CIHM Microfiche Series (Monographs) ICMH Collection de microfiches (monographies) H Canadian Institut* for Historical MIcroraproductlons / Instltut Canadian da microrsproductions Mttoriquat ©1995 TMhnical » . \ Six Months go by . The Forgotten Man One was Taken and the other left ' ''Where the Tra of Life is Blooming-^ The Open Gale . . The Passion Play al Chaudiere Face to Face ... The Coming of Billy The Seigneur and the Curi have a Suspicion M. Rosstgnol slips ihe Leash Rosalie Tlays a Tart Mrs. Flynn Speaks . . ' ' A Burning Fiery Furnace n^ith His Back to the Wall In which Charley Meets a Stranger' The Hand al the Door The Curi Speaks . . ' ' ETIWGUE . . i«3 . 192 . 30O . J06 . 218 ■ 232 . 226 . 330 • 239 . 343 ■ 346 ■ 255 . 361 . 365 • 371 . 276 . 282 . 287 • 293 • 300 ■ 308 • 3'o . 3>6 • 319 ■ 327 330 333 335 341 343 351 359 363 36s 367 h / CHAPTEK I THE WAY TO THE VERDICT " ^°' Snili;/, your ffonour t " discordant treble of the h7™ V"""""^?' ^» '^e squeaked over the m«„ f ^® foreman of the jury twitchedat/k r SdrawnpurS^ ^^f''^' '^''''''"'ad faces, and kept nervoLfe/sTi'r'^'r^^^ weights of elastic aTrlifter.udHLfv^P' "" """"herini of relief swept throneh the nW. ifi: " «,""' ""^Piration far comer of the 3rv . P^»=* ^'l^e a breeze, and in a The judKe lo^k^ed ,^^ t "'•° ^^^^^^ ""'^ght. clerk oi th'e%trt an^iircllIeS^y' '''fA'^^y' 'he offending corner and sevp^ ?, • .?'['""■' towards the between^hree is oTinterlftLthr''!? '^^I! «««'• soner and 'he prisoners eoinseT^lrL^^^ """ P?" looked at the prisoner's counsei than »T,^°™ •P*°P'« w^^i:kerof\retdgS 7tr<" ^ p»" ^'^^ four hours before a fr^!? • "^* Population twenty- found believinT that^ere^r"'^ ''°»^'* '"'^« •*«> prisoner, who was accused of rnn^n'-"" ""'"P* f°' 'h« nierchant. The mTnorfty wouIH k"^^* "J^'^y '''"''er- that the prisoner hadlcL^n^f^''^ '""^*' 'heir belief sible innocence not on in m°^ "'""P"' '"" °n bis pos- curious fa th fi the orisnn"?T' "^''^^"'-•«- ^ut o™a would not haie ten7oZ ^^^P'i ^^is minority lawyer alone bntn? "T^J'^^ °^ '^e friends of thi Cha'riey steel had nev^Wa^'^-'"'"",' "^■'' ^«^"'« - bi. a certain fnc-pa^it^r ^^Zl^^l^T::^ 'I i % THE RIOHT or WAY young men, who looked upon him as the perfect pattern of the pereon good to seo and hard to undcrHtanii. Uuriiift tlie firs' o dayi of the trial the ciiic had gontf wholly again ihe prisotii'r, « ho had given his name as Joseph Nadeau. Witnesses had heard him tiuarrelliiig with the murdered man, and the next day the bmly of the victim had beim found t)y the road-side. The prisoner was a strnngor in the lunilier-cump where the deed was done, and while thiTe had been morose and lived apart; no one knew him; and he refused to tell even his lawyer whence he came, or wliat his origin, or to bring witnesses from his homo to sjjeak for his character. One by one the points had been made against him — with no perceptible effect upon Clinrley Steele, who seamed the one cool, undisturbed jierson in the .aurt- it)om. Indifferent as he seemed, seldom speaking to the prisoner, often looking out of the windows to the cool green trees far over on the hill, absorbed and unbusiness- like, yet judge and jury came to see, before the second day was done, that he had let no essential thing pass, that the questions he asked had either a pregnant apt- ness, opened up new avenues of deliberation, • or were touched with mystery — seemed to have a longer reach than the moment or the hour. Before the end of this second day, however, more attention was upon him than upon the prisoner, and nine-tenths of the people in the court-room could have told how many fine linen handkerchiefs he used during the afternoon, how many times he adjusted his monocle to look at the judge meditatively. Probably no man, for eight hours a day, ever exasperated and tried a judge, jury, and public, as did this man of twenty-nine years of age, who had been known at college as Beauty Steele, and who was still so spokeu of familiarly ; or was called as familiarly, Charley Steele, by people who never had attempted to be familiar with him. The second day of the tral had ended gloomily tor the prisoner. The coil of evidence had drawn so close THE WAY TO THE VERDICT 3 that extrication seemed impomible Th.» .i. was circumstantial, that Z «,vl „; .l ''"'. "'" evidence the prisoner, that he was fouS I ""' '"'"«' *" "P"" bed when he was arresld ha? he r."'^''V'''"^ ''"•'" commit the deed did not wl; k • ,"'" **«» '«•"' '» general public Th«,„„° ?«^ '" ^''« '"'•"»« of the even tffiwhoc^urto'th^:' '•'*''» 'T''^ '«"«^*d; ">" would yet get him off ?houi?'H°V^"^'''"'''ySt'-'«"« There seemed no flaw in th^^ i'"" ''* *"" »""««'" circumstantiality " """ ''^"''"'^«' °n'« granted it, had^'lSd at ScoTusSn dl '"" ";"'?« '""^ ?»«>"- functorily conducting^The se "'Kcun- T*""'.'^ P^"- •ng upon the blottin|.pad Wore him Tf*^ '" '*'■"'=''- w;ndow,or turnir, hls'^head^iZin.^iti'^^''"?^' »' ""> '""■°""l;^^'iS»z where sot a .,ax^.,,,y,^„ „.,, , , , particularly towards one TarXl. S v'* """^ puzzled way-more than once wiTh a Ul f-.^"" '? » ment. Only at the verv pI.o. ? u "^ ?' disappoint- appear to ro^use himseir'^Tht^for a 'brieV'.''"* ^''' ''" he cross-examined a friend of th/ t j*" minutes, m a fashion which startlld ?l "'urdered merchant denly brought oTt the fact th„t T'^"^'^' ^°' '"« """l- struck a woman in the fao!?' '.k^ ''""' """' J""! «>'ce fact, sharply st^t^S bv th« n.? "'^°P*" "^«='- This explanation and no comment^ir"'^' 'T'"^' "''h "o and malicious. His iSl'^i""' "'eessly intrusive concerned. The th r clenn !». ' ."""^'^ '"'^'^^^^ "^H grew more pin?ld and rwlTanH^K "' ''*"' P"'°»" pleadingly towards tt"e jad^ tL ,*"* 'T^^ "'""o^ aide-whUers nervouV'S lookecfov^r^'h"''^,'''''''''^*' severe annoyance, then haamv«^- °'fr his glasses in eft the ben'ch. wht'^'e^ Jo ef "r' t h'"'"^?-'* 'awyer leave the court-rnnm „fi, "" <^'S'"ay his towards him. '=°"^'-r"o'n with not even a glance for^heturVoL'tS^- ^"T?^^ «'-'«•« f-. Chief, and shewed itTaSin^trii^'^^^^^^^^^^^^ ■ I * THE BIGHT OF WAY much of the time. But twice he spoke to the prisoner in InZ """v' '"''' '''" '"'"'"•''y ""'^^'^d in French as crude as his own was perfect. When he spoke, which was at rare intervals, his voice was without feeling con- cise insistent, unappealing It was as though the busi- wPrP h/rr.h "" ""'• *^»y «"«'' to him, as though he were held there against his will, but would go on with his task bitterl;' to the bitter end. tJJ"^- °°"nK *f-'°"™/'l for an hour at noon. During ?n hilnffi t/ ^1»^«1.'° ««« ^^y one, but sat alonf hpfn^i?- .Ywv.^ ""^ '"'""''^ ""d an o-ninons bottle before him, till the time came for him to go back to the court-house. Arrived there he entered by a side door and was not seen until the court opened once more loofr A ho"8 and a half the crown attorney merci- lessly made out his case against the prisoner. When he sat down people glanced meaningly at each other as though the last word had been said; then looked at the prisoner, as at one already condemned Yet Chariey Steele was to reply. He was not now the same man tnat had conducted the case during the ZIJT' /*'"^^as no longer abstraction, indifference, or apparent boredom, or disdain, or distant stare He l^ln'""''"^ '°'™*'^. ","'' ^''=«'"- y«' concentrated and impelling: he was quietly, unnotieeably drunk He assured the prisoner with a glance of the eye, with a word scarce above a whisper, as he slowly rose to make his speech for the defence. rnn^" ^S' ''°^'^ '=^"'«'^ ^ new feeling in the court- room. He was a new presence; the personality had and ?hf ."°"'''"'°''- >' ^''^ *« P^^lio. the jury, a fl!h ••'^ ='.'^'^1'=""''"''^ attracted, surprised into a fre h merest. The voice had an insinuating quality but It also had a measured force, a subterranean insisN ence, a winning tactfulness. Withal, a logical simplicitv governed his argument The Jlaneur, the posenr~i{ such he was-no longer appeu.ed. He came"^ close to the jurymen, leaned his hands upon the back of a chair- as it were, shut out the public, even the judge, from his THE WAY TO THE VERDICT g Circle of interest— and talked in » An air of confidence passed frnn\* ''""^e'sational tone, easily captivated 7urr the H^^ i° '^' """"''^ ^^^ gaping during thi iJs't Jt!, j '""'=^, ^^'"'^^n them, so The tension Sf the pi II'*"^'' ''^'"'^ suddenly up once, surprised the j^'in o ar«^'"\ ""'^""'"g «" «' ness, as on a long vov-L a° - ,.^^°'' ^"^er friendli- some exciting accident a ''/f"^' '^^ traveller finds in exclusive fellfwSenVwtorhed"''^^^^ '° «" onhisstaUroteC''^^^^ ^?!."''- ^"""-ey said that in its present^H^;.. ^ "^"^-'^ '' masterly; he precis of evidence Dure^n? " T' i"efu table /^ a and interesting But stecrZT'"""'''.'' was-'usefu? and rhetoric-aside and Ip"^"^ *•' "' """^ *^"''y- thc case should stand or fall grits"' ."T"'''''"' ''^i^^- Parative, soundness, sfnce th/ 1!]°'*'' ""' "' '■'^■ circumstantial, there mist b« L a ^"'^ ^^' P^ely assumption, it must be ?ol«nv • ?7 '" '^= '^'^^^ of Starting with assumption only tL'r'°'*'\^"'''° ^'^««- possibilities, no loose ends of i^f- f"'' ^' »° «'^«yi"g ternatives. Was thfs so in fi. '*'"'^' °° invading al? them ? They were fleed Lv a nn""'' °^- "'^ ""« before a« the trial was concerned the n""' "1""''°°- ^o far only person who could tell ^IJTX ^""''^^ ^"^ 'he his past, and. if he committed fh''^ **'' ^^^'^ ^as ■notive of it: out of XT pirit nf""""' *''''' "^^ '»>« -the dead man had I^en sen olf '''""^'' "' ''^'red m the whole history of "rime .h '""''""'■ ^^^bably peculiar case. Even himse» fhl '• "^"^^ ^^ a mori dealing with one IhoT uL'JTJ'i' '=°""^^J ^as vious to the dav tZ i ,*"' '^'d from him pre theroadide. '^^I'trSf /'". ""' «Ji»oveVby alibi; he had donenomorpfl f ™' ,fought to prove an There was no nmteriaT f^r Sefenr^"^ P^*^ "°' 8""'^^. the prosecution. He had undll^ ? '^'u '^"^ "«■«'•«'• V prisoner because it "as his dutv ! > '^'""' °^ "'« the law justified itself thafl^^.T fi 'r^'' ^° '^'^ *at P- to the last atom o/St^int^ntt-rif-n^^jJ 6 THE RIGHT OF WAY possibility of doubt with evidence perfect and inviolate if circumstantial, and uncontradictory it eye-witness, if tell-tale incident, were to furnish basis of proof. Judge, jury, and public riveted their eyes upon Charley Steele. He had now drawn a little farther away from the jury-box ; his eye took in the judge as well ; once or twice he turned, as if appealingly and confidently, to the people in the room. It was terribly hot, the air 'Viis sickeningly close, every one seemed oppressed— every one save a lady sitting not a score of feet from where the counsel for the prisoner stood. This lady's face was not one that could flush easily ; it belonged to a tempera- ment as even as her person was symmetrically beautiful. As Charley talked, her eyes were fixed steadily, wonder- ingly upon him. There was a question in her gaze, which never in the course of the speech was quite absorbed by the admiration— the intense admiration- she was feeling for him. Once as he turned with a concentrated earnestness in her direction his eyes met hers. The message he flashed her was sub-conscious, for his mind never wavered an instant from the cause in hand, but it said to her : " When this is over, Kathleen, I will come to you." For another quarter of an hour he exposed the fallacy of purely circumstantial evidence ; he raised in the minds of his hearers the painful responsibility of the law, the awful tyranny of miscarriage of justice ; he condemned prejudice against a prisoner because that prisoner de- manded that the law should prove him guilty instead of his proving himself innocent. If a man chose to stand to that, to sternly assume this perilous position, the law had no right to take advantage of it. He turned towards the prisoner and traced his possible history : as the sensi- tive, intelligent son of godly Catholic parents from some remote parish in French Canada. He drew an imaginary picture of the home from which he might have "come, and of the parents and brothers and sisters who would have lived weeks of torture knowing that their son and brother was being tried for his life. It might at first glance seem quixotic, eccentric, but was it unnatural that THE WAY TO THE VERDICT 7 the prisoner should choose silence as to his oririn anH home rather than have his family and friends fte the undoubted peril lying before him ? BesWes though his past life might have been wholly blameless, it would not be evidence m his favour. It mi^ht indeed if ?h3 not been blameless, provide «ome eleme u 'o ulust suspicion against him. furnish some fane ed moHve fusHLnh" *"? ''^°'"' ^'' 1 ^^' -^"d events had^so far justihed him. It must be clear to the minds of hJZ and jury that there were fatally weak places in the ^rcumstantial evidence offered for' the conSn of tW^ There was the fact that no sign of the crime no droD and ?hf; T "'"P""' ^f f°""'' 'bout him or near hta There was also the fact that no motive for the crime had been shown. It was not enough that he and the dead man had been heard quarrelling. Was there anv certainty that it was a quarrel, since L wor^or sentence of the conversation had been brought into court' Me^ with quick tempers might quarrel over trivial Vh;n„? but exasperation did iiotllwa% end in b'od 7 n ury aS that 1h v^on, Ml' imprecations were not so^nco^mon The nvf/ ,^' ^'''''° "■' ^^'^^""^ of ''ilful murder The prisoner refused to say what that troubled conver- take the risk of his silence being misunderstood ^ ^ &xldh^^tfh.T- ''''^'•"^t^'y .taking notes and looking nxedly at the prisoner; the jury were in various AtH nf u? i^ hf ^r '"° -' '"^ P""'^ -' opelmZth "; and up in the gallery a woman with white face and clenched hands listened moveless and staring Charlev SThu'h"^'=^P''T^,*^ '"°°«''- and' the "dg^: ments of his hearers. All antipathy had gone • there was a strange eager intimacy between the jSymen and h mself. People no longer looked with di taTdllike silence disdain only in his surly defiance. ^ iiut Charley Steele had preserved his great stroke for the 8 THE BIGHT OF WAY psycholopcal moment He suddenly launched nnon thpn, tm k a i'^'^S^Ko^i^^-ideuce. that the dead Cut d struck a woman in the face a year ago; also that he 1 ■?,) conviction about the prisoner's truilt W» .^ n^^^T irihe" u^i ^'■^/ ^^J' -^"Wad materSve ; Of the unsound character of the evidence Th» ^^ resting on the railing before the seat whe?e the «rv ««7 drnThe tof' r^'Tr^' again'l^^e^etCnrg for?iiXr£ ate' r/^rK; l^TullTZ uiuve w) tne last inch of necessity its riffht tn tah^ = coTvr.o^t """' "I' "ghtandthe^easo/oho'„ldtng have to say.'" '"''^ ''°"''' ''""""' '°'°'^- ^hat is all f iud?p^ T^" ^"T'y '°'"^« ^ perfunctory reply The rf fu "^^ ""^ ''™f' ^°'^' " ^°ything, a little in favour ?urv fil^H^^^f T^y '""«' "^ '=^="i=t« little; and the jury filed out of the room. They wurp '»1 experience of seeing a crowd make the voltc-/ace with their convictions; looking at a prsoner one moment with eyes of loathing and fntici patmg his gruesome end. the next moment seeing hTtu as the possible martyr to the machinery of the law She rnd'^wpfr^r ""'-^ ^ ^^' '° «^«°'y had felt it leap the jury filed back into the court-room. Then it stood 8ti 1, as a wave might hang for an instant at its crest ere It swept down to beat upon the shore th^^"-*! ^^A ^^ "^'^ ™"^' P'"^^^"'' "»e deepest feeling in .hn„l3 f '"'P^°f ""1' "°' ^° "»»'=»> that the prisoner ^ould go free, as that the prisoner's counsel should wL ^fl^'f- J' ""' "^ " Charley Steele were on trialTi" stead of the pnsoner. He was the imminent figure ;°t was his fate that was in the balance-such was the antic irony of suggestion. And the truth was, that the fates rf both pnsoner and counsel had been weighed in the balance that sweltenng August day. Mt the court-room a free man, but wherever men and twothinlrh t 7f''^'- /" his speech he had done two things . he had thrown down every barrier of reserve -or so It seemed-and had become human and intimate WHAT CAME OF THE TRIAL 11 'I comd not have believed it of him," was the remark on T"Z S\ 9^'"^, *''''''y 'here never had been a moment's doubt, but It had ever been an uncomfortable ability, it had tortured foes and made friends anxious. No one had ever seen him show feeling. If it was a mask, he had worn It with a curious consistency: it had been with him as a child, at school, at college, and he had brought it back again to the town where he was born. It had effectually prevented his being popular, but it had made mm— with his foppishness and his originality—an object of perpetual interest. Few men had ventured to cross swords with him. He left Ins fellow-citizens very much alone. He was uniformly if distantly courteous, and he was respected in his own profession for his uncommon powers and for an utter indifference as to whether he had cases m court or not .' Coming from the judge's chambers after the trial he went to his ofhce, receiving as he passed congratula- tions mori effusively offered than, as people presently found, his manner warranted. For ha was again the formal, masked Charley Steele, looking calmly through the interrogative eye-glass By the time he reached his oifice, greetings became more sub- oued. His prestige had increased immensely in a few short hours, but he had no more friends than before Old relations were soon re-established. The town was proud or his abihty as it had always been, irritated by his manner as it had always been, more prophetic of his tuture than it had ever been, and unconsciously grateful tor the fact that he had given them a sensation which would outlast the summer. All these things concerned him little. Once the busi- ness of the court-room was over, a thought which had quietly lam m waiting behind the strenuous occupations ot Ills brain leaped forward to exclude all otherp. As he entered his office he was thinking of that girl's face m the court-room, with its flush of added biSuty which he and his speech had brought there. "What a perfect loveliness! " he said to himself as he bathed his face and hands, and prepared to go into the street again 19 THE BIGHT OF WAY II She needed just Bach a flush to make her supreme- Kathleen I He stood, looking out into the square, out into the green of the trees where the birds twittered. faultless— faultless in form and feature. She was so as a child ; she is so as a woman." He lighted a cigar- ette, and blew away little clouds of smoke. " I will do It. I will marry her. She will have me: I saw it in her eye. Fairing doesn't matter. Her uncle will never consent to that, and she doesn't care enough for him. bhe carPs, but she doesn't care enough. I will do It." * ■ ■ He turned towards a cupboard into which he had put a certain bottle before he went to the court-room two hours before He put the key in the lock, then stopped. No I think not ! ;' he said. " What I say to her shall not be said forensically. What a discovery I've made' I was dull, blank, all iron and ice; the judge, the jury, the public even Kathleen, against me; and then that bottle in there— and I saw things like crystal ! I had a glow m my brain. I had a tingle in my fingers ; and I had success and -his face clouded-" He was as guilty as hell I he added, almost bitterly, as he put the key of the cupboard into his pocket again. There was a knock at the door, and a youth of about nineteen entered. "HeUo!" he said. "I say, .sir, but that speech of yours struck us all where we couldn't say no. Even Kathleen got m a glow over it. Perhaps Captain Fair- ing didn t, for he's just left her in a huff, and she's looking— you remember those lines in the school-book— ' A red spot bumcd upou her cheek, Streamed her rich tresses down—'" He laughed gaily. "I've come to ask you up to tea" ..! f V '^■u, " -^^ F"'='^^'°' '^ »*'«'•«• When I told him that Kathleen had sent Fairing away with a flea in his ear he nearly fell off his chair. He lent me twenty dollars on the spot. Are you coming our way?" he continued, suddenly trying to imitate Charley's manner. Charley nodded, and they left the office together and WHAT CAMK OF THE TRIAL 13 T'ltl 77 "f '•'"L^J?.?, "^^""^ °' ""•Pleo t° Where, m the 8ha.Ie^ a high hill, was the house of the uncle of Kathleen Wantage, with whom she and her brother ft l/.^'^-,1- T^/y '"'I'^^d i" "l«"<=e for some time and at last Billy said, d propos of nothing • " Fairing hasn't a red cent." !i v°" ^r^ " perambulating mind, Billy. ' said Charley "wT-!*r.' f°*l"'»' >"«»?'" remarked Billy, and said Hello to the young clergyman, and did not wait for Charley 8 answer. f;nl=f ^^''' '^°x^ ^'"°'*" ''^ ^y "° means a conven- fXl^nrv.'- ^^ T"" '^°'''°8 * '='8«'«"«' ""d t^° dogs followed at his heels. He was certainly not a fogy. He had more than a little admiration for Charley Steele, but he found It diftcult to pach when Charley was in the congregauon. He was always aware of a subterranean ad half-pitying criticism going on in the barrister's mind John Brown knew that he could never match his inntl^^f ?>*^u'°'' Charley's, in spite of the theological course at Durham, so he undertook to scotch the snake by kmdness. lie thought that he might be able to do this, because Cna ley, who was kn„wn to be frankly agnostical, cp.me to his church more or less regularly ^ min !., .:/°i'°u-^'''"'? '"'" """^ indifferent to what men though of hini. He had a reputation for bein' independent," but his chief independence consisted in ™^\i'"'' "'^\* Y^"'^"' P"''"^' «^ the athfet^ parson of the new school, consorting with ministers of the dissenting denominations when it was sufficiently eftectiye, and being a "good fellow" with men easily bored by church and churchmen. He preached theatrical sermons to societies and benevolent associations. He wanted to be thought well of on all hands, and he was shrewd enough to know that if he trimmed between ritualism on one hand and evangeiicism on tiie other he was on a safe road. He might perforate old do^^matieal prejudices with a good deal of free.lom so long as he did not begin bringing "millinery" into the service of the 14 THE RIGHT OF WAY ■|; ' mirnL tr 1 Ti •"'■ "*" P*""""^ '"»»'i'» With the milhnery. He looked a picturesque figure with his blond moustache a httle silk-Led brSwn Smk thrown caT lessly over hw shoulder, a gold-headed cane, and a brisk jact-t hah ecclesiastical, half military h. «d interested C'liarley Steele, also he had amused ^Z'Z ""T'^p" •"* """^ surprised him into a sort of admiration; for Brown had a temperament capable o httle inspirations-such a literary Inspiraiion aTmLh come to a second-rate actor-and Charley never belittled ay mans abihty, but seized upo.i every sign of know- ledge with the appreciation of the epichre. ^ a h«nH° ^.T ".™,''^.'^ '''' ''^' '° ^^'"'^^y- 'hen held out a hand "Masterly! masterly!" he said. "Permit mv congratulations It was the one thing to do. You couldn'^ have saved h.m by making him an object of pity, by appeal- ing to our sympathies." f J- } fF""' "What do you take to be the secret, then?" asked Charley, with a look half abstracted, half quizzical. YaJZ°I~A^'"i ^""""i ^°" "^'*'«<1 'he conscience. irn^inTf u^"^ "? ^^^ circumstantial evidence, the imminent problems of our own salvation. You put is all on rial. We were under the lash of fear. If we parsons could only do that from the pulpit ! " ^ T1 i'nWh"'!' '*'"*'"'" 'V °" °"'" shooting-trip next week. A.thfJT.y '°'"^^'^. """"^"^ '*>« sareasm. he was so delighted at the suggestion that he was to be included in n^ir^f^Al '^"ck-shoot of the Seven, as the httle yearly ?^ni^ w'"'.''*/ '"? .^" ^"^^-^^ '° I^I'c Aubergine was ca led. He had angled for this invitation for two years with r bow°'".^ThP ^r-" ^^"t^ "''^' *"<* 'J'^'°'«««d him must use Ws croJk'" ''"^ "'" ^'"^' """^ ""^ ^'^^P'^-'l Brown smiled at the budinajre, and went on his way oftriv '^Vn^'f ^^ ""^ '" ^'"'™ 'he amusements Aoole Tn ^ ^M t'';*'8'°"-'h« Lake of the Mad- Apple. To get hold of these seven men of repute and position, to be admitted into this good presence l-ljie had WHAT CAME OF THE TRIAL 16 a pious exaltation, but whether it was because he might gather into the fold erratic and agnostical sheep like Charley Steele, or because it pleased his social ambitions, he hud occasion to answer in the future. Ho gaily pre- pared to go to the Lake of the Mad-Apple, where he was fated to eat of the tree of knowledpa Charley Steele and Billy Wantage walked on slowly to the house under the hill. " He's the right sort," said Billy. " He's a sport. I can stand that kind. Did you ever hear him sing ( No ? Well, he can sing a comic song fit to make you die. I can sing a bit myself, but to hear him sing 'The ilan who couldn't get Warm ' is a show in itself. He can play the banjo too, and the guitar — but he's best on the banjo. It's north a dollar to listen to his Epha-haain — that's Ephraiiu, you know — ' Gphahaam come Home,' and ' I found y' in do Honeysuckle Paitch.' " " He preaches, too ! " said Charley drily. They had reached the door of the house under the hill, and Billy had no time for further remark. He ran into the drawing-room, announcing Charley with the words, "I say, Kathleen, I've brought the man that made the judge sit up ! " Billy suddenly stopped, however, for there sat the judge who had tried the case, calmly munching a piece of toast. The judge did not allow himself the luxury of embarrassment, but bowed to Charley with a smile, which he presently turned on Kathleen, who came as near being disconcerted as she had ever been in her life. Kathleen had passed through a good deal to look so unflurried. She had been on trial in the court-room as well as the prisoner. Important things had been at stake with her. She and Charley Steele had known each other since they were children. To her, even in child- hood, he had been a dominant figure. He had judicially and admiringly told her she was beautiful — when he was twelve and she five. But he had said it without any of those glances which usually accompanied the same sentiments in the mouths of other lads. He had never made boy-love to her, and she had thrilled at the praise le THE RIGHT OF WAY f I i t Of lew gplendid people than Charley Steele He had «lway, piqued her, he wa. «, .uperior tn a,e onTinaJr enchantment, of youth, beauty, and fine Imen ^ A» ne came and went, growing older and mot« characteristic, more and more "Beauty Steele" ac^oT h^Zuh!! '"PP*"" l*"* ""' fashions 'he had X.he h,rf ■„. „ • , 'f''' •'.*'■ '"'• ""' '" 'he least patronisinaly thought r^tK '""' \*''''='' ""sentiment lurked Te thought her the most beautiful thing he had ever seen Sect 1^ "^^"/T'''*'^ ''«' '"'^^ «» " crealion for the K of*^ eZo.,::' H"^"' ^^ ''•°"8ht her the conci^te „i,i , , ;• V.® "^'^ ^'"d »Sain and again, as he crew twoVel in v"*«^ ""1 ^8an the busifess'of iff^ ^ teT two J ears in Europe, that sentiment would spoil her Z"^, TT ""' l*""""' °f »>" P"'«<=' beauty ;U would vital se her toomuch and her nature would lose its proper. at his nH,r" "^ ^ decentralised ! She had been piqued at his ind fference to sentiment; she could not ea^ilv be content without worship, though she felt none ThU Zue FalrW »°'i<^'aptainTom'rairing crossed h rja^r Fairmr; was the antithesis of Charley Steele Hand some, poor enthusiastic, and none too aWe, he was simple" «n^ "™K*'"°>-^«rd,and might be depended Tn tTthe lf.h l^A ''"'P'f '; ^""^ ">« «"d °f i' was, that in o f„ t or TomT' ■''' rl''*'^"'"^"' f°^ anybod;. she f^ nvi JT,*^"'""? °' '^« P'°yal Fusileers. It was not feifhad Iv ^.°'**i '" "'^ '"S-'° 'h« noble sense Fairing declared his love. She would give him no the d'estinv'sh" T" 1 '"?^ ^ P^'^^^''^^'^ -ith the Ssue! the destiny, she began to look round her anxiously The ftrst person to fill the perspective was Charley^Stee le As her mind dwelt on him her uncle gave forth his judgment^ that she should never have aTenny if she manied Tom Fairing. This only irritated hfrft^dd not influence her. Lut there was Charley. He Was a fignre li WHAT CAME OF THE TRIAL 17 WM alrcad} Moted in his . .— •— profeMion became of • few maiterly suocesses in crimiiial caaes, and if he waa not popular, he was diatinguished, and the world would talk about him to the end. He was handsome, and he waa well- to-do— he had a big unoccupied house on Iho hill amons the mapjeg. How many people had said. What a couple thoy would make-Chnrlcy Steele and Kathleen Wanta™ ! Ho as Fairing presented an issue to her, she concen- trated her thoughts as she hud never done before on the man whem the world set apart for her, in a way the world has. ' As ahe looked and looked, Charley began to look also. «e had not been enamoured of the sordid things of the world ; he had been merely curious. He thought vice waa ugly; he had imagination and a sense of form. Kath- leen was beautiful Sentiment had, so he thoucht never seriously disturbed her; he did not think it ever would. It had not affected him. He did not understand It. He had been born nmi-iTUime. He had had acquaint- ances but never friendships, and never loves or love. iJut he had a fine sense of the fitting and the propor- ..oi I 3, and hi; worshipped beauty in so fur as he could worship anything. The homage was cerebral, intellectual temperamental, not of the heart. As he looked out upon the world half pityingly, half ironically, he was struck with wonder at the disproportion which was engendered by "having heart," as it was called. He did not find It necessary. Now that he had begun to think of marriage, who so suitable as \athleen ? He knew of Fairing's adoration but he t(X)k it as a matter of course that she had nothinc to give of the same sort in return. Her beauty was still serene and unimpaired. He would not spoil it by the tortures of emotion. He would try to make Kathleen's heart beat in harmony with his own ; it should not thunder out of time. He had made up his mind that he would marry her. For Kathleen, with the great trial, the beginning of the end had come. Charley's power over her was subtle hnely sensuous, and, in deciding, there were no mer^ B 18 THE EIGHT OF WAY t 1 heart-impulses working for Charley. Ins .net and im- pulse were working in another direction. She had not committed her mind to either man, though her heart, to a point, was committed to Fairing. On the day of the trial, however, she fell wholly under that influence which had swayed judge, jury, and public. To her the verdict of the jury was not in favour of the prisoner at the bar — she did not think of him. It was in favour of Charley Steele. And so, indifferent as to who heard, over the heads of the people in front of her, to the accused's counsel inside the railings, she had called, softly, " Charley ! Charley ! " Xow, in the house under the hill, they were face to face, and the end was at hand : the end of something and the beginning of something. There was a few moments of casual conversation, in which Billy talked as much as anybody, and then Kath- leen said : " What do you suppose was the man's motive for com- mitting the murder?" Charley looked at Kathleen steadily, curiously, through his monocle. It was a singular compliment she paid him. Her remark took no heed of the verdict of the jury. He turned inquiringly towards the judge, who, though slightly shocked by the question, recovered him- self quickly. " What do you think it was, sir ? " Charley asked quietly. " A woman — and revenge, perhaps," answered the judge, with a matter-of-course air. A few moments afterwards the judge was carried off by Kathleen's uncle to see some rare old books ; Billy, his work being done, vanished ; and Kathleen and Charley were left alone. "You did not answer me in the court-room," Kathleen said. " I called to you." " I wanted to hear you say them here," he rejoined. " Say what ? " she asked, a little puzzled by the tone of his voice. " Your congratulations," he answered. She held out a hand to him. " I offer them now. It WHAT CAME OF THE TRIAL 19 was wonderful You were inspired. I did not think you could ever let yourself go." He held her hand firmly. "I promise rst .t Uo it again," he said whimsically. "Why not?" "Have I not your congratulations ? " His i and drew her slightly towards him ; she rose to her feet. " That is no reason," she answered, confused, yet feeling that there was a double meaning in his words. " I could not allow you to be so vain," he said. " We must be companionable. Henceforth I shall congratulate myself — Kathleen." There was no mistaking now. " Oh, what is it you are going to say to me ? " she said, yet not disengaging her hand. " I said it all in the court-room," he rejoined ; " and you heard." " You want me to marry you — Charley ? " she asked frankly. "It you think there is no just impediment," he answered, with a smile. She drew her hand away, and for a moment there was a struggle in her mind— or heart. He knew of what she was thinking, and he did not consider it of serious con- sequence. Eomance was a trivial thing, and women were prone to become absorbed in trivialities. When the woman had no brains, she might break her life upon a trifle. But Kathleen had an even mind, a serene temperament. Her nerves were daily cooled in a bath of nature's perfect health. She had never had an hour's illness in her life. "There is no just or unjust impediment, Kathleen," he added presently, and took her hand again. She looked him in the eyes clearly. " You really think 80 ? " she asked. " I know 80," he answered. " We shall be two perfect panels in one picture of life." CHAPTER III AFTER FIVE YEARS " You have forgotten me ? " Charley Steele's glance through his eye-glass was serenely non-committal as he answered drily : " I cannot remember doing so." The other man's eyelids drew down with a look of anger, then the humour of the impertinence worked upon him, and he gave a nervous little. laugh and said : " I am John Brown." " Then I'm sure my memory is not at fault," remarked Charley, with an outstretched hand. " My dear Brown ! Still preaching little sermons ? " " Do I look it ? " There was a curious glitter in John Brown's eyes. "I'm not preaching little sermons, and you know it well enough." He laughed, but it was a hard sort of mirth. " Perhaps you forgot to remember that, though," he sneeringly added. " It was the work of your hands." " That's why I should remember to forget it— I am the child of modesty." Charley touched the corners of his mouth with his tongue, as though his lips were dry, and his eyes wandered to a saloon a little farther down the street. " Modesty is your curse," rejoined Brown mockingly. " Once when you preached at me you said that beauty was my curse." Charley laughed a curt, distant little laugh which was no more the spontaneous humour lying for ever behind his thoughts than his eye-glass was the real sight of his eyes, though since childhood this laugh and his eye-glass were as natural to all expression of himself as AFTER FIVE YEARS 21 asked. ratCLStly^'"'"' "' *«^ "^^-J '°?" he "No They only say, ' There goes Charley Steele t ' " boit-el^T^hX:^^^^^^^^ S;£&? '^-'vfiehro^a-s^pre-d T^ ago'^SVott^^^aTrsri^Llr '•^^^^^^ Charley's blue eve did nof™ '^ •"' *8nostic raillery, hisfac^ash"e%7plie'^"^rk^^r^.^ "^^^^ ^""^'^ ^ did for1oXo:U°" ''"'^' ^"'^-«'^<' ^-- •' That Charley seemed not to hear the remark "Wh»f fa" atlaTlnl'lfut^''' looking Silv aS that couraS oMiS ^tps'rn^lHri ^" uncertainty '' self-mdulgenee, cunning,\nd •'WhSsr"-^'''''^°'^"=-™-P''-l- "rSd1"° '^^'"'"-'"^e °" I^ke Superior." woSom Ltor."'''^^^ *'^ '^"^ ^«'- I'- ''ept the «'^?' "re you going to do ? " I haA"°' ^°°''-"°'hing, perhaps; I've not the countge 22 THE RIGHT OF WAT lli^l " I'd have thought you might find arsenic a good thing," said Charley, holding out a silver cigarette-case, his eyes turning slowly from the startled, gloomy face of the man before him, to the cool darkness beyond the open door- way of that saloon on the other side of the street. John Brown shivered — there was something so cold- blooded in the suggestion that he might have found arsenic a good thing. The metallic glare of Charley's eye-glass seemed to give an added cruelty to the words. Charley's monocle was the token of what was behind his blue eye — one ceaseless interrogation. It was that ever- lasting questioning, the ceaseless who knows ! which had in the end unsettled John Brown's mind, and driven him at last from the Church and the possible gaiters of a dean into the rough business of life, where he had been a failure. Yet as Brown looked at Charley the old fascination came on him with a rush. His hand suddenly caught Charley's as he took a cigarette, and he said : " Perhaps I'll find arsenic a good thing yet." For reply Charley laid a hand on his arm — turned him towards the shade of the houses opposite. Without a word they crossed the street, entered the saloon, and passed to a little back room, Charley giving an unsym- pathetic stare to some men at the bar who seemed inclined to speak to him. As the two passed into the small back room with the frosted door, one of the strangers said to the other : "What does he come here for, if he's too proud to speak! What's a saloon for! I'd like to smash that eye-glass for him ! " " He's going down hill fast," said the other. " He drinks steady — steady." " Tiens ! tiens I " interposed Jean Joliooeur, the land- lord. " It is not harm to him. He drink all day, an' he walk a crack like a bee-line I " " He's got the handsomest wife in this city. If I was him, I'd think more of myself," answered the Englishman. " How you think more — hdn ? You not come down more to my saloon ? " " No, I wouldn't come to your saloon, and I wouldn't AFTER FIVE YEARS 23 go to Theophile Charlemagne's shebang at the Cote Donon. "You not like Charlemagne's hotel?" said a huge black-bearded pilot, standing beside the landlord. •Oh, I like Charlemagne's hotel, and I like to talk to buzon Charlemagne, but I'm not married, Eouee (josselin ° "If he go to Charlemagne's hotel, and talk some more too mooch to dat Suzon Charlemagne, he will lose dat glass out of his eye," interrupted Eooge Gosselin. "Who say he been at dat place < - said Jean Jolicoeur He bin dere four times las' month, and dat Suzon Charlemagne talk bout him ever since. When dat Nar- cisse Bovm and Jacques Gravel come down de river he better keep away from dat Cote Dorion," spluttered Kouge Gosselin. "Dat's a long story short, all de same for you— bagosh ! " Eouge Gosselin flung off his glass of white whisky, and threw after it another glass of cold water. "Tuns! you know not m'sieu' Charley Steele," said Jean Johcoeur, and turned on his heel, noddine his head sagely. CHAPTER IV CHARLEY MAKES A DISCOVERY A HOT day a month later Charley Steele sat in his office staring before him into space, and negligently smoking a cigarette. Outside there was a slow clacking of wheels, and a newsboy was crying " La Patrie I La Patrie ! All about the War in France ! All about the massacree !" Bells— wedding-bells— were ringing also, and the jubilant sounds, like the call of the newsboy, were out of accord with the slumberous feeling of the afternoon. Charley Steele turned his head slowly towards the window. The branches of a maple-tree half crossed it, and the leaves moved softly in the shadow they made. His eye went past the tree and swam into the tremulous white heat of the square, and beyond to where in the church-tower the bells were ringing— to the church doors, from which gaily dressed folk were issuing to the carriages, or thronged the pavement, waiting for the bride and groom to come forth into a new-created world — for them. Charley looked through his monocle at the crowd reflec- tively, his head held a little to one Me in a questioning sort of way, on his lips the ghoRt of a smile— not a reassurmg smile. Presently he leaned forward slightly and the monocle dropped from his eye. He fumbled for It, raised it, blew on it, rubbed it with his handkerchief, and screwed it carefully into his eye again, his rather bushy brow gathering over it strongly, his look sharpened to more active thought. He stared straight across the square at a figure in heliotrope, whose face was turned to a man in scarlet uniform taller than herself: two glowing figures towards whom many other eyes than his own were directed, some onrionsly, some disdainfully, some sadly. CHARLEY MAKES A DISCOVEBY 26 But Charley did not see the faces of those who looked on ; he only saw two people— one in heliotrope ; one in scarlet. Presently his white firm hand went up to the monocle and screwed it in more tightly, his comely figure settled down in the chair, his tongue touched the corners of his red lips, and his eyes withdrew from the woman in heliotrope and the man in scarlet, and loitered among the leaves of the tree at the window. The softness of the green, the cool health of the foliage, changed the look of his eye from something cold and curious to something companionable, and scarcely above a whisper two words came from his lips : " Kathleen ! Kathleen ! " By the mere sound of the voice it would have been hard to tell what the words meant, for it had an inquir- ing cadence and yet. a kind of distant doubt, a vague anxiety. The face conveyed nothing — it was smooth, fresh, and immobile. The only point where the mind' and meaning of the man worked according to the law of his life was at the eye, where the monocle was caught now as in a vice. Behind this glass there was a troubled depth which belied the self-indulgent mouth, the egotism speaking loudly in the red tie, the jewelled finger, the ostentatiously simple yet sumptuous clothes. At last he drew in a sharp, sibilant breath, clicked his tongue— a sound of devil-may-care and hopelessness at once— and turned to a little cupboard behind him. The chair squeaked on the floor as he turned, and he frowned, shivered a little, and kicked it irritably with his heel. From the cupboard he took a bottle of liqueur, and, pouring out a small glassful, drank it off eagerly. As he put the bottle away, he said again, in an abstracted fashion, " Kathleen ! " Then, seating himself at the table, as if with an effort towards energy, he rang a bell. A clerk entered. " Ask Mr. Wantage to come for a moment," he said. " Mr. W,-.ntage ha^j gone to the church— to the wed- ding," was the reply. " Oh, very well. He will be in again this afternoon 1 " "Sure to, sir." 20 THE RIQHT OF WAY " Just so. That will do." The clerk retired, and Charley, rising, unlocked a drawer, and taking out some books and papers, laid them on the table. Intently, carefully, he began to examine them, referring at the same time to a letter which had lain open at his hand while he had been sitting there. For a quarter of an hour he studied the books and papers, then, all at once, his fingers fastened on a point and stayed. Again he read the letter lying beside him. Then, sitting back in his chair, the monocle dropped from his eye, and a flush crimsoned his face to his hair — a singular flush of shame, of embarrassment, of guilt — a guilt not his own. His breath caught in his throat. " Billy ! " he gasped. " Billy, by God ! " CHAPTER V THE WOMAN IN HELIOTROPE The flush was still on Charley's face when the door opened slowly, and a lady dressed in heliotrope silk entered, and came forward. Without a word Charley rose, and, taking a step towards her, offered a chair ; at the same time noticing her heightened colour, and a certain rigid carriage not in keeping with her lithe and graceful figure. There was no mistaking the quii^er of her upper lip — a short lip which did not hide a wonder- fully pretty set of teeth. With a wave of the hand she declined the seat. Glancing at the books and papers lying on the table, she flashed an inquiry at his flushed face, and, misreading the cause, with slow, quiet point, in which bitterness or contempt showed, she said meaningly : " What a slave you are ! " " Behold the white man work ! " he said good-naturedly, the flush passing slowly from his face. With apparent negligence he pushed the letter and the books and papers a little to one side, but really to place them beyond the range of her angry eyes. She shrugged her shoulders at his action. " For ' the fatherless children and vndows, and all that are desolate and oppressed?'" she said, not concealing her malice, for at the wedding she had just left all her married life had rushed before her in a swift panorama, and the man in scarlet had fixed the shooting pictures in her mind. Again a flush swept up Charley's race and seemed to blur his sight. His monocle dropped the length of its silken tether, and he caught it and slowly adjusted it again as he replied evenly : 28 THK BIOHT OF WAY I i 'You always hit the nail on the head, Kathleen." There was a kind of appeal in his voice, a soi c of depre- cation m his eye as though ho would be friends with her, for her ™ ""^ '" '^'^ '"'"'^ *°'°® **"''*' P'V Her look at his face was critical and cold. It was plain that she was not prepared for any extra friendliness on his part— there seemed no reason why he should add to his usual courtesy a note of sympathy to tl.a sound of her name on his hps. He had not fastened the door of the cupboard from which he had taken the liqueur, and it had swung open a little, disclosing the bottle and the Wdness ^^' *^°^ ^^ °" * ^°°^ °^ "l"'*' " Why did you not come to the wedding ? She was your cousin. People asked where you were You knew I was going." . "Did you need me?" he asked quietly, and his eyes involuntarily swept to the place where he had seen the heliotrope and scarlet make a glow of colour on the other side of the square. " You were not alone." bhe misunderstood him. Her mind had been over- wrought, and she caught insinuation in his voice " You mean Tom Fairing!" Her eyes blazed. "You are quite nght— I did not need you. Tom Fairing is a man that all the world trusts— save you ! " "Kathleen!" The words were almost a cry. "For Oods sake! I have never thought of 'trusting' men where you are concerned. I believe in no man"— his voice had a sharp bitterness, though his face was smooth and unemotional— "but I trust you, and believe in yoa les, upon my soul and honour, Kathleen ! " As he spoke she turned quickly and stepped towards the window an involuntary movement of agitation. He had touched a chord. But even as she reached the window and glanced down to the hot, dusty street, she heard a loud voice below, a reckless, ribald sort of voice calling to some one to, " Come and have a drink " "BiUy!" she said involuntarily, and looked down then shrank back quickly. She turned swiftly on her THE WOMAN IN HELIOTROPE 29 hnsband. " Your «oul and honour, Charley I" ghe «aid atThJ- "^\»» -hat you've mkde of luyri^k at the company he keeps- John Brown, who hasn't even decency enougfi to keep away from the place he dis^ac^d w h^ V 'T^- "'•"' y°"- ^'"' '"ined 'fol'n Brown with your dissipation and your sneers at religion and H,invJf „ ?^' f 1"^ '? *"y °"« '" 'he world? You tKopf" ^ ^°^ "' '""°«' ■""* '^"''''•"S- "d P%i°g He glanced down involuntarily, and carefully flicked roZHT''"'■''t^^'°'" h« waistcoat. The action ar- t^^A hw speech for a moment, and then, with a little hudder, she continued: "The best they ckn say of you 13, 1 here goes Charley Steele ! '" ' "^f '.he worst ?; he asked. He was almost smiling now for he admired her anger, her scorn. He knew i? was de^rved and he had no idea of making any defence He had said all i„ that instant's cry, " Kathleen •"- that one awakening feeling of his life so far. She' had rril'^/^""!""-^".."?" hy her scorn, and now he was his old debonair, dissipated self, with the im- tongu"' "" '° " '^' """^ " J«' "P°° his " 1)0 you want to know the worst they say ? " she asked growing pale to the lips. •• Go and stand behind the door no v^T^- 'wT- . ^? '" '"•y «"««' '^"'•ne'. ""d listen. Do you think I don't know what they say? Do you Wn/w ''"'■Id doesn't talk about the compan^ you keep ? Haven 1 1 seen you going into Jolicoeurs Lloon T™, .V Ttw'^^.V^v"" 'he other side of the street ? Do bHrnn'^Oh""" ""/''' ""'^^i'^^^ I -""ong the rest, are blind? Oh, you fop, you fool! you have ruined my brother, you have ruined my life, and I hate and despisi you for a cold-blooded, selfish coward ' " He stared at her intensely through his monocle, u look of most curious inquiry. They hnd been married for five years, and during that time they had never been anything but persistently courteous to each other. He had never on any occasion seen her face change colour, or her so THK BIOUT OF WAY manner show chajp-in or emotion. Stately and cold and polite, she had fairly met hia ceaseless foppery and pre- oisenesg of manner. But people had »aid of her, " Poor Kathleen Steele 1" for her spotleia name stood sharply off from his negligence and dissipation. They called her " Poor Kathleen Steele 1 " in sympathy, though they knew that she had not resisted marriage with the well-to-do Charley Steele, while loving a poor captain in the Hoyal I'usileers. She preserved social sympathy by a perfect outward decorum, though the man of the scarlet coat re- mained in the town and haunted the places where she appeared, and though the eyes of the censorious world were watching expectantly. No voice was raised against her. Her cold beauty held the admiration of all women, for she was not eager for men's company, and she kept her poise even with the man in scarlet near her, glaciolly complacent, beautifully still, dishearteningly emotionless. They did not know that the poise with her was to an extent as much a pose as Charley's manner was to him. " I hate you and despise you for a cold-blooded, selfish coward ! " So that was the way Kathleen felt ! Charley's tongue touched his lips quickly, for they were dry and arid, and he slowly said : " I assure you I have not tried to influence Billy. I have no remembrance of his imitating me in anything ! Won't you sit down ? It is very fatiguing, this heat ! " Charley was entirely himself again. His words con- cerning Billy Wantage miyht have been either an impeachment of Billy's character and, by deduction, praise of his own, or it may have been the insufferable egoism of the fop, well used to imitators. The veil between the two, which for one sacred moment had seemed about to lift, was fallen now, leaded and weighted at the bottom. '; I suppose you would say the same about John Brown ! It IS disconcerting at least to think that we used to sit and listen to Mr. Brown as he waved his arms gracefully m his surplice and preached sentimental sermons. I suppose you will say, what we have heard you say be- THE WOMAN IN HELIOTROPK 31 fore, thkt jrou only atked questiona Waa that how you ruined the Kev. John Brown — and Billy ? " Charley waa very thirsty, and because of that perhaps hia voice had an unuaually dry tone aa he replied : " I aaked questions of John Brown ; I answer them to Billy. It is I that am ruined ! " There was that in hia voice she did not understand, for though long used to his paradoxical phrases and his everlasting pose — as it seemed to her ami all the world- there now rang through his words a note she had never heard before. For a tleeting instant she was inclined to catch at some hidden meaning, but her grasp of things was uncertain. She had been thrown of}' her balance, or poise, as Charley had, for an unwonted second, been thrown off his pose, and her thought could not pierce beneath the surface. " I suppose you will bo flippant at Judgment Day," she aaid with a bitter laugh, for it seemed to her a monstrous thing that they should be such an infinite distance apart. " Why should one be serious then 1 There will be no question of an alibi, or evidence for the defence — no cross-examination. A cut-and-dried verdict ! " She ignored his words. "Shall you be at home to dinner ? " she rejoined coldly, and her eyes wandered out of the window again to that spot across the square where heliotrope and scarlet had met. " I fancy not," he answered, his eyes turned away also — towards the cupboard containing the liqueur. " Better ask Billy; and keep him in, and talk to him — I really would like you to talk to him. He admires you so much. I wish — in fact I hope you will ask Billy to come and live with us!" he added half abstractedly. He was trying to see his way through a sudden confusion of ideas. Confusion was rare to him, and his senses, feeling the fog, embarrassed by a sudden air of mystery and a cloud of futurity, were creeping to a mind-path of under- standing. " Don't be absurd," she said coldly. " You know I won't ask him, and you don't want him." 32 THE RIGHT OF WAY I have always said that decision is the greatest of all qualities— even when the decision is bad. It saves so much worry, and tends to health." Suddenly he turned to the desk and opened a tin box. "Here is further practice for your admirable gift" He opened a paper. I want you to sign off for this building— leavin" it to my absolute disposal" He spread the paper out be- fore her. She turned pale and her lips tightened. She looked at him squarely in the eyes. "My wedding-gift!" she said Then she shrugged her shoulders. A moment she hesitated, and m that moment seemed to congeal " You need it ? " she asked distantly. He inclined his head, his eye never leaving hers. With a swift angry motion she caught the glove from her left hand, and, doubling it back, dragged it off. A smooth round ring came off with it and rolled upon the floor btoopmg, he picked up the ring, and handed it back to her, saying, « Permit me." It was her wedding-ring bhe took it with a curious contracted look and put it on the finger again, then pulled off the other glove quietly. -Of course one uses the pen with the right hand, she said calmly. * "Involuntary act of memory," he rejoined slowly, as she took the pen m her hand. "You had spoken of a there r^' ^^ * wedding-gift, and— that's right, sign There was a brief pause, in which she appeared to hesitate, and then she wrote her name in a large firm hand and, throwing down the pen, caught up her gloves, and began to pull them on viciously. "Thanks. It is very kind of you," he said. He put the document m the tin box, and took out another as without a word, but with a grave face in which scorn and trouble were mingled, she now turned towards the door. "Can you spare a minute longer?" he said, and advanced towards her, holding the new document in his hand. "Jair exchange is no robbery. Please take this ^o, not with the right hand ; the left is better luck— the THE WOMAN IN HELIOTROPK 33 better the hand, the better the deed," he added with a whimsical sqmnt through his monocle, and he 0^ the S x" V' '''' ''"''• " ^'«°' N°- 2 t° take th'e See of She scrutinised the paper. Wonder filled her face Why this IS a deed of the homestead property-worth three. times as much!" she said. "Wh'yJ^h; do you "Remember that questions ruin people sometimes" he L thZVto st'Pf '" "^^ "^J ^"-^ '""«'» 'h« handle as though to show her out. She was agitated and em- she feriaTrh '"u'*" '''' ^""^ been°unjust. and A she felt that she could not say what ought to be said if all the rules were right. o " w saiu, u "Thank you," she said simply. "Did vou think- nf this when-when you handed nfe back the nng '" witJa^aToftm^UT--"'"" '" "^ "^^^ ' ^^ »'- little ToEn' "='' '"-'''" ^°"'" ^^« -'1 - --e "It might be too expensive," he answered with •> curious laugh Then he added lightly. " mswas a fair exchange "-he touched the papers3 bnt I should like you to bear witness, madam, that I am no robber"' He opened the door. Again there was th,',t curious penetrating note in hisvoice,\nd that veiled look through the monocle She half hesitated, but 1^1,6 S there was a loud voice below and a quick foot oifthe " It's Billy ! •> she said sharply, and passed out. CHAPTER VI THE WIND AND THE SHORN LAMB A HALF-HOUK later Charley Steele sat in hia oiBce alona with Billy Wantage, his brother-in-law, a tall, shapely fellow of twenty-four. Billy had been drinking, his face was flushed, and hia whole manner was insolently care- less and irresponsible. In spite of this, however, his grey eyes were nervously fixed on Charley, and his voice was shaky as he said, in reply to a question as to his finances : " That's my own business, Charley." Charley took a long swallow from the tumbler of whisky and soda beside him, and, as he fastened his monocle in hia eye, answered quietly, " I must make it mine, Billy, without a doubt." The tall youth shifted in his chair and essayed to laugh. "You've never been particular about your own busi- ness. Pshaw ! what's the use of preaching to me ? " Charley's eye-glass seemed to tighten, and his look had just a touch of surprise, a hint of embarrassment. This youth, then, thought him something of a fool : read him by virtue of his ornamentations, his outer idiosyncrasy! This boy, whose iniquity was under his finger on that table, despised him for his follies, and believed in him less than his wife — two people who had lived closer to him than any others in the world. Before he answered he lifted the glass beside him and drank to the last drop, then slowly set it down and said, with a dangerous smile : "I have always been particular about other people's finances, and the statement that you haven't isn't preach- ing, it's an indictment — so it is, Billy." 34 THE WIND AND THE SHORN LAMB 35 hJvl^cSr'-'" ^''''''''" finger-nails now. and "That's what the jury would say, and the judge would d:nt?ri"ionl;r,^^^^ ^'°'^° '--^-«- ''^--^ For a moment there was absolute silence in the room From outs.de m the square came the .I/W,eVl / of a CO r;; ""fV"? '""d cofJ'Wng la"gh of some loafer at the ?^„^.^""''^y' ^°°^ imprisoned his brother-in-law and Bi ly's eyes were fixed in a helpless stare oT,' huSmV^^"' "'*'=' ""''' "''« ^ »" --d 0° Billy drew himself back with a jerk of recovery and said with bravado but with fear in look and motion^/ ^^ Don t stare like that. The thing's done, and vou can t undo it, and that's all there is about it " ^ Charley had been storing at the youth-storing and not seeing him really, but seeing his wife and watching her lips say again. "You are ruining Billy i" He waf not sober, but his mind was alert, his eccentric soul was getting kaleidoscopic glances at strange facts of We as they rushed past his mind into a painful red obscurity abou^^^tf-'Vln^Zr^druS;: ""' ''' ""' '''' '»•- '« He got up suddenly, went to the door, locked it put be&le" ^ir""''- "'''' ''"•"-^ '-'''' -* ^'* ^^^ ''i'h shrewd, hunted eyes. What did Charley mean to do? To give him in charge? To send him to jail? To shut him out from tS world where he had enjoyed himself so much for years and years? Never to go forth free among his^ fellows^ Never to play the gallant with all the fretty rir Is he knew! Never to have any sports, or games, or tobacco or good meals, or canoeing inVummer, or tob'og^ing In winter or moose-hunting, or any sort of philandering! The thoughts that filled his mind now were not those of regret for his crime, but the fears of the materialTst and sentimentalist, who revolted at punishment and al the shame and depnvation it would involve. 36 THK RIGHT OF WAY " What did yon do with the money ? " said Charley, after a minute's silence, in which two minds had travelled far. " I put it into mines." "What mines?" " Out on Lake Superior." " What sort of mines ? " " Arsenic." Charley's eye-glass dropped, and rattled against the gold button of his white waistcoat. " In arsenic-mines ! " He put the monocle to his eye again. " On whose advice ? " "John Brown's." " John Brown's ! " Charley Steele's ideas were suddenly shaken and scattered by a man's name, as a bolting horse will crumple into confusion a crowd of people. So this was the way his John Brown had come home to roost. He lifted the empty whisky-glass to his lips and drained air. He was terribly thirsty ; he needed something to poll himself together ! Five years of dissipation had not robbed him of his splendid native ability, but it had, as it were, broken the continuity of his will and the sequence of his intellect. " It was not investment ? " he asked, his tongue thick and hot in his mouth. " No. What would have been the good ? " " Of course. Speculation — ycu bought heavily to sell on an unexpected rise ? " " Yes." There was something so even in Charley's manner and tone that Billy misinterpreted it. It seemed hopeful that Charley was going to make the best of a bad job. " You see," Billy said eagerly, " it seemed dead certain. He showed me the way the thing was being done, the way the company was being floated, how the market in New York was catching hold. It looked splendid. I thought I could use the money for a week or so, then put it back, and have a nice little scoop, at no one's cost ! I thought it was a dead-sure thing — and I was hard up, and Kathleen wouldn't lend me any more. If Kathleen had only done the decent thing " THE WIND AXD THE SHORN LAMB 37 A sudden Hush of aiieer swcr.f «„,... r""Wingly through a Steele the f:pThe;^„/C.C' '''« ^°'- "^ ^.-ha^rley "Don't lie. You've been livintJ frppiv Toil *i. ^ .v or-or I'll know the reason whyrBmv "' ' '™*''' I paw r^"""'*^^^^"''^ 'h« '-*• I '.ad debts, and "And you bet on the races ? " " Yea" " And lost ? " luc'k!!!l" ^'' ''"'' ^'^"■■'^y; '' «as the most awful thZ"' opid - •■ "'"^ ^''"''"" '-^ -'J"-, -d all culS'tdt^Su Wrwf^'"""'^ 7' •^^^-'1 '"« ^!^a--w------°en^^^^^^ " Yu uK'^T- ^ '"PP°«« ^ " he added. .. w 1, "^"""^ * hundred dollars " for it^'"' ^°" ^''^^ '""^ y°" g^^-e; now you must pay feSCr'air*'""- ''"'' "^ ^^ -elodramatie. He He was hardly prepax-ed for what followed. Charley's 38 THE EIGHT OF WAY nerves had been irritated ; hia teeth were on edge. Thi^ threat, made in such a cheap, insincere way, was the last thing in the world he could bear to hear He knew that Billy lied; that if there was one thing Billy would not do, shooting himself was that one thing. His own life WM very sweet to Billy Wantage. Charley hated him the more at that moment because he was Kathleens brother. For if there was one thing he knew of Katn- leen it was that she could not do a mean thing. Cold, unsympathetic she might be, cruel at a pinch perhaps, but dishonourable— never! This weak, cowardly youth was her brother ! No one had ever seen such a look on Charley Steele's face as came upon it now— malicious, vindictive. He stooped over Billy in a fury. "You think I'm a tool and an ass— you ignorant, brain- less lying cub! You make me a thief before aU the world by forging my name, and stealing the money for which I am responsible, and then you rate me so low that you think you'll bamboozle me by threats of suicide. You haven't the courage to shoot yourself— drunk or sober. And what do you think would be gained by it? t.b, what do you think would be gained 1 You can _t see that you'd insult your sUter as well as— as rob me ! Billy Wantage cowered. This was not the Charley Steele he had known, not like the man he had seen since a child. There was something almost uncouth, in this harsh high voice, these gavche words, this raw accent; but it was powerful and vengeful, and it was full of purpose. Billy quivered, yet his adroit senses caught at a straw in the words, "as rob me! Charley was counting it a robbery of himself, not of the widows and orphans! That gave him a ray of hope. In a naroxysm of fear, joined to emotional excitement, he fell upon his knees, and pleaded for mercy— for the sake of one chance in Ufe, for the family name, for Kathleen's sake, for the sake of everything he had ruth- lessly dishonoured. Tears came readily to his eyes, real tear»-of excitement; but he could measure, too, the strength of his appeal. " If you'U stand by me in this, I'll pay you back every •hk fell on his knkks, and begged and. pleaded for mercy' f THE WIND AND THE SHORN LAMB 39 cent, Charley," he cried "T »,iii honour! You shan't o«« . „ '"'.."P°°.,!"J' «°"1 8"<1 through. Ill work°mv Tn J^"y' '^ y" " ""'^ »e« me last hour oVmy life ^I-irC*"^ 1° ^^ " ^^l' '"' the 80 help me G^i •' ^ " ^ ''""K'" "" 'he day I die- liqu;':2te«!'^"„rtfd o^n/'d^ ''"P^^'^ *''-" "'« But how could he with thi vi'' "^r"!^ '«''« « ''""'< ' His breath scorchedlis throat "^ ''""'''"^ ^'"™ '"■" ^ -tc^mo^'ow.' 'ooltay'Se n''^.'^ "''''' ^ """ -^o brushed ^uft f ^'''his'aTnd s " *"' ^^V'^ pas'iS'fcr CWW and. unlocked it. As Billy itr ThenLahu{t"rdlVa,r„tTlSir""''' outietrtL7itrh?&^^^^^ o« oi relief and no emotion m his face. CHAPTKR VII " PEACE, PEACE, AND THERE 18 NO PEACE ! " The sun was setting by the time Charley was ready to leave his office. Never in his life had he stayed so late in " the halls of industry," as he flippantly called his place of business. The few cases he had won so brilliantly since the beginning of his career, he had studied at night in his luxurious bedroom in the white brick house among the maples on the hill. In every case, as at the trial of Joseph Nadeau, the man who murdered the timber-merchant, the first prejudice of judge and jury had given way slowly before the deep-seeing mind, which had as rare a power of analysis as for generalisa- tion, and reduced masses of evidence to phrases ; and verdicts had been given against all personal prejudice — to be followed outside the court by the old prejudice, the old look askauce at the man called Beauty Steele. To him it hud made no difference at any time. He cared for neither praise nor blame. In his actions a materialist, in his mind he was a watcher of life, a baffled inquirer whose refuge was irony, and whose singular habits had in five years become a personal insult to the standards polite society and Puritan morality ' id set up. I'erhaps the insult had been intended, for irjcgularities were committed with an insolent disdain for appearances. He did nothing secretly ; his page of life was for him who cared to read. He played cards, he talked agnosticism, he went on shooting expeditions which became orgies, he drank openly in saloons, he whose forefathers had been gentlemen of King George, and who sacrificed all in the great American revolution for honour and loyalty — states- men, writers, politicians, from whom he had direct in- 40 "PEACE, PEACE, AND THERE 18 NO PEACE!" 41 heriUnce, through stirring, strengthening forced, in the building up of laws and civilisation in a new land. Why he chose to be what he was — if he did chooee — he alone could answer. His personality had impressed itself upon his world, first by its idiosyuctasies and afterwards by its enigmatical excesses. What was he thinking of as ho laid the papers away in the tin box in a drawer, locked it, and put the key in his pocket ? He hf.d found to the smallest detail Billy's iniquity, and he was now ready to shoulder the responsi- bility, to save the man, who, he knew, was scarce worth the saving. But Kathleen— there was what gave him pause. As he turned to the window and looked out over the square he shuddered. He thought of the exchange of documents he had made with her that day, and he had a sense of satisfaction. This defalcation of Billy's would cripple him, for money had flown these last few years. He had had heavy losses, and he had dug deep into his capital. Down past the square ran a cool avenue of beeches to the water, and he could see his yacht at anchor. On the other side of the water, far down the shore, was a house which had been begun as a summer cottage, and had ended in being a mansion. A few Moorish pillars, brought from Algiers for the decoration of the entrance, had necessitated the raising of the roof, and then all had to be in proportion, and the cottage became like an appanage to a palace. So it had gone, and he had cared so little about it all, and for the con- sequences. He had this day secured Kathleen from absolute poverty, no matter what happened, and that had its comfort. His eyes wandered among the trees. He could see the yellow feathers of the oriole and catch the note of the whippoorwill, and from the great church near the voices of the choir came over. He could hear the words : " Lord, now Icttest thou thy senarU depart in peace, according to thy word." Depart in peace — how much peace was there in the world? Who had it? The remembrance of what Kathleen said to him at the door — " I suppose I ought to kiss you " — came to him, was like a refrain in bis ears. 4S THE RKJHT OP WAY "I'eace is the pcnaltr of aileoce and inaction," h* •ttid to himself meditatively. " Where there is action there is no peace. If the brain and body fatten, then there is peace. Kathleen and I have lived at peace, I siippoxe. I never said a word to her that mightn't ba put down in large type and pasted on my tombetone, and she never said a word to me — till to-day— that waan't like a water-colour picture. Not till to-day, in a moment's strife and trouble, did 1 ever get near her. And we've lived in peace. Peace? Where is the right kind of peace ? Over there is old Sainton. He married a rich woman, he has had the platter of plenty before him al- ways, he wears ribbons and such like baubles given by the Queen, but his son had to flee the country. There's Herring. He doesn't sleep because his daughter is going to marry an Italian count There's Lutouche. His place in the cabinet is begotten in corruption, in the hotbed of faction war. There's Kenealy. His wife has led him a dance of deep damnation ! There's the lot of them— every one, not an ounce of peace among them, except with old Casson, who weighs eighteen stone, lives like a pig, grows stuffier in mind and body every day, and drinks half a bottle of whisky every night There's no one else — yes, there is 1 " He was looking at a small black-robed figure with clean- shaven face, white hair, and shovel-hat, who passed slowly along the wooden walk beneath, with meditative content in his face. ^ " There's peace," he said with a laugh. " I've known Father Hallon for twenty-five years, and no man ever worked so hard, ever saw more trouble, ever shared other people's bad luck more than he ; ever took the bit in his teeth, when it was a matter of duty, stronger than he ; and yet there's peace ; he has it ; a peace that passes all understanding— mine anyhow. I've never had a minute's real peace. The World, or Nature, or God, or It, what- ever the name is, owes me peace. And how is It to give It? Why, by answering my questions. Now it's a cunous thing that the only person I ever met who could answer any questions of mine— answer them in the way ' PEACE, PEAOK, AND THERE 18 NO PKACF. ! 43 that Batigfles — ia Suzon. She works (hinga down to phrases. 8he has wisdom in the raw, and a real grip on life, and yet all the men she has known have Men river-drivers and farmers, and a few men from town who mistook the sort of Suzon she is. Virtuous and straight, she's a born child of Aphrodite too — b} nature. She wus made for love. A thousand years a<;o she would have had a thousand loves ! And she thinks the world is a inagnificent place, and she loves it, and wallows — fairly wallows — in content. Now which is right: Snzon or Father Hallon — Aphrodite or the Nazarene ? Which is peace — as the bird and the beast uf the Held get it — the fallow futile content, or " He suddenly stopped, hiccoughed, then hurriedly draw- ing paper before him, he sat down. For an hour he wrote. It grew darker. He pushed the table nearer the window, and the singing of the choir in the church came in upon him as his pen seemed to etch words into the paper, firm, eccentric, meaning. What he wrote that evening has been preserved, and the yellow sheets lie loosely in a black despatch-box which contains the few records Charley Steele left behind him. What he wrote that night was the note of his mind, the key to all those strange events through which he began to move two hours after the lines were written : — Over thy face is a veil of white sea-mist, Only thine eyes shine like stars ; bless or blight me, I will hold close to the leash at thy wrist, Aphrodite ! Thou in the East and I here in the West, Under our newer skies purple and pleasant ; Who shall decide which is better— attest, Saga or peasant t Thou with Serapis, Osiris, iiud Isix, I with Jehovah, in vapours and shadows ; Thou with the guds' jov-euhancing devices, Sweet-smeiltng meadows ! Wliat is there given us ? — Food and some raiment, Toiling to reach to some Patmian haven, Giving up all for uncertain repayment, Feeding the raven 1 44 THE niOHT OF WAT Striving to peer tliiough the infinite aziirr-. Alternate turning to earth iiard and fallini; Measuring life with Daniastian measure, Finite, appalling. What does it matter ! They passed who with Homer i'oured out the wine at the feet of tlieir idols • Passing, what found they ? To-come a misnomer It and their idols? Sacristan, acolyte, player, or prei.cher, Each to his office, but who holds the key 1 Death, only death— thou, the ultimate teacher Will show it to me. And when the forts and the barriers fall, Shall we then find One the true, the almighty Wisely to speak with the worst of us all— Ah, Aphrodite 1 Waiting, I turn fr<«n the futile, the human, Gone is the life of me, laughing with youth- Steals to learn all in the face of a woman. Mendicant Truth I Rising with a bitter laugh, and murmuring the last lines, he thrust the papers into a drawer, locked it and going quickly from the room, he went downstairs. His horse and cart were waiting for him, and he got in. The groom looked at him inquiringly. " The Cote Dorion!" he said, and they sped away throuoh the CHAPTER VIII THE COST OF THE OBNAMENT One, two, three, four, five, six miles. The sharp click of the iron hoofs on the road ; the strong rush of the river ; the sweet smell of the maple and the pungent balsam; the dank rich odour of the cedar swamp ; the cry of the loon from the water; the flau;ing crane in the fishing- boat ; the fisherman, spear in hand, staring into the dark waters tinged with sombre red ; the • Mce of a lonely- settler keeping time to the ping of the axe as, lengthening out his day to nightly weariness, he felled a tree ; i iver- drivers' camps spotted along the shore; huge cribs or rafts which had swung down the great stream for scores of miles, the immense oars motionless, the little houses on the timbers blinking with light; and from cheerful raftsmen coming the old familiar song of the rivers — "En roulaiit, ma boule roulant. En nmlant ma biiult !" Not once had Charley Steele turned his head as the horse sped on. His face was kept straight along the line of the road; he seemed not to see or to hear, to be un- responsive to sound or scene. The monocle at his eye was like a veil to hide the soul, a defence against inquiry, itself the unceasing question, a sort of battery thrown forward, a kind of field-casemate for a lonely besieged spirit. It was full of suggestion. It might have been the glass behind which showed some mcdiieval relic, the body of some ancient Egyptian king whose life had been spent in doing wonders and making signs — the primitive, an- thropomorphic being. He might have been a stone man. 46 THE RIGHT OF WAY for any motion that he made. Yet looking at him closely you would have seen discontent in the eye, a kind of glaze of the sardonic over the whole face. What is the good ? the face asked. What is there worth doing? it said. What a limitless futility! it urged, fain to be contradicted too, as the grim melan- choly of the figure suggested. "To be an animal and soak in the world," he thought to himself—" that is natural ; and the unnatural is civili- sation, and the cheap adventure of the mind into fields of baffling speculation, lighted by the flickering intelligences of dead speculators, whose seats we have bought in the stock-exchange of mortality, and exhaust our lives in paying for. To eat, to drink, to lie fallow, indifferent to what comes after, to roam like the deer, and to fight like the tiger " He came to a dead stop in his thinking. " To fight like the tiger!" He turned his head quickly now to where upon a raft some river-drivers were singing : "And when a man in tlie fight goes down, Why, we will carry him home ! " "To fight like the tiger!" Ravage— the struggle to possess from all the world what one wished for one's self, and to do it without mercy and without fear — that was the clear plan in the primitive world, where action was more than speech and dominance than knowledge. Was not civilisation a mistake, and religion the insinuating de- lusion designed to cover it up ; or, if not designed, accepted by the original few who saw that humanity could not turn back, and must even go forward with illusions, lest in mere despair all men died and the world died with them? His eyes wandered to the raft where the men were singing, and he remembered the threat made : that if he came again to the Cote Dorion he " would get what for! " He remembered the warning of Rouge Gosselin conveyed by Jolicoeur, and a sinister smile crossed over his face. The contradictions of his own thoughts came home to him suddenly, for was it not the case that his physical strength THE COST OF THE ORNAMENT 47 alone, no matter what his skill, would be of small service to him in a dark comer of contest? Primitive ideas could only hold in a primitive world. His real weapon was his brain, that which civilisation had given him in lieu of primitive prowess and the giant's strength. They had come to a long piece of corduroy-road, and the horse's hoofs struck rumbling hollow sounds from the floor of cedar logs. There was a swamp on one side where iire-flies were flickering, and there flashed into Charley Steele's mind some verses he had once learned at school : " They made her a grave too cold and damp For a soul ao warm and true " It kept repeating itself in his brain in a strange dreary monotone. "Stop the horse. I'll walk the rest of the way," he said presently to the groom. •' You needn't come for me, Finn ; I'll walk back as far as the Mardchal Tavern. At twelve sharp I'll be there. Give yourself a drink and some supper"— he put a dollar into the man's hand— " and no white whisky, mind : a bottle of beer and a lee of mutton, that's the thing ! " He nodded his head, and by the light of the moon walked away smartly down the corduroy-road through the shadows of the swamp. Finn the groom looked after him. " Well, if he ain't a queer dick ! A reg'lar 'centric— but a reg'lar brick, cutting a wide swath as he goes ! He's a tip-topper ; and he's a sort of tough too— a sort of a kind of a tough. "Well, it's none of my business. Get up ! " he added to the horse, and turning round in the road with difficulty, he drove back a mile to the Tavern Marshal for his beer and mutton — and white whisky. Charley stepped on briskly, his shining leather shoes, straw hat, and light cane in no good keeping with his surroundings. He was thinking that he had never been in such a mood for talk with Suzon Charlemagne. Charle- magne's tavern of the C6te Dorion was known over half a province, and its patrons carried news of it half across a continent. Suzon Charlemagne— a girl of the people, a tavern-girl, a friend of sulking, coarse river-drivers! 48 THE BIGHT OF WAY n 1 But she had an alert precision of brain, an instinct that clove through wastes of mental underbrush to the tree of knowledge. Her mental sight was as keen and accurate as that which runs along the rifle-barrel of the great hunter with the red deer in view. Suzon Charle- magne no company for Charley Steele? What did :t matter! He had entered into other people's lives to-day, had played their games with them and for them, and now ho would play his own game, live his own life in his own way through the rest of this day. He thirsted for some sort of combat, for the sharp contrasts of life, for the common and the base; he thirsted even for the white whisky against which he had warned his groom. He was reckless— not blindly, but wilfully, wildly reckless, caring not at all what fate or penalty might come his way. " What do I care ! " he said to himself. " I shall never squeal at any penalty. I shall never say in the great round-up that I was weak and I fell I'll take my gruel expecting it, not fearing it — if there is to be any gruel anywhere, or any round-up anywhere ! " A figure suddenly appeared coming round the bend of the road before him. It was Kouge Gosselin. Rouge Gosselin was inclined to speak. Some satanio whim or malicious foppery made Charley stare him blankly in the face. The monocle and the stare stopped the bon soir and the friendly warning on Bouge Gosselin's tongue, and the pilot passed on with a muttered oath. Gosselin had not gone far, however, before he suddenly stopped and laughed outright, for at the bottom he had great good-nature, in keeping with his " six-foot " height, and his temper was friendly if quick. It seemed so absurd, so audacious, that a man could act like Charley Steele, that he at once became interested in the pheno- menon, and followed slowly after Charley, saying as he went, " Tiens ! there will bo things to watch to-night ! " Before Charley was within five hundred yards of the tavern he could hear the laughter and song coming from the old seigneury which Thtephile Charlemagne called now the C6te Dorion Hotel, after the name given to the THE COST OF THE ORNAMENT 49 point on which the house stood. Low and wid«-roofed wi 1 dormer windows and a wide stoop in front, and walls three feet thick, behind, on the river side, it hung over the water, its narrow veranda supported by piles! with steps down to the water-side. Seldom was there an hour when boats were not tied to these steps. Summer and winter the tavern was a place of resort. Inside the low celling the broad rafters, the great fireplace, the well-worn floor, the deep windows, the wooden cross let into the wall, and the varied and picturesque humanity frequenting this great room, gave i, an air of romance Yet there were people who called the tavern a shebang —slander as it was against Suzon Charle- magne, which every river-driver and woodsman and /^abdant who frequented the place would have resented with violence. It was because they thought Charley Steele slandered the girl and the place in his mind, that the nver-drivers had sworn they would make it hot for hini if he came again. Charley was the last man in the world to undeceive them bv words When he coolly walked into the "great room, where a half-dozen of them wero already assembled, drinkin.' white whisky-wine," he had no intention of setting himself right. He raised his hat cavalierly to Suzon and shook hands with her. He took no notice of the men around him. ■• Brandv please! he said. 'Why do I drink, do you say?" he added, as Suzon placed the bottle and glass before him She was silent for an instant, then she said gravely lerhaps because you like it; perhaps because somethim' was left out of you when you were made, and " She paused and went no further, for a red-shin ed river- driver with brass rings in his ears came close to them and cal ed gruflly for whisky. He glowered at Charley, who looked at him indolently, then raised his glass towards ouziiu and drank the brandy. " rish ! " said Ked Shirt, and, turning round, joined his comrades. It was clear he wanted a pretext to (|U:irrel. ^ '• I'erhaps becau.se you like it ; perhaps becan.so .sorne- D 50 THE RIGHT OF WAY thing was left out of you when you were made!" ■ 'arley smiled pleasantly as Suzon came over to him ugain. "You've answered the question," he said, "and struck the thing at the centre. Which is it? The difficulty to decide which has divided the world. If it's only a physical craving, it means that we are materialists naturally, and that the soil from which the grape came is the soil that's in us; that it is the body feeding on itself all the time ; that like returns to like, and we live a little together, and then mould together for ever and ever, amen. If it isn't a natural craving — like to like — it's a proof of immortality, for it represents the wild wish to forget the world, to be in another medium. I am only viyself when I am drunk. Liquor makes me human. At other times I'm only Charley Steele ! Now isn't it funny, this sort of talk here ? " "I don't know about that," she answered, "if, as you say, it's natural. This tavern's the only place I have to think in, and what seems to you funny is a sort of ordinary fact to me." " Bight again, ma helU Suzon. Nothing's incongruous. I've never felt so much like singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs as when I've been drinking. I re- member the last time I was squiffy I sang all the way home that old nursery hymn — • On the other aide of Jordan, In the sweet fields of Eden, Where the tree of life is blooming, There is rest for you. There is rest for the weary, there is rest for the weary, There is rest for the weary, There is rest for you I ' " " I should have liked to hear you sing it — sure ! " said Suzon, laughing. Charley tossed off a quarter-tumbler of brandy, which, instead of flushing the face, seemed only to deepen the whiteness of the skin, showing up more brightly the spots of colour in the cheeks, that white and red which had made him known as Beauty Steele. With a whimsical THE COST OF THE ORNAMENT 51 "w oy anuK. but full of a curious magnetism— " On the other side of Jordan » had sworn he wot?d "o fof Clfarlev 87^1^ "' ''^l'" crossed his path Charley Steele if ever he " On the other side of Jordan, In the sweet Belds of Eden, Wher „he ee of life is blooming. There is rest for you I " was m a mental world created by drink s^ene^Wr' eyed, m which his brain worked I kt' »!'■ -Jf' 63 THE BIUBT OF WAY •wakened, that it supplied the thing left out of him at birth) " There m re«t for the we iry, There is rest (or the weary, ^ There i« rar for the weary, There ia rest for you ! " One, two verses he sang as the men, at first snorting and scornful, shuffled angrily; then Jake Hough, the English horse-doctor, roared in the refrain : " There is rest for the weary, There is rest for you I " Upon which, Tarried away, every one of them roared, gurgled, or shouted : " There is rest for the weary. There is rest for you ! " Bouge Gosselin, who had entered during the singing, now spoke up quickly in French : "A sermon now, m'sieu' ! " Charley took his monocle out of his eye and put it bock again. Now each man present seemed singled out for an attack by this little battery of glas& He did not reply diwctly to Bouge Gosselin, but standing perfectly still, with one hand resting on the counter at which Suzon stood, he prepared to speak, Suzon did not attempt to stop him now, but gazed at him in a sort of awe. These men present were Catholics, and held religion in superstitious respect, however far from practising its precepts. Many of them had been profane and blasphemous in their time ; may have sworn " Sacri BapUine I " one of the worst oaths of their race ; but it had been done in the wildness of anger, and they were little likely to endure from Charley Steele any word that sounded like blasphemy. Besides, thi^ world said that he was an infidel, and that was enough for bitter prejudice. In the pause — very short — before Charley began speak- ing, Suzoii's fingers stole to his on the counter and pressed them quickly. He made no response ; he was scarcely THE COST OP THE ORNAMENT 53 aware of it. He was in u kind of dream. In an even, conversational tone, in French at once idiomatic and very simple, he began : ' "My dear friends, this is a world where men get tired If they work they get tired, and if they play they get tired If they look straight ahead of them they walk straight, but then they get blind by-and-by; if they look round them and get open-eyed, their feet stumble and they fall. It is a world of contradictions. If a man dnnks much he loses his head, and if he doesn't drink at all he loses heart. If he asks questions he gets into trouble, and if he doesn't ask them he gets old before his time. Take the hymn we have just sung— ' On the other side of Jordan, In the sweet fields of Eden, Where the tree of life is blooming, There is rest for you ! ' We all like that, because we get tired, and it isn't always summer, and nothing blooms all the year round We get up early and we work late, and we sleep hard and when the weather is good and wages good, and there's plenty in the house, we stay sober and we sadly sing, ' On the oWier side of Jordan ' ; but when the weather's heavy and funds scarce, and the pork and molasses and bread come hard, we get drunk, and we sing the comic chanson Jirtgadwr, vous avez raison I ' We've been singing a sad song to-night when we're feeling happy. We didn't think whether it was sad or not, we only knew it pleased our ears, and we wanted those sweet fields of Eden, and the blooming tree of life, and the rest under the tree But ask a question or two. Where is the other side of Jordan ? Do you go up to it, or down to it ? And how do you go? And those sweet fields of Eden, what do they look like, and how many will they hold ? Isn't it clear that the things that make us happiest in this world are the things we go for blind ? " He paused. Now a dozen men came a step or two nearer, and crowded close together, looking over each other's shoulders at him with sharp, wondering eyes. S4 THE RIGHT OF WAY in " Isn't that so 7 " he continued. " Do you realise that no man knows where that Jordan and those fields are, and what the flower o( the tree of life looks like ? Let us ask a question again. Why is it that the one being in all the world who could tell us anything about it, the one being who had ever seen Jordan or Eden or that tree of life — in fact, the one of all creation who could descrilje heaven, never told? Isn't it queer? Here he was that one man — standing just as I am among you, and round him were the men who followed him, all ordinary men, with ordinary curiosity. And he said he had come down from heaven, and for years they were with him, and yet they never asked him what that heaven was like: what it looked like, what it felt like, what sort of life they lived there, what manner of folk were the angels, what was the appearance of God. Why didn't they ask, and why didn't he answer? People must have kept asking that question afterwards, for a man called John answered it. He described, as only an oriental Jew would or could, a place all precious stones and gold and jewels and candles, in oriental lan- guage very splendid and auriferous. But why didn't those twelve men ask the One Man who knew, and why didn't the One answer ? And why didn't the One tell without being asked ? " He paused again, and now there came a shuffling and a murmuring, a curious rumble, a hard breathing, for Charley had touched with steely finger the tender places in the natures of these Catholics, who, whatever their lives, held fast to the immemorial form, the sacredness of Mother Church. They were ever ready to step into the galley which should bear them all home, with the invisible rowers of God at the oars, down the wild rapids, to the haven of St. Peter. There was savagery in their faces now ; there was peril for Charley Steela He saw, and he could not refrain from smiling as he stretched out his hand to them again with a little quiet- ing gesture, and continued soothingly : "But why should we ask? There's a thing called electricity. Well, you know that if you take a slice out THE COST OF THE ORNAMENT 56 of anything, less remains behind. We can Uke the air out of this room, and scarcely leave any in it We take a drink out of a bottle, and cerUinly there isn't as much left in It I But the queer thing is that with this elec- tnoity you take it away and just as much remains. It goes out from your toe, rushes away to Timbuctoo, and is back in your toe before you can wink. Why 1 No one knows. What's the good of asking ? You can't see it : you can only see what it does. What good would it do us if we knew all about it ? There it is, and it's going to revolutionise the world. It's no good oskii,-— no one knows what it is and where it comes from, or what it looks like. It's better to go it blind, because you feel the power, though you cant see where it comes from. You can't tell where the fields of Eden are, but you believe they're somewhere, and that you'll get to them some day. So say your prayers, believe all you can, don t ask questions, and don't try to answer 'em ; and' remember that Charley Steele preached to you the fear of the Lord at the Cote Dorion, and wound up the service with the fine old hymn, ' I'll away, I'll away, to the proiniied land ! '" A whole verse of this camp-meeting hymn he sang in an ominous silence now, for it had crept into their minds that the hymn they had previously sung so loudly was a Protestant hymn, and that this was another Protestant hymn of the rankest sort. When he stopped singing and pushed over his glass for Suzon to fill it, the crowd were noiseless and silent for a moment, for the spell was still on them. They did not recover themselves until they saw him lift his glass to Suzon, his back on them, attain insolently oblivious of them all. They could not see" his face, but they could see the face of Suzon Charlemagne and they misunderstood the light in her eye, the flush on her cheek. They set it down to a personal interest in Charley Steele. Charley had, however, thrown a spell over her m another fashion. In her eye, in her face, was admiration the sympathy of a strong intelligence, the wonder of a 66 TMK IIKIHT OF WAY iiiiml in tlio prtwencc of its jnaster, but they tliought they saw pussion, love, desire, in her face— in the face of their Suzon, the pride of the river, tlie flower of tlie Cole JJorioii. Not alone Iwcause Charley had blasphemed ftSainst religion, did they hate him at this nionieiit, but because every heart was scorched with envy and jealousy —the black uureasoniiij; jealousy which the iiiiicttere«i, the dull, tlie crude, feels for the lettered, the able, and the outwardly refined. Charley was back again in the unfriendly cliniale «f his natural life. Suzon felt the troubled air round tliem, saw the dark looks on the faces of the men, nnd was at once afraid and elated. She loved the alow of excite- nient, she had a keen sense of danger, but slio also felt that in any possible trouble to-night the chances of escape would be small for the man before her. He pushed out his glass again. She mechanically poured brandy into it. "You've had more than enough," she said, in ii low voice. "Every man knows his own capacity, Suzon. Love me little, love me long ! " he added, again raising his glass to her, as the men behind suddenly moved forward upon the bar. " Don't — for God's sake ! " she whispered hastily. " I )o go — or there'll be trouble ! " The black face of Th^ophile Chnrlpniagne was also turned anxiously in Charley's direction as he pushed out glasses for those who called for liquiir. " Oh. do, do go— like a good soul ! " Siiznn urged. Charley laughed disdainfully. "Like a good soul!" Had it come to this, that Suzon pleaded with him as if he were a foolish, obstreperous child ! " Faithless and unbelieving ! " hw said to Suzon in hnghsh. "Didn't I play my game well a minute ago— eh-eh-eh, Suzon ? " " Oh, yes, yes, m'sieu'," she replied in English ; " but now you are differen' and so are they. You must go— ah, so, you must ! " He laughed again, a cjueer sardonic sort of laugh, yet THE COST OP THE ORNAMENT 57 he put out his Imiid uiid toii.licd tin- ^riil'H ft,,,, )ijrl,t|v with a forefinger. " 1 am u yuukcr born ; I never gtir till the spirit move* lue," he suid. He scented conflict, and his spirit* rose at the thought. Some reckless demon of adventure possessed him ; sonic fatalistic courage was upon him. So far as the oyc could see, tlie liquor he had drunk had done no more than darken the blue of his eye, for his hand was steady, his body was well poised, his look was direct; thtrr seemed some strange electric force in leash Iwhiiid his fu' i . a watchful yet nonchalant energy of spirit, joined to iii. indolent pose of body. As the girl looked at him son,.- tliing of his unreckoning courage passed into her. Si u f how she believed in him, felt that by some wild cliaii. p he might again conquer this truculent element now almost surrounding him. She spoke quickly to her step-father. " He won't go. What can we do ? " " You go, and he'll follow," said Thiophile, who didn't want a row — a dangerous row — in his house. "No, he won't," she said; "and I don't believe they'd let him follow me." There was no time to say more. The crowd were in- sistent and restless now. They seemed to have a plan of campaign, and they began to carry it out. First one. then another, brushed roughly against Charley. Cool and collected, he refused to accept the insults. " Pardon," he said, in each case ; " I am very awkward." He smiled all the time ; he seemed waiting. The pui-li- ing and crowding became worse. "Don't mention it," he said. " You should learn how to carry your liquor in your legs." Suddenly he changed from apology to attack. He talked at them with a cheerful scorn, a deprecating impertinence, as though they were children; he chiiied them with patient imprecations. This confused them for a moment and cleared a small space around him. There was no defiance in his aspect, no aggressiveness of manner ; he was as quiet as though it were a drawing-room and he' a master of monologues. He hurled original epithets at them in well-cadenced French, he called them what he 58 THE RIGHT OF WAY i listed, but in language which half-veiled the insults— the more infuriating to his hearers because they did not per- fectly understand. Suddenly a low-set fellow, with brass rings in his ears, pulled off his coat and threw it on the floor. "I'll eat your heart!" he said, and rolled up blue sleeves along a hairy arm. "My child," said Charley, "be careful what you eat. Take up your coat again, and learn that it is only dogs that delight to bark and bite. Our little hands were never made to tear each other's eyes." The low-set fellow made a rush forward, but Bouge Gosselin held him back. "No, no, Jongon," he said. " I have the oldest grudge." Jougon struggled with Rouge Gosselin. " Be good, Jougon," said Charley. As he spoke a heavy tumbler flew from the other side of the room. Charley saw the missile thrown and dodged. It missed his temple, but caught the rim of his straw hat, carrying it off his head, and crashed into a lantern hanging against the wall, putting out the light The room was only lighted now by another lantern on the other side of the room. Charley stooped, picked up his hat, and put it on his head again coolly. "■■^^top that, or I'll clear the bar!" cried Th^ophile Charlemagne.taking the pistol Suzon slipped into his hand. The sight of the pistol drove the men wild, and more than one snatched at the knife in his belt. At that instant there pushed forward into the clear space beside Charley Steele the great figure of Jake Hough, the horse-doctor, the strongest man, and the most popular Englishman on the river. He took his stand by Charley, raised his great hand, smote him in the small of his back, and said : "By the Lord, you have sand, and I'll stand by you I " ' Under the friendly but heavy stroke the monocle shot from Charley's eye the length of the string. Charley lifted it again, put it up, and staring hard at Jake, coolly said: ' THE COST OF THE ORNAMENT 59 "I beg your pardon — but have I ever — been intro- duced to you ? " What unbelievable indifference to danger, what dis- dain to friendliness, made Charley act as he did is a matter for speculation. It was throwing away his one chance; it was foppery on the scaffold— an incorrigible affectation or a relentless purpose. Jake Hough strode forward into the crowd, rage in his eye. " Go to the devil, then, and take care of yourself ! " he said roughly. " Please," said Charley. They were the last words he uttered that night, for suddenly the other lantern went out, there was a rush and a struggle, a mufHed groan, a shrill woman's voice, a scramble and hurrying feet, a noise of a something splashing heavily in the water outside. When the lights were up again the room was empty, save for Th^ophile Charlemagne, Jake Hough, and Suzon, who lay in a faint on the floor with a nasty bruise on her forehead. A score of river-drivers were scattering into the coun- try-side, and somewhere in the black river, alive or dead, was Charley Steele. CHAPTER IX OLD DEBTS FOR NEW Jo PoBTUGAis was breaking the law of the river— he was running a httle raft down the stream at nighrLstead^ sn3;L:'/""K"'' '";V'""uP'°S °° '^' «hor4, or sTtLg hAtn^Tf^*- \'^' ""le wooden caboose of nis raft. But defiance of custom and tradition wa« a habit with Jo PoEtugais. He had lived in hk own «^y many a year, and he was likely to do so till the end though he was a young man yet. He had many profes- P&° hiI''"Hr"^ «'''^' r*'"'' '^^ practiseWit pleased him. He was nver-driver. woodsman, hunter carpenter, guide, as whim or opportunity came to h nl* £^±r"""«7''"' Charley Steele met with his mi h^ he was a river-driver-or so it seemed. He had been ud the nver a hundred and fifty miles, and he hadcome down stream alone with his rafl^which in the usual course should take two men to guide it-through rUdes over rapids, and in strong currents. Defying thf code of he rrn''//'"' .T^^ "'^f *■"*" '^=*'* »' ">« refr of his mf t he can.e down the swift current towards his home, which when he arrived opposite the C6te Uorion, was still a hundred miles below. He had watched the lights in the nver-dnvcrs camps, had seen the men beside^ te fires and had drifted on. with no temptation to join inlhe tents of the jugs raised to boisterous lips, or to thrust jus^^hand into the greasy cooking-pot for a snc^uLnt taA?rn'^"H!i?h '""" ^l """"•" "PP^'''^ Charlemagne's taAern. Here the current carried him inshore. He saw the dim light, he saw dark figures in the bar-room, he OLD DEBTS FOR NEW 61 even got a glimpse of Suzon Charlemagne. He dropped the house behind quickly, but locked back, leaning on the oai and thmking how swift was the rush of the current last the tavern. His eyes were on the tavern door and the light shining through it. Suddenly the light dis- appeared, and the door vanished into darkness. He heard a scuffle, and then a heavy splash. "There's trouble there!" said Jo Portugaia, straininc h.8 eyes through the night, for a kind of low roar, dwind- ling to a loud whispering, and then a noise of hurryine feet, aime down the stream, and he could dimly see paths ^"'^^ running away into the night by different " Some dirty work, very sure ! " said Jo Portugais, and his eyes travelled back over the dark water like I h.;ix's for the splash was in his ear, and a sort of prescience possessed him. He could not stop his raft. It must go fTstenrd" •=""^n'' ""^ be swerved to the shore, to be •' God knows, it had an ngly sound ! " said Jo Portugais and again strained his eyes and ears. He shifted his position and took another oar, where the raft-lantern might not throw a reflection upon the water. He saw a light shine again through the tavern doorway, then a dark object block the light, and a head thrust forward towards the river as though listening. At this moment he fancied he saw somethincr in the water nearing him. He stretched his neck. Yes there was something. ' "Its a man God save us! was it murder?" said Jo 1 ortugaia, and shuddered. " Was it murder ? " The body moved more swiftly than the raft. There was a hand thrust up — two hands. " He's alive ! ' said Jo Portugais, and, hurriedly pullino^ round his waist a rope tied to a timl-er, jumped into the water. Three minutes later on the raft he was examinine'™e« Jo went down to the village below, and then, at first, he locked the Hnnr of the house behind him upon Charley tanst this Charley made no motion and said no word, butTt Lntlv awaited Jc's return. So it was that, at last. Jo made no attempt to lock the door, but with a nod ir a g"od b^e left him alone. When Charley saw him return Whp wou d go to meet h,m. and shake hands wthC^and Bay "Good-day," and then would come in with him and help hira get supper or do the work of the house bmce Charley came no one had visited the house, for 66 THE RIGHT OF WAY there were no paths beyond it, iiid no one came to the VaJrome Mountain, save by chance. But after two months had gone the Cur^ came. Twice a year the Cur^ made it a point to visit Jo in the interests of his soul, though the visits came to little, for Jo never went to confession, and seldom to mass. On thJ!' '- ucasion the Cur^ arrived when Jo was out in the wcnUi. He dis- covered Charley. Charley made no ansv. r to his astonished and friendly greeting, but watch '...ux with a wide-eyed anxiety till the Cur^ seated hi xjit at the door to await Jo's coming. Presently, as ! d sat there, Charley, who had studied his face as a child studies the unfamiliar face of a stranger, brought him a bowl of bread and milk and put it in his hands. The Curd smiled and thanked 'him, and Charley smiled in return and said, " It is very good." As the Cur^ ate, Charley watched him with satisfaction, and nodded at him kindly. When Jo came he lied to the Cur^. He said he had found Charley wandering in the woods, with a wound in his head, and had brought him home with him and cared for him. Forty miles away he had found him. The Cai6 was perplexed. What was there to do ? He believed what Jo said. So far as he knew, Jo had never lied to him before, and he thought he understood Jo's interest in this man with the look of a child and no memory : Jo's life was terribly lonely ; he had no one to care for, and no one cared for him ; here was what might comfort him ! Through this helpless man might come a way to Jo's own good. So he argued with himself. What to do ? Tell the story to the world by writing to the newspaper at Quebec? Jo pooh-poohed this. Wait till the man's memory came back ? Would it come back — what chanco was there of its ever coming back ? Jo said that they ought to wait and see — wait awhile, and then, if his memory did not return, they would try to find hia friends, by publishing his story abroad. Chaudiire was far from anywhere : it knew little of the world, and the world knew naught of it, and this was a large problem for the Cur^. Perhaps Jo was right, he THE WAY IN AND THE WAY OUT 67 thought. The man was being well cared for and whAf more could be wished at the moment^ The Cu^ was » coufd .^^w n""* "''1° "^""^eed that if the atk man tould get well anywhere in the world it would be at Iridrr, ,"""?''";; ^''"""•'*™' 'he Cure's mrc^hia &^ alJ^^w"'"^' ""•'^ *}'.*'"' "^"^y t" believe alFjo sdS not i^f^^ TT ' • ^°^ "l""^"' 'hat the village should nnL f ,°*" •^°«'n and prayed, "for the good of this poor mortal's soul and body " »vi^' he prayed, Charley knelt down Jso, and kept his M. Loisel, whose grey huir, thin peaceful face, and daA brown eyes made a noble pictu-Tof patienc'e and de BoSre *" rnn'tf '"^^ ^'"^ ^^ 't" ^'""^- """nnuring in gooa-bve, God be gracious to thee, my son" Charlpv fiSe tilHt^'"'"''^ r^- ?« '^"'^hed' the'depS^ figure till It disappeared over the crest of the hill ^ This day marked an epoch in the solitude of the hut rJo^"'"^^""""''"- •'" had an inspiration. He got a second set of carpenter's tools, and straightway bein o? tools t'oriT r"* '"^^^ ''°"^^- He gave the eLafe" of tools to Charley with an encouraging word. For the Sot r;',""!''', ^"^ ^"^ broughfhfre. Charley" faS took o,, .look of interest. In half-an-hour he was at c'r^ft' ^Sfild"' ^T"f.'- I"'' l"''^"^ learning'the craft He seldom spoke, but he sometimes laughed a mirthful natural boy's laugh of good spirits and content- fnH tf T '''"' ^t^ ^^ •'"«^''^' i° 'hings increased and before two months went round, while yet it waslate aiauirn. he looked in perfect health. He ate modmte'y drank a^-reat deal of water, and slept half the circle o the c ock each day. His skin was like silk; the colour of his face was as that of an apple; he was more than ever Beauty Steele The Cure came two or th" e tim^ nnH n. ? '^''^ '° b'"^ "^"^ "^^^^ ''«W conversation nor d7he h'""'""'"" '^%n' '''' ^'^''^ his tongue,' nn! H . .u""^ '"""'"'•" °f "hat was said to him from one day to the next. A hundred w.ys Jo had tried IH 68 THE niOHT or WAY I I rouse hi» memory. But the words Cote Dorian had no meaning to him, and he listened blankly to all names and phrases once so familiar. Yet he spoke French and English in a slow, passive, involuntary way. All was automatic, mechanical. The weeks again wore on, and aututnn liecanie winter, and then at lust one day the Curu ranic, bringing his brother, a great rarisinn surgeon lately arrived from France on a short visit. The Curi! had told his brother the story, and had been met by a keen, astonished interest in the unknown man on Vadrome Mountain. A slight pressure on the brain from accident had before now pro- duced loss of memory — the great man's professional curiosity was arouse'd: he saw a nice piece of surgical work ready to his hand ; he asked to be taken to Vadrome Mountain. Now the Curd had lived long out of the world, and was not in touch with the swift-minded action and adventur- ing intellects of such men as his brother. Marcel Loisel. Was it not tempting Providence, a surgical operation ? He was so used to people getting ill and getting well without a doctor — the nearest was twenty miles distant — or getting ill and dying in what seemed a natural and preordained way, that to cut open a man's head and look into his brain, and do this or that to his skull, seemed almost sinful. Was it not better to wait and see if the poor man would not recover in God's appointed time ? In answer to his sensitively eager and diverse ques- tions, Marcel Loisel replied that his dear Curd was merely medisBval, and that he had sacrificed his mor.ia) powers on the altar of a simple faith, which might remove moun- tains but was of no value in a case like, this, where, clearly, surgery was the only providence. At this the Cure got to his feet, came over, laid his hand on his brother's shoulder, and said, with tears in his eyes : "Marcel, you shock me. Indeed you shock me!" Then he twisted a knot in his cassock cords, and added : "Come then, Marcel. We will go to him. And may God guide us aright ! " THE WAY IN AND THE WAY OUT «!» arome MounUm, and there they found Charlev at wn. I, IL'h^'","" "~f """ "•« "">"»«» had buifr CharleJ nodded pleasantly when the Curd introduced hi. bmheT but showed no further interest at first. He W(^t on T"K^^ l*"^ ''"P'^"^ ""d" hi" hand lil Tap was had'wn'-fo'r'heT'/ 'L"lf- 'T^''^ where the w^o^fd and thenlin »h,. ^fii'"'^""' '"^^'"^ ^^e place now l-llj . S »''*''«='ed. sensitive motion— although he seemed to suffer no pain. The surgeon's eyTTfastened on h^%fr:,'fK^ " ^^"^'y worked and hisTotC talked he studied the man. the scar, the contour of the head At last he came up to Charley and softly placed h^ JSy.™ ''^ ''''■ '"""8 '"«*""• Ch'arfey'umeS There was something in the long piercine look of th« surgeon which seemed to come through Timitkss space to the sleeping and imprisoned men^ of Charry's ?^to ,"?""*■., Voaf^sed. anxious, half-fearful lo^kcrep HkL. 7"^' ^l"" t^"'- '' *■"• I'ke a troubled gh^s^t flitting along the boundaries of sight and sense and leaving a chiTl and a horrified wonder behind Th; sur geon gazed on, and the trouble in CharWs eye wTd to his face, stayrf an instant. Then he turned aCto nis iipg in the way he was wont to do in those countIp« &l:id'"The::""°"%r," T'"°"« of n^iiraw y people said. There goes Charley Steele ! " 1 am thirsty now," and that touch of the lip wi'h th« *°Tf IT * "'^elation to the sumeoa ^ A half-hour later he was walking homeward with thp Curd Jo accompanied them for t dis" Is tl ev emerged into the wider road-paths that began ha f-, ay down the mountain, the Curd, who had watched hU brothers face for a long time in silence, said? What 13 in your mind, Marcel ? " The surgeon turned with a half-smile. lie IS happy now. No memory, no conscience no pam, no responsibility, no trouble-nothing behind or before. Is it good to bring him back ? " » ''«'"°'* °>^ »«C»OC0PY KSOIUTION TBI CHAUT (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) A /APPLIED IIVMGE In aS^i 165J Cost Moin Street S-,^ Rocheater, New Torii 14609 USA r.^ ("6) 482 - 0300 - Phone bLZ (?'6) 288 - 5989 - Fo« 70 THE RIfiHT OF WAY The Cur^ had thought it all over, and he had wholly changed hia mind since that first talk with his brother. " To save a mind, Marcel ! " he said. " Then to save a soul ? " suggested the surgeon. " Would he thank me i " " It is our duty to save him." " Body and mind and soul, eh ? And if I look after the body and the mind ? " " His soul is in God's hands, Marcel." " But will he thank me ? How can you tell what sorrows, what troubles, he has had ? What struggles, temptations, sins ? He has none now, of any sort ; not a stain, physical or moral." " That is not life. Marcel." " Well, well, you have changed. This morning it was I who would, and you hesitated." " I see differently now, Marcel." The surgeon put a hand playfully on his brother's shoulder. " Did you think, my dear Prosper, that I should hesitate ? Am I a sentimentalist ? But what will he say ? " " We need not think of that. Marcel." " But yet suppose that with memory come again sin and shame — even crime ? " " We will pray for him." " But if he isn't a Catholic ? " " One must pray for sinners," said the Cur^, after a silence. This time the surgeon laid a hand on the shoulder of his brother attectionately. " Upon my soul, dear Prosper, you almost persuade me to be reactionary and medisevaL" The Cure turned half uneasily towards Jo, who was following at a little distance. This seemed hardly the sort of thing for him to hear. " You had better return now, Jo," he said. " As you wish, m'sieu'," Jo answered, then looked in- quiringly at the surgeon. " In about five days, Portugais. Have you a steady hand and a quick eye ? '' THE WAY IN AND THE WAY OUT 71 Jo spread oiit his hands in deprecation, and turned to the Lure, as though for him to answer. ' ■ Jo is something of a physician and surgeon too, Marcel He has a gift. He has cured many in the parish with his cessfuu""^' ''""""''^'' """^ ^^ ^^^ ^^ l«g^ a»d arms sue The surgeon eyed Jo humorously, but kindly. " He is probably as good a doctor as some of us. Medicine is a gift, surgery is a jjift and an art. You shall hear from me. Portugais. He looked again keenly at Jo. "You have not given him ' herbs and tinctures ' ? " " Nothing, m'sieu'." " Very sensible. Good-day, Portugais " "Good-day, my son," said the priest, and raised his Ws^ste s° ^*°^'^'"'°°' ^ J° '"""ned and quickly retraced "Why did you ask him if he had given the poor man any herbs or tinctures. Marcel ?" said the priest, them ""^^"^^ *ose quack tinctures have whisky in " What do you mean ? " "Whisky in any form would be bad for him" the surgeon answered evasively. But to himself he kept saying, "The man was a drunkard— he was a drunkard." ; n ' CHAPTER XI THE RAISING OF THE CURTAIN yi. Marcel Loiskl did his work with a jterly preci- sion, with the aid of his brother and Portu^'ais. The man under the instruments, not wholly insensible, groaned once or twice. Once or twice, too, his eyes opened with a dumb hunted look, then closed as with an irresistible weariness. When the work was over, and every stain or sign of surgery removed, sleep came down on the bed — a deep and saturating sleep, which seemed to till the room with peace. Por hours the surgeon sat beside the couch, now and again feeling the pulse, wetting the hot lips, touching the forehead with his palm. At last, with a look of satisfaction, he came forward to where Jo and the Cure sat beside the fire. " It is all right," he said. " Let him sleep as long as he will." He turned again to the bed. " I wish I could stay to see the end of it. Is there no chance, Prosper ? " he added to the priest. " Impossible, Marcel. You must have sleep. You have a seventy-mile drive before you to-morrow, and sixty the next day. You can only reach the port now by starting at daylight to-morrow." So it was that Marcel Loisel, the great surgeon, was compelled to leave Chaudiere before he knew that the memory of the man who had been under his knife had actually returned to him. He had, however, no doubt in his own Hii'id, and he was confident that there could be no physical harm from the operation. Sleep was the all- importani thing. In it lay the strength for the shock of the awakening — if awakening of memory there was to be. THE RAISIXli OF THE CUUTAIX 7:1 Before he left lie stooped over Charley and said inuaingly, " I wonder what you will wake up to, my friend r' Then he touched tlie wound with a lifht caressing finger. " It was well done, well done," he murmurea proudly. A moment afterwards he was hurrying down the hill to the open road, where a cariole awaited the Cure and himself. For a day and a half Charley slept, and Jo watched him as a mother might watch a child. Once or twice, becoming an.\iou8, because of the heavy breathing ar the motionless sleep, he had forced open the teeth, a. poured a little broth between. Just before dawn on the second morning, worn out and heavy with slumber, Jo lay down by the piled-up fip= and dropped into a sleep that wrapped him like a blanket, folded him away into a drenching darkness. For a time there was a deep silence, troubled only by Jo's deep breathing, which seemed itself like the pulse of the silence. Charley appeared not to be breathing at all. He was lying on his buck, seemingly lifeless. Suddenly on the snug silence there was a sharp sound. A tree outside snapped with the frost. Charley awoke. The body seemed not to awake, for it did not stir, but the eyes opened wide and full, lookin>' straight before them— straight up to the brown smoke" stained rafters, along which were ranged guns and fishing-tackle, axes and bear-traps. Full clear blue eyes, healthy and untired as a child's fresh from an all-night's drowse, they looked and looked. Yet, at first, the body did not stir ; only the mind seemed to be awakening, the soul creeping out from slumber into the day. Presently, however, as the eyes gazed, there crept into them 'a wonder, a trouble, an anxiety. For a moment they strained at the rafters and the crude weapons and im- plements there, then the body moved, quickly, eagerly, and turned to see the flickering shadows made by the' fire and the simple order of the room. A minute more, and Charley was sitting on the side of his couch, dazed and staring. This hut, this fire, the hi 74 THE RIGHT OF WAY t^<\ figure by the hearth in a sound sleep— his hand went to his head : it felt the bandage there ! He remembered now ! Last night at the C6te Dorion I Liist night he had talked with Suzon Charlemagne at the Cote iJorion; last night he had drunk harder than he had ever drunk in his life, he had defied, chaffed, insulted the river-drivers. The whole scene came back: the faces of Suzon and her father; Suzou's fingers on his for an instant; the glass of brandy beside him; the lanterns on the walls ; the hymn he sang ; the sermon he preached— he shuddered a little; the rumble of angry noises round him; the tumbler thrown; the crash of the lantern, and only one light left in the place ! Then Jake Hough and his heavy hand, the flying monocle, and his disdainful, insulting reply ; the sight of the pistol in the hand of Suzon's father ; then a rush, a darkness, and his own fierce plunge towards the door, beyond which were the stars and the cool night and the dark river. Curses, hands that battered and tore at him, the doorway reached and then a blow on the head and— falling, falling, falling,' and distant noises growing more distant, and saodcnh' and sweetly — absolute silence. Again he shuddered. Why? He remembered that scene in his office yesterday with Kathleen, and the one later with Billy. A sensitive chill swept all over him, making his flesh creep, and a flush sped over his face from chin to brow. To-day he must pick up all these threads again, must make things right for Billy, must replace the money he had stolen, must face Kathleen— again i.e shuddered. Was he at the Cote Dorion still ? He looked round him. No, this was not the sort of house to be found at the Cote Dorion. Clearly this was the hut of a hunter. Probably he had been fished out of the river by this woodsman and brought here. He felt his head. The wound was fresh and very sore. He had played for death, with an insulting disdain, yet here he was alive. Certainly he was not intended to be drowned or knifed —he remembered the knives he saw unsheathed— or kieked or pummelled into the hereafter ! It was about THE RAISrNO OF THK CURTAIN 75 ten o'clock when he had had his " accident "—he affected a smile, yet somehow he did not smile easily— it must be now about five, for here was the morning creeping in behind the deer-skin blind at the window. Strange that he felt none the worse for his niishaii, and his tongue was as clean and fresh as if he had been drinking milk last night, and not very doubtful brandy at the Cote Dorion. No fever in his hands, no headache, only the sore skull, so well and tightly bandaged— but a wonderful thirst, and an intolerable hunger. He smiled. When had he ever been hungry for breakfast before? Here he was with a fine appetite: it was like coals of fire heaped on his head by Nature for last night's business at the Cote Dorion. How true it was that penalties did not always come with— indiscretions. Yet, all at once, he flushed again to the forehead, for a curious sense of shame flashed through his whole being, and one Ciiarley Steele — the Charley Steele of this morning, an unknown, unadventuring, onlooking Charley Steele— was viewing' with abashed eyes the Charley Steele who had ended a doubtful career in the coarse and desperate proceedings of last night. With a nervous confusion he soufjht refuge in his eye-glass. His fingers fumbled over his waistcoat, but did not find it. The weapon of defence and attack, the symbol of interrogation and incompre- hensibility, was gone. Beauty Steele was under the eyes of another self, and neither disdain, nor contempt, nor the passive stare, were available. He got suddenly to his feet, and started forward, as though to find refuge from himself. The abrupt action sent the blood to his head, and feeling a blindness come over him, he put both hands up to his temples, and sank back on the couch, dizzv and faint. His motions waked Jo Portugais, who scrambled from the floor, and came towards him. "M'sieu'," he said, "you must not! You are faint!" He dropped his hands supportingly to Charley's shouldera Charley nodded, but did not yet look up. His head throbbed sorely. " Water — please ! " he said. ■6 THK HUIHT OF WA .' I 111 au insliiiit Jo was lieside him ajjuiu, with a bowl of fresh water at liis lips. He drank, drank, drank, until the jneat bowl was drained to the lust drop. " Whew ! That was good ! " he said, and looked up at .To with a smile. "Thank yon, my friend; I haven't the honour of your acquaintance, but " He stopped suddenly and stared at Jo. Inquiry, luystilication, were in his look. ■' Have I ever seen you before ? " he said. '■ Who knows, lu'sieu' ! " Since Jo had stood before Charley in the dock near six years ago he had greatly changed. The marks oi small- pox, a heavy beard, grey hair, and solitary life had altered him beyond Charley's recognition. Jo could hiirdly speak. His legs were trembling under him, for now he knew that Charley Steele was himself again. He was no longer the simple, quiet man-child of three days ago, and of these months past, but the man who had saved him fnnn hanging, to whom he owed a debt he dare not acknowledge. Jo's brain was in a muddle. Kow that the great crisis was over, now that the expected thing had come, and face to face with the cure, he had neither tongue, nor strength, nor wit. His words stuck in his throat where his heart was, and for a minute his eyes had a kind of mist before them. Meanwhile Charley's eyes were upor. him, curious, fixed, abstracted. " Is this your house ? " " It is, m'sieu'." "You fished me out of the river by the Cote Dorion ?" Hu still held his head with his hands, for it throbbed so, liut his eyes were intent on his companion. "Yes, m'sieu'." Charley's hand mechanically fumbled for his monocle. Jo turned quickly to the wall, and taking it by its cord from the nail where it had been for these long months, handed it over. Cliarley took it and mechanically put it in his eye. " Thank you. my friend," he said. " Have I been conscious at all since you rescued me last night ? " he asked. THE UAISIMJ OF THE CURTAIN 77 " In a way, m'sieu'." "Ah, well, I can't remember, but it was very kind of you— I do thank you very much. Do you think you coiild find me something to eat ? I beg your pardon it isn't breakfast-time, of course, but I was never so hunsjry in my life ! " " " In a minute, m'sieu' — in one minute. Hut lie down, you must lie down a little. You got up Uw quick, and it makes your head throb. You have had norhin<' lo eat." " "Nothing, since yesterday noon, and very little then. I didn't eat anything at the Cote Dorioii, I remember." He lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. The throbbing in his head presently stopped, and he felt that if he ate something he could go to sleep again, it was so restful in this place — a whole day's sleep anj rest, how good it would be after last night's racketing ! Here was primitive and material comfort, the secret of content, if you liked! Here was this poor hunter-fellow, with enough to eat and to drink, earning it every day by every day's labour, and, like Eobinson Crusoe no doubt, living in a serene self-sufficiency and an elysian retire- ment. Probably he had no responsibilities in the world, with no one to say him nay, himself only to consider in all the universe: a divine conception of adequate life. Yet himself, Charley Steele, an idler, a waster, with no purpose in life, with scarcely the necessity to earn his bread—never, at any rate, until lately — was the slave of the civilisation to which he belonged. Was civilisation worth the game ? His hand involuntarily went to his head. It changed the course of his thoughts. He must go back to-day to put Billy's crime right, to replace the trust-moneys Billy had taken by forging his brother-in-law's name. Not a moment must be lost. No doubt he was within driving distance of his office, and, bandaged head or no bandaged head, last night's di.sgraceful doings notwithstanding" it was his duty to face the wondering eyes — what did'he care for wondering eyes ? hadn't he been making eyes wonder all his life ? — face the wondering eyes in the little 78 THE RI(!HT OF WAY eity, and get a crooked business straight. Fool and scoundrel ce- tainly Billv was, but tliere was Kathleen ' His lips tightened; he had a strange anxious flutter of the heart. When had his heart fluttered like this ? When hud he ever before considered Kathleens feelincs as to his personal conduct so delicately / Well since yesterday lie did fed it, and a 'vldei sense of pitv sprang up m him— vague, shaniefateu pity, which belied tlie sudden egotistical flourish with which he put his uionocle to his eye and tried futilely to smile in the old way. He had lain with his eyes closed. They oi«ned now and he saw his host spreading a newspaper as a kin THE RAISING OF THE CURTAIN 81 always loved. To tCworid Tv '°,/''« ■»»■> «he had thief. Billy had ZlS^lt'^B^ "1! " ',?«•'« «°d befriended, had let decent ml! k"^' ^^°^ ^e had so on his memory :dXTlt'fKr"""'^''P'°^i^^° him-he read tie ifnefoveraSnh^,' ''°'^'^ """"g'" "' his finger steady, as it traced fhil" ^ 7*' soorehing, but ?«po» a mi- by the scavengers of morahtv 7^f ""^ '^,?'-^'° "^ t^e paths of dalliance """^"'"y- '° ^^s at all who trod the atSSs^dtrrnXl^oSrd ^°^"''-'' ^^^ come to my own acrain " T T. ^^^'^' """^ say, " I have to. go his Ly anTshow h^ a"c'e" '"' *^" ^°« ^^-^i-l' this union, this martiZ of i„v» ° uT' ^^'^^k up jojced ? Summon KatWeen oulof h ''^'f*' '■'^^^^ '""^ '^- wUh the man who had been trull k" 'H^^' intercourse ^ To what end ? What had h! ^'/" ">«'« :''^ars ? he might destroy her „ow? m'^ "' ^"^ ^'' '^"^ tragedy was thisf that 27 L2 ^\'°'!: "^ Spartan v.ct:m of circumstances whrhTbl%h''^ ^^° '^« tie he never felt, vet whlh k .? u "'^ «'ave to a to her, should now be brou.hf ^^^ "^ ^'oi-bound body and soul for no fault nf>? °"' '° ^« wangled done? What had ^he ever doneT- ^hat had^he to..ch so much as a hair of her head ^"" """ "^^' '° ^0 back, and brinir R;ii, ! .''aa ■ name ? Go back, a"Ze^d Cuf'^'P V"d clear his own to jail ? What an ^hievpmpn^ ■^° ' ^'°^^^'' '^e forger the world have a ri.ht ^ If^"^ •° J^^^'ce ' Would no he could do was to diminaT/h' u% ""'•>' '^^c^nt thin^ What profit for him^'"he eZ" ''°"' ^''^ ^l""''""^ was technically innocent of fb;« '"""TS""?' *at he to establish his innoct'c^L^'^U? a't^^^i" 82 THE RIGHT OF WAT and destroyed a boy's life ? To what end ! It was the murderer coming back as a ghost to avenge himself for being hanged ! Suppose he went back — the death's- head at the feast — what would there be for himself afterwards; for any one for whom he was responsible? Living at that price ? To die and end it all, to disappear from this petty life where he had done so little, and that little ill ? To die ? No. There was in him some deep, if obscure, fatalism after all. If he had been meant to die now, why had he not gone to the bottom of the river that yesterday at the Cote Dorion? Why had he been saved by this yokel at the fire, and brought here to lie in oblivion in this mountain hut, wrapped in silence and lost to the world ? Why had his brain and senses lain fallow all these months, a vacuous vegetation, an empty consciousness ? Was it fate? Did it not seem probable that the Great Machine had, in its automatic movement, tossed him up again on the shores of Time because he had not fallen on the trap-door predestined for his eternal exit. It was clear to him that death by his own hand was futile, and that if there were trap-doors set for him alone, it were well to wait until he trod upon them and fell through in his appointed hour in the movement of the Great Machina What to do — where to live — how to live ? He got slowly to his feet and took a step forward half blindly. The man on the bench stirred. Crossing the room he dropped a hand on the man's shoulder. " Open the blind, my friend." Jo Portugais got to his feet quickly, eyes averted — he did not dare look into Charley's face — and went over and drew back the deer-skin blind. The clear, crisp sunlight if a frosty morning broke gladly into the room. Charley turned and blew out the candle on the table where he had eaten, then walked feebly to the window. Stand- ing on the crest of the mountain the hut looked down through a clearing, flanked by forest trees. It was a goodly scene. The green and frosted foliage of the pines and cedars; the flowery tracery of frost THE RAISING OF THE CURTAIN 83 hanging like cobwebs everywhere; the p«°eath, was the Curu. As Charlev entered, M. Loisel came forward with outstretehed "I am glad to see you well again, monsieur," he said and his cool thin hand held Charley's for a moment!as he looked him benignly in the eye. Wi^H a kind of instinct as to the course he must hence- forth pursue, Charley replied simply, dropping his eve- glass as he met that clear soluble look of the prfest-sud, a well of simplicity he had never before seen. oX htfwn'^slgrwaT"* '''' "'''^'^ eye, imperfect tho.g^ "It is good of you to feel so. and to come and tell me I know.""'''"^ '^"'"^- " ^ ^^"^ ^«^" " g'^*' '«>" We! thJl!ff *^^"°°^ r ""-^ °}^ P°'^ '" his manner, none of the old cryptic quahty in his words. "We were anxious for your sake— and for the sake of your friends, monsieur." Charley evaded the suggestion. "I cannot easily re- pay your kindness and that of Jo Portugais, my good fnend here," he rejoined. ^ ^ "M'sieu'," replied Jo, his face turned awav, and his foot pushing a log on the fire, "you have repaid it." v3 I shook his head. "I am in a conspiracy of kindness,- he said. "It is all a mystery to me. For why should one expect such treatment from slmngers 86 THE RIGHT OF WAY when, besides all, one can never make any real retmn not even to pay for board and lodging ! " ' '"I was a stranger and ye took me in,' " said the Curd *f !l'°^,,r^ po,inean8 sentimentally. " So said the Friend of the World. Charley looked the Curd steadily in the eyes. He was thinking how simply this man had said these things ; as If, indeed, they were part of his life; as though it were usual speech Wi.h him, a something that belonged, not an ac.iuired language. There was the old impulse to ask a question, and he put the monocle to his eye, but his lips did not open, ahd the eye-glass fell again. He had seen familiarity with -ncred names and things in tlie uneducated, m excited revivalists, worked up to a state clairvoyant and conversational with the Creator : but he had never heard an educated man speak as this man did At last Charley said, " Your brother— Portueais tells me that your brother, the surgeon, has gone away I should have hked to thank him— if no more." "I have written him of your good recovery. He will be glad, I know. But my brother, from one standpoint —a human standpoint— had scruples. These I did not share, but they were strong in him, monsieur. Marcel asked himself—" He stopped suddenly and looked to- wards Jo. Charley saw the look, and said quickly, " Speak plainly i'ortugais IS my friend." •> r r j- Jo turned slowly towards him, and a light seemed to come to his eyes— a shining something that resolved itself into a dog-hke fondness, an utter obedience, a stranee intense gratitude. ° "Marcel asked himself." the Cur<5 continued, "whether you would thank him for bringing you back to— to life and memory. I fear he was trying to see what I should say— 1 fear so. Marcel said, • Suppose that he should curse me for it ? Who knows what he would be brought back to-^to what suffering and pain, perhaps ? ' Marcel said that. " And you replied, monsieur le Curd ? " "I replied that Nature required you to answer that THE COMING OF ROSALIE 87 question for yourself, and whether bitterly or gladly, it was your duty to take up your life ahd live it out. Be- sides, it was not you alone that had to be considered. One does not live nloiie or die alone in this world. There were your friends to consider." " And because I had no friends here, you were com- pelled to think for me," answered Charley calmly. " Truth is, it was not a question of my friends, for what I was during those seven months, or what I am now, can make no difference to them." He looked tlie Cur^ in the eyes steadily, and as though he would convey his intentions without words. The Cur^ understood. The habit of listening to the revela- tions of the human heart had given him something of that clairvoyance which can only be pursued by the primitive mind, unvexed by complexity. " It is, then, as though you had not come to life again ? It is as though you had no past, monsieur ? " " It is that, monsieur." Jo suddenly turned and left the room, for he heard a step on the frosty snow without. " You will remain here, monsieur ? " said the Curd. " I cannot tell." The Cure had the bravery of simple souls with a duty to perform. He fastened his eyes on Charley. "Monsieur, is there any reason why you should not stay here ? I ask it now, man to man — not as a priest of my people, but as man to man." Charley did not answer for a moment. He was wonder- ing how he should put his reply. But his look did not waver, and the Curd .saw the honesty of the gaze. At length he replied : " If you mean. Have I committed any crime which the law may punish ? — no, monsieur. If you mean. Have I robbed or killed, or forged or wronged a woman as men wrong women ? — no. These, I take it, are the things that matter first For the rest, you can think of me as badly as you will, or as well, for what I do henceforth is the only thing that really concerns the world, monsieur le Curd" The Cure came forward and put out his hand with a S8 THE RIGHT OF WAY Wndly gesture. "Monweur, you have suffered I" he „nnf7*''' "T' *'."i'' "nonsieur. Never for a moment IhL\T^'^"°l^\^°'^'' bere like a stone from a sC I^had hfe bytfie throat; now it has me there-that fs " You are not a Catholic, monsieur ? " asked the priest "No, monsieur." Po^ii^V ^""i!: J°^^^ "° rejoinder. If he was not a Cathohc, what matter what he was? If he wL not a S n'foTt'h '' ^'''^'' P-^S""- - P-teZnt" h position for them personally was the same. " I am verv ^;^Sir^£e"«^ir^Si-^^ Charley stopped himself in time. For, apart from al a t'ed witr'?' 'h"' *!"" ""'' 'IT^ •" 'alamitThad actea with a charming sensibi ity. The eve-rfasa roub ed the Cur= f ^'" g've It to no one but yourself." t)ale irr^l Pfl^d, and the Cure's wis scarcely less pale. In Charley's mmd was the question. Who had THE COMING OF ROSALIE 89 discovered his presence here ? Was he not, then, to escape? Who should send him parcels through the post? The Curd was perturbed. Was he, then, to know who this man was — his name and history ? Was the story of his life now to be told ? Charley broke the silence. " Tell the girl to come in." Instantly afterwards the postmaster's daughter entered. The look of the girl's face, at once delicate and rosy with health, almost put the question of the letter out o'f his mind for an instant. He. dark eyes met his as he came forward with outstretched hand. " This is addressed, as you will see, ' To the Sick Man at the House of Jo Porttigais, at Vadroim Mountain.' Are you that person, monsieur ? " she asked. As she handed the parcel, Charley's eyes scanned her face quickly. How did this habitant girl come by this perfect French accent, this refined manner ? He did not know the handwriting on the parcel ; he hastily tore it open. Inside were a few dozen small packets. Here also was a sheet of paper. He opened and read it quickly. It said : "Monsieur, I am not sure that you have recovered your memory and your health, and I am also not sure that in such case you will t'lank me for my work. If you think I have done you an injury, pray accept my profound apologies. Men- sieur, you have been a drunkard. If you would reverse the record now, these powders, taken at opportune moments, will aid you. Monsieur, with every expression of my good-will, and the hope that you will convey to me without reserve your feelings on this delicate matter, I append my address in Paris, and I have the honour to subscribe myself, with high considera- tion, monsieur, yours faithfully, " JIarcel Loisbl." The others looked at him with varied feelings as he read. Curiosity, inquiry, expectation, were common to them all, but with each was a different personal feeling. The Cure's has been described. Jo Portugaia' mind was asking if this meant that the man who had come into his life must now go out of it ; and the girl was asking who »0 THE RIGHT OF WAY known" '°^'"*"°"' '""'• ''•'« ««"'» 'he hud ever seen or the Curi who took it with surprise, rend it with amaze- meut and handed it back with 'a flush on his face. Thank you," said Charley to the girl. " It is uood of you to briPg it all this way. May I ask " ^ Cur'smiHng^''"'''""''"'"''' """"« Evanturel," said the II I am Charles Mallard," said Charley slowly ,,irl ,«fH ll""- J '^" 8° "°*' raonsieur Mallard," the girl SHid, lifting her eyes to his face. He bowed As st 'blushed.""' "'"' """"'*'' ""' "'^^ ''"^ "y- -' 1>^ fl,r?lt!i'V°^'?^"T"^= ^ "'" S° ^"^ ''ith you," said hand <• rZt ^K '"™"'^ '" ^"•""■•«y ""d held out his •■ rnt,<. ^ ^ ""'' ^,'?"' monsieur-Charles." he said. Come and see me soon." Remembering that his brother itt!?"^" '^^i^' """? """' " <^^»°''"d, his eyes had a kokofpity. This was the man's own secret and his. It was a way to the man's heart ; he would use it As the two went out of the door, the girl looked back, and J'J T P"^'"'^ the surgeon's letter into the fire and did not see her ; yet she blushed again. CHAPTER XIII HOW CHARLEY WENT ADVENTURING AND WHAT HE FOUND /. WEEK passed. Charley's life was running in a tiny circle, but his mind was compassing large revolutions. The events of the last few days had cut deep. His life had been turned upside down. All his predispositions had been suddenly broughi to chuck, his habits turned upon the flank and routed, his mental postures flunf? into confusion. He had to start life again; but it could not be in the way of any previous truvel of mind or body. The line of cleavage was sharp and wide, and the only connection with the past was in the long-reaching in- fluence of evil habits, which crept from their coverts, now and again, to mock him as his old self had mocked life — to mock him and to tempt him. Through seven months of healthy life for his body, while brain and will were sleeping, the whole man had made long strides towards recreation. But with the renewal of will and mind the old weaknesses, roused by memory, began to emerge in- termittently, as water rises from a spring. There was something terrible in this repetition of sensation — the law 0* habit answering to the machine-like throbbing of memory, as a kaleidoscope turning, turning, its pictures pass a certain point at fixed intervals — an automatic re- currence. He found himself at times touching his lips with his tongue, and with this act came the dry throat, the hot eye, the restless hand feeling for a glass that eluded his fingers. Twice in one week did this fever surge up in him, and it caught him in those moments when, exhausted by the struggle of his mind to adapt itself to the new coudilious, 91 »3 TlIK RIORT OF WAY l>i« MDte* were delmiely susceptible. Visions of J,.li coeur's saloon came to his mind^^ eve With . .1 «p.™teness . new-developedlll^*;.7he «;SS .men orth7f«shdrawiTer""''H' "*"«'" '^'" '^e watching himMTfdo Z J^d th.^' T' '^""^r' "' move hen. and there He ^ll f ' ,*■'•**""« hi""*" had7one^''S,en alfat°onc^. '°l """ ^'i""''^ «'-'« ^jeady to take h.s part that wild .ig^t at the CdtS ter^or-for aTvThI 1,"h ^?'"' " conflict-almost a wht'dThe'-er irrn'K :jr ' ^' " unselfishness, with Z delLiZ l^eVZI^^thLTl^ pven across a dinner-table-the sensLus tribuf of^ HOW CHARLEY WENT AUVISTlllINO 93 gift the da) he died. Tom Fairina wa« littiug where he used to tit, talking acroes the table — not a« he used to talk — looking into Kathleen's face as he had never looked. He was no more to them than a dark saemory. " Well, why should I be more 7 " he said to himself. " I am dead, it not buried. They think mo down among the fishes. My game is dene ; and when she gets older and under- stands life better, Kathleen will say, ' Poor Charley — he might have been anything t ' She'll be sure to say that some day, for habit and memory go round in a circle and ppss the same point again and again. For me — they take me by the throat — " He put his hand up as if to free his throat from a grip, his tongue touched his lips, his hands grew restless. " It comes back on me like a fit of ague, this miserable thirst. If I were within sight of Jolicoeur's suloon, I should be drinking hard this minute. ISut I'm here, and " His h ind felt in his pocket, and he took out the powders the great surgeon had sent him. " He knew — how did he know that I was a d.-unkard ? Does a man carry in his face the tnle he would not tel. ' Jo says I didn't talk of the past, that I upver hid de- lirium, that I never said a word to suggest who I was, or where I came from. Then how did the doctor-man know? I suppose every particular habit carries its own signal, and the expert knows the ciphers." He opened the paper containing the powdurs, and looked round for water, then paused, folded tlie paper up, and put it in his pocket again. He went over to the window and looked out. His shoulders set square. " No, no, no, not a speck on my tongue I" he said. "What I can't do of my own will is not worth doing. It's too foolish, to yield to the shadow of an old appetite. I play this game alone — here in Chaudiere." He looked out and down. The sweet sun of early spring was shining hard, and the snow was beginning to pack, ro hang like a blanket on the branches, to lie like a soft CO erlet over all the forest and the fields. Far away on the frozen river were saplings stuck up tc "'ow where the ice was safe — a long line of poles from shora 94 THE BIGHT OF WAY to shore— and canoles were hurrying across to the villaee Jieing market-day, the place was alive with the cheerfui commerce of the habUmit. The bell of the parish chnrch was rmgmg The sound of it came up distantly and peacefully. Charley drew a long breath, turned away to a pail of water, filled a dipper half full, and drank it off gaspingly. Then he returned to the window with a look or relief. "That does it," he said. "The horrible thing is gone again— out of ray brain and out of my throat " As he stood there, Jo came up the hill with a bundle m his arms Charley watched him f,.r a moment, half whimsically, half curiously. Yet he sighed once too as Portugais opened the door and came into the room. " Well done, Jo ! " said he. " You have 'em ? " nij'^^^'i^'"'*"'- . f 8°°'' '"''' a"d I believe they'll fit. Old Trudel says its the best suit he's made in a year 1 m afraid hell not make many more suits, old Trudel n V^7,^^-n .^*"=° *'^«°«^ ">«'•«'" be no tailor-ah, old Irudel will be missed for sure, M'sieu' i " Jo spread the clothes out on the table— a coat waist- coat and trousers of fulled cloth, grey and bulky, and smelling of the loom and the tailor's iron. Charley looked at them interestedly, then glanced at the clothes he had on, the suit that had belonged to him last year — grave-clothes. •' He drew himself up as though rousing from a dream. Come Jo, clear out, and you shall have your new hxbilma in a mmute." he said. Portugais left the room and, when he came back, Charley was dressed in the suit of grey fulled cloth. It was loose, but comfortable, and save for the refined face— on which a beard was growine now-and the eye-glass, he might easily have passed for a farmer. Whei. he put on the dog-skin fur cap and a small muffler round his neck, it was the costume of the habitant complete. fhPrt!' 7'''\J"'u '^'>'"'^«' for it was part of the life henceforth.'' ' °°"' ^''"'^'^ ^^^^' ^^"""^^ ^'^^ HOW CHAELEY WENT ADVENTURING 95 He turned to the door and opened it. "Good-bye, Portugais," he said. Jo was startled. " Where are you going, M'sieu' '> " " To the village." " What to do, M'sieu' ? " " Who knows ? " " You will come back ? " .To asked anxiously. " Before sundown, Jo. Good-bye, again ! " This was the first long walk he had taken since he had become himself again. The sweet, cold air, with a bracing wind in his face, gave peace to the nerves but now strained and fevered in the fight with appetite. His mind cleared, and he drank in the sunny air and the pungent smell of tlie balsams. His feet liglit with moccasins, he even ran a distance, enjoying the glow from a fast-beating pulse. As he came into the high-road, people passed him in carioles and sleighs. Some eyed him curiously. What did he mean to do ? What object had he in coming to the village 1. What did he expect ? j* ,. he entered the village his pace slackened. He had no destination, no object. He was simply aware that his new life was beginning. He passed a little house on which was a sign, " Narcis.se Dauphin, Notary." It gave him a curious feeling. It was the old life before him. " Charles Mallard, Notary t " —No, that was not for him. Everything that reminded him of the past, that brought him in touch with it, must be set aside. He moved on. Should he go to the Cure ? No; one thing at a time, and to-day he wanted his thoughts for himself. More people parsed him, and spoke of him to each other, though there was no coarse curiosity — the habitant has manners. Presently he passed a low shop with a divided door. The lower half was closed, the upper open, and the winter sun was shining full into the room, where a bright fire burned. Charley looked up. Over the door was painted, in straggling letters, "Louis Tnukl, Tailor." He looked inside. There, on a low table, bent over his work, with a needle in his hand, sat Louis Trudel tlie tailor. Hearing 96 THE RIOBT OF WAY :, footsteps, feeling a shadow, he looked up. Charley started at the look of the shrunken, yellow face ; for if ever death had set his seal, it was on that haggard parchment. The tailor's yellow eyes ran from Charley's face to bis clothes. " I knew they'd fit," he said, with a snarl. " Drove me hard, too ! " Charley had an inspiration. He opened the half-door, and entered. " Do you want help ? " he said, fixing his eyes on the tailor's, steady and persistent. " What's the good of wanting— I can't get it," was the irritable reply, as he uncrossed his legs. Charley took the iron out of his hand. " I'll press, if you'll show me how," he said. " I don't want a fiddling ten- minutes' help like that." "It isn't fiddling. I'm going to stay, if you think I'll do." •' '' " You are going to stop — every day ? " The old man's voice quavered a little. " Precisely that." Charley wetted a seam with water as he had often seen tailors do. He dropped the hot iron on the seam, and sniffed with satisfaction. " Who are you ? " said the tailor. " A man who wants work. The Cure knows. It's all right. Shall I stay ? " The tailor nodded, and sat down with a colour in his face. CHAPTER XIV ROSALIE, CHABLEY, AND THE MAN THE WmoW PLOMONDON JILTED From the moment there came to the post-office the letter addressed to "The Sick Man at the House of Jo Portugais at Vadrome Mountain," Eosalie Evanturel dreamed dreams. Mystery, so fascinating a thing in all the experiences of life, took hold of her. The strange man in the lonely hut on the hill, the bandaged head, the keen, piercing blue eyes, the monocle, like a masked battery of the mind, levelled at her — all appealed to that life she lived apart from the people wi'.h whom she had daily commerce. Her world was a worH of books and dreams, and simple, practical duties of life. Most books were romance to her, for most were of a life to which she had not been educated. Even one or two purely Protestant books of missionary enterprise, found in a box in her dead mother's room, had had all the charms of poetry and adventure. It was all new, there- fore all delightful, even when the Protestant sentiments shocked her as being not merely untrue, but hurtiug that aesthetic sense never remote from the mind of the devout Catholic. She had blushed when Monsieur had first looked at her, in the hut on Vadrome Mountain, not because there was any soft sentiment about him in her heart — how could there be for a man she had but just seen ! — but because her feelings, her imagination, were all at high tempera- ture ; because the man compelled attention. The feeling sprang from a deep sensibility, a natural sense, not yet made incredulous by the ironies of life. These had never presented themselves to her in a country, in a " G 98 THE RIGHT OF WAY Ilk' i parish, where people said of fortune and misfortune, happiness and sorrow, "Ceal le Ion i)tVu / '—always "Oest le ban IHcul" In some sense it was a pity that she had brains above the ordinary, that she had had a good education and nice tastes. It was the cultivation of the primitive and ideahslio mind, which could not rationalise a sense of romance, of the altruistic, by knowledge of life As she sat behind the post-oifice counter she read all sorts of books that came her way. When she learned English so as to read it almost as easily as she read French her greatest joy was to pore over Shakespere, with a heart full of wonder, and, very often, eyes full of tears— 80 near to the eyes at her race. Her imagination in- habited Chaudi^re with a different folk, livin<' in homes very unlike these wide, sweeping - roofed structures with double windows and clean-scrubbed steps tall doors, and wide, uncovered stoops. Her people— people of the imagination— were not quarrelsome, or childish or merely traditional, like the habitants. They were picturesque and able and simple, doing good thinas in disguise, succouring distress, yielding their lives wirhout thought for a cause, or a woman, and lovintr with an undying love. " Charley was of these people— from the first instant she saw him. The Cur^, the Avocat, and the Sei meur were also of them, but placidly, unimportantly. "The Sick Man at Jo I'ortugais' House " came out of a mysteri- ous distance. Something in his eyes said, " I have seen I have known," told her that wlien he spoke she would answer freely, that they were kinsfolk in some hidden way. Her nature was op^n and frank ; she lived upon the house-tops, as it were, going in and out of the lives of the people of Chaudiere with neighbourly sympathy and understanding. Yet she knew that she was not of them, and they knew that, poor as slie was, in her veins flowed the blood of the old nobility of France For this the Cur^ could vouch. Her official position made her the servant of the public, and she did her duty with naturalness. I; ' ROSALIE, CHARLEY, ETC. 99 She had been a figure in the parish ever since the day she returned from the convent at Quebec, and took her dead mother's place in the home and the parish. She had a quick temper, but there was not a cheerless note in her nature, and there was scarce a dog or a horse in the pansh but knew her touch, and responded to it. Squirrels ate out of her hand, she had even tamed two wild partridges, and she kept in her little garden a bear she had brought up from a cub. Her devotion to her crippled father was in keeping with her quick response to every incident of sorrow or joy in the parish— only modified by wilful prejudices scarcely in keeping with her unselfishness. As Mrs. Flynn, the Seigneur's Irish cook, said of her : "Shure, she's not made all av wan piece, the darlin'i She'll wear like silk, but she's not linen for everybody's washin'." And Mrs. Flynn knew a thing or two, as was conceded by all in Chaudifere. No gossip was Mrs. Flynn, but she knew well what was going on in the parish, and she had strong views upon all subjects and a special interest in the welfare of two people in Chaudifere. One of these was the Seigneur, who, when her husband died, leaving behind him a name for wit and neighbourliness, and nothing else, proposed that she should come to be his cook. In spite of her protest that what was " fit for Tim was not fit for a gintleman of quality," the Seigneur had had his way, uGver repenting of his choice. Mrs. Flynn's cooking was not her only good point. She had the rarest sense and an unfailing spring of good-nature— life bubbled round her. It was she that had suggested the crippled M. Evanturel to the Seigneur when the office of postmaster bece ue vacant, and the Seigneur had acted on her suggestic-., henceforth taking greater interest in Rosalie. It was Mrs. Flynn who gave Rosalie information con- cerning Charley's arrival at the shop of Louis Trudel the tailor. The morning after Charley came, Mrs. Flynn had called for a waistcoat of the Seigneur, who was expected home from a visit to Quebec. She found Charley stand- ing at a table pressing seams, and her quick eye took 100 THE RIGHT OF WAY him in with knowledge and instinct. She was the one person, pave llosalie, who could always divert old Louis, and this morning she puckered his sour face with amuse- ment by the story of the courtship of the widow Plomon- don and Germain Boily the horse-trainer, whose greatest gift was animal-training, and greatest weakness a fond- ness for widows, temporary and otherwise. Before she left the shop, with the stranger's smile answering to her nod, she had made up her mind that Charley was a tailor by courtesy only. So she told Rosalie a few moments afterwards. '"lis a man, d^rlin', that's seen the wide wurruld. 'Tis himisperes he knows, not parrishes. Fwhat's he doin' here, I dun'no'. Fwhere's he come from, I dun'no'. French or English, I dun'no'. But a gintleman born, I know. 'Tis no tailor, darlin', but tailorin' he'll do as aisy as he'll do a hunderd other things anny day. But how he shlipped in here, an' when he shlipped in here, an' what's he come for, an' how long he's stayin', an' meanin' well, or doin' ill, I dun'no', darlin', I dun'no'." " I don't think he'll do ill, Mrs. Flynn," said Bosalie, in English. " An' if ye haven't seen him, how d'ye know ? " asked Mrs. Flynn, taking a pinch of snuff. " I have seen him — but not in the tailor-shop. I saw him at Jo Portugais' a fortnight ago." " Aisy, aisy, darlin'. At Jo Portugais' — that's a quare place for a stranger! 'Tis not wid Jo's introducshun rd be comin' to Chaudiere." " He comes with the Curb's introduction." " An' how d'ye know that, darlin' ? " " The Cur^ was at Jo Portugais' with Monsieur when I went there." " You wint there ! " " To take him a letter — the stranger." " What's his name, darlin' ? " " The letter I took him was addressed, ' To the Sick Man at Jo Portugais' House at Vadromi Mountain.' " " Ah, thin, the Cur^ knows. 'Tis some rich man como to get well, and plays at bein' tailor. But why didn't KOSALIB, CHAHI.EY, ETC. 101 I wandar now ? That's the letther come to his name, what I wander." Bosalie shook her head, and looked reflectively through the window towards the tailor-shop. " How manny times have ye seen him ? " "Only once," answered Rosalie truthfully. She did not, however, tell Mrs. Flynn that she had thrice walked nearly to Vadrome Mountain in the hope of seeing him again ; and that she had gone to her favourite resort, the Rest of the Flax-Beaters, lying in the way of the river- path from Vadrome Mountain, on the chance of his passing. She did not tell Mrs. Flynn that there had scarcely been a waking hour when she had not thought of him. " What Portugais knows, he'll not be tellin'," said Mrs. Flynn, after a moment. " An' 'tis no business of ours, is it, darlin' ? Shure, there's Jo comin' out of the tailor- shop now ! " They both looked out of the window, and saw Jo encounter Filion Lacasse the saddler, and Maximilian Cour the baker. The three stood in the middle of the street for a minute, Jo talking freely. He was usually morose and taciturn, but now he spoke as though eager to unburden his mind — Charley and he had agreed upon what should be said to the people of Chaudiire. The sight of the confidences among the three was too much for Mrs. Flynn. She opened the door of the post- oflice and called to Jo. "Like three crows shtandin' there!" she said. "Come in— ma'm'selle says come in, and tell your tales here, if they're fit to hear, Jo Portu- gais. Who are you to say no when ma'm'selle bids !" she added. Very soon afterwards Jo was inside the post-office, telling his tale with the deliberation of a lesson learned by heart. " It's all right, as ma'm'selle knows," he said. " The Cur^ was there when ma'm'selle brought a letter to m'sieu' Mallard. The Cure knows all. M'sieu' come to my house sick— and he stayed there. There is nothing like the pine-trees and the junipers to cure some things. 102 THE RIGHT OF WAY He was with me very quiet some time. The Curd come and come. He knows. When M'sieu' got well, he say, ' I will not go from Chaudi^re ; I will stay. I am poor, and I will earn my bread here.' At first, when he is getting well, he is carpent'ring. He makes cupboards and picture-frames. The Curd has one of the cupboards in the sacristy ; the frames he puts on the Stations of the Cross in the church." "That's good enough for me ! " said Maximilian Cour. " Did he make them for nothing ? " asked Filion Lacasse solemnly. " Not one cent did he ask. What's more, he's working for Louis Trudel for nothing. He come through the village yesterday ; he see Louis old and sick on his bench, and he set down and go to work." " That's good enough for me ! " said the saddler. " If a man work for the Church for nothing, he is a Christian. If he work for Louis Trudel for nothing, he is a fool — first-class — or a saint. I wouldn't work for Louis Trudel if he give me five dollars a day." " Tiens t the man that work for Louis Trudel work for the Church, for all old Louis makes goes to the Church in the end — that is his will ! The Notary knows," said Maximilian Cour. " See there, now," interposed Mrs. Flynn, pointing across the street to the tailor-shop. " Look at that grocer-man stickin' in his head ; and there's Magloire Cadoret and that pig of a barber, Moise Moisan, starin' through the dure, an' " As she spoke, the barber and his companion suddenly turned their faces to the street, and started forward with startled exclamations, the grocer following. They all ran out from the post-office. Not far up the street a crowd was gathering. Eosalie locked the office-door and followed the others quickly. In front of the Hotel Trois Couronnes a painful thing was happening. Germain Boily, the horse-trainer, fresh from his disappointment with the widow Plomondon, had driven his tamed moose up to the Trois Couronnes, and had drunk enough whisky to make him ill-tempered. ill KOSAUB, CHARLEY, ETC. 103 He had then begun to " show off " the animal, but the savage instincts of the moose being roused, he had attacked his master, charging with wide-branching horns, and striking with his Teet. Boily was too drunk to fight intelhgently. He went down under the hoofs of the enraged animal, as his huge boar-hound, always with him, fastened on the moose's throat, dragged him to the ground, and tore gaping wounds in his neck. It was all the work of a moment. People ran from the doorways and sidewalks, but stayed at a comfortable dis- tance until the moose was dragged down ; then they made to approach the insensible man. Before any one could reach him, however, the great hound, with dripping fangs, rushed to his master's body, and, standing over it, sliowed his teeth savagely. The hotel-keeper approached, but the bristles of the hound stnod up, he prepared to attack, and tlie landlord drew back in haste. Then M. Dauphin, the Jfotary, who had joined the crowd, held out a hand coaxingly, and with insinuating rhetoric drew a little nearer than the landlord had done ; but he retreated precipitously as the hound crouched back for a spring. Some one called for a gun, and Filion Lacasse ran into his shop. The animal had now settled down on his master's body, his bloodshot eyes watching in menace. The one chance seemed to be to shoot him, and there must be no bungling, lest his prostrate master suffer at the same time. The crowd had melted aw:iy into the houses, and were now standing at doorways and windows, ready for instant retreat. Filion Laeasse's gun was now at disposal, but who would fire it ? Jo Portugais was an expert shot, and he reached out a hand for the weapon. As he did so, Rosalie Evanturel cried, "Wait! oh, wait!" Before any ons could interfere she moved along the open space to the mad beast, speaking soothingly, and calling his name. The crowd held their breath. A woman fainted. Some wrung their hands, and Jo Portugais, with blanched face, stood with gun half raised. With assured kindness of voice and manner, Rosalie walked deliberately over to the 104 THE RIGHT OF WAY hound. At fint the animal'i brwtlcs cawe up, and he prepared to sprinff, but murmuring to him, ihe held out her hand, and presently laid it on his huge head With a growl of subjection, the dog drew from the body of his master, and licked Rosalie's fingers as she knelt bBside Boily and felt his heart. She put her arm round the dogs neck, and said to the crowd, "Some one come- only one !— ah, yes, you. Monsieur I " she added, as Chorley, who had just arrived on the scene, came forward. " Only you. If you can lift him. Take him to my house." Her arm still round the dog, she talked to him as Charley came forward, and, lifting up the body of the little horse-trainer, drew him across his shoulder. The hound at first resented the act, but under Rosalie's touch became quiet, and followed at their heels towards the post-office, hcking the wounded man's hands as they hung down. Inside M. Evanturel's house the injured man was laid upon a couch. Chariey examined his wounds, and, finding them s^^vere, advised that the Cur^ be sent for, while he and Jo Portugais set about restoring him to consciousness. Jo had skill of a sort, and his crude medi- caments were efficacious. When the Cur^ came, the injured man was handed over to his care, and he arranged that in the evening Bony should be removed to his house, to await the arrival of the doctor from the next parish. r^J^^l^^ Chariey's public introduction to the people of Chaiidifere, and it was his second meeting with Rosalie Evanturel. The incident brought him into immediate prominence. Before he left the post-office, Filion Lacasse, Maximilian Cour, and Mrs. Flynn had given forth his history, as related by Jo Portugais. The village was agog with excitement But attention was not centred on himself, for Rosalie's courage had set the parish talking. When the Notary stood on the steps of the saddler's shop, and with fine rhetoric proposed a vote of id m ration for the girl the cheering could be heard inside the post-office, and it brought Mrs. Flynn outside. '!i ROSALIE, CHARLEY, ETC. 106 " TU for her, the darlin'— for ma'in'aelle Ilowlie— they're splittin' their throats!" she said to Charley as he was making his way from the sick man's room to the street door. " Did ve iver seo such an eye an' hand ? That avil baste that's killed two Injins already— an all the men o' t^ie place sneukin' behind dures. an' she walkin' up cool as leaf in momin' dew, an' quietin' the divil's own ! Did ye iver see annything like it, sir — you that's seen so much ? " " Madame, it is not touch of hand alone, or voice alone " answered Charley. "Shure, 'tis somethin" kin in baste an' maid, you're manin' thin ? " "Quite 80, madame." "Simple like, an' understandin' what Noah understood in that ark av his— for talk to the bastes he must have, explainin' what was for thim to da" " Like that, madame." "Thrue for you, sir, 'tis as you say. There's language more than tongue of man can shpake. But listen, thin, to me"— her voice got lower— "for 'tis not the furst time, a thing like that, the lady she is— granddaughter of a Seigneur, and descinded from nobility in France 1 Tis not the furst time to be doin' brave things. Just a shlip of a girl she was, three years ago, afther her mother died, an' she was back from convint. A woman come to the parish an' was took sick in the house of her brother— from France she was. Small-pox they said at furst. 'Twas no small-poz, but plague, got upon the seas. Alone she was in the house— her brother left her alone, the black-hearted coward. The people wouldn't go near the place. The Cur^ was away. Alone the woman was — poor soul ! Who wint — who wint and cared for her » Who do ye think, sir?" " Mademoiselle ? " "None other. 'Go tell Mrs. Flvnn,' says she, •to care for my father till I come back,' an' away she wint to the h lae of plague. A week she stayed, an' no one wint near her. Alone she was with the woman and the plague. 'Lave her be,' said the Cur^ 100 THE morn OF WAY Si f when he come back; "tU for the love of God. God i* with her— lave her be, and pray for her,' aavi he. An" he wmt himaelf, but she would not let him in. ' "Tii my work, sayg she. • 'Tig God's work for me to do,' say* the. •An the woman will live if 'tie God's will I 'says she • There s au agntu dei on her breast,' says she. ' Go an' pray, says sh& Pray the CurcS did, an' pray did we all, but the woman died of the plague. All alone did Koealie draw her to the grave on a stone-boat down the lane, an" over the hill, an' into the churchyard. An' buried her with her own hands at flight, no one knowin' till the momm, she did. So it was. An' the burial over, she wmt back an burned the house to the ground— sarve the villain right that lave the sick woman alone I An' her own clothes she burned, an' put on the clothes I brought her wid me own hand. An' for that thing she did, the love o God in her heart, is it for Widdy Flynn or Cur^ or anny other to forgit ? Sure the Cur^ was tor iver broken-hearted, for that he was sick abed for doys an' could not go to the house when the woman died, an' say to Rosalie, 'Let me in for her last hour.' But the word of Rosalie— shure 'twas as good as the words of a praste, savin the Curd's prisince wheriver he may be ! " This was the story of Rosalie which Mrs. Flynn told C.iarley, as he stood at the street door of the post-office. When she had finished, Charley went back ir»T the room where Rosalie sat beside the sick man's couch, the hound at her feet. She came forward, surprised, for he had bade her good-bye but a few minutes before. "May I sit and watch for an hour longer, mademoiselle ? " he said. "You will have your duties in the post-office." "Monsieur— It is good of you," she answered. For two hours Charley watched her going in and out whispering directions to Mrs. Flynn, doing household duty' bnngmg warmth in with her, and leaving li)>ht behind her. It was afternoon when he returned to his bench in the tailor-shop, and was received by old Louis Trudel in peevish silence. For an hour they worked in silence, and then the tailor said : " A brave girl— that. We will work till nine to-night I " CHAPTER XV THE MASK IN THE PAPER Chaddi^ri was nearing the last of its nine-days' wonder. It had filed past the doorway of the tailor-shop; it had loitered on the other side of the street; it had been measured for more clothes than in three months past — that it might see Charley at work in the shop, cross- legged on a bench, or wielding the goose, his eye-glass in his eye. Here was sensation indeed, for though old JI. liossignol, the Seigneur, had an eye-glass, it was held to his eye — a large bone-bound thing with a little gold handle ; but no one in ChaudiJre had ever worn a glass in his eye like that. Also, no one in t'haudi^re had ever looked quite like " M'sieu" "—for so it was that, after the first few days, (a real tribute to his importance and sign of the interest he created) Charley came to be called "M'sieu'," and the Mallard was at last entirely dropped. Presently people came and stood at the tailor's door and talked, or listened to Louis Trudel and M'sieu' talking. And it came to be noised abroad that the stranger talked as well as the Cur^ and better than the Kotary. By-and-by they associated his eye-glass with his talent, so that it seemed, as it were, to be the cause of it Yet their talk was ever of simple subjects, of everyday life about them, now and then of politics, occasionally of the events of the world filtered to them through vast tracts of country. There was one subject which, however, was barred ; perhaps because there was knowledge abroad that M'sieu' was not a Catholic, pi.Thaps becau.«e Charley himself adroitly changed the conversation when it veered that way. Though the parish had not quite made up its mind 107 108 Tr.a BIGHT OF WAY ***vTxir u* WAY pup, 'JCJ- %Z"'^!,V'P in hi« favour he minded h£ ow^, bLrnei lun k""''^^'' ^ ^^''""di; I^uis Trudel for nothZ ritl \u-^ ""^ ""^^^^e for H'fenU, i.pre.ed onXJ^^^^^^^^l^foJonU postXettlhet^^ftl,^''''-' "f 'he windows of the oould look over a" SrS:l' '""'^ '«ters Eosat sometimes even see MW ,L5°P "' "" ""g'*; could wuh a piece of chalk, a pa "of ^^ "' ""^ W '-We fehe watched the tailo;-aho^herself w'°' * "•^''^"e. S- iaranrcr.£'^^"^ the house on Vadr^me &t'*'°' .""'■ °° W« way to outside. He saw h?r! paused KW'^\'?''PP«°«d '» b^ ~d^the street to her/ ' ''^'^'' ^^^ ^"'•-oap, and niademdselle"'"^''''*P'' ^^P"' ?"«- and ink for sale X^^^^'-'^-^-S^uJS^slei^^-rSK t!.eS;n°d°!"^ ^"^^ ^^ ^""'d aake friends with me- •; Of course "he rejoined. -H i^ t^^.tz:n:\T ^^ '^-' ''"-." ^he heart throb painfully °°' ^""^ °^'^'- him made her We did not answer. Presenfl„ k- i-resently his eye glanced at the avour. ondly, Qgfor tugais would f the Jsalie ;ould table sure. Iher -she ding 7 to . be and ale, i he be .m 'THE GIRI. SAW THE LIGHTNING FLASH OF FUELING IN HIS FACE" THE MARK IN THE PAPER 109 paper again, and was arrested. He ran his fingers over it, and a curious look flashed across his face. He held the paper up to the light quickly, and looked through it. It was thin, half-foreign paper, without lines, and there was a water-mark in it — large, shadowy, filmy — Kathleen. It was paper made in the mills which had belonged to Kathleen's uncle. This water-mark was made to cole- brate their marriage-day. Only for one year had this paper been made, and then the trade in it was stopped. It had gone its ways down the channels of commerce, and here it was in his hand, a reminder, not only of the old life, but, as it were, the parchment for the new. There it was, a piece of plain good paper, ready for pen and ink and his letter to the Curd's brother in Paris — the only letter he would ever write, ever again until he died, so he told himself ; but hold it up to the light and there was the name over which his letter must be written — Kathleen, invisible but permanent, obscured, but brought to life by the raising of a hand. The girl caught the flash of feeling in his face, saw him holding the paper up to the light, and then, with an abstracted air, calmly lay it down. " That will do, thank you," he said. " Give me the whole packet." Slie wrapped it up for him without a word, and he laid down a two-dollar note, the last he had in the world. " How much of this paper have you ? " he asked. The girl looked under the counter. " Six packets," she said. " Six, and a few sheets over." " I will take it all. But keep it for me, for a week, or perhaps a fortnight, will you ? " He did not need all this paper to write letters upon, yet he meant to buy all the paper of this sort that the shop contained. But he must get money from Louis Trudel — he would speak about it to-morrow. " Monsieur does not want me to sell even the loose sheets?" , "Ko. I like the paper, and I will take it all." " Very good, Monsieur." Her heart was beating hard. All this man did had 110 THE RIGHT OF WAY peculiar significance to her. His look seemed to say " Do not fear. I will tell you things " ^ to!o^ ^^^nn'"" '^ ^Tlr^ ^^^ change, and he turned to go. ' You read much ? " he said, almost casually yet d^eeply interested in the charm and intelligence of her always'rSn^""""'" ^^ """'^'''^ "l^'^'^'y- " ^ ^ He did not speak at once. He was wondering whether n th.s pnmitive place, such a mind and nature^ would be the wiser for readmg; whether it were not better to be sTandTrda "'P'™''""" "'"^'^^ '"=§'>' ^«' ^^^'^^ haJo'n'thTdoT '™'"« "°''-" ""' '^^^'' -"^ his "^fony and Cleopatra, also Enoch Arden," she an- swered m good English, and without accent speafc '"™"^ '^""'"'^ '°''*"^' h"'"' h"' *>« -lid "ot " .ffriocA ^rrfcK is terrible," she added eagerly ■• Don't you thmk so, Monsieur ? " ^ '^ * ~V!r7 P*'"^5' ''"*°"^^'"«''- "Good-night." He opened the door and went out. She ran to the door and watched him go down the street. For a little she stood thinking, then rum ng to the counter, and snatching up a sheet^f the papTrhf " Kathleen I " she cried. She thought of the start he gave when he looked at- th^ water-mark; she thought of thf look on hi a^e whelt said he would buy all this paper she had. wa,?f -T" Kathleen?" she whispered, as though she was afraid some one would hear. "Who ;as Kathleen t" she said again resentfully. J^vam^een . CHAPTER XVI MADAME DAUPHIN HAS A MISSION One day Charley began to know the gossip of the villa-e about him from a source less friendly than Jo Portu^afs J »ni^ fT !;"' ^'°f°8 ^^^ ^°y '° be measured for f i!. 1° broadcloth, asked Charley if the things Jo had told about him were true, and if it was also true that he was a Protestant, and perhaps an Englishman. As yet f pl^^i'f been a-sked no direct questions, for the people of Chaudi&re had the consideration of their temperament- but the Notary's wife was half English, and being a figure in the place, she took to herself more privileges than°did old madame Dugal, the Curtis si3ter. To her ill-disguised impertinence in English, as bad as her Irench and as fluent, Charley listened with quiet interest When she had finished her voluble statement She said, with a simper and a sneer— for, after all a Notary s wife must keep her position-" And now, what 18 the truth about it ? And are you a Protestant ? " There was a sinister look in old Trudel's eyes as, cross- legged on his tabh, he listened to madame Dauphin He remembered the time, twenty-five years ago, when he had proposed to this babbling woman, and had been rejected with scorn— to his subsequent satisfaction; for there was no visible reason why any one should envy the Notary m his house or out of it. Already Trudel had a re- spect for the tongue of M'sieu'. He had not talked much the few days he had been ii: the shop, but, as the old man had said to Filion Lacasse the saddler, his brain was hke a pair of shears— it went clip, clip, clip rieht through e/erythmg. He now hoped that his new ap- prentice, with the hand of a master-workman, would io 111 O 112 THE BIGHT OF WAY i ' i clip, clip through madame's inquiHitiveness. He was not disappointed, for he heard Charley say : " One person in the witness-box at a time, madame. Till Jo Portugais is cross-examined and steps Hown, I don't see what I can do ! " " But you are a Protestant ! " said the woman snap- pishly. This man was only a tailor, dressed in fulled cloth, and no doubt his past life would not bear inspec- tion; and she was the Notary's wife, and had said to people in the village that she would find out the man's history from himself. "That is one good reason why I should not go to ^aufession," he replied casually, and turned to a table where he had been cutting a waistcoat — for the first time in his life. "Do you think I'm going to stand your impertinence? Do you know who I am ? " Charley calmly put up his monocle. He looked at the foolish little woman with so cruel a flash of the eye that she shrank back. " I should know you anywhere," he said. " Come, St(5phan ! " she said nervously to her boy, and pulled him towards the door. On the instant Charley's feeling changed. Was he then going to carry the old life into the new, and rebuke a silly gaiiLTt woman whose faults were generic more than personal? He hurried forward to the door and courteously opened it for her. " Permit me, madame," lie said. She saw that there was nothing ironical in this polite- ness. She had a sudden apprehension of an unusual quality called "the genteel," for no storekeeper in Chaudifere ever opened or shut a shop-door for anybody. She smiled a vacuous smile; she played "the lady" terribly, as, with a curious conception of dignity, she held her body stiff as a ramrod, and with a prim merei sailed into the street. Thi3 gorgeous exit changed her opinion of the man she had been unable to catechise. Undoubtedly he had snubbed her — that was the word she used in her mind — MADAME DAUPHIN HAS A MISSION 113 "Oh no-not that! I want an understanding about 114 THE RIGHT OF WAY until summer, and he had had to give out work to two extra women in the parish, though he hud never before had more than one working for him. But his r passion was strong in him. He alwa)'s remembered with satisfaction that once when the Cure was absent and he was supposed to be dying, a priest from another parish came, and, the ministrations over, he had made an ottering of a gold piece. When the young priest hesitated, his fingers had crept back to the gold piece, closed on it, and drawn it back beneath the coverlet again. He had then peacefully fallen asleep. It was a gracious memory. " I don't need much, I don't want a great deal," con- tinued Charley when the tailor did not answer, " but I have to pay for my bed and board, and I can't do it on nothing." " How have you done it so far ? " peevishly replied the tailor. " By working after hours at carpentering up there " — he made a gesture towards Vadrome Mountain. " But I can't go on doing that all the time, or I'll be like you too soon." " Be like me ! " The voice of the tailor rose shrilly. " Be like me ! What's the matter with me ? " " Only that you're in a bad way before your time, and that you mayn't get out of this hole without stepping into another. You work too hard, monsieur Trudel." " What do you want — wages ? " Charley inclined his head. " If you think I'm worth them." The tailor viciously snipped a piece of cloth. " How can I pay you wages, if you stand there doing nothing ? " " This is my day for doing nothing," Charley answered pleasantly, for the tailor-man amused him, and the whimsical mental attitude of his past life was being brought to the surface by this odd figure, with big spectacles pushed up on a yellow forehead, and shrunken hands viciously clutching the shears. " You don't mean to say you're not going to work to- day, and this suit of clothes promised for to-morrow night — for the Manor House too 1 " ■ft MADAME DAUPHIN HAS A MISSION 115 vZi!'^'&''\f''-^ ^^"^'J '•''y °«^« h«d« on brown suppose you did where you come from ? " .«m.f^^^ "?"*'* '° * ''"'«'" 8o« of way. "Where I for food and a room ? If I wnrV fn- ,.„„ t ^ ' v • P^ I saw that you were hard-pushed and sick "^ ^' I wasn t sick, ' interrup .d the tailor with a snarl end TH-7fr°u''"^V "*>''='• " 'he ^me thine in the end. I did the best I could: I gave you my hands awkw^d enough they were at first? I k/ow, bul_>' the tai?or ^'^ "''*"'' "''''''^■" ^^"li^hlj' <="' in didiaw^t^wferj^.^" '''"^''"'^- ^"* '•"^y baS"aS:,.'" "^" - " y-'d been taught." came the'S ' w"l\ "'^°'' *'''''!;*"^' """^ I ''''•J ^ knack for ine work. What was more, I wanted work I wanted 116 THE RIGHT OF WAY natural, when you were playing the devil with yonnelf, that I should step in and give you a hand ? ifou've been better since — isn t that so ? " The tailor did not answer. "But I can't go on as we are, though I want only enough to keep me going," Charley continued. "And if I don't gi-, 9 you what you want, you'll leave?" "No. I'm never going to leave you. I'm going to stay here, for you'll never get another man so cheap; and it suits me to stay — you need some one to look after you ! " A curious soft look suddenly flashed into the tailor's eyes. " Will you take on th» business after I'm gone ? " he asked at last. "It's n ':ong time to look ahead, I know," he added quickly, for not in words would he acknowledge the possibility of the end. " I should think so," Charley answered, his eyes on the bright sun and the soft snow on the trees beyond the window. The tailor snatched up a pattern and figured on it for a moment. Then he handed it to Charley. "Will that do ? " he asked with anxious, acquisitive look, his yellow eyes blinking hard. Charley looked at it musingly, then said : " Yes, if you give mo a room here," " I meant board and lodging too," said Louis Trudel with an outburst of eager generosity, for, as it was, he had offered about one-half of what Charley was worth to him. Charley nodded. "Very well, that will do," he said, and took off his coat and went to work. For a long time they worked silently. The tailor was in great good- humour; for the terrible trial was over, and he now had an assistant who would be a better tailor than him- self. There would be more profit, more silver .nails for the church door, and more masses for his soul. "The Cure says you are all right. . . . When will you come here ? " he said at last. MADAMB DACPHIN HAS A MISSION 117 ChZX^"^" "*'" ^ '^^ "'"•'P ^'"''' ''"«*««<1 in^hi'trf ?"?°«*'* """ ^^"^'^y "houLl come to live tailor ha^n^vinT; '° "'*•? '" ""' «'°™ *hich th! ^ven fo/Zr i'f ' ^'^' t*enty-five years before DTphin "' *" "'"" ''"°^" "' """lamo they saTTiwf 'il' '"""^ =^"^'^'*'' '° ''"»"«"• Wl.en iney sat down at noon to a piece of venison which of th^h'"':^ ^l^r^ himself-taking the frying pan out ng It to a turn-Louis Trudel saw his years lencthen to an indefinite period. He even allowed him elf to andTa"; :^ """"^ "P' '"'• "'""'^ Charley's hand je^k!ngly° fJ!5'*'*"'' I..'="'"«,'«>' what you are or where you come from, or even if you're a Protestant, perhaps an Euglishmr Ypure a gentleman and a tailor, and old Louts Trudei TJ°T r • ^\ '•"'" ^ "" yo" '-^d this morning for th« M ^^^ ^°'" "°'^- '^^ *'" P'ay- ""d 'he clothes i wn i^'l^H "if" ^° '"-"^^ '^""'- ^-""''^ °' hell-fire Notary.^ " P'P^ *'"* '*'*' P""' ''r«'<=h the So a wonderful thing happened. Louis Trudel on a week-day and a market-diy. went to smoke a pi^ with Narcisse Dauphin, and to tell him that JI. Mallarf was going to stay with him for ever, at fine wages He also announced that he had paid this whole weefs wa"es fwTt/ ^^^ ^' ^'^ """ t«" "hat he did not know —that half the money had already been given to old Margot, whose son lay ill at home with a^roken let CharlevZd"«f"T°7'™ ^^^^ ™ ^''^ ""d wate? nf W L «'°«'Iy drawn from the woman the story of her hfe as he sat by the kitchen fire and talked to her while her master was talking to the Notary ' CHAPTER XVII THE TAILOR HAKES A MIDNIGHT FORAY Del Since the day Charley had brought home the paper bought at the po-tt-otfice, and wutpr-mnrked KntUeen, he had, at odd times, written down his thoughts, and promptly torn tlie paper up again or put it in the fire. In the repression of the new lite, in which he must live wholly alone, bo far as all past habits of mind were concerned, it was a relief to scribble down his passing thoughts, as he hud been wont to do « hen the necessity for it was less. "Writing them here was like the burst- ing of an imprisoned stream; it was relaxing the cease- less eye of vigilance ; freeing an imprisoned personality. This personality was not yet merged into that which must take its place, must express itself in the involuntary acts which tell of a habit of mind and body — no lunger the imitative and the histrionic, but the inherent and the real. On the afternoon of the day that old Louis agreed to give him wages, and went to smoke a pipe with the Notary, Charley scribbled down his thoughts on this matter of personality and habit " Who knows," he wrote, " which is the real self ? A child comes into the world gin-begotten, with the instinct for liquor in his brain, like the scent of the fox in the nostrils of the hound. And that seems the real. But the same child caught up on the hands of chance is car- ried into another atmosphere, is cared for by gin-hating minds and hearts: habit fastens on him — fair, decent, and temperate habit — and he grows up like the Cur^ yonder, a brother of Aaron. Which is the re.il ? Ts the instinct for the gin killed, or covered ? Is the habit of 118 THE TAILOR MAKES A MtOMIUHT FORAY 119 good living mere habit and mere acting, in which the real man never lives his real life, or is it the real life ? " Who knows I Here am I, born with a question in my mouth, with the ever-present non jmsmmm in me. Here am I, to whom life was one poor futility ; to whom brain was but animal intelligence abnormally developed ; to whom speechless sensibility and intelligence was the only reality; to whom nothing from beyond ever sent a flash of conviction, an intimation, into my soul— not one. To me Ood always seemed a being of ilreama, the creation of a personal need and helples-sni'ss, the despair- ing cry of the victims of futility— And here am I flung like a stone from a sling into this field where men believe in God as a present and tangible Iwjing ; who reply to all life's agonies and joys and exultations with the words 'Cest. k bim. Dim.' And what shall I become? Will habit do its work, and shall I cease to bo ;/« / Shall I, in the permanency of habit, become like unto this tailor here, whose life narrows into one sole cause ; whose only wish is to have the Church draw the coverlet of forgive- ness and safety over him; who has solved all questions in a blind belief or an inherited predisposition— which ? This stingy, hard, unhappy man— how should he know what I am denied ! Or does he know ? Is it all illusion ? If there is a (iod who receives such devotion, to the exclusion of natural demand and spiritual anxieties, why does not this tailor ' let his light so shine before men that they may see his good works, and glorify his Father which is in heaven ? ' That is it. Therefore, wherefore, tailor- man ? Therefore, wherefore, God ? Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man ! " Seated on his bench in the shop, with his eyes ever and anon raised towards the little post-office opposite, he wrote these words. Afterwards he sat and thought till the shadows deepened, and the tailor came in to supper. Then he took up the pieces of paper, and, going to the fire, which was still lighted of an evening, thrust them inside. Louis Trudel saw the paper burning, and, glancing down, he noticed that one piece — the last — had slipped to the floor and was \yv-. n the tabla He saw the 120 THE RIGHT OP WAY pencil stiU in Charley's hand. Forthwith his natural suspicion leaped up, and the cunning of the monomaniac was upon him. With all his belief in k hon Dieu and the Church, Louis Trudel trusted no one. One eye was ever open to distrust man, while the other was ever closed with blind belief in Heaven. As Charley stooped to put wood in the fire, the tailor thrust a foot forward and pushed the piece of paper further under the table. That night the tailor crept down into the shop, felt for the paper in the dark, found it, and carried it away to his room. All kinds of thoughts had raged through his diseased mind. It was a letter, perhaps, and if a letter, then he would gain some facts about the man's life. But if it was a letter, why did he burn it ? It was said that he never received a letter and never sent one, therefore it was little likely to be a letter. If not a letter, then what could it be ? Perhaps the man was English and a spy of the English govern- ment for was there not disaffection in some of the parishes ? Perhaps it was a plan of robbery ! To such a state of hallucination did his weakened mind come that he forgot the kindly feeling he had had for this stranger who had worked for him without pay. Sus- picion, the bane of sick old age, was hot on him. He remembered that M'sieu' had put an arm through his when they went upstairs, and that now increased !,"sP'oion. Why should the man have been so friendly ? To lull him into confidence, perhaps, and then to rob and murder him in his sleep. Thank God, his ready money was well hid, and the rest was safe in the bank far away! He crept back to his room with the paper in his hand It was the last sheet of what Charley had written, and had been accidentally brushed off on the floor. It was in French and, holding the caudle close, he slowly deciphered the crabbed, characteristic handwriting. His eyes dilated, his yellow cheeks took on spots of unhealthy red, his hand trembled. Anger seized mm and he mumbled the words over and over again to himself. Twice or thrice, as the paper lay in one THE TAILOR MAKES A MIDNIGHT FORAY 121 band, he struck it with the clenched fist of the other, m,.ttering and distraught. "This tailor here. . . . This siingy, hard, unhappy man. . . . If there is a God / . . . There/ore, wherefore, tatlor-manf . . . Therefore, wherefore, God? . . . Show me a Hi/nfrom Beaven, taUor-man I " Hatred of himself, blasphemy, the profane and hellish humour of-of the infidel ! A Protestar.t heretic— he was already damned ; a robber— you could put him in jail; a spy— jou could shoot him or tar and feather him ; a murderer— you could hang him. But an infidel— this was a deadly poison, a black danger, a being capable of all crimes. An infidel—" Therefore, wherefore, tailor- man I . . . Therefore, wherefore, God 1 . . . Show me a sign from Heaven, tailor-man t " The devil laughing— the devil mcan.ate come to mock a poor tailor, to sow plague through a parish where all were at peace in the bosom of the Church. The tailor had three ruling passions — cupidity, vanity, and religion. Charley had now touched the three, and the whole man was alive. HU cupidity had been flattered by the unpaid service of a capable assistant, but now he saw that he was paying the devil a wage. His vanity was overwhelmed by a satanic ridicule. His religion and his God had been assaulted in so shameful a way that no punishment could be great enough for the man of hell. In religion he was a fanatic ; he was a demented fanatic now. He thrust the paper into his pocket, then crept out mto the hall and to the door of Charley's bedroom. He put his ear to the door. After a moment he softly raised the latch, and opened the door and listened again M'sieu' was in a deep sleep. If "is Trudel scarcely knew why he had listened, why he had opened the door and stood looking at the figure in the bed, scarcely definable in the semi-darkness of the room. If he had meant harm to the helpless man, he had brought no weapon ; if he had been curious, there the man was peacefully sleeping ! His sick morbid imagination was so alive, that he 122 THE EIGHT OF WAT scarcely knew what he did. As he stood there listening, hatred and horror in his heart, a voice said to him, " Thou, shalt do no murder." The words kept ringing in his ears. Yet he had not thought of murder. The fancied com- mand itself was his first temptation towards such a deed. He had thought of raising the parish, of condign punish- ment of many sorts, but not this. As he closed the door softly, killing entered his mind and stayed there. " Tliou shalt not " had been the first instigation to " Thou shalt." It haunted him as he returned to his room, undressed himself, and went to bed. He could not sleep. " Slwia me a svjnfrom Heaven, tailor-man I " The challenge had been to himself. He must respond to it. The duty lay with him ; he must answer this black infidel for the Church, for faith, for God. The more he thought of it, the more Charley's face came before him, with the monocle shining and hard in the eye. The monocle haunted him. That was the infidel's sign. " Show me a sign from Beaten, tailor- man ! " What sign should he show ? Presently he sat up straight in bed. In another minute he was out and dressing. Five minutes later he was on his way to the parish church. When he reached it he took a tool from his pocket and unscrewed a small iron cross from the front door. It was a cross which had been blessed by the Pope, and had been brought to Chau- diire by the beloved mother of the Cur^, now dead. " When I have done with it I will put it back," he said as he thrust it inside his shirt, and hurried stealthily back to his house. As he got into bed he gave a noise- less, mirthless laugh. All night he lay with his yellow eyes wide open, gazing at the ceiling. He was up at dawn, hovering about the fire in the shop. CHAPTER XVIII THE STEALING OF THE CBOSS If Charley had been less engaged with his own thoughts, he would have noticed the curious baleful look in the eyes of the tailor; but he was deeply absorbed in a struggle that had nothing to do with Louis Trudel. The old fever of thirst and desire was upon hiin. All morning the door of Jolicoeur's saloon was opening and shutting before his mind's eye, and there was a smell of liquor everywhere. It was in his nostrils whan the hot steam rose from the clothes he was pressing, in the thick odour of the fulled cloth, in the melting snow outside the door. Time and again he felt that he must run out of the shop and away to the little tavern where white whisky was sold to unwise habitants. But he fought on. Here was the heritage of his past, the lengthening chain of slavery to his old self — was it his real self ? Here was what would prevent him from forgetting all that he had been and not been, all the happiness he might have had, all that he had lost — the ceaseless reminder. He was still the victim to a poison which gave not only a struggle of body, but a struggle of soul — if he had a soul I " 1/ he had a soul!" The phrase kept repeating itself to him even as he fought the fever in his throat, resisting the temptation to take that medicine which the Curb's brother had sent him. " If he. luui a soul ! " The thinking served as an anti- dote, for by the ceaseless iteration his mind was lulled into a kind of drowse. Again and again he went to the pail of water that stood on the window-sill, and lifting it to his lips, drank deep and full, to quench the wearing thirst. 124 THE RIGHT OF WAY If hi had a soul I" He looked at Louis Trudel. silent and morose, the clammy yellow of a great sickness in his face and hands, but hw mind only intent on makinR a waistcoat-and the end of all things very near! The .Trw/ \ "■?"'" 'v' °'8ht before wme to him: Therefor,, wJurefore, tmlor-mant Th^rfort, wheref<»-e, UiM J . . i,kow vu a sign from Heaven, taUor-man !" .in„' '" f Pil*n •"? """"K*"* *'>«"^ <»"'e the sound of smgmg, and of bells ringing in the parish church A procession with banners was coming near. It was a holy day. and Chaudifere was mindful of its duties. The wanderers of the parish had come home for Easter All who belonged to Chaudi^re and worked in the woods or shanties or lived in big cities far away, were retumed- those who could return-to take the holy communion in the parish church. Yesterday the parish had been alive ^'lyr/ 5 ''"'^;,, '^^^ 8™"' '=''""'•' 1""^ been crowded beyond the doors, the streets had been full of cheerily dressed hahtants. There had, however, come a sudden emu to the seemly rejoicings— the little iron cross thrchurcL*'" ^"^ "^ '"''" ^'°'^° f™-" *« <•«'' °f »n J*}^ ^^°l^^^ i'"'™ *"''* *° '•>« C!ure as he said the Mass, ref^JlTf f^^^^lv'^P'' H°'^ g™°8 to the pulpit, he referred to the robbery with poignant feeling; for the relic had be onged to a martyr of the Church^ho, two centuries before^^ had laid down his life for the Master on the coast of Africa. place at the rear of the church he smiled sourly to him- self. In due time the little cro.ss should be returned, but ^ had work to do first ! He did not take the holy com- w^f 4 1' ^^'^ ^^^' ""^ 8° *° confession as was his wont Not, however, until a certain day later did the Cure realise this, though for thirty years the tailor had never omitted his Easter-time duties. The people guessed and guessed, but they knew not ^?<^v,T?-a'° =^'/"sP"on at first. No sane Catholic of Chaudifere could possibly have taken the holy thine iTesently a murmur crept about that M'sieu' might THE STEALING OP THE CROSS 125 have been the thief. He was not a Catholic, and— who could tell? Who knew where he came from? Who knew what he had been ? Perhaps a jail-bird— robber- murderer! Charley, however, stitched on, intent upon BIS own struggle. The procession passed the doorway : men bearing ban- ners with sacred texts, acolytes swinging censers, a tieure of the Man-Christ carved in wood borne aloft, the Cure under a silk canopy, and a long line of liabUants following with sacrtd song. People fell upon their knees in the street as the piocession passed, and the Cure's face was bent here and there, his hand raised in blessing. Old Louis got up from his bench, and, putting on a coat over his w ool jacket, hastened to the doorway knelt down, made the sign of the cross, and said a p'raycr Then he turned quickly towards Charley, who, looking at the procession, then at the tailor, then back again at the procession, smiled. Charley was hardly conscious of what he did. His mind had ranged far beyond t^is scene to the large issues which these symbols represented. Was it one universal self-deception? Was this "religion" the p. hetic, the soul-breaking make-believe of mortality ? So he smiled— at himself, at his own soul, which seemed alone m this play, the skeleton in armour, the thing that did not belong. His own words written that fateful day before he died at the C6te Dorion came to him : "Sivcristan, acolyte, player, or preacher, Each to his office, but who holds the key 1 Death, only Death, thou, the ultimate teacher. Wilt show it to me ! " He was suddenly startled from his reverie, through which the procession was moving— a cloud of witnesses. -It was the voice of Louis Trudel, sharp and piercing : " Don't you believe in God and the Son of God ? ^ " God knows ! " answered Charley slowly in reply— an involuntary exclamation of helplessness, an automatic phrase deflected from its first significance to meet a 126 THE BIGHT OF WAY casual need of the mind. Yet it seemed like satire. like T^J^r^i. "^""/"Jf. humour. So it struck liuU ™.h«H'f T^Y "P ^ *"" •"» f'"" 'he fire and fw K 7a"^ '^"^'' '""'• S" astounded was Charley that he did not stir. He was not prepared for the sudden onslaught. He did not put up h^ hand even but stared at the tailor, who, within a foSt of him. stopTd short with the iron poised. owppea th«^JZ ^""'^^^ "Pented in time. With the cunning of f^f^tf r""^ ^* ^'^''^ 'hat an attack now might th^l /'"" ""■?''•'• ^' ''""I'J hring the vilC Ld^t ^ ' P'^^'P'""" the crisis upon the wrofg act^ Tha!' w»fp°°'? °°i? P*""", ^"^ Chaudifere saw the act. Ihat was Eosaiie Evanturel across the way She saw the iron raised, and looked for M'sieu' to knock the lnH°'ntTh' .h"''»«teH8he beheld the taTlorTba c'k M'l-rl ' "°?-°" 't ^i^ ''«*•"■ She saw also that M sieu was speaking, though she could hear no words. Charleys words were simple enough. "I bee vour pardon, monsieur," he said across the room to old Louis- :' I meant no offence at all I was trying to think i? out m a human sort of way. I suppose I waited a "n from Heaven !— wanted too much, no doubt." " clultraSSfde.''"' ''' '^^"^ '^"-"'^-'^ " It is no matter now," he answered shortly. " I have had signs from Heaven ; perhaps you will have one too > " ■It would be worth while," rejoined Charley musingly Charley wondered bitterly if he had made an inepar: miVT '\T°= ^''T "'-'=h°««° words. This might mean a breach between them, and so make his position in the parish untenable. He had no wish to go elsewhere -where could he go? It mattered little ^hut he w^ o the ^'inH''7k ^' ^"^ °°'' """^y '° *°^'' his way baS apnn» ^ "! ^^^ P*"'""'; '° he an animal with intelli- fprlTvlv .f r f '\'° ."°'her earth, and move down the declivity of life with what natural wisdom were possible. It was his duty to adapt himself to the mindTsuch as this tailor; to acquire what the taUor and his like THE STEALING OF THE CROSS 127 had found — an intolerant belief and an inexpensive security to be .ot through yielding his natureTthe great religious dream. And what perfect tranquillity what smooth travelling found therein '™°q«""ty. Gazing across the street towards the little post-office thinl^^gSrhe^""^' "' '"^ -^"^-- "« ^«^^ ^ viSr^t'" ^'■'' '^p' """"^^""^ ^'"'' °'' i-o-'^ Presently she saw a half-dozen men come ouicklr down the street, and, before they reached the tailor-shop^ T^: t " Fc"^ '*i''"'8 excitedly. Afterwards one ?r« 7,7"*^ ^S"° '••" '"''"« quickly-Filion Lacas"e the saddler. He stopped short at 'ihe tailor's door Looking at Charley, he exclaimed roughly rhLVr •'°"'' ''''"^ "I' the cross you stole from the church door, we'll tar and feather you, M'sieu' " to h?m Z/tK*'"^ "P. surprised. It had never occurred to him that they could associate him with the theft 1 know nothing of the cross," he said quietly You re the only heretic in the place. You've done it. Who are you ? What are you doing here in Chaudii-re ? " TTe Sh"? ^y t«de."wa3 Charley's quiet answer. ?» f WK- ^"''f^?, Louis Trudel, as though to see how he took this ugly charge. Old Louis responded at once. "Get away with yon ;o„r°tifHT'' ^■■":"'t^^; "^°"'' ^°n'« here with your twaddle. Msieu' hasn't stole the cross. What does he want with a cross ?-he's not a Catholic." fK J!.^ didn't steal the cross, why, he didn't," answered the saddler; "but if he did, whafll you say for voursel^ Louis ? You call yourself a good Catholic— bah !— when you ve got a heretic living with you ! " " What's that to you ? " prowled the tailor, and reached out a nervous hand towards the iron. " J served at the altar before you were born. Sacr^ 1 I'll make your grave- clothes yet, and be a good Catholic when you're in the churchyard. Be off with you. Ach ! " he sharply added! when Fihon did not move, " I'll cut your hair for you ! " He scrambled off the bench with his shears. '- ' ! 128 THE RIGHT OP WAY Filion Lacasse disappeared with his friends, and the old man settled back on his bench. Charley, looking up quietly from his work, said, " Thank you, monsieur." He did not notice what an evil look was in Louis Trudel's face as it turned towards him, but Rosalie Evanturel, standing ou'side, saw it; and she stole back to the post-office ill at ease and wondering. All that day she watched the tailor's shop, and even when the door was shut in the evening, her eyes were fastened on the windows. CHAPTER XIX THE SIGN FROM HEAVEN Thi agitation and curiosity possessing Rosalie all dav held her m the evening when the wooden shutters df the tailor's shop were closed and only a flicker. nslfX showed through the cracks. She was Ltle s a^d unSy ^J^^'' wheel.chair% .ore^Va^nSraSy- ln,?T.T .^''""""I's mind was stirred concemine the loss of the iron cross; the threat made by Filiru^als^ ,Th» fi' ??'»F«""'ns troubled him. The one ~Z! mI'- ''i'.'r^l' J° Portugais, and Louis TrudeUo whoL met hL nf^"^ '""'•'' ^"^ V^« postmaster, who omeS SXlS^etlS"''"^'"^ ^'^ "">« "tSe-d - tn'tfi."'® '''°-^*' "'. *"PP*'' '*'e postmaster was inclined ? ^v^ a serious view of M'sieu's position. He raided at Fihon Lao^se ; he called the suspWous "aiite„Vclod hoppers, who didn't know any betterlwhichw^ a tribute' to his own superior birth; and at last, carried away by andSthT'"',;'^;,''' '"P.^'^"^ '•>=" Kosalie shoZll thL A^°^^^ ""*, "^^^ '" th« sl-utters of the tailor- shop and find out what was going on within. Th s was ndignantly rejected by Rosalie, but the more she th^ght the more uneasy she became. She ceased to reply to her t\^V!T"^'- "^"^^^ »' •^^ "-e'^P^ed into gloom and said that he was tired and would go to bed. There'unon she wheeled him inside his bedroom, bade him goodS" ISO THE RIGHT OF WAY and left him to bis moodiness, which, however, was soon absorbed in a deep sleep, for the mind of the little grey postmaster could no more hold trouble or thought than a sieve. Left alone, Rosalie began to be tortured. What were they doing in the house opposite ? Go and look through the windows? But she had never spied on people in her life ! Yet would it be spy- ing ? Would it not be pardonable ? In the interest of the man who had been attacked in the morning by the tailor, wlio had been threatened by the saddler, and con- cerning whom she had seen a signal pass between old Louis and Filion Lacasse, would it not be a humane thing to do ? It miglit be fuolish and feminine to be anxious, but did she not mean well, and was it not, therefore, honourable ? The mystery inflamed her imagination. Charley's passivencss when he was assaulted by old Louis and afterwards threatened by the saddler seemed to her in- difference to any sort of danger — the courage of the hope- less life, maybe. Instantly her heart overflowed with sympathy. Monsieur was not a Catholic perhaps ? Well, so much the more he should be befriended, for he was so much the more alone and helpless. If a man was bom a Protestant — or English — lie could not help it, and should not be punished in this world for it, since he was sure to be punished in the next. Her mind became more and more excited. 'The post-office had been long since closed, and her father was asleep — she could hoar him snoring. It was ten o'clock, and there was st a light in the tailor's shop. Usually the light went out before nine o'clock. She went to the post-office door and looked out. The streets were empty; there was not a light burning anywhere, save in the house of the Notary. Down towards the river a sleigh was making its way over the thin snow of spring, and screeching on the stones. Some late revellers, moving homewards from the Trois Couronnes, were roar- ing at the top of their voices the JiabitarU chanson, Le PetU Roger BorUemps — THE SIGN niOM HEAVEN "For I «m Roger Bon tempt With dnnk I ,m full „,, ,ith joy ,«/„< 131 suddenly MmeTo ^ei Sh« w^ ".SP"'***- ^ """"Sht Here was the soS toT . u^' '"'1 K""" '» *>«d- of modesty and propriety P"'''*"'' ''"" '"'"faction co^e^ro7Xtl\X\r,S 'r^^ '""'«' ""« the shop, when a crack ,rf),J^ .? '^* side-window of She hea?d somethinTfall on th« fl^'''' T^*" ''^ «)•"• be fhat the tailo and M'sreu' t^™ I'u- '"• ^'°"''' '' an hour? She had an ir-lrM •*°'"'','"e *' «" ^o'e her eye to the crack '"'""«'"''« ""P"l'e, and glued the iron firmly juTb^ ow fC P'T*?- ^''^P'-'S tailor held it up aLv h« ? T^/ "^ ^^^ cross, th! triumph, yetV^i^hTmalig^LStti:'.^','''''? * ""^ the object he held-the hofv relk !». iL . rPi"8 "''^ door of the parish church ^ ^i ■ , ^"^ "°'^" ^'■°'" "le dismay. '^ °'""^''- ^« P'^ gave a low cry of of?h:?h:;tit£Te\r'''^*°r'^'''''«d- she stood still an fnstanf fh -^ ^° he'^iWerment, she ran to the k^hpn!;) ' "i^^ ? «"'^''«° '"-Pulse was not hckel f)^ "^"^ "•"'^ '"^"^ '' '°ftl/ It found o1kMa;StstendinT?„'1h"' "^IT^ l"''^'^^^' ""d her night-dresf ^ " '''^ """^^^ °f ^^'^ room w no;^;d^..^P^^^^ - «>« ^eySof^leX']::? goin JqiJklr t^theln *°°- ^r*'" ^^^^ «™alie. and er room. Here she opened another door, leadiig 132 THE RIGHT OF WAY into the hall between the shop and the houie. Entering the hall, ahe saw a glimmer of light above. Itwaa the reddish glow of the iron cross held hv old Louis. She crept softly up the stone steps. She heard a door open very quietly. She hurried now, and came to the land- ing. She saw the door of Charley's room open — all the village knew what room he slept m — and the moonlight was streaming in at the window. She saw the sleeping man on the bed, and the tailor standing over him. Charley leaa lying with one arm thrown above his head; the other lay over the side of the bed. As she rushed forward, divining old Louis's purpose, the fiery cross descended, and a voice cried, " ' iShow me a sifin/rom Heaven, tailor-man /'" This voice was drowned by that of another, which, gasping with agony out of a deep sleep, as the body sprang upright, cried, " God ! — oh God ! " Rosalie's hand grasped old Louis's arm too late. The tailor sprang back with a horrible laugh, striking her aside, and rushed out to the landing. " Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur ! " cried Rosalie, and, snatch- ing a scarf from her bosom, thrust it in upon the ex- coriated breast, as Charley, hardly realising what had happened, choked back moans of paia " What did he do ? " he gasped. "The iron cross from the church door!" she answered. " A minute, one minute, Monsieur ! " She rushed out upon the landing in time to see the tailor stumble on the stairs and fall head forwards to the bottom, at the feet of Margot Patry. Rosalie paid no heed to the fallen man. " Oil ! flour ! Quick ! " she cried. " Quick ! Quick ! " She stepped over the body of the tailor, snatched at Margot's arm, and dragged her into the kitchen. " Quick ! Oil and flour ! " The old woman showed her where they were, moaning and whining. "He tried to kill Monsieur," cried Rosalie. "He burned him on the breast with the holy cross I" With oil and flour she hurried back, over the body of THE 8I0N FROM HEAVEN I33 the tailor, up the .tairg. and into Charley'* room bys pcTeffort " P""*"'"* """'""""e™ only "Good mademoiselle ! " he said Margot came staggering into the room. dead , 7°1 S ""t Aird"" '-- »-'- «« ^ him&nrsll '"'""' '"''"''' "•" '^°"'-' —- d "Now not a word of what he did to me rememl«r SpZierril" ^°" t'-' «" '° J'^'l -ith him "T ?ou wrdoZ" H^f '"''^"S. He didn-t know what he was doing. He turned to Rosa ie. " Not a word of th.^ please." he moaned. " Hide the cross." He moved towards the door. Rosalie saw his Purpose the .Sfo*"}' "''*'"' °' '•''» ■"«» •l"'^" thesTafrs toThere he tailor lay prone on his face, one hand still holdfne the pincera fhe little iron cross lay in a dark corner Stoopmg, she lifted up the tailor's head, then felt hTs wate^" shrli^H'*;" ?!!' T*^- "^^^^- Margot, some water, she added, to the whimpering woman Marmt tott red away and came again prSentfy with the3 to ^^^zr^:^:f£x^;t;^ h^rrAX'^rwr^ -^-^- «•>« - -d -^ „-„">.f°' °°' "If Mademoiselle," he said; "I shall be all nght presently. You must cet help to carrv ;,n „^ stajr^ Bring the Notary ; he'and I Tan carryLm'p"?" terrilrhurtT"' ^°" ^ It -uld kill you^r^^^^e "I must help to carry him, else people will be asking questions," he aswered painfully. "He is goins to dip^ llT", T'i^ known-you ^understand r&i°e^4'- searched the floor until they fowid the cross, RosX 134 THE RIGHT OP WAT picked it up with the pincers. " It must not be known what he did to me ! " Charley said to the muttering and moaning old woman. He caught her shoulder with his hand, for she seemed scarcely to heed. She nodded. "Yes, yes, M'sieu', I will never speak." Rosalie was standing in the door. "Go quickly, mademoiselle," he said. She disappeared with the iron cross, and flying across the street, thrust it inside the post-oiBce, then ran to the house of the Notary. CHAPTEE XX THE RETUBN OF THE TAILOR ine doctor shook hi« ^"^^ "PP^^ed. 136 THE BIGHT OF WAY " Peace be to this house ! " said the Cur^. He had a few minutes of whispered conversation with the doctor, and then turned to Charley. " He fell downstairs. Monsieur ? You saw him fall ? " '.'i'/t'" "^ room— I heard him fall, Curd." ' Had he been ill during the day ? " ■' He appeared to be feeble, and he seemed moody " More than usual. Monsieur ? "—The Curd had heard of the incident of the morning when Filion Lacasse accused Charley of stealing the cross. " Bather more than usual, Monsieur." The Curd turned towards the door. " You, Mademoiselle itosalie, how came you to know ? " "J,,^^ '"* ""^ •"tchen with Margot, who was not The Cure looked at Margot, who tearfully nodded. " I was 111, she said, "and Rosalie was here with me. She helped M sieu and me. Rosalie is a good girl, and kind to me, she whimpered. The Cure seemed satisfied, and after looking at the sick man for a moment, he came close to Charley "I am deeply pained at what happened to-day," he said courteously. "I know you have had nothing to do with the beloved little cross." The Notary tried to draw near and listen, but the Cures look held him back. The doctor was busy with his patient •' "You are ouly just, monsieur," said Charley in re- sponse, wishing that these kind eyes were fixed anywhere than on his face. All at once the Curd laid a hand upon his arm " You are ill ! 'he said anxiously. " You look very ill indeed See, Vaudrey, he added to the doctor, " vou have another patient here ! " ■ J*"* .friendly, oleaginous doctor came over and peered into Charleys face. " HI— sure enough!" be said ■L^k at this sweat!" he pointed to the drops of S r""" °° Charley's forehead. " Where do you " Severe pains aU through my body," Charley answered THE KETURN OP THE TAILOR 137 aown, and I will come to you " fhin™''^^ ^'^^^' ''"' ^'^ "°' ""o^^- Just then two things drew the attention of all: the tailor showed returning consciousness, and there was noise of many voic^es outside the house and the tramping of feet below- rfJtnw""!'* XT **'*'" "° °°^ """«' '=°™e up," said the JhTil'^ffits&e'd.t;'^ '"-^ "^^'^ '-'^ ^ -y Presently the noise below-stairs diminished, and the pnests voice rose in the office, vibrating and touching. hU Vv« IT^ T'' ^ t^^'I '^°««^' *h« doctor followed, everTh» I ^A'^u° '^' ''^''^S '"^°- Presently, how- ever, Charley did the same; for something penetrating and reasonable in the devotion touched him ^ All at once Louis Trudel opened his eyes. Staring round with acute e.xcitement, his eyes fell on the Curl then upon Charley. ' '•Stop—stop, m'sieu' le Cure!" he cried. "There's other work to do!" He gasped and was convulsed, but the pallor of his face was alive with fire from the i^e^Curai'' "''"''' '" '"™- «^ '''■•»'' '' -'^ infi/lV^^'l'jf,,?'^*''®'^ "He is an infidel-black infidel-from hell !" His voice rose in a kind of shriek piercing to every comer of the house. He pointed at Charley with shaking finger. beiie'J: i7G'od'" *'"'~°° *'"' ^^'- «« "^°«-''- His strength failed him, his hand clutched tremblinKly hl^' Vu H%l'"'?'«d, a dry, crackling laugh, and his mouth opened twice or thrice to speak, but gaspinft breaths only came forth. With a last effort, holever- astho priest shocked, stretched out his hand and said Have done! Have done, Trudel!"— he cried in a voice that quavered shrilly: : ' ; 138 THE RIGHT OF WAT -Zk J^^ Hr!!J^'Tr°,':^"8°-f"""-H««^«n- Look go^e^to teU of the work he Vd^/foT^rh'^IJ f CHAPTER XXI THB CUB£ has an INSPIKATION Whitk and malicious faces peered through the doorway Ihere was an ugly murmur coming up the staircaii. Many hah'Uants had heard Louis Trudel's last words and had passed them on with vehement exaggeration. Chaudiire had been touched in its most superstitious corner. Protestantism was a sin, but atheism was a crime against humanity. The Protestant might be the victim of a mistake, but the atheist was the deliberate son of darkness, the source of fearful dangers. An atheist m their midst was like a scorpion in a flower- bed—no one could tell when and where he would sting. Itough misdemeanours among them had been many, there had once been a murder in the parish, but the undefined horrors of infidelity were more shameful than crimes the eye could see. To the minds of these excited people the tailor-man's death was due- to the infidel before them. They were ready to do aU that might become a Catholic intent to avenge the profaned honour of the Church and the faith. iJodUy harm was the natural form for their passion to " Bring him out ! Let us have him !" they cried with fierce gestures, to which Eosalie Evanturel turned a pained, indignant face. As the Cur^ stood with the paper in his hand, his face set and bitter, Rosalie made a step forward. She meant to tell the truth about Louis Trudel, and show how good this man was, who stood charged with an imaginary crime But she met the warning eye of the man himself, calm and resolute, she saw the suffering in the face, endured ISO 140 THE RIGHT OF WAV i\0 :;C muii nil ^'?'"P°«»™! and she felt instantly that she m,1h\ K ^.i.'^'u' ""■'* 'hat-who could tell /Lhis plan anxiously. What would he say and do ? In the Cur(i'8 heart and mind a great struggle was going on. A 1 his inherent prejudice, fhe he?ed"^y Z' Se hTn, '"^ "i'>f"^.'^«n'ng his mind against the man f„f . .^ u ^i' ^?^ inxpu\se was to let Charley take hk fate at the hands of the people of Chaudifere whatever i? might be But as he locked at the man « he recalled he'w"r T"°«' »"d remembered the simple qS life he had 1 ved among them-oharitable, and UMe fish ^Imh "'"'1,°^. ?"H ■""* '"'Wt fell down, Zdtea« unbidden rushed into his eyes. The Curd had, all at once, the one great insoiration nf the^s^^r-s^dCrhLtt^^^^^^^^^^ him. who again had received them^from agu^Xn Xe fold-a family of faithful Catholics whose thought^ never strayed into forbidden realms. He had done no more than keep them faithful and prevent them L^ wandenng-counseUing, admonishing bapS and burying, gmng m marriage and blesstg, sendi^l'them Chu^h L'^'^K^"""" i°"™^y ''"•' ^^^^chetof Holy Church upon them. But never once, never in all hU ite, had he brought a lost soul into the fold. If he died to-night, he could not say to St. Peter, wh^n he arr^ed at heaven's gate, " See, I have saved a soulr Befor" Ihe Throne he could not say to Him who cried, " Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature'^ he could not say, -'Lord, by Thy'graco I fo^und thlso^ in thowi demess m the dark and the loneliness, "ng no God to worship, denial and rebellion in his helrf • and behold, I took him to my breast, and taught him Churc'h^"'"*' ""'' ''' '^-"^ ''°-« '"Thy haS th": Thus it was that the Cure dreamed a dream. He THB CUR^ HAS AN INSPIRATION 141 would set his life to saving this lost soul He wonlH rewue him from the outer darkness. ^ >,. w *?? ""ff""®!. he handed the paper in his hand £ he hfUhut^'""' ^""*"' t^e^woids upon it .n^^^ I i *"' *'*°^ "?»■"" the people at thVdoor and the loud murmuring beliind them "Ler^hl^C^'nii^r!^' ■" *''°"?'' '™« 'he altar. i«ave this room of death, I command you Go at nnro to your homes. This man "-he pointed?" Charley-" is my fnend. Who seeks to harm him, would harm mk Go hence and pray. Pray for yourselves, pray f™hrm Soon afterwards the house was empty, save for the Th ?^'^^l-^^^ ^"«*"' •'"d the Notary.' °' *" That night Charley sat in the tailor's bedroom rieid and calm though racked with pain, and watehed the candles flickering beside the dead body. H^wL think ing of the Curb's last words to the people. *^"''" „!■..: ^°°^«''— I wonder," he said, and through his eye- f^AV^"'^ "i "•" '=''"=*«^ "'"t threw afhadowTn the dead man's face. Morning found him there A« dawn crept in he rose to his feet "WWther niwr he said, like one in a dream. "n"ner now ! CHAPTER XXII I THE WOMAN WHO SAW Eva^tu^rs^nrSiH'Ki" '»«««°8''ith Charley, Rosalio javanturel s life had been governed by habit, which was the events happening across the Uy ' '""' tf^ii\k .u 'l°''°»<»>w. but what more was there proWems-the beginning of sorrow, of knowledge, a^ 18 various and diverse. Perhaps even with that Ifory THE WOMAN WHO SAW 143 bou!,.rn''*'f^"''l^"'^ "i"" ^'"'^'«y "d B""!"" were h^Hilf ^*' ^y "■ ^'"^ " '""'°8 «" death: Rosalie held the fcejr to a series of fateful days and doincx In ordinary course, they might have known each other for five years and not have come to thia sensitive and delicate association. With one great plunge "he had tKa'td"tV'T.°' -'^^'-"dinK- ^n?he moment in that l,n1 '^""' ^"'^ "^I^ '"'° ^'' ''^""hed breast, done ^^^ '°°'°' "'^ ''°'^ °' y«»" had been hr.t^'""'.^'' '\«"'"'d. that mark must remain on M'sieu's soT„^ r''"^' ""°°'u T' °' " """^ ' She had seen the r«h» fl T">»f '"■^''l*' ^"™ '"'^l'^^' «nd " thought of It she flushed, trembled, and turned her head awly as ll^'t ^°T T. "^'^ watching her. Even in the riight houZ fll.r«1 }'r'\^^' '"'l^ '" 'he pillow when the 3^ .K ^'^.'^'°!',Sh h" mind; though when she had soaked the scarf in oil and flour and laid it on the angrv rnTrfs^u'^fl""' '^'''' ^' ^"- -- •^«'«~''^ S from "a chiltnJ Ilf* '°'"^* ^^'- '""^ " ^'^ '•"» " ''°'»'«'. from a child of the convent into a child of the world WharsinM '^°"t' "?'*/*'' ■" '^' had done before set Hnw^% K^"'''-°I ''^' ™"1<* "'" ^'""y have been set down, for her mind was one tremulous confusion of unusual thoughts, her heart was beset by new feeHn« her imagination, suddenly finding itself, was tryingTs wings helplessly. The past was full of wonder and event the present full of surprises. nlZoT "-^ ¥'''^"' ««'ahlished already in Louis Trudel's pkce, having been granted a lease of the house and shop »Ltv h«r.f' °°wf P"'' .°'. '^' P»"«h, to which the pr^ ffif n?H M° *^ r'"^°8. '^° " «*f' °f 'he furniture MuJ of old Mwgot, who remained where she had been so many years. She could easily see Charley at work-mle and suffering still-for the dir was generally ^S m the U4 THE RKJHT OF WAY n •weet Apnl weather, with the birds .inging, and the tree* bursting into blowom. Her wilful imagination traced the CKMS upon his breast — it almost seemed a* if it were outside uiwn his clothes, exposed to every ere a shining thing all fire, not a wound inside, for which old Margot prepared oiled linen now. The parish was as perturbed as her own mind, for the mystery of the stolen cross had never been cleared up, and a few still believed that M'sieu' had taken it They were of those who kept hinting at dark things which would yet be worked upon the infidel in the tailors shop. These were they to whom the Curii's beautiful ambition did not appeal He had said that if the man were an infidel, ^hen they miut pray that he be brought into the fold; but a few were still suapicioug, and saidrin KoMlies presence, "Where is the little cross? M'sieu' He did know. That was the worst of it. The cross was in her possession. Was it not necessary tnen, to quiet suspicion for his sake 7 She had locked the relic away in a cupboard in her bedroom and she carried the key of it always in her pocket Jivery day she went and looked at it, as at some ghostly tokea To her it was a symbol, not of super- natural things, but of life in its new reality to her. It was Msieu, it was herself, it was their secret— she raged inwardly that Margot should share a part of that secret. If it were only between their two selves — betwwn M sieu' and herself ! If Margot— she paused suddenly for she was going to say. If Margot ^nmld only die! She was not wicked enough to wish that- yet m the past few weeks she had found herself capable of thinking things beyond the bounds of any^t expenence. ' *^ She found a solution at last. She would go to-night secretly and nail the cross again on the church door and so stop the chatter of evil tongues. The moon set very early now, and as every one in Chaudiere was supposed to be in bed by ten o'clock, the chances Of not being seen were in her favour. She received s jealoua of ' there not 'Win fi iij, ■ ' '.' 'I. ,.ri,. i;(mi ' .1(1 even It li^h. !.h:it when d I. 1--J0 tiiin. ii(,'« THE WOMAN WHO 8AW 145 !!1h ^1f' 'fP?'"* '° ''*' rerolution by a quarrelMme that Jo should defend M'aieu', but she ' 618 friendship for the tailor. Ilesidr appear to be a secret between Jo a.. I It not possible that Jo knew where A,\ and all about him? Of late Jo h , ' out of the ihop oftener than in the 1 her bunches of mosses for her budding lilacs, and some maple- u -ar ,.% ; trees on Vadrome Mountain. Sht i.niom « .a she was a girl at school, years ago— k u ,., I'ortugais, then scarcely out of his uri,; p easant, quick-tempered lad, had broug. . • , i,„„, ,„., brokenTn^'";"^'' "^/Y ' '»"" °°^'' »■« ^ad mended he her rh^nh k'I' ^"^ "'"•'*' '""^ yet another time had sen? .„nfi A*^'^ valentine at the convent, where it was confisaited by the Mother Superior. Since tho.,e days h^ had become a dark morose flaure, living apart from men nnbvtd '"^^.''''lyn! »">" person in the parish more nnloved. That was the woman called I'aulette Dubois who hved in the little house at the outer gate of the ifr^Vw " ?"" ^"H^ '"«' <" ^"^ »»»« in the par sh_ W Yet no in'"""'';;'"'""!'' •'«'- '">'l f«" men^otTced her. Yet no one could say that at the present time she did not live a careful life, justifying, so far as eye could see. he protection of the Seigneur, M. EossignXa man o_f queer habits and queerer dress, a dabbler in p"y° he CuirV/r""' Ca'holic and a constant friend of the Curd He it was who, when an effort was made to dnve Paulette out of the parish, had said that shrshould not go unless she wished ; that, having been bom in Chau- diire she had a right to live there atd die there" a.^"t she had sinned there, the parish was in some senw to blame. Though he had no lodge-gates, and thouTthe ^T:7 r 'r' " ^r """' '"w-r^fed fSouse with an observatory, and a chimney-piece dating from 146 THE EIGHT OF WAY ' ! 1 u ttie time of Louis the Fourteenth, the Seigneur gave Paulette Dubois a little hut at his outer gate, which had been there since the great Count Frontenac visited ChaudiAre. Probably Eosalie spoke to Paulette Dubois more often than did any one else in the parish, but that was because the woman came for little things at the shop, and asked for letters, and every week sent one —to a man Uving in Montreal. She sent these letters, but not more than once in six months did she get a reply, and she bad not had one in a whole year. Yet every week she asked, and Eosalie found it hard to answer her poUtely and sometimes showed it. So it was that the two disliked each othar without good cause, save that they were separated by a chHsm as wide as a sea. The one dishked the other because she must recognise her; the other chafed because she could be recognised by Eosalie officially only. The late afternoon of the day in" which Eosalie decided to nail the cross on the church door again, Paulette arrived to ask for letters at the moment that the office wicket was closed, and Eosalie had answered that it was aiier office hours, and had almost closed the door in her face. As she turned away Jo Portugais came out of the tailor-shop opposite He saw Paulette, and stood still an instant. She did the same. A strange look passed acrost the face of each, then they turned and went in opposite directions. Never in her life had time gone so slowly with Eosalie. She watched the clock. A dozen times she went to the front door and looked out. She tried to read— it was no use; she tried to spin— her fingers trembled; she sorted the letters in the office again, and rearranged every letter and parcel and paper in its little pigeon- hole—then did it all over again. She took out again the letter Paulette had dropped in the letter-box; it was addressed in the name of the man at Montreal She looked at it in a kind of awe, as she had ever done the letters of this woman who was without the pale. They had a sense of mystery, an air of forbidden imagi- nation. She put the letter back, went to the door again, and 'I THE WOMAN WHO SAW 147 a little froet;thoug7Sn"wL '11 "/«'"'• J''"*'*'''" smell of the ric& SK^^.u x. ^°^,1"'< and the sweet to the Jnae ^he ml„ '^/'''^'^'"K ^^^^^ '''« Stan, were shinW and h^T. 'i'^ .Jl?"' "*"' *»" the snow on the hill-ride^H in .t"^^ ^"« P*"^'"^ of light. Yet it was nof ^- k. "^^ ^*''^* "^^ed to the BSsalie moved Xwfthe^str.T"«K '° ^ ^a'- and J afijjui. at a little7ilnc S it' n°th "°'"=^ springing grass by the roadSde Til ^^ -^"^ "''"'- tavern; there was no light f„tL vL"'. "^r' "' "«» a rule, he sat ud kt« £„^- Notary's house — as Maxin;ilian"cou"r^SUf :f ■ su"e'rThe r 'i^'^'^°' dows were dark and thn nh ,w.i, fu ■ ^"® ^"""^ « win- oiS'tle ?aKthe ' T^"" '>/"-'» - ^^e softly g^at oak dCs Takit"'! r^* "°^ fPP™a<=hed th^ screws from her pocket she fpir'''.;'^"^ "'"* =<""« old screw-holes in the d'o^r Th "u*' 1: "^"Ser for the looking fearfuUy" u'n'd ote orSel't ^r p" "°^ however, because the screws w;™! lu ^ "gently, ones, it soon became harder /^ '"8« than the old more strength, and "rove all tho .17°/ u "^"''' ^°''^ of her mind for a sZe At^-f^ V* ^""« '"«° °"' the final turn to thThandl^ Ah ' ^"^^^"^^ '^^ g''^^ its place, its top level anS hL^?k ^^'fy ,s'=>-ew was in cross. She sto^ and looked round'' '^''""'"' '^' uneasy feelintr She p7.,,ih """^ ^S"" with an she tegan to^'tremble and' -°° °°'' ^f "" °"«- ^ut knees before theToor and wr>f';S°'"!r '^^ ^«" »» her of^the linle cro..p;-/'SX«ers on^he.oot £SgtSst^r^-V:rre^,^-^ rushed to the gate threw ?nn^ 'P''*°« *° *'«'■ ^et, "4 ^, -t;S;inrj'.s'i4-,s 148 THE RIGHT OF WAY least three hundred yards. Turning and looking buck she saw at the church door a pale round light. With another cry she sped on, and did not pause till she reached the house. Then, bursting in and locking the door, she hurried to her room, undressed quickly, got into bed without saying her prayers, and buried her face in the pillow, shivering and overwrought. The footsteps she had heard were those of the Curd and Jo Portugais. The Curd had sent for Jo to do some last work upon a little altar, to be used the next day for the first time. The carpenter and the carver in wood who were responsible for the work had fallen victims to white whisky on the very last day of their task, and had been driven froip the church by the Cnrd, who then sent for Jo. Bosalie had not seen the light at the shrine, as it was on the side of the church farthest from the village. Their labour finished, the two came towards the front door, the Curd's lantern in his hand. Opening the door, Jo heard the sound of footsteps and saw a figure flying down the road. As the Curd came out abstractedly, he glanced sorrowfully towards the place where the little cross was used to be. He gave a wondering cry, and almost dropped the lantern. " See, see, Portugais," he said, " our little cross again ! " Jo nodded. " So it seems, monsieur," he said. At that instant he saw a hood lying on the ground, and as the Cure held up the lantern, peering at the little cross, he hastily picked it up and thrust it inside his coat " Strange — very strange ! " said the Curd. " It must have been done while we were inside. It was not there when we entered." " We entered by the vestry door," said Jo. " Ah, true — true," responded the Curd. " It comes as it went," said Jo. " You can't account for some things." The Curd turned and looked at Jo curiously. "Are you then so superstitious, Jo ? Nonsense ; it is the work of human hands — very human hands," he added sadly. THE WOMAN WHO SAW 149 " There is nothing to show," said the Cure, seeine Jo's glance round. ° "As you see, m'sieu' le Curd." " WeU, it is a mystery which time no doubt will clear Cui-^ *"" "* ** thankful to God," said the They parted, the Curd going through a side-gate into thJ^ garden, Jo passing out of the churchyard-gate through which Koaihe had gone. He looked down the road towards the village. ./Tw'" u^'** " ''"'"^ ■" ^^ «"• Paulette Dubois stood before him. "W^'f^j ^°"' ^^^°" ^^ ^^' ''»"> a glowering look. What did you want with it ? " " What do you want with the hood in your coat there ? " bhe threw her head back with a spiteful laugh i; Whose do you think it is ? " he said quietly. lou and the schoolmaster made verses about her once. "It was Rosalie Evanturel ?" he asked, with aeeravat- ing composure. ** "You have the hood— look at it! You saw her run- ning down the road; I saw her come, watched her and saw her go. She is a thief— pretty Rosalie— thief and postmistress I No doubt she takes letters too" "The ones you wait for, and that never come— eh ? " Her fwe darkened with rage and haired. " I will tell tne world she s a thief!" she sneered. " Who will believe you ? " "You will." She was hard and fierce, and looked him 1°! ask^^o ^?""*'^'- " "^°"'" 8ive evidence quick enough, "I wouldn't do anything you asked me to— nothine if It was to save my life." *' j(. ,'.' ^'" P™^^ '"^'' a thief without you. She can't deny shak"gi'°" "^ "' ^'" — " ^' ''"pp*"^' ^""'^y a°M'W^::^mMM CHAPTER XXin -you will But I THE WOMAN WHO DID NOT TELL " Oh, m'sieu', I am afraid." " Afraid of what, Margot ? " " Of the last moment, m'sieu' le Cur^." " There will be no last moment to yoiir mind- not know it when it comes, Margot." The woman trembled. " I am not sorry to die am afraid ; it is so lonely, m'sieu' le Cur^ " " God is with us, Margot." "When we are born we do not know. It is on the shoulders of others. When we die we know, and we have to answer. " Is the answering so hard, Margot ? " The woman shook her head feeblv and sadly, but did not speak. ' "You have been a good mother, Margot." She made no sign. " You have been a good neighbour ; you have done unto others as you would be done by." She scarcely seeLied to hear. "You have been a good servant— doing your duty in season and out of season ; honest and just and faithful" Ihe woman s hngers twitched on the coverlet, and she moved her head restlessly. The Cure almost smiled, for it seemed as if Mareot were finding herself wanting. Yet none in Chaudiire but knew that she had lived a blameless life-faithful friendly, a loving and devoted mother, whose health had been broken by sleepless attendance at sick-beds by nieht wl.Ue doing her daily work at the house of the late Louis' 152 THE RIGHT OF WAY "I will answer for the way yon have done your duty, rf'tl^Chrrlfh '^^ " "'^°" ^^^ '"*° * ^°^ '•'"'8'"^' He paused a minute, and in the pause some one rose from a chair by the wii; i jw and looked out on the sunset 3ky. It was Charley. The woman heard, and turned her eyes towards him. "Do you wish hiin to go ? asked the Cure. C^°'u^^ ^°' °>'8i«"'." she said eagerly. She had asked all day that either Rosalie or M'sieu' should be in the room with her. It would seem as though she were afraid she had sot courage enough to keep the secret of the cross without their presence. Charley had yielded to her request, while he shrank from granting it. Yet, as he said to himself, the woman was keeping hif secret- his and Kosahes— and she had some right to make demand. Wben the Cur^ asked the question of old Mareot he turned expectantly, and with a sense of relief He thought It strange that the Curers, and you know, and they trouble your soul, m'sieu' ?" THK WOMAN WHO DID NOT TELL 153 {. '1J°"k''*'® ""'^'''B to do with the sins of otheni- it to-n Jh^I'Ml^?-. ^°" •""' """• "« r°w "ole concern The woman's face seemed to clear » HtHo .„j i, wandered to the man at the w bdow " h Uu anx^v' He was also wondering how much right he had to nut the stram upon the woman in her desp^erate hour ^"' wom^ras£d«prenS;/'^*°^ "^ ^ -"'" "-^" *•>« "Till morning, perhaps, Margot." .hJ ™"V''^ *° ''^^ "" sunrise," she answered-" till mullng'l"*""'- ^'^^ »«^- 8-d tearshf addS n>/tSr""°'' ''°"''' "^""^ ^ '•"« "^'"S l..™d. ^aSag-t:^::^^-^" tu.^i:rf^\tenTt^^^^^^^^ ^- '- yes. M^'rg:^"'' ^''' °' " ''"• ^""^ ""« «•" '^ y"- o— "And if the sin is not your own ? " to"othe^r«!!!,"^ ""' "°'-*1'^ " ''•^ ««"«' »eans injury ASif Ksr™. ^ss.'- •'• But her face cleared now, and stayed so. " It has all been a mix and f. muddle," she answered- "and it h.frV stand. I am not afraid : I will eonffi.^.%" Xhe Cur6 had made it clear to her that «he could carry TH« BIORT OF WAT '. 164 to her grave the wcret of the little croM and the work it had done and io keep her word and .till not i^u« hi chances of salvation. She was content hkI ^ i needed the helpfnlnre«>nce of MwSrRoSfoCh^^^^^^^ .nstw^wely felt wKat was in her n>i„d. and^ime S «iidl''her"'" ^'^"^^'> Ro«.lie about the tea." he go^'S'-XlS-' ''■»'«' ""'""«• "^'""'•' y-. cLS^Te?' the'Tin"'''''''' '" ''''''" ^''^ •=''"'^-«'- Towards mornin'g Margot waked out of a brief sleen "Is it near sunrise ?" she whispered. .wered'?hi"r!,i'"!r'*-- ^ee; God has been good." an- rfirtttldentys"""«°P^" ''"' "'°^ ■""*'«"*"« - tow'Si'thetf ''^ "^^ "•* » -P °' '«'. -"-d ca- the^Cu^""^' ^°°^'^ "' *•"" 8^''' "' *" *^''' -""l 'hen at "Drink the tea for me, Rosalie," she whispered. Rosalie did as she was asked She looked round feebly ; her eyes were growing filmv Jr*'.^"^eTe'r ?J»'-"^"bleLbefore,^he m'an^ 10 say. 1 never had— so much— attention. . . T Ian Fo«rhavfLLXr'"--^°'""''''--^''«"«--^- her^"r;'U^^eiL5fteu^f''= '^^ secret was now CHAPTER XXIV THE 8EI0NEUK TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME It was St. Jean Baptiste's day, and French Canada wai en fUe. Every seigneur, every cur^, every doctor, every notanr— the chief figures in a parish— and every habitant was bent for a happy holiday, dressed in his best clothes, moved in his best spirits, in the sweet summer weather. Bells were ringing, flaffs were flying, every road and lane was filled with eaUchts and wagons, and every dog that could draw a cart pulled big and little people, the old and the blind and the mendicant, the happy and the sour, to the village, where there were to be sports and speeches, races upon the river, and a review of the militia, arranged by the member of the Legislature for u»e Chaudi^re-half of the county. French soldiers in English red coats and carrying British flags were strag- gling along the roads to join the battalion at the volun- teers' camp three miles from the town, and singing : " Brigadier, reaponciez Pandora- Brigadier, voua aver, raison." It was not less incongruous and curious when one group presently broke out in so God save the Queen, and another into the Maraeillaise, and another still into MaCbrowk t'en va t'en guer,-e. At last songs and soldiers were absorbed in the battalion at the rendezvous, and the long dusty march to the village gave a disciplined note to the gaiety of the militant habitant. At high noon Chaudifere was filled to overflowing. There were booths and tents everywhere — all sorts of cheap-jacks vaunted their wares, merry-go-rounds and MIOOCOTY tESOLUTION TBI CHART (ANSI ond ISO TEST CHART No. 2) III 1.0 ^if m \\JL i^ ""^ 1 1:25 i 1.4 1^ i^ 11^ ^ APPLIED IIVHGE Inc ^K '653 Eosl Main SIrsel ^-S Rochesler, New Yofk 14609 USA "■^ (716) <82 - 0300 - Phone ^S (716) 288 ^ 5999 - Fox 156 THE RIGHT OF WAY !•? plScUve '^':°'^^;SM,mesmed the usual spaces i„ the ?he Nof rv * ^"u- * • J'o^^ig-'ol the Seigneur, and the Notary stood on the church steps viewin.- the scene and awaiting tlie approach of the oldier-c tizens Th« Seigneur and the Cure had ceased listening to the babUe o M Dauphin, who seemed not to know that his audi OT ^__lhiuk of that! or an abstracted "You surprise sJt fh^lL't:t V *'"? «"8«^g<-'«l"r« and wreathing tr^sr^U!..! nn". • '"\0'Jed "nglets as though they trespassed on his smooth, somewhat jaundiced cheeks until It began to dawn upon him that there was no coin h rir t l^.r '^ '"' ^' ""^ ■"'»'• rortZ faTou'r d slowly pLt th rl 1 •'!'"'='"«'. 1°^ the tailor walked siowiy past tliem, looking neither to right nor to u ' to\rrou'nt ^^^ "T, ^™""'^' Warfntlylli^! ous to all round him. Almost opposite the church door, however, Charley was suddenly stopped by Filion Lacasse, who ran out from a group'^ before the tayern ^dlfudly"' " '""' °' •'*'" '^''^ outstr^etiXnd: rmTltS ddfifrich??Lr n' '"'''''•r^' infidel, but you haverheTd'fnd^oi Vave'Ze molj^nd you give away your own, and that's good enouSi ?o^me " iV-L:;;.^?'''"'''^^'^^"'''-''^°"d-''-«lhoLo^ Charley did not answer him, but calmly withdrew his hand smiled raised his hat at the lonely cheer the Tad hi '"'''h' ^?<1 P^j^^d on, scarce conscLs of wha had happened. Indeed he was indifferent to it forhe had a matter on his mind this day which bitterly absorbed But the Notary was not indifferent. "Look there' What do you think of that ? " he said querulously ' said tKr' """ '^"^ ^'"''^ '''•"'' ^^°°^'«"^ ^«"." THE SEIGNEtJB TAKES A HAND IN THE (iAME 157 The Seigneur put his large gold-handled glass to his eye and looked interestedly after Charley for a moment, then answered, " Well, Dauphin, what ? " " He's been giving Filion Lacasse advice about the old legacy business, and FUion's taken it; and he's got a thousand dollars; and now there's all that fuss. And four mouths ago Filion wanted to tar and feather him for being just what he is to-day— an infidel— an infidel ! " - He was going to say something else, but he did not like the look the Cure turned on him, and he brcVo oil' short. "Do you regret that he gave Lacasse good advice?" asked the Cure. " It's taking bread out of other men's mouths." " It put bread into Filion's mouth. Did you ever give Lacasse advice? The truth now, Dauphin!" said the Seigneur drily. " Yes, monsieur, and sound advice too, within the law — precedent and code and every legal fact behind." The Seigneur was a man of laconic speech. " Tut, tut ! Dauphin; precedent and code and legal fact are only good when there's brain behind 'em. The tailor yonder has brains." "Ah! but what does he know about the law?" an- swered Dauphin, with acrimonious voice but insinuating manner, for he loved to stand well with the Seigneur. "Enough for the saddler evidently," sharply rejoined the Seigneur. Dauphin was fighting for his lite, as it were. His back was to the wall. If this man was to be allowed to advise the habitants of Chaudiere on their disputes and " going to law," where would his own prestige be ? His vanity had been deeply wounded. " It's guess-work with him. Let him stick to his trade as I stick to mine. That sort of thing only does harm." " He puts a thousand dollars into the saddler's pocket : that's a positive good. He may or may not take thereby ten dollars out nt your pocket : that's a negative injury. In this case there was no injury, for you had already cost Lacasse — how much had you cost him, Dauphin ? " con- 158 THE BIGHT OF WAY record-how much, eh, Daup"n » " ' °" ' ''"'"' '^'^ rinsS^k'.ZTfJ'r''''' r -«--• He shook his sJwioloutdcheek^ ''-'''"■''' 'P°' ^''''^^'l "^ -«^h Ks»B^f^S5r^rh,i;^ said'JL Nota^r "' " '''^"^ ^"'"^ 8^"- ^-^'" He will not go. I have asked him." n>o;|^«r£-^.^t3r^^"^uehec. " We'll' wl™"'' ^ 't""'" ''°^«'"«d the Seigneur. hi/itrteV^-edV;-^^ -■- <^- -^^^ tailor p'^rovdtrbe'i'lP''^ '^^ «'^^*^' P'^^«"'« « our whith^i^hThathlftreSl °" ' P'"" ^"^' '-'<'«• wa':'tt rbr„^,:'sp^i'''"'' ^^^^-^ *° ^° '^^^ ^'." Cure"pious1v''^ff iLt™8 him peace at last! "said the our/s^aith'^rt^z'rfix^"fr'^l/" THE SEIOxVEUK TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME 159 -andTiri r?"« "'"T'i^ *° ^ ^■'•den in the present —and this I beheve with all my heart: supDose that hn TcZro^h'^V'*?' ''^"''^'"S-- "'^» '>°" muc"hTorV«hoa?d the Church strive to win him to the light ! Why man you Uauphn with your great intelligence, your wide Se?! ■•''•' °" '""'^^^'^ee of the world ;e';hould t The Seigneur's eyes were turned away, for there was in men^i^'tr' V.T" ""'^ " ^"^Picious^^oistme o7m men in the world he most admired the Curd, :or his utter truth and nobi ity ; but he could not he' -liUnR arhis enthusi^m-his dear Cure turned e^. °fke any "Methody"!— and at the appeal of the oi-rv nn tZ pound of knowledge of the world J "was tise enoui to count himself an old fogy, a proy.nciaT, and "a sS pure Aa6,te< but of the three he only had any knowledge of life As men of the world the Curd and the Notary were sad failures, though they stood for much in Chaudifere. Yet this detracted nothing from the fine Cutwn rVT*'"^/' "'^ ^«g°«»' had been at the Curds words he turned now and said, "Always on he weaker side, Curd; always hoping the best from^he worst tJLL*™ °n^ following an example at my door— you taught us all charity and justice," answered M Loise" itttl?w"h1?eT'^f^^'^ ^"^'""'^- There wfs sS fliu .• ^^"^ *" 'hree were thinking of the woman of the hut at the gate of the Seigneurs manor. On this topic M. Dauphin was not voluble. His original kindness to the woman had given him many trouWed hours at home, for Madame Dauphin had construed Ws human sympathy into the dark and carnal desires of the heart a„d his truthful eloquence had made his c^o the worse. A miserable sentimentalist, the Notary was likely to be misunderstood for ever, and one or two indiscretions flJ:'\'Tr y°"* ^^^ heen a weapon agafnst hZ through the long years of a blameless married life li I 11 1 ' 1 160 THE RIOHT OF WAY He heaved a sigh of sympathy with the Cur^ now. She has not come back yet? " he said to the Seigneur "No sign of her. She locked up and stepped out, so my housekeeper says, about the time " "The day of old Margofs funeral," interposed the Notary. " She'd had a letter that day, a letter she'd been waiting for, and abroad she went — alas ! the fly-away— from bad to worse, I fear— ah me ! " The Seigneur turned sharply on him. " Who told you she had a letter that day, for which she had been wait- ing ? he said. " Monsieur Evanturel." The Seigneur's face became sterner still " What busi- ness had he to hiMi) that she received a letter that day ? " "He 13 postmaster," innocently replied the Notary. " He IS the devil ! " said the Seigneur tartly. " I bee your pardon, Cure ; but it is Evanturel's business not to know what letters go to and fro in that office. He should be blind and dumb, so far as we all are concerned." "Remember that Evant>;rel is a cripple," the Cur^ answered gently. "I am glaJ— very glad it was not Rosalie. "Rosalie has more than usual sense for her sex" gruffly but kindly answered the Seigneur— a look of fneudhness in his eyes. " I shall talk to her about her father ; I can't trust myself to speak to the man." " Rosalie is down there with Madame Dauphin " said the Notary, pointing. " Shall I ask her to come ? '' The Seigneur nodded. He was magistrate and mag- nate, and he was the guarantor of the post-office, and of Rosalie and her father. His eyes fixed in reverie on Rosalie; he and the Cur^ passively waited her approach. She came over, pale and a little anxious, but with a courageous look. Sha had a vague sense of trouble, and she feared it might be the Uttle cros?, that haunting thing of all these months. When she came near, the Cur^ greeted her courteously *°i'^^S' .**'^'"8 ^^^ '^°^^ ^y 'he arm, led him away. The Seigneur and Rosalie being left alone, the girl said, " You wish to speak with me, monsieur ? " W WWJilf ^1 i Hiiil j p 1(1 I THE SEIGNEUR TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME 161 The Seigneur scrutinised her sharply. Thoueh her m^nth „^ Ani, '"»f,'°?7 dark hours since that fateful month of April. At night, trying to sleep she haa heard flvinf r''^ f«''f '«P? in 'he church, which had sent W waZ oTT*^- ,^''-'"' '^''' "-"^ 'h« hood She h„'d Clund"fn .h"''r"l*'' ^1"^ ''°"^d come that it had Deen found m the churchyard, and that she had been seen putting the cross back upon ihe church door. ^ dav whiter Z7i ''" ""i '=°T "' ^"^"g'h to realisTthat Sted Yet fh^PPff '.° ^^^ ^'^' «he was not sus^ pectea. yet the whole train of circumstances had a STubTAh"'-'"' '^' ^""^ """^ JoPortugaUhadnot made public their experience on the eventful ninht • she had been educated n a land of legend and supemition and a deep impression had been made upon Lr minH gmng to her other new emotions a toucY of pathos of imagination, and adding character to her Le. ^ The old Se^eur stroked his chin as he looked at her He r^- lised that a change had come upon her, that she hTd developed m some surprising way. "What has happened— wAo has happened Made moiselle Rosalie ? " he asked. He had suddenly made un h,8 mind about that look in her face-he thS it the woman m her which answers to the call of^"„ „„? perhaps any particular man, but man the attraX; "n- lluence, the complement. "mactive in- A3tV^^,'^'°^^.^' 'hen raised frankly to his. "I don t know "-adding, with a quick humour, for he had S"^yTluS"n ''^■^•-d joked with'he'r in Ws ary way all her life. Do you, monsieur ' " him Jh ' ?°f T"h a quick gesture habitual to him and answered slowly and meaningly: "The govern mof,ln/ ^^ ^!^'"* ""'' P«y« '«S"1" wages.^rlad^ moisella Id stick to government !" "I am not asking for a divorce, monsieur." we« ir il' • °'' ■*«"" delightedly-so many people were pathetically m earnest in Chandiii-even the Curb's humour was too medieval and obvious. He had nTve? before thought Bosalie so separate from them all ^ at L (! I 162 THE RIGHT OF WAY once he had a new interest in her. His cheek flushed ■ Ijttle, his eye kindled, humour relaxed bis lips. "No other husband would intrude so little," be rejoined. "True, there's little love lost between us, monsieur." She felt exhilaration in talking with him, a kind of joy in measuring word against word ; yet a year ago she would have done no more than smile respectfully and give a demure reply if the Seigneur bad spoken to her like this. Pt ^'§?*"'' °°'*d "le ffiixed emotions in ber face and the delicate alertness of expression. As a man of the world, be was inclined to believe that only one kind of experience cata bring such looks to a woman's face. He saw in ber the awakening of the deeper interests of life the tremulous apprehension of nascent emotions and passions which, at some time or other, give beauty and importance to the nature of every human being. It did not occur to him that the tailor— the mysterious figure in the parish— might be responsible. He was observant but not imaginative; he was moved by what he saw in a quiet, unexplainable manner. ' " The government is the best sort of husband. From the other sort you would get m ,re kisses and less na pence, he continued. " Vf*' °''g'*t ^ a satisfactory balance-sheet, monsieur." "Take care. Mademoiselle Rosalie," be rejoined, half seriously, "that you don't miss the ha'pence before vou get the kisses." '' She turned pale in very fear. What was be going to say ? Was the post-office to be taken from them ? She came straight to the point "What have I done wrong, monsieur? I've never kept the mail-stage waiting; I've never left the mail- bag unlocked; I've never been late in opening the wicket; I've never been careless, and no one's ever complained of a lost letter." The Seigneur saw her aeitation, and was sorry for ber. He came to the point as she bad done : "We will have you made postmistress— you alone Kosalie Evanturel. I've made up my mind to that. But THE SEIONEtJR TAKFH * ua»t> r.. - u« lAKES A HAND IN THK 0\ME 163 you'll promise not to get ma "" one in the parish for you born and you've been too wife— and the Curd or I married — eh manj. educated Anyhow, there's You're too well- for a habitant'i li — ""' ^'*"= "•■ *■ can t marrr vou " «nd that the thines that nnn„ >. "'"f V* surprised to the things once hited a "T.^''"^^'^''''"'"'*™'''"'* saw her embarrLsme„t H.T, "'"J't'^ ''P"'"^«- »« the first time^arahe hS p. "f>. ''"'T ''""*''» "'" since it ceased to t a dJlm oZTo^f' of marriage of thinking much on a m^n L^- i '^' "'"*■ ^^ '«"«•» which ho^ever!'sh: harn±%tfe^.=?;* „ j ! . ' * ""aaen inspira- crabbed and?; andciirdureme '^'^\ril"^ °^^ -"^ happy if you % mar^ m^.^Ter ^ ^ ^"""""''^^ 164 THE BIGHT OF WAY He stood upright, holding himself very hard, for this Idea had shot into his mind all in an instant, thoush unknown to himself, it had been growing for years" cherished by many a kind act to her father and by a simple g.uiitude on lier part. He had spoken with- out feeling the abpurdity of tlie proposal. IlVhnd never married, and he ' unprepared to make any statement on such a theme; but now, having made it somehow, he won d stand by it. in spite of unv and all criticism. He had known Rosalie since her birth, her education was as good as a convent could secure, she was the crand- daughterof a notable seigneur, and here she was, as tine a type of health, beauty and character as man could wish— and he was only fifty 1 Life was getting lonelier for him every day, and, after all, why should he leave distant relations and the Church his worldly goods ? All this flashed through his mind as he waited for her answer Now It seemed to him that he had meant to say this thing for many years. He had seen an awakening in her —he had suddenly been awakened himself. "Monsieur! monsieur!" she said in a bewildered way do not amuse yourself at my expense." "Would it be that, then ? " he said, with a smile, behind wnich there was determination and self-will " I want you to marry me; I do with all my heart. You shall have those ha pence, and the kisses too, if so be you will take them — or not, as you will, Rosalie." "Monsieur," she gasped, for something caught her in the throat, and the tears started to her eyes, "ask me to forget that you have ever said those words. Oh, monsieur It is not possible, it never could be possible. I am only the postmaster's daughter." " You are my wife, if you will but say the word i" he answered, "and I as proud a husband as the land holds!" "You were always kind to me, monsieur," she rejoined ner hps trembhng ; " won't vou be so still ? " " I am too old ?" he asked. 'I Oh no, it is not that," she replied. "You have as good manners as my mother had. You need not fear comparison with any lady in the land. THE ,SK,„NKUR TAKI 8 A HAND IN THE GAME 105 ^ An, 11 IS not that, monsieur. f»l»„ I ■'^"*'^ *"» '""^ once— but it was all I cannot!::!::!^'"'' ' *"« °' y-' '■° -»-« •' I eaanot ; oh. change your mind r- moment. If you She shook her hei>d sadly 166 THE RIOMT OF WAY murt govern your father-he ha.n't aa much .enae u #..l" ?^ j""?'; *' °*' y°" ~ """=•' ! I »«» deeply Rrate- They oouid scarcely hear each other speak now, for the soldiers were com.ng neartsr, and the flfe^and-drum b«nd8 were screechmg, Louis the JCivg um a Soldier. h.Ji-V"'^'^^- I'fP '*■« government as your bus- and the Notary approaching. smik oJiSuf."""""' '*'»°''"'" "'"' "-"«"«>• -i'h a M. Bossignol turned to the Cuni and the Notary " I fn'nl.i'"",*'*^"'"' mademoiselle a husband she migti rule fuiil" K "Kr™?""' ••"" '"'«« her. and shehLre! fused! he said in the Cur.S'8 ear, with a dry laugh. apprefendLg"""""" ^'' " B<-1-." -^ '"e cW. not .tTl!!'°l.'''T "^^ n°* opposite the church, and riding croS'd^ '^,'°7h!f «°^"' '""' «i^'« disappeared in the "At luncheon I'll tell you one of the bravest thines Man^ who did it wore an eye-glass - said he was a !•/ I' P II CHAPTEE XXV THE COLONEL TELLS HIS STORY The Colonel had lunched very well indeed W» h.A a " ohaudi6re may well be proud of it T =k.ii * . local Al-tonZ'tef^erTTe'Zri^Z "^^ left, stump fences and waving fieTds of gwin rSh^ V'"' mUitary point of view, bad ^sit on-rav" e "fuL f^^^ brave sold.ers in the middle^food for po^d^r'^TaLfe 5:i„atLrnf„«eTo^cttstS ^^"^'--^^^^ »vine on the right, s^irpS ofthe 11:7^"^^ 168 THE RIGHT OF WAY fife-and-drum band, concealed enemy— follow me ? Ob- servant mind sees problems everywhere — unresting military genius accustoms intelligence to all possible contingencies— 'stand what I mean ? " The Seigneur took a pinch of snuff, and the Cur4 whose mind was benevolent, listened with the lyravest interest. " At the juncture when, in my mind's eye, I saw my gallant fellows enfiladed with a terrible fire, caught in a trap, and I, despairing, spurring on to die at their head- have I your attention ?— just at that moment there ap- peared between the ravine and the road ahead a man. He wore an eye-glass ; he seemed an unconcerned spec- tator of our movements— so does the untrained, unthink- ing eye look out upon destiny ! Not far away was a wagon, m it a man. Wagon bisecting our course from a cross-road — follow me ? " He drew a line on the table-cloth with the carving- knife, and the Notary said, " Yes, yes,— the concession road." "So, messieurs. There were we, a battalion and a fife-and-drum band; there was the man with the eye- glass, the indifferent spectator, yet the engine of fate ; there was the wagon, a mottled horse, and a man driving — catch it? The mottled horse took fright at our band, which at that instant strikes up The Chevalier Drew his Sabre. He shies from the road with a leap, the man falls backwards into the wagon, and the reins drop. The horse dashes from the road into the open, and rushes on to t:,6 ravine. What good now to stop the fifes and drums— follow me? What can we, an armed force, bandoleere.!, kn.ipsacked, sworded, rifled, impetuous, brave,— what can we do before this tragedy ?' The man in the wagon senseless, the flying horse, the ravine, death ! How futile the power of man !— 'stand what I mean ? " "Why didn't your battalion shoot the horse?" said the Seigneur drily, taking a pinch of snuff. "Monsieur," said the Colonel, "see the irony, the implacable irony of fate— we had only blank cartridge! THE COLONEL TELLS HIS STORY 169 But see you, here was this one despised man with an eye-glass, a tailor— takes nine tailors to make a man ! —between the ravine and the galloping tragedy. His spirit arrayed itself like an army with banners, pre- pared to wrestle with death as Jacob wrestled with his sbadow all the night — 'sieur le Curd ! " _ The Curd bowed ; the Notary shook back his oiled locks m excitement. "Awoke a whole man— nine-ninths, as in Adam— in the obscure soul of the tailor, and, rushing forward he seized the mottled horse by the bridle as he galloped upon the chasm. The horse dragged him on— dragged him 01— on— on. We, an army, so to speak, stood and watched the Tailor and the Tragedy! All seemed lost, but, by the decree of fate " " The will of God," said the Curd softly "By the great decree, the man was able to stop the horse, uot a half-dozen feet from the ravine. The horse and the insensible driver were spared death — death bo, messieurs, does bravery come from unexpected places — see ? The Seigneur, the Curd, and even the Notary dripped their hands, and murmured praises of the tailor-man. Uut the Colonel did not yet take his seat. "But now, mark ihe sequel!" he said. "As I gal- loped over, I saw the tailor look into the watron— and turn away quickly. He waited by the horse till I came near, and then walked off' without a word. I rode up and tapped him with my sword upon the shoulder 'A noble deed, my good man,' said I. ' I approve of your conduct, and 1 will remember it in the Legislature when I address the committee of the whole house on roads and bridges.' What do you think was his reply to my aff-able words ? When I tapped him approvingly on the shoulder a second time, he screwed his eye-glass in hia eye, and, with no emotion, though my own eyes were full of tears, he said, in a tone of afliont, 'Look after the man there, constable,' and pointed to the wagon. Constable— more Dicut Gross manners even for a tailor ! " 170 THE RIGHT OF WAY i fh'l r^^ ?* ."i°"^^' ^'? manners bad," said the Curt, as the Colonel sa down gulped a glass of brandy-and-water, and mopped his forehead. "A most rei^rkable tailor," said the Seigneur, peer- ing into his snuff-box. * '^ Noto"'^ *''* '^"''*' °' *® mottled horse?" asked the ,^nl5"v^*^ senseless. One of my captains soon re- stored him. He followed us into the village. He is a quack-doctor I suppose he is now selling tinctures pulling teeth, and driving away rheumatics He gave teLr" ^^^ ^™ ^^ "''""''^ ^^""^ °"« °° 'h« tabI:t?oreTh: cJr\*'"" ' P'"'"^'""^' "''" »P°" '»■« The Cure picked it up and read : JOHN BROWi>r, B.A., Jf.D., Healer of Ailments that Defy the Ordinar,, Skill of Ordinary Medical Men. Pheumatism, Sciatica, Headache, Tooihaci" Yield Instantly to the Power ofhii Medicines. Dr. Brown will publicly treat the most stubborn cases, lavina himself open to the derision of mankind if he does not il stantly give relief and benefit. His whole career has been a fZn^ f ^? ^'''t"'- ""/ ^' Jo-^oy ""^^ """"gt. this country, fresh from his studies in the Orient, is to introduce his remedies to a suffering world, for the conquest of malady not for personal profit. uiamu/, John Brown, B.A., M.D., Specialist in Chronic Diseates and General Practitioner CHAPTER XXVI A SONG, A BOTTLE AND A GHOST All day John Brown, ex-clergyman and quack-doctor, harangued the people of Chaudi^re from his gaily painted wagon Hp had the perfect gift of the charlatan, and he had discovered his mMsr. Inclined to the picturesque by nature, melodramatic and empirical, his earlier career had been the due fruit of habit and education. As a dabbler in mines he had been out of his element. He lacked the necessary reticence, and arsenic had not availed him, though it had tempted Billy Wantage to forgery; and because Billy hid himself behind the dismal opportunity of silence, had ruined the name of a dead man called Charley Steele. Since Charley's death John Brown had never seen Billy: he had left the town one woful day an hour after Billy had told him of the discovery Charley had made. From a far comer of the country he had read the story of Charley's death; of the futUe trial of the river-drivers afterwards, ending in ac- quittal, and the subsequent discovery of the theft of the widows' and orphans' trust-moneys. On this St. Jean Baptiste's day he was thinking of ajiythmg and everything else but Charley Steele. Ko- thing could have been a better advertisement for him than the perilous incident at the Red Ravine. Falling backwards when the horse suddenly bohed, his head had struck the medioine-chest, and he had lain insensible till brought back to consciousness by the good offices of the voluble Colonel. He had not, therefore, seen Charley It was hke him that his sense of gratitude to the un- known taUor should be presently lost in exploiting the 172 THE RIGHT OF WAY m parson? had not RilW =r,J °fn doir when he was a these comtc songs nLTnllh'5 "^f" """K^'-and and his sales, crfated much ttter He'^". ''h' TT aches, toothaches, rheumatism «„H n '''"■®^. ''^*'^- ailments "with desmLr-^V.!.^" ,«"«," °f Jo^al ailments " with~desDat7h''"'°"w-f'"' • *" .'""f "' '""^l stoppe^"co;Bh"b^a*T«,''^""' J^'^ ?ain-Paint, and" he ^=\il^£sr^"'"--^--St to whom howevt he had'r.nrv.'''°"«''' '° «•" '«"°'-. dollar bili andr;;'bo\'t&^ Lfent'Z^^^^^^^^ 1 T announcement that he would call in Vhl ? '"'''"^ shou d. There was no ^?r" ^^' "? ^ *"»^« '"'«' words to her th^ mornin! .T^"i''°"'"l ^7 'hose who hadn't five hundred d^iUrs" tn'h' ^'''^'^ ^va^nturel, should be asked tntl ir ". '"J"*' "^'"^ • That she mingled with her shnl l' f """" ^ossignol ! Confusion 8trelt, to where herZhpr±'rf '•''" ""^ °"' •°'° "•« man s nging.Tn do„b ful Fr r' h"''°"'« '° '''' "^"^"^^^ A SONO, A BOTTLE AND A 0H08T 173 " I am a waterman bold, Oh, I'm a waterman bold : But for my lass I have great fear, Yec, in the isles I have great fear, For she ia young, and I am old, And she is him gmliUe I" It was night now. The militia had departed, their Lolonel roaring commands at them out of a little red drill-book; the older people had gone to their homes, but festive youth hovered round the booths and side-shows, the majority enjoying themselves at some expense in the medicme-inan s encampment. As Rosalie ran towards the crowd she turned a wist- ful glance to the tailor-shop. Not a sign of life there ' hhe imagined M'sieu' to be at Vadiome Mountain, until glancing round the crowd at the quack-doctor's wagon' 8he saw Jo Portugais gloomily watching the travelline tinker of human bodies. Evidently iM'sieu' was not at Vadrome Mountain. He was not far from her. At the side of the road, under a huge maple-tree with wide-spreading branches Charley stood and watched John Brown performing be- hind the flaring oil-lights stuck on poles round his wagon his hat now on, now off; now singing a comic song in Jinglish— / found T in de Honeymekle Paiich ; now a Irench chanson— JPn Sevenavt de St. Allan; now treating a stiff neck or a bent back, or giving momentary help to the palsy of an old man, or again making a SPcGCil. Charley was in touch again with the old life, but in a kind of fantasy only— a staring, high-coloured dream. Ihis man— John Brown— had gone down before his old ironical questioning, had been, indirectly, the means of disgracing his name. A step forward to that wagon a word uttered, a look, and he would have to face again the life he had put by for ever, would have to meet a hard problem and settle it — to what misery and tragedy who might say ? Under this tree he was M. Mallard, the infidel tailor, whose life w.is slowly entering into the life of this place called Chaudiire, slowly being acted 174 THE BIGHT OF WAY lilf: if upon by habit, which, automatically repeated at lenath becomes character. Out in that red Crbefore ^C &r ?nrfon\h"°"'' t- ^^^^^r'^^^^rtr. jianeur, and fop, who, according to the world had mi. u»ed a wife, misled her bn,ther, TbbeT widows ^d' Tt th! V v^ff n " '""11°'" *"" "'« '" " disorderly tavern hnfl^ f i- ^^'"'- ^'"« "*n I'efore him had contrT bated to his duigrace; but once he had contributed to Brown^'?r^ ?^'''"=«' ■""* '""^''y »>« "ad s^ved Jol^ All the night before, all this mominK, he had fouirhf a fierce battle with his past-with a raginrthirst C old appetite had. swept^ver him fier^fy^ lu day he had moved in a fevered conflict, which had lift^H^J,;. away from the small movements oT everyday iKn^ a region where only were himself and one stronite who tirelessly strove with him. In his old life he had ^eve? „l. 1,% 'i •"8S'^°' *"y «°'''- His emotions had ^en SSi "e k^r""'^' ""^'^ '"'^ ^- a film bete whicYhad ni^ " "u, """•""■ "' selfishness on a life Which had no deep problems, because it had no deen orwh^nr"-/'*' never rising to the intellectual prowess for jhich It was fitted, save when under the stim^uTus of m^T' '?* °'°""^'" ••« ""^d waked from u lone seven Ten fir "^P. '5 ^^' ••"' "=> Vadrome Mountafn new llr K^hTn. h TZ '° "J™ "^ ^' ^"^^d probLs ol Ute. Jighting had begun from that hour — a fiphtim, which was putting his nature through bitter mortal exer? the needy, and the afflicted; of knowinf for the Ct O^t'o? ^l' '"' '^' '"^ ^"« ""^ alone !n the worW But with that caU there was the answer of his soul, A BONO, A BOTTLE AND A 0H08T 176 the desolating cry of the duposaeued Lear—" Never- never — never — never — never I He had not questioned himself concerning Rosalie— had not dared to do sa But now, as he stood under the great tree, within hand-touch of the old hfe, in imminent danger of being thrust back into it, the question of Rosalie came upon him with all the force of months of feeling behind it. Thus did he argue with himself : "Do I love her? And if I love her, what is to be done ? Marry her, with a wife living ? Marry her while e'larged with a wretched crime ? Would that be love ? Uut suppose I jever were discovered, and we might live here for ever, I as 'Monsieur Mallard,' in peace and quiet all the days of our life ? Would that be love 1 Could there be love with a vital secret, like a cloud between, out of which, at any hour, might spring dis- covery? Could I build our life upon a silence which must be a he ? Would I not have to face the question Does any one know cause or just impediment why this woman should not be married to this man ? Tell Rosalie all, and let the law separate myself and Kath- leen? That would mean Billy's ruin and imprisonment and Kathleens shame, and it might not bring Rosalie •f ,v*,j i^?'"' *°'^ ^^'^ Church would not listen to i-f , S. ® *® "8ht to bring trouble into her i|i* • Y"''"'"^ °°* woman should seem enough for one At that instant Rosalie, who had been on the outskirts of the crowd, moved into hU line of vision. The glare from the lights feU on her face as she stood by her father s chair, looking curiously at the quack-doctor, who having sold many bottles of his medicines, now picked up a guitar and began singing an old dialect chanson of oaintonge : " Vttici, the day has come When Kpsette leaves her home ! With fear she walks in the sun. For Raoul is ninety year, And she not twenty-one. La petit' Eosette, She is not twenty-one. I ''8 THE BIOHT OF WAY "H«take«herbytliehaiMl, And to the cliurcli tlicv go ; By loirnts 'twas wull iiiunt. But ii RiMette content 1 'Til gold and ninety year- She wtlki in the aim with fear, La petit' Koaette, Not twenty-one aa yet t" Charley's eyes, which had watched her these months past, noted the deepening colour of the face, the glow in the eyes, the glances of keen but agitated interest towards the singer. He could not translate her looks; and she on her part, had she been compelled to do so, could only have set down a confusion of sensations. In Rosette she saw herself, Rosalie Evanturel; in tlie man ■ de quatre-vingtdix aiis," who was to marry this Kosette of Saintonge, she saw M. Rossignol. Uiscon- certmg pictures of a possiblt life with the Seigneur flitted before her mind. She beheld herself, young, fresh- cheeked, with life beating high and all the impulses of youth panting to use, sitting at the head of the seigneury tabU;. She saw herself in the great pew at Muss, stiff with dignity, old m the way of manorial pride— all laughter dead in her, all spring-time joy overshadowed by the grave decorum of the Miuior, all the imagination of her dreaming spirit chilled by the presence of age, however kindly and quaint and cheerful. She shuddered, and dropped her eyes upon the ground, as, to the laughter and giggling of old and young gathered round the wagon, the medicine-man sang : " He takes her by the hand. And to her chamber fair " Then, suddenly turning, she vanished into the night followed by the feeble inquiry of her father's eyes the anxious look in Charley's. Charley could not read her tale. He had, however, a hot impulse to follow and ask her if she would vanish from the scene if the medicine-man should sing of Rosette and a man ^J. A BONO, A BOTTLE AND A 0H08T 177 of thirty, not ninety, years. The fight he had h«l .11 d«y w th hi. craving for drink had made him feverish, and ?.-,! "'" !?'{~'""2, '" '"'8'' temperature. A reS feehng seized him. He would r to Rowlie lo^ inb™ hereyea and tell her that he J .4 her,rmat^r wC and^'^^.f '"^ ?" '"«• '"'^■'" '°^«^ a human bTing and the sudden impulse to cry out in the new lanKuam TaUedto hTm '^ '°'' ""' «"' "''"""' "P'"' ''°^'^ .h^f """"^n 1 .''*P ''"■**'''' "■° '°"°«' her. but stopped n},l'i t"** * '""i""^ on^e-good fellow, bad fellow, cleverest !f V'i-u ''"*''• Tremendous fop-ladies love! him -cheeks like roses— tongue like sulphuric acid. Bc.iu- iful to look at. Clothes like a fashion-plate-gof «y fashion-plates in Chaudi6re ?—■ who's your tailor?'" he «fnr.l'^'° ' u ''?"= °! '''^''°'"■• "'"> " '°"d laugh, then stopped suddenly and took off his hat. "I fo4ot" he «t;^; r'."' "P'";""'* ,T* '""' » «'«'""»'''= se&ess, your tailor saved my life to-day-heneeforth I am the friend of a toilors. Well, to continue. My friend tha? rTnTn ?k" '"•"i'!'^. '"*'"'• '^°"8h he ruined me and ruined others.-didn't mean to, but he did just the same, -he came to a bad end. But he was a great man while he lived. And what I'm coming to is this, the sonThe used to sing when in youthful exuberance we went on the war-path like our young friend over there"— he pointed to a yomg habitant farmer, who was trying hard to pre- serve equilibrium-" Browns Golden Pectoral will cure that cough, my friend!" he added, as the young man gloomily ashamed of the laughter of the crowd, hic- coughed and turned away to the tree under which Charley Steele stood. "Well," he went on "I waa gomg to say that my friend's name was Charley and the song he used to sing when the roosters waked i^I.f'!?!^"''' called 'Champagne Chariie.' He was caUed 'Champagne Charlie '- till he came to a bad 1 178 THE BIUHT or WAV If! He twanged his guiUr, cleared hia throat, winked at Maximilian Cour the baker, and began : " The wiy I gained my tille't by a hobby which I'v* got 01 neviT letting otiigrn i«v, howevci long tlio «hot ; Whoever drinki at my ezpenie is treated all the aamo ; Whoever calli hinueU my friend, I make him drink champune. Some epicures like Burgundy Hex k. Claret, and Moselle, But Moet's vintage only salisAes this rhaninagne .well. What mutter if I go to Iwd and head i» muddled thick, A bottle in the morning mU me right then very quick. Cham|iagiie Charlie is my name ; Champagne Cluirlie is my name. Who's the man with the heart so young, Who's the man with the ginger tongue ?— Champagne Charlie is his name I " Under the tree, Charley Steele listened to this jaunty epitaph on his old self. At the fim words of the coarse song there rushed ou him the dreaded thirst. He felt hia veins beating with desire, with anger, disgust, and shame ; for there was John Brown, to the applause of the crowd, imitating his old manner, his voice, nis very look. He started forward, but the drunken young habitant lurched sideways under the tree and collapsed upon the ground, a bottle of whisky falling out of his pocket and rolling almost to Charley's feet. " Champagne Charlie is my name," sang the medicire-mon. All Charley's old life surged up in him as diked water suddenly bursts bounds and spreads destruction. He had an uncontrollable impulse. As a starving animal snatches at the first food offered it, uu stooped, with a rattle in his throat, seized the bottle, uncorked it, put ic to his lips, and drank— drank drank. Then he turned and plunged a vay into the trees. The sound of the song followed him. It came to him, the last refrain, siing loudly to the laughter of the crowd, in imitation of his own voice as it used to be — it had been a different voice during this past year. He turned with headlong intention, and, as the last notes of the song and A BONO, A BOTTL« AND A OHOBT 179 the appUiue that followed it diud >«>* m— u. i. 1.1 he«l and Mng out of the darkncT : ^' ^^ ^^ ^^ "ChMapigBi CWlta i, my mm,-—" With a ehrill laugh. like the HaI* »..j . the great river hi« hnn<,. "" .'"'K. """s' '"e water* of here^a. hS v^'ice coSg o"t "y'fhe nrh/°' ' '""• '"» hi. own groteequo imiE „/ tSe dtd ir^^^"^ *° h« agitation, women turned pale m»„ #.u ?i. ■^f"? de^dlPr ^°''"'-f^'>«l''y'- voice. ,.d he', been i I CHAPTER XXVII i OUT ON THE OLD TRAIL There was one person in the crowd surrounding tlie medicine - man's wagon who had none of that super- stitious thrill which had scattered the habitants into little awe-strickei groups, and then by twos and threes to their homes ; none of that fear which had reduced the quack-doctor to such nervous collapse that he would not spend the night in the village. Jo Portugais had recog- nised the voice — that of Charley Steele the lawyer who had saved him from hanging years ago. It was little like the voice of M'sieu'! There was that in it which frightened him. He waited until he had seen the quack- dootor start for the ne.xt parish, then he went slowly down the street. There were people still about, so he walked on towards the river. When he returned, the street was empty. Keeping in the shadow of the trees, he went to Charley's house. There was a light in a window. He went to the back door and tried it. It was not locked, and, without knocking, he stepped inside the kitchen.' Here was no light, and he passed into the hallway and on to a little room opening from the tailor-shop. He knocked ; then, not waiting for response, opened the door and entered. Charley was standing before a mirror, holding a pair of scissors. He turned abruptly, and said forbiddingly : " I am at my toilet ! " Then, turning again to the mirror, with a shrug of the shoulders, he raised the shears to his beard. Before he could use them, Jo's hand was on his arm. " Stop that, M'sieu' ! " he said huskily. Charley had drunk nearly a whole bottle of cheap 180 *^ i OUT ON THE OLD TBAIL 181 evA^'^t '"' ''°": u^.' ""^ intoxicated, but. aa had its 4t from t^tSor ofTwrtvoTHT''?"«8"°8.'° " Are you going hack, iPneii' ? " Jo did not answer this question d\rM^t^^, « o quLtiy"' '^ '""^ °"' ^'^ eome-and stay ?" he urged « w? f'i^^'^ "^ recognised without tie beard " What difference would it makp ? " PhJlil • 182 THE RIGHT OF WAY i " You know best, M'sieu'." " ?"' ^hat do you know ? " Charley's face now had a ™w,? ^^h""^ ^^ '°"'=''«d his Ups with his tongue. What John Brown knows, M'sieu' ' " r^J^^^'if u'^J'*^ f ™^^ Charley's mind the fatal news- paper he had read on the day he awakened to memory fPII'V j^ •"!' on Vadrome Mountain. He remembered that he had put it in the fire. But Jo might have read It before it waa spread upon the bench-put it there of purpose for him to read. Yet what reason could Jo have for being silent, for hiding his secret ? » J, ™ *f-^ ^''^°°* .^"'^ * 'P"'=«> « '^hich Charley's eyes were like unmoving sparks of steeL He did not see Jos face,— It was in a mist-he was searchine searching, searching. AU at once he felt the latch of the hidden door under his finger; he saw a court-room, a judge and jury, and hundreds of excited faces, himself standing in the midst. He saw twelve men file slowly into the room and take their seats-all save one, who stood still in his place and said, "Mt guilty, your Honmn He saw the prisoner leave the te and step down a free man. He saw himself coming out into the staring summer day. He watched the prisoner come to him and touch his arm, and say, "Thank you, M'sieu' You^ave saved my life." He saw himself turn to this He roused from his trance, he staggered to his feet the shears rattled to the floor. Lurching forward he caught Jo Portugais by the throat, and said, as he had said outside the court-room years ago : "Get out of my sight. You're as guiltif as hell ' " His grip tightened— tightened on Jo's throat. Jo did not move, though his face grew black. Thou, suddenly the hands relaxed, a bluish paleness swept over the face c^teh hto ^^ sidewise to the floor before Jo could All night, alone, the murderer struggled with death over the body of the lawyer who had saved his life. CHAPTER XXVIII THE SEIGNEUR GIVES A WARNING EosALiK had watched a shut door for five days — a door from which, for months past, had come all the light and glow of her life. It framed a figure which had come to represent to her all that meant hope and soul and conscience — and love. The morning after St. Jean Baptiste's day she had awaited the opening door, but it had remained closed. Ensued watchful hours, and then from Jo Portugais she had learned that M'sieu' had been ill and near to death. She had been told the weird story of the medicine-man and the ghostly voice, and, without reason, she took the incident as a warning, and associated it with the man across the way. She was come of a superstitious race, and she herself had heard and seen things of which she never had been able to speak — the footsteps in the church the night she had screwed the little cross to the door again ; the tiny round white light by the door of tiie church ; the hood which had vanished into the unknown. One mystery fed another. It seemed to her as if some dreadful event were forward ; and all day she kept her eyes fixed on the tailor's door. Dead — if M'sieu' should r'ie ! If M'sieu' should die — it needed all her will to pre 'ent herself from going over and taking things in her own hands, being his nurse, his handmaid, his slave. Duty — to the government, to her father ? Her heart cried out that her duty lay where all her life was eddying to one centre. What would the world say ? She was not concerned for that, save for him. What, then, would M'sieu' say ? That gave her pausfi. The Seigneur's words the day before had 183 184 THE RIGHT OF WAY driven her back upon a ti le of emotions which carried her far out upon that sea where reason and life's con- ventions are derelicts, where Love sails with reckless courage down the shoreless main. " If I could only be near him ! " she kept saying to herself. " It is my right I would give my life, my soul for his. I was with him before when his life was in danger. It was my hand that saved him. It was my love that tended him. It was my soul that kept his secret. It was my faith that spoke for him. It was my heart that ached for him. It is my heart that aches for him now as none other in all the world can. No one on earth could care as I care. Wh j could there be ?" Something whispered in her ear, "Kathleen!" The name haunted her, as the little cross had done. Misery and anger possessed her, and she fought on with herself through dark hours. Thus four days had gone, until at last a wagon was brought to the door of the tailor-shop, and M'sieu came out, leaning on the arm of Jo Portugais. There were several people in the street at the time, and they kept whispering that M'sieu' had been at death's door. He was pale and haggard, with dark hollows under the eyes. Just as lie got into the wagon the Cur(5 came np. They shook hands. The Cur^ looked him earnestly in the face, his lips moved, but no one could "lave told what he said. As the wagon started, Charley looked across to the post-office. Bosalie was standing a little back from the door, but she stepped forward now. Their eyes met. Her heart beat faster, for there was a look in his eyes she had never seen before — a bok of human helplessness, of deep anxiety. It was meant for her — for herself alone. She could not trust herself to go and speak to him. She felt that she must burst into tears. So, with a look of pity and pain, she watched the wagon go down the street. Bat-tat-tat-tai-iat ! — the Seigneur's gold-headed cane rattled on the front door of the tailor-shop. It was plain to be seen his business was urgent. ~-l 'SOMElllINi; WHISPEKKD IN IIKR EAR, 'KATHLEEN' THE 8B10NBCR GIVES A WABNINO 186 Madame Dauphin came hurrying from the post^fflce. followed b^ Maximilian Cour and Filion Lacasse. "Ah, msieu', the tailor will not answer. There's no "'1^'"^''?°8— °°' » bit,m'8ieu' Kossignol," said madame. Ihe Seignpur turned querulously upon the Notary's wife, yet with a glint of hard humour in his eye. He had no love for Madame Dauphin. He thought she took unfair advantages of M. Dauphin, whom also he did not love, but whose temperam?nt did him credit. "How should madame know whether or no the gentleman will answer? Does madame share the gentleman s confidence, perhaps?" he remarked Madame did not reply at once. She turned on the saddler and the baker. ■■ I hope you'll learn a lesson " she cned triumphantly. "I've always said the tailor was quite the gentleman; and now you see how your betters call him! No, m'sieu', the gentleman will not answer, she added to the Seigneur. " He is in bed yet, madame ? " "His bed is empty there, m'sieu'," she said, impres- sively, and pointing. ^ "I suppose I should trust ycu in this matter- I suppose you should know. But, Dauphin— what does Dauphin say?" llie saddler laughed outright Maximilian Cour sud- denly blushed m sympathy with Madame Dauphin who now saw the drift of the Seigneur's remarks, and was Mnsibly apitated. As the Seigneur h-d meant her to be. Had she not turned Dauphin's human sympathies into a crime ? Had iiot the Notary supported the Seigneur in his friendly offices to Paulette Dubois; and had not madame troubled her husband's life because of it? Madame bridled up now— with discretion, for it was not her cue to offend the Seigneur. " All the villfge knows his bed's empty there, m'sieu'" she said, with tightening lips. ' "I am subtracted from the total, then?" he asked dnly. " Yon have been away for the last five days " " Come, now, how did you know that ? " 186 THE BIGHT OF WAY "Everybody kuowi it. You went away with the Colonel and the soldiers on St. Jean Baptiste's day. Since then m'sieu' the tailor has been ill. I should think Mrs. Flynn would have told you that, m'sieu'." " H'm ! Would you ? Well, Mrs. Flynn has been away too— and you didn't know that! What ii the matter with Monsieur Mallard ? " " Some kind of fever. On St. Jean Baptiste's day he was taken ill, and that animal Portugais took care of him all night— I wonder how M'sieu' can have the creature about! That St. Jean Baptiste's night was an awful night. Have you heard of what happened, m'sieu'? Ghost or no ghost " " Come, come, I want to know about the tailor, not of ghosts," impatiently interrupted the Seigneur. " Tiem ! m'sieu', the tailor was ill for three days here, and he would let no one except the Cur6 and Jo Portugais near him. I went myself to clean up and make some broth, but that tood of a Portugais shut the door in my face. The Cur^ told us to go home and leave M'sieu' with Portugais. He must be very sick to have that black sheep about him— and no doctor either." The saddler spoke up now. " I took him a bottle of good brandy and some buttermilk-pop and seed cake— I would give him a saddle if he had a horse— he got my thousand dollars for me ! Well, he took them, but what do you think ? He sent them right off to the shanty- man, Gugon, who has a broken leg. Infidel or no, I'm on his side for sure ! And God blesses a cheerful giver I'm told." ' It was the baker's chance, and he took it. " I played The Heart Bowed Doirn— it is English— under his window, two nights ago, and he sent word for me to come and play it again in the kitchen. Ah, that is a good song, The Heart Boived Down." "You'd be a better baker if you fiddled less," said madame Dauphin, annoyed at being dropped out of the conversation. " The soul muse be fed, madame," rejoined the baker, with asperity. THE SBIUNRUR 0IVE8 A WARNINQ 187 " Where is the tailor now ? " gai I the Seigneur ghortly 1 'I^) I'ortugais' on Vadrome Mountain. They say he looked like a chost when he went Rosalie Evanturel MW him, but she has no tongue in her head this morn- ing, added madame. The Seioi.fc. ml?^ -.u .1 "'*■ ,'" '"'*' ''» JO" "tnow what is the matter with the Rentleman ncross the way ♦" Turning he looked across to the tailor-shop. as thouch " I do not know, monsieur." Ji J°v„n"'* ^^ °^^\^ '■''" ''"« 'hese months past "1: V.U u"""" •** ""ything not-not as it should be F With him, monsieur 1 Never 1 " .ndl'chrUtlLt' '""'"' ''""'^''•' "'"' • 8«^ Catholic beWerkeTh&?"''"''='' '" ^^•'^"'''^"' ""» -J" -' .'.' wk\' T°"i j ?°" '"^' '"'■ 'n"«nce, about his past ? " shouKkn'ow r ' "^ ■"""' ''" P"'- ""'"-- 'What di4«. The secrets of his breast might well be bared to She started and crimsoned. Before her eyes there came a mist obscuring the Seigneur, and for an instant shutting out the world. Ths secret, of his i.e<«*_wh^t did he mean ? Did he know that on Monsieur's bre«t was the red scar which "to"". M. Rossignol's voice seemed coming from an infinite distance, and as ,t came, the mist slowly passed from her « ,LT°" .!^i" T °°''' Mademoiselle Rosalie." he was saying, J^, ^ ' J •r'Kgested that the secrets of his b^t I^hI Zf-^, ^'"^ '? y°"- ^ "■^""^ that as an honest lady and faithful postmistress they were not It was mv n,Til?. .^"'"T" ''"?.''^ gambolling by an old man who ought to know better." She did not answer, and he continued • apol5es."°°'' '•''" y°" ^""^ *'"''*'^- ^"y '«=<=«P' my She was herself again. "Monsieur," she said quieUy, THE BIIOMIUR 0IVE8 A WAKNINO 180 •' I know nothing of hi* pMt. 1 want to know nothing U doM not leem to me that it is my buiinMs. The worS ™ "» • n«n to come and so in, if he keep* the Uw and doei no ill-is it not? But, in any caiV I know nothing. Since you have lald so much, I .hall sav thi* and betray no' wcretg of his breast '—that he has received 110 letter through this office since the day he first came irom Vadrome Mountain. ' The Seigneur smiled. "A wonderful tailor I How Tk ""^ °° business without writing letters ?" "There was a large stock of everything left by LouU irudel, and not long ago a. commercial traveller was here with evervthing." " You think ho has nothing to hide, then ?" " Have not we all something to hide— with or without shame f " she asked simply. "You have more sense than any woman in Chaudiire mademoiselle. She shook her head, yet she raised her eyes gratefully '' I P"' 'aith in what you say,' he continued. " Now listen. My brother, the Abbd, chaplain to the Archbishop 18 coming here. He has heard of ' the infidel ' of our parish. He is narrow and intolerant— the Abb^. He is going to stir up trouble against the tailor. We are a peaceful people here, and like to be left alone. We are going on very well as wo are. So I wanted to talk to Monsieur to-day. I must make up my own mind how to act. The tailor-shop is the property of the Church. An inhdel occupies it, so it is said ; the Abbt5 does not like that I believe there are other curious suspicions about Monsieur : that he is a robber, or incendiary, or something of the sort The Abh^ may take a stand, and the Cure's position will be difficult. What is more, ray brother has friends here, fanatics like himself. He lias been writing to them. Thev are men capable of doing unpleasant thiDgs-the Abbd certainly is. It is fair to warn the tailor. Shall I leave it to you ? Do not frighten him. he should be warned — fair nothing but good of him from But there is no doubt play, fair play! I hear 190 THE BIGHT OF WAY those whose opinions I value. But, you see every man's history in this parish and in every pLsh^'the provfnce is known. This man, for us, has no history. The cS?^ t^nVt'T *•*''" f ' ^-""^ ^''"""Is for ca^Ung him an infidel, but a^ you know, he would keep the man We not drive him out from among us. I have not told th« Cure about the Abbe yet. I wifhed first to L?k wk^/o' The Abbe may come at any moment. I have been awav and only find his letters to-day " ^' unlMerMd^in'" ''" M°"^'™^?" interrupted Eosalie, Z fh, s ■ ^°^':^ ?"y ^°"8"- More than once dur- irvout anffi" '.'^''''"'fV''^ *"*'! f«l' 'hat she must th^ranrhelS' ™^^' '""^ '^" •°^--'-- ««--' " You would do it with discretion. You are friendly with h.m are you not ?-you talk with him now and then r tro to V«i'""^ \T ^'"^- " "^''y ^«"- monsieur. ? will go to Vadrome Mountain to-morrow," she said quietlv Anger, apprehension, indignation, possessed her! bu she fhlf. ''/ •'^™^^- ^^« S«'g"«" ^-«= doing a (HenZ thing; and, in any case, she could have no ouarre with him. There was danger to the man she loved, however and every faculty was alive "owever, AhhJTi' "^^u ..^' '^^" h^^« h'« chance to evade the AbW If he wishes," answered M. Eossiguol. Ihere was silence for a moment, in which she was carcely conscious of his presence; then he leaned ov^ the counter towards her, and spoke in a low voice What I said the other day I meant T An r.^f change my mind -I am too ol^ for Z " Yet I°m young enough to know that you may change yours " I cannot change, monsieur," she said tremblingly. But you will change. I knew your mother well I know how an;tious she was for your future I told her once that I should keep an eye\n you a way Her father was my father's good friend. I knew you when you were in the cradle-a little brown-hairedTabr " watched you ti 1 you went to the convent. I saw you dow" 'at ^ "^ '-' "P ""^ '"'^^ '"'''''' y°" "-the' E. d THE SEIGXEUR GIVES A WARNING 191 ' she said I'^sking, and with a troubled " Monsieur- little gesture. thiJ^'^'J^T ^" ' i'"'.''P«^fc' 'Rosalie. We got your father this post-office lo ., .1 n„or living, but it keeps a root over your head. Vou have never failed us-you have always fulfilled our hopes. But the best years of your life are going, and your education and your nature have not their chance. Oh, I've not watched you all these years for nothing ! I never meant to ask you to marry me. It came to me. though, all at once, and I know that It has been m my mind all these years— far back in mv mind. I don t ask you for my own sake alone. Your father may grow very ill-who can tell what may happen 7 " 1 should be postmistress still," she said sadly " As a young girl you could not have the responsibility here alone. And you should not waste your life— it is a fine, full spirit; let the lean, the poor-spirited, go sinnly lou should be mated. You can't marry any of "the young farmers of Chaudi6re. 'Tis impossible I can give you enough for any woman's needs— the world may be yours _ to see and use to your heart's content. I can give too —he drew himself up proudly— "the unused emotions of a lifetime." This struck him as a ver>- fine and important thing to say. " Ah monsieur, that is not enough," she responded. What more can you want ? " She looked up with a tearful smUe. "I wUl tell you one day, monsieur." ' "What day?" " I have not picked it out in the calendar." " Fix the day, and I will wait till then. I will not open my mouth again till then." "Michaelmas day, then, monsieur," she answered mechanically and at hap-hazard, but with an ursed gaiety, for a great depression was on her. "Good. Till Michaelmas day, then!" He pulled his long nose laughing silently. ... "I leave the tailor in your hands. Give every man his chance, I say The Abb(5 18 a hard man, but our hearts are soft— eh eh very soft I " He raised his hat and turned to the door ' CHAPTER XXIX THE WILD RIDE There had been a fierce thunderstorm in the valley of the Chaudi^re. It had come suddenly from the east had sm^ll 'h -r ""^ ^'""g^'.^P^oti^g trees, carrying away small bridges, and ending in a pelting hail, which whitened the ground with pebbles of ice. °It had Twept up to Vadrome Mountain, and had marched furToTsfy through the forest, carrying down hundreds of trees drowning the roars of wild tnimals and the cryL and fluttering of birds. One hour of ravage and ^^ and swT'nFrh' ""** •'"dUess, the storm crept down Mother ?il i .the mountain and into the next parish, whither the affrighted quack-doctor had betaken himself. After allTJf '"'i"'',!- t^'?'"/ '""' """J " «^eet smell ove; showers. ''"^ ^^''^ *''" '"'"«"°g Hii~ 'he house on Vadrome Mountain the tailor of Chau- di^re had watched he storm with sympathetic interest. Jar^ fi ZT°^^ ""'^ ^'' °"° f^«""g^- He had had a hard fight i-or months past, and had gone down in the storm of his emotions one night when a song called C/mmpaffne Charlu had had a weird and thriUbB Sr'-H .?"' ^''^ i^"" " subsequent d^B^Utol vZlh ^^^aJ" ■•«^«^''°° concerning Jo Portugais. Ensued hours and days, wherein he had fought a desperate fight w,lh the present- with himself and the reactfon from his dangerous debauch. The battle for his life had been fought for him by this glooir^ woodsumn who henceforth represented hisVast was bound to him by a measureless latitude, almost a sacrament-of the damned. Of himself be hkd played THE WILD KIDE 193 no conscious part in it till the worst was over. On the one side was the Cur^, patient, gentle, friendly, never pushing forward the Faith which the good man 'dreamed should give him refuge and peace; on the other side was the murderer, who typified unrest, secretiveness, an awful isolation, and a remorse which had never been put into words or acts of restitution. For six days the tailor- shop and the life at Chaudifere had been thii: