in your parish wereto play the part. The fall of virtue, the ruin of innocence, would bevividly brought home. It does good to make the innocent feel the terrorand shame of sin. That is the price the good pay for the fall of man--sorrow and shame for those who sin. " The Seigneur, rising quickly fromthe table, and kicking his chair back, said angrily: "Damn yourtheories!" Then, seeing the frozen look on his brother's face, continued, more excitedly: "Yes, damn, damn, damn your theories! Youalways took the crass view. I beg your pardon, Cure--I beg your pardon. "

He then went to the window, threw it open, and called to his groom. 

"Hi, there, coffin-face, " he said, "bring round the horses--the quietestone in the stable for my brother--you hear? He can't ride, " he addedmaliciously. 

This was his fiercest stroke, for the Abbe's secret vanity was the beliefthat he looked well on a horse, and rode handsomely. 

CHAPTER LV

ROSALIE PLAYS A PART

From a tree upon a little hill rang out a bell--a deep-toned bell, boughtby the parish years before for the missions held at this very spot. Every day it rang for an instant at the beginning of each of the fiveacts. It also tolled slowly when the curtain rose upon the scene of theCrucifixion. In this act no one spoke save the abased Magdalene, whoknelt at the foot of the cross, and on whose hair red drops fell when theRoman soldier pierced the side of the figure on the cross. This had beenthe Cure's idea. The Magdalene should speak for mankind, for thecontinuing world. She should speak for the broken and contrite heart inall ages, should be the first-fruits of the sacrifice, a flower of thedesert earth, bedewed by the blood of the Prince of Peace. 

So, in the long nights of the late winter and early spring, the Cure hadthought and thought upon what the woman should say from the foot of thecross. At last he put into her mouth that which told the whole story ofredemption and deliverance, so far as his heart could conceive it--theprayer for all sorts and conditions of men and the general thanksgivingof humanity. 

During the last three days Paulette Dubois had taken the part of MaryMagdalene. As Jo Portugais had confessed to the Abbe that notable day inthe woods at Vadrome Mountain, so she had confessed to the Cure after somany years of agony--and the one confession fitted into the other: Jo hadonce loved her, she had treated him vilely, then a man had wronged her, and Jo had avenged her--this was the tale in brief. She it was wholaughed in the gallery of the court-room the day that Joseph Nadeau wasacquitted. 

It had pained and shocked the Cure more than any he had ever heard, buthe urged for her no penalty as Portugais had set for himself with theaustere approval of the Abbe. Paulette's presence as the Magdalene hadhad a deep effect upon the people, so that she shared with Mary theMother the painfully real interest of the vast audience. 

Five times had the bell rung out in the perfect spring air, upon whichthe balm of the forest and the refreshment of the ardent sun were poured. The quick anger of M. Rossignol had passed away long before the Cure, theAbbe, and himself had reached the lake and the great plateau. Betweenthe acts the two brothers walked up and down together, at peace oncemore, and there was a suspicious moisture in the Seigneur's eyes. Thedemeanour of the people had been so humble and rapt that the place andthe plateau and the valley seemed alone in creation with the lofty dramaof the ages. 

The Cure's eyes shone when he saw on a little knoll in the trees, apartfrom the worshippers and spectators, Charley and Jo Portugais. His cupof content was now full. He had felt convinced that if the tailor hadbut been within these bounds during the past three days, a work werebegun which should end only at the altar of their parish church. To-daythe play became to him the engine of God for the saving of a man's soul. Not long before the last great tableau was to appear he went to his ownlittle tent near the hut where the actors prepared to go upon the stage. As he entered, some one came quickly forward from the shadow of the treesand touched him on the arm. 

"Rosalie!" he cried in amazement, for she wore the costume of MaryMagdalene. 

"It is I, not Paulette, who will appear, " she said, a deep light in hereyes. 

"You, Rosalie?" he asked dumfounded. "You are distrait. Trouble andsorrow have put this in your mind. You must not do it. "

"Yes, I am going there, " she said, pointing towards the great stage. "Paulette has given me these to wear"--she touched the robe--"and I onlyask your blessing now. Oh, believe, believe me, I can speak for thosewho are innocent and those who are guilty; for those who pray and thosewho cannot pray; for those who confess and those who dare not! I canspeak the words out of my heart with gladness and agony, Monsieur, " sheurged, in a voice vibrating with feeling. 

A luminous look came into the Cure's face. A thought leapt up in hisheart. Who could tell!--this pure girl, speaking for the whole sinful, unbelieving, and believing world, might be the one last conqueringargument to the man. 

He could not read the agony of spirit which had driven Rosalie to this--to confess through the words of Mary Magdalene her own woe, to say itout to all the world, and to receive, as did Paulette Dubois, every dayafter the curtain came down, absolution and blessing. She longed for theold remembered peace. 

The Cure could not read the struggle between her love for a man and theineradicable habit of her soul; but he raised his hand, made the sacredgesture over leer, and said: "Go, my child, and God be with you. "

He could not see her for tears as she hurried away to where PauletteDubois awaited her--the two at peace now. At the hands of the latelydespised and injurious woman Rosalie was made ready to play the part inthe last act, none knowing save the few who appeared in the finaltableau, and they at the last moment only. 

The bell began to toll. 

A thousand people fell upon their knees, and with fascinated yet abashedand awe-struck eyes saw the great tableau of Christendom: the threecrosses against the evening sky, the Figure in the centre, the Romanpopulace, the trembling Jews, the pathetic groups of disciples. A cloudpassed across the sky, the illusion grew, and hearts quivered in piteoussympathy. There was no music now--not a sound save the sob of someoverwrought woman. The woe of an oppressed world absorbed them. Eventhe stolid Indians, as Roman soldiers, shrank awe-stricken from thesacred tragedy. Now the eyes of all were upon the central Figure, thenthey shifted for a moment to John the Beloved, standing with the Mother. 

"Pauvre Mere! Pauvre Christ!" said a weeping woman aloud. 

A Roman soldier raised a spear and pierced the side of the Hero of theWorld. Blood flowed, and hundreds gasped. Then there was silence--astrange hush as of a prelude to some great event. 

"It is finished. Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit, " said theFigure. 

The hush was broken by such a sound as one hears in a forest when a windquivers over the earth, flutters the leaves, and then sinks away--neitherhaving come nor gone, but only lived and died. 

Again there was silence, and then all eyes were fixed upon the figure atthe foot of the cross-Mary the Magdalene. 

Day after day they had seen this figure rise, come forward a step, andspeak the epilogue to this moving miracle-drama. For the last three daysPaulette Dubois had turned a sorrowful face upon them, and with one handupraised had spoken the prayer, the prophecy, the thanksgiving, theappeal of humanity and the ages. They looked to see the same figure now, and waited. But as the Magdalene turned, there was a great stir in themultitude, for the face bent upon them was that of Rosalie Evanturel. Awe and wonder moved the people. 

Apart from the crowd, under a clump of trees, knelt a woodsman fromVadrome Mountain, and the tailor of Chaudiere stood beside him. 

When Charley, touched by the heavy scene, saw the figure of the Magdalenerise, he felt a curious thrill of fascination. When she turned, and hesaw the face of Rosalie, the blood rushed to his face; then his heartseemed to stand still. Pain and shame travelled to the farthest recessesof his nature. Jo Portugais rose to his feet with a startledexclamation. 

Rosalie began to speak. "This is the day of which the hours shall nevercease--in it there shall be no night. He whom ye have crucified hathsaved you from the wrath to come. He hath saved others, Himself He wouldnot save. Even for such as I, who have secretly opened, who havesecretly entered, the doors of sin--"

With a gasp of horror and a mad desire to take her away from the sight ofthis gaping, fascinated crowd, Charley made to rush forward, but JoPortugais held him back. 

"Be still. You will ruin her, M'sieu'!" said Jo. 

"--even for such as I am, " the beautiful voice went on, "hath He died. And in the ages to come, women such as I, and all women who sorrow, andall men who err and are deceived, and all the helpless world, will knowthat this was the Friend of the human soul. " Not a gesture, not amovement, only that slight, pathetic figure, with pale, agonised face, and eyes that looked--looked--looked beyond them, over their heads to thedarkening east, the clouded light of evening behind her. Her voice rangout now valiant and clear, now searching and piteous, yet reaching towhere the farthermost person knelt, and was lost upon the lake and in thespreading trees. 

"What ye have done may never be undone; what He hath said shall never beunsaid. His is the Word which shall unite all languages, when ye thatare Romans shall be no more Romans, and ye that are Jews shall still beJews, reproached and alone. No longer shall men faint in the glare--theshadow of the Cross shall screen them. No more shall woman bear herblack sorrows, alone; the Light of the World shall cheer her. "

As she spoke, the cloud drew back from the sunset, and the saffron glowbehind lighted the cross, and shone upon her hair, casting her face in agracious shadow. Her voice rose higher. "I, the Magdalene, am thefirst-fruits of this sacrifice: from the foot of the cross I come. I have sinned more than all. I have shamed all women. But I haveconfessed my sin, and He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins andto cleanse us from all unrighteousness. "

Her voice now became lower, but clear and even, pathetically exulting:

"O world, forgive, as He hath forgiven you! Fall, dark curtain, and hidethis pain, and rise again upon forgiven sin and a redeemed people!"

She stood still, with her eyes upraised, and the curtain came slowlydown. 

For a long time no one in all the gathered multitude stirred. Far overunder the trees a man sat upon the ground, his head upon his arms, andhis arms upon his knees, in a misery unmeasurable. Beside him stood awoodsman, who knew of no word to say that might comfort him. 

A girl, in the garb of the Magdalene, entered the tent of the Cure, and, speaking no word, knelt and received absolution of her sins. 

CHAPTER LVI

MRS. FLYNN SPEAKS

CHARLEY left Jo Portugais behind, and went home alone. He watched at awindow till he saw Rosalie return. As she passed quickly down the streetwith Mrs. Flynn to her own door, he observed that her face was happierthan he had seen it for many a day. Her step was lighter, there was afreedom in her air, a sense of confidence in her carriage. 

She bore herself as one who had done a thing which relaxed a painfultension. There was a curious glow in her eyes and face, and this becamedeeper as, showing himself at the door, she saw him, smiled, and stoodstill. He came across the street and took her hand. 

"You have been away, " she said softly. "For a few days, " he answered. 

"Far?"

"At Vadrome Mountain. "

"You have missed these last days of the Passion Play, " she said, a shadowin her eyes. 

"I was present to-day, " he answered. 

She turned away her head quickly, for the look in his eyes told her morethan any words could have done, and Mrs. Flynn said:

"'Tis a day for everlastin' mimory, sir. For the part she played thisday, the darlin', only such as she could play! 'Tis the innocent takin'the shame o' the guilty, and the tears do be comin' to me eyes. 'Tis notould Widdy Flynn's eyes alone that's wet this day, but hearts do beweepin' for the love o' God. "

Rosalie suddenly opened the door, and, without another look at Charley, entered the house. 

"'Tis one in a million!" said Mrs. Flynn, in a confidential tone, forshe had a fixed idea that Rosalie loved Charley and that he loved her, and that the only thing that stood in the way of their marriage wasreligion. From the first Charley had conquered Mrs. Flynn. That he wasa tailor was a pity and a shame, but love was love, and the man had ahead on him and a heart in him; and love was love! So Mrs. Flynn said:

"'Tis one that a man that's a man should do annything for, was it havin'the heart cut out uv him, or givin' the last drop uv his blood. Shure, for such as her, murder, or false witness, or givin' up the last wish orthought a man hugged to his boosom, would be as aisy as aisy. "

Charley laughed to himself, her purpose was so obvious, but his heartwent out to her, for she was a friend, and, whatever came to him, Rosaliewould not be alone. 

"I believe every word of yours, " he said, shaking her hand, "and we'llsee, you and I, that no man marries her who isn't ready to do what yousay. "

"Would you do it yourself--if it was you?" she asked, flushing for herboldness. 

"I would, " he answered. 

"Then do it, " she said, and fled inside the house and shut the door. 

"Mrs. Flynn--good Mrs. Flynn!" he said, and went back sadly to hishouse, and shut himself up with his thoughts. When night drew on he wentto bed, but he could not sleep. He got up after a time, and taking penand paper, wrote for a long time. Having finished, he took what he hadwritten, and placing it with the two packets-of money and pearls--whichhe had brought from his old home, he addressed it to the Cure, and goingto the safe in the wall of the shop, placed them inside and locked thedoor. 

Then he went to bed, and slept soundly--the deep sleep of the just. 

CHAPTER LVII

A BURNING FIERY FURNACE

Every man within the limits of the parish was in his bed, save one. Hewas a stranger who, once before, had visited Chaudiere for one brief day, when he had been saved from death at the Red Ravine, and had fled thevillage that night because, as he thought, he had heard the voice of hisold friend's ghost in the trees. Since that time he had travelled inmany parishes, healing where he could, entertaining where he might, earning money as the charlatan. He was now on his way back through theparishes to Montreal, and his route lay through Chaudiere. He had hopedto reach Chaudiere before nightfall--he remembered with fear the incidentfrom which he had fled many months before; but his horse had broken itsleg on a corduroy bridge, a few miles out from the parish in the hills, and darkness came upon him before he could hide his wagon in the woodsand proceed afoot to Chaudiere. He had shot his horse, and rolled itinto the swift torrent beneath the bridge. 

Travelling the lonely road, he drank freely from the whiskey-horn hecarried, to keep his spirits up, so that by the time he came to theoutskirts of Chaudiere he was in a state of intoxication, and reeledimpudently along with the "Dutch courage" the liquor had given him. Arrived at the first cluster of houses in the place, he paused uncertain. Should he knock here or go on to the tavern? He shivered at thought ofthe tavern, for it was near it he had heard Charley Steele's voicecalling to him out of the trees. If he knocked here, would the peopleadmit him in his present state?--he had sense enough to know that he wasvery drunk. As he shook his head in owlish gravity, he saw the church onthe hill not far away. He chuckled to himself. The carpet in thechancel and the hassocks at the altar would make a good bed. No fear ofCharley's ghost coming inside the church--it wouldn't be that kind of aghost. As he travelled the intervening space, shrugging his shoulders, staggering serenely, he told himself in confidence that he would leavethe church at dawn, go to the tavern, purchase a horse as soon as mightbe, and get back to his wagon. 

The church door was unlocked, and he entered and made his way to thechancel, found surplices in the vestry and put a hassock inside one for apillow. Then he sat down and drew the loose rug of the chancel-floorover him, and took another drink from the whiskey horn. Lighting hispipe, he smoked for a while, but grew drowsy, and his pipe fell into hislap. With eyes nearly shut he struck another match, made to light hispipe again, but threw the match away, still burning. As he did so thepipe dropped again from his mouth, and he fell back on the hassock-pillowhe had made. 

The lighted match fell on a surplice which had dropped from his arms ashe came from the vestry, and set it afire. In five minutes the wholechancel was burning, and the sleeping man waked in the midst of smoke andflame. He staggered to his feet with a terror-stricken cry, stumbleddown the aisle, through the front door, and out into the night. Reachingthe road, he turned his face again to the hill where his wagon lay hid. If he could reach that, he would be safe; nobody would suspect him. Heclutched the whiskey-horn tight and broke into a run. As he passedbeyond the village his excited imagination heard Charley Steele's ghostcalling after him. He ran harder. The voice kept calling fromChaudiere. 

Not Charley's voice, but the voices of many people in Chaudiere werecalling. Some wakeful person had seen the glare in the church windowsand had given the alarm, and now there rang through the streets the call-"Fire! Fire! Fire!"

Charley and Jo were among the last to wake, for both had slept soundly, but Jo was roused by a handful of gravel thrown at his window and awarning cry, and a few moments later he and Charley were in the streetwith a hurrying crowd. Over all the village was a red glare, lighting upthe sky, burnishing the trees. The church was a mass of flames. 

Charley was as pale as the rest of the crowd; for he thought of the Cure, he thought of this people to whom their church meant more than home andvastly more than friend and fortune. His heart was with them all: notbecause it was their church that was burning, but because it wassomething dear to them. 

Reaching the hill, he saw the Cure coming from the vestry of the burningchurch, bearing some vessels of the altar. Depositing them in the armsof his weeping sister, he turned again towards the door. People clung tohim, and would not let him go. 

"See, it is all inflames, " they cried. "Your cassock is singed. Youshall not go. "

At that moment Charley and Portugais came up. A hurried question to theCure from Charley, a key handed over, a nod from Jo, and before the Curecould prevent them the two men had rushed through the smoke and flameinto the vestry, Portugais holding Charley's hand. 

The crowd outside waited in a terrible anxiety. The timbers of thechancel portion of the building seemed about to fall, and still the twomen did not appear. The people called; the Cure clinched his hands athis side--he was too fearful even to pray. 

But now the two men appeared, loaded with the few treasures of thechurch. They were scorched and singed, and the beards of both wereburned, but, stumbling and exhausted, they brought their loads to theeager arms of the waiting habitants. 

Then from the other end of the church came a cry: "The little cross--thelittle iron cross!" Then another cry: "Rosalie Evanturel! RosalieEvanturel!" Some one came running to the Cure. 

"Rosalie Evanturel has gone inside for the little cross on the pillar. She is in the flames; the door has fallen in. She can't get out again. "

With a hoarse cry, Charley darted back inside the vestry door. A cry ofhorror went up. 

It was only a minute and a half, but it seemed like years, and then a manin flames appeared in the fiery porch--and not alone. He carried a girlin his arms. He wavered even at the threshold with the timbers swayingoverhead, but, with a last effort, he plunged forward through thefurnace, and was caught by eager hands on the margin of endurable heat. The two were smothered in quilts brought from the Cure's house, andcarried swiftly to the cool safety of the grass and trees beyond. Thewoman had fainted in the flame of the church; the man dropped insensibleas they caught her from his arms. 

As they tore away Charley's coat muffling his face, and opened his shirt, they stared in awe. The cross which Rosalie had torn from the pillar, Charley had thrust into his bosom, and there it now lay on the red scarmade by itself in the hands of Louis Trudel. 

M. Loisel waved the people back. He raised Charley's head. The AbbeRossignol, who had just arrived with the Seigneur, lifted the cross fromthe insensible man's breast. 

He started when he saw the scar. Then he remembered the tale he hadheard. He turned away gravely to his brother. "Was it the cross or thewoman he went for?" he asked. 

"Great God--do you ask!" the Seigneur said indignantly. "And hedeserves her, " he muttered under his breath. 

Charley opened his eyes. "Is she safe?" he asked, starting up. 

"Unscathed, my son, " the Cure said. 

Was this tailor-man not his son? Had he not thirsted for his soul as ahart for the water-brooks?

"I am very sorry for you, Monsieur, " said Charley. 

"It is God's will, " was the reply, in a choking voice. "It will be yearsbefore we have another church--many, many years. "

The roof gave way with a crash, and the spire shot down into the flamingdebris. 

The people groaned. 

"It will cost sixty thousand dollars to build it up again, " said FilionLacasse. 

"We have three thousand dollars from the Passion Play, " said the Notary. "That could go towards it. "

"We have another two thousand in the bank, " said Maximilian Cour. 

"But it will take years, " said the saddler disconsolately. 

Charley looked at the Cure, mournful and broken but calm. He saw theSeigneur, gloomy and silent, standing apart. He saw the people inscattered groups, looking more homeless than if they had no homes. Somegroups were silent; others discussed angrily the question, who was theincendiary--that it had been set on fire seemed certain. 

"I said no good would come of the play-acting, " said the Seigneur'sgroom, and was flung into the ditch by Filion Lacasse. 

Presently Charley staggered to his feet, purpose in his face. Thesepeople, from the Cure and Seigneur to the most ignorant habitant, werehopeless and inert. The pride of their lives was gone. 

"Gather the people together, " he said to the Notary and Filion Lacasse. Then he turned to the Cure and the Seigneur. 

"With your permission, messieurs, " he said, "I will do a harder thingthan I have ever done. I will speak to them all. "

Wondering, M. Loisel added his voice to the Notary's, and the word wentround. Slowly they all made their way to a spot the Cure indicated. 

Charley stood on the embankment above the road, the notables of theparish round him. 

Rosalie had been taken to the Cure's house. In that wild moment in thechurch when she had fallen insensible in Charley's arms, a new feelinghad sprung up in her. She loved him in every fibre, but she had astrange instinct, a prescience, that she was lying on his breast for thelast time. She had wound her arms round his neck, and, as his lipsclosed on hers, she had cried: "We shall die together--together. "

As she lay in the Cure's house, she thought only of that moment. 

"What are they cheering for?" she asked, as a great noise came to herthrough the window. 

"Run and see, " said the Cure's sister to Mrs. Flynn, and the fat womanhurried away. 

Rosalie raised herself so that she could look out of the window. "I cansee him, " she cried. 

"See whom?" asked the Cure's sister. 

"Monsieur, " she answered, with a changed voice. "He is speaking. Theyare cheering him. "

Ten minutes later, the Cure and the Notary entered the room. M. Loiselcame forward to Rosalie, and took her hands in his. 

"You should not have done it, " he said. 

"I wanted to do something, " she replied. "To get the cross for youseemed the only payment I could make for all your goodness to me. "

"It nearly cost you your life--and the life of another, " he said, shakinghis head reproachfully. 

Cheering came again from the burning church. "Why do they cheer?" sheasked. 

"Why do they cheer? Because the man we have feared, Monsieur Mallard--"

"I never feared him, " said Rosalie, scarcely above her breath. 

"Because he has taught them the way to a new church again--and at once, at once, my child. "

"A remarkable man!" said Narcisse Dauphin. "There never was such aspeech. Never in any courtroom was there such an appeal. "

"What did he do?" asked Mademoiselle Loisel, her hand in Rosalie's. 

"Everything, " answered the Cure. "There he stood in his tatteredclothes, the beard burnt to his chin, his hands scorched, his eyesbloodshot, and he spoke--"

"'With the tongues of men and of angels, '" said M. Dauphinenthusiastically. 

The Cure frowned and continued: "'You look on yonder burning walls, ' hesaid, 'and wonder when they will rise again on this hill made sacred bythe burial of your beloved, by the christening of your children, themarriages which have given you happy homes, and the sacraments which areto you the laws of your lives. You give one-twentieth of your incomeyearly towards your church--then give one-fortieth of all you possesstoday, and your church will be begun in a month. Before a year goesround you will come again to this venerable spot and enter another churchhere. Your vows, your memories, and your hopes will be purged by fire. All that you possess will be consecrated by your free-will offerings. '--Ah, if I could but remember what came afterwards! It was alleloquence, and generous and noble thought. "

"He spoke of you, " said the Notary--"he spoke the truth; and the peoplecheered. He said that the man outside the walls could sometimes tell thebesieged the way relief would come. Never again shall I hear such aspeech. "

"What are they going to do?" asked Rosalie, and withdrew her tremblinghand from that of Madame Dugal. 

"This very day, at my office, they will bring their offerings, and wewill begin at once, " answered M. Dauphin. "There is no man in Chaudierebut will take the stocking from the hole, the bag from the chest, thecredit from the bank, the grain from the barn for the market, or make thenote of hand to contribute one-fortieth of all he is worth for therebuilding of the church. "

"Notes of hand are not money, " said the Cure's sister, the practicalsense ever uppermost. 

"They shall all be money--hard cash, " said the Notary. "The Seigneur isgoing to open a sort of bank, and take up the notes of hand, and givebank-bills in return. To-day I go with his steward to Quebec to get themoney. "

"What does the Abbe Rossignol say?" said the Cure's sister. 

"Our church and parish are our own, " interposed the Cure proudly. "We doour duty and fear no abbe. "

"Voila!" said M. Dauphin, "he never can keep hands off. I saw him go toJo Portugais a little while ago. 'Remember!' he said--I can't make outwhat he was after. We have enough to remember to-day, for sure. "

"Good may come of it, perhaps, " said M. Loisel, looking sadly out uponthe ruins of his church. 

"See, 'tis the sunrise!" said Mrs. Flynn's voice from the corner, herface towards the eastern window. 

CHAPTER LVIII

WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL

In four days ten thousand dollars in notes and gold had been brought tothe office of the Notary by the faithful people of Chaudiere. All day inturn M. Loisel and M. Rossignol sat in the office and received that whichrepresented one-fortieth of the value of each man's goods, estate, andwealth--the fortieth value of a woodsawyer's cottage, or a widow'sgarden. They did it impartially for all, as the Cure and three of thebest-to-do habitants had done for the Seigneur, whose four thousanddollars had been paid in first of all. 

Charley had been confined to his room for three days, because of hisinjuries and a feverish cold he had caught, and the habitants did notdisturb his quiet. But Mrs. Flynn took him broth made by Rosalie'shands, and Rosalie fought with her desire to go to him and nurse him. She was not, however, the Rosalie of the old impulse and impetuousresolve--the arrow had gone too deep; she waited till she could see hisface again and look into his eyes. Not apathy, but a sense of theinevitable was upon her, and pale and fragile, but with a calm spirit, she waited for she knew not what. 

She felt that the day of fate was closing down. She must hold herselfready for the hour when he would need her most. At first, when theconviction had come to her that the end of all was near, she hadrevolted. She had had impulse to go to him at all hazards, to say tohim: "Come away--anywhere, anywhere!" But that had given place to thedeeper thing in her, and something of Charley's spirit of stoic waitinghad come upon her. 

She watched the people going to the Notary's office with their tributesand free-will offerings, and they seemed like people in a play--thesedays she lived no life which was theirs. It was a dream, unimportantand temporary. She was feeling what was behind all life, and permanent. It could not last, but there it was; and she could not return to thetransitory till this cloud of fate was lifted. She was much too young tosuffer so, but the young ever suffer most. 

On the fourth day she saw Charley. He came from his shop and went to theNotary's office. At first she was startled, for he was clean-shaven--thefire had burned his beard to the skin. She saw a different man, farremoved from this life about them both--individual, singular. He waspale, and his eye-glass, with the cleanshaven face, gave an impression ofrefined separateness. She did not know that the same look was in boththeir faces. She watched him till he entered the Notary's shop, then shewas called away to her duties. 

Charley had come to give his one-fortieth with the rest. When he enteredthe Notary's office, the Seigneur and M. Dauphin stood up to greet him. They congratulated him on his recovery, while feeling also that thechange in his personal appearance somehow affected their relations. A crowd gathered round the door of the shop. When Charley made hisoffering, with a statement of his goods and income, the Seigneur andNotary did not know what to do. They were disposed to decline it, forsince Monsieur was no Catholic, it was not his duty to help. At thismoment of delicate anxiety M. Loisel entered. With a swift bright flushto his cheek he saw the difficulty, and at once accepted freely. 

"God bless you, " he said, as he took the money, and Charley left. "Itshall build the doorway of my church. "

Later in the day the Cure sent for Charley. There were grave matters toconsider, and his counsel was greatly needed. They had all come todepend on the soundness of his judgment. It had never gone astray inChaudiere, they said. They owed to him this extraordinary scheme, whichwould be an example to all modern Christianity. They told him so. Hesaid nothing in reply. 

In an hour he had planned for them a scheme for the consideration ofcontractors; had drawn, with the help of M. Loisel, an architect's roughplan of the new church, and, his old professional instincts keenly alive, had lucidly suggested the terms and safeguards of the contracts. 

Then came the question of the money contributed. The day before, M. Dauphin and the Seigneur's steward had arrived in safety from Quebec withtwenty thousand dollars in bank-bills. These M. Rossignol had exchangedfor the notes of hand of such of the habitants as had not ready cash togive. All of this twenty thousand dollars had been paid over. They hadnow thirty thousand dollars in cash, besides three thousand which theCure had at his house, the proceeds of the Passion Play. It was proposedto send this large sum to the bank in Quebec in another two days, whenthe whole contributions should be complete. 

As to the safety of the money, the timid M. Dauphin did not care to takeresponsibility. Strangers were still arriving, ignorant of the fact thatthe Passion Play had ceased, and some of them must be aware that thislarge sum of money was in the parish--no doubt also knew that it was inhis house. It was therefore better, he urged, that M. Rossignol or theCure should take charge of it. M. Loisel urged that secrecy as to theresting-place of the money was important. It was better that it shouldbe deposited in the most unlikely place, and with some unofficial personwho might not be supposed to have it in charge. 

"I have it!" said the Seigneur. "The money shall be placed in old LouisTrudel's safe in the wall of the tailor-shop. "

It was so arranged, after Charley's protests of unwillingness, andcounter-appeals from the others. That evening at sundown thirty-threethousand dollars was deposited in the safe in the old stone wall of thetailorshop, and the lock was sealed with the parish seal. 

But the Notary's wife had wormed the secret from her husband, and shefound it hard to keep. She told it to Maximilian Cour, and he kept it. She told it to her cousin, the wife of Filion Lacasse, and she did notkeep it. Before twenty-four hours went round, a dozen people knew it. 

The evening of the second day, another two thousand dollars was added tothe treasure, and the lock was again sealed--with the utmost secrecy. Charley and Jo Portugais, the infidel and the murderer, were thus thesentries to the peace of a parish, the bankers of its gifts, the securityfor the future of the church of Chaudiere. Their weapons of defence weretwo old pistols belonging to the Seigneur. 

"Money is the master of the unexpected, " the Seigneur had said as hehanded them over. He chuckled for hours afterwards as he thought of hisepigram. That night, as he turned over in bed for the third time, as washis custom before going to sleep, another epigram came to him--"Money isthe only fox hunted night and day. " He kept repeating it over and overagain with vain pride. 

The truth of M. Rossignol's aphorisms had been demonstrated several daysbefore. On his return from Quebec with the twenty thousand dollars ofthe Seigneur's money, M. Dauphin had dwelt with great pride on thediscretion and energy he and the steward had shown; had told dramaticallyof the skill which had enabled them to make a journey of such importanceso secretly and safely; had covered himself with blushes for his owncoolness and intrepidity. Fortune had, however, favoured his reputationand his intrepidity, for he had been pursued from the hour he and hiscompanion left Quebec. A taste for the picturesque had impelled him toarrange for two relays of horses, and this fact saved him and the twentythousand dollars he carried. Two hours after he had left Quebec, fourdetermined men had got upon his trail, and had only been prevented fromovertaking him by the freshness of the horses which his dramaticforesight had provided. 

The leader of these four pursuers was Billy Wantage, who had come to knowof the curious action of the Seigneur of Chaudiere from an intimatefriend, a clerk in the bank. Billy's fortunes were now in a bad way, and, in desperate straits for money, he had planned this bold attempt atthe highwayman's art with two gamblers, to whom he owed money, and acertain notorious horse-trader of whom he had made a companion of late. Having escaped punishment for a crime once before, through Charley'ssupposed death, the immunity nerved him to this later and more dangerousenterprise. The four rode as hard as their horses would permit, but M. Dauphin and his companion kept always an hour or more ahead, and, fromthe high hills overlooking the village, Billy and his friends saw the twoenter it safely in the light of evening. 

His three friends urged Billy to turn back, since they were out ofprovisions and had no shelter. It was unwise to go to a tavern or afarmer's house, where they must certainly be suspected. Billy, however, determined to make an effort to find the banking-place of the money, andrefused to turn back without a trial. He therefore proposed that theyshould separate, going different directions, secure accommodation for thenight, rest the following day, and meet the next night at a pointindicated. This was agreed upon, and they separated. 

When the four met again, Billy had nothing to communicate, as he had beentaken ill during the night before, and had been unable to go secretlyinto Chaudiere village. They separated once more. When they met thenext night Billy was accompanied by an old confederate. As he wasentering Chaudiere the previous evening, he had met John Brown, with hispainted wagon and a new mottled horse. John Brown had news of importanceto give; for, in the stable-yard of the village tavern, he had heard onehabitant confide to another that the money for the new church was kept inthe safe of the tailor-shop. John Brown was as ready to share in Billy'ssecond enterprise as he had been to incite him to his first crime. 

So it was that as the Seigneur made his epigram and gloated over it, thefive men, with horses at a convenient distance, armed to the teeth, brokestealthily into Charley's house. 

They entered silently through the kitchen window, and made their way intothe little hall. Two stood guard at the foot of the stairs, and threecrept into the shop. 

This night Jo Portugais was sleeping up-stairs, while Charley lay uponthe bench in the tailor-shop. Charley heard the door open, heardunfamiliar steps, seized his pistol, and, springing up, with his back tothe safe, called out loudly to Jo. As he dimly saw men rush at him, hefired. The bullet reached its mark, and one man fell dead. At thatmoment a dark-lantern was turned full on Charley, and a pistol was firedpointblank at him. 

As he fell, shot through the breast, the man who had fired dropped thelantern with a shriek of terror. He had seen the ghost of his brother-in-law-Charley Steele. 

With a quaking cry of warning to the others, Billy bolted from the house, followed by his companions, two of whom were struggling with Jo Portugaison the stairway. These now also broke and ran. 

Jo rushed into the shop, and saw, as he thought, Charley lying dead--saw the robber dead upon the floor. His master and friend gone, theconviction seized him that his own time had come. He would give himselfto justice now--but to God's justice, not to man's. The robbers werefour to one, and he would avenge his master's death and give his own lifeto do it! It was all the thought of a second. He rushed out after therobbers, shouting as he ran, to awake the villagers. He heard themarauders ahead of him, and, fleet of foot, rushed on. Reaching them asthey mounted, he fired, and brought down his man--a shivering quack-doctor, who, like his leader, had seen a sight in the tailor-shop thatstruck terror to his soul. Two of the others then fired at Jo, who hadcaught a horse by the head. He fell without a sound, and lay upon hisface--he did not hear the hoofs of the escaping horses nor any othersound. He had fallen without a pang beside the quackdoctor, whosemedicines would never again quicken a pulse in his own body or any other. 

Behind, in the village, frightened people flocked about the tailor-shop. Within, Mrs. Flynn and the Notary crudely but tenderly bound up thedreadful wound in Charley's side, while Rosalie pillowed his head on herbosom. 

With a strange quietness Rosalie gave orders to the Notary and Mrs. Flynn. There was a light in her eyes--an unnatural light--of strengthand presence of mind. Her hand was steady, and as gently as a motherwith a child she wiped the moist forehead, and poured a little brandybetween the set teeth. 

"Stand back--give him air, " she said, in a voice of authority to thosewho crowded round. 

People fell back in awe, for, amid tears and excitement and fear, thisgirl had a strange convincing calm. By the time Charley's wound wasstopped, messengers were on the way to the Cure and the Seigneur. ByRosalie's instructions the dead body of the robber was removed, Charley'sbed up-stairs was prepared for him, a fire was lighted, and twenty handswere ready to do accurately her will. Now and again she felt his pulse, and she watched his face intently. In her bitter sorrow her heart had asort of thankfulness, for his head was on her breast, he was in her arms. It had been given her once more to come first to his rescue, and with onewild cry, unheard by any one, to call out his beloved name. 

The world of Chaudiere, roused by the shooting, had then burst in uponthem; but that one moment had been hers, no matter what came after. Shehad no illusions--she knew that the end was near: the end of all for himand for them both. 

The Cure entered and hurried forward. There was the seal of the parishintact on the door of the safe, but at what cost!

"He has given his life for the church, " he said, then commanded all toleave, save those needed to carry the wounded man up-stairs. 

Still it was Rosalie that directed the removal. She held his hand; shesaw that he was carefully laid down; she raised his head to a properheight; she moistened his lips and fanned him. Meanwhile the Cure fellupon his knees, and the noise of talk and whispering ceased in the house. 

But presently there was loud murmuring and shuffling of feet outsideagain, and Rosalie left the room hurriedly and went below to stop it. She met the men who were bringing the body of Jo Portugais into the shop. 

Up-stairs the Cure's voice prayed: "Of Thy mercy, O Lord, hear ourprayer. Grant that he be brought into Thy Church ere his last hour come. Forgive, O Lord--"

Charley stirred and opened his eyes. He saw the Cure bowed in prayer; heheard the trembling voice. He touched the white head with his hand. 

CHAPTER LIX

IN WHICH CHARLEY MEETS A STRANGER

The Cure came to his feet with a joyful cry. "Monsieur--my son, " hesaid, bending over him. 

"Is it all over?" Charley asked calmly, almost cheerfully. Death nowwas the only solution of life's problems, and he welcomed it from thevoid. 

The Cure went to the door and locked it. The deepest desire of his lifemust here be uttered, his great aspiration be realised. 

"My son, " he said, as he came softly to the bedside again, "you havegiven to us all you had--your charity, your wisdom, your skill. You have"--it was hard, but the man's wound was mortal, and it must be said "youhave consecrated our new church with your blood. You have given all tous; we will give all to you--"

There was a soft knocking at the door. He went and opened it a verylittle. "He is conscious, Rosalie, " he whispered. "Wait--wait--onemoment. "

Then came the Seigneur's voice saying that Jo was gone, and that all therobbers had escaped, save the two disposed of by Charley and Jo. 

The Cure turned to the bed once more. "What did he say about Jo?"Charley asked. 

"He is dead, my son, and the quack-doctor also. The others haveescaped. "

Charley turned his face away. "Au revoir, Jo, " he said into the greatdistance. 

Then there was silence for a moment, while outside the door a girlprayed, with an old woman's arm around her. 

The Cure leaned over Charley again. "Shall not the sacraments of theChurch comfort you in your last hours?" he said. "It is the way, thetruth, and the life. It is the Voice that says: 'Peace' to the vexedmind. Human intellect is vanity; only the soul survives. Will you nothear the Voice? Will you not give us who love and honour you the rightto make you ours for ever? Will you not come to the bosom of that Churchfor which you have given all?"

"Tell them so, " Charley said, and he motioned towards the window, underwhich the people were gathered. 

With a glad exclamation the Cure hastened to the window, and, in a voiceof sorrowful exultation, spoke to the people below. 

Charley reckoned swiftly with his fate. What was there now to do? Ifhis wound was not mortal, what tragedy might now come! For Billy's hand--the hand of Kathleen's brother--had brought him low. If the robbersand murderers were captured, he must be dragged into the old life, and towhat an issue--all the old problems carried into more terribleconditions. And Rosalie--in his half-consciousness he had felt her nearhim; he felt her near him now. Rosalie--in any case, what could there befor her? Nothing. He had heard the Cure whisper her name at the door. She was outside-praying for him. He stretched out a hand as though hesaw her, and his lips framed her name. In his weakness and fading lifehe had no anguish in the thought of her. Life and Love were growingdistant though he loved her as few love and live. She would be removedfrom want by him--there were the pearls and the money in the safe withthe money of the Church; there was the letter to the Cure, his lasttestament, leaving all to her. He, sleeping, would fear no foe; she, awake in the living world, would hold him in dear remembrance. Deathwere the better thing for all. Then Kathleen in her happiness would beat peace; and even Billy might go unmolested, for, who was there torecognise Billy, now that Portugais was dead?

He heard the Cure's voice at the window--"Oh, my dear people, God hasgiven him to us at last. I go now to prepare him for his long journey, to--"

Charley realised and shuddered. Receive the sacraments of the Church?Be made ready by the priest for his going hence--end all the soul'sinterrogations, with the solving of his own mortal problems? Say "Ibelieve, " confess his sins, and, receiving absolution, lie down in peace. 

He suddenly raised himself on his elbow, flinging his body over. Thebandage of his wound was displaced, and blood gushed out upon the whiteclothes of the bed. "Rosalie!" he gasped. "Rosalie, my love! God keep. . . "

As he sank back he heard the priest's anguished voice above him, callingfor help. He smiled. 

"Rosalie--" he whispered. The priest ran and unlocked the door, andRosalie entered, followed by the Seigneur and Mrs. Flynn. 

"Quick! Quick!" said the priest. "The bandage slipped. "

The bandage slipped--or was it slipped? Who knows!

Blind with agony, and as in a direful dream, Rosalie made her way to thebed. The sight of his ensanguined body roused her, and, murmuring hisname--continually murmuring his name--she assisted Mrs. Flynn to bind upthe wound again. Standing where she stood when she had stayed LouisTrudel's arm long ago, with an infinite tenderness she touched the scar-the scar of the cross--on his breast. Terrible as was her grief, herheart had its comfort in the thought--who could rob her of that forever?--that he would die a martyr. It did not matter now who knew thestory of her love. It could not do him harm. She was ready to proclaimit to all the world. And those who watched knew that they were in thepresence of a great human love. 

The priest made ready to receive the unconscious man into the Church. Had Charley not said, "Tell them so?" Was it not now his duty to say thesacred offices over a son of the Church in his last bitter hour? So itwas done while he lay unconscious. 

For hours he lay still, and then the fevered blood, poisoned by thebullet which had brought him down, made him delirious, gave himhallucinations--open-eyed illusions. All the time Rosalie knelt at thefoot of the bed, her piteous tearless eyes for ever fixed on his face. 

Towards evening, with an unnatural strength, he sat up in bed. 

"See, " he whispered, "that woman in the corner there. She has come totake me, but I will not go. " Fantasy after fantasy possessed him-fantasy, strangely mixed with facts of his own past. Now it wasKathleen, now Billy, now Jo Portugais, now John Brown, now SuzonCharlemagne at the Cote Dorion, again Jo Portugais. In strange, touchingsentences he spoke to them, as though they were present before him. Atlength he stopped abruptly, and gazed straight before him--over the headof Rosalie into the distance. 

"See, " he said, pointing, "who is that? Who? I can't see his face--itis covered. So tall-so white! He is opening his arms to me. He iscoming--closer--closer. Who is it?"

"It is Death, my son, " said the priest in his ear, with a pityinggentleness. 

The Cure's voice seemed to calm the agitated sense, to bring it back tothe outer precincts of understanding. There was an awe-struck silence asthe dying man fumbled, fumbled, over his breast, found his eye-glass, and, with a last feeble effort, raised it to his eye, shining now with anunearthly fire. The old interrogation of the soul, the elemental habitoutlived all else in him. The idiosyncrasy of the mind automaticallyexpressed itself. 

"I beg--your--pardon, " he whispered to the imagined figure, and the lightdied out of his eyes, "have I--ever--been--introduced--to you?"

"At the hour of your birth, my son, " said the priest, as a sobbing crycame from the foot of the bed. 

But Charley did not hear. His ears were for ever closed to the voices oflife and time. 

CHAPTER LX

THE HAND AT THE DOOR

The eve of the day of the memorable funeral two belated visitors to thePassion Play arrived in the village, unknowing that it had ended, and ofthe tragedy which had set a whole valley mourning; unconscious that theyshared in the bitter fortunes of the tailor-man, of whom men and womenspoke with tears. Affected by the gloom of the place, the two visitorsat once prepared for their return journey, but the manner of thetailorman's death arrested their sympathies, touched the humanity inthem. The woman was much impressed. 

They asked to see the body of the man. They were taken to the door ofthe tailor-shop, while their horses were being brought round. Within thehouse itself they were met by an old Irishwoman, who, in response totheir wish "to see the brave man's body, " showed them into a room where aman lay dead with a bullet through his heart. It was the body of JoPortugais, whose master and friend lay in another room across thehallway. The lady turned back in disappointment--the dead man was littlelike a hero. 

The Irishwoman had meant to deceive her, for at this moment a girl wholoved the tailor was kneeling beside his body, and, if possible, Mrs. Flynn would have no curious eyes look upon that scene. 

When the visitors came into the hall again, the man said: "There wasanother; Kathleen--a woodsman. " But standing by the nearly closed door, behind which lay the dead tailor of Chaudiere--they could see the holycandles flickering within--Kathleen whispered "We've seen the tailor--that's enough. It's only the woodsman there. I prefer not, Tom. "

With his fingers at the latch, the man hesitated, even as Mrs. Flynnstepped apprehensively forward; then, shrugging a shoulder, he respondedto Kathleen's hand on his arm. They went down the stairs together, andout to their carriage. 

As they drove away, Kathleen said: "It's strange that men who do suchfine things should look so commonplace. "

"The other one might have been more uncommon, " he replied. 

"I wonder!" she said, with a sigh of relief, as they passed the boundsof the village. Then she caught herself flushing, for she suddenlyrealised that the exclamation was one so often on the lips of a dead, disgraced man whose name she once had borne. 

If the door of the little room upstairs had opened to the fingers of theman beside her, the tailor of Chaudiere, though dead, would have beendearly avenged. 

CHAPTER LXI

THE CURE SPEAKS

The Cure stood with his back to the ruins of the church, at his feet twonewly made graves, and all round, with wistful faces, crowds of reverenthabitants. A benignant sorrow made his voice in perfect temper with thepensive striving of this latest day of spring. At the close of hisaddress he said:

"I owe you much, my people. I owe him more, for it was given him, whoknew not God, to teach us how to know Him better. For his past, it isnot given you to know. It is hidden in the bosom of the Church. Sinnerhe once was, criminal never, as one can testify who knows all"--he turnedto the Abbe Rossignol, who stood beside him, grave and compassionate--"and his sins were forgiven him. He is the one sheaf which you and I maycarry home rejoicing from the pagan world of unbelief. What he had inlife he gave to us, and in death he leaves to our church all that he hasnot left to a woman he loved--to Rosalie Evanturel. "

There was a gasping murmur among the people, but they stilled again, andstrained to hear. 

"He leaves her a little fortune, and to us all else he had. Let us prayfor his soul, and let us comfort her who, loving deeply, reaped noharvest of love. 

"The law may never reach his ruthless murderers, for there is none torecognise their faces; and were they ten times punished, how should itavail us now! Let us always remember that, in his grave, our friendbears on his breast the little iron cross we held so dear. That is allwe could give--our dearest treasure. I pray God that, scarring hisbreast in life, it may heal all his woes in death, and be a saving imageon his bosom in the Presence at the last. "

He raised his hands in benediction. 

EPILOGUE

Never again was there a Passion Play in the Chaudiere Valley. Spring-times and harvests and long winters came and went, and a blessing seemedto be upon the valley, for men prospered, and no untoward things befelthe people. So it was for twenty years, wherein there had been going andcoming in quiet. Some had gone upon short mortal journeys and had comeback, some upon long immortal voyages, and had never returned. Of thelast were the Seigneur and a woman once a Magdalene; but in a housebeside a beautiful church, with a noble doorway, lived the Cure, M. Loisel, aged and serene. There never was a day, come rain or shine, inwhich he was not visited by a beautiful woman, whose life was one withthe people of the valley. 

There was no sorrow in the parish which the lady did not share, with thehelp of an old Irishwoman called Mrs. Flynn. Was there sickness in theparish, her hand smoothed the pillow and soothed the pain. Was theretrouble anywhere, her face brought light to the door way. Did any sufferill-repute, her word helped to restore the ruined name. They did notknow that she forgave so much in all the world, because she thought shehad so much in herself to forgive. 

She was ever called "Madame Rosalie, " and she cherished the name, andgave commands that when her grave came to be made near to a certain othergrave, Madame Rosalie should be carved upon the stone. Cheerfulness andserenity were ever with her, undisturbed by wish to probe the mystery ofthe life which had once absorbed her own. She never sought to knowwhence the man came; it was sufficient to know whither he had gone, andthat he had been hers for a brief dream of life. It was better to havelived the one short thrilling hour with all its pain, than never to haveknown what she knew or felt what she had felt. The mystery deepened herromance, and she was even glad that the ruffians who slew him were neverbrought to justice. To her mind they were but part of the mysticmachinery of fate. 

For her the years had given many compensations, and so she told the Cure, one midsummer day, when she brought to visit him the orphaned son ofPaulette Dubois, graduated from his college in France and making ready togo to the far East. 

"I have had more than I deserve--a thousand times, " she said. 

The Cure smiled, and laid a gentle hand upon her own. "It is right foryou to think so, " he said, "but after a long life, I am ready to saythat, one way or another, we earn all the real happiness we have. I meanthe real happiness--the moments, my child. I once had a moment full ofhappiness. "

"May I ask?" she said. 

"When my heart first went out to him"--he turned his face towards thechurchyard. 

"He was a great man, " she said proudly. 

The Cure looked at her benignly: she was a woman, and she had loved theman. He had, however, come to a stage of life where greatness aloneseemed of little moment. He forbore to answer her, but he pressed herhand. 

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