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1 2 3

MICSOCOPY RESOtUTION IBI CHART

(ANSI ond ISO TEST CHAUT No. 2)

_A APPLIED IMHGE h

^g-^ 1653 East Main Street

— ^ f^oc^tiitr. He* York U609 USA

•.^a ("6) *82 - 0300 - Phone

^B (716) 288- 5989 -Fax

The Right of Way

"pON MV II'INOR,' MK SAID. IN A LOW TONK. ' VolT HAVE
CAUGHT MK' "

THE RIGHT OF WAY

BEING THE STORY OF

CHARLEY STEELE AND
ANOTHER

GILBERT PARKER

TORONTO

THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED,

1901

/ ?0/ a.

157996

Bntend ujooitUnK to Act of the PuU&ment of Canada, tn the year one thouHud
nine hundred and one, by Oilbu* Pakku, London, England, in the Offloe o( the
MlnJitM- of Agrknltur*.

<5VF mOTHER

« Thtj iaj lived and lovid, and ivalhd and toorled
in their omn way, and tie world went iy them.
Between them and it a great gulf wat Ji idt and
they met its every cataitrophe with the Quid Referl f
of the philoiophert."

" I want to tali with tome old lover' t ghoit,
IVho lived he/ore the god of love was horn."

" J here are, it may he, so many kinds of voices in the
world, and none of them is without signification."

NOTE

It should not be assumed that the "Chaudiere"
of this story is the real Chaudifere of Quebec pro-
vince. The name is characteristic, and for this
reason alone I have used it.

I must also apologize to my readers for appear-
ing to disregard a statement made in The Lane
that Had no Turning, that that tale was the last
I should write about French Canada. In ex-
planation I would say that The Lane that Had no
Turning ^is written after the present book was
finished.

G.P.

CONTENTS

I. Thi Way to Iht Verdict ,

U. What cam of the Trial . . . . .' ' lo

MI. After Five Years ....'."' ' ,„

IV. Charley makes a Discovery ....

V. 7he Woman in Heliotrope •...'. n

VI. The hmd and the Shorn Lamb ..'!.' 34

VU. "Peace, Peace, and there is no Peace I" . . ao

Vm. The Cost of the Ornament . . . . . .,

IX. Old Debts for New ■ ... fa
X. The Way In and the Way Out . . . .6%

XI. The Raising of the Curtain • . . . ! 72

XU. Tie Coming of Roialie .'84

XIII. Hovi Charley Went .yldventuring, and What He

Found

XIV. Rosalie, Charley, and Iht Man the Widmv ■Plomondon

Jtlted

XV. The Mark in the Paper . . ' .' * _' ,^

XVI. Madame Dauphin has a Mission . . " " ,,,

XVII. The Tailor Makes a Midnight Foray . '. ,,g

XVIU. The Stealing of the Cross ..... ,2,

XIX. The Sign fror Heaven ,j.

XX. The Return of the Tailor . . . \ . ue

XXI. The Curi has an Inspiration ,,„

XXII. The Woman Who Saw . . . " . ' , .j

XXIII. 1 : Woman Who Did Not Tell . . . ,,,

XXIV. The Seigneur Takes a Hand in the Game ,5-
XXV. The Colonel Tells his Story ..... ,67

XXVI. A Sot^, a Bottle and a GhosI . . ,.,

XXVU. Out on the Od Trail . . ,L

CONTENTS

XXVIII.
XXIX.
XXX.
XXXI
XXXII,
XXXIII.
XXXIV.
XXXV.
XXXVI.
XXXVII.
XXXVIII.
XXXIX.
XL.
XLI.
XLII.
XLIII.
XLIV,
XLV.
XLVI.
XL VI I.
XLVIII.
XLIX.
L.
LL
LIL
UII.
LIV.
LV.
LVI.
LVII.
LVin.
LIX.
LX.
LXL

Tie Stigtuur Givet a IVarnm

Th, WiU Rid, . .

Rotalie Warns Charky

Charley Stands at Bay

Jo Porlugais Tills a Story

Th Edg, of Life . , I '

In Ambush ,

m Comiy of Maximilian Cour and Another

Barriers Swept ^Away

The Challenge of Pauktte Du'ois

The Curl and the Seigneur Visit the Tailor

The Scarlet Woman

As it was in the Beginning '.

■ It was Michaelmas Day.

■ A Trial and a Verdict .

Jo Porlugais Tells a Story

" Who VMS Kathleen >» . \

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

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

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 <Ton« w T

minutes. When they returned, the\:rd?ctC g^v^en
Not guilty, your Honour ! " ^ "

Ihen It was that a woman laughed in the gallery.

THE WAY TO THE VERDICT

mWr ' '"'""■^°" '"'^«^-«d my life_I "thank y..,,

•^&f' ?'' '^'^1 ^'^ "■" «^«y «i'h disgust.
_^^Get out of my s.ght .' You're as guilty af hell !" he

CHAPTER II

WHAT CAME OF THE TRIAL

"When this is over, Kathleen, I will come to you." So
Charley Steele's eyes had said to a lady in the court
room on that last day of the great triaL^ ¥Le lady Tad
left the court-room dazed and exalted. She, with hundrc is
hln ^^'■'.'k''^'* *''"* « revelation of Charley Steele; had
^itll ' rf «'"°'«">'»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

THE BIGHT OF WAY

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

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

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

THE RIGHT OF WAY

f I
i

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

WHAT CAME OF THE TRIAL

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^

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

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

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

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

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."

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 :

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

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

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

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."

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."

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""''- "'''' ''"•"-^ '-'''' -* <l-n aS

AiF'ri T"''>^'* ^^^ ''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

A sudden Hush of aiieer swcr.f «„,... r<i i . ,
never before in his life ha.' f hn? f k'"''"^ ' '*'=^-
never even as a nhil,, s^f'Ll^^'Jr". ^'^." ?«. ««nsitive.

... ...^^ ^„^„ ,„ sensitive,

Something had walked in the odd

never even as a child,
soul of Beauty Steele.
^Ul^iul \t " "^^'^PT^eave Kathleen out of if" he

wi f. s"uts"tW7i r '°"^-t 'T ""-'-"• to
ing to speak usinl s rl? "' V "'""S'' '"' *«« 'm™-
»«J^V. of the emotfon, i "'""^' «t>""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

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'

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-

"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.

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. !

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.

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

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!

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-

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'

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

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.

THE RIGHT OF WAY

" 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

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

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

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

THE RIGHT OF WAY

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

"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

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 examinin<r a
wound 111 the head of an insensible man.

As h.a hand wandered over tlic body towards the heart
It touched .something that ratth-d against a button He

THE RIGHT OF WAY

picked it up mechanically and held it to the lieht It
was an eye-glass. *

"My God!" Mid Jo Portugais, and peered into the
mans face. "Its him" Then he remembered the last
words the man had spoken to him-" Get out of my sight.
Tm r, m gutUyashell ! But his heart yearned towZls
the man nevertheless.

CHAPTER X

THE WAY IN AND THE WAY OUT

In his own world of the parish of Chaudi^re Jo Portueais
was counted a widely travelled man. He had adventured
freely on the great rivers and in the forests, and had
journeyed up towards Hudson Bay farther than any man
in seven parishes.

Jo's father and mother had both died in one year—
when he was twenty-five. That year had turned him
from a clean-shaven cheerful boy into a morose bearded
man who looked forty, for it had been marked by his
disappearance from Chandiire and his return at the end
of It, to find his mother dead and his father dyin"
broken-hearted. What had driven Jo from home onl?
his father knew ; what had happened to him durinn- that
year only Jo himself knew., and he told no one, not even
his dying father.

A mystery surrounded him, and no one pierced it He
was a figure apart in Chaudiire parish. A dreadful
memory that haunted him, carried him out of the
village, which clustered round the parish church, into
Vadrome Mountain, three miles away, where he lived
apart from all his kind. It was here he brought the
man with the eye-glass ona early dawn, after two night.s
and two days on the river, pulling him up the long hill
in a low cart with his strong faithful dogs, hitching
himself with them and toiling upwards Dhrough the dark
In his three-roomed hut he laid his charge down upon a
pile of bear-skins, and tended him with a stran"e gentle-
ness, bathing the wound in the head and binding it
again and again.

The next morning the sick man opened his eyes

THE BIGHT OF WAY

heavily. He then began fumbling mechanically on his
breast. At last his fingers fonnd his monocle. He
feebly put it to his eye, and looked at Jo in a strange,
questioning, uncomprehending way.

" I beg— your pardon," he said haltingly, " have I ever
— been intro — " Suddenly his eyes closed, a frown
gathered on his forehead. After a minute his eyes
opened again, and he ga^ed with painful, pathetic serious-
ness at Jo. This grew to a kind of childish terror; then
slowly, as a shadow passes, the perplexity, Bi..v;iety and
terror cleared away, and left his forehead' calm, his eyes
unvexed and peaceful. The monocle dropped, and he
did not heed it. At length he said wearily, and with
an incredibly simple dependence :

" I am thirsty now."

Jo lifted a woodjen bowl to his lips, and he drank,
drank, drank like a child. When he had finished he
patted Jo's shoulder.

" I am always thirsty," he said. " I shall be hungry
too. I always am."

Jo brought him some milk and bread in a bowl. When
the sick m:m had eaten and drunk the bowlful to the
last drop and crumb, he lay back with a sigh of content,
but trembling from weakness and the strain, though Jo's
hand had been under his head, and he had been fed like
a little child.

All day he lay and watched Jo as he worked, as he
came and « ent. Sometimes he put his hand to his head
and Siiid to Jo, "It hurts." Then Jo would cool the
wound with fresh water from the mountain spring, and
he would drag down the bowl to drink from it greedily.
It was as though he coidd never get enough water to
drinl;. So the first day in the hut at Vadrome Moun-
tain passed without questioning on the part of either
Charley Steele or his host.

With good reason. Jo Portugais saw that memory was
gone ; that the past was blotted out. He had watched that
first terrible struggle of memory to reassert itself as the
eyes mechanically looked out upon new and strange sur-
roundings, but it was only the automatic habit of the

THE WAY IN AND THE WAY OUT 65

Rflatlrwh"? °! "'',^.'^'"* """l '° ''« cell-fumbling
for the latch which it could not find, for the door whioK

wnat fte saw, and spoke as men speak but with \m
knowledge or memory behind it-^nly the inv^unta?^
action of muscle and mind repeated fLm the vVnS

Charley Steele was as a little child, and havincr nn
past, and comprehending in the present only itSted
physical needs and motions, he had no hoi no future
no understanding. In three days he was u^n his fee7'
and in four he walked out of doors and followed Jo nto

manwr'ln7'''t '*'" !!," " '^^ -^ do.ZT
mans work Indoors he regarded all Jo did with eacrer
interest and a pleased, complacent look, and rladily dM
as he was told. He seldom spoke-no above th«e^
four times a day. and then simply and direcU, and 1^

iYf^fKSsirhi^b^i,^
f^::rci:i '"" " ^ •=°'"p'^'^'^ - ^•^"V he wefe

vilW^L'!" """^u S°°>e'™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

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

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«

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

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

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

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 .'

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

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<i
of cloth on a small rough table, and putting some food
upon It— bread, meat, and a bowl of soup. It was
thoughtful of this man to make his soup overni.'ht— he
saw Jo lift it from beside the fire where it had been
kept hot. A good fellow— an excellent fellow, this
woodsman.

His head did not throb now, and he drew himself up
slowly on his elbow— then, after a moment, lifted himself
to a sitting posture.
" What is your name, my friend ?" he said.
"Jo Portugais. m'sieu'," Jo answered, and brought a
candle and put it on the table, then lifted the tin-plate
from over the bowl of savoury soup.

Never before had Charley Steele sat down to such a
breakfast. A roll and a cup of coffee had been enough
and often too much, for him. Yet now he could not wlit
to eat the soup with a spoon, but lifted the bowl and
took a long draught of it, and set it down with a sigh
of content. Then he broke bread into the soup— large
pieces of black oat bread— until the bowl was a mass
of luscious pulp. This he ate almost ravenously, his eye
wandering avidly the while to the small piece of meat
beside the bowl. What meat was it ? It looked like
venison yet summer was not the time for venison.
What did It matter ! Jo sat on a bench beside the fire
his face turned towards his guest, dreading the moment
when the man he had nursed and cared for, v-th whom

THE RAISING OF THE (lURTAIN TO

Il^'?*'^y"'f'\ •*"'',?'■'"','' '"'' '- '""S. should know the
truth about h.m«elf. He couL' not tell him all ihore

know **" "^ a""ther means of letting him

Charley did not speak. Hunger was a new sensation
a delicious thing, too good to be broken by talking. Jle
ate till he had cleared away the last crumbs of bread an.I
meat and drunk the last drop of soup. He looked at the
woodsman as though wondering if he would brine more
Jo evideiiUy thought he had had enough, for he did not
move. Charleys glance withdrew from Jo, and busied
Itself wuh the few crumbs remaining ii,,on the table
He saw a little piece of bread on the floor. He picked
It up and ate it with relish, laughing to himself

"How long will it take us to get to town? Can we
do It this morning ?

whis^^r '''" °"'™'"8' ™'8'eu'," said Jo, in a sort of hoarse
" How many hours would it take ? "
He was gathering the last crumbs of his feast with his

as "aVbl-Sh."' """'"^ '''"" "' ''^^ "^"^P-'P^^ ^P^^-l
All at once his hand stopped, his eves became fixed on
a spot in the paper. He gave a hoarse, guttural crv like
an animal in agony. His lips becai.ie dry, his handwiped
a blinding mist from his eyes.

Jo watched him with an intense alarm and a horrified
curiosity. He felt a base coward for not having told
Charley what this paper contained. Never had he seen
such a look as this. He "^It his beads, and told them
over and oyer again, as Chariey Steele, in a Iry, croakin"
sort of whisper, read, in letters that seemed monst.oul
symbols of fire, a record of himself—

"To^iay by special license from the civil and ecclesias-

St Theobalds Church, Mrs. Charles Steele, dr-.ghter of the
Me Hon. Julien Wantage, and niece of the late Kustace
Wantage Esq., to Captain Thomas Fairing, of the Eoyal

'*" TMK lUdllT OK WAY

Charley snatched iit the top of the paper and read the
date — "Tenth of Felirunry, IS—!" It was Aii(;ust
when he was at ttio (Vite Itorion, the ."th August 18
and this pui^r was Kelinmry 10th, IS -. lie read on,
in the month-old pnyier. with every nerve in his body
throhbuif; now: a licrce bcutinj.' thiit seemed as if it
Mui.st burst the lieart and the veinji —

— "I'aptttin Thirniaa FairinK, "' tin' KoyiU KusileerH, whose
iiiiiwr in iiur midst Ijaw bocn iiinrkcd liy nn hoiH.iiniblu wiisi) of
pubhe and private duty. ( liir fill.iw-citiziMis will uiiitH witli
us in conKrutulutiiiK tho liri.li', wliii.w previous nii4ortu[if«
Imve only iuLTcaseu tlu! ro-pect in which slio is held. If
all reuiiunlier the oliseure ilciith of her (ir.st husband (thnuuli
the body was not found, thiTe bus never been a dou))t of his
death), and the subsequent diacovery that he had ciubejzled
trust-moneys to the extent of twenty-live thousand dollars,
thereby seiting the tiiial seal of shame upon a missjwnt life,
destined for brilliant and |)owerful uses, all have (conspired to
fnrpet tlie ii.ssr)ciatiiin of our beautiful and admired townswoman
•vitli his career. It is paii.ful to refer to these circumstanees,
but it is only within the past fi^w days that the estate of the
mis<;uided man lias Iwen wound up, and the money he em-
bezzled restored to its rightful owners ; and it is belter to make
these remarks now than rc^ieat them in the future, only to
arouse painful memories in quarters where we should least
desire to wound.

"In her new life, blessed by a romantic devotion known and
admired by all, Mrs. Fairins and her husband will be followed
by the affectionate good wishes of the whole community."

The man on the hearth-stone shrank back at the
sight of the still, white face, in which the eyes were like
sparks of fire. His impulse had been to go over and offer
the hand of sympathy to the stricken man, but his simple
mind grasped the fact that no one miyht, with impunity,
invade this awful quiet. Charley was frozen in body,'
but his brain was awake with the heat of "a burning
fiery furnace."

Seven months of unconscious life- -seven months of
silence— no sight, no seeing, no knowing ; seven months
of oblivion, in which the world had buried him out of

*■ IMC RKAI>

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-<spent life / " ^ ' '** •/'""' s^a^ o/ sAawf

StelTdeTdrdluSSoTsi'^^^^ "^ Charley

be out of mind and out Tme2rv °"" "^ '"'P^'^' «°°" ^^
others-an old example rakeTZ^J T^"' * ^"^i^g ">
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"

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<mdre BpaMe in
the air ; the hills of silver and emerald sloping down to
the valley miles away, where the village clustered about
the great old parish church; the smoke from a hundred
chimneys, in purple spirals, rising straight up in the
windless air; over all peace and a perfect silence.

Charley mechanically fixed his eye-glass and stood
with hands resting on the window-sill, looking, looking
out upon a new world. ° "

At length he turned.
hul'kH '^*™ a°y'hing I can do for you, m'sieu' ?" said Jo

Charley held out his hand and clasped Jo's.
" Tell me about all these months." he said.

CHAPTER XII

THE COMING OF KOSALIE

ClUHLEr Steele saw himself as he had been through the
eyes of another. He saw the work that he had done in
the carpentering shed, and had no memory of it. The
real Charley Steele had been enveloped in oblivion for
seven months. During that time a mild phantom of
himself had wandered, as it were in a somnambulistic
dream, through the purlieus of life. Open-eyed, but with
the soul asleep, all idiosyncrasy laid aside, all acquired
impressions and influences vanished, he had been walkinc
in the world with no more complexity of mind than a
new-born child, nothing intervening between the sight of
the eyes and the original sense.

Now when the real Charley Steele emerged again, the
folds of mind and soul unrolling to the million-voiced
creation and touched by the antennie of a various civili-
sation, the phantom Charley was gone once more into
obscurity. The real Charley could remember naught of
the other, could feel naught, save, as in the stirrine
industrious day, one remembers that he has dreamed a
strange dream the night before, and cannot recall it
though the overpowering sense of it remains.

He saw the work of his hands, the things he had made
with adze and plane, with chisel and hammer, but nothing
seemed familiar save the smell of the glue-pot, which
brought back in a cloudy impression curious unfamiliar
teeungs. Sights, sounds, motions, passed in a confused
way through his mind as the smell of the glue crept
through his nostrils ; and he struggled hard to remember.
V . " V^^"^" months of his lite were gone for ever.
Ifet he knew and felt that a vast change had gone over

THE COMING OF ROSALIE

mToJ^ ^WK 'u'?8u ']""■ ^'•■•^ t^'e s""' had Iain
ifcnUh ' • ' '""^Ar"'^ ^'^ 8™^'°g baok to child"
1 ke health again, and Nature had been pouring into his

^i«?'r,^'' healing balm; while the^n^ed^cUe L o
Face and 8 eep and quiet labour had been having, their
way with him he had been reorganised, renewed, flushtd
til .r^'^K'^iu^ dissipation. For his sins and weak-
nesses there had been no gall and vinegar to drink.

.n^Lf t u^ ^\T^ ^""^'"S '°"»d the workshop, Jo
entered, shaking the snow from his moccasined feet
Ihe Cur4 m sieu' Loisel, has come," he said
Charley turned, and, without a word, followed Jo into
h, ?% ^^f"^' l'*""^'"? "' '^« ^i"dow and look"n"
tZr.f M %"''g«,l>«°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

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

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

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<S, and^ the look on Charleys face
troubled him still more, but it passed as CharW said in
a vo^e as simple as the Cur,5's own ■ ^ ' °

„-Jl """^ '"" i**"'? '"« ^« y°" have already done I
nrw^^h V^.'"'"'^- '°°:-^'range that he touched his
lips with his tongue as he did in the old days when Is
mind turned to Jean Jolicoeur's saloon-" that TwHl do
Chri dL'v^r'' '"^f ^"^ y°»^ hnmanity and-ind

-a wave of thrnM vF'^ '}' *°''S"« '""^^'^'^ '^e lips
*K- r? J ,*°^ "'"^ ''f^ 'lad swept over him the old

his feehnf^V VP^'i''?- ^^^''^P^ " ^'^^^ ^°^-^
this feeling which made him add, with a curious enerey

1 give you my word, monsieur le Cure " ^^

At that moment the door opened and Jo entered

dau<^hter Sh. wll*' ^'■." '""""S'^' ^^ *« p<^master's
Th«rW>= 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

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,

»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

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

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

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

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

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

'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

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<i hooH « a * i
He fell down-stairs » " "^ ^'"^ '"'""• P^'i^aP*-

-y^before th^e ij,^ and S S ^^n^^^^J^^^Z
Jde^he^'etor doorth"'"??'^' f ' ""-^ *™' *-

buttoned his i^at^up to the neeL °'" """ ''""^^«' "<^
W^rt^n'lere°d'"th''eTi'*"'^.*'''" ">« ^"^^ "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

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

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

THE RKJHT OF WAY

•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

' !

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

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°<i

"Yoa-ll kill me, eh ? You killed nim, and you didn't
bang. Oh no, you wouldn't kill me. Jo," she added

150

I.I

THE RIGHT OF WAY

quickly, in a changed voice. "You've had enough of
that kind of thing. If Id been you, I'd rather have
hung— ah, sure!" She suddenly came close to him.
"Do you hate me so bad, Jo?" she said anxiously.
"Its eight years— do you hate me so bad as tkeni"

"You keep your tongue off Hosalie Evantuiel," he said,
and turned on his heel.

She caught his arm. " We're both bad, Jo. Can't we
be friends ? " she said eagerly, her voice shaking.
He did not reply.

"Don't drive a woman too hard!" she said between
her teeth.

" Threats ! Pab ! " he rejoined. " What do you think
Im made of ? "

" I'll find that out ! " she said, and, turning on her heel,
ran down the road towards the Manor House.

"What had Kosalie to do with the cross?" Jo said to
himself. "This is her hood." He took it out and looked
at it. " It's her hood— but what did she want with the
cross?"

He hurried on, and as he neared the post-ofiSce he saw
the figure of a woman in the road. At first he thought
it might be Rosalie, but as he came nearer he saw it
was not. The woman was muttering and crying. She
wandered to and fro bewilderedly. He came up, caught
her by the arm. and looked into her face.
It was old Margot Patry.

Mi^^>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 Cur<! should wish him to
remain. The Cure, on his part, was well pleased to have
him in the influence of a Christian death-bed. A time
must come when the last confidences of the dying woman
could be given to no ears but his own, but meanwhile it
was good that M'sieu' should be there

tell ^U""' '* ^"'"^'" ^^ ^^^ ^^'"^ ''°°'^°' " ™"'' I

" All what, Margot ? "

" All that is sin ? "

" There is no viust, Margot."

" If you should ask me, m'sieu' "

She paused and the man at the window turned and
looked curiously at her. He saw the problem in the
woman s mind : had she the right to die with the secret
of another s crime upon her mind ?

" The priest does not ask, Margot : it is you who confess
your sins. That is between you and God;"

The Cur^ spoke firmly, for he wanted the man at the
window to clearly under.-Jtand.

*i. " ^."' 'L*®'* *''* "'^ ^'°^ "f °">ers, 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

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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

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

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^<? fr^'
Here she was faced by it now in tTrt j '° ''®"*"-
a plain, hard statement, „nSedhv^t"P*" "^"^^
humour of the shrewd ^y'J'fil^t"'^' -- 'he

nof t 'i^so'^sj-rthtrr- "^° r p-»-

true to the.gJvernreS-- he'lSLuT '"' '° '«'""°

gove4mers^d°in"m7;ay"nh« "f ^ ?' ^«' "'o
fusion. ^ **^' '•'« «"^- w hrave con-

abi^Xte^^a,^. """^ --^ -"'" -^e -ked

-s"hiXora.trt'„xf '.M ^"-.'r r--'. --J

;3 ..ty^and whima?^. -%r.JeatrcS

gi^nhS^j^p,-^^^^^^^^^^^^^ dtts^sStir s^ r

suddenly chanced A /.i,.m„„. suggestion. Then he
A sm^efalmf LutCc^mVtXl^^^^^^ his eye.

mecaughTf An7IVg^fi;^^^^r^"r »--«

with alush mountin^fn his^-^S ^,^J' ^^^^^

tion in his look «*>.=?;* „ 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

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

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

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:

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.

''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

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

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 *^

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

" 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 Sei<jneur moved away. " Good-bye to you— I am
obliged to you, madame. Good-bye, Ucasae. Come and
nddle to me some night, Cour."

He bowed to the obsequious three, and then bent his
steps towards the post-office. They seemed about to
follow him, but he stopped them with a look. The men
raised their bonnets-rouges, the woman bowed low and
the Seigneur entered the post-office door.

From the shadows of the office Rosalie had watched
the little group before the door of the tailor-shop. She
saw the Seigneur coming across the street. Suddenly
she flushed deeply, for there came to her mind the sone
the quack-doctor sang :

" Voici, the day haa come
When Roeette leaves her home !
With fear she walks in tlie aun,
For Raoul is ninety year,
And she not twenty-one."

As M. Rossignol's figure darkened tlie doorway she
pretended to be busy behind the wicket, and not to
see him. He was not sure, but he thought it quite
possible that she had seen him coming, and he put her
embarrassment down to shyness. Naturally the poor
child was not given the chance every day to receive an
offer of marriage from a seigneur. He had made up his
mmd that she would be sure to accept him if he asked
her a second time.

"Ah, Ma'm'selle Rosalie," he said gaily, "what have
you to say that you should not come before a magistrate
at once ? "

"Nothing, if monsieur Rossignol is to be the magis-
tiate I " p' a replied, with forced lightness.

"Gooui" He looked at her quizzically through his
gold-handled glass. " I can't frighten you, I see. Well,

188

TTIK RroHT OF WAY

you miut wait • little; you sh«.: be sworn in i>oi.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:<ra almost
apart from his consciousness. Ever recurring memories
of Kosahe Evanturel were driven from his mind with a
painful persistence. In the shadows where his nature
dwelt now he would not allow her good innocence and
truth to enter. His self-reproach was the more poignant
because It was silent. "*

Watching the tempest-swept valley, the tortured forest,
where wild life was in panic, there came upon him the
old impulse to put his thoughts into words, "and so be
rid of them, as he was wont to say in other days. Taking
from his pocket some slips of paper, he laid them on
the table before him. Three or four times he leaned
over the paper to write, but the noise of the storm again
and again drew his look to the window. The tempest
ceased almost as suddenly as it had come, and, as the
first sunlight broke through the flying clouds, he mechani-
cally Ufted a sheet of the paper and held it up to
the light. It brought to his eyes the large water-mark,
Kathleen !

A sombre look passed over his face, he shifted in his
chair then bent over the paper and began to write.
Words flowed from his pen. The lines of his face
relaxed, his eyes lightened; he was lost in a dream
ile thought of the present, and he wrote :

Wave walls to seaward,

Storm-clouds to leeward.
Beaten and blown by the winds of the West j

Sail we encumbered

Past isles unnumbered.
But never to greet the green island of Rest.

He thought of Father Loisel, He had seen the good

194

THE BIGHT OF WAY

man's lips tremble at some materialistic words he had
once used in their many talks, and he « rote :

Lipi that now tremble,

Do you diaaemble
When you deny that the human is best 7—

Love, the evangel,

Finds the Archangel ?—
I« that a truth when thia may be a jest 7

Star-drifts that glimmer
Dimmer and dimmer,
What do ye know of my weal or my woe 1
Was I born under

■an. J T*"" ™° '"' *' thunder 1

What do I come from 7 and where do I go?

Rest, shall it ever

Come 7 Is endeavour
But a vain twining and twisting of conls?

18 faith but treason •

Reason, unreason,
But a mechanical weaving of words 7

He thought of Louis Trudel, in his grave, and his own
Ke ZV:" ""' " ''«° *'°'° ^«"^''"' ' "il™^"

What is the token.

Ever unbroken,
Swept dowTi the spaces of querulous years.

Weeping or singing—

Tliat the Beginning
Of all things is with us, and sees us, and hears 7

He made an involuntary motion of his hand to his
breast where old Louis Trudel had set a sign. So long
a^ he lived, it must be there to read : a shining smooth
TL" J""""^^^!""' " '""^"^ ^'^ °f 'he faith ho had
been able to think, so distant had been his soul, until'
against his will, his heart had answered to the re^eS
call in a woman's eyes. He felt her fingers touch hif

*«^?3?^?u^''»-r?.j-.";_'iv"i •" "■ "

THE WILD BIDE igg

What M the token 1—
H.-J I ^™"™<1 »nd broken,
Bend I my I,|„ to a blossomiig rod 1

bhall then the worn thi^g,
^^indin«tSTer^«,f,7i»,L,

restless, unceas^K nlst^n ^Tt l"'*''* ^'^"^ '^e same
There was no lonfertl.P n.^V ^f^^^'o ^^^ a diflerence.
mind; there wa^tLnt!™'' •'^■'""•' °o'« "f ^ pagan
finding a LThold on th 'k'P'"'"''' ""'^ °f "^ mf^d
and time " '*'' submerged causeway of hfe

bag which had protected 'hirthtT'" ^"°'"°«''*e wet
hung his hat on^pe^lf th. nr'*^'"' ^™'" *''« ™n.
Chariey and p„, a kXonte litUeTrr^' "°'"^«^ '°
some^eaVtoTpof '""'•" •^'' ^''^'^ P— % - he put

answeid'chX' and^c^rn"' ''T V" ^ ^^^^^ before."
which the brighi^sSn' tTeT^^d " '° *' "'"'^'"^ trough

beasJ^f Se'^nTafrKd^fr^ T^.^^i^ '"'' -<»
trees fall, and the roar o it htp ?h ^ '° ^^^de. ^nd the
i?«/m6 on the Kima°h E°ver " '°^'" °^ *^ "'^'«"'-

''The Kimaah Biver-where is it ? "

■■Ist^Cdrt^-^ "Whoknowsr'

"It is a river."

" And the ehasse-gakrie ? "

p;?winreS-i"h™:rwt^"^°"^'''-'^«'

Jo was excited now ''"'» "^ "^n eyes."

and d^'ffeaSi ^' '"' " "P°' '^^ ''^^ ^^^^^^
" The Kimaah Biver. M'sieu'. that is the river in the air.

196

THE BIGHT OP WAY

On it is the cluuse-r/alerie. You sell your soul to the
devil ; you ask him to help you ; you deny God. You get
into a canoe and call on the devil. You are lifted up,
canoe and all, and you rush on down rapids, over falls, on
the Kimash River in the air. The devil stands behind
you and shou.s, and you sing, ' V'lH I'bon vent f Via
I'joli vent ! ' On and on you go, faster and faster, and you
forget the world, and you forget yourself, and the devil is
with you m the air— in the chasse-galerie on the Kimash
Eiver ! "

"Jo," said Charley Steele, "do you honestly think
there » a river like that ? "

•'■M'sieu', I know it. I saw Ignace Latoile, who robbed
a pne.jt and got drunk on the communion wine— T saw
him with the devil in the Black Canoe at the Saguenay.
I could see Ignace ; I could see the devil ; 1 could see the
Kimash Eiver. I shall ride myself some day."
"Ride where?" '

" What does it matter where ? "
" Why should you ride ? "
" Because you ride fast with the devil."
" What is the good of riding fast ? "
"In the rush a man forget."
" What does he forget, my friend ? "
Therr was a pause, in which a man with a load of crime
upon hif, suul dwelt upon the words my friend, coming
from the lips of one who knew the fulness of his iniquity.
Then he answered :

" In the noise he forget that a voice is calling in his
ear, * You did It ! ' He forget what he see in hia dreams.
He forget the hand that touch him on the arm when he
walk in the woods alone, or lie down to sleep at night, no
one near. He forget that some one wait — wait— wait, till
he has suffer long enough, or till, one day, he think he is
happy again, and the Thing he did is far off like a dream
—to dra,g him out to the death he did not die. He forget
that he is alone— all alone in the world, for ever and ever
and ever."

He suddenly sank upon the floor beside Charley, and a
groan burst from his lips. " To have no friend— ah, it is

THE WILD RIDE

197

msmmm

""at ne telt. When the arms were bonnH T t^u 7i,

Me what happnedr a 1 over aeajn ^ , ^^' '"t''^
strong handsfhia bad fac'LgTat m/ wSs .Thav":
rhar,?;''.'"^ nding-whip an3 cut rneVr^s the head

it:en£S^£S?-^

strike at him-^t his .hLcHTT.fr^.^Pf^^'F "^d
woods. Again

see him lie in his blood,

straight and

198

THE RIGHT OF WAY

white— SO large, so handsome, so still! I ha^■(• shed
tears— but what are tears! lilind with t- -s 1 have
call out fur the devils of hell to take ni ,ith them.
I have call on God to give me death. I have prayed, and
I have cursed. Twice I have travelled to tlie grave
where he lies. I liave knelt there and have beg him to
tell the truth to God, and say that he torture me till I
kill him. I have beg him to forgive me and to haunt me
no more with his bad face. But never— never— never—
have I one quiet hour until you come, M'sieu' ; nor any
joy in my heart till I tell you the black truth— M'sieu' I
M'sieu' I "

He buried his face between Charley's feet, and held
them with his hands.

Charley laid a hand on the shaggy head as though it
were that of a child. "Be still— lie still, Jo," he said
gently.

Since that night of St. Jean Baptiste's festival, no
word of the past, of the time when Charley turned
aside the rceanche of justice from a man called Joseph
Nadeau, had been spoken between them. Out of the
delirium of his drunken trance had come Charley's recog-
nition of the man he knew now as Jo Portugais. But
the recognition had been sent again into the obscurity
whence it came, and had not been mentioned since. To
outward seeming they had gone on as before. As
Charley saw the knotted brows, the staring eyes, the
clenched hands, the figure of the woodsman rigid in its
agony of remorse, he said to himself: "What right
had I to save this man's life? To have paid for his
crime would have been easier for him. I knew he was
guilty. Perhaps it was my duty to see that every con-
dition, to the last shade of the law, was satisfied, but
was it justice to the poor devil himself ? There he sits
with a load on him that weighs him down every hour
of his life. I called him back ; I gave him life ; but I
gave him memory and remorse, and the ghosts that
haunt him: the voice in his ear, the touch on his arm,
the some one that is 'waiting — waiting — waiting !'
That is what I did, and that is what the brother °of

THE WILD HIDJS

199

the Cur<5 did for me He drew me back. He kaew
I was a drunkard, but he drew me back I mfZ

1 was a thief, »ud u thief I am until I prove to the
much nf r "'r'"'-^"'^ ""^^ '»»*« ^^s! How

"man Buffer f"'' "r"'.V How much remorse should
a man guffer to pay the debt of a life ? If the law i«
an eve for an eye and a tooth for a tooth how much
hourly remorse and torture, such as Jo's should baknce
the eye or the tooth or the life ? I wonder, now ! "

forced Zh "''"' '""^' *''''''°8 ''° '° ^is feet, gently
forced him down upon a bench near. "All riiht Jo

^iSer."^"''- "^-'l-*»"'»- We'll d* tt-

They sat and looked at each other in silence.

the shSer. '''"''^ '"^"^ °^«' """ '"-"ed Jo on

A^Jlf ?'^ ''.°" ""?' '° ^^« yourself?" he said.

At that instant there was a knock at the door and
a voice said, " Monsieur !-Monsieur !"

Jo sprang to his feet with a sharp exclamation then
went heavily to the loor and threw it open

CHAPTER XXX

ROSALIE WARNS CHARLEY

Charley's eyes met Kosalie'g with a look the girl had
never Been in theui before. It gave a glow to his haggard
face.

Kosalie turned to Jo and greeted him with a friendlier
manner than was lier wont towards him. The nearer she
was to Charley, the f.u ther away from him, to her mind,
was Portugais, and !,'.■„ became magnanimous.

Jo nodded awkwardly and left the room. Looking
after the departing figure, Kosalie said, " I know he has
been good to you, but — but do you trust him. Mon-
sieur ? "

" Does not everybody in Chaudifere trust him ? "

" There is one who does not, though perhaps that's of
no consequence."

" Why do you not trust him ?"

"I don't know. I never knew him do a bad thing; I
never heard of a bad thing he has done ; and— he has
been good to you."

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

" It is the way he lives, here in these lonely woods— the
mystery around him."

A change passed over her. Witli the first glow of
meeting the object of her visit had receded, though since
her last interview with the Seigneur slie had not rested
a moment, in her anxiety to warn him of his danger;

" Oh, no," she said, lifting her eyes frankly to his — "oh,
no. Monsieur 1 It is not that. There is mystery about

ROSALIE WARNS CHARLEY

201

you! She felt her heart beating hard. It almost
choked her, but she kept on bravely. "I'euple say
strange and bad things about you. No one knows ■'—she
trembled under the pointul inquiry of his eyes. Then
she gained courage and went on, for slie njust make it
clear she trusted him, that she took him ut his word,
before she told him of the peril before him— "Xo one
knows where you came from . . . and it is nobody's busi-
ness. Some people do not believe in you. But I believe
in you— I should believe in you if every one doubted ; for
there is no feeling in me that says, ' ile has done some
wicked thing that stands — between us.' It isn't the
same as with Portugais, you see— naturally, it could not
be the same."

She seemed not to realise that she was telling more of
her own heart than she had ever told. It was a revela-
tion, having its origin in an honesty which impelled a pure
outspokenness to himself. Heserve, of course, there had
been elsewhere, for did not she hold a secret with liim ?
Had she not hidden things, equivocated elsewhere ? Yet
it had been at his wish, to protect the name of a dead
man, for the repose of whose soul masses were now said,
with expensive candles burning. For this she had no'
repentance; she was without logic where this man's
good was at stake.

Charley had before him a problem, which he now knew
he never could evade in the future. He could solve it by
none of the old intellectual means, but by the use of new
faculties, slowly emerging from the unexplored fastnesses
of his nature.

" Why should you believe in me ! " he asked, forcing
himself to smile, yet acutely alive to the fact that a
crisis was impending. " You, like all down there in Chau-
diere, know nothing of my past, are not sure that I
haven't been a hundred times worse than you think poor
Jo there. I may have been anything. You may be
harbouring a man the law is tracking down."

In all that befel Kosalie Evanturel thereafter never
could coine such another great resolute moment. There
was nothing to support her in the crisis but her own

! I

202

THE RIQHT or WAY

hrst L.iv,„T *^ *'' "T^S" ^ '^'^ 'his man who had

& owi^to' i°ll fr''"* r"-boin« nW than
•or ner own — to tell this man that he was a «ii>n<u.i<..i
cnm.nal. Woul.i ho hute her ?"ul7\r/Ec J
turn to anger? Would he de,,,i«, her for even havTn«
dared to name the suspicion which waa brinmn., \Zv^^
an aj^tere Al.b.'. and otli^cer. of*ho la^T ^^ •""""

" we are harbourinii; a umn the law is trackine down "
8he said With an infinite appeal in her eyes. * '

He did not quite understand, lie thoucht that oerha.M
she meant Jo. and he glance.l towards the dcT CtT
h efr T: T, T' ""i'^-^^u '"■'' h"" that she ean?

aliie ? ' W«?';l'' "i""*- "T"' """ '''•»"•'«/ Steele was
eZLler ?h ' «"* •"^■^''"B its officers to seize the

came' wThM"; i '^ ' '^'V*'"' ^'"^'^ '° '»>« ^^^'d whence he
came with the injury he must do to others and the
pumshnient also that he must suffer, if he did not tell th!

an wafr'""'^' ^k"^ ^'''""''■^■^«- -hich. ?n spti, of
all. was bcgmning to have a real belief in him-where
was his contempt for the world now! ... And R^sahe
who rusted him-this new element rapidly grew d^mf'
nanun his thoughts-to be the commou^riffl i^TJ;

coidd'hr''""'" ^"^ ""'^ '" " ^""^ ■" "^"' »>«' <""' M
"You mean me ?" he asked quietly.
.She had thought that his flush ieant anger and she

• Cwr? " • '^\Tt' '°°«- She nodded^assent
r or what crime ? " he asked.

" For stealing."

His heart seemed to stand still. Then, it had come—

•■What did I steal ?■• he asked with dull apathy.
Ihe gold vessels from the Catholic Cathedral of

nORALIE WARNS CHABLEY

203

Why was the attempt made to

Quebec, after—ufter trying to blow up Oovernment
House with gunpowder."

His de»pi.ir passed. His face suddenly lighted. Ho
smiled. It wns so absurd. " Jteolly ! " he said. " When
was the pluco blown up i "

"Two days before you came here last year— it was
not blown up ; an attempt was made."

" Ah, I did not know. ""■
blow it up?"

"Some Frenchman's hatred of the English, they say "

" But I urn not French."

"They do not know. You siieak French oa perfectly
as English— ah, Monsieur, Monsieur, I believe you ore
whatever you say." Pain and appeal rang from her

i"i ?'■" ""''^ "" ^°"*''^ tailor," he answered gently. He
ruled his face to calmness, fur he read the agony in the
girls face, and troubled as he was, he wished to show her
that he had no fear.

"It is for what you uere they will arrest you," she
said helplessly, and as though he needed to have all
made clear to him. " Oh, Monsieur," she continued in a
broken voice, " it would shame me so to have you made a
prisoner in Chaudiire— before all these silly people, who
turn with the wind. I should not lift my head— but yes
I should lift my head ! " she added hurriedly. " I should
tell them all they lied— every one— the idiots! The
Seigneur "

" Well, what of the Seigneur— Rosalie ? "

Her own name on his lips— the sound of it dimmed
her eyes.

"Monsieur Eossignol does not know you. He neither
believes nor disbelieves. He said to me that if you
wanted consideration, to command him, for in Chaudifere
he had heard nothing but good of you. If vou stayed, he
would see that you had justice— not persecution. I saw
him two hours ago."

She said the last words shyly, for she was thinking
why the Seigneur had spoken as he did— that he had
taken her opinion of Monsieur as his guide, and she had

204

THE EIGHT OF WAY

not scrupled to impress him with her views. The
Seigneur was in danger of becoming prejudiced by his
sentiments. o r j j iw,

A wave of feeling passed over Charley, a rushing wave
of sympathy for this simple girl, who, out of a blind con-
fidence, risked so much for him. Risk there certainly
was, If she— if she cared for him. It was cruelty not to
reassure her. '

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

He did so little to get such rich return. Her eyes leaped
up to brighter degrees of light, her face shone with a joy it
had never reflected before, her blood rushed to her fineer-
tips. She abruptly sat down in a chair and buried her
face in her hands, trembling. Then, lifting her head
slowly, after a moment she spoke in a tone that
told him her faith, her gratitude-not for reassurance,
but for confidence, which is as water in a thirsty land
to a woman. ^

"Oh, Monsieur, I thank you, I thank you from the
depth of my heart. And my heart is deep indeed very
very deep— I cannot find what lies lowest in it' I
thank you, because you trust me, because you make it
so easy to-to be your friend; to say 'I know' when
any one might doubt you. One has no right to speak
for another tiU-tiU the other has given confidence
has said you may. Ah, Monsieur, I am so happy i "

In very abandonment of heart she clasped her hands
and came a step nearer to him, but abruptly stopped
still; for realising her action, timidity and embarrass-
ment rushed upon her.

Charley understood, and again his impulse was to say
what was in his heart and dare all; but resolution pos-
sessed him, and he said quickly :

"Once, Eosalie, you saved me— from death perhaps
Once your hands helped my pain-here." He touched

. ?„ ^ "V"'' '""''^^ n""^' *"<J what you do, they
still help me— here .... but in a different way. The

ROSALIE WARNS CHARLEY

205

trouble is in my heart, Rosalie. You are glad of
my confidence? Well, I will give you more I

cannot go bock to my old life. To do so would injure
others— some who have never injured me and some who
have. That is why. That is why I do not wish to be
taken to Quebec now on a false charge. That is all I can
say. Is it enough ? "

She was about to answer, but Jo Portngais entered
exclaimmg. " M'sieu'," he cried, " men are coming with
the Seigneur and Curd"

Charley nodded at Jo, then turned to Eosalie. " You
need not be seen if you go out by the back way, made-
moiselle. He held aside the bearskin curtain of the
door that led into the next room.

There was a frightened look in her face. "Do not
fear for me," he continued. " It will come right— some-
how. You have doi;e more for me than any one has ever
done or ever will do. T will remember till the last
moment of my life. Good-bye."

He laid a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her
from the room.

■' God protect you ! The Blessed Virgin speak for you !
I will pray for you," she whispered.

: "

CHAPTEB XXXI

OHABLEY STANDS AT BAY

"What will you do?"
" I'll decide when thej^ come."

There waa silence for a moment, then the sound of
voices on the hill-side.

f«„^5'K-^^'^ ^"^ ''"^^ "P ■" ™^°^' against 'l>e danger that
faced h.m-not against personal peril, but the danger o
being dragged back again into the life he had come from
with all that It involved— the futility of this chares'
against h.m ! To be the victim of an error_to go to tS '
bar of justice with the hand of injustice on his am '

All at once the love of this new life welled up in him
as a spring of water overflows its bounds. A voice kept
nnging m his ears, "I will pray for you." Snbcon-

Kosalie! There was nothing now that he would not do

ThJT m'\^"'^J''^-'' ""^y "P°" *is ridiculou.s
charge. Mistaken identity ? To prove that, he must at
once prove Iiimself-who he was, whence he came. Tell
the Cur^ and make it a point of honour for his secret to

stln'^h J^u °°"l '°''^' '•'« "«^ W« ^o-W no longer
wfth thJn!:f n '^' »«^."f«.«»' off from all contact
with the past. Its success, its possibility, must lie in its
absolute separateness, with obscurity behind-as thonoh
he had come out of nothing into this very room, on that
winter morning when memory returned.
It was clear that he must, somehow, evade the issue

CHARLEY STANDS AT BAY 207

He glanced at Jo, whose eyes, strained and painful, were
ike "P°" '?„%'*°'?f- H«^«/-« a ""an who suCed Lrhis
?LolV; ■ bn? ,W» " "*P f°7"d as though with sudden
resone, but there came a knocking, and, pausine he
motioned Jo to open the door. Then turn ng to a fhelf
he^took something from it hastily, ^d kepVft in his

kn^yng.'"^ ^™''" "''•* *° ««■"''' *°d opened to the

Abw''RolTi'''l'°'"'''^= ^^^ ^''^«"' 'h^ Cure, and the
Abbe Eossignol, an ascetic, severe man, with a face of

S?'rn '""^, '"fl-^ibility. Two constib le, in pU
clothes followed; one stolid, one alert, one Enelish anS
thJf""'''?",* ^''^ erim satisfaction in S faces
cTaftsman"'' m ""T"" °' ^'' ''^^^ " P'*^^"' to eve^
TthTi, h,.w °A^'^«^"f'''^'*' Charley was standi^
with his back to the fireplace, his eye-glass adiusted
one^hand stroking his beared, the othe/ hfld beZd t is

frieX way""' '"""' ""' "''"' '*'"'' '" "" -«»
bettS ''""■ ^''"'•""■" «*'<! he, "I hope that you are

=JI^ j*'!?,u'"i'^ ''^"' *''*°'^ you, monsieur le Cure" an
swered Charley. "I shall get back to work on Monday;

„„ "/''■/«»■*»» is good," responded the Cure, and seemed
confused He turned uneasily to the Seigneu^

r^mlrZr^ "T^ ^° '^^ "^y f"«°d Portugais," Charley

I?fki j:j .J^^ ™"'^^ * ^'«P forn-ard. The two con-
stables did the same, and would have laid the 7 hands
upon his shoulder but that the Seigneur said tartly f
otand ofl, Jack-in-boxes ! "
The two stood aside, and looked covertly at the Seig-
neur, whose temper seemed unusually irascible Charleyl
foce^showed no surprise, but he looked inquiringly at the

n„™" 'hey Wish to be measured for uniforms-or man-
ners— I will see them at my shop," he said.

208

THE BIOHT OF WAY

The Seigneur chuckled. Charley stepped again to-
wards the door. The two constables stood before it.
Again he turned inquiringly, this time towards the Cure.
The Cure did not speak.

"It is you we wish to see, tailor," said the Abbe
Bossignol.

Soft-tongued irony leaped to Charley's lips : " Have I,
then, the honour of including monsieur among my cus-
tomers ? I cannot recall monsieur's figure. 1 think I
should not have forgotten it."

It was now the old Charley Steele, with the new body,
the new spirit, but with the old skilful mind, aggra-
vatingly polite, non-intime — the intolerant face of this
father of souls irritated him.

"I never forget a figure which has idiosyncrasy," he
added, with a bland eye wandering over the priest's gaunt
form. It was his old way to strike first and heal after
— " a kick and a lick," as old Paddy Wier, whom he once
saved from prison, said of him. It was like bygone years
of another life to appear in defence when the law was
tightening round a victim. The secret spring had been
touched, the ancient machinery of his mind was working
almost automatically.

The illusion was considerable, for the Seigneur had
taken the only arm-chair in the room, a little apart, as it
were, filling the place of judge. The priest-brother, cold
and inveterate, was like the attorney for the crown. The
Cur^ was the clerk of the court, who could only echo the
decisions of the Judge. The constables were the machin-
ery of the Law, and Jo Portugais was the unwilling
witness, whose evidence would be the crux of the case.
The prisoner — he himself was prisoner and prisoner's
counsel.

A good struggle was forward.

He had enraged the Abbe as much as he had delighted
the Abba's brother ; for nothing gave the Seigneur such
pleasure as the discomfiture of the Abbe Bossignol,
chaplain and ordinary to the Archbishop of Quebec.
The genial, sympathetic nature of the Seigneur could
not even be patient with the excessive piety of the

CHARLEY STANDS AT BAY 209

cST; w' >°/|8id righteousness, had thrashed him
fi^, J^^ . ^^J ^^ Ch&Thfs words upon the Abb.5'8
figure, gaunt and precise as a swaddled ramrod he pulled
hw nose with a grunt of satisfaction. ^

The Cur^, the peace-maker, intervened. The tailor'o
meaning was sufficiently clear: if they had come To /ee

bZess TCt""'^ ^""'""^ °f his guests, and the?
know »nH I Seigneur was aware that the tailor did

mSSe'^tZr ''^ "'^-^''^ '^'^ ''^'<=^ he was

"Moiisieur" said the Cure, in a mollifying voioe "I

have ventured to bring the Seigneur of Chauf iire "Ithe

thTibL'%°'* "P ''f ^"^'^ gravely-" and hrbrother
the AbW Rossignol, who would speak with vou on
pnvate business '?-he ignored the presence of thTcon-

fnfnon"-*^ ^"i '° 'he Seigneur and the Abb^, then
turned inquiringly towards the two constables

malicSy. °' ""^ '"■''"^" ">« ^^^^'" ^"'l 'he Seigneur

" Their names, monsieur ? asked Charley quietly
™l 7 have numbers," answered the Sei^ eur whimsi-
stttme'^ "^"'^ ^'^' '"' '^"'^ -emeiimprojrat
"Numbers of names are legally suspicions, numbers
for names are suspiciously legaC" rejoined Chariey

• You have pierced the disguise of discourtesy/'Ikid the
Seigneur, and on the instant, he made up his mind that
v^atever the tailor might have been, he w^as deSg of

ask;i*^haS;o?thribbf "^^ "•"' °'^' "^°--'"

_ The Abb<« shook his head. " The business is not private
m one sense. These men have come to charge you with
having broken into the cathedral at Quebec and stoW

How^'^IT'^ °^ *>^ *'''''' '^'° with having tried t^
blow up the Governor's residence " ^

He°i!^kedltlt"^uf "'' handed Charley the warrant
ne looked at it with a curious smile. It was so natural,

210

THK RIGHT OF WAY

yet 80 unnatoral, to be thus in toach with the habits of
far-off times.

" On what information is this warrant issued ? " he
asked.

" That is for the law to show in due course," said the
priest.

" Pardon me ; it is for the law to show now. I have a
right to know."

The constables shifted from one foot to the other,
looked at each other meaningly, and instinctively felt
their weapons.

" I believe," said the Seigneur evenly, " that "

The Abb^ interrupted. " He can have information at
his trial."

"Excuse me, but the warrant has my endorsement,"
said the Seigneur, " add, as the justice most concerned, I
shall give proper information to the gentleman under
suspicion." He waved a hand at the Abb^, as at a
fractious child, and turned courteously to Charley.

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

" On what ground, monsieur ? "

"Yon appeared in this vicinity three days afterwards
with an injury to the head. Kow, the incendiary received
a severe blow on the bead from a servant of the Governor.
Yon see the connection, monsieur ? "

" Where is the servant of the Governor, monsieur ? "

"Dead, unfortunately. He told the story so often,
to so much hospitality, that he lost his footing on Moun-
tain Street steps — you remember Mountain Street steps
possibly, monsieur? — and cracked his head on the last
stone."

There was silence for a moment. If the thing had not
been so serious, Charley must have laughed outright. If
he but disclosed his identity, how easy to dispose of this
silly charge ! He did not reply at once, but looked calmly
at the Abb& In the pause, the Seigneur added : " I forgot

CHABLEY STANDS AT BAY 211

"I had not when I arrived here."

sharp^! ' **" ^^'^ '°' «^'''«°««." ^i the Abb^

wi:hlTha^\^^Snf 'triafr^^ "" ^^-^

he Ar. ^r ktr wtr .tr • ^^-p/^s <^ow„

infldel should be a trant'ofThe cfe" -""-'^'^eed

"With JLtl"?"""'" TPP^'^ ">« Abbd.

warrant suspicion r-^ "'^'**''' ''°«^ '^'^ 'hat

"Other thefts," answered the Abbd "A »«nr«^ ■

cathedral was the thief of the iron crosf " "^ **

"Whlt°nwt'" ''•"«°ly h'-oks in Jo Portugais.
Charwi i^*"! ^'°" ' ^''l *he Seigneur

von tl^ ^' .""^ Chances," answered Charley " will

" They were gold ' "
in ctatdi r"^ ''^ •''■°" ''""^ ^''^ <J-' °f the church
;;lt was sacred, and he was an infidel, and hated it"
I do not see the logic of the argument. He sJe the

212

THE RIOHT OF WAY

vessels because thejr were valuable, and the iron cross
because he was an infidel I Now how do you know that
the suspected criminal was an infidel, monsieur I "
" It is well known."
" Has he ever said so ? "
" He does not deny it."

" If you were charged with being an opium-eater, does
it follow that you -re one because you do not deny it?
There was a Man who was said to blaspheme, to have all
' the crafts and assaults of the devil ' — was it His duty to
deny it? Suppose you were accused of being a high-
wayman, would you be less a highwayman if you denied
it ? Or would you be less guilty if you denied it ? "

"That is beside the case," said the priest with
acerbity.

" Faith, I think it is the case itself," said the Seigneur
with a satisfied pull of his nose.

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

"I am not here to be cross-examined," answered the
Abb^ harshly. " You are charged with robbing the cathe-
dral and trying to blow up the Governor's residence.
Arrest him 1 " he added, turning to the constables.

" Stand where you are, men I " sharply threatened the
Seigneur. "There are no lettres de cachet nowadays,
Franqois," he added tartly to his brother.

" If it is the exclusive temptation of an infidel to rob a
church, has infidelity also an inherent penchant for arson ?
Is it a patent ? Why did the infidel blow up the Gover-
nor's residence ? " continued Charley.

" He did not blow it up, he only tried," interposed the
Curd softly.

"Ah, I was not aware," said Charley. "Well, did the

man who stole the patens from the altar "

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

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

CHABLBY STANDS AT BAY 213

" It i. #0.,. » """"n was telling on his nerves.

the fifteenTcentury " ""^ '*'°''' ^""W 'h« ia not

"?d^n^^ th" English government," said the Abb^
thJ, °' understand," responded Charlev "Am T
then to supnose that the alleged orimWIwas'.. V^TJ
man as well as an infidel ? " "'"""na* was a French-

unStCgtrCneh^te T"""^'^- "" " «

thesafetyofL%gattratt-:i^eaV^^^^^^

the Governor is a Protestenf =>, j nJt " " .8-- • ■

the good Curl hew and ti- r '/^°" '"'^^ Protested to
sense*°of j«ste^"d"w 1 tt'^&%" pTor ± '^ "^

S^nce^cTiin'^dal^"^"''" -r™^"""^^^^^^^^

Buret thTLfor r"-"'^" """i ™P»'««« ""^e. you

i^ve that you are an Englishman. Nooneknfws

214

THE RIGHT OF WAY

where you came fromi no one knows what yon are.
You are a fair subject for suspicion, apart from the
evidence shown," said the Abb^, trying now to be as
polite as the tailor.

" This is a free oountrjr. So long as the law is obeyed,
one can go where one wills without question, I take it."

" There is a law of vagrancy."

" I am a householder, a tenant of the Chuich, not a
vagrant."

" Monsieur, you can have your choice of proving these
things here or in Quebec," said the Atibi, with angry
impatience again.

'■ I may not be compelled to prove anything. It is the
privilege of the law to prove the crime against me."

" You are a very remarkable tailor,"'^ said the Abb^
sarcastically.

"I have not had the honour of making you even a
cassock, I think. Monsieur le Cur^, I believe, approves
of those I make for him. He has a good fieure, how-
ever." " *

" You refuse to identify yourself ? " asked the AbbiS,
with asperity.

" I am not aware that you possess any right to ask me
to do so."

The Abba's thin lips clipped-to like shears. He turned
again towards the officers.

I' It would relieve the situation," interposed the
Seigneur, "if monsieur could find it possible to grant
the Abba's demand."

Charley bowed to the Seigneur. " I do not know why
I should be taken for a Frenchman or an infidel. I speak
French well, I presur-e, but I spoke it from the cradle.
I speak English wii equally good accent," he added,
with the glimmer of a smile; for there was a kind of ex-
hilaration in the little contest, even with so much at
stake. This miserable, silly charge had that behind it
which might open up a grave, make its dead to walk,
fright folk from their senses, and destroy their peace for
ever. Yet he was cool and thinking clearly. He mea-
sured up the Abb^ in his mind, anafysed him, found the

CHARLEY STANDS AT BAY

216

vulnerable epot in his nature, the avenue to tha one
place lighted by a lamp of humanity. He leaned a hand
upon the ledge of the chimney where he stood, and aaid
in a low voice :

" Monsieur l'Abb<S, it is sometimes the misfortune of
just men to be terribly unjust. ' For conscience' sake ' is
onother uame for prejudice— for those antipathies which
natural to us, are, at the same time, trap-doors for
our just intentions. You, monsieur, have a radical
antipathy to those men who are unable to see or to feel
what you were privileged to see and feel from the time
of your birth. You know that you are right Do you
think that those who do not see as you do are wicked
because they were not given what you were given ? If
you are right, may they, poor folk ! not be the victims of
their blindness of heart — of the darknes.s bom with
them, or of ihe evils that overtake them ? F(.r con-
science sake, you would crush out evil. To you <m infidel
—so called— 18 an evil-doer, a peril to the peace of God
You drive him out from among the faithful. You heard
that a tailor of Chaudiire was an infidel. You did not
prove him one, but you, for conscience' sake, are trying
to remove him, by fixing on him a crime of which he
may, with slight show of reason, be suspected. But I
ask you, would you have taken the same deep interest in
setting the law upon this suspected man did you not
believe him to be an infidel ?"

He paused. The Abb(5 made no reply. The Cur^ was
bending forward eagerly ; the Seigneur sat with his hands
over the top of his cane, his chin on his hands, never
taking his eyes from him, save to glance once or twice
at his brother. Jo Portugais was crouched on the bench
watching.

"I do not know what makes an infidel," Charley went
on. " Is it an honest mind, a decent life, an austnrity of
living as great as that of any priest, a neighbourliness

that gives and takes in fairness "

"No, no, no," interposed the Cur^ eagerly. "So you
have lived here, Monsieur ; I can vouch for that. Charity
and a good heart have gone with you always."

318

THK RIOHT OF WAY

"Do you mean that a man is an infidel because he
cannot say, as Louis Trudel said to me, 'Do you believe
1? . i, ?"** replies, as I replied, 'God knows!' Is
that infidelity 1 It God is God, He alone knows when
the mind or the tongue can answer in the terms of tliat
faith which you profit. He knows the secret desires of
our hearts, and what we believe, and wliat we do not
believe; He knows better than we ourselves know— if
there is a God. Does a man conjure God, if he does not
believe m God? 'God knows! 'is not a statement of
infidelity. With me it was a phrase— no more. You
ask me to bare my inmost soul. I have not learned how
to confess. You ask me to lay bare my past, to prove
my identity. For conscience' sake you ask that, and 1
for conscience' sake say I will not, monsieur. You, when
you enter your priestly life, put all your past behind you.
It IS dead forever: all iu deeds and thoughts and desires
oil Its errors— sms. I have entered on a life here which
M to me as much a new life as your priesthood is to you.
Shall I not have the right to say. It may not be disin-
terred? Have I not the right to say, Hands off? For
the past I am responsible, and for the past I will speak
from the past ; but for the deeds of the present I will
speak only from the present I am not a Frenchman ;
1 did not steal the little cross from the church door here
nor the golden chalices in Quebec; nor did 1 seek to
injure the Governor's residence. I have not been in
Quebec for three years."

He ceased speaking, and fixed his eyes on the Abb^
who now met his look fairly. '

"In the way of justice, there is nothing hidden that
shall not be revealed, nor secret that shall not be made
known, ' answered the Abb(;. " Prove that you were not
in Quebec on the day the robbery was committed."

There was silence. The Abba's pertinacity was too
diflicult. The Seigneur saw the grim look in Charley's
face, and touched the Abbi5 on the arm. " Let us walk a
little outside. Come, C\it6" he added. " It is right that
Monsieur should have a few minutes alone. It is a serious
charge against him, and reflection will be good for us aU."

CBABLET STANDS AT BAY

217

He motioned the constables from the room. The Abb^
passed through the door into the open air, and the Cur^
and the Seigneur went arm in arm together, talking
eamesUy. The Cur^ turned in the doorwfy ^

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

nfW .^°f^°^l *T^ •"'* P'^ *' '^« '"-on' ^oor and the
other at the back door, outside.

fni^^'^^J by himself, took to walking backwards and
vZZ^ »«der he trees, buried in gloomy reflection. Jo
i'ortugais caught his sleeve.

"Come with me for a moment, m'sien'," he said "It
IS important
The Abb^ Tallowed him.

CHAPTER XXXII

JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY

Jo PoRTUGAia had fastened down a secret with clasps
heavier than iron and had long stood guard over it.
Jlut life is a wheel, and natures move in circles, passing
the same points again and again, the points being distant
or near to the sense as the courses ot life have influenced
tne nature. Confession was an old principle, a lieht in
the way, a rest-house for Jo and all his race, by inherit-
ance, by disposition, and by practice. Again and again
Jo had come round to the rest-house since one direful
day, but had not found his way therein. There were
passwords to give at the door, there was the tale of the
journey to tell to the doorkeeper. And this tale he had
not been ready to teU. But the man who knew of the
terrible thing he had done, who had saved him from the
consequences of that terrible thing, was in sore trouble,
and this broke down the gloomy guard he had kept over
his dread secret. He fought the matter out with himself
and, the battle ended, he touched the doorkeeper on the
arm beckoned him to a lonely place in the trees, and
icnelt down before him.

"What is it you seek?" said the doorkeeper, whose
face was set and forbidding.

" To find peace," answered the man ; yet he was think-
ing more of another's peril than of his own soul

"What have I to do wii,h the peace of your soul?
iTonder is your shepherd and keeper," said the doorkeeper,
pointing to where two men walked arm in arm under the
trees.

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

JO POBTUGAIS TELLS A STORY 219

" Who has been the keeper all these years ? Who has
given you peace 1"

"I have had no keeper; I have had no peace these
many years. '^

" How many years ? " The Abbe's voice was low and
even, and showed no feeling, but his eyes were keenly
inqumng and intent. '

"Seven years."

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

" The greatest, save one."

" What would be the greatest ?"

" To curse God."

"The next?"

"To murder."

The other's whole manner changed on the instant. He
was no longer the stern Churchman, the inveterate friend
of Justice, the prejudiced priest, rigid in a pious conven-
tion who could neither bend nor break. The sin of an
infidel breaker of the Jaw, that was one thing; the crime
of a son of the Church, which a human soul came to relate
m Its agony, that was another. He had a crass sense
of justice, but there was in him a deeper thine still •
the revelation of the human soul, the responsibiUty of
speaking to the heart which has dropped the folds of
secrecy, exposing the skeleton of truth, grim and staring
to the eye of a secret earthly mentor.

" If it has been hidden all these years, why do you teU
It now, my son ? " . / j •* reu

" It is the only way."

"Why was it hidden?"

"I have come to confess," answered the man bitterly

Ihe priest looked at him anxiously. " You have spoken
rightly, my son. I am not here to ask, but to receive "

' Jorgive me, but it is my crime I would speak of now
1 choose this moment that another should not suffer for
what he did not do."

The priest thought of the man they had left in the little
house, and the crime with which he was charged, and
wondered what the sinner before him was going to say

820

THE RIGHT OF WAY

"Tell your story, my son, and God give your toneue
noZTeS;-^ ''"">■ ""*' "•"•"-« ^ ^o^'*^" -^
tJt'^J^ * fleeting pause, in which the colour left
n i^In^ " ^r- '""^' "' •>" "P^^^'l 'he door of his mind-
heart f^r"^^' nru'''"^ inviolate-he had a pain at his
heart, for beneath his arrogant churchmanship there was
a fanatical spirituality of a mediaval kind. His senw
of responsibihty was painful and intense. The same ™fn

Tb^ ''^''' ""' *^^ "° ''"'* "^ " "Wlfor

As he listened to the broken tele, the forest around

was vocal, the ohipmonks scampered from tree tHree

heads, the leaves rustled and gave forth their divine
swee ness, as though man and nature were at peaT
orl thTJr "? »'°™« '° «ky above or soul beSeath!
Tn^ theTanh..' ' ''^ """ "^ ''^^^'^ ^''^ " '•>« -*«-
■ hfLrf' °°'^/ short time, but to the doorkeeper and

hrll^ " f f"*"*. ''°""' f°^ *•>« ''""'an soul travels
far and hard and long m moments of pain and revelation.

^I^T>1 '■'.^>^a'>"ety suffered as much as the man

tto°priesttr '""'• '^'^" ''" """" '"'^ "^''''-
" Is this all ? "

.onHn„»/^%^If'" "° °,^ ""y "f^" He shuddered, and
ZfK K I .u '"'•^ r ^°^« °f '"«; I have no fear of
death; but there is the man who saved me yea« ag^
who got me freedom. He has had great sorrow and
Wend " "^' '"' ^^ sake-because he has no

"Who is the man?"
»m!!n* other pointed to where the little house was hidden

Zttf wS "^'^ ^""' ''"""' ^'-^'^ ""^ •---

ing'^hTS of^cTaSr ""' *'^ '''•"'^ '"'*•' '=°"-°-

I mTabrfli}'™,', ^ >*''^ confessed my own sin. To you
i might tell all in confession, and the truth about

JO S CONFESSION

JO PORTUOAIS TELLB A STOBY

221

him would be buried tor ever. I might not confew at
all unless I confessed my own sin. You will save him,
father 1 " he asked anxiously.

" 1 will save him," was the reply of the priest

"I want to give myself to justice; but he has b<>en
ill, and he may be ill again, and he needs me." He
told of the tailor's besetting weakness, of his struggles
against it, of his fall a few days before, and the cause of
it . . . told all to the man of silence.

" You wish to give yourself to justice ? "

" I shall have no peace unless.'

There was something martyr-like in the man's attitude.
T appealed to some stern, martyr-like quality in the

'est. If the man would win eternal peace so, then so
bt it His grim piety approved. He spoke now with the
au hority of divine justice.

' For one year longer go on as you are, then give your-
sel' to justice — one year from to-day, my son. Is it
en ugh?"

'• It is enough."

"Abtdlvo tel" said the priest

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE EDGE OF LIFE

MiANTiMK Charley was alone with his problem. The
net of oiroumstances seemed to have coiled inextrie-

ZJ, ^"k^,*"™-. .°"e^ *' » '""1 i" court in other
days he had said m his ironical way. "One hasn't to

of diMovr'^- *""' ''"' **'® damnable accident

v^, '""^ to escape now. or. with the assistance of Jo
Portugau. when en route to Quebec in charge of the con-
stables and find refuge and seclusion elsewhere ? There
was nothing he might ask of Portugais which he would
not do To escape— and so acknowledge a guilt not
hu, own! Well, what did it matter! Who lettered ?
^L^7 r'/ '°° ''?"• ?« C"^^ mattered-that Zd
Sen f^m fhrTV"'^^''*''''P'"'y°° ^'»' = ^^0 had
rhri.t!^ f, "' % '^i'"'*^' ^"«°"^' » g«ntleman,-a
Christian gentleman, if there was such a lort of eentle-

^tl/^^'^'^^'^i J'**'*'* Who mattered?'' The
&T;k". T ^^ u "* "*''*' ^«" ^fo™. yet who had
MmrWhom':L'^'r"^ sympathy, a ,.„« belief in
Above aU, Rosalie mattered. To escape, to go from
Rosalie's presence by a dark way. as it wVre, like a tW^f
m the night-was that possible ? His escape would work

X\^"'^^^- ^^' ■■""•'^ fi™' wonder^then dS
Shi i^«° ^1«'« "t J""* that he was a common criminal
She was the one who mattered in that thought of escape
-escape to some other parish, to some other province
to some other country—to some other world '

hZ°- ^T "*!'*'■ T?'*^ ' H« ^°°^^ »t a little bottle he
held in the palm of his hand.

THE EDGE OF LIFE

223

A band held aside the curtain of the door entering on
the next room, and a girl's troubled face looked in, but
be did not see.

Escape to some other world? And why not, after
*i J •"'* ^^ *'" memory came back he had resisted
the idea in this very room. As the fatalist he had re-
sisted It then. Now how poor seemed the reasons for
not having ended it all that day! If his appointed
time had been come, the river would have ended him then
—that had been his argument. Was that ailment not
belief in Somebody or Something which governed his
goiM or staying ? "Was it not preordination ? Was not
fatalism, then, the cheapest sort of belief in an unchange-
able Somebody or Something, representing purpose and
law and will ? Attribute to anything power, and there
was God, whatever His qualities, personality, or being.

The little phial of laudanum was in his hand to loosen
life into knowledge. Was it not his duty to eliminate
himself, rather than be an unsolvable quantity in the
problem of many lives? It was neither vulgar nor
cowardly to pass quietly from forces making for ruin,
and so avert ruin and secure happiness. To go while yet
there was time, and smooth for ever the way for others
by an eternal silence— that seemed well. Punishment
thereafter, the C\xt6 would say. But was it not worth
while being punished, even should the Curb's fond belief
m the noble fable be true, if one saved others here ? Who
—God or man— had the right to take from him the right
to destroy himself, not for fear, not through despair, but
for others' sake ? Had he not the right to make restitu-
tion to Kathleen for having given her nothing but him-
self, whom she had learned to despise ? If he were God
he would say. Do justice and fear not. And this was
J"f jce. Suppose he were in a battle, with all these things
behind him, and put himself, with daring and great
results, in some foriorn hope— to die ; and he died, osten-
sibly a hero for his country, but, in his heart of hearts, to
throw his life away to save some one he loved, not his
country, which profited by his sacrifice— suppose that
were the case, what woald the world sav ?

224

THE RIGHT OF WAY

1^ I

" Bt $aved othen, himuff he could not tavt" — floihsd
through his mind, poueated him. He could save othen ;
but it wa« clear he could not save himself. It was so
simple, 80 kind, and so decent. And he would be buried
here in (}uiet, unconsecrated ground, a mystery, a tailor
who, finding he could not mend the garment of life, oast
it away, and took on himself the mantle of eternal ob-
scurity. No reproaches would follow him ; and he would
not reproach himself, for Kathleen and Billy and another
would be safe and free to live their lives.

Far, far better for Rosalie ! She too would be saved
— free from the peril of his presence. For where could
happiness come to her from him ? He might not love
her ; he might not marry her ; and it were well to go
now, while yet love was not a habit, but an awaken-
ing, a realisation of life. His death would settle this
sad question for ever. To her he would be a softening
memory as time went on.

The girl who had watched by the curtain stepped softly
inside the room .... she divined his purpose. He was
so intent he did not hear.

" I will do it," be said to himself. " It is better to go
than to stay. I have never done a good thing for love
of any human being. I will do one now."

He turned towards the window through which the
sunlight streamed. Stepping forwards into the sun, he
uncorked the bottle.

There was a quick step behind him, and the girl's voice
said clearly :

" If you go, I go also."

He turned swiftly, cold ?rith amazement, the blood
emptied from his heart.

Rosalie stood a little distance from him, her face pale,
her hands held hard to her side.

"I understand all. I could not go outside, I stayed
there" — she pointed to the other room — "and I know
why you would die. You would die to save others."

" Rosalie ! " he protested in a hoarse voice, and could
say nothing more.

"You thmk that I will stay, if you go I No, no^ ng

THE BDOE OP LIFE 225

follo^Jou'now •^°" '""»'" ""> ''<"' '» «ve, and I will

.tartled'h,m'"'l. "?'"«* determination of her look It
Jtmledjum ; he Icnew not what to ^y. ■• YoiTfather!

no friends there C Ti^ *°'"8' You will have
needme-inth^dark" " "°' «° "'•"'«• You will

it wl'u,'^ rdte!?dfLl! C'i r^o "" '' ''-'' '^ *"=''^^.

«.unded o^u^ide" The''oihfr'" '"'•'"''°"- ^-'^'^P^
die here before her facT^ 7'" T'"^ ''«'=''• To
him? He wa/sicrwth de,J°,''""8 '"'^ '» '^-"' -^'h

uo into the next room quickly " hp miM .. v
what comes. I will not-on^^y Lour?^- "^^ """"^

.kin'cuS fc^d°';!:hinfs'''"^'''"^• - ">« •«-

laudanum in his ^ket''"' ''' ?"* '»"« P^^ of
folLwed't; rtii 'the1f"^< '''"^'r' -'-d.

wJtmaJL"^: rd'Suiekf 'iXr^'^- ''"' ^is voice

'XdTh^^iI"^^^^^^^^

not hav?had\'rom\nro°f"d '" ""^ "^''- •>« <=-"
if after the jury haT^ d ^ J^^' "^'azement-even

had been handeTinprovTn^i^ff " ^'''^''''f «^''^«'"=«
sentence. A wave of eSn,«T *'.''''"""S 'he death
him cold and S In thi^ "' ^'^'^'^ "^^^ ^''"- le-iving
to her mo'uth tostifl^t;;' "r" " «''' P"' »•" ^^^

p^'d^^^ot^Xsi'/h^ssr "^ ■»^-^«- --'—

CHAPTER XXXIV

IN AMBUSH

Wmks went by. Summer wm don«, autumn wu upon
the land. Harvest-home had cone, and the " fall plough-
ing" was forward. The smell of the burning stubble,
of decaj-ing plant and fibre, was minglin!? with the odours
of the orchards and the balsams of tlio forest The leafy
hill-sides, far and near, were resplendent in scarlet and
saffron and tawny red. Over the decline of the year
fltckered the ruined fires of energy.

It had been a prosperous summer in the valley. Har-
vests had been reaped such as the country had not known
lOT years— and for years there had been great harvests.
There had not been a death in the parish all summer,
and births had occurred out of all usual proportion.

When Filion Lacasse commented thereon, and men-
tioned the fact that even the Notary's wife had had
the gift of twins as the crowning fulness of the year,
Maiimihan Cour, who was essentially superstitious,
tapped on the table three times, to prevent a turn in
the luck.

The baker was too late, however, for the very next
day the Notary was brought home with a nasty gunshot
wound in his leg. He had been lured into duck-hunting
on a lake twenty miles away, in the hills, and had been
accidentally shot on an Indian reservation, called Four
Mountains, where the Church sometimes held a mission
and presented a primitive sort of passion-play. From
'Jiere he had been brought home by his comrades, and
the doctor from the next parish summoned. The Cur4
assisted the doctor at first, but the task was difHcult to
mm. At the instant when the case was most critical

IK Ainvsa

227

an knd surgeon
I -y with curioiw

the tailor of ChaadiAre i«t hie foot inaide the Notarv'.

'-^»j^«tion o^:rrrh.'T.'.i°Vhv' '""■"• ^'

washed his hands and then studied

admintion.
"Thank you, monsieur," he sai' <•, , I,;, i k j

on a towel. " I couldn't have Z . . , In v, n '?.l!
?!?"? KT* J°''! ■""* ^°" •»""* ' ' Orel "

Charley bowed. "It's a good Uu, ' s -o h.l -. Hll

lookeJinto a small mim,r o" The wa" V „'";""' « he

to know if madume has any cordiairor spirit^ r- he ^d^^^^^^
.tra.ghtening his waistcoajand adjusffiu Lvlt *'*"''

^rM^-TthJ^rrtttsf
th:jrAVo\id?retifrffk

-«|ame^.has Ln greatrS:^L'":itrhrh;°C5.'

Hl!i:K„tr'£etteor7:^'srL^^^^^^^

1,.?°^'* ^i*^ "^^^ »'^°' '°^ t^o inontha Her father

228

THE RIGHT OF WAY

gone with him to the hospital at Quebec, for an
operation. The Abb^ Rossignol had undertaken to see
them safely to the hospital, and Jo Portugais, at his
own request, was permitted to go in attendance upon
M. Evanturel. *^

Tl^re had been a hasty leave-taking between Charley
and Eosahe, but it was in the presence of others, and they
had never spoken a word privately together since the day
she had said to him that where he went she would co in
hfe or out of it ° '

" You have been gone two months," Charley said now,
after their touch of hands and voiceless greeting.
" Two months yesterday," she answered.
" At sundown," he replied, in an even voice.
"The Angelus was ringing," she answered cahnly,
though her heart was leaping and her hands were
tremblmg. The doctor, instantly busy with the cordial
had not noticed what they said.

"Won't you join me?" he asked, offering a class to
Charley.
" Spirits do not suit me," answered Charley.
"Matter of constitution," rejoined th- I'.octor, and
buttoned up his coat, preparing to depart. He came
close to Charley. "Now, I don't want to put upon you
monsieur," he said, " but this sick man is valuable in the
parish— you take me ? Well, it's a difficult, delicate case,
Md Id be glad if I could rely on you for a few days.
The Cur6 would do, but you are young, you have a sense
of things— take me 1 Half the fees are yours if you'll
keep a sharp eye on him— three times a day, and be with
aim at night awhile. Fever is the thing I'm afraid of—
temperature— this way, please ! " He went to the win-
dow, and for a minute engaged Charley in whispered con-
versation. " You take me ? " he said cheerily at last, as
he turned again towards Rosalie.

" Quite, monsieur," answered Charley, and drew away
for he caught the odour of the doctor's breath, and a cold
perspiration broke out over him. He felt the old desire
for dnnk sweeping through him. " I will do what I can "
he said.

IN AMBUSH 229

go'lnZ^^^oVrttS "'•^'"' "^'^ *» «°-'- ■• We will

face as she lifted the tray out of f h« » •>«' «°"1.« her
in her, she said in a low Tne" ^wm-beatmg life

"It is good to live, isn't it ? "

from^reyts "tf ^i-'i ''h 'T^'^ ^'"'''^ ^^'
enemy. "*" "" ''«'■ had conquered his

CHAPTER XXXV

THE COMING OF MAXIMILIAN COUR AND ANOTHER

" It is good to live, isn't it ? " In the autumn weather
when the air drank like wine, it seemed so indeed,
even to Charley, who worked all day in his dhop, his
door wide open to the sunlight, and sat up half the night
with Narcisse Dauphin, sometimes even taking a turn at
the cradle of the twins, while Madame sat beside her
husband's bed.

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

He had found the antidote to his great temptation, to
tho lurking, relentless habit which had almost killed him
the night John Brown had sung Champagne Charlie
from behind the flaring lights. From a determination to
fight his own fight with no material aids, he had never
once used the antidote sent him by the Curb's brother.

On St Jean Baptiste's day his proud will had failed
him ; intellectual force, native power of mind, had broken
like reeds under the weight of a cruel temptation. But
now a new force had entered into him. As his fingers
were about to reach for the spirit-bottle in the house of
the Notary, and he had, for the first time in his life, made
an appeal for help, a woman's voiro had said,' " It is good
to live, isn't it ? " and his hand was stayed. A woman's
look had stilled the strife. Never before in his life had
he relied on a moral or a spiritual impulse in him. What
of these existed in him were in unseen quantities — for

23U

^r:^

COMING OF MAXIMILIAN COUB AND ANOTHER 231

which there was neither multiple nor measure-had been

tincture diluted to inefficacy.

Rosalie had resolved him back to the oriuinal ele
ments. The quiet days he had spent in ChSe the
self-sacrifice he had been compelled to make, the hunmn
«ns, such as those of Jo Portugais and Louis Trudel ^h
which he had had to do, the simplicity of the We aroTnd
tC:;i;li' "°°°"'P"«'>'?d He and^he'unvamished tml
S tLrulT-Tr*^ "■" patent joy, the childish f™?!
hr,.r!l 1 1 Wickedness so pardonable because so frankly
It an 7,H ''■'^"^ .T" '•''"• The elemental spK
rrnt ^/"l, fVt'^'"^"'' "j'' "»'""*• ^"^^^^S through the
crust of old habit to the new man, that, when he fell

UaZt ^^ ^""P'"''™' ''"dhU body became satu^tedw^th
liquor, the healthy natural being and the growing natund

ac£:^iSf^E{>^ t ^£:^^i^° ^

his nature, and the answer had been ImmXte ^nd
adequate Yet what was it ? He did not ~he had
not got beyond the mer« experience, and thTo'ld qu^-
tionmg habit was in abeyance. E^ch new and Ht
emotion has its dominating moment, its supreme Sca-

r.nL**-^"'' S'''"« ''^ P'^-^^ » ">; modufated ^ral
mechanism. He was touched with helplessness

in^ th«%tl " ^^i"'^^ Dauphin's bed-side one even-
ing, the sick man on his way to recovery, there came to

SiLh 'r' ° " r™r^ """^ "'"^ ''««d John Brown

vL?" !f /'•^T ^"/'•^^•" He had been thinking of
Eosahe and that day at Vadrome Mountain. She would
not only have died with him, but she would have dS
for hira. If need had been. What might he give in
return for what slie gave ? ^

The Notary interrupted his thoughts. He bad lain

wf,h ,h ^ ^K."'"^ '7 " ^"S "■"«' h" brow drawn down
with thought. At last he said,

"Monsieur, )ou have been goou i me."

232

THE RIGHT OF WAY

Charley laid a hand on the sick man's arm.

" I don't see that. But it you won't talk, I'll believe
you think so."

The Notary shook his head. " I've not been talking
for an hour, I've no fever, and I want to say some things.
When I've said them, I'll feel better— roi/d / I want
to make the amende lumorable. I once thought you were
this and that — I won't say what I thought you. I said
you interfered — giving advice to people, as you did to
Filion Lacasse, and taking the bread out of my mouth.
I said that ! "

He paused, raised himself on his elbow, smoothed back
his grizzled hair behind his ears, looked at himself in the
mirror opposite with satisfaction, and added oracularly :
" But how prone is the mind of man to judge amiss !
You have put bread into my mouth — no, no, monsieur,
you shall hear me ! As well as doing your own work,
you have done my business since my accident as wel I as
a lawyer could do it; and you've given every penny to
my wife."

"As for the work I've done," answered Charley, "it
was nothing — you notaries have easy times. You may
take your turn with my shears and needle one day."

With a dash of patronage true to his nature, " You are
wonderful for a tailor ! " the ^Notary rejoined.

Charley laughed— seldom, if ever, had he laughed since
coming to Chaudiire. It was, however, a curious fact
that he took a real pleasure in the work ha did with his
hands. In making clothes for habitant, farmers, and
their sons and their sons' sons, and jackets for their
wives and daughters, ho had had the keenest pleasure
of his life.

He had taken his earnings with pride, if not with
exultation. He knew the Notary did not mean that
he was wonderful as a tailor, but he answered to the
suggestion.

"You liked that last coat I made for you, then," he
said drily ; " I believe you wore it when you were shot.
It was the thing for your figure, man."

The Notary looked in the large mirror opposite with

COMISO OF MAXIMILIAN COUB AND ANOTHER 23n

sad conteut. " Ah, it was a good figure, the first time I
went to that hut at Four Mountains ! "

" We can't always be young. You have a waist yet, and
your cheat-barrel gives form to a waistcoat. Tut! tut!
Ihink of the twins in the way of vainglory and hypocrisy."

'•'Twins' and 'hypocrisy'; there you have struck the
nail on the head, tailor. There is the thing I'm goine to
tell you about." "*

After a cautious glance at the door and the window,
Uauphm continued in quick broken sentences : " It wasn't
an accident at Four Mountains— not quite. It was
Faulette Dubois— you know the woman that lives at the
Seigneur a gate ? Twelve years ago she was a handsome
girl. I fell in love with her, but she left here. There
were two other men. There was a timber-merchant and
there was a lawyer after. The timber- merchant was
married ; the lawyer wasn't. She lived at first with
the timber-merchant. He was killed— murdered in the
woods.

"What was the timber-merchant's name ? " interrupted
Charley in an even voice.

"Turley— but that doesn't matter!" continued the
Notary. " He was murdered, and then the lawyer came
on the scene. He lived with her for a year. She had
a child by him. One day he sent the child away to a
safe place and told her he was going to turn over a new
leaf— he was going to stand for Parliament, and she
must go. She wouldn't go without the child. At last
he said the child was dead ; and showed her the certificate
of death. Then she came back here, and for a while
alas! she disgraced the parish. But all at once she
changed— she got a message that her child was alive. To
her u was like being born again. It was at this time
they were gomg to drive her from the parish. But the
Seigneur and then the Cure spoke for her, and so did
I — at last."

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

234

THE RIGHT OF WAY

New phases of the most interesting case Charley had
ever defended spread out befo« hfm-thel^ ^hich

his own destiny Yet he could not quite trace in it

til'^ZT''"" " ''''' '^ ^"^-^ "- - '^« "-

;;You behaved very well." said Charley tentatively.

«v t>:/°" ^^ .*"'• '"'.'J''>°8 *° ""•« ' What will you
say when you know all-ah! That I should take a
Stand also was importai.. Neither the Seigneur nor the
Cure was married; I was. I have been long-suffering
for a cause^ My marital felicity has been bruised-
brmsed— but not broken."

" T"?*™,.* ^ *^ *"■''»'" 8a'd Charley, with a half-closed
eye, his old humour flashing out naii-ciosea

■; Could woman ask greater proof?" urged the Notary

that he did not catch its satire. '■ But see my peril, and
mark the ground of my interest in this poor wanton!
.ni f L°°^°T* ''oo^n-frail creatures, as we know,
and to be pitied, not made more pitiable by the stronger
sex^ . . . But. see now! Why should I have periled
fv^n 7°/'"'J"g^I peace, given ground for suspicion
even— for I am unfortunate, unfortunate in the exterior
with which Dame Nature has honoured me ! " Aeain he
looked m the mirror with sad complacency

he contfnu'^d''"^^^ ^'^ "^**°" ""^"^'^ °° comment, and

n "IV^t ''^? ^ i"'!'* ""y ^"ice for the poor wanton.

alive \^I^A T'^.i^t^l''" '° ^" '^' her child was
alive I did It with high purpose-I foresaw that she
would change her ways if she thought her child was
Imng. Was I mistaken? No. I am an observer of
human nature. Intellect conquered. lo triumph. The
poor fly-away changed, led a new life. Ever since then
she has tried to get the man-the lawyer-to tell her
rh.""KMf-'Ti'- He has not done so. He has safd
the child is dead-always. When she seemed to give
^, .i' \^!" ^''"'.d.conie another letter to her, teliin^
her the child was living-but not where. So she wouJd

COMING OF MAXIMILIAN COUE AND ANOTHER 235

keep on writing to the man, and sometimes she would
go away searching— searching. To what end ?— Nothinc !
bhe had a letter some months ago, for she had got rest-
less, and a young kinsman of the Seigneur had come to
visit at the seignenry for a week, and took much notice
of her. There was danger. Foild, another letter."
"From you?"

"Monsieur, of course. Will you keep a secret— on
your sacred honour i"
"I can keep a secret without sacred honour."
"Ah, yes, of course. You have a secret of your own
—pardon me, I am only saying what every one says.
Well, this IS the secret of the woman Paulette Dubois
Sly cousm, Bobespierre Dauphin, a notary in Quebec is
the agent of the lawyer, the father of the child. He
pities the poor woman. But he is bound in professional
honour to the lawyer fellow, not to betray. When visit-
ing Eobespierre once I found out the truth- by accident
1 told him what 1 intended. He gave permission to
teU the woman her child was alive; and, if need be for
her good, to affirm it over and over again — no more."

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

" Ah, you apprehend ! You have an avocat's mind-
almost. It was at Four Mounteios. Paulette is super-
stitious; so not long ago she wtnt to live there alone
with an old half-breed woman who has second-sicht
Monsieur, it is a gift unmistakably. For as soon as the
nag clapped eyes on me in the hut, sfce said, 'There
w the man that wrote you the letters.' Well— what!
Paulette Dubois came down on me like an avalanche-
Monsieur, like an avalanche! She believed the old
witch; and there was I lying with an unconvincing
manner —he sighed— " lying requires practice, alas'
bhe saw I m aa lying, and in a rage snatched up my gun.
It went off by accident, and brought me down. Did she
relent ? Not so. She helped to bind me up, and the
last words she said to me were : ' You will suffer ■ you
will have time to think. I am glad. You have kept me

236

THE RIGHT OF WAY

child is ! ' MoMUur I h!/? u y?" '*" ■"« "here my
come hereand make a J^ tt^V^h '^' ?'"' '"'°'"''
have been better to bre^Taith w.lh « "vi""- * " '°"""''
the poor wanton whe^rhlrchiTd is^wn""' T.'* **"
-lo Monsieur ? I cnnot wk the Cu;,! oT?^ ' «"•"" y*""
I have reason., hut yon have the I °^ '^« Se.gnenr-
almost-and you havp „„ i!l.i . f-^^ °' * lawyer—
interest-eh?" °° '"""^ ^«»""8S- no pewonal

'' I should teil the r •:."

"Your reasons, li ,->oienr ?"

" A boy."

is ai?^ht ri'Trir Y *''"'" ?, \left-handed boy
think of the womarle ol"" ''" ^^^ 'wins-theL
wanton.' If vouT ;„f f T,? ^"^ '"'"*' «' ' *e poor
making a n2e as vo„ ' ^" Y' ^°." ^'" ''»^« ^er C
here on your d^lJfsg" ^^ ^ ^°'"^«^ ^^e has not been

mJl'£/'- ^'''''" '«"" '"«■• '°-^y- She is coming-^.
" When ? "

"A?Se:v\VhtVshe'isTJ.1r- "^^ ^"'-T ""arted.
to the wall • ^^ S^P«<^' and drew over

COMING OF MAXIMILIAN COUE AND ANOTHER 237

vanations on it. keeping the last vrr^nhe song in 1'
mind. You know the song, M'sieu': ^ ^

Je croH entendu d«s pas,

Je veui fuir et n'cue pas.

Voici la fin du jour ....

Je -ruins etj'h&ite,

M '.^ ccDur but plus vite

En ce sdjour ....

Quand je vais au jardin, jardin d'amour ■ »

the'Sr.'^ ^'^' "" ^""' ^"'''" ^' ««iA "Then

.J^^^^^'T possessed the one high-«alled garden in

hat tie''^;Ci"°7^'°'H S''"^"^'^ outsfde^and^aW
noil • *t "^ "5' P'^y'^e for the sick man, there was
Kv,-™ 1 i''^ «'"■'*'? "^^^ '^« fiddler himself Once or
tw ce a lad appeared on the top of the wall looking „vp?
but vanished at once when he saw CharS face at
the window. Long ere the baker had finished the son^
was caught up from outside, and before the U,; nL. ?

Darkness comes quickly in this land of brief twilieht

thfno. ^°"' "^ '^' '"f' '^''^°^'^ stillness broken by
the note of a vagrant whippoorwill, crept out from Maxi
^ihan Cours old viohn the music of k £.JleJl'^To}

t2^t ^^^" "^f "2"' * Sreat musician, but he had a

mitr.VK'^'- ^" °^ P"'"''' ""'' »" imagination untram-
meUed by rigorous rules of huin.ony and construS:

238

THK RIGHT OF WAY

KhUn • J!"* '" •"• wntimental boson, he pouwd
mU) thu one aohieyement of hi. life. It brought U««

gujjen wall, and drew ineide a girl'.Yaoe, .hining with

nie^r' H!^"r.h?"^ •P"''' '?^ r" "«■> •>*■»«" that
^ft^; "".Ph ''"derm^ .pint had. at middle age, be-

Cconrn"^'^ houwMf in a auiet place. whX the
Winds could be drawn close, and the roim of life made
ready wuh all the furniture of love. So he had swken
tohj, v.ohn, and it had answen^d a, it had nevette

a mH" J 'r?' I'^^t '^'1 ^"^^ '"""bed the heart of
a man whose life had been but a baffled quest, and the
«pmt of a girl whose love was her sun by Sav, her moon
by night and the starlight of her dreams
..i"!?^ i """"l* °' '^' ''''"^°* 'he man the girl loved

wt?hJ*L""' ^l^ '"abandonment to the musif He
watched her when the baker, at last, overcome by his
own feelmgs-and ashamed of them-got up and stole
swiftlv out of the garden. He watched hi tilf he saw her
t^Fu 'T\'" ••" '"""^«: **"' oPoni-K the door and

r S hrk'Lrr""^ '^'^ ' •""•^ "P°" •"« '""'"'«^-.
"Eosaliel"

CHAPTER XXXVI

BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY

Quebe^7or''t"h:j;Sf V'lT'^ '^^ """" ™'""^d from
nlfZi' • u^r*'t *''* '""^ "ometimes been broncht in
contact wuh Charley in the Notary's house since he duv
of the operation, nothing had passed between them save
the necessary commonplaces of a sick-room, riven a IMe
ex ra colour perhaps, by the sen^ of respo^sSy which
fell upon hem both, and by that iu^rtance wh ch
hidden sentiment gives to e^ery motiom The Twins

ti^'p"","^'"'"""' *""• "'• "d inadame Dauphin had
begged Rosalie to come in for a couple of hours every
evening. Thus the tailor and the girl who, by every ru'e
of wwaom. should have been kept as fa^ apart Z, th«
poles, were played into each other's hands ^yh^man
t.ndne«, an,f damnable propinquity. The man manhke
felt no real danger, becaiie nothing was s^d-Jftl,'
everything had been said for all t°me ft Th^Zf^^
Vadromekountjain. He had not r^lfsed the "^L ^ Uua-
W h^r''i°^ ^"^ •'"i "°''=«- "■'« his, had beenTven and

eves welTir.? '"''"'^- "' ^"^ »°* °°^''>«d »h^t her
eyes were hke hungry fires, eating up her face— eatina

SeW roundness, and leavinf a' pathetic"wu?f

neUherZir^f'*'"' *!5''* '^""'^ *ere was silence-
WM well H^ T^ • °' "'" "P*"'''"? look-that all

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240

THE RIGHT OF WAY

, I

Home? Pictures of home, of a home such as Maxi-
milian Cour painted in his music, had passed before him
now and then since that great day on Vadrome Mountain.
A simple fireside, with frugal but comfortable fare ; a
few books ; the study of the fields and woods ; the daily
humble task over which he could meditate as his hands
worked mechanically ; the happy face of a happy woman
near — he had thought of home ; and he had put it from
him. No matter what the temptation, his must be, perhaps
for ever, the bed and board unshared. He had had his
chance in the old days, and he had thrown it away with
insolent indifference, and an unpardonable contempt for
the opinion of the world.

Now, with a blind fatuousness which had nothing to
do with his old intellectual power, but was evidence of a
primitive life of feeling, he vaguely imagined that be-
cause there were no clinging hands, or stolen looks, or
any vow or promise, that all might go on as at present
— upon the surface. With a curious absence of his old
accuracy of observation he was treating the immediate
past — his and Rosalie's past — as if it did not actually
exist ; as if only the other and farther past was a tragedy,
and this nearer one a dream.

But the film fell from his eyes as Maximilian Cour
played his Baffled Quest, with its quaint, searching
pathos; and as he saw the figure of the girl alone in
the shade of the great rose-bushes, past and present
became one, and the whole man was lost in that one word
" Rosalie ! " which called her to her feet with outstretched
hands.

The tears sprang to her eyes ; her face upturned to his
was a mute appeal, a speechless Viens ici.

Past, present, future, duty, apprehension, consequences,
suddenly fell away from Charley's mind like a garment
slipping from the shoulders, and the new man, swept off
his feet by the onrush of unused and ungoverned
emotions, caught the girl to his arms with a desperate
joy.

" Oh, do you care, then — for me ? " wept the girl, and
hid her face in his breast.

BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY 241

A voice came from inside the house: "Monsieur
Monsieur-ah, come, if you please, tailor t ■■ '

■ I"" g'rf Jrew back quickly, looked up at him for cue

ofeTed with" 'T-^'^'r ^PPy daring', then, sudden y
covered with confusion, turned, ran to the gate, opened

dusr' ^^^^^ ""'' ""'^ ""^ Bwallowed^p' L' the

CHAPTEK XXXVII

THE CHALLENGE OF I'AULETTF. l)UHOrS

" MOKSIEUU, Monsieur ! " came the voice from inside the
house, querulously and anxiously. Charley entered the
Notary's bed;oom.

"Monsieur," said the Notary excitedly, " she is here —
Paulette is here. My wife is asleep thank God ! but old
Sophie has just told me that the ii ^n asks to see me.
Ah, Heaven above, what shall I do ?

" Will you leave it to me 1 "

" Yes, yes, Monsieur."

" Yon will do exactly as I say ? "

" Ah, most sure."

" Very well. Keep still. I will see her first. Trust
to me." Ee turned and left the room.

Charley found the woman in the Notary's office, which,
"while partly detached from the house, did duty as sitting-
room and library. When Charley entered, the room was
only lighted by two candles, and Paulette's face was
hidden by a veil, but Charley observed the tremnlousness
of the figure and the nervous decision of manner. He
had seen her before several times, and he had always
noticed the air, half bravado, half shrinking, marking
her walk and movements, as though two emotions were
fighting in her. She was now dressed in black, save for
one bright red ribbon round her throat, incongruous
and garish.

When she saw Charley she started, for she had ex-
pected the servant with a message from the Notary—
her own message had been peremptory.

" I wish to see the Notaiy," she said defiantly,

■' He is not able to come to you."

THE CHALLENGE OF PAULETTE DUBOIS 243

" What of that 1 "

" Ware nLth» ^"^•"'''■"P' ^ discourtesy.
;;iPv:-:Sr„rtrS--e.at,Ve."

^ra^a fl';.^'"^'^ '"-''-- -da^e."

''%^^ii'j^i?::t;r"^"^»^*'"'— a^."

must be either ther^ot t^X^' "" "'^^ *° ""^ ^ I*

4p:dr::enr Ion r„± in v ^ -^«- ««

"I'll see his wife, then—" "'' *''" ^"^'''-y-"

f~ she has reaZs%or'':t hk1Sf;o':'??P-'^' ^"^ ^""^
-fortdsSaupht-!!!"'^^" ^"^">-« P^'^-J-. but
the'worftaJr°'^°°' '"^""^ *° 7°" *' «ome expense,
Bhe^iTilr"-^'^' '''*'' ''^««'f- "The world lies!"

you— it has cost him sompT; ^^'peur, was for

You've never thanked hTm " ^ '^'' ''""''• ^'"^ *<>«.
lyin^"' *°''*"-d me for years, the oily, smirking,

"^^'s:,^::,iz\^^,^2S "^^ ''''^^^^^■

"He'rif'^''' f° did asle^LkTd '" ' "'°'"«"*-"
"He thought that if you knew your child lived, you

244

THE RIGHT OF WAY

you
you

would iiiink better of life — and of yourself. He has
his good points, the Notary."

" Why doesn't he tell me where my child is ?"

" The Notary is in bed — you shot him ! Don't
think it is doing you a good turn not to have
arrested ? "

" It was an accident."

" Oh no, it wasn't. You couldn't make a jury believe
that. And if you were in prison, how could you find your
child ? You see, you have treated the Notary very badly."

She was silent, and he added, slowly : " He had good
reasons for not telling you. It wasn't his own secret,
and he hadn't come by it in a strictly professional way.
Your child was being well cared for, and he told you
simply that it was alive — for your own sake. But he has
changed his mind at last, and "

The woman sprang from her seat. " He will tell me —
he will tell me ? "

" I will tell you."

" Monsieur — Monsieur — ah, my God, but you are kind !
How should you know — what do you know ? "

" I give you my word that by to-morrow evening you
shall know where your child is."

For a momer.t she was bewildered and overcome, then
a look of gratitude, of luminous hope, covere'j her face,
softening the hai-dness of its contour, and she fell on
her knees beside the table, dropped her head in her
arms, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

" My little lamb ! my little, little lamb — my own
dearest ! " she sobbed. " I shall have you again ! I
shall have you again — all my own ! "

ile stood and watched her meditatively. He was won-
d-^ring why it was that grief like this had never touched
him so before. His eyes were moist. Though he had
been many things in his life, he had never been abashed ;
but a curious timidity possessed him now.

He leaned over and touched her shoulder with a kindly
abruptness, a friendly awkwardness. " Cheer up ! " lie
said. " You shall have your child, if Dauphin can help
vou to it."

THE CHALLENdE OF I'AILETTE DUIiOIS 245

"Mo.isi^ur," Bhe said, in a choking voice -if T „„f
my ch.ld again. I will bless you to „,v dvinTdav ' ^
No, no ; ,t will be Dauphin vo» n,uk ble.s'"' l,e «aid
and opened the door for hVr A= .;, r , .'""'

CHAITEU XXXVIII

THE CURfi AND THE SEIGNEUR VISIT THE
TAILOR

It had been a perfect September day. The tailor of
thaudiuro had been busier than usual, for winter was
withm hail, and careful hahitnnts were renewing their
simple wanlrobes. The Seigneur and the Cari arrived
topether, each to order the making of a greatcoat of the
Irish frieze which the Seigneur kept in quantity at the
Manor. The Seigneur was in rare spirits. And not
without reason ; for this; was Michaelmas eve and to-
morrow would be Michaelmas day, and there was a pro-
mise to be redeemed on Michaelmas day ! He had hi<rh
hopes of Its redemption according to his own wishe°s ;
for he was a vain Seigneur, and he had had his way in nil
things all his life, as everybody knew. Importunity with
discretion was his motto, and he often vowed to the Cur(5
that there was no other motto for the modern world.

The Curd's visit to the tailor's shop on this particular
day had unusual interest, for it concerned his dear ambi-
tion, the fondest aspiration of his life : to bring the infidel
tailor (they could not but call a man an infidel whose soul
was negative— the word ogTwstic had not then become
usual) trom the chains of captivity into the freedom
of the Church. The Cur^ had ever clung to his fond
hope; and it was due to his patient confidence that there
were several panshioners who now carried Charley's name
before the shrme of the blessed Virgin, and to the little
calvaries by the road-side. The wife of Filion Lacasse
never failed to pray for him every day. The thousand
dollars gamed by the saddler on the tailor's advice had
made her life happier ever since, for Filion had become

*HE CURfi AND SEIOXEUH VISIT THE TAILOR 247

saving and prudent, and had even i?ot I„.r n - • i

never knew '-Zf^'Tr • V '""'''' "^^'''''''e fello- 1

"oi ly lue, wnicn, in its chantv, sliamei na nil w„ ■
all he earns to the sick and needy He lives onfare L^ ''

248

THE RKiHT OK WAY

" But that s just it, Curt. Doeon't he act them ? hn't
It a whitii 1 What more likely than that, tired of the
(leBli-pots of Egypt, he comes here to live in the desert
— for a Sfnsation. We don't know,"

" We do know. The man has had sorrow and the man
lias sin. Ah, believe me, there is none of us that suffers
as this niau has suffered. I have had many, many talks
wuh lam. Believe me, Maurice, I speak the truth. Mv
heart bleeds for him. I think I know the thing that drove
Inm here amongst us. It is a great temptation, which
pursues him here— even here, where his life is so com-
mendable I have seen him fighting it. I have seen his
torture, the piteous, ignoble yielding, and the struggle
with more than mortal energy, to be master of himself!" '

' K '* " *^^ Seigneur said, then paused.

" No, no ; do not ask me. He has not confessed to
me Wanrice— naturally, nothing like that. But I know
i know and pity— ah, Maurice, I almost love. You
argue, and reason, but I know this, ray friend, that some-
thing was left out of this man when he was made and it
18 that thing that we must find, or he will die among ns a
ruined soul, and his gravestone will be the monument of
our shame. If he can once trust the Church, if he can
once say, ' Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.'
then his temptation will vanish, and I shall bring bim in
— 1 shall lead him home."

For an instant the Seigneur looked at him in amaze-
ment, for this was a Cure he had never known.

"Dear Curd, you are not your old self," he said
gently.

" I ani not myself— ah, that is it, Maurice. I am not
the old humdrnm Curd you knew. The whole worid is
my held now. I have sorrowed for sin, within the bounds
of this httle Chaudifere. Now I sorrow for unbelief.
Ihrouph this man, through much thinking on him I
have come to feel the woe of all the worid. I have come
to hear the footsteps of the Master near. My friend it
IS not a legend, not a belief now, it is a presence. I o'we
him much Maurice. In bringing him home, I shall
understand what it all means— the faith that we profess.

THE CUllI; AND SEI.NKUK VISIT THE TAILOR 2411
I -Imll ill truth f«el tl,»t it is nil real. V„„ see l,„w

oilj hope I Imve not l.etrajt. ),im," he added anxiousU-
I would keep faith « i, h hi„: ah, ■.«, indeed ! ' " '

That'i:"!^ {.zs '- "'"' ^■"^ ""^■'' "-"^ "'" -- -ff--

Oood-day ,0 you, .Monsieur, " lie said, as thev entered
Have you a hot goose for u.e /" ^ entered.

Charley."''- ^"^ ^ ""' '"' '"--^ '* - yo"." replied
'•Should yon so take my question—eh ?"
Should you so take my ttiiser >"

to tl'e 'f'lrr-'"'? "Ir *° *''"«"(?»'■"■•. ->nd he turned
10 tlie Lure chucklinir. "Think cf thnf P„,.'l ti

knows the classics." lie lauXd till fhlv •""

his eyes. laugneu till the tears came into

The ne.xt few moments Charley was busy ueasuriuir
work 7 P,?'"'"*'' ^"' greatcoats. As it was hi fi ?
work for them, ,t was necessary for the Cure to wrUe
theTn" ff' f'^rr'' ■'■'^''^"rements, as tho tlilor Mil d
them off, wh.le the Seigneur di.I the same when thaC.rd

have bZ TTr'' ^%"'*'"" "«™ "- three it n^;.

a distant but Zu""'"'^ "^ ^'"^i ''"''^ •^"'^'"'"^ ^'-"'"red
a mstaut but self-conscious smile when the measurement
of his waist was called, for he had by two'nches the
advantage of the Cure, though they were the "ame aje
was ptr^f'h' 'fi"'' '^"'"•i" *•'« ^h^^*- The sSn^;
SCl^tfeeet-S'i^l^-ik^

fet heretical was when in the presence of thl gaitered
calves of a Protestant dean. He wore his sleevfs til^ht
and his stock high, as in the days when Wmiam £
Sa lor was king in England, and his long go d topZ
Prince Begent cane wa« the verj- acme of df^ity ^^

250

THE RIGHT OF WAY

pil^-LTir,-:"';'''"'' ?i" •'"•"': "'"•^••'J »•>. fa,hio„

l)iaie«_niostlv live jeoig old— as Von Moltke and His.
marck might Uve sfudied tl,e fiel.I of Oravelone The

lr^„ •.°^'' ,•"' '"■'"^" I'"!'"' ^'•"'^''•y "k« ched in l!u
■K-re with a long overcout in .tvie much the .ame as
hH^undercoat. stat.Iy and flowing and confined aTthe

"'Aentnl*' """f* A'>.'"i™W-!" said the SeiKfleur.

__ Mv dear fnend ! " said the Cure;, ilx amazement,
lus work Lo,?;". T %"? u**"^ P'T""=« °f »" -"^i't ""d

of form and creative gift. Ah. Cur.^ CnrVTf j lere

lhZt.7' :"> l\ ^''''""'"^ °^ Monsieu'p I «:: d
show the bucks in Fabrique Street how to dress Whi?

SotS'^dr::;;4^-'^-^"''-"''AX

•'Style d la Jiossignol, Seigneur," said the tailor.

Ihe So.gneur was flattered ont of all reason Ha
boked across at the post-office, where he couW 7^
Rosahe d,mly moving in the shade of the shop
»„;j .r ., T>' °'^"«'' f'is coat sooner'" he

^li!^. ••"/["'",''* ""'^ *° ask Rosalie for her
herlnt?^'""'.^'^ V ^""'"^ •""««" appearing b^fo"
thrown t* Pe"tlecool of the evening, in this coat lightly
thrown back disclosing his embroidered waistcoat seals
and snowy linen. "Ah, Monsieur. I am hirhW com
phmented. believe me." he said. " Observe. Cu^ th^t
this coat IS invented for me on the spot." ' "*

derfntt R f'?'^*'^ ''PP'"«"'"i^«'7- "Wonderful! Won-
Mv f °u^"°" ""' think.'^^he added, a little wi,t-

^'^:i T.Thi'! ""' '^ Frenchman, susceptible lik: 1 1
f, . fa?f *? , tne appearance of th ngs " J—"' do von not
think It might be too fashionable for me ?" ^

THE iVRt AND SEIGNEUR VISIT THE T.vILOn 2: 1

"Not a whit — not a whit'" rpnli«,) fi,„ u ■
KenerousK-. " Should not a P.,./? i .' • '^"'Kn^'"-

'•And the CurtWgaid Charley.

perfect figure would Bet off bis o,fn we , „, the w.I ''?

With pleasure," answered Charley
r ou do not need it ? "
" Not at all."

The Curi looked a little disappointed and -^h. -„
«eemg, immediately sketched on b?own paperthe nr' >
figure in the new-created coat, d /a T^Eo ^ ' , {
drawing he was a little longer enM^ed wi^h thl , 't
ntce^^"'^ -« -P™<l"-d witffsi'nS'r fidel ly-
Imi^rtan?""' ''°^ '^P-"-" "^ P-onafity genttV

" Bu? w"?7 Til ^°" "'"'" "°' '"*^« it'" '"id the Seigneur

b^h;^"^;t"h rok^gri^oLSs^rt^'fr

thanS ChLr°'*^.;f' ^^* ""'.''^ *°° -"P-iolSwe" He
thanked Charley with a beaming face, and then the f^^

Kr^Xer '""^^^ *"-«^^ "'« doo^sSe^
imSnUyn^'gr''^'" ^"' '"'■ "^ "^ ^-gotten the

' rr

I'f

252

THE RIGHT OF WAY

Think of that— we two old babblers: said the
Segaenr. He nodded for the Cur^ to begin

Monsieur, said the Cur,5 to Charley, "you may be

W« *° ^'.P rJ'^I: ""^« ^^"^^'y- For a long tfme we
have intended holding a great mission with f kind of

Inte^H rV'*'" *•"!!; P"'^"^"^^ "t Ober-Ammergau
and called r/iePamon Play. You know of it. Monsieur ? "
. M "^ ^ through reading, monsieur."
JMext Easter we purpose having a Passion Play in
pious mntation of the famous drama^ We will hold ft It
the Indian reservation of Four Mountains, thus quicken-

g"far'HirryTo'r?n&^^°'^°''^^°"^-" °^ *»•«

.J)^ ^u-^ P*"'^*^ "■""'*'■ an^ionsly, I'Ut Charley did not
speak His eyes were fixed inquiringly on the Cur^, and

for™/.""^ fl° '"'P'u-°° ^^"^ """^ ^'^""^ means were
forjard to influence him He dismissed the thought,

m.7«'''.; •'.?'' ^°/^ ''"^ «'"P'« ^« ■""» «ver wa
mSt femff "'"'^' ''^ *^« "-"^^ ^^^-^ "'y--
The Cur^, taking heart, again continued: "Now I
possess an authentic description of the Ober-Ammergan
drama, gi^ng details of its presentation at different
periods, and also a teok of the play. But there Tno

to the Seigneur and myself that, understanding French

^Z7' \'=''^°f y°" ""ay understand German also, and
would, perhaps, translate the work for us."

"I read German easily and speak it fairly," Charley

f^J^ff^r^p'' P^'\^''T f"'''^'^ "^^^ P'«a«"™- He took
the^httle German book from his pocket, and handed it

crrif.'f °°Vl° ''^'^ '°"^''.' ^^ ^'^' "*"<^ ''^ stall all be
Sed °° inspiration came to him ; his eyes

"Monsieur," he said, "you will notice that there are
no Illustrations m the book. It is possible that you
might be able to make us a few drawing^if we do not

THE CURfi AND SEIGNEUR VISIT THE TAILOR 253

ask too much ? It would aid greatly in the matter of
costume, and you might use my library— I have a fair

ilni t ^a"^^ ^, ^^ V^^ *^« '■^1"««*- ^ft^"- a Blight

It IS hardly kind to ask you; but we have some months
to spare ; there need be no haste."

Charley hastened to relieve the Curb's anxiety. "Do
not apologise." he said. "I will do what I can when

amTteurisJ" "' '^"'^'''«' '"°°^'^"'-' '' '^"l ^' ^ut

"Monsieur," interposed the Seigneur promptly "if

you re not an artist, I'm damned ! " Pi."

"Maurice!" murmured the Curd reproachfully

Can t help ,t, Cnr4 I've held it in for an hour. It

had to come; so there it is exploded. I see no dama-^e

either, save to my own reputation. Monsieur," he added to

Charley, "if I had gifts like yours, nothing would hold

me 1 should put on more airs than Beauty Steele "

It was fortunate that, at that instant, Charley's face
was turned away or tlie Seigneur would have seen it go
white and startled. Charley did not dare turn his held
for the moment He could not speak. What did the
Seismeur know of Beauty Steele ?

To hide his momentary confusion, he went over to the
drawer of a cupboard in the wall, and placed the book
inside. It gave him time to recover himself. When
he turned round again his face was calm, his manner
composed.

■' And who, may I ask, is Beauty Steele ? " he said.
J^aith I do not know," answered the Seigneur, taking
a pinch of snuff. " It's years since I first read the phrasl
m a letter a scamp of a relative of mine wrote me from
the West. He had met a man of the name, who bad a
reputation as a clever fop, a very handsome fellow. So I
thouffht it a good phrase, and I've used it ever since on
occasions. ' More airs than Beauty Steele.'— It has a
sound ; its effective, I fancy. Monsieur?"

" Decidedly effective," answered Charley quietly He
picked up his shears. "You will excuse me," he said

9. I

; {

THE BIGHT OF WAY

254

^i2lJ' ""'* ^'™ -y '-"^- "l -not live on
taiS' ^"^'"" ■""* t'"' C„r^ lifted their hats-to the

bo^el^thrmit'"'"'"'""''" ^'"'y '^*'' «"d. and Charley

Seigneur. The S "/J^^^'frcT^ °| ^W'- Cu^,'- « Jth^
pressed his arm in reply """^ °^ happiness,

thi°Slut'Se!'' ''' " ^"'"^ ''^P* -y-^. "More air«

iti

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE SCARLET WOMAN

joyful confusion. EosalS Wn J„ a dim"'" 8^'^^°
not closed her eyes all niirht nr if 1 i ?" r. °''® ^^

ire"" SdlTnl"" °°* '° important to be loved as „
iatn« „^ ■ . F'''^" "O'^ thau she had sot A

S^p^oShTs^ nVr."'^"? ■'"'^•'=''°"' '* --^^p-^

core of Wr,./ ! maternal instinct was at the very

TaWtttin n':;:?t'hC '"4°'^^''' ""^''^

thing helped to restrain h"' - -'i v.. L.. ,,X

2»

all Yet with all the fresh,

256

THE RIGHT OF WAY

':•

■ : 1

^;M

overflow of her spirit, which, assisted by her new posi-
tion as postmigtress, made her a conspicuous and popular
figure in the parish, where officialdom had rare honour
and little labour, she had prejudices almost unworthy
of her, due though they were to radical antipathy.
These prejudices, one against Jo Portugais and the other
against Paalette Dubois, she had never been able en-
tirely to overcome, though she had honestly tried. On
the way to the hospital at Quebec, however, Jo had been
so careful of her father, so respectful when speaking
of M'sieu', so regardful of aei own comfort, that her an-
tagonism to him was lulled. But the strong prejudice
against Paulette Dubois remained, casting a shadow on
her bright spirit.

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

Many times she had looked across at the tailor-shop,
only seeing Charley once. She did not wish to speak
with him now, nor to be near him yet ; she wanted this
day for herself only.

So it was that, soon after tlie Curd and the Seigneur
had bade good-bye to Charley, she left the post-office and
went quickly through the village to a spot by the river,
where was a place called the Rest of the Flax-beaters.
It was an overhanging rock which made a kind of canopy
over a sweet spring, where, in the days when their labours
sounded through the valley, the flax-beaters from the
level below came to eat their meals and to rest.

This had always been a resort for her in the months
when the flax-beaters did not use it. Since a child she had
made the place her own. To this day it is called Rosa-
lie's Dell ; for are not her sorrows and joys still told by
those who knew and loved her? and is not' the parish still
fragrant with her name ? Has not her history become a
living legend a thousand times told ?

jjeaving the village behind her, Rosalie passed down the

THE SCARLET WOMAN 257

JJ^'rof sSi7:,:° \^»^ »•■»' IfoS through a

bour'« sun and then"^ a hort^iLiri'^ >,/*"• " '"'"-
the woods and the Rest of tL r * u' """^ *''* "^^^ «""!
own; and she could think of th^''"*^5*!?'7?''^ ^ »><"
"Pon her. She had brought wS her"a'lf "I '^'"f T"
poems, and as she went tV, J^,™!. .1 " ^^^ °^ *^°Kl'8h
it, and in her ptttj En£"^tei^.!/'°^« ^''j °I^"ed
herself: ' J^ngiisn repeated over and over to

""L'jfw ''">'?«. »nd soul and body render

a^.^h of heairt:- :trait:s xt-hd

trysLr^ulTertho^ff^or^^^^ '''^^'^ «"« ''^^

sitting down, watched the »,?i^^' it * ""^"^ y«*"' ^^d,

shade! of eVening 111 An tht ^uT^ '^' *^«<"'' ^J"*
Charley came to the parislf L w .'^ '"'?P\""'^ ""«»
She ^.membered tie dCh» .f-? '"??*?''«'• •" her mind,
said that; ^:i^:g,>Iuci1Ci^' *^ '"^ '"' ""^
npon her mind l— when vTLl .°'8^''V* ''^ ^*ched
saved my life, mademoiselle ?" 'sh *° '''n'^'^"" '"'^«
she put the I ttlfl rrnJ. t i" ^"^ recalled the time

ghostly f^tst^;* ' nTrchuth The* v' ^fl^''f°°'- ^''^
A s' adder ran fhron^h her nnw t l^*"' *''* '°'' ''°'^-
hood had never bee/clea^d nu But'thT*'^ °' *\^*
page caught her eye again? ^ ^ '^°'^' °° t^^^

^.enandJer^t&tt----^^^^^

'■H

III

258

THK RIGHT OF WAT

anticipation lest there shonld come despair. Even that
day at Vadrorae Mountain she had not thonffht he meant
love, when he had said to her that he would remember
to the last. When he had said that he would die for
love's sake, he had not meant her, but others — some one
else whom he would save by his death. Kathleen, that
name which had haunted her — ah, whoever Kathleen was,
or whatever Kathleen had to do with him or his life,
she had no reason to fear Kathleen now. She had no
reason to fear any one ; for had she not heard his words
of love as he clasped her in his arms last night ? Had
she not fled from that enfolding, because her heart was so
full in the hour of her triumph that she could not bear
more, could not look longer into the eyes to which she
had told her love before his was spoken ?

In the midst of her thoughts she heard footsteps.
She started up. Paulette Dubois suddenly appeared in
the path below. She had taken the river-path down
from Vadrome Mountain, where she had gone to see
Jo Portugais, who had not yet returned from Quebec.
Faulette's face was agitated, her manner nervous. For
nights she had not slept, and her approaching meeting
with the tailor had made her tremble all day. Excited
as she was, there was a wild sort of beauty in her face,
and her figure was lithe and supple. She dressed always
a little garishly, but now there was only that band of
colour round the throat, worn last night in the talk
with Charley.

To both women this meeting was as a personal mis-
fortune, a mutual affront. Each had a natural anti-
pathy. To Rosalie the invasion of her beloved retreat
was as hateful as though the woman had purposely
intruded.

For a moment they confronted each other without
speaking, then Rosalie's natural courtesy, her instinc-
tive good-heartedness, overcame her irritation, and she
said quietly,

"Good-evening, madame."

"I am not madame, and yon know it," answered the
waman harshly.

(:.

THE SCARLET WOMAN 259

R.^ie"ve'^;;^' «°°^-«''«°ing. mademoiselle," rejoined
««rfJr.»"*""" *° •-"" -■ You knew I wasn't

an excess of cKf ' P°°±r'"^4 .^J"* ''dded, iith
in the girl's face ;shT did not l/"^ the placid scorn
stand that Kosali'e dfd not "0^^ f''°°'^ °°* "°'J«'-

now wWe tw r^ed td'l^wV"" '^«''" ^''^ ^^^'
fit to speak with you > I'mTrl f .^^^T'"- " ^'^ n°
■ " I have never thoui? t *? ""^ ""^ '^»«* P^^^ ■' "
have not liked you but fL°' "^^^^d Rosalie. "I
thought those things " '°"^ ^°""y°"' """^ I never

^VwyJtrJuUlfh^^^^^

her ears, and, hastening down tL Mn ?. ^^J" ^"""^^ *°

the words the woman cflledafterhei' ^'^ "°* *'^"

Ron "r . •* Yo^„ Z: t'' 'r'^ y°» - - thief.
They shall know atont Z UfZ "'^"V ^"y- ''^^^'^ •'

She followed Cdie at »"f- T'' ''^n'o^O'^ "
As fate would have? she *i''*^"f«','?«r ^^^s blazing,
scrupulous man ilthe narUh °° -^^ '"'^''■'"'"J *he leaft
keeper of the general store 'wt "'^«*f''*« gossip, the
business was the posT-offl™ 1 °'?r°"'y opposition in
the village tittle!*^;" ,f d'wtZ mt^Z r'- ""*''' =^
Paulette told him how sl,« V,.J Jt malicious speed

nailing the Ktt "si o„ the .^'1 ^"'""^ ^^^ntarel
night. If he wanted nr^f of Urt ^°Z °^ " ""^rtain
Jo Portngais ^ °^ '"''** ^''^ ««'d, let him ask

Having spat out her revenge, she went on to the

•■t

260

THE SIGHT OF WAT

village, and through it to her house, where she prepared
to visit the shop of the tailor. Her sense of retaliation
satisfied, Rosalie passed from her mind; her child only
occupied it. In another hour- she would know where
her child was— the tailor had promised that she shonld.
Then perhaps she would be sorry for the accident to
the Notary j for it was an accident, in spite of appear-
ances.

It was dark when Panlette entered the door of the
tailor's house. When she came out, a half-hour later,
with elation in her carriage, and tears of joy running
down her face, she did not look about her ; she did not
care whether or not any one saw her: she was possessed
with only one thought— her child ! She passed like a
swift wind down the street, making for home and for her
departure to the hiding-place of her child.

She had not seen a figure in the shadow of a tree near
by as she came from the tailor's door. She had not
heard a smothered cry behind her. She was not aware
that in nnspeakable agor^ another woman knocked softly
at the door of the tailor's house, and, not waiting for an
answer, opened it and entered. It was Rosalie Evanturel.

CHAPTER XL

AS IT WAS IN THE BEOUmiNa

crossed tte hall and K i„ l! / ^**''^*'°- ^°«J«
» figure of concentrated^d 1 ?L''T''''? "^ 't" »''°P'
Leaning on his elbow rh„r)£^'^*?!'"""' """^ shame,
in the fight of a candle o„7h7Z'\"'',^"?.°^^'- « l^k
was reading aloud tmnskHnl- . "S'' '^'''^^ ''•">• He

that they diu acrZ S "V'' '^T "'«'/«'•« »<>««; so

peace, and the/dTJlZZ'^: '"/''"> heaHshut
luried their foe with til ^tf^^^ ""' '", ""i"^''- they
heart and quietjoy.MaJtlJMJ TJ^"' "^^alenesa of
In this i«.r1?a7^i, "7f'''-^/'-"'«'A^«>faJ<mn<
« made to the people atZLu^'^L"'^ f'^y "f *''^

262

THE BIOUT OF WAY

German chronicler, and the warmth he felt had paaaed
into hia voicp, bo that it became loader.

A» Rosalie listened to his reading, a hundred thoughts
rushed through her mind. Panlette Dubois, the wanton
woman, had just left his doorway secretly, yet there he
was, instantly after, calmly reading a pious book ! Her
mind was in tumult She could not reason, she could
not rule her judgment. She only knew that the woman
had come from this house, and hurried guiltily away into
the dark. She only knew that the man the woman had
left here was the man she loved — loved more than her
life, for he embodied all her past ; all her present— she
knew that she could not live without him; all her
future— for where he went she would go, whatever the
fate.

Her judgment had been swept from its moorings. She
had been carried on the wave of her heart's fever into this
room, not daring to think this or that, not planning this
or that, not accusing, not reproaching, not shaming her-
self and him by black suspicion, but blindly, madly
demanding to see him, to look into his eyes, to hear
his voice, to know him, whatever he was — man, lover, or
devil She was a child-woman — a child in her primitive
feelings that threw aside all convention, because there
was no wrong in her heart ; a woman, because she was
possessed by a jealousy which shamed and angered her,
because its very existence put him on trial, condemned
him. Her soul was the sport of emotions and passions
stronger than herself, because the heritage, the instinct, of
all the race of women, the eternal predisposition. At the
moment her will was not sufficient to rule them to obedi-
ence. She was in the first subservience to that power
which feeds the streams of human historv.

As she now listened to Charley reading, a sudden re-
vulsion of feeling came over her. Some note in his voice
reassured her heart — if it needed reassuring. The quiet
force of his presence stilled the tumult in her, so that her
eyes could see without mist, her heart boit without agony ;
but every pulse in her was throbbing, every instinct was
alive. Presently there rushed upon her the words that

ij j

AB IT WA8 IN THE BEOINNINO 203

whlJhtS Jester thtr'r^' °' "^'^'^'^
J»hio„ feeling. eharweX"^^;^,^^^^^^^^^

A oi?*^ ''""^ •"^ '""J broken "e^-welled up.

own." KL^r'q^^cWr^^^ '"""""•^.*° — »■»

to him out of the In^^He^^^S"^' '* °""/ """'".^
girl in the doorway. "« """"ST """"d. aud saw the

Wthf nil" ''^ r^""' »°d sprang to his feet.

i.;fir;\iftZt?peS^

wicked!%hT«"r^S^' '"""""^' ^ '-'' »-- -
" Rosalie, what has happened ? " he ureed irentir BJ.

command them. "* ^'""' °o' ^low «»

;; Roet.:;e dearest, tell me all ! " he persisted.

forgilet^V.°7:iJidt:ke^;-°Vrew''^" "-f

true, but I couldn't help it T I.w hlr^fZ '"''"*

come from your house, and-—" '''^ woman-

■' Hush ! For God's sake, hush ! " he br,,ke in almost

S«4

THE KIGBT OF WAY

.. t 7, **" y"" »'>0"t her. RoMlie— " Hi. n

"?he ^m«'L'°t°°*>^-*'''' "y°° '•» ««i •*

theman herohild-a/dlt^tUdlorL'lVhTr':^

"yMdSdTli;''' ' '""-•!''-— '""He wept, and her
Th^ wttjlas b"ht''l*'' l"""-^.'!!' - •- •"»••

K|ie^3,--5S:-a£5r

burnt low in the Li^t ""^'* spluttered and

:ll

CHAPTER XLI

IT WAS MICHAELMAS DAY

bein^n'^J/ T 7 ^ t° 'i^« that life seemed on endless
peing and n tireless happy doini?— a uift «f iJiJ

with ehi„i„g eye. and a timid S *" ''"''""*

Ah, there y'ore, darlin'!" said M™ Fl,,,,^ .. a j

how's the dear father to^ay ? " •^'^""- -^""^

"Ah "ttT.*'?"* *" ■"""•> ''"""k yo""

266

THE RIGHT OF WAY

i^ \^ ^^ *r cucumbers. Seventeen years in this
country^Maiy' says he. ' an' nivir in the pinitintiary
yet. rhere y are. Ah, the birds do be singin' to-day !
Tis good ;^s good, darlinM You'll not mind Mary
Flynn calhn you darlm', though y'are postmistress, an'
a be more than that-more than that wan day— or Marv
* lynn s a fool. Aye, more than that y'll be, darlin', and
y re eyes like purty brown topazzes and y're cheeks
like roses— shnre, is there anny lether for Mary Flynn
darlm'?" she hastily added as she saw thele^eu;
HsteSnI. '" "'"y- "' ^ evidently ^been

.^^•^■•^1^"\}'T '''',** y''^ °"1'1 ^o°l °f a cook was
sayin, she added to the Seigneur, as Rosalie shook her
head and answered: " No letters, madame-dear." Rosalie
timidly added the dear, for there was something so great-
hearted ,n Mrs. Flynn that she longed to clasp her round
the neck longed as she had never done in her life to lav
her head upon some motherly breast and pour out her
hewt. But It was not to be now. Secrecy was her duty

"Can't ye speak U, y're ould fool of a cook, sir?"
Mrs Flynn said again, as the Seigneur made way for
her to leave the shop. •'

" ffow did you guess f " he said to her in a low voice
nis sharp eyes peenng into hers.

" By the looks in y're face these past weeks, and the
look m hers, she whispered, and went on her way
rejoicing. ^

"I'll wind thim both round me finger like a wisp o'
stra>y she said going up the road with a light step
despite her weight, till she was stopped by the malicious
grocer-man of the village, whose tongue had been waggiuK
tor hours upon an unwholesome theme

Meanwhile in the post-oifice, the Seigneur and RosaUe
were lace to toce.

" It is Michaelmas day," he said. " May I speak with
you, mademoiselle ? " j ^ u

She looked at the clock. It was on the stroke of noon.
Ihe shop always closed from twelve till half-past twelve

IT WAS MICHAELMAS DAY 267

'• Will yon step into the parlour, monsieur ? " she said
and coming round the counter, looked the shop-door

nariourXfTv ^^■'"^ '""'^"''^' """^ ««'«''«d 'he little
par our shyly YetTier eyes met the Seigneur's bravely.

chair -It,! r'r " ^*.-" ^^ ^"id? offering her^a
tT;.f ^l °'f^,^ streaming in the window made a
inthe sfi"^^ ^^ ^"^'^ *''*°'' ^^'^^ 'hey were

ak>'n?" ^"^^ "° ''°"^' ^""^ '"-^"y he is wheeling himself

th '1?* '" stronger, then-that's good. Is there any fear
that he must go to the hospital again » "

She inclined her head " The doctor says he may have
to go auy moment. It may be his one chance The
Cur^ IS very kind, and says that, with your permission
his sister will keep the office here, if-if needed - '

The Seigneur nodded briskly. " Of course, of course.

?,sSre's:""°* *'°"^'* ''"'' ''^ "•■^''* «^-- »°'her

Her face clouded a little; I-,-,- heart beat hard. She
knew what was coming. She dreaded it, but it was
better to have it over now.

"We could not live without it," she said helplessly.

What we have saved is not enough. The little mv
mother had must pay for the visits to the hospital. I
have kept it for that. You see, I need the place here."

But yon have thought, just the same. Do you not
know the day ? " he asked meaningly. ^

She was silent.

" ^ have come to ask you to marry me— this is Michael-
mas day, Kosalie.
She did not speak. He had hopes from her silence.
It anything happened to your father, you could not
ive here alone-but a young girl ! Your father may be
m the hospital for a long time. You cannot afford that
It 1 were to offer you money, you would refuse. If von
marry me, all that I have is yours to dispose of at your
will : to make others happy, to take you now and then from
this narrow place, to see what's going on in the world."
1 am happy here," she said falteringly.

268

THE BIGHT OF WAY

• if i

proudly, and as a matter of fact. " But, for the sXof

It helps you to understand Chaudifere better. I ask you
to be my wife, Rosalie." '

She shook her head sorrowfully

I am^rirr^i^^™' '' T °°* ''?<»"«« I am old, not because

She smiled at him now. " That h true," she said,
hononr T I^? '""°° '^° y?" ^^^« ' ^one, none. 'Pon

mSe Rrj°'^-r f/"'*? °^ '"^™'«« l^''''"^^ it's
marnage. By my life, there's naught to dread A
httb giving here and taking there, and it's easy And

wittZ"'° r '^'V^^"*'' «^^- *° " '"''°- it <«>" be done
without fear or trembling. Even the Cur^ would tell you

hJi'A^' ^ ^°ow, I know," she said, in a voice half painful
half joyous. ■■ I know that it is so. Bat, oh. dear mon-
Bieur. I cannot marry you-never— never "
hJ^^ f^ °° t"'*''^'^- " ^ ''^°* *° ^ake life easy and

irz u;T;ouii^-'?' ^"^^ "^'•' ^-^ ^° - ^'•^ ^-^'^

fnJl^^"" ** ^.u^' ^ 7'" *>"■" *o you-ah, yes, I would
turn to you without fear, dear monsieur," she said and
herheartached within her, for a premonition of sorZ

^k« IT^.k"" r\^"'"^ ^'' «>■««' ""d made her he^rt
hke lead withm her breast " I know how true a gentle-
man you are," she added. "I could give you ^verv-

ml *"^ t*"^ beginning and the end." ^

wi^^ T*^""* "^ *''^ .revealing hour of her life, its
wonder, its agony, its irrevocability, was upon her. It
was giving new meanings to existence-primitive woman
child of nature as she was. All morning she had
longed to go out into the woods and bury heraelf among

atonni^'cjfT'i.^^^ryc?'?^ ^^«"^ ""^ possessing her
at once. She looked the Seigneur in the eyes with con-
Burning earnestness.

IT WAS MICHAELMAS DAY 269

T r^^nf 1 °'d-->ndeed, I am very old. It h l«cause

l^ anJT ^T ""^ "'^" "^^ '°^« y°» » tl-^ one great
S o^ thaf'' wT' T'^ '-ithoutlove. My heart is
nxed on that When I marry, it will be when I love a

poor that each meal is a miracle, it will make no difference

-y^n wM are so wise and learned, and know the world

"Wise and learned!" he said, a little ronghly for his
voice was husky with emotion. '■ Ton honour, I thTnk I
am a fool! A bewildered fool, that knows ni more of

nZri T P^ '^^ ^°°'^ S*"=''"t- F»ith, a hundred
times less! For Mary Flynn's got an eye to see ftnd
without telling, she kn'ew Had a^mind sefon yoT' But
fw'l. J'"" *?"#•'* """^ *•""" tl-^*' f°^ «he /as an idea
it St Z mT" ' "* °" ^°"^ °°«' «°^^'- She thought

hJit Jr*°v^"°. ?°.^^"y ™»^ "^ * ""»"." she replied,
half smiling, but with her eyes turned to the stre- A

SoVeS;h7" ^''""^ '" '""* °' *'' '""^"-^'•^

"There is some one else— that is it, Bosalie. There is

some one else Yon shall tell me who it is. Yon shall— -'•

.1,-SV PP /A""^' ^°'" ^^"'^ "^"^ ^ 'o"'J knocking at the
shop-door, and the voice of M. Evanturel calling •

niyS---''"'''^' ^"^'"■^' Ah. come qJckly-ah,

fl.J^Ji^°"* "J'^^ "K*^? Seigneur. Kosalie rushed into
the shop and opened the front door. Her father was
deathly pale, and was trembling violently

"Rosalie, my bird," he cried indignantly, "they're
saying yon stole the cross from the church door "
™f^ T "°7, ''heeled inside the shop, and people
gathered round, lookmg at him and Rosalie; some covertly
some as fnends, some in a half-frightened way, as though
strange things were about to happln. ^

, "..^hure, 'tis a lie, or me name's not Mary Flynn— the
darlm' ! said the Seigneur's cook, with blazing C

270

THE RIGHT OF WAT

mo makes th,s charge ? " roared an angry voice,
room beside he shop, and at the sound of the shar^ voice

Ktrgt/'" *^'' '"' """ "'"' ■" ^- -*^ »»-^-n

told W'll^y *' ^°^'' *° "'"'"' P''"'^''* Dubois had

old^stdMaWnn'"' '"''"^' '"'°" y'"" » ^"^
Rosalie was very pale.

of W £r'" '""' '*""''^ ^ *^" ''"^ ^y *»•« strangeness

"Clear the room," he said to Filion Lacasse. who was
now a constable of the parish. ""-»ase, wno was

t»,rf°'Z^V'." ^f^ * ^"'"^ ** *•>« doorway. "What is
the trouble ?" It was the Cure, who had already hearf
rumours of the scandal, and had come at once to Kie

ni^-n.fi • r^^ Xl'^'^J^^ a piece of scarlet bnnTing
?a3ff'£?o -^V "' ^'^ """•' ^^^ ''-' "^^

that Rosahe should answer this char^ If she X her
ZlrthSe-kfL:^" '-' "=— "^°" -^^--
deny U/'*^"^ '*'" ^"^ *^^ ^°°'"' =*''''''»™ly. " She can't
"Answer, Rosalie," said the Curd firmly
"Excuse me ; I will ai,»^er," said a voice at the door,
fl, wu'"',°^ Chandi^re made his way into the shop
through the fast-gathering crowd ^'

CHAPTER XLII

A TRIAL AND A VERDICT

KosaliedownSehrm " ^ench, and gently drew

^;l_^^mll „ake this a court," said he. "Advance.

The grocer came forward smugly
mademo7sene?'°™''"° '° ''"' "■^''- t"^- "^arge against
saiJTsT/tSJLMth'e r *^?* P-l«"e Dubois had

and what he wished was law ° '^^ ^^^ '

272

THE RIGHT OF WAY

„"Ah, honld yr head lu i • ^™<*»"-

" Silence ! " said^e ^t^ ^^* "'*° l""" hair.

, " It is not a quest on nfti ^^^ ** ^'""■'ej-

back," he 8aid.'".1 °ri ^SST".^"^ ?"* *'"« ''^«"'

a'^ay. .e it not ? Suppose it^wwiot . .W* **^'^ '^' '^^

answered Charley. '"^2 T^r '"'"'"'■'^ J""* «;'«^/i','"
teach, monsieur.-'^ *' ^ '^''«''«' " a principle yon

taklf roS^rdX £r °- "'^ ^^-^''^ 'o have
haps Monsieur was sec«tfvC'«^''''T«'y- "P^r!
added. It vexed him thi? ru'"^ ^^"^ "^'h it?" La

between Rosalie and iS^^s man*"' ^''""'"^ »- » "ecret

-enly.^t*;itSerre°y ff t"'" '' •— ^
narrow braina " MademoTselle did » u* "/""^""^ *beir
nailed that cross on thrchurch d.n ■ "^^ "^^^ «be
dead man rest easier in his S'^"^°'"'° make a

Ro«"rM'","P°'»*becror"

•Kosalie looked at rv,«^i^ •

his meaning P^se^ ly^ftwhat^rTJ ^* '^^ --
^8em to have been done for The de^ f '^ ""^ '""''
heart beat hot with indig^It on ft ^'°'' °°'y- Her
J- might, c^ her love glTdtZi" th^hiSS S tt

M^S:^TXX'^^ r^iJ' ""'^'^ -"^- "Wii.
that he diS.» '"' """^ '"'"'^^l *«ke the cross, but I know

" Louis Trudel ! Lonis 1V„-1 1 1 .. •
gneur anxiously. <■ T^^dS this metT"' *^' «"■

it buck on

»r!" said
lir.
ooked in-

the cross
the cross
pose that
ins act —

" It was

heavenly
penly,'"
pie yon

to have

"Per-
■ V U

secret

swered
s their
an she
lake a

B saw
must
Her
i she
f the

Will

enow

Sei-

A TRIAL AND A VKBDICT 273

Tng tfcl ^^ "" '=°°^'"*^ ^^'^ Charley wm aped.-

'- Y«t r„'^„''u!^'^'" "'"""''^^ Charley grimly.
e«,l^ n ^^ ''f *?'K ""^ '°*'' •"'" confidence. I will

pel^Ty"'* '^^^ ""y*^*^ °* *^''*>" «^d the Seigneur

whKitl^^Sel.tt?^:il, "feSatlLr *•"*•
W Tmdel woald have killed tnTe'S KitS C

sto^^!'' °* excitement went out from those who
.*.' p"* V y°"' ^°'.*''^ ^ " ""ked the Cnr^.

again^rM^siZr th'atTay Yn^^^e^stp tVaS ^'^
nervous-I thought he wJs Id Sofwafhei Vat
mght I saw a light in the tailor-shop lale. I thoit
of fhTf)?-./ ^'"*T °^" """^ P«P«d th'o4h the c3s
nfult, "'"iu ^ '^'^ °^^ ^"« at the fire TritHhe
bto tL'^' '^-^-h"*-, I knew he meant trouble 1 ran
mto the house. Old Margot was beside he«elf \^th

274

THB RIGHT OF WAY

feu — (be had leen also. I ran throngh the hall and law
old Looii apitain with the burning crow. I foUoired.
He went into Monsieur's room. When I got to the
door" — she paused, trembling, for she saw Charley's
reproving eyes upon her — " I saw him with Ihe orota —
with the cross raised over Monsieur."

" He meant to threaten me," interposed Charley quickly.

"We will have the truth!" said the Seigneur, in a
husky voice.

"'Phe cross came down on Monsieur's bare breast."

The grocer laughed vindictively.

" Silence ! " growled the Seigneur.

" Silence ! " said Filion Lacasse, and dropped his hand
on the grocer's shoulder. " I'll baste you with a stirrup-
strap."

"The rest is well known," quickly interposed Charley.
"The poor man was mad. He thought it a pions act to
mark an infidel with the cross."

Evenr eye was fixed upon him. The Cur^ remembered
Louis Trndel's last words, " Look — look — I gave — him —
the sign— of. . . ! " Old Margot's words also Icept ringing
in his ears. He turned to the Seigneur.

" Monsieur," said he, " we have heard the truth. That
act of Louis Trudel was cruel and murderous. May God
forgive him ! I will not say that mademoiselle did well
in keeping silent "

" God bless the darlin' !" cried Mrs. Flynn.

" — but I will say that she meant to do a kind act for
a man's mortal memory — perhaps at the expense of his
soul."

" For Monsieur to take his injury in silence, to keep it
secret, was kind," said the Seigneur. " It is what our
Cur^ here might call bearing his cross manfully."

" Seigneur," said the Cur^ reproachfully, " Seigneur,
it is no subject for jest."

" Cur^, our tailor here has treated it as a jest."

" Let him show his breast, if it's true," said the grocer,
who, beneath his smirking, was a malignant soul.

The Curd turned on him sharply. Seldom had any
one seen the Curd roused.

A TRIAL AND A VBBDICT 276

o^ ZiTb.^glw""'"- ■{« J"' i»«

^Thejeigneor drove the crowd f«„, the shop, and shut

haS';o'';tdr'whe?f '^- " ^i^^^^"'-" ^"'-^ •>•'. -i
olrd.^'--'^-1-^^^^ ^i£

nnd^£,!:/rthTloS'arc£,'"l'''\««'^''--
Bcar like a red cross^onhTs breast ''^' *''°"»''* "^ ^''^
It touched Charley with a kinil r.t ,„ u-

CHAPTER XLIII

JO FORTUOAIS TELLS A STORY

WaLKINO sIowIt, bead bent, eyea anteeing, Charley wm
on hib way to Vadrome Mountain, with the knowledge
that Jo I'ortugaia had returned.

The hunger for companionship waa on him : to touch
some mind that could understand the deep loneliness
which had settl'^d on him since that scene in the post-
offioe. It was the loneliness of a new and great separa-
tion. Ue had wakened to it to-day.

Once before, in the hut on Vadrome Mountain, he had
wakened from a grave, had been bom again. Last nipht
had come still another birth, had come, as with Hosaiie
herself, knowledge, revelation, understanding. To Rosalie
the new vision Iiad come with a vague pain of heart, with-
out shame, and with a wonderful happiness. Pain, shame,
knowledge, and a happiness that passed suddenly into a
despairing sorrow, had come to him.

In finding love he had found conscience ind in finding
conscience he was on his way to another great discovery.

Looking to where Jo Portugais' house was set among
the pines, Charley remembered the day — he saw the scene
in his mind's eye — when Rosalie entered with the letter
addressed " To the sick man at the house of Jo Portugais, at
Vadrome Mountain," and he saw again her clear, unsoiled
soul in the deep inquiring eyes.

" If you but knew " — he turned and looked down at the
village below — "if yon but knew ! " he said, as though to
all the world. " I have the sign from heaven — I know it
now. To-day I wake to know what life means, and I see
— Rosalie ! I know now — but how ? In taking all she
had to give. What does she get in return? Nothing

JO PORTlrOAM TELLS A STORY 277

bad them to irive I LT ! "?' *''«'"i' "ve., if I

-y.. Thus f.r aJVZtt^^yZl' " •' '"'" ""'
never-never!' Yeit^nilt t Jl ij l*' "g^'n-never—
or vanished, without SLrtT'f ^"""J'^' ''"'-'ied
mourned and broken W heart" n"/' ^^^ T''''^ '"'^«
and I ,hoald have been o„W . """^"^ '* "Wi";

of tendemeii. Then Z I^ I memory-of niyTtery
and no «tin^ from C "^ '''"' "P"''' '■''^« ""arriea

She would ia^ehrhapLrann'*^ -^r '^''""'"^^
despair. . . . To-d«v it "f^ m .' ■ ^ ""*''«'• "hame nor

too7eepJa„! toTdein s^ '"'"• ^^ ^ave drunk

man, forVosta w U not Ife J "1,^°°°' o"""-'^ ""other

"ay not Be another'a sL / ^1°^' ""'' "•"»* " «ine

on<4 wa, min mine «?m hT •' '""'7 /»«' ^o' what

Kathleen has tYe n>ht of wav n^f p" '^"4? "'""^o".
I d««, not wrong vou fnrthTr^' Y«< ?"'"''"• '^^' K""""-
thing, are. if thTmiS be- I^ L"""l. ' "'^' *^«" "^
nised? I an, little like m^nM f i» 'i*" ''^^ nnreoop-
I riiould grow less and le7likerhL'r1=rT """' ^^^
no. it is not possible"" '"'*'J' ^**"^^'^ • • • But,

in E;S' ""''* '° "'" thoughts, and his lips tightened

IJo you call me an impasse, M'sieu' ? "
Charley grasped Portugais' hand.

ita's'atWitd^^^^^

of the events of the mornrg *•"" ^''"'^^ *°W ''™

his'br:Lt°°" °' ''" ""-k-here?" he asked, touching

Jo nodded. " I saw, when yon were ill."
ret yon never asked ! "

278

THE p:ght of way

»M''

"I studied it out — I knew old Louis Trudel. Also, I
saw ma'm'selle nail the cross to the church door. Two and
two together in my mind did it. I didn't think Paulette
Dubois would tell. I warned her."

"She quarrelled with mademoiselle. It was revenge.
She might have been 'ess vindictive. She had had gwA
luck herself lately."

"What good luck had she, M'sieu' ? "

Charley told Jo the story of the Notary, the woman,
and the child.

Jo made no comment. They relapsed into silence.
Arriving at the house, they entered. Jo lighted his pipe,
and smoked steadily for a time without speaking. Buried
in thought, Charley stood in the doorway looking down at
the village. At last he turned.

" Where have yon been these weeks past, Jo ? "

" To Quebec first, M'sien'."

Charley looked curiously at Jo, for there was meaning
in his tone. " And where last ? "

" To Montreal."

Charley's face became paler, his hands suddenly
clenched, for he read the look in Jo's eyes. He knew
that Jo had been looking at people and places once so
familiar ; that he had seen — Kathleen.

" Go on. Tell me all," he said heavily.

Portngais spoke in English. The foreign language
seemed to make the troth less naked and staring to
himself. He had a hard story to tell.

"It is not to say why I go to Montreal," he began.
" But I go. I have my ears open ; my eyes, she is not
close. No one knows me — I am no account of. Every
one is forgot the man, Joseph Nadeau, who was try for
his life. Perhaps it is every one is forget the lawyer who
save his neck — perhaps ? So I stand by the street-side.
I say to a man as I look up at sign-boards, ' Where is
that writing " M'sieu' Charles Steele," and all the res' ? '
' He is dead long ago,' say the man to me. ' A go jd
thing too, for he was the very devil.' ' I not nnderstan','
I say. ' I tink that M'sieu' Steele is a dam smart man
back time.' ' He was the smartes' man in the country,

JO PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY 279

in™.,^'''"*^*-®*'*'^ *''■' '^^="' ^y- 'He bamboozle the
J°7 n^ety time, i ? cut up bas 'hongh.' "

Charley raised hi hand with a nervous ffesture of
misery and impatiei ?e

'"Where have you bw.„' ■^^r.t man say— 'where have

£r"Iit",!^""°i*^^"°'^''"°*CharI5si!
Aemf In the backwoods,' I say. 'What brine von
here now V he ask. ' I have a cL,' I say. • wlat U

S?^!?^'"?"' J '''^i '^''**'« *•>« *l'i°B fo' Charley

Can' %..^ W- «^" r"" S^**"* °'^° t° '^"t things out
Cant fool Charley Steele, we use to say here. But he
die a bad death.' 'What was the matter with him"'

after a gir at C6 e Dorion, and the river-drivei do for

anv c^r °'^''*- ^^'1 '^^ '' ^«« •^^'>^'' b-t " tberl
any green on my eye ? But he die trump-j„s' like him !

fear of God ? I ask. ' He was hinfidel,' he say • That
Th ^^'""a t ?' "''' "°°'^*''i »» '°"°'- He rob the
f^tlw''"'* i'""'^'^ ■ '^ '^'"^ •>« t°° ««<»rt for that ! •
1 speak quick I suppose it was the drink,' he sav. ' He
loose his grip. 'He was a smart man, an' he would make

back^' 'Z- ^" 7'"\^'^^ ■ ' ^ ^'''"^''- • " •■« <^^^
back! rhe man laugh queer at that -If he come

back, there would be hell.' ' How is that ? ' I say ' S,ok
across the street,' he whisper. ' That was his wUe i ' "

Charley choked back a cry in his throat. So had
no intention of cutting his story short. He had an end
in view.

" I look across the street. There she is-' Ah, that is
afinewoman to see! I have never seen but one mo.!e
finer to look a^-here in Cbaudiere.' The man say,
She marry first for money, and break her heart; now
she marry for love If Beauty Steele come back^-eM
sjri! that would be a mess. But he is at the bottom
ot the bt. Lawrence— the courts say so, and the Church

bJ« f ^r1 ^^°'*' ?°°'* '"'"^ f'ere.' 'But if that
Beauty Steele come back alive, what would happen
It? I speak. 'His wife is marry, blockheadl' he m^

280

THE RIGHT OF WAY

'But the woman ie his,' I hanswer. 'Do yon think
she would go back to a thief she never love from
the man she love?' he speak back. 'She is not
many to the other man,' I say, ' if Beauty Steele
is . . .' ' He is dead as a door!" he swear. 'You see
that ? ' he go on, nodding down the street. ' Well
that is Billy.' ' Who is Billy ? ' I ask. ' The brother of
her,' he say. 'Charley, he spoil Billy. Billy, he has not
been the same since Charley's death — he is so ashame of
Charley. When he get drunk he talk of nothing else.
We all remember that Charley spoil him, and that make
us sorry for him.' ' Excuse me,' I say. ' I think that
Billy is a dam smart man. He is smart as Charley
Steele.' ' Charley was the smartes' man in the country,'
he say agaia ' I've got his practice now, but this town
will never be the same without him. Thief or no thief,
I wish he is alive here. By the Lord, I'd get drunk with
him ! ' He was all right, that man," Jo added finally.

Charley's agitation was hidden. His eyes were fixed
on Jo intently. " That was Larry Eockwell. Go on," he
said, in a hard metallic voice.

" I see — her, the next night again. It is in the white
stone house on the hill. All the windows are open, an' I
can hear her to sing. I not know that song. It begin
' Oft in the stilly night '—like that."
_ Charley^ stiffened. It was the song Kathleen sang for
him the night they became engaged.

" It is a good voice — that. I see her face, for there is
a candle on the piano. I come close and closter to the
house. There is big maple-trees, — I am well hid. A
man is beside her. He lean hover her an' put his hand
on her shoulder. 'Sing it again, Kafleen,' he say.
' I cannot to get enough.' "
" Stop ! " said Charley, in a strained, harsh voice.
"Not yet, M'sieu'," said Portugais. "It is good for
yon to hear what I say."

" ' Come, Kat'leen ! ' the man say, an' he blow hont the
candle. I hear them walk away, an' the door shut behin'
them. Then I hear anudder voice — ah, that is a baby-
very young baby ! "

30 PORTUGAIS TELLS A STORY 281

wo3rlS"' ^* '° ^'^ ''''' "N"' -»*'•-

"Yes yes, but there is one word more, M'sien'" said
Jo, standing up and facing him fi™ly. " You must ^o
back. You are not a thief. The womL is your^ Vfu
throw your life away. What is the man to you-or the
man's brat of a child? It is all waiting for^voT^ Yo^

TtT&L Jr "°* ^r '*■« ".oney,tt/at "klly^
It 18 that Billy, I know. You can forgive your wife and
take her back, or you can say to both. Go ! ' You can nut
heverything right and begin again ! " ^ *

Hn, TfV'^ words, seemed about to break from Charley's
Ups, but he conquered himself. ^

The old life had been brought back to him with painful
acuteness and vmdness. The streets of the town the
peop e in the street, Billy, the mean scoundrel, wholdd

Fa JnT T^ °-^ V^^ ^r« °^ °^^onnty. kathleen-
i ainng. The voice of the child— with her voice— was in
his ea«. A child If he had had a child, plSaps- He
stopped short in his thinking, his face all ;t^oncTfloodi„g

rdo|-:wn^;.rrxri^rd\et£

"Never again while I live, speak of this to me : of the

^I ™^nn^°^^'^ ? °^-°^ ""y**-""? «'««." ^- said
dust nf f ^.^f ""• I «"• dead and shamed. Let the
dust of forgetfulness come and cover the past. I've
begun hfe again here, and here I stay, and see it out
.1 shall work out the problem here."'^ He dropped a
hand on the other's shoulder. "Jo," said he, "we are
both shipwrecks. Let us see how long we can float."
hi- ^ T"-' "/* 1°^^^^!" ^^ Portugais, remembering

wiiJilJus."''""''' *^°- ^' "' ""^^ ""^ ^*« ^""^ F''t«
" Or God, M'sien' ? "
"God or Fate— who knows !"

■

].,.

CHAPTER XLiy

"WHO WAS KATHLEEN?"

The painlul incidents of the morning weighed heavily
upon Kosalie, and she was glad when Madame Dugal
came to talk with her father, who was ailing and irritable
and when Mrs. Flynn drove her away with a kiss on
either cheek, saying, " Don't come back, dailin', till there's
roses in both cheeks, foi- yer eyes are 'atin' up yer face ' "
She had seen Charley take the path to Vadrome Moun-
tain, and to the Best of the Flax-beaters she betook
herself, in the blind hope that, retummg, he might pass
that way. Under the influence of the fresh air and the
quiet of the woods her spirits rose, her pulse beat faster,
though a sense of foreboding and sorrow hovered round
her. The two-miles walk to her beloved retreat seemed a
matter of minutes only, so busy were her thoughts.

Her mind was one luxurious confusion, through which
travelled a ghostly little sprite, who kept tumbling her
thoughts about, sneering, smirking, whispering— " You
dare not go to confession— dare not go to confession.
You will never be the same again— never feel the same
again— never think the same again; your dreams are
done ! You can only love. And what will this love do
for yon ? What do you expect to happen ?— you dare not
go to confession ! "

Her reply had been the one iteration : " I love him— I
love him— I love him. We shall be together all our lives,
till we are old and grey. I shall watch him at his work
and hsten to his voice. I shall read with him and walk
with him, and I shall grow to think like him a, little— in
everything except religion. In everything except that
One day he will come to think like me — to believe in God."

' WHO WAS KATHLEEN ? "

283

In the dreamy happiness of these thoughts the colour
came to her cheeks, the roses of light gathered in her
eyes, in her tremulous ardonr she scarcely realised
how time passed, and her reverie deepened as the after-
noon shadows grew and the sun made to its covert behind

A It V, ^ "f """"^^"^ ^y » ™«n'8 ^oic« singing, inst
ZtV?. ^^^iT^r, '^^ ?*• To her this voife ?;pre-
sented the battle-call, the home-call, the life-call of the
universe Tiie song it sang was known to her. It was
as old as Rizzio. It had come from old France with Marv
had been merged into English words and English music!
and had voyaged to New France. There it had been

forMts • "^ '° ^*'**' °" "'^^ "^®"' *°*^ ™ ^®®P

" What is not mine I may not hold,
(Ah, hark the hunter'i horn .'),
And what is thine may not be sold,
(My love comes thrmgh the cam.') ;
And none shall buy
And none shall sell
What Love works well ! "

In lie walk back from Vadrome Mountain, a change—
a fleeting change— had passed over Charley's mind and
mood. The quiet of the woodland, the song of the birds,
the tumbhng brook, the smell of the rich earth, replenish-
ing its strength from the gorgeous falling leaves, had
Mothed him. Thoughts of Rosalie took a new form
Uer image possessed him, excluding the future, the
penis that surrounded them. He had gone throueh
so much within the past twenty-four hours that the
opacity for Buffering had almost exhausted itself, and in
the reaction endearing thoughts of Rosalie had dominion
over him. It was the reassertion of primitive man, the
demands of the first element. The great problem was
BtUl in the background. The picture of Kathleen and
the other man was pushed into the distance ; thoughts of
billy and his infamy were thrust under foot-how futile
to think of them ! There was Rosalie to be thouirht of
the to-day and to-morrow of the new life
RciaUe was of to^ay. How strong and womanly

284

THE RIGHT OF WAY

she had been this morning, the girl whose life had been
bounded by this Chaudiire, with a metropolitan convent
and hospital as her only glimpses of the busy world,
bhe would fit m anywhere-in the highest places, with
her grace, and her nobleness of mind, primitive, passionate,
and beautiful. There came upon him again the feeling
of the evenmg before, when he saw her standing in hS
doorway the night about them, jealous affection, undying
love, in her eyes. It quickened his steps imperceptibly.
He passed a stream, and glanced down into a dark pool
mvoluntanly. It reflected himself clearly. He stopped
short. "Is this you, Beauty Steele?" he said, and he
caught his brown beard in his hand. " Beauty Steele had
brains and no heart. You have heart, and your wits
have gone wool-gathering. No matter !

' What is not mine I may not hold,
(Ah, hark the huntet'a horn I) ' "

he sa^g, and came quickly along the stream where the
Hax-beaters worked in harvest-time, then up the hill
then — Bosalie ! '

She started to her feet. " I knew yon would come— I
knew you would ! " she said.

" Yon have been waiting here for we ? " he said breath-
less, taking her hand.

"I felt you would come. I made you," she added
smiling and, eagerly answering the look in his eyes
threw her an 3 round his neck. In that moment's
•'°^i.°j- '^alisation of their fate came upon him

with dire force, and a bitter protest went up from his
heart, that he and she should be sacrificed.

Yet the impasse was there, and what could remove it ?
what clear the way ?

He looked down at the girl whose head was buried in
tappy peace on his shoulder. She clung to him, as though
m him was everlasting protection from the sprite that
kept whispenng, "You dare not go to confession— your
dreams are done— yon can only love." But she had no
fear now.

As he looked down at her a swift change passed over

'WHO WAS KATHLEEN?'

285

i^j*?l^' *'°"** *'"■ *•»* ^"' *""e since lie was a little
child, his eyes filled with tears. He hastily brnshed them
away, and drew her down on the seat beside him. He was
wondering how he should tell her that they must not
meet like this, thsf they must be apart. No matter what
had happened, no matter what love there was, it was
better that they should die— that he should die— than
that they should meet lilce this. There was only one
end to secret meetings, and discovery was inevitable.
Ihen, with discovery, shame to her. For he must either
marry her— how could he marry her ?— or die. For him
to die would but increase her misery. The time had
passed when it could be of any use. It passed that day
in the hut on Vadrome Mountain when she said that if
he died she would die with him—" Where you are gown
you mil be alone. There will be no one to care for you
no one but me." Last night it passed forever. '

She had put her life into his hands; henceforth,
there could never be a question of giving or taking of
withdrawing or advancing, for all was irrevocable, sealed
with the great seal. Yet she must be saved. But how ?
She suddenly looked up at him. " I can ask you any-
thing I want now, can't I ? " she said.
" Anything, Rosalie."

" Tou know that when I ask, it is because I want
to know what you know, so that I may feel as yon feel
Yon know that, don't you ? "

"I know it when you tell me, wonderful Rosalie."
What a revelation it was, this transmuting power, which
conld change mortal dross into the coin of immortal wealth '
"I want to ask you," she said, " who was Kathleen ? " '
His blood seemed to go cold in his veins, and he sat
without answering, shocked and dismayed. What could
she know of Kathleen ?

"Can't you tell me ? " she asked anxiously yet fearfully
He looked so strange that she thought she had offended
him. " Please don't mind telling me. I should under-
stand everything— everything. Was it some one you
loved— once ? " It was hard for her to say it, but she
said It bravely.

286

THE RIOHT OF WAY

" No. I never loved any one in all the world, Rotalie —
not till I loved yon."

She gave a happy nsh. " Oh, it is wonderful ! " (ib«
said. " It is wonderful and gooid ! Did yon — ("d you
love me from the very first ? "

" I think I did, though I didn't know it from the very
first," he answered slowly. His heart beat hard, for he
could not guess how she should know of Kathleen. It was
absurdly impossible that she should know.

" But many have loved you ! " she said proudly.

"They have not shown it," he answered grimly; then
added quickly, and with aching anxiety, " When did you
hear of — of Kathleen ?"

" Oh, you are such a blind huntsman ! " she laughed.
_" Don't you know where my little fox was hiding ? Why,
in the shop, when you held the note-paper up to the light,
and looked startled, and bought all the paper we had that
was water-marked Kathleen. Do you think that was clever
of me ? I don't."

" I think it was very clever," he said.

"Then she — Kathleen — doesn't really matter ? " she
said eagerly. " Of course she can't, if you don't love her.
But does she love you ? Did she ever love you ? "

" Never in her life."

" So of course it doesn't matter," she rejoined.
"Hush!" she added rapidly. "I see some one coming
in the trees yonder. It may be some one for me.
Father knows I come here sometimes. Go quickly and
hide behind the rocks, please. I'll stay and see who it is.
Please go— dearest."

He kissed her, and, keeping out of sight, got to a place
of safety a few hundred feet away.

He saw the new-comer run to Rosalie, speak to her,
saw Bosalie half turn in his own direction, then go
hastily down the hillside with the messenger.

" It is her father ! " he said, and followed at a distance.
At the village he learned that M. Evantnrel had had
another seizure.

CHAPTER XLV

SIX MONTHS GO BY

Spring again— budding trees and flowing gap; the earth
banks removed from the houses, and outside windows
discarded; the ice tumbling and crunching in the river-

SghtTrApS"" ""'"* '■• '""^ *° ""' '"''^'^^
The winter had been long and hard. Never had there
been severer frost or deeper snow, and seldom had biir
game been so plentiful. In the suug warm stables the
cattle munched and chewed the cud ; the idle, lonir-haired
horses grew as spirited in the keen air as in summer thev
were sluggish with hard work ; and the farm-hands were
abroad in the dark of the early mornings with lanterns,
to feed the stock and take them out to water, sink-
ing cheerfully All morning spread the clamou.- of the
flail and the fanning-mill, the swish of the knife throuRh
the turnips and the beets, and the sound of the
saw and the axe, as the youngest man of liie family
muffled to the nose, sawed the wood into lengths or split

Night brought the cutting and stringing of apples, the
shelling of the Indian com, the making of rag carpets.
On Saturday came the going to market with prain, or
pork, or beef, or fowls frozen Uke stones ; the gossip in
the market-place. Then again sounded jingling sleigh-
bells as, on the return road, the habitant made for home
a glass of white whisky inside him, and black -eyed
children in the doorway, swarming like bees at the month
of a hive.

This particular winter in Chaudifere had been full of
excitement and expectation. At Easter-time there was

»S7

288

THE RIOUT OF WAY

to be the great Passion Play, after the manner of that
known a« The Passior Play of Ober-Ammergau. Not
one in a hundred kabUants had ever heard of Ober-
Ammergau, but they had all phared in picturesque
processions of the Stations of the Crciss to some calvaire;
and many had taken part in dramatic scenes arranged
from the life of Christ. Drama of a crude kind was deep
in them ; it showed in gesture, speech, and temperament.

In all the preparat'ons Maximilian Cour was a con-
spicuous and useful official. Gifted with the dramatic
temperament to a degree rare in so humble a man, he
it was who really educated the people of Chaudi^re in tlie
details of the Passion Play to be produced by the good
Catholics of the parish and the Indians of the reservation.
He hail gone to the Curd every doy, and the CuriS had
talked with him, and then had sent him to the tailor,
who had, during the past six months, withdrawn more
and more from the 'iff a jout him, practically living with
shut door. No one ventured in unless on business, or
were in need, or wished advice. These he never turned
empty away.

Besides Portugais, Maximilian Cour was the one man
received constantly by the tailor. With patience and
insight Charley taught the baker, by drawings and care-
ful explanations, the outlines of the representation, ond
the baker grew proud of the association, though Charley's
face used to haunt him in his sleep. Excitable, eager,
there was an elemental adaptability in the baker, as easily
leading to Avemus as to Elysium. This appealed to
Charley, realising, as he did, that Maximilian Cour was a
reputable citizen hy mere accident. The baker's life had
run in a sentimental groove of religions duty ; that same
sentimentality would, in other circumstances, have forced
him with equal ardour into the broad primrose path.

In the evening hours and on Sunday Charley had
worked at his drawings for the scenery and costumes of
the Play, and completed his translation of the German
text, but there had been days when he could not put
pen to paper. Life to him now was one aching emptiness
—since that day at the Eost of the Flai-beaters Bosalie

BIX MONTHS ao BY

289

hi. life. TheSTJcr: Z Z teVoW°"?'°«f
that hour when he tavr her in thl « • ,^ '"" "'"'*

her father, movino^ awrv in *h .mi ^"K"^-"-" «>»ch with
appeal in her ev!. %L I,''l'" "','"""" "'■•' » Pi'^oo"

forhiW«;if,forhe"he wJ S "l* was wholly reokle,,
thing else to do To saTher if h "°'^T''}«--« *»« "<>-
fromhin,self, H he" St^Vput bLT2 1^ '"

.i.ter, wouldrteThe* Lh ';^f7e r^^^^ JJl? ^"i'-
arouse Buspicion. He could mTt !„ u I' ^ ,"'" ''°"''*
what was ripht to do To wl ''''5* 7*" ''^»* *° -J",
and his one fetteJ^entd wfthTe S : *'^ °"'^ *'°^'

is :o\Tur''bu7l'iLk of irLVl'"^ 'fr^'-' "' >•- There
The greatest prc^fof ?ove i.at Zn™n '■ -'"r ™ "''"^ "">•
you, in the hour fate wH^- o, u7 B™? «'^''' ^ ^'" «'^« '"
-we must wait, Rosalie Tin Lf -7 """■ "« ""^ "»''
if I could go to you I would CO 'ifT n"""' """ ''""^ """
I would say it. If the rivtfnf '^ ^<:r''' '"^ "> y°". Come,
pain or ^Z., I would gWe it/' ""^ ''^^ '"'"''' '"^^ ^"^ -"-y

JSsTheta5rar hL^tdL^h ' '° ""f ^^ *^''*
quickly round as though she w« ° ^^" """^ ''« *"">«d
Seside him. He thought nfh' " ^^-^ truth, standing
with an uubeaTable pa?n He fi °°°'\""'' 'y. "^nd often
pale and distressed arialwa^ hTlyesV^ t)" "'^'^ ""

^Tti*'"* 'rv¥ "^ ^i.:':enra:4y ot ; tt hir"
wrArifiT^kw^tt^r^^^^

was looking as beautiful as a picture °olV„ "^^'^

- beauty and in stature, co^et-^o4Ta LT^

ti f

SM THE RIGHT OF WAY

Wattean pictare, 1117 dear meiiienn t " he had said to the
Cor^, itandinff in the tailor'i ihop.

Replying, the Curd had said : " She ii in good handi,
with good people, recommended to me by an abb^
there; jet I am not wholly happy about her. When
her trouble comei to her " — Charley's needle slipped and
pierced his finger to the bone — " when her father goes, as
ne most, I fear, there will be no familiar face ; she will
hear no familiar voice."

" Faith, there yon are wrong, my dear Cnr^," answered
the Seigneur ; " there'll be a face yonder she likes very
well indeed, and a voice she's fond of too."

Cfaarlev's back was on them at that moment, of which
he was altLd, for his face was haggard with anxiety, and it
seemed nours before the Cure said, " Whom do you mean,
Maurice ? " and hours before the Seigneur replied, " Mrs.
Flynn, of coarse. I'm sending hei to-morrow."

Mrs. Flynn had gone, and Charley had, in one sense,
been made no happier by that, for it seemed to him that
Rosalie would rather that strangers' eyes were on her than
the inquisitively friendly eye of Mary Flynn.

Weelcs had grown into months, and no news came—
none save that which the Card let fall, or was brought
by the irresponsible Notary, who heard all gossip.
Only the Curb's scant news were authentic, however,
and Charley never saw the good priest but he had
a secret hope of hearing him say that Rosalie was
coming back. Yet when she came back, what would,
or could, he do ? There was always the crime for which
he or Billy must be punished. Concerning this crime
his heart was growing harder — for Rosalie's sake. Bnt
there was Kathleen — and Rosalie was now in the city
where she lived, and they might meet ! There was one
solution — if Kathleen should die ! It sickened him that
he could think of that with a sense of relief, almost of
hope. If Kathleen should die, then he would be
free to marry Rosalie^into what? He still could
only marry her into the peril and menace of the
law ? Again, even if Kathleen did not stand in the
way, neither the Cnr^ nor any other priest wonld many

SIX MONTHS ()0 BY 201

Wm to her without bii antecedents Winir Mrtifie.1 a

Bn^ »« i^ »♦ °^ ^f "°'*"''- Wlmt cruelty to her "

—to take the plenteous fulness of her life and ^™

Ltrhe'^eo^sTn^r ''' '^^'^ Hand.'Se tfpeC

Nothing could quench his misery. The physical nnrt

S streT, "T'^T'»»>o»t ceasing forTometllJ to 'X.''h ,

mor^wastTend all Tor ever** H«/° VT' "'f"-. °»<'«
on anJ^r r "i-^* ''^ """^ """ M. Evantnrel lingered

s/.riKr' "" "■'""■• t^-*/'SiS

♦J" *^\ •*■■'■«'■ part of the winter Jo and he had mef
hTm I'l^-" *'T.» ''««'^' »'"* "<"' J° had come ?o iX

292

THE RIGHT OF WAY

when Charley went to tell him of his parpose. Charley
had often seen Jo on hia knees of late, and be had
wondered, bnt not with the old pagan mind.

"Jo," he said, " I am going away — to Montreal."

"To Montreal!" said Jo huskily. "Yon are going
back — to stay ? "

" Not that. I am going — to see — Rosalie Evantnrel."

Jo was troubled but not dnmfonnded. It had slowly
crept into his mind that Charley loved the girl, though
he had no real ground for saspicion. His will, however,
had been so long the slave of the other man's that he
had far-off reflections of his thoughts. He made no reply
in words, but nodded his head.

" I want you to stay here, Ja If I don't come back,
and — and she does, stand by her, Jo. I can trust yon."

"You will come back, M'sieu' — but yon will come back,
then ? " Jo said heavily.

" If I can, Jo — if I can," he answered.

Long after he had gone, Jo wandered up and down
among the trees on the river-road, np which Charley had
disappeared with Jo's dogs and sled. He kept shaking
his head mournfully.

CHAPTER XLVI

THK FORGOTTEN MAN

fingered mom touched wSf m„ J , *''* *°''"- ^°^7-
scattered .ails of CsKs„ZT«*'°? •*''* ""^*^ '''^
and tower, quivered Th,T„wS "'^i;' »"^. «?'-»
waking cheerfnJlv thoiiD.J, ti, i ^. ^^^ c'ty was
pealinf bells antte^JeSVowf '"^■"^ "^* "''^ '" *e
were empty yet, save for L§ "^'™- The streets
cart of a^milLkn Hew a d t^r"' ^T' °' *''«
and a drowsy head waTtb^JtL^li " '""^"'^ °P«n«d
saw a bearde^d conn^fm^ wth^ *> "^' .»'■•• These
his little cart going Cvnnth! <."°.°* ?^ ^°«' ""^
the man had <^me^. t/dis^nct-W 'th ^' ""^ P'^°
m the east or south, no donht ^ ? *^^ mountains
and dogs, canoes, and ox™ th« ' ^"^ r''""^" '^^^ ^o^'

As the man mwed slotw t^ T ? * t^n^PortatioD.
stUl gallantly fXoflSeaCjS"?\*''««?^«t«. !>« dogs
not star, aLt hLitt^^tLZ^^^^^''"'"^' '"' -^^
His movements had intdHgence Td Li «""'*^'"«»-
an unusual fimire for . ti!! j ° freedom. He was

not wear ear-rinL or .l^r^u °' ri^^'-n-an-he dM
and he did^ot tfrn J. hi^ trit"' "^'-^ *t/ ^ver-men
he w« plainly a m™ LXTilrtnll^''^''"- ^«'

walking in familiar'^pl^s Now and th^T " *'l°"»''
ti« dogs, and once he stopned w*" ^^"^ ^^ "^^^ <»
which had a placard bellTlSresV^^^P*^ °®«''

■«» tt« Chauiiin Vallev

SOS **

! y;

204

THE RIOHT OF WAY

He looked at it meohonically, for, though he was eon*
cemed in the Passion Play and the Chandi^re Valley, it
was an abstraction to him at this moment. His mind
was absorbed by other things.

Though he looked neither to right nor to left, he was
deeply wected by all round him.

At last he came to a certain street, where he and his
dogs travelled more quickly. It opened into a square,
where bells were booming in the steeple of a churcL
Shops and offices in the street were shut, but a saloon-
door was open, and over the doorway was the legend —
Jean Jdieoeur, Licensed to sell Wine, Seer, and other
Spirituous and Fermented Liquvrs.

Nearly opposite was a lawyer's office, with a new-
painted sign. It hiid once read, in plain black letters,
Charles Steele, Barrister, etc.; now it read, in gfold letters
and many flourishes of the sign-painter's art, Mockwell
and TremUay, Barristers, Attorneys, etc.

Here the man looked up with trouble in his eyes. He
could see dimiy the desk and the window beside which he
had sat for so many years, and on the wall a map of the
city glowed with the incoming sun.

He moved on, passing the saloon with the open door.
The landlord, in his smrt sleeves, was standing in the
doorway. He nodded, then came out to the edge of the
board-walk.
" Come a long way, m'sieu' ? " he asked.
"Four days journey," answered the man gruffly
through his beard, looking the landlord in the eyes. If
this landlord, who in the past had seen him so often and
so closely, did not recognise him, surely no one else
would. It was, however, a curious recurrence of habit
that, as he looked at the landlord, he instinctively felt
for his eye-glass, which he had discarded when he left
Chaudi^re. For an instant there was an involuntary
arrest of Jean Jolicoenr's look, as though memory had
been roused, but this swiftly passed, and he said :

"Fine dogs, them! We never get that kind here-
abouts now, m'sieu*. Ever been to the city be-
fore?"

THE FORGOTTEN MAN

295

"I've never been far from home before," answered the
Forgotten Man.

" Yon'd better keep your eyes open, my friend, though
you ye got a sharp pair in your head— sharp as Beauty
Steele s almost. There's rascals in the river-side drinkintr-
plaoes that don't let the left hand know what the right

"My dogs and I never trust anybody," said the
For^tten Man, as one of the dogs snarled at the land-
lord s touch. "So I can take care of myself, even if I
haven t eyes as sharp as Beauty Steele's, whoever he is"

The landlord laughed. " Beauty's only skin-deep, they
say. Charley Steele was a lawyer; his office was over
there ! —he pointed across the street. " He w.at wrong
He come here too often— that wasn't my fault. He
had an eye like a hawk, and you couldn't read it. Now
I can read your eye like a book. There's a bit of
spring in 'em, m'sieu'. His eyes were hard winter— ice
tve feet deep and no fishing under— froze to the bed
He had a tongue like a orosscnt-saw. He's at the bottom
of the St. Lawrence, leaving a bad job behind him Have
a dnnk—Mnf" He jerked a finger backwards to the
saloon door. "It's Sunday, but stolen waters are sweet,
sure !

The Forgotten Man shook his head. "I don't drink
thank you.'

" I*'? ^° yon good. You're dead beat. You've been
travelling hard — eh ?"

"I've come a long way, and travelled all nieht."

"Going on?" ^*

" I am going back to-morrow."

" On business ? "

Charley nodded— he glanced involuntarily at the sim
across the street.

Jean Jolicoeur saw the look. "Lawyer's businesi.
p r aps ? " J -J

"A lawyer's business — yes."

"Ah, if Charley Steele was here ! "

" I have as good a lawyer as "

The landlord laughed scornfully. " They're not made.

296

THK RIGHT OF WAY

|!l [ I

He'd legislate the devil out of the Pit. Where are yon
going to stay, m'sien' ? "

"Somewhere cheap — along the river," answered the
Forgotten Man.

Jolicoeur's good-natured face became serious. "I'll
t«ll you a place — it's honest. It's the next street, a few
hundred yards down, on the left. There's a wooden fish
over the door. It's called The Black Bass — that hotel.
Say I sent you. Good luck to you, countryman ! Ah, la,
la, there's the second bell — I must be getting to Mass!"
With a nod he turned and went into the house.

The Forgotten Man passed slowly up the street, into
the side street, and followed it till he came to The Black
Bass, and turned into the small stableyard. A stableman
was stirring. He at once put his dogs into a little pen
set apart for them, saw them fed from the kitchen, and,
betaking himself to a little room behind the bar of the
hotel, ordered breakfast The place was empty, save for
the servant — the household were at Mass. He looked
round the room abstractedly. He was thinking of a
crippled man in a hospital, of a girl from a village in the
Chaudi&re Valley. He thought with a shiver of a white
house on the hill. He thought of himself as he had never
done before in his life. Passing along the street, he had
realised that he had no moral claim upon anything or
anybody within these precincts of his past life. The
place was a tomb to him.

As he sat in the little back parlour of The Black Bass,
eating his frugal breakfast of eggs and bread and milk,
the meaning of it all slowly dawned upon him. Through
his intellect he had known something of humanity, bat
he had never known men. He had thought of men in
the mass, and despised them because of their multitu-
dinous duplication, and their typical weaknesses ; but
he had never known one man or one woman from the
subtler, surer divination of the heart. His intellect had
made servants and lures of his emotions and his heart,
for even his every case in court had been won by easy
and selfish command of all those feelings in mankind
which make possible personal understanding.

THE FORGOTTEN MAST

297

foi.^ ^1 f ^ ^^ T'"?"" ,•* '^'"^ *« J^ ''i* sodden
«?.^ ' l"*^ ^T' •'*' ^^ ""* ''''"8«" off from any
claim npon his fellows-not only by his conduct, but
by his merciless inhuman intelligence working upon
^erJrS"' 'rr '"' "^f ^™- He never femem-
Mpi^ T ^'^ fy.^l' ^^.^""S *"^ O" ^'^''t day with
wol.T~i*'^ ^"^ ''^'^^'^• ^« •'i"*' complaint of a
Tad™ 5 T°"^ "'""'iy' ^y '■"^"g ""^^ried her.
c^ 'Ta^flS " °''° '* '""" °^ '""' '° **•* °"«

As he sat eating his simple meal his pulses were
beating pa, .fully. Every nerve in his body seemed W
pluck at he angry flesh. There flashed across his mind
in sympathetic sensation a picture. It was the axe-factory
on the nver, before which he used to stand as a boy, and
watch the men naked to the waist, with huge hairy arms and
«nXr,°*^ faces, toil,„g in the red glare, the trip-hammers
endlessly pounding npon the glowing metal. In old days
It had suggested pictures of gods and demi-gods toUinir
in the workshops of the primeval worid. So the whole
machinery of being seemed to be toUing in the light of
an awakened conscience, to th making of a man It
seemed to him that all his life was being crowded into
these hours. His past was here-its posing, it. folly its
pitiful nselessness, and its shame. Kathleen and Billv
were here, with all the problems that involved them
Kos^ie was here, with the great, the last problem

Nothing matters but that-but Rosalie," he said to
himself as lie turned to look out of the window at the
wrangling aogs gnawing bones. "Here she is in the

T^H f fl """t ^'^^'''T^ I feno'' that I am no more
a part of it than she is. She and Kathleen may have met
tace to face in these streets— who can tell ! The world
13 large but there's a sort of whipper-in of Fate, who

comer in the end. If they met "-he roseind walked
hastily up and down-" what then? I have a feeling
that R^alie would recognise her as plainly as though
theword XaiUeen were stitched on her breast "

There was a clock on the wall. He looked at it. " It

298

THE KIOHT OP WAY

will not be safe to go out until evening. Then I can go
to the hospital, and watch her coming out." He realized
with Batisfaction, that many people coming from Mau
must paw the inn. There 'was a chance of his seeing
Rosalie, if she had gone to early Mass. This street lay
in her way from the hospital. " One look— ah, one look !''
For this one look he had come. For this, and to secure
that which would save Rosalie from want always, if any-
thing should happen to him. This too had been greatly
on his mind. _ There was a way to give her what was his
very own, which would rob no one and serve her well
indeed.

Looking at his face in the mirror over the mantel, he
said to himself :

" I might have had ten thousand friends, yet I have
a thousand enemies, who grin at the memory of the
drunken fop down among the eels and the cat-fish.
Every chance was with me then. I come back here, and
— and Jolicoeur tells me the brutal truth. But if I had
had ambition"— a wave of the feeling of the old life

rissed over him — " if I had had ambition as I was then,
should have been a monster. It was all so paltry that,
in sheer disgust, I should have kicked every ladder down
that helped me up. I shonld have sacrificed everything
to myself."

He stopped short and stared, for, in the mirror, he
saw a girl passing through the stable-yard towards the
quarrelling dogs in the kennel. He clapped his hand
to his mouth to stop a cry. It was Rosalie.

He did not turn round but looked at her in the
mirror, as though it were the last look he might give
on earth.

He could hear her voice speaking to the dogs: "Ah,
my friends ! ah, my dears ! I know you every one. Jo
Portugais is here. I know your bark, you. Harpy, and
you. Lazybones, and you, Cloud and London ! I know you
every one. I heard you as I came from Mass, beauty
dears. Ah, yon know me, sweethearts? Ah, God bless
you for coming ! You have come to bring us home ; you
have come to fetch ns home — father and me." The

THE FORGOTTEN MAN

299

pawB of one of the dogs was on her shonlder, and V.a nose
was in her hair.

Charley heard her words, for the window was open,
V , . ^tened and watched now with an infinite
relief in his look. Her face was half tamed towards
him. It was pale— very pale and sad. It was Hosalie
as of old— thank God, as of old!— but more beauti-
ful in the touching sadness, the far-off longinir. of
her look. "

" I must go and see your master," she said to the dorn
" Down — down. Lazybones ! "

There was no time to lose— he must not meet her here.
He went into the outer hall hastily. The servant was
passing through. "If any one asks for Jo Portngais "
he said, "say that I'll be back to-morrow morning— I'm
going across the river to-day."

"Certainly, M'sien'," said the girl, and smiled because
of the piece of silver he put in her hand.

As he heard the side-door open he stepped through the
front doorway into the street, and disappeared round a
comer.

CHAPTER XLVII

ONE WAS TAKEN AND THE OTHER LEFT

h^/^^ **'?*!*??''* '""'P''^ *•«" afternoon a lighter
hewt than she had known for many a day. The siX of

l.tJ^°^^^^l^ °P i'" ^ *''" P"''*"* bVt hopeless
a cheerful word for the poor man. A settled sorrow
hnng upon her face, however, taking away its colour,
but giving It a sweet gravity which mtde her slave mor^
ITT'' T°^ doctor of the hospital, for whom, however,
she showed no more than a friendly frankness, free from
self^onsciousness. For hours she would sit in reverie

h^Tf^'i. ^^!^ * *'^**' ^'^ """Id see him sitting at
his bench bent over his work, now and again liftin|up

hLnhv, I. '°°^ ff?? *° *'"' post-office, where anothe?
Hand than hers sorted lette-^ now.

Day by day her father weakened and faded awav All

that wa^ possible to medical skill had been done. As the

money left by her mother dwindled, she had no anxiety

for she knew that the life she so tenderly cherished would

notoutl.»t the gold which lengthened out the tenuous

Cham of bemg. This last illness of her father's had bTen

M ^? u°5 u^ ^^l '"''"^' *''« "^''^ng °f her health.
Maybe it had been the saving of her soul; for at times
a ounous contempt of life came upon her^she who had
hl^^K^* ^V^''y.»d fully. There descended on h^
then the bitter conviction that never again would she see
the man she loved Then apt even Mrs. Flynn could call
back the fun o the world " to her step and her tongue

ONB WAS TAKEN AND THE OTHER LEFT 301
and her eve. At fint there had been a timid rfirinkinir
SZ „M t"-*'."'"^ her^lfwere brighter .TS

Mrs Flynn gave hopefnlneu to whatever life she
touched, and Rosalie, buoyant and hopeful enough by

of Uf'TinTn'^'t *° »''«.'T°8'^"™th «d the reUgio^
of life in the Inshwoman'g heart.

.n"ir* r°'t'' ^Jl" l"'"!' '''^fy *"'' °* »*- •^'"■'«'. tbe hither
an the swate. the hard an' the aisy, the rough an' the
.mooth. the good an' the bad," said-'ifr^. Flynn to her
this very Easter morning. " Even the avil is worth doin'

tniiWin' tl,. »„i^ .■ *■'"'•" -" ^lui iwas worth while
makin the wor d an' you, to want, an' worry, an' work,
nn'l^^'w^"'' the flowers, an' bleed o' the thorns
t J a\ *^t T' ?" 5** *^^ "^""t' ""' be lovin' all the
tis lovin all the way makes it aisier. There's mannv

An that last is spnng, an' all the birds singin' an'
shtorms now an^ thin an' siparations, an' misthSst an'
God ,n hivin bein' that aisy wid ye for bein' fools an'
children, an bnngm' ye thegither in the ind, if so be ye
do be lovin as man an' maid should love, wid all yer

that 8 the love that lasts, if it shtarte right. Shnre it
doesnt always shtart wid the sun shinin'. 'Will 've

■Then I'll come back from danaday to futch ye,'' says he

that has a head for annything but pnttaties ! There's land
free in Canaday, an' I'm goin' to make a home for ye
Ma^, ^^8 he, wavm' a piece of paper in the air. 'Ir^
ye, thin ? says I. He goes away that night, an' the next
mornm' I have a lether from him, sayin' he's shtartln'
that day for Canaday He hadn't the heart to tell me
to me face. Pwhat do I do thin? I begs borrers mi'
•tales, an' I raiched that ship wan minnit before 'she

302

THE RIOHT OF WAY

■ailed. There wm no praite aboord, but we was married
•ix weeks afther at Qnebea And thegither we lived wid
upa an' downi — bnt no npa an' downi to the love of ni
for twenty yeara, blesaed be God for all His mercies ! "

Bosalie had listened with eyes that hnngrily watched
every expression, ears that weighed eagerly every inflec-
tion ; for she was hearing the story of another's love, and
it did not seem strange to her that a woman, old, red-
faced, and fat, should bis telling it.

Yet there were times when she wept till she was ex-
hansted; when all her girlhood was drowned in the
overflow of her eyes ; when there was a sense of irrevo-
cable loss upon her. Then it was, in her fear of sonl and
pitiful loneliness, that her lover — the man she would have
died for— seemed to have deserted her. Then it was that
a sudden hatred against him rose np in her — to be swept
away as swiftly as it came by the memory of his broken
tale of love, his passionate words, " I have never loved
any one bnt you in all my life, Rosalie." And also, there
was that letter from Chandi&re, which said that in the
hour when the greatest proof of his love must be given
he would give it. Reading the letter again, hatred, donbt,
even sorrow, passed from her, and her imagination pic-
tured the hour when, disguise and secrecy ended, he would
step forward before all the world and say, " I take Rosalie
Evanturel to be my wife." Despite the gusts of emotion
that swayed her at times, in the deepest part of her
being she trusted him completely.

When she reached the hospital this Sunday afternoon
her step was quick, her smile bright — though she had
not been to confession as was her duty on Easter day.
The impulse towards it had been great but her secret
was not her own, and the passionate desire to give
relief to her full heart w i overborne by thought of the
man. Her soul was her o„n, but this secret of their love
was his as well as hers. She knew that she was the only
just judge between.

Soon after she entered the ward, the chief surgeon said
that all that could be done for her father had now been
done, and that as M. Evanturel constantly asked to be

ONE WAS TAKEN AND THE OTHEH LEFT 303

taken b»ok to Cbandiire (he never tsid to die, thourii
they knew what was in his mind), he might now make
the jonmey, partly by river, partly by land. It leemed
to the delighted and excited Rosalie that Jo Portngaia
had been sent to ht r as a surprise, and that his team of
dogs was to take her father back.

She sat by her father's bed this beantifnl, wonderful
Bnnday aftemooii, and talked cheerfully, and langhed a
httle, and told M. Evanturel of the dogs, a-.id together
they looked out of the window to the far-off hills in
their ffolden purple, beyond which, in the valley of the
Chandifere, was their little home. With her father's
Land in hers the girt dreamed dreams again, and it
seemed to her that she was the very Rosalie Evanturel of
old, whose thoughta were bounded by a river and a hill, a
post-office and a church, a catechism and a few score of
books. Here in the crowded city she had eomp to be a
woman who, bitterly shaken in soul, knew life's suffer-
ing; who had, during the past few months, read with
avidity history, poetry, romance, fiction, and the drama,
Jinghsh and French ; for in every one she found some-
thing that said, "You have felt that." In these long
months she had learned more than she had known or
learned in all her previous life.

As she sat looking out into the eastern sky she became
conscious of voices, and of a group of people who came
slojfly down the ward, sometimes speaking to the sick
and crippled. It was not a general visitors' day, but one
reserved for the few to come and say a kindly word to the
suffering, to bring some flowers and distribute books.
Rosalie had always been absent at this hour before for
she shrank from strangers; but to-day she had stayed on
unthinking. It mattered nothing to her who came and
went Her heart was over the hills, and the only tie she
had here was with this poor cripple whose hand she held.
If she did not resent the visit of these kindly strangers
she resolutely held herself apart from the object of their
visit with a sense of distance and cold dignity If she
had given Chariey something of hersself, she had in
turn taken something from him, something unlike her

304

THK RIQHT OF WAY

,(;;

old Mlf, delicately non^ntimt. Knowledge of life bad

her the pride of Mlf-repreMion. She h«lT.«d need of it
m these .urroundrngi, where her beaatv drew not • little
dangeroui attention, which the had held at armVlenirth
—her great love for one man made her invulnerable.

Aow, a» the vwitore came near, she did not tnm
toward, them, but .till «t, her chin on her hand. looS
out acros. the hUl., in rewlute ab.traction. She felt he?
fathers finger, pren hem. a« if to draw her attention, for

fc.„T^« i" ^ '°"^- ^^^ *^^ "° ""ti*. l*"* held hi.
hand firmly, a. though to My that .he had so wirii

bO 860.

She wa« oonwlon. now that they were beside her father'.

.f„ "^ *l °P*^ ^^^i .*'''y ''"''Id pa*"- But no, the feet
popped, there wa. whispering, an<f then she heard a voice

SL " tJfT^/' t£en another, "Not wanted, that's
plain ! —the first a woman's, the wcond a man'^ Then
another voice, clear and cold, and well modulated mid

tle^Jf h " = : ?'^ V^" '?" y°" ^'^' '«'«° »>'" • k"K
tune, and have had much pain. Yon will be irlad to jro I
Bm sure. o » *

Something in the voice startled her. Some familiar
sound or inflection .trnck upon her ear with a far-off note

remind her ? She turned round quickly and caught two
cold blue eyes looking at her. The face was older than her
own, hand«)me and still, and happy in a placid sort of way
Few gusts of passion or of i«in had passed across that
face. The figure was shapely to the newest fashion, the
bonnet was perfert, the hand which held two books was
prettily gloved Polite charity was written in her manner
and consecrated every motion. On the instant, Rosalie
resented this fine epitome of convention, this dutiful
chanty-monger, herself the centre of an admiring quartet
She saw the whispering, she noted the well-bred disguise
of interest and she met the visitor's gaze with cold
courtesy. The other read the look in fer faS and a
si ThUy pacifying smUe gathered at her lips.

«»t WM TilB. Airi. TBI OTHMl LEPI 305

vo^ W over the hill, had Sdlhetto ^"1"^

She heard a voice wy. " Bv Jo™ I " in . » *

ilave yon many friends he™ J " ..iA """^P^;^ »•
meant to be kin,liv .Tj •/ /"" *"* "^''^ ^o»<».

" Some need many friendB, some bnt n fo™ t
from a country wher^ one onlVreds^a fet.'?" ' """«

of an^h^ v^r' """*'^' ' "°"^" ' " ^"'^ *»■« -'d echo

to?j'^^ ^"^ P*"*^ °"* °^ Kathleen's life-he was dead

306

THE RIGHT OF WAY

f^ Z} ^^"i 19 ?™at *»■«» she had nnconscionnly
absorbed some of his idiosyncrasies— in the tone of hu
voice in his manner of speaking. To-day she had even
repeated phrases he had nsed.

"Beyond the hills," said Rosalie, turning away
" Is It not strange ?" said the voice. " That is the title
of one of the books I have just brought— ^yonrf the Sills.
It IS by an English writer. This other book is French
May I leave them ? "

Rosalie inclined her head. It would make her own
position less dignified if she refused them. "Books are
always welcome to my father," she said.

There was an instant's pause, as though the fashionable
lady would offer her hand ; but their eyes met. and they
only bowed. The lady moved ou with a smile, leaving a
perfume of heliotrope behind her.

"Where is your country, I wonder?"— the voice of
the lady rang in Rosalie's ears. As she sat at the win-
dow again, long after the visitors had disappeared, the
words, "I wonder— I wonder— I wonder! " kept beatinir
in her brain. It was absurd that this woman should
remind her of the tailor of Chaudi^re.
_ Suddenly she was roused by her father's voice " This
IS beautiful— ah, but beautiful, Rosalie ! "

She turned towards him. He was reading the book in
his hand—.B<3^onrf iht Hills. "Listen," he said, and he
wad. m English : " ■ Compensation is the other name for
(M. How often is it that those whom disease or oca-
dent has rolled of active life find greater inner ryoiHng
and a larger spiritiml Uinerary I It would seem that
wdhdrawalfrom the ruder activities gives a clearer seeing
Also for these, so often, is granted a greater love, which
comes of the consecration of other lives to theirs And
these too iMve their reward, fur they are less encompassed
by the vanUus of the world, having the joy of aelf-sacnfiee: "
±le looked at Rosalie with an unnatural brightness in
his eyes, and she smiled at him now and stroked his hand
' It has been all compensation to me," be said after
R(3r^'''*' ""^°" ''*^* "^^^ " ^°°^ daughter to me

ONE WAS TAKEN ANI> THE OTHER LEFT 307

thefhatto5^'tlS?.T- "^^ ''^'^0- think
a sob. * 'WngWew, she answered, choking back

his comfortT ^ ' ^ »<^J"st«d the bedclothes to

She patted his hanH .< n ■ ^°°^P''^ •' Good-night ! "

He ^sXyhi asleep' ""V°*?' ^\'' t^f^«^"
"gain, and fell int^o a deep sl^^p ^'^-'"«^* ' »>« '"^d

haf teowT a' tdtd °tr '\^ ^''-^ *»■« '-'' he
bnun_of her father ^f?i? °"^''*' '"^^e *'"8y » her
of her lover over t-eWlls 1^:"""" "^^ ^'^ J"'* 'e^J
her again-* far-off Ser^ sC""' 'T /=*"■« *<>
mechanically and tDm"d oveT' h« i^ ^^"^ *^* '~°''
eyes were riveted t™ a rZ olT^ Presently her
word ITathleen. ^ ^' "" " ^^ '^ntten the

anfTh: haT„:rngtoicf S^?:i The word ira.«^
back to the day when she hT^! T.' "n^ ^"^ '"'"'^ "*"
Kathleen ? " '^ * ''"'^ '""^ *° Charley, •' Who is

Fogttrw"oU%'Kn?lwY'^*;\"''^ «•»« "^°'
Go to the young surgeon wh. T ^ *°'^ "^""^ ^^^ ^'^l

ask Wm whJshelasT^d soWhecW?^?"^ *''«'°'
concerning her lover ? "^ '° **■« ^ysteiy

con^otsofiwntv ''" "P-f"""" she became sharply

leaned over her YatheSef anjTnW ^''^'^^• '^'^

Then she turned to the fri,,U ". '°?t<olo''ely at him.

:: Go for theln^es?" IK^ ^tT^' " "'^"^

Baid'tKromrand iilT:.''"^ ^^"-' '^-"»'."
surgeon for a messenger ^ *° *'"' "^"^ °* *h« y"""*

lontjoumrair' '°''"' ''^ '^"i'P^* ''-* out upon a

CHAPTER XLVni

"WHERE THE TREE OF LIFE IS BLOOMING — "

As Charley walked the bank of the great river by the
city where his old life lay dead, he straggleid with the
new life which — long or short — must henceforth belong
to the village of the woman he loved. . . . But as he
fought with himself in the long night-watch it was borne
in upon him that though he had been shown the Promised
Land, he might never find there a habitation and a home.
The hymn he had mockingly sung the night he had been
done to death at the Cote Dorion sang in his senses now,
an ever-present mockery :

" On the other side of Jordan,
In the sweet fields of Eden,
Where the tree of life is blooming,

There is rest for you.

There is rest for the weary.

There is rest for the weary,

There is rest for j'ou."

In the uttermost corner of his intelligence he felt with
sure prescience that, however befalling, the end of all was
not far off. In the exercise of new faculties, which had
more to do with the soul than with reason, he now believed
what he coald not see, aud recognised what was not
proved. Labour of the hand, trouble, sorrow, and per-
plexity, charity and humanity, had cleared and simplified
his life, had sweetened his intelligence, and taken the
place of ambitioa He saw life now through the lens of
personal duty, which required that the thing neatest to
one's hand shonid be done first.

Bat M foreboding pressed upon liim there came the

■♦ » ■ ^ m^a

" WHERE THE TREE OP UFE IS BLOOMING—" 309
Yet for Rosalie he must t«ike the risk-he n,nst go.

CHAPTER XLIX

THE OPEN GATE

It was a stUl night, and the moon, delicately bright, gave
forth that radiance which makes spiritual to the eye
the coarsest thing. Inside tha white house on the hill all
was dark. Sleep had settled on it long before midnight,
for, on the morrow, its master and mistress hoped to make
a journey to the valley of the Chaudiere, where the Passion
Play was being performed by lidbitants and Indians. The
desire to see the play had become an infatuation in the
minds of the two, eager for some interest to relieve the
monotony of a happy life.

But as all slept, a figure in the dress of a hahUant
moved through the passages of the house stealthily, yet
with an assurance unusual in the thief or housebreaker.
Id the darkest passages his step was sure, and his hand
fostened on latch or door-knob with perfect precision.
He came at last into a large hallway flooded by the moon,
pale, watchful, his beard frosted by the light. In the
stillness of his tread and the lomposed sorrow of his face
he seemed like one long dead who " revisits the glimpses
of the moon."

At last he entered a room the door of which stood wide
opea In this room had been begotten, or had had exer-
cise, whatever of him was worth approving in the days before
he died. It was a place of books and statues and tapet Iry,
and the dark oak was nobly smutched of Time. This
sombre oaken wall had been handed down through four
generations from the man's great-grandfather : the breath
of generations had steeped it in human association.

Entering, he turned for an instant with clenched hands
to look at another door across the hall. Behind that door

THE OPEN GATE

311

to f^,JI? r^ ''^° ^^"^"^ '»" '°«°'0'7. "bo conspired

for he had given it to her the day he died. Buttoat

memSs tZ h"" "''t"" *'"' ''-^ "•oc^ation"! Sth
B^rt^r..^' •'°^r^ bitter, however shaming/had a
vl ET' ''*'°<=\«*° tis soul with a h^ro^ng
pain. There she was whom he had spared-himself •

Sr; if The? vi '."° '" ''" ■'■""^^-d ^r had

Sr/^f i • '• ^1* *'*'■ ^^'y existence robbed him-
hS owa "P^"*'*' ■""* °"'^'' '«'"°'^°1 » 1"« dearer t^an

heS''SrTj^fl,r'''P '".'"l*' 'T'^-^^ ^-""^^d J'" oonld
near her breathing; and, by the hospital on the hill
up beyond the point of pines, in a litUe cotL^ which

sleeZs e^s 1^ '''' Tt* T"^'"'' '"y K°^- -'*
Sleepless eyes and wan cheeks, longing for momins and
the stir of life to help her to forget "'■ """""ng and

hpr «nU»°t''^ ^^ '"'^ "^^^ *° *'•" ''°"8« ""ce more. For
whiph 1\ T ""^^i^it-ng tl"" torture-chamber, from

I^ a m.n ''^^ ""''* ^ ^«^°' '''»"<'''«d ""d shaken^
as^a man goes from a tomb where his dead lie nnfo":

h.^L^^"*' •"!' *««*•;' '^^nt swiftly across the room, and
beside a great carved oak table touched a hidden sprint

Tmu'^^fl'- ?^, ^P"°« '^r>Ve<i ; the panelc^ref
Lm^Z^ fTu^""^-- ^* «««'"«^to'him that the „^^
he made must be heard in every part of the house so sen!

strdsTaH^'b T- '° ^^'^ ''^^ "■-- O" whirh^he
Ks?«n W J°^'": .-^.^ *°™«'^ """"d t° the doorway to
listen before he put his hand within the secret place. ^

t^wT^^rT^" °° T"?- ^^ *°™«d his attenti*on to the
Te ™t ,?'''""."g f°rth two packets with a gasp of relief!

LXd t^ "? *" i'' P""''?*' ''°'^' ''•*h e^treme'^care, pro!
wo^d w th Z. ^ P""''- By f "hbing the edges of^the
Tw- t7 .FT\ ^™'" ^ <^"^'« °" the table, he was
™m« h '•«-'^J'>«t the panel in silence. But, as the spring
came home, he became suddenly conscious of a preL7i

round softly, quicdy. He was in the shadow and near
great window-curtains, and his fingers instinctive?

n ;

S12

THK RIQHT OF WAY

clntched them as he saw a figure in white at the door ot
the room. Slowly, strangely deliberate, the figure moved
fnither into the room.

Charley's breath stopped. He felt his face flush, and a
■tranM weakness came on him. There before him stood
Kathleen.

She was in her night-gown, and she stood still, as
though listening; yet, as Charley looked closer, be
realised that it was an unconscious, passive listening, and
that she did not know he was there.

Her mind only was listening. She was asleep. Was
it possible that his very presence in the house had touched
some old note of memory, which, automatically respond-
ing, had carried her from her bed in this somnambulistic
trance? That subtle telegraphy between our subcon-
scious selves which we cannot reduce to a law, yet
alarming us at times, announced to Kathleen's mind,
independent of the waking senses, the presence once
familiar to this house for so many years. In her
sleep she had involuntarily responded to the call of
Charley's approach.

Once, in the past, the night her uncle died, she had
walked in her sleep, and the memory of this flashed upon
Charley now. Silently he came closer to her. The moon-
light shone on her face. He could see plainly she was
asleep. His position was painful and perilous. If she
waked, the shock to herself would be great ; if she waked
and saw him, what disaster might not occur !

Yet he had no agitation now, only clearness of mind
and a curious sense of confusion that he should see her
«n d^habiiU— the old fastidious sense mingling with the
feeling that she was now a stranger to him, and that,
waking, she would fly embarrassed from his presence, as
he was ready to fly from hers. He was about to steal
to the door and escape before she waked, but she turned
round, moved through the doorway, and glided down the
halL He followed silently.

She moved to the staircase, then slowly down it, and
through a passage to a morning-room, where, open-
ing a pair of French windows, she passed out on to

*HB OPEN OATB

ii$

Ae Im. He followed, not more than • doaen nacea

oonW ea.J^ lude among the bnAe.. .Eoold «.me one eC
appear and an alarm be raised.

She crowed the lawn swiftly, a white, ghostlike fiffuie
fo.the middle of the lawn she stop^f Aort onS^ «

P^^!?fi '"i" "^h with the certainty of instinct. ^
«ifc?7w ^ «he moved on, goin«r direotlv towards a
gate that opened ont on the cliff above tie river. In
Charlevs day th« gate had been often used, forTmve
np /our steep wooden step, leading to a nZiZ s?df

to)pped fifty feet to the river. For years he had ns^
this rop<^Wder to get down to his boat, and often whin

dZenn^ ' A^ r>°-f\'^f'' ]«t at the very first, would

calW observed that the gate was open.

For an instant he watched her slowly moving towarfs
£nlf W /* ^fl ''t^*' "°* '"^ the^itnatifn. S^!

g»W''»y. »ne must fall over the clifiF.
Her life was in his hands.

rai^n JTi^ ?"'' *°"I'^ "^y ""^ «^««> th« gate, then,
raiwng an alarm, get away before he was seen ; or— hi
eould escape now. ' °^ '^

What had he to do with her? A weird, painful sag-
prtion crept u,to his brain : he was not ;e.^sible f?r
hrlt^f he was responsible for a woman up there by the

T^'.^i °" ^"""^ ""^ *•"* ^»"«y of the Chaudiiri!
It Kathleen were gone, what barrier would there be
between him and Rosalie? What had he to do witih
^nfT^ disposition of events ? Kathleen was nev^
S^Ili^*" her church twice on Sundays; die was
devoted to work of all sorts for the chnreh on week-days
—Where was her intervening personal Providence ? If

814

THE BIOHT OF WAY

fWidenoe permitted her to die ?-rell, «he b<id h*l two
year, of happmes. with the man she lovXff .

mmm0

;»z£" '" •"■ "" "" °' "' "- ra-i, rttt

" Save her— save her ' "

THS OPEN OATB

316

breathleM words, " Huih— she is asleep ! " repeated them-
selves over and over again in his brain, as, taking Kath-
leen s hand, he led her, unresisting, and still sleeping,
back to her room. In agitated thankfulness he resolv^
not to apeak of the event to Kathleen, or to any one else,
leat It should come to her ears and frighten her.

He would, however, keep a sharp lookout for the man
who had saved her life, and would reward him duly. The
face of the bearded habitant came between him and his
■leep.

Meanwhile this disturber of a woman's dreams and
a mans sleep was hurrying to an inn in the town by
the waterside, where he met another habitant with a
team of dops— Jo Portngais. Jo had not been able to
bear the misery of suspense and anxiety, and had come
seekttg him. There was little speech between them.

"You have not been found out, M'sieu'?" was Jo's
anxious question.

" No, no, but I have had a bad night, Jo. Get the
dogs together."

A little later, as C!harley made ready to go back to
Chandiire, Jo said,

" You look as if you'd had a black dream, M'sieu'."

With the river rustling by, and the trees stirring in
the first breath of dawn, Charley told Jo what had hap-
pened. "^

For a moment the murderer did not speak or stir, for
a struggle was going on in his breast also ; then he stooped
quickly, caught his companion's hand, and kissed it.

"I could not have done it, M'sieu'." he said hoarsely.

They parted, Jo to remain behind as they had agreed,
to be near Rosalie if needed ; Charley to return to the
valley of the Chandi&re.

CHAPTER L

THE PASSION PLAY AT CHAUDI*»E
Ifw .fP,*''" "y** °^ *•" °°*»'de world """""K

l.«'"l.^*"Pv'"'', '^"** '"«' •*«" *«k«n long affo we'd

IZat ' '"^*'' 1* ^°" Monntain.. and Z X folk

iiaophin, with a superior air. <~«iio

■■ Ksh ! " said a voice behind them. It was the Seimienr's

^-S.;™^^ V'T'" l'^ T°*^- H" had agloom^Tnd

There isnt a house but has two or three iSardei I've

'^"wTahH^ft^'Zl^'^- "They come tc^n.'L^w^

ofit^siidtheX '^ "" ^"*'"'«^'^"«-

tW-"^^''?-^'^ - s^^^^^^ hJ lit:,!

mie;!;r4^:^/&s^^^^^ *•«• ^'-
Dan js HSr;! "'• *''^-""" ^''^" -^ •"'^-«

^We ain't throngh with it yet," said the death's-head

±.ven that Jo Portugais worked night and day till he
went away to Montreal, and he alwayf goes to iSLs now!

TH« PASSION PLAY AT CHAODlilRB 317

He's to take Ftmtini KUte when he oomet back Then
look at Virffinie MorriMetU, that pot her brother*! evea
out qnarrelRng^the'i to pUj Mory Magdalene."

" I oonld fit the parU better," said the groom.

"Of coarse. You'd have played St. John," laid the
•addlcr— "or, maybe, Christni hfmaelf !"

"I'd have Paolette Doboii play Mary ' s -inner."

" Magdalene repented, and knelt at Mi.- 1'. )t of th nrona.
She wo« iorry and tinned no more, ^'^ '.he ^-i,'i->-'s
wife in qoemfoui reprimand. ''

"Well. Poulette doea all that,' ■. iH Ut hk ;id, liai'
viiaged groom.

Filion LocaiBe'i ears pricked i /> "L .v (i . .-..i kaow
— she hasn't come back f

"Hasn't she, thoagh! And witli n./ ou J t <>— last
night"

" Her child ! " Madame Danphin w.^i : c rdalised and
amazed.

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

" Narcisse— Nardsse ! " called Madame Danphin to her
hnsband, who was coming up the street. She hastily
repeated the groom's news to him.

'Ihe Notary stuck his hand bttween the buttons of hit
wautcoat. " Well, well, my dear madame," he said con-
sequentially, " it is quite true."

"What do you know about itr— whoee child is it ? " she
said, with curdling scorn.

" '^''— '*•» ' " ""^ tbe Notary. Then, with an oratorical
wave of his free hand: "The Church opens her arms to
all — even to her who sinned much because she loved
much, who, through woful years, searched the world for
her child and found it not — hidden away, as it was, by
the duplicity of sinful man "—and so on through tangled
sentences, setting forth in broken terms Paulette Dubois's
life.

" How do you know all about it ? " said the saddler.

"I've known it for years," said the Notary grandlv—
■tontly too, for he would freely risk his wife's anger that
the vainglory of the moment might be enlarged.

318

THE BIGHT OP WAY

ii '!

.„i/ IV ^^? '* *^"° ^«>«n madame!" said the
,T^r ^i'lTw" «»>'«.*<? broad to be .areastic. " Tim, I

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

his'S. WaiT' ^""P'^— y- «>Wr- aaid

TM^"i??' ^T*^"' *°^ ^*»'" ''•'** I'^'e got to say.
ThisPanlette Dnbois-she should play Maiy Magdalene.

■'Look-look! What's that?" said the saddler. He
pointed to a WMon coming slowly up the road. In front

^LL^ Tu °L T ^''T * ''*'^- I* "^^d something
covered with black "It's a funeral! There's thf

L^se °" Portugais' little cart," added Filion

M^^m ^f .''^Tf.'^""'' '''^ ^°«»''« Evanturel and
Jlrs. Flynn ! And M'sieu' Evanturel in the coffin ! " said

t^tSuifaKef"^ *°*'^**°°- °* *^« p°«'-«-

..lT"^'*'-!.\^"?? *°??«f'' ^"^ *''« ''»'^«'-'s ^ead March
now! said M Dauphin sadly, buttoning up his coat

As^he did so. Charley appeared in the dwrvay of his

"ijok. Monsieur," said the Notary. "This is the
way Rosalie Evanturel comes home with her father."
I will go for the Cur,i," Charley answered, turning

steady himself, then hurried up the street. He did not
dare meet Rosalie, or go near her yet. For her sake it
was better not.

"That tailor infidel has a heart. His eyes were
running,' said the Notary to Filion Laca^se, and went
on to meet the mournful cavalcade.

CHAPTER LI

FACE TO FACE

"If I could only understand ! "—this was Rosalie's con-
stant cry in these weeks wherein she lay ill and pros-
trate after her father's burial. Once and once only had she
met Charley alone, though she knew that he was keeping
watch over her. She had first seen him the day her
father was buried, standing apart from the people, his
face sorrowful, his eyes heavy, his figure bowed.

The occasion of their meeting alone was the first
night of her return, when the Notary and Charley had
kept watch beside her father's body.
_ She had gone into the little hallway, and had looked
into the room of death. The Notary was sound asleep
in his arm-chair, but Charley sat silent and move-
less, his eyes gazing straight before him. She mur-
mured his name, and though it was only to herself, not
even a whisper, he got up guickly and came to the
hall, where she stood grief-stricken, yet with a smile of
welcome, of forgiveness, of confidence. As she put out
her hand to him, and his swallowed it, she could not but
say to him— so contrary is the heart of woman, so does
she demand a Yes by asserting a No, and hunger for the
eternal assurance — she could not but say :

" Tou do not love me — now."

It was but a whisper, so faint and breathless that only
the heart of love could hear it. There was no answer in
words, for some one was stirring beyond Rosalie in the
dark, and a great figure heaved through the kitchen door-
way, but his hand crushed hers in his own ; his heart said
to her, " My love is an undying light ; it will not change
for time or tears "—the words they had read together in

i ' '

820

THE RIGHT OF WAY

• little gnnfir-colonred book on the counter in tke shop
one summer day a year ago. The words flashed into his
mmd, and they were carried to hers. Her fingers piwsed
his, and then Charley said, over her shoulder, to the ap-
proaching Mrs. Flynn: "Do not let her come agaib
madame. She should get some sleep," and he put her
hand in Mrs. Plynn's. "Be good to her. as yon know
how, Mrs. Flynn," he said gently.

He had won the heart of Mrs. Flynn that moment, and
It may be she had a conviction or an inspiration, for she
said, in a softer voice than she was wont to use to anv
one save Bosalie : '

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

Such had been their first meeting after her return
Afterwards she was taken ill, and the torture of his heart
drove him out into the night, to walk the road and creep
round her house like a sentinel, Mrs. Flynn's words
ringing in his ears to reproach him—" 1*11 do by her as
you would do by your own, sir." Night after night it
WM the same, and Rosalie knew his footsteps and listened
and was less sorrowful, because she knew that she was
ever in his thoughts. But one day Mrs. Flynn came to
him in his shop.

-She's wantin' a word with ye on business," she said
and gestured towards the little house across the way
". T'^ ,■ ^"""^^ y® ^° ^ shpakin' to annybody, but if
y have kind words to shpake and good things to say y'
naidnt be bitin' yer tongue," she added in response to
his nod, and left him.

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

In another half-hour he was beside Rosalie's chair.

" Perhaps yon are angry," she said, as he came towards
her where she sat in the great arm-chair. She did not
give hun time to answer, bnt hurried on. « I wanted to

FACE TO FACE

321

toU yon that I have heard yon eveiy night ontwde, and
that^I have been glad, and sony tio-Tgo «,rry for m

a W«1!^'-i ^°"'Y-" ''%^^ ''"^ly- ''"•^ dropped on
H^^l^ ?^* her chair, and took her hind and IdTed i°
iie did not dare do more.

I,i."i71S'*^.I'!,.'*^,'^ y°°'" *•>« «»^d' dropping a hand on
hi. shoulder, " that 1 do not blame you for anything- not
for anything. Yet I want you to le sorry tS. fwant
yon to feel as sorry for me as I feel sorry for you."

world."'" """^ """^ ""^ y°" *'"' ^«' ""•""n « the
She leaned over him with tears in her eyes. " Hush ' "
Ae said. " I want to help you-Charles. ' You are tke
Yon know ten thousand things more than I; but I know
one thing you do not understand."

br^klnly. '^^ ^° '''"'**'^'" ^ «°°^'" ^^ ""^^

"Oh, no, no, no! Bnt I know one thing, because I

have been taught, and because it was bom wX^,e^

Perhaps much was habit with me in the past, but now
a^^ °'^^ ^'""^ " *''"®- I* i8 God "

then" ^°'*^" "^ ^"^^ '*'*™^^ '° """='' since-since

lips. You are feeling bitterly sorry for me" ehe said.
But you must let me speak -that is all I ask. It

iL™ \v^\ ^ ^"°°* ^"^ that you should not
share my thoughts. That is the thin/ that has hurt
— hurt so all these months, these long hard months
when I could not see yoa, and did not kn^ow whyTcould
not. Don t shake so, please! Hear me to the end
olir' ^•'" *~*? .^ *^« '^**" "*'«'• I f«lt it all so
I «^lle^'^K'^ ^ ?"^ "'?*-''"^ ^ ^° not-understand.
1 rebelled, but not against you. I rebelled against
myself against what yon called Fate. Fate is one's
self, what one brings on one's self. Bat I had faith in
you — always — always, even when I thought I hated

"Ah, hate me! Hate me!

It is your loving that

•n

-^i^^msEsa^

322

Li I

THE BIGHT OF WAT

onti me to the duick," he gaid. "You have the matr-
nanimity of God.'

Her eyes leapt np. '"Of God' — yon believe in
God ! she said eagerly. " God is God to yon 1 He is
the one thing that has come ont of all this to me." She
reached ont her hand and took her Bible from a table.
" Read that to yourself," she said, and, opening the Book,
XK>inted to a passage. He read it :

Arid tkey heard the voice of the Lord God vmlking in
the garden in the cool of the day: and Adam and hia
vnfe hid themselves from, the presence of the Lord Ood
amongst the trees of the garden.

And the Lord God called unto Adam, and sa^'d unto
htm, Where art thou t

And he said, I heard Thy voice in the garden, and
I vias afraid, because I vxis nalced ; and I hid myself.

And He said. Who told thee that thou vMst naked I
Hast thou eaten of the tree whereof I commanded thee
that thou shauldest not eat f

Closing the Book. Charley said, " I understand— I see."

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

He kissed both her hands, but the look in his eyes
was that of a man being broken on the wheel. She
slipped to the floor, her rosary in her fingers. " Let ns
pray," she said simply, and in a voice as clear as a
child's, but with the anguish of a woman's struirdine
heart behind. '^^ *

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

" Yon have the right to ask all that is mine to give

life, honour, my body in pieces inch by inch, the last

Ihe
lie.
)k.

!!;i:i

' BU 1 , ROSAUE, THIS IS NOT MINE lo GIVE !

that I can call

FACE TO FACE

323

I not mine
■be cried

to <ri»« r~ii ' t""- ^"*' HoMlie, this i

.fv^ ' ?°'' T ^ P^y- ■"•'«»» I believe ! "
pasiet°~"'' y°" '*° •""«- - GO"!."

tT^o^ Yoa o "r° *'"'u'^™"'' ^ ^''""'^ «'"! be truthful

look at the hands to know the time, and because it

all ihat RnJ ^'' " ^''^• You-you have changed
all that, Kosahe. My soul now is like a dial to the sun

IT,'! Jl^'P '°«,i^'^'"' She finished the oath for him
f?et ;ilw " ^."'^den .^bange of manner, she came to W
feet with a spring She did not quite understand She

r^^ VwT""' ''"»'y/°r'°"^ °f *be power she had over
his chivalrous m.„d: the power of the weak over the
8trong_the tyranny of the defended over thT defender
wLfiXn'/fTr '"''"l^. ''^^'^"'^ bearing; ^Id, re

eyr ^°0n«' ""'^r*""'^ y°"'" «be cried, with flashing
thin;, On« minute you say you do not believe in any?
thing, and the next you say, ' So help me God ' ' " ^

" yS; sai/7w*''^ *'"''*• ^°'''''''" ^' i"f'"-P'"«d gently.
You said I was as magnanimous as God. You were

&T^ ''i "! *'''°' "'°^'^^°g "•-• -bo.e only fauh is
Sart T. ""<l>™'t«4 /«"■ I" the wickedness o'vour
Heart _> ua robbea me of happiness, you "

324

THE RIGHT OP WAY

Roaalie ! " he said in ihriqk-

" Don't? Don't! RoBiOie!
ingprotetv.

That she hod apoken to him as her deepest heart ab-
horred only increased her agitated denunciation.

" Yes. yes, in your mad selfishness, yon did not care

for the poor rirl who f-rgot all, lost all, and now "

She stopped short ki the sight of his white, awe-stricken
face. His eye-glass f . led like a frost of death over an
eye that looked upon • i- ^ shocking scene of woe. Yet
he appeared not to =>i:, for hU fingers fumbled on his
waistcoat for the moi cle— fumbled— vaguely, helplessly.
It was the realisation of a soul cast into the outer dark-
ness. Her abrupt silence came upon him like the last
engulfing wave to a drowning man — the final assurance
of the end, in which there is quiet and the deadly
smother.

"Now— I know— the truth!" he said, in a curious
even tone, different from any she had ever heard from
him. It was the old Charley Steele who spoke, the
Charley Steele in whom the intellect was supreme once
more The judicial spirit, the inveterate intelligenoe
which put justice before all, was alive in him, almort re-
joicing in its regained governance. The new Charley
was as dead as the old had been of late, and this clarifv-
ing moment left the grim impression behind that the old
law was not obsolete. He felt that in the abandonment
of her indignation she had mercilessly told the truth;
and the irreducible quality of mind in him which in the
old days made for justice, upproved. There was a new
element now, however— that conscience which never pos-
sessed him fully until the day he saw Rosalie go travel-
ling over the hills with her crippled father. That picture
of the giri against the twilight, her figure silhouetted in
the clear air, had come to him in sleeping and waking
dreams, the type and sign of an everiasting melancholy.
As he looked at her blindly now, he saw, not herself, bat
that melancholy figure. Out of the distance his 'own
voice said again :

" Now— I know — the truth ! "

She had struck with a violence she did not intend,

FACa TO FACE

326

.he oonld not have S^it^ "* ^T' '\ •"^- B"t
the words, though .sXndllttn^ T ^T '^^"^

or nature, haa^i,d T- ^- •'° ^^^^'"^^ °' "'»°.

penalties I? !^f • ^"Proportionate shie of life'i

msmmm

passionate ciy she threw herself ^fuft-P' "P"."!*!" »
weakness, wS, ouSh^T^lVdV^^Sr "^^ " ""^

oh.feo^^iiSr'' '"^' ^^'^ -' -- ^'-

Stooping over her, he answered :
hurts xrl^'^^ '°' "■* *° '=°°'^ *'"' whole truth What

i* wa. aU m sane and true," he said, like one who.

n26

THE RIGHT OF WAY

on the brink of death, finds a latisfaction in speaking
the perfect tmth. " I am glad to hear the truth — I have
been luch a liar ! "

She looked np startled, her tears blinding her. " Yon
have not deceived me?" she asked bitterfy. "Oh, yon
have not deceived me! — ^yon have loved me, have yon
not?" It was that which mattered, that only. Move-
less and eager, she looked — looked at him, waiting, as it
were, for sentence.

" I never lied to yon, Bosalie — never ! " he answered,
and he touched her hand.

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

" I meant that nntil I knew yon, I kept deceiving
myself and others all my life "

" But without knowing it ? " ehe said eagerly.

" Perhaps, without quite knowing it."

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

" Till I knew you ! " he answered.

" Then I have done you good — not ill ? " she asked,
with painful breathlexsness.

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

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

He clasped her in his crms, and though his eyes were
dry, his heart wept teara jf blood.

CHAPTER LII

THE COHINO OF BILLY

^mxngonof the play, and pilg?i„age?hran oU^!
ised. and eicnriioni £.d been mad? to the iZf Zv^Z

of the life and death of the Hero of Christendom Th!
St T;i''''. '=-''^™''*-» the invSTf th?i
on I' Snndav Z,T" ^" T" Ctaudifere; and when^
«v:„^u * ?' '■ '^*"" I*°P'» were joBtled from the

befo™ 'thTl,*^""" Seigneur!" he faid, on the^Snndav
tofore the playing wa. to en^ "we have overshot the

The Sefgnenr nodded and vnrned his head awav

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328

THE EIGHT OF WAY

" It will soon be over."
" I dread a e^ordid reaction."

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

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

Magdalene "

The eyes of the two men suddenly met, a look of
understanding passed between them.
"Will she do it? " said the Seigneur.
The Our4 nodded. "Paulette Dubois has heard the
word, ' Go and sin no more ' ; she will obey."

Walking through the village as they talked, the Cur^
shrank back painfully several times, for voices of strangers,
singing festive songs, rolled out upon the road.
" Who can they be ? " he said diutressfuUy.
Without a word the Seigneur went to the door of the
inn whence the sounds proceeded, and, without knocking,
entered. A moment afterwards the voices stopped, but
broke out again ; quieted, then once more broke out, and
presently the Seigneur issued from the door, white 'with
anger, three strangers behind him. All were intoxicated.
One was violent. It was Billy Wantage, whom the
years had not improved. He had arrived that day with
two companions — an excursion of curiosity as an excuse
for a " spree."

" What's the matter with you, old stick-in-the-mud ? "

THE COMING OF BILLY

329

he said "Mass is over, isn't it ? Can't we have a little
guzzle between prayers ? "

By this time a crowd had gathered, among them Filion
Lacasse. At a motion from the Seigneur, and a whisper
that went round <iuiekly, a dozen habitants swiftly spraiui-
on the three men, pinioned their arms, and carrying them
bodily to the pump by the tavern, held them under it
one by one, till each was soaked :.nd sober. Then their
horses and wagon were brought, and they were given
nve minutes to leave the village.

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

CHAPTER LIII

THE SEIGNEUK AND THE CURfi HAVE A
SUSPICION

rif T*,' '^ Seigneur and the Cur^ stood before the
door of tlie tailor-shop. The Curd was about to knock
when the Seigneur laid a hand v o- his a™ '

said ' '' "° "'' ' ^^ •"" ^ «°°« "^^e^l days." he
" f°"^ !— gone ! " said the Cure.

"He told Mr« v\Jr! u "°f'gnol s voice lowered.

The Cure's face fell. " He went away also lust before
the play b.gan. I almost fear that-tbatle get no nearer

and yet! I have dreamed a good dream, Maurice but T
sometimes fear I have dreamed in vain " '

" Wait, wait ! "

h.^Vi"'*'l'°°''^^ -^"""^^ *''« post-office mnsincly .- 1
have thought sometimes that what man's prayers mav not

330

THE SEIGNEUR AND CCRfi HAVE A StJSPICION 331

" Since she went to Montreal seven luoiiths ago. Even
while she was so ill these past weeks, she never asked
for me; and when I came .... Ah, if it were that
her heart has gone out to the man, and his does not
respond ! "

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

" Yet there she sits now, hour after hour, day after
day — so changed I"

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

" I know the grief of children— this is not such a grief.

There is something more. But I cannot ask. If she were

a sinner— but she is without fault. Have we not ' ' "hed

her grow up here, mirthful, brave, pure-souled -'

"Fitted for any station," interposed the &e. xieur
huskily. Suddenly he laid a hand upon the"Cure's°arm.
" Shall I ask her again ? " he said, breathing hard. " Do
you think she has found out her mistake ?"

The Cure was so taken aback that at first he could not
speak. When he realised, however, he could scarce
suppress a smile at the other's simple vanity. But he
mistered himself, and said : " It is not that, Maurice. It
is not you ! "

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

" You have just told me."

M. Eossignol felt a kind of reproval in the Cure's tone.
It made him a little nervous. " I'm an old fool, but she
needed some one!" he protested. "At least I am a
gentleman, and she would not be thrown away."

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

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

" Not worldly-wise. Life is deeper than the world or

worldly wisdom. Come, we will both go and see Rosalie."

M. Eossignol suddenly stopped at the post-office door,

M
I!

332

THE RIGHT OF WAY

and half turned towards the tailor-shon ■• H« i. ^„„
Suppose that he drew her love his w»v He « young,
nothing in roturn, and-—" '^' ^"' 8*^" •"■

Anl'/ ?'-7?/* so "-the Curd paused, and his face dark
ened_"if ,t were so, he should leave her forev^ TnH
BO my dream would end ! " 'orever. And

" And Rosalie ? "

" I will go in alone, Maurice," the Curd urged.
.,0 ^^7^°° "! "8''.' ' " ^■'«''«™^ the other. " I will

thZftr*' "T'"'" ^^ "^^- "*'"* J ''"^o sometimes
fh^ ^!.. I y°" •'*''* ™°™ griefs than one I hive
S V~5u' parsed, then went on bravely-" that tbe^
fived "-*''" ""^'* "^ ""welcomed 'love, or 'lovl

•■f:e^e^myl^"T^;^--^^^-

A moment afterwards he was gone ^

^^As the door closed behind him, she drew herself proudly

iJ'l-''*''*,"^''?': ''^^" deceived!" she said aloud "I
love him— love him— love him."

CHAPTER LIV

M. ROSSIGNOL SLIPS THK T.EASH

It was the last day of the Passion Play, and the ereat
dramatic mission was drawing to a close. The confidence
of the Cnr^ and the Seigneur was restored. The pro-
hibition against strangers had had its effect, and for three
whole days the valley had been at rest again. Apparently
there was not a stranger within its borders, save the
Seigneur s brother, the Abb<S Rossignol, who had come to
see the moving spectacle.

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

It was disconcerting to hear the tales people told of
the tailors charity and wisdom. It was all dangerous
for what was, accidentally, no evil in this particular
instance, might be the greatest disaster in another case.
Principle was at stake. He heard in stern silence the
Cures happy statement that Jo Portugais had returned
to the bosom of the Church, and attended Mass regular'.v

" So 't "-ay be, my dear AhU," said M. Loisel, " that
the friendship between him and our 'infidel' has been
the means of helping Portugais. I hope their friendship
wiU go on unbroken for years and years ! "
_ "I have no idea that it will," said the Abbt! grimly.
' That rope of friendship may snap untimely."

■ ilP??" ™^ ®°"'' y°" "'■"^'^ ^'^^^ * ''^^'«" ' " testily broke
in M. Kossignol, who was present. " I didn't know there
was so much m common between yon and my surlv-
jowled groom. He gets his pleasure out of croakinp
Wait, wait! you'll see— you'll seel Death, death

THE RIGHT OF WAY

334

death! — every man must -lie Tl.. j i i.
tie hair-death! dear! dea h!_- rIh';' ?■"' P" ^^
"ck of croakers. I suplee L m^ ' I.m Urtily
you'll say about the I'ZZ'vt" ^^o^ZJi'"^r°"'"-
of it-wait-wait-wait!' Bah t ^* *= °^ "'" """"^

asceJc.""^' "°' ^ "" """"'^^'d good." answered the

sand sermons ' It wL^i^ yesterday was worth a thou-
it will se^ve it Was thpT ° «"-\Holy Church, and

and touchIn,r_than Paulen« n^K^^*"^ "^"'^ '■•■''•-
lene yesterday?" "'""^ ^"'^'^ "« Mary Magda-

tol4°tCr:Trto^t:t.r'''i .^°-- '»"'' -°-^--

the scene." ^ '° •^""'^^ "'«' impersonality of

go;;d''man"°afd t'st' Joh' t ^''"^'- ^^-'^ ^-^ a
the Magdalene ^a 'rUtnt'lTmt r "^^ ^''-'^"'*

the ruin of innocence wnnU l^ ■' j, ® ^''" °^ ^""'"e.

It does goodTS tir L t^tt^ W* ^--
shame of sin. That i« tl,o „-:„„. T i ^ terror and

of man sorrow',^ rhll^^^Tttet ^^^ ''' ^^"

his^l- Tcr s"reS^ '^^ *'^« '«^'«' -^ ''•ic'^ing
Then,seeing the f L„\nk on ^■"'J: T'. theories I"
tinned, more exci eX "Yes damn Y^''^\^'^-- <=°n-
theories! You alwavstonk tA. ' '^'^'""' '^°"" y°"
pardon Curd-ltSrplrn P'' "^'^^ ^ "^^ ^o"
to S: gr::m"'"* *° *'^ "'°^°'^' ^'--^ •* °P-. and called

horlS!Lthe"q'„i:te^°tr'L''h TI', '?"°^ ^--^ ^^e

wal the belie thlt' hV wtV" *^ ^''^^'^ -<=-' -«ty
handsomely. ^' ^""^^ """^ °° » I'O'se, and rode

CHAPTER LV

ROSALIE PLAYS A PART

From a tree upon a little hill rang out a bell-a deep.
toned bell, bought by the parish years before for the
nussions held at this very spot. Every day it ran?
for an iDBtant at the beginning of each of the five
acts. It also tolled slowly when the curtain rose upon
thp scene of the Crucifixion. In this act no one spoke
save the abased Magdalene, who knelt at the foot of the
cross, and on whose hair red drops fell w:,.„ the Roman
soldier pierced the side of the figure on the cross. This
had been the Curds idea. The Magdalene should speak
for mankind, for the continuing world. She should
speak for the broken and contrite heart in all ages,
should be the first-fruits of the sacrifice, a flower of the
desert earth, bedewed by the blood of the Aince of
l^eace.

So^ in the long nights of the late winter and early spring,
the Curd h^ thought and thought upon what the woman
should say from the foot of the cross. At last he put into
her mouth that which told the whole story of redemption
and deliverance, so far as his heart could conceive it— the
prayer for all sorts and conditions of men, and the eeneral
thanksgiving of humanity.

Durwg the last three days Paulette Dubois had taken
the part of Mary Magdalene. As Jo Portugais had con-
fessed to the Abbd that notable day in the woods at
Vadrome Mountain, so she had confessed to the Curd
after so many years of agony-and the one confession
htted into the other: Jo had once loved her, she had
treated him vilely, then a man had wronged her and Jo
had avenged her— this was the tale la brief. She it was

836

3,16

THE RIGHT OF WAY

Who laughed in the gallery of the court-room the day that
Joseph Audeau was acquitted.

It had pained and shocked the Cur<! more than any he
had ever heard, but he urjjed for her no penalty as Portu-
gais had set for himself, with the austere approval of the
Abbe. I'aulettes presence as the Magdalene had had a
deep effect upon the people, so that she shared with
Alary the Mother the painfully real interest of the vast
audience.

Five times had the bell rung out in the perfect spring
air, upon which the balm of the forest and the refresh-
ment of the ardent sun were poured. The quick anger of
M Rossi^ol had passed away long before the Cur°, the
Abb^, and himself had reached the lake snd the creat
plateau. Between the acts the two brothers walked up
and down together, at peace once more, and there was a
suspicions moisture in the Seigneur's eyes. The demeanour
of the people had been so humble and rapt that the place
and the plateau and the valley seemed alone in creation
witli the lofty drama of the ages.

The Cur<5's eyes shone when he saw on a little knoll
m the trees, apart from the worshippers and spectators.
Charley and Jo Portugais. His cup of content was now
full He had felt convinced that if the tailor had but been
within these bounds during the past threa days, a work
were begun which should end only at the altar of their
pansh church. To-day the play became to him the enrine
of God for the saving of a man's sonl. Not long before
the last great tableau was to appear he went to his own
little tent near the but where the actors prepared to iro
upon the stage As he entered, some one came quickly
forward from the shadow of the trees and touched him
on the arm.

"Rosalie!" he cried in amazement, for she wore the
costume ot Mary Magdalene.

"It is I, not Paulette, who will appear!" she said a
deep light in her eyes. '

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

ROSALIE PLAYS A PABT

•Yn, I ^ ^

le great Btoge." " Pauiette hns
-nh • - -

337

«^!l!!:!v:'*^'»''^'P°!"ti"^ toward.

given me these to wear '

now oTk'? '"^'f-'-and I only a,!.- your blessing
now Oh, believe, believe me, I can speak for those whS

prVanTlht""'.*'"'"* ' ^ "^ g"ilty i for tt" Zho"
In/fT.. those Who canno. pray; for those who confess

mv heaTwT^ f";" ""*• / =»" 'l'^"'' •''« '-ords out o
my heart w th g adness and agony, monsieur 1 " sho urged
in a voice vibrating with feeling. »"-3 urgea,

A luminous look came into the Curb's face. A thought
leapt up ,n his heart. Who could tell --this pure 3l
speaking for th« whole sinful, unbelieving, and beHevTn^
world,^ m,.ht be the one last conqueri.i'g argume:!'.!

RofaIie°to^H.* 7^ *'"'/^°"? °' 'P'"' *'■''=»> had driven
m3.1 V "^^ ''°"^'*'' ^^'°"?^ 'he words of Mary
Magdalene her own woe, to say ft out to all the worl7
and to receive, as did I'aulette Dubois, every day after
the curtain came down, absolution and blessin/ Shi
longed for the old remembered peace "'''''"K- "''e

The Curd could not read the struggle between her love
for a man and the ineradicable habit of her "oul • ba?

«id " Go mv th-lH™^.' r^r"^ »^^'"™ -«^ her and
V "°', .""y "hild, and God be with you ! "

wW T 1 ."°* ^l her for tears as she hurrisd away to
where Panlette Dubois awaited her-the two at Beace

woman^P *^■ '""^^ °'.*''^ '"'^'^ despised and fnju^ouB
woman Eosal.e was made ready to play the part in the

finalTl) "" """iT.'"^ "'^^ *he few who appeared in the
final tableau and they at the last moment only.
Ihe bell began to tol!. •'

^cmated yet abashed and awe-struck eyes saw the
t^ evtinT l^ Ch'-irtendom: the three crosses agains
PonuWe t^he f ' t ^'^t'" '" *he centre, the ifoman
ffin^s *he rembhng Jews, the pati.etic ,.-oups of
disciples. A cloud passed across the sky, the illusion
grew, and hearts quivered in piteous sympathy. Ther^

ZJ" °VT "'"'•"°* " »°""'l save the^ob^of som^
overwrought woman. The woe of an oppressed 3d

338

THE RIGHT OP WAY

•b«orbed them. Even the (tolid Indians, as Roman sol-
dier*, shrank awe-itrioken from the lacied tragedy. Now
the eyes of all were upon the central Figure, then they
shifted for • moment to John the Beloved! standinir with
the Mother.

"Pauvre Mire! Pauvri ClirU; .'" said a weeping
woman aloud.

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

" It is finished. Father, into Thy hands I commend
my spirit ! " said the Figure.

The hush was broken by such a sound as one hears in
a forest when a wind quivers over the earth, flutters the
leaves, and then sinks away — neither having come nor
gone, but only lived and died.

Again there was silence, and then all eyes were fixed
upon the figure at the foot of the cross— Mary the Mag-
dalene.

Day after day they had seen this figure rise, come for-
ward a step, and speak the epilogue to this moving
miracle-drama. For the last three days Paulette Dubois
had turned a sorrowful face upon them, and with one
hand upraised had spoken the prayer, the prophecy, the
thanksgiving, the appeal of humanity and the iwes. They
looked to see the same figure now, and waited. But as
the Magdalene turned, there was a great stir in the multi-
tude, for the face bent upon them was that of Rosalie
Evantnrel. Awe and wonder moved the people.

Apart from the crowd, under a clump of trees, knelt a
woodsman from Vadrome Mountain, and the tailor of
Chandiire dtood beside him.

When Charley, touched by the heavy scene, saw the
figure of the Magdalene rise, he felt a curious thrill of
fascination. When she turned, and he saw the face of
Rosalie, the blood rushed to his face, then his heart seemed
to stand still. Pain and shame travelled to the farthest
recesses of his nature. Jo Portngais rose to his feet with
a »tartl«d ezolamation.

■IIIK FACE WAS THAT OP KOSALIK EVANJUREI,

ROSALIE PLAYS A PART

339

hours shall never cease-m it there shalf be no night.
He whom ye have crucified hath saved you from the
wrath to come. He hath saved others, Himself hT would
not save. Even for such as I, who have secretl^opened.

who have secretly entered, the doors of sin •'

With a gasp of horror and a mad desire to take her

SevTJ': °'^\S°' '"j «^^^^- f-cinated crowd
Chariey made to rush forward, but Jo Portugais held him

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

such as 1, and all women who sorrow, and all men who
err and are deceived, and all the helple s worfd "uiJow
that this was the Friend of the human soul "

™tw;„*/*''"™'vu°' ," ""O^ement, only that slight,
pathetic figure, with i«le agonised face, 'and eyes thai

Sr t ^^~'°°''''l '^y""'^ *''«'"' °^«' their head,
to the darkening east, the clouded lightof evening behind

Zip),; T"-. """^^ °"* '""' '*"*°t ""d clear, now
searching and piteous, vet reaching to where the farther-

s7r:ldrnrtrees"'''' '''"^'"" '°«* °P°° *^« "^^^ -"^ - t^e

^,Jl,^^*i \^ n*^® ^T ™*y °«^«'" "'« nndone; what He
shS n^l in "'^'' •" "^^^-^ His is the Word which
shall unite aU languages, when ye that are Romans shall
be no more Romans and ye that are Jews shall still be
Jews reproached and alone. No longer shall men faint
Nol^'t^f"' shadow of the Cross shall screen them
Xjight of the World shall cheer her "
*y,^! ff ^ 'P°^*' ^''?.'''°"^ ^"^^ ^^^ fro-n the sunset, and

W hl™° H^°"' u^^f^ ^'^^'"^ *••« '^''' ""d shone ipon
her hair, casting her face m a gracious shadow. Her voice
rose higher. " I the Magdalene, am the first-fruits of thh
.acnfice : from the foot of the cross I come. I have sinned
more than alL I have shamed all women. But I have
confessed my sm, and He is faithful and just to forgive
us our sins and to cleanse ns from all unrighteousnesi"

840

THE RIGHT OF WAT

Her voice now became lower, but clear and even, pathe-
tically exulting .

"0 world, forgive, as He hath forgiven yon! Fall,
dark curtain, and hide thia pain, and rise again upod for-
given sin and a redeemed world ! "

She stood still, with her eyes upraised, and the cnrtain
came slowly down.

For a long time no one in all the gathered multitude
stirred. Far over under the trees a man sat upon the
ground, his head npon his arms, and his arms upon his
knees, in a misery unroeasurable. Beside him stood a
woodsman, who knew of no word to say that might com-
fort him.

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

CHAPTER LVI

MBS. FLYNN SPEAKS

own door, he observed that, h^T t„^^ v -riynn to Her

had seen t for many a day VeTt*^'"' ^^TV "''"' ^^
was a freedom in Zr aif ' a JLT^f was lighter, there
carriage. ' ^^"'^ "^ confidence in her

i..tV:"pai2fteror the™' '°°^ " *""^ -^'*

You have been away," she said softly.
toT a few days," he answered,
iar?

"At Vadrome Mountain."

^^:l:i 'aTadl^t Sylf •''^^^ "^ *^« ^-- P% ."
"I was present to-day," he answered.

Tis a day for everlastin' mimorv sir Fnr fl,<> ^

342

THE BIGHT OF WAY

" Tib one in a million!" said Mrs. Plynn, in a oonfi-
dentjal tone, for she had a fixed idea that Eosalie loved
Charley and that he loved her, and that the only thing
that stood m the way of their marriage was religion.
From the first Charley had conqnered Mrs. Flynn. That
he was a tailor was a pity and a shame, but love was love,
and the man had a head on him and a heart in him ; and
love was love ! So Mrs. Flynn said :

_" 'Tis one that a man that's a man should do anny-
thing for, was it navin' the heart out out uv him, or givin'
the last drop uv his blood. Shore, for such as her,
murder, or false witness, or givin' up the last wish or
thought a man hugged to his boosom, would be as aisy as
aisy.

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

"I believe every word of yours," he said, shaking her
hand, " and we'll see, you and I, that no man marries
her who isn't ready t/? do what yon say."

" Would you do it yourself— if it was you ? " she said,
flushing for her boldness.
" I would," he answered.

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

"Mrs Flynn— good Mrs. Flynn ! " he said, and went
back sadly to his house, and shut himself up with his
thoughts. When night drew on he went to bed, but he
could not sleep. He got up after a time, and taking pen
and paper, wrote for a long time. Having finished, he
took what he had written, and placing it with the two
packets— of money and pearis—which he had brought
from his old home, he addressed it to the Cur^, and going
to the safe in the wall of the shop, placed them inside and
locked the door.

Then he went to bed, and slept soundly— the deep sleep
of the just r r

CHAPTER LVII

A BUHNINO PIEBY FURNACE

fjvf nn"^"" W*""'" *'^^ "'"''» °^ *•>« f""'^ ^'^^ i° «» bed,

v?si?.H P), ?! T " '""""K*' '''"'• """^ before, had
visited Chandiire for one brief day, when he had been

vZi that ^"^t t* '^^ ^"^ v^^^«' »d '""^ fl«d tbe
village that night because, aa he thought, he had heard
the voice of his old friend's ghost in the trees. S,

where he could entertaining where he might earninf

Zy^.y,*-^" -l"'"*"?- ^« '"''' °°'^ °» his ;ay back
Cha„"ll« ?»"'•■«» to Montreal, and his route lay through
nStl ^ ' bad hoped to reach Chaudifere before

wWh i^^/flT°''^''•' '''* ^^"^ '"^^ i""'^«"t from
which he had fled many months before ; but his horse

from the parish in the hills, and darkness came upon him
Wore he could hide his wagon in the woods ^ pZ
ceed afoot to Chandifere. He had shot his horse and
rolled It into the swift torrent beneath the bridg^ '
,,Jji? u'"^,-*^ lonely road, he drank freely from the
whisky-horn he earned, to keep his spirits upf so that by
the tjme he came to the outskirts of ChaudiJre he was in
the " nnU '^*'°"'.ri™"'*'^ impudently along with
at the firs^^l "T^^/r '^^ ''3"°! ^"^ given him. Arrived
tain. Should he knock here or go on to the tavern? He

trees. If he knocked here, would the people admit him
in his present state ?-he had sense enofgh to kn^w tb"
he was very drunk. As he shook his head in owlish

344

THE RIGHT OP WAY

pavity he saw the church on the hill not far away. He
chuckled to himself. The carpe; in the chancel ind the
hassocks at the altar would make a good bed. No fear of
Charley s ghost coming inside the church— it wouldn't be
that kind of a ghost. As he travelled the intervening space,
Bhrugging his shoulders, staggering serenely, he toTd him-
self in confidence that he would leave the church at dawn,
go to the tavern, purchase a horse as soon as might be,
and get back to his wagon.

The church door was unlocked, and he entered and made
ms way to the chancel, found surplices in the vestry and
put a hassock inside one for a pillow. Then he sat down
and drew the loose rug of the chancel-floor over him,
and took another drink from the whisky-horn. Lightinjr
his pipe he smoked for a while, but grew drowsy, and
his pipe fell into his lap. With eyes nearly shut he struck
another match, made' to light his pipe again, but threw
the match away, still burning. As he did so the pipe
dropped again from his mouth, and he fell back on the
nassock-pillow he had made.

The lighted match fell on a surpUce which had
dropped from his arms as he came from the vestry
and set it afire. In five minutes the whole chancel
was burmng, and the sleeping man waked in the midst
of smoke and flame. He staggered to his feet with a
terror-stncken cry, stumbled down the aisle, through the
front door, and out into the night. Reaching the road
he turned his face igain to the hill where his wagon lay
hid. If he could reach that, he would be safe; nobody
would suspect him. He clutched the whisky-horn tight
and broke into a run. As he passed beyond the village
his excited imagination heard Charley Steele's ghost calling

Chau^^re ™° ^*''^"' "^^ ""** ^*P' '^""^ ^''"^

Not Charley's voice, but the voices of many people in
Chaudifere were calling. Some wakeful person had seen
the glare in the church windows and had given the alarm
and now there rang through the streets the caXl—'-Mre}
Fire! Fir' I"

Charley and Jo were among the last to wake, for both

A BURNING FIERY FURNACE 346

th'fnwT f°ndly, bnt Jo was roueed by a handful of gravel
thrown at his window and a warning cry. and I few
moments later he and Charley wer« if thTstreet with a

hghting up the sky, burnishing th? trees. The iurch
was a mass of flames. >'"u.i,ii

Charley was as pale as the rest of the crowd- for he
thought of the Cur^. he thought of this peopbt; whom
their church meant more than home, aSd vastly more
than fnend and fortune. His heart was with them aT
not because it was the.r church that was burning but
because it was something dear to them ^'

vp»f^ii'?? 'i!"^ '^"'' ^? '"'" ^^« C"^^ ''°'ni"g from the
vestry of the burning church, bearing some vessels of the
altar. Deposi mg them in the arms of his weeping sister

a^d'w-ufd nK Hmt. ''' '°°'- ^-^'^ ^' W° "-

is :Sd.' %:^z^:^'' '=™^- - ^°" — -^

At that moment Charley and Portngais came np A
humed question to the Curd from Charley, a key handed

th™ 'tSf /""" •^°' ti ^^°'' *•>« Cur^d'coulJptvtt
them the two men had rushed through the smoke
and^flame into the vestiy, Portugais hofding Chariey's

Wie crowd outside waited in a terrible anxiety. The
timber of the chancel portion of the building'^seemed
about to fall, and still the two men did not appear The
people called ; the Cur^ clenched his hands at Msdde-he
was too fearful even to pray.

trp«n,»?.!!? I^^ 1"° "^l .Weared, loaded with the few
InTT i!f / "^"1"^ ^'■"y ^«'« ^oon'hed and singed
t^t tJ^fl^' Z^ ^^^ "^'^ ^"™«d. b"t, stumblinglnd

cry : " Bosalie Evanturel ! Eosalie Evanture) ! " "

Home one came running to the Curd
"Rosalie Evanturel has gone inside for the Uttle cross

<^l

fil

34<

THE RIGHT OF WAY

on the pillar She i. in the flame.; the door hw Men
in. hhe can't get out again." '""u

ye«^v Hr!l,''°T "^i S^"'^"^ ^^*^ ^^ ""de the
vestry door. A cry of horror went up

vei™"^/*!,^ " "»'°"*».»"i » half, tut it geemed like
years, and then a man in flames appeared in the fierr
porch-and not alone. He carried /^\ in hisarml £

overhead bnt with a last effort, he plunged forwlrS
through the furnace, and was caught by eager hands
on the margin of endurable heSt the Two were
smothered m quilt, brought from the Curb's house and

W™d ""The" w *'" r\ 'f^'' 2^*'"' ^'«" "^ t"-
beyond. The woman had fainted in the flame of the

wtiiarmr" °^^ '"'"'"''"" " they caught her
.J^ *«y tore away Charley's coat muffling his face
and opened his shirt, they stared in awe. The ct2

iSifr''' '"^h? ^'°.'" '^' P"'"' Charley had th"ut

by Itself in the hands of Louis Trndel

he^' ^ia'ATf/t*". P«°Pl« >ck. He raised Charley's

Se^eu^Hftn 1^°"'^;'' "'"2 ^ J"* ""^<^ ^^'^ the
^Z'Ia u"* T' *""" *••« insensible man's breast

for.ntYsked.^- '' ''' '-- - *•■« — »^« -^
"Great God-do yon ask!" the Seigneur said in-

staSngV""""^ ''' "'""- "'" ''"' ■*'''" '^'' '''''"^'
"Unscathed, my son," the Cur6 said.

fnrif» . '? *""°r-°'*5 "°? ^" '°" • Had he not thirsted
for his soul as a hart for the watei^brooks «

'I I am ve^ sorry for you, monsieur," said Charley.

" If iii K. ' I' c ""^ *'f '■^P'y' '" » "''"ting voice.

It will be years before we have another church— many

many years. u<»"jr,

A BURNING FIKBY FURNACE

347

An^\ Tiu^r ^'^ T}^^ » *"■"''' »"^ »»>« "Pire shot
down into the flaming lUbris.

The people groaned.

.JJ*"""!,^?' "fy thouMnd dollar, to build it up
again, gaid Rlion Lacasse. *^

.:^w I ^'' ^*"?''y- " ^h"* <=°"'d go towards it."
MaxSia^Cour *"" ''°°"°'^ '° *''"' '"'"'''" ""^

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

Charley looked at the Cur^. mournful and broken but
calm He saw the Seigneur, gloomy and silent, standing
apart He saw the people in scattered groups, looking
more !.omeless than if they had no homes." Some groZ
were silent; others discussed angrily the question, w£o
was the incendiary ?-thct it had been set on fire seemed
cert&in.

"I said no good would come of the play-acting," said
Fmon'Kse. *^"' ""^ """ ^""^ '"**' *'"' -^^^ ''^

Presently Charley staggered to his feet, purpose in his
face These people, from the Cnr^ and SeignVur to the
most Ignorant AaJ,<a„<, were hopeless and inert. The
pnde of their lives was gone.

"Gather the people together," he said to the Notary
and Fihon Lacasse. Then he turned to the Cur*5 and thi
!>eigneur.

" With your permission, messieurs," he said, " I will do
thew aU" *^''" ^ ^"""^ ^''" ^°°^- ^ ""' ^P^*"" *o

Wondering, M. Loisel added his voice to the Notary's
and the word went round. Slowly they all made thei^
way to a spot the Curd indicated.

Chariey stood on the embankment above the road, the
notables of the pansh round him.

Rosalie had been taken to the Curb's house. In that
wild moment m the church when she had fallen insensible
in Chariey B arms, a new feeling had sprung up in her.
She loved him in every fibre, but she hiS a strange

348

THB RIGHT OP WAY

die together— together " " "* "'""

moment" '"' '° '^' °"'''' ^°»««' '^'' 'bought only of that

BoiJitt fchtth?h:°;!:^^^^ "'^•'^' " • ^"t
andttVtlrn'h-uSieKr'" ■^'*" *° ^"- ^'^-•

th^-i^i:^^^- -.d .00. o. o.

See whom ? "asked the Cnrt'g ,iste,

''You should not have done it,'' he said.
1 wanted to do something," she -eplied " To m,t rt-
Sr;^rg^„r^^^-'' pa..enfltuH^X* t

He;|d?;i?ar^;:^;^,^,;^

feaJXn&atrdiJ"''"'''' ^^^ >"- ^ ''-
b™!"'""" ^"""^ '•''"'" '"-^ B<»^"«' '^■^'^h above her

ag^'i^rat'on*" ^"»''* *''''" *" ''"y *° " »«'- chnrch
« * ?* °'"'^' "* ""ce, my child."

nevi w« t '^ """■ V" ""''^ N»"'«''e Dauphin " There

Thrsrhafap^T''*- ^"^^^ '" -ycLn-^om^t':

hald'^^lS^: '"'" ""^^-^ ^-^^--^^ I--', her
"Everything," answered the Cur4 ■"ni«~ »„. .* j
in h,s tattered clothes, the beard bit to hTs chin hk
hands scorched, his eyes blood-shot, and he spJk.^''

A BURNINO FIERY FUKNACE 349

"•With the tongue, of men and of angel.!"- .aid
M. Daaphin enthnBiasfically.

vJi',?'"^-^""'"r,'^.*y '^"""'"■^= "*Yon look on
yonder burning wall.,' h« .aid, 'and wonder when thev
will nw again on thi. hill made .acred by the burial it
your beloved, by the chri.tening cf your children the
marnage. which have given yon%a,,py homerrd Ee
•acrament. which are to you the la, .oYyour live^ Yon

Sl'mn"""""'*'' °^ r"r in<»'°^ /early towaH. your
church— then give one-fortieth of all you poawM to-W^
•nd your church will be begun in a ^mont^^ Before 'a

IZ S^'r."""^ y?. '"" •'"T '^"n to this venerable
^t and enter another church here. Your vow., your
memone., and your hope, will be purged by fire. AH
that you po8,«.. will be con.ecrate5 by your free-wi
w^.T r^*"' ", "r'^ ''"* rememberiwh^atcam"^"
Th^ght." '"" *''^"">'"'' »"'' generous and noble

tm'th .n^^l"^ you "said the Notary-.'he .poke tho
™tll?^, *•";, people cheered. He .aid that the man
outside the wall, could .ometime. tell the besieged the

.K" '*""'■ " ''^"° "''*" ^ ••«" '""h a

"What are they going to do?" asked Bowlie, and

withdrew her trembUng hand from that of rn^ame

♦!,'•'"'« ^^^ ^*7' ** "y °®«»' tW will brine
ri fu^ ! •, . ^e™ " no man in ChaudiJre but will
the credit from the bank, the grain from the barn fo^
fortieth nJ' "r, "'»''''.*'•« °°t« of h""-! to contribute one-
church » " ''° ** rebuilding of the

" Notes of hand are not money," said the Curd's sister

the practical sense ever uppermost '

"They shall all be money— hard cash," said the Notary

nn fL l*F^"J I' ^T^ \° 'IP*", * ^°^^ °f l'»"k' a°d take
up the notes of hand, and give bank-bills in return To-
day I go with his steward to Quebec to get the money "

350

TTZ RIGHT OF WAY

nff T u. ^- D'"'P''">. " l>e never can keeo hand.

»ee, til the sunnae ! " uid Mm Flvnn*. ™; <
the corner, her face toward, the fa^t.™ Ci^dor" '™"°

CHAPTER LVIII
WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL

b«.n brought to the office of the Notaiy by the WtLful

HoMijnol ut in the office ana received that which repre-
untecl one-fortieth of the value of each man'. o^SdT.
estate, «,d wealth-the fortieth vah,e of a wo^-Jafver';
cottage or a widow', garden ! They did it impartiallyfoJ
all. a. the Cur^ and threa of the be'.t-to-do kMtanS/hZ
done for the Seigijeur, whow four thousand doll^ h^
been paid in first of all.

Charley hu 1 been confined to his room for three davs
f^?T "f V, '"J^'i-? ""^ -.fovensh cold he had caugLt!
F?l! f *?*«'««<» did not disturb hi. aniet But Mrs
Flynn took him broth made by Hos^ie's hand^ and
Eosahe fought with her desire t^ go to him and nu^e
him. She was not, however, the Rosalie of the old im-
pulse and impetuous re«)lve— the arrow had gone t»o
aeep; she waited till she could see his face a^n and
look in o his eyes. Not apathy, but a sens! of the
inevitaole was upon her, and pale and fragile, but with a
'^Sl "P;?'' «'«' ''"ted ioT she knew not what.

must hold herself ready for the hour when he would need

♦if.^ « / / n'' '"''*'' *•" conviction had come to her
that the end of all was near, she had revolted. She had
had impulse to go to him at all hazards, to say to him

Lome away— anywhere, anywhere ! " But that had
pyen way to the deeper thing in her, and somethintr of
Charley s spint of stoic waiting had come upon her

bhe watched the people^ping to the Notary's office

THE RIGHT OF WAY

352

fate was iXd s"e was ^uohT*"'^ *'" '^" '"""'^ °*
but the yonng ever suffTCsf "" ^°"°« *° ""ff" "».

hisX'a^TwentToteT.^'t''"^ «« -""> fr°-
was startled, for he wis cWn I '^^ "^."'i ^' S™* «te
his beard fe, the skfn S^Z . ^''^^'j^^™ ^"^ ''""'^^

removed from this Kfk J^ .T * l'*«'«°* ">'"». f^"-
singular. Cw^ Je „^5?* *'"'°', both - individual,
shaken face Lv^i^ ,W " ^^r^^"^' "'^^ *">« "'ean-
She did ^t fnow thatCT" 1 '^^"'^ separateness.
faces. She washed him tfltT ^°°^ "^ '" *»*'' *eir

''^iZt:r-r^^^^^ ''''"'''

rest."wLntenrred"thrv?" ?-'t^-^^ -itb the

tC^anget h.°s pelnT''^' '^'"^ *«^'-°» "l^" t^at
their relftions. A^^cZd ^Z^T ^^^^^^'^ effected
the shop. When PhJw*^ j"'l.™""'^ *''« 'J°'"- of
statement oi his^o^s aL '^"^' hia offering, with a

Nota^did not kn^w^hat to^drTK""' ^"^.^"^ """^
to decline it for stece Mnn." ^''^^ ''"* ^'«P°««d

WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL 353

t'L^rnSjf"'^'^- T%to,d.i™.o. He said no.
75ri%^^ri^^^^ a .he.e for t.e

tracts. '*""* Md safeguards of the con-

had arrived in safety from 0.«h- *•■« Se.gnenr's stewarf
dollars in bank-bills^ Th™ e M Rn7' 1^°*^ *l'°"''«d
for the notes of hand of such of th« f v,''^ exchanged
ready cash to give All nf fi,- . ^'^^'mts as had not
had been pai^d o;er "tw ^ad^^^ *.'i°"^''"'' ^°'^^
dollars in cash, besides three thi^^ *^":*y *''°"«and
had at his house, the proceeds ofTri '"''•''''^ *'"' C»rd
was proposed to send thi» ? ^^ ^*'»'°n Ray. It

QueW in another twodaywheTthr.'? the ban\ in
should be complete ^ " *^^ "'''"'e contributions

2^- -a^^eS:^^*''^'"^^^- dauphin

sum of.moneywasintLlrish n?!"! *^,^* *•>« large
It was in his house. It wTs tW°/°°^* "'»<> t"ew thtt
thatM. Bossignol or the Cu Aotd%''r*''i ^^ "'S'^-
M. Wsel urged that secrecy as o *h "^!'^" °*' ''•
of the money was imnortant T* I *"'' nesting-place
be deposited in th7ZtLikr',*''"^'' *''''* i'^houlk
nnoificial person who m°>lt uot l^ P'^''^' »"d ^ith some
charge. ° ""»''* "o* he supposed to have it in

place"rold LoSdfffl: in t^'^ .^"ry «'"'" »>«
shop." "«' 5 sale m the wall of the tailor-

wilSn;rss:USr-t^^^^^^^^ of un-

evenmg at sundown thirtv twn T *>>« others. That
deposited in the safe in thTolI^f "'"n*^ '^°"»™ ^^
Bhop, and the lock was J^I^Z^^i:^ *^°'-

854

THE RIGHT OF WAY

But the Notary s wife had wormed the secret from her
husband, and she found it hard to keep. She told it to
MaximUian Cour, and he kept it. She told it to her
cousin the wife of Filion Lacasso, and she did not keep
It. Before twenty-four hours went round, a dozen people
knew it "^ "^

The evening of the second day another two thousand
dollars was added to the treasure, and the lock was aeain
sealed— with the utmost secrecy. Charley and Jo Por-
tugaiB, the infidel and the murderer, were thus the sentries
to the peace of a parish, the bankers of its gifts, the
security for the future of the church of Chaudifere. Their
weapons of defence were two old pistols belonmni? to the
Seigneur.

" Money is the master of the unexpected," the Seigneur
had said as he handed them over. He chuckled for hours
afterwards as he thought of his epigram. That night as
he turned over in bed for the third time, as was his
custom before going to sleep, another epigram came to
him— ."Money is the only fox liunted night and day"
He kept repeating it over and over again with vain
pnde.

The truth of M. Roasignol's aphorisms had been de-
monstrated several days before. On his return from
Quebec with the twenty thousand dollars of the Sei-
gneur's money, M. Dauphin had dwelt with great pride
on the discretion and energy he and the steward had
shown; had told dramatically of the skill which had
enabled them to make a journey of such importance so
secretly and safely; had overwhelmed himself with
blushes for his own coolness and intrepidity. Fortune
had, however, favoured his reputation and his intrepidity,
for he had been pursued from the hour he and his
companion left Quebec. A taste for the picturesque
had impelled him to arrange for two relays of horses, and
this fact saved him and the twenty thousand dollars he
earned. Two hours after he had left Quebec, four
determined men had got upon his trail, and had only
been prevented from overtaking him by the freshness

WITH Hia BACK .0 TUB WAU. 355

rftt. !»». whid, U. J„..a, ,,„^j, j^ _^

of late. Havinir mp^ J^ • ,. ™*^* * companion
more ahead, and from the W^VII^^ *° *"""■ <"■

must oerfain ; L ~ted bZ .' ^°"''' ^^«™ ^''^y
to make an elort ^1^ banSg'reTf '^^r"^
and refused to turn back withouTa^ri^-' He 'w'^'

When the four met again, Billv had notl„-„„ f
mnmcate, as he had l^n taSn in ^ ■ K'° ''°°'-

giv; lorJ^b.SS, "ZS.°vT '","I»*"<» '0

was as ready to share in Billy's second

366

THE RIUHT OF WAY

enterprise as he had been to incite him to his first
crime.

So it was that as the Seigneur made his epigram
and gloated over it, the five men, with horses at a con-
venient distance, armed to the teeth, broke stealthily into
Charley's house.

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

This night Jo Portugais was sleeping upstairs, while
Charley lay upon the bench in the tailor-shop. Charley
heard the door open, heard unfamiliar steps, seized his
pistol, and, springing up, with his back to the safe,
called out loudly to Jo. As he dimly saw men rush
at him, he fired. The bullet reached its mark, and one
man fell dead. At that moment a dark-lantern was
turned full on Chirley, and a pistol was fired point-blank
at him.

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

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

Jo rushed into the shop, and saw, as he thought, Charley
lying dead — saw the robber dead upon the floor. His
master and friend gone, the conviction seized him that his
own time had come. He would give himself to justice now
— but to God's justice, not to man's. The robbers were four
to one, and he would avenge his master's death and give
his own life to do it. It was all the thought of a second.
He rushed out after the robbers, shouting as he ran, to
awake the villagers. He heard the marauders ahead of
him, and, fleet of foot, rushed on. Reaching them as they
mounted, he fired, and brought down his man — a shivering
quack-doctor, who, like his leader, had seen a sight in the
tailor-shop that struck terror to his soul. Two of the
others then fired at Jo, who had caught a horse by the
head. He fell without a sound, and lay upon his face

WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL 367

o^W^rnd ''"l^e^K.ri *^%rre Worses nor any

the^Sri^ tX;'"C%' people flocked about

auSf^to^Htl^roiS';^^^^ ^" »-^- °^

way to the Curl and Cs?^^' "^^^^ge" were on the

in her arms iVhll.^ "• '"^v"" ^^' *"-«^«t' he was
first to hTsreLe id'"-??'"" ^"^T"" """^ *° <">"■«
a..one.t ;c&trLr^dr.r^ °-^' °°''-^ ^^

the?Zrr/„SrtS.7uf th*;^, *^« ^'-^^^' ^^
been hers, no nfatter Zi came after"' ^C"^^"^^
illusions— she knew ths^t tL I ''"^ "^^ °o

all for hin., /nd f oTthet botl ""' ""'' '''''■■ *'"' ^^ "^
The Cnrf! entered and hurried forward Tl,^, .i.

r^his^r^- ^"*-* - *'«^--^ s: -ra

"He has givoa his life for the church," he said, then

868

THE RIGHT OF WAY

commanded all to leave, save those needed to carry the
wounded man upstairs.

Still it was Eosalie that directed the removal. She
held his hand ; she saw that he was carefully laid down •
she raised his head to a proper height; she moistened
his lips and fanned him. Meanwhile the Curd fell upon
his knees, and the noise of talk and whisperinir ceased
in the house.

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

Upstairs the Curd's voice prayed : " Of Thy mercy O
Lord, hear our prayer. Grant that he be brought into
1 hy Church ere his last hour come. Forgive, O Lord "

Charley stirred and opened his eyes. He saw the
Curd bowed in piiayer; he heard the trembling voice.
He touched the white head with his hand.

CHAPTER LIX

IN WHICH CHARLEY MEETS A STRANGER

The Curd came to hia feet with a joyful cry. " Mon-
sieur— my son ! " he said, bending over him.

"Is it all over?" Charley asked calmly, almost cheer-
fully Death now was the only solution of life's problems,
and he welcomed it from the void.

The Curd went to the door and locked it. The deep-
est desire of his life must now be uttered, his great
aspiration be realised.

"My son," he said, as he came softly to the bedside
again, " jou have given to us all you had— your charity
your wisdom, your skill. Yo" have "—it was hard, but

the man's wound was mortal, and it must be said " you

have consecrated our new church with your blood. You
have given all to us ; we will give all to yon "

There was a soft knocking at the door. He went and
opened it a very little. " He is conscious, Eosalie," he
whispered. " Wait— wait — one moment."

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

The Curd turned to the bed once more.

" What did he say about Jo ? " Charley asked.

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

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

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

The Curd leaned over Charley again. " Shall not the
sacraments of the Church comfort yon in your last hours ? "
sat

360

THE BIGHT OF WAY

he uid. "It is the way, the truth, and the life. It ii
the Voice that says ' Peace ' to the vexed mind. Human
intellect is vanity; only the soul survives. Will you not
hear the Voice? Will yon not give ns who love and
honour yon the right to make you ours for ever ? Will
Tou not come to the bosom of that Church for which von
have given all ? " '

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

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

Charley reckoned swiftly with his fate. What was
there now to do ? If his wound was not mortal, what
tragedy might now come! For Bi'ly's hand— the hand
of Kathleens brother— had brought him low. If the
robbers and murderers were captured, he must be dragged
into the old life, and to what an issue— all the old prob-
lems earned into more terrible conditions. And Rosalie
— m his half-consciousness he had felt her near him; he
felt her near him now. Rosalie- in any case, what could
there be for her? Nothing. He had heard '.e Curd
whisper her name at the door. She was outside— praj--
mg for him He stretched out a hand as though he saw
her, and his hps framed her name. In his weakness and
lading life he had no anguish in the thought of her.
Life and Love were growing distant— though he loved her
as few love and live. She would be removed from want
by him— there were the pearls and the money in the safe
with the money of the Church; there was the letter to
the Cur^, his last testament, leaving all to her He
sleeping, would fear no foe; she, awake in the living
world, would hold him in dear remembrance. Death weri
the letter thing for all. Then Kathleen in her happiness
would be at peace ; and even Billy might go unmolested
for, who was there to recognise Billy, now that Portueais
was dead ? *=

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

IN WHICH CHABLET MEETS A 8TBAN0ER 361

Charley realiged and shuddered. Receive the lacra-
ments of the Chorch ? Be made ready by the priest for
his going hence— end all the sonl's interrogations, with
the solving of his own mortal problems? Say "I be-
lieve," confess his sins, and, receiving absolution, lie down
in peace —

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

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

"Rosalie!" he whispered. The priest ran and un-
locked the door, and Rosalie entered, followed by the
Seigneur and Mrs. Flynn.

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

The bandage slipped ! Or was it slipped ? Who knows ?

Blind with agony, and as in a direful dream, Rosalie
made her way to the bed. The sight of his ensanguined
body roused her, and, murmuring his name — continnally
mnrmnring his name — she assisted Mrs. Flynn to bind up
the wound again. Standing where she stood when she
had stayed Louis Trudel's arm long ago, with an infinito

tenderness she touched the scar — the scar of the cross

on his breast. Terrible as was her grief, her heart had
its comfort in the thought — who could rob her of that
for ever ? — that he would die a martyr. It did not matter
more who knew the story of her love. It could not do
him harm now. She was ready to proclaim it to all the
world. And those who watched knew that they were in
the presence of a great human love.

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

For hours he lay still, and then the fevered blood,
poisoned by the bullet which had brought him down, made

362

THE RIOBT OF WAY

him dehnons. gave htm hallnoinationi-openHjyed illu-
.ion. All the time Bowlie knelt at the fol^ of the M
hep piteous tearless eyes for ever fixed on his face

lowards evening, with an unnatural strength, he lat
up in bed, " '

•' See," he whispered, "that woman in the oomer there:
she has come to take me, but I will not go."
™i^!^'"-5'i,%"^f fantasy poHsessed him-?antasy, strangely
nZmw "'^^ 1 '"« ""^ P"*- Now it waJ Kathlfen^
rZ. ^-i,^' °°'' J° Port-gai", now John Brown, no^
Suzon Charlemagne at the Cdte Dorion, again Jo Portu-
^ X ^"V **™"K«' touching sentences he spoke to them

«rnZ,?\ ^^.7^" P'^^"' ^^"^^ hi""- At length he
?h«T/*'^P"^,''"."'g»='«d straight before himf-over
the head of Rosalie into the distanca '— "ver

^:'f::e'hlrcljr^ft:jj°t't^Lrt;^j
cTo^r.-^.^^^ii';:,--'"' *° "«■ «« " -in^-cw^

a P^iigS^n^r °'" ^' '""^ P"-' •" •■» -> -'•»

The Cnr.5'8 voice seemed to calm the agitated sense to

bnng ,t back to the outer precincts of understanding

l^mwJI "k, r^«*'-"°k ""^noe as the dying Zi
fumbled fumbled, over his breast, found his eytrfass
and, with a last feebb effort, raised it to his eyefshS
now with an unearthly fire. The old interrogation of thf
soul, the elemental habit outlived all else in h°m The
Idiosyncrasy of the mind automatically expressed Ttself

1 beg—your—pardon," he whispered to the iraairined

figure, and the light died out of his eyes, " have™!^ver

—been— introduced— to you ? " i— ever

" At the hour of your birth, my son," said the Driest

as a sobbing cry came from the foot of the bed ^ '

rlnE,H f *K ^^- ^'^ ,°?*. •■«"■ ^^ ««" ^«f« for ever
closed to the voices of life and time.

I'"i

r I

CHAPTER LX

THE RAND AT THE DOOR

The eve of the day of the memorable funeral two be-
lated vuitors to the Passion Play arrived in the villaire
nnknowinff that it had ended, and of the tra{jSy
which had set a whole valley mourning; unconsoions that
they shared in the bitter fortunes of the tailor-man, of
whom men and women spoke with tears. Affected by
the gloom of the place, the two visitors at once prepared
for their return journey, but the manner of the tailor-
man s death arrested their sympathies, touched the
hnmamty in them. The woman was much impressed.

rhey asked to see the bo<'y of the man. They were
taken to the door of the tailor-sho'- while their horses
were being brought round. Within 'the house itself they
were met by an old Irishwoman, who, in response to
their wish " to see the brave man's body," showed them
mto a room where a man lay dead with a bullet through
his heart It was the body of Jo Portugais, whose
master and fnend lay in another room across the hallway
The lady turned back in disappointment— the dead man
was little like a hero.

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

When the visitors came into the hall again, the man
Mid, "There was another, Kathleen — a woodsman."
But standing by the nearly closed door, behind which
lay the dead tailor of Chaudike— they could see the
holy candles flickering within — Kathleen whispered:

863

364

THE EIGHT OF WAY

as M ' %tnCped Vr \ ''"'■ T^'^-'-ted. even
shrugging a'shou wThe ^^^^^7."'^ i ^°.
on his arm Tlifiv »„„* ju'^ :f " .J^atliJeen's hand
out to the" cartage °^ '^' '"^ *°g«*her, and

repliS ""'" °"' "'«''' ••"'« »««" ""o™ uncomznon," he

pa:id'^rt:ntoftenn4:'^'\t -'f - ^'^^^

herself flushing for »l!L ij^ , ^''®° 'he caught

CHAPTEll LXI

THE CURfi SPEAKS

The Cure stood with his back to the ruins of the church
at his feet two newly made graves, and all round, with
wistful faces, crowds of reverent habitants. A benignant
sorrow made his voice in perfect temper with the pensive
stnving of this latest day of spring. At the close of his
address he said :

" I owe you much, my people. I owe him more,
for It was given him, who knew not Cxod, to teach us
how to know Him better. For his past, it is not
given you to know. It is hidden in the bosom of the
Church Sinner he once was, criminal never, as one
can testify who knows all "-he turned to the Abbe
Kossignol, who stood beside him, grave and compas-
sionate— " and his sins were forgiven him. He is the
one sheaf which you and I may carry home rejoicing
from the pagan world of unbelief. What he had in

1WU A^'^t '" "'• ?"/ '" ^^^^^ ''« ^^^"^^ t° oar church
all that he has not left to a woman he loved— to Rosalie
Jivanturel.

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

"He leaves her a little fortune, and us all else he had
Let us pray for his soul, and let us comfort her who
loving deeply, reaped no harvest of love.

" The law may never reach his ruthless murderers for
there is none to recognise their faces; and were they ten
times punished, how should it avail us now! Let ns
always remember that, in his grave, our friend bears on
hiB breast the little iron cross we held so dear. That is

366

THB EIGHT OF WAY

•n death, an^d be a "t " 'lll'""^''.^''' «" hif w^
Presence at the last "*^ "^ °° J'" 'wson. in the

He raised his hands in benediction

EPILOGUE

vailej. bpnng-times and harvests, and long winters

W«rfi ^' ^°'-,'"«° Prospered, and no untoward thC
befel the people. So it was for twenty years, whereS
there had been going and coming in quiet. Some had
fome Ton ^°'' '""''^^ journey? and\ad comeback,
ret^rned'^ Of Z /'"""■•'^l /°y?ge'. a»d had neve
returned Of the last were the Seigneur and a woman
once a Magdalene; but in a house beside a beltTfu"
church, with a noble doorway, lived the Cur^, M Ldser
aged and serene There never was a day, come ra°n or

whos; l?fe "^ ^' ^"\"°u* ^'^'^^ ^y ^ beautiful wc nan'
whose life was one with the people of the valley.

r,jT '''" -lu T™r '" *''« P''"^!' ^hich the lady did
not share, with the help of an old Irishwoman Jalfed
Mrs.Flynn Was there sickness in the parish her hand
smoothed the pillow and soothed the pain, wi there

IJid any suffer iH-repnte, her word helped to restore the
ruined name They did not know that she forgave so
much in all the world, because she thought shS so
much in herself to forgive.

.h^*?Hfu ^''^'" ""^^"^ "Madame Eosalie," and she
cherished the name, and gave commands that when her
grave came to be made near to a certain other grare
Madame Rosahe should be carved upon the stone. Cheerl
^Tl l^^^T^ """^ ^^"^ ^'"^ ^^'' ""disturbed by
T tV^r^ *''^ "'y^'^'y °f *»>« life ^hich had once
absorbed her own. She never sought to know whence
the man came; it was sufficient to know whither he h^

368

THE RIGHT OF WAY

>'; I

gone and that he had been here for a brief dream
of Ufe. It was better to have lived the one short
thnlling hour with all its pain, than never to have
known what she knew, or felt what she had felt. The
mysteiy deepened her romance, and she was even glad
that the ruffians who slew him were never brought to

justice. To her mind they were but part of the mystic

machinery of fate.

For her the years had given many compensations,

und so she told the Cur^, one midsummer day, when

she brought to visit him the orphaned son of Paulette

Dubois, graduated from his college in France, and

making ready to go to the far East

" I have had more than I deserve— a thousand times "

she said.

The Curd smiled, and laid a gentle hand upon her own.
"It is right for you to think so," he said, "but after
a long hfe, I am ready to say that, one way or another
we earn all the real happiness we have. I mean the real
happiness— the moments, my child. I once had a moment
full of happiness."

"May I ask '"she said.

"When my heart first went out to him "—he turned
his face towards the churchyard.

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

The Cuid looked at her benignly : she was a woman
and she had loved the man. He had, however, come to
a stage of Ufe, where greatness alone seemed of little
moment. He forbore to ans;ver her, but he pressed her
hand.

THS ENS

jream

short

have

The

glad

rht to

nystic

tions,

when

alette

and

mes,"

own.
after
)ther,
s real
ment

imed

man,
ae to
little
Iher