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iMBiii

JEFFREY DEPREND

EMBERS

A NOVEL

JEFFREY DEPREND

CHICAGO

J. W. WALLACE AND COMPAxNY

1919

E M B 1{ R S

JEFFREY DEPREND

EMBERS

CHAPTER OXF.

The highway from the field to the homestead
stretched out hke a giant snake, hidden in
patches by undulating slopes ot green and
yellow.

The distance was, perhaps, a mile.

The youth, who had spent the day a-field,
trudged wearily homeward behind the team.

In the meadows grasshoppers sang drowsily.

From the river hard by the shrih piping of
frogs broke in upon the quiet serenity of the
scene.

Along the way the eglanterre ran riot, over-
burdened with laughing bloom, filling the air
with the perfume of simplicity and the sweet
mysticism of the earth.

The dust lay thick upon the road.

Cat-birds mewed sadly in the haw trees.

[9]

EM HERS

Arrivil\^• upon an elevation in the road, the
youth halted and looked hael:.

Leaning heavily against the flank of Rob,
his favorite horse, he drew a long, deep breath
whieh was more like the heavins: of a siHi,
and mopped his neck.

He gazed back into the valley below, where
lay the field fresh ploughed in the green frame-
work of unbroken ground; the rich, dark fal-
low formed a picture .of promise vague and
dim.

"Done!" exclaimed the youth aloud.

The faint murmur of a bell came to him.

He started.

"Hurry on, old fellows!" said he to the pa-
tient beasts ; and they, understanding, pricked
up their ears and started off.

Maurice was tall for his fifteen years and
none too stoutly built.

His eyes were blue and the skin, though
freckled, white.

The hair, long and rebellious, curled clum-
sily around the ears.

After the fashion of country youths, he
stooped perceptibly in his walk, which was a
long, awkward stride.

EM15ERS

His well made hands were cramped and the
palms calloused from contact with the handles
of the plow.

The finger nai's were chipped and black with
the loam of the field.

Before him lay another valley; and on the
summit of the wide plateau beyond, clearly out-
lined against the i)urpling sky, stood the
gabled homestead of the Rodrays, who were
his people.

The house was of pretentious proportions.

It was of red brick, with green shutters and

white trimmings, and stood on the crest of the

plateau, some five hundred feet back of the

highway.

Four gables pointed each to a different cor-
ner of the earth.

The land about the place spoke well for the
thrift of the owner.

In the rear of the house, an apple orchard,
covering, perhaps, five acres of land, was in
bloom. Flanking this was a ten-acre field in
corn and potatoes. On the far side of the
orchard was th- family garden, in which, the
elder Rodray not infrequently boasted, every
vegetable known to the clime was to be found.

EMBERS

There were plum :\u(\ eherry trees around
the entire ed-e of the {garden, and between
these and tlie fenee !L;rew enrrant and i^roose-
berry bushes in ]iro fusion.

At a (hstance of some eig-ht hundred feet
from tlie liuuse rose the barns, the slieep-pens
and the stables, between whieh and tlie house
lay a strai.^dit, well-beaten path.

The Rodrays were, perhaps, the best-known
family in the surrounding country.

William, the father, had come into the north
country and settled close to the American
frontier when he was yet a young man and the
land virgin forest and unbroken soil.

One by one came sturdy pioneers to the spot
chosen by William Rodray.

The wood'^man's axe and the stump fires
were soon at work in their destructive mission.

Gradually clearings were made; and in the
open spaces humble cal)ins appeared where
white-winged tents had stood.

The soil was rich and fertile; the yield of
crops abundant.

The straggling cabins in time became a
street.

The hamlet grew and gave itself a name —
Lasalle.

EMBERS

And as the hanilct of Lasalle ,i,n-c\v in uealtli,
in prestig-c and importance, so did some of its
people.

And not the least among these was William
Rod ray.

At the time of his advent in the field of his
future activities, W illiam Rodray was a slim,
stern-looking youth.

His possessions, besides the thin, frayed
clothes on hk, back, consisted of a red kerchief,
full of stale crackers and cheese, and an extra
pair of cheap cotton socks which he had
washed and dried by the side of streams on his
way throug-h the strange country.

A few shillings, securely tied in a corner of
the red kerchief, totaled the sum of his meager
fortune.

^ ears of monotonous sameness in his diet,
consisting main^v of potatoes, had imparted to
his features a starchy pallor.

A native of the North of Ireland, his boy-
hood had known no more elevating element
than the fogs and the bogs of that\vretched
island.

It was with a sense of great animal joy that
he first drank in the hot, clear sunshine, the

EMP.ERS

cool delicious night breezes of the Canadian
land.

The sound of the axe in the maple, the
crackling of the smudge fires, the yelps of the
wolf-pnck, the distant rumbling of the raging
cataract, a mile away, burst in upon his numb
and dreamless soul like the intonation of a
mighty song.

He took a wife.

On the frontier, in those days, beauty was
by no means an essential in the choosing of a
helpmate. If a maid was strong and buxom,
had a wholesome fear of the Lord and was
trained in ihe spinning of wool and the cook-
ing of common fare, the lad was fortunate, in-
deed, who came to possess her.

If, for good measure, the lass happened to
be endowed with ros\ cheeks, sweet lips and
laughing eyes, with small feet, a full breast
and well-rounded hips, so much the better for
the bridegroom.

But these were luxuries — qualities that
might not be given to all, and which men would
be foolish to seek with persistence, lest the men
go unweddcd and the work undone.

A large family was born of the union —

EM HERS

twelve in all. Seven died in early childhood.
Of the rcniaininij: five, three were g-irls— Ann,
Mary and Alice. Maurice and Georg-e were
the only son.s of the family.

If pro.sperity had attended the .struggles of
the emigrant youth in the gathering of wealth,
the same might not be said of his efforts to
control and direct the members of his house-
hold.

Eor this there were varying reasons.

Afrs. Rodray was one of those storm-tossed
souls which the Fates seem to have singled
out as especial objects of injustice and persecu-
tion.

The elder Rodrays had each a well-defined
system of education which they sought, at
every opportunity, to impress upon the minds
of the children.

The father held his spouse in open contempt
for the benefit of the younger members of the
household, while the wife employed every
means at her command to instill in the hearts
of her ofifspring the same hatred and fear
which she felt for her lord.

Thus, and among such surroundings, had
the young Rodrays grown to where they could
judge for themselves.

EMBERS

Tiierc were factions.

There were loud, l)itter fjiiarrels, in which
both elements took sides.

The scenes usually occurred at the table.

The mother, who not infrc(|uently hrou.q-ht
on the trouble herself, would finally settle d-nvn
into a whimpering- drizzle of tears.

This was too much for the man's temper.

lie would sprin.n^ from his seat with an oath
and hurl himself out of the room.

And now the mother, recoverin.cr her e(|ua-
nimity, would despatch Alice to the cellar for
compotes and other delicacies which were kept
out of sight of the father.

Regalinc,r the spirit with the body, she would
now go over, between bites, the oft-repeated
story of her injured love and t,,o countless
wrongs which she had suffered at the hands
of W illiam Rodray.
The children never grew tired of this story.
'1 hey licked their chops upon its recital.

It added zest to the monotony of their little
lives.

It imparted a delectable flavor to the plain
brown gravy on their j)otatoes.

Too, it gave them a certain standing in the
household.

EMBERS

For, were they not appealed to as jikIl,^',^ ?

On the other hand, if one of tlieni had trouhle
with the mother, he or she was assur^ ' ininuin-
ity hy .i^^oinc;- stn.'-htway to the tather and
layini^ the case hefore In'm.

"Away with you." he would say, "your
mother is a fool !"

And the child would take to its heels, know-
injif the case was \von.

Alice, the younger dau.t,diter. had prepared
the eveninj»- meal.

She was hr'n.e^inp^ in steamino^ bowls of souj)
and plates iaden with hot biscuits.

A joint of boiled beef came next and took up
its place in the center of the table; then fol-
lowed in turn deep dishes of turnips, carrots
and potatoes.

The g-irl, a comely maid of fourteen, now
went to the kitchen door and rang the supper
bell.

Then she ran over to the wooden bench in
the corner of the kitchen and, dipping out
water into an earthenware basin, bathed her
face and neck.

The dining-room was of generous propor-
tions.

EMP.ERS

Three lar^e windows j^mvc liglit and air to
the apartment.

The room was siihstantially furnished.

A red and yellow rai^ earpet eovered the
floor.

A sidehoard of hl'ick walnut stood solenmlv
in one eorner; in another, a hox-like stand,
with a flat top, made hy Maurice, to answer the
purpose of a servint^-table.

On the walls huuir pictures in frames made
of cones and acorns. The window^s were cur-
tained with long strii)s of white chint;^.

The air was laden with the odor of lilacs,
which were now a mass of purple and white
bloom in the open windows.

There was a peculiar, though indefinable,
lack of cheerfulness about the room.

The bloom-laden trees in the windows gave a
distinct relief to the senses, while the vista be-
yond rolled away in interminable folds of green
and gold.

The father was first to enter the dining-
room.

He was a man of fifty years, or thereabouts.

There were heavy lines in the face of the

man, wrought into the image by a long-waged

EMBERS

iKittlc aL^riinsf ik'Huiv in early life, no less than
I)y the never eea>in.- ■~truL;-ie to maintain the
mastery of his houselioM.

lie- walked with a thud of the heel and a
pronounced, from si.le to side, jerk of the head.

Ins t'aee was not unkindly, hut hardened hy
the lines.

He lo..ke<l neither to ri-ht nor left upon en-
terin.ij: the room; l,u» walke<l t.) his seat at the
Iicad of the tahle. hi> head han,c,ri„<r i„ thouj^ht.

And nou doors opened on hotli sides of the
room and the memhers of the household eame
in hastily, as in apology f,,r the sli-ht delay,
and took their places at the tahle.

The father ca.t a swift -lance ahout the
room.

''Whei is Maurice.^" he asked.

•'J just saw him coming^ over the hill with his
team; he naist have wanted to finish the oat
held to-day."

The speaker was Alice, x\ho alwavs took it
tipon herself to shield her elder hrot'her from
the irc of the father.

h xyas a serious infraction of the rules of the
iiousehold. as laid down hy William Rodrav
tor a meal to be served without all of the familv
bemg at table. -^

I'lMP.FCRS

I poll tin's (K-casioii. however, the e\i)l;ma-
tioii carried its own e\cll^e. t'or the I'ather made
no reply, hut hiisjed hiniseh" hrcakiiig thick
^hces ol hread into his soup.

At the farther end of the tahle sat Mrs.
Rodray. a .small. i)lack-haired woman, with
l)ale skin and dark hrovvn eves.

ilor month was sm.tll and thin-Hpi)e(l and
her mien was that <»f one who liad suffered
much for the sweet i)leasure of innocent mar-
tyrdom.

One mi.-^hl easily ima.e^inc her with a halo of
lij^dit ahoul her head. Icaviui,'- her saint's niche in
the facade of some ancient cathedral and hear-
ing the green i)alm of her earthly triumi)hs he-
fore the great throne.

On either side of the tahle sat the other mein-
hers of th.c faniilv.

Ann, the first-horn, was to he married, with-
in a few weeks, to a traveling auctioneer from
()uel)ec.

The couple had spent hut a few days in each
otiier's company. But the man, a siiahhy ap-
pearing felliAv of forty-odd years, was anxiou.s
to settle down in a "iiome of his own," while
Ann, on the other side, who was hut eighteen,

KMBKRS

had i)trn readiiinr imidi, of late of lo

vc a

11(1

iiiaiKv. uliert'in .i,^•llla^l kiiij^diis and volnptu

lad

ics played wondrous parts

ro-
ot! s

She 1

)ii

rncd with jj^reat tire and waked I

vi,^ils. hoj), nj^r ti,;,, ^,,1,,,^. ,,„^. niii-ht

iii.i;- into her ehaniher, to whom si

niL,^

come (lash-

Tak

le mis/ht sav

e me

ever

my lord — I am your.-

-s now and tor-

'khe proposal of the stran-^er had I

leen sjreed-

dy aecept-d hy the i)arems. insomuek
would mean one less to ici:^\ and clothe 1

moi

e especially. perhai)s, for tl
Ann was a j^irl; and a daiii-ht

1 as It

)Ut

le reason that
er married and

packed off to hed with her husband— that
would he a load off their minds, to he sure.

Mary, a timid, sweet-faced maid of . .
teen, was leavinjr within a few davs for the

vent of iJie Hotel I)

seveu'

con-

the veil of the sisterhood. Tl

leu. where she was to take

liad not pleased the i)arcnt;
have done a suitable alliance.

le arrangeiuent
as well as would

Jdiere

were a number of reasons for this the

foremost beine^ that there

was ever a possibilii)''

of Alary leavini^ the cloister and
home, in w hich case it would be next to
sible to marrv her off. as tl

^tltIous awe of an ex-

returnmg-

impos-

le men had a super-

nun.

EMBERS

In such an evcMit, it \v(uil(l devolve upon the
elder Rodrays to resume the burden of her
maintenance.

These were thing's to lie considered before
the leap was made.

It would be too late afterwards.

And then, the disgrace, if it should happen!

But, Ma ;■ had made up her mind — she was

going.

So, the family fell into reluctant silence and
prepared for the departure of the young postu-
lant.

Alice was a }ear out of school and was re-
ceiving attentions from a number of lads on
neighboring farms.

None might boast, however, that he received
more favor tlian any of his rivals from the
youngest daughter of the Rodrays.

Fresh and winsome, she seemed to possess
none of the sterner ciualities of the father, nor
the lachrymose viuilictiveness of the mother.

She was the housekeeper since the mother
had capitulated to lier beloved rheumatism.

"You'll make a fair cook, Alice, for some
good farmer lad with tliree or four hundred
acres," the f;ithcr would say, when in his best
mood.

EiMBERS

At ihi- Mrs. Rodray would give a slight
start as though pricked with a pin. Then her
head shook slowly from side to side and her
little brown eyes sought heaven in nuite appeal.
She was thinking of herself and the work
that would sti'l remain to be done when the last
of the girls had gone.

For William, the father, would never con-
sent to her having a servant about the house—
this she knew well.

George, t!ie youngest son, was still in school.
He was a great "mother's boy" and never
failed to make capital of his caresses.

He generally knew some story which none of
the other children had heard, wherein the elder
Rodray had done or said this or that.

Or, perhaps, he had given this kind of a look
or that kind of a look.

The mother, ever anxious to hear of some-
thing detrimental to her spouse, never stopped
for a moment to sound the;.e tales, which were
overdrawn, or, more frequently, without basis
of truth ; l)ut swallowed them whole.

Then she would grow excited and vitriolic in

her denunciation of the father to the children.

Little had been said during the meal, as the

EMBERS

elder Rodray did not permit conversation
anionq; the } ount^er members of the family.

Besides the sound of the iron forks upon the
plates and the cautious sipping of hot soup, the
room was in silence.

The father had finished his supper and was
prej)aring to rise when Maurice entered .he
room.

The dark hair '• )out his face and neck was
still wet and clingmg from hasty ablutions in
the family basin. The collar of his flannel
shirt was open and the sleeves rollerl up to the
elbow^s.

In the "V" on his chest, described by the lines
of his open .shirt, the cord of his scapular could
be seen.

He closed the door behind him and walked to
his seat at the table without speaking.

Alice rose to fetch his supper from the oven,
where she had i)Ut it to keej) warm.

"Why so late?" the father demanded, look-
ing up at Maurice.

"I wanted to finish the oat field to-day."

And then :

"It will give me more time to attend the mis-
sion, and Father Xadeau told me this afternoon
that it will begin a ^^■eek from tomorrow."

EiMl'.ERS

"I don't know," replied the fatlier, "that Jes-
nits' missions and the science of a.s;Ticiiltiire
have anythini^ in common. lUit I do know,
and this much I can tell Father Xadeau, that in
one instance, at least, the fields come first— and
that's with William Rodray. A fine time for a
mission — save souls and let the earth care for
itself. Vcs, let the devil do the ploug-hing- — in
May — when not a moment can he lost. A
pretty kiddle of fish! If I had <,rone to church
every time the hell rang. \\\ l,e in the poorhouse
to-day. Missions, novenas, triduums, the
devil !"

"Oh, you wicked man!" Iiroke in Mrs. Rod-
ray, clasping her thin, white hands and looking
up at the grey ceiling. -God will surely punish
you!"

Turning upon the woman, the elder Rodray
gave her a look of infinite scorn and, laughing
outright in her face, "\'ou hypocrite!" said h^,
and slammed the door behind him.

CHAPTER TWO.

Sanj^low, the parish seat, was astir.

It was the first day of the mission.

it was to be no ordinary affair, tliis nn'ssion,
preached by four able orators.

lad been promised Sanqlow for years.

i'>ut not until now had Father Xadeaii tinally
called ;he Hock together for the purpose of
moral regeneration.

True, the parish priest delivered his Sunday
sermon as regularly as the day came around

I kit that was different.

( )ne grew accustomed to one's vicar or abbe
and. in many instances, knew beforehand w'lat
he was going" to sa} \

C)t course, when things reached such a con-
dition as this, the life s])iriiual of the parishion-
ers turned sadly monotonous.

Little wonder there uas lack of attendance,
and snoring in church, and other lai;->es equally
serious in the mailer of Christian performance.

[26]

EM15ERS

I hit the i^reat day was here.

('^or three acres on either side of the church
tlie broad avenues were Hned with carria,i,^es
and \-ehicles of many descriptions.

1-armers and villai^ers were g-rouped to-
.qeiher in sreat numbers in front of the church,
where they cliatted. awaitini,^ the hist bell to
enter.

The women, for the most part, had ^one in,
in tlieir eagerness to catch a first glimpse of the
missionaries.

Xow and then a belated carriage drove up
and discharged its occupants, then rolled away
to a shed or a shady tree at the far end of the
lung, black line.

Through the open doors of the edifice the
great white altar niight be seen.

It was resplendent in the light of many

ilames.

The country folk had brought flowers out of
tlieir gardens and they, loo. were heaped upon
the background of the altar, without much
show of taste, as by the hands of children.

The bell sobbed the last call to the faithful.

Men threw away their tobacco and hastily
I)ruslie(l their clothing with their hands.

EMBERS

All talking- ceased in the ])ress of the crowd.

A iiioinciil later the doors of the church were
closed.

Wit hill, the edifice was packed to the
doors.

Some of the worshippers had come many
miles to attend the opening- ceremonies of the
mission.

Those there were whr, had journeyed from
neighhoring- parishes to hear the "Black
Fathers."

The Jesuits were looked uj.^on hy a great
many of these simple folk with a feeling akin to
dread mingled with deej) reverence.

The atmosphere of the church wi's stifling.

The celebrants moved about in a haze of in-
cense.

Through the tall gothic windows, entirely
too high for purposes of ventilation, die breath-
less heat streamed down upon the sweltering
faithful. During the long-drawn-out 'A'eni
Creator," two women and a child fainted and
were carried out tlirough the side door into rhe
shade of trees.

Ushers tiptoed, like ghosts, mopping th.eir
necks and faces w ith sweat-drenched kerchiefs.

EMBERS

Presently, a hlack-rohed li.^nire appeared in
the door of the sacristy.

Moving over to the foot of the ahar. the
priest knelt for a moment, his head inclined.

And now he rose and followed the crncifcr
to the pulpit.

"Leave all and follow me," was the text of
the sermon.

lUit the meat of the discourse ran more to the
words of Jerome who, from his rock-ribbed
cave in the East, thundered his still unanswered
([uestion: "What will it profit a man to gain
the world if he come to lose his soul?"

'Fhe speaker told of the evanescent nature of
a: earthly joys, of the limited scope, at I)est, of
man's life, of the falsity of illicit passions and
the utter shallowness of wordly pleasures.

Then, working gradually to the climax, he
quoted the parable of Lazarus and the rich
man, and pictured to his audience the awful tor-
tures of the lost souls.

There would be weeping and gnashing of
teeth, and no hope of abatement, no hope of de-
liverance for all the endless eons to come.
Women wept,
^len sat straining in their seats.

KMr.KRS

A vdiint;- m'iii slirickcd h_. stcrically ami was
taken Din into tlio cluirohyard.

The st'i'nion la^Ud two liunrs.

A nunilK-r of pcopli-, no loni::'t'r able io with-
stand the heat, ha<l left their ])ew.s and made
their way noisele>sly to the door for a breath
of air.

Some who had bnsiness at home were driv-
ing: off.

For those who remained in the cluirch there
was still the benediction, with the '"Salve Re-
tina" and "Tantnm Ergo."

And now the wilted, swelterini;" mass filed
nervonsly ont of the edifice and stood on the
wide lawr. chatting and drinking in the pnrc,
warm air.

The Rodrays were among the first to lea\ e.

The father was in haste to get away, as
m.'ui}- things required his attention, both in the
fields and the store.

They had gone some distance when the elder
Ro!lray tr led lo [Maurice and said:

"After dinner. _\ou will take the red team
and start in on the oat field. We can't count
(Ml this weather after the coming change of the
moon, and we must make hay while the sun
shines."

K\[P.KRS

Tliis was a blow tu .Maurice, as he had hoped
to take advaiita.-v of at least the first day of
the iiiissi,,,!, and there were to he two inore
sermons t],at day, one in the afternoon, the
othier at nii,^ht.

I he hoy stiffened somewhat in his scat, but
made no rej)Iy.

His mother nudged him.

It was a way she had of insiilh'nt^ revolt.

Hut Maurice was much i)rone, of late, to fol-
low his own jud-ment in matters of i)ersonal
conduct, and in tliis instance he wisely per-
sisted in his silence.

Alice, who had remained at home, served
tlie noonday meal.

The churchgoers ate raxenously and had lit-
tle to say.

Mrs. Rodray alone spoke, hut without nuich
response from her hearers.

She kept up a running lire of comment on
the el.Kiuencc and piety of the speaker, on the
attendance of the parishioners, the like of
which .he had never witnessed in Sanglow; on
tlie heavenly grace that ^^ould he bound to
How on such a worthy undertaking, and on the
golden opportunity afforded sinners to redeem

2>2

EMllliRS

tlu-ir ->iiuK tln"nii-!i t!u' inlcrxftiliDii ot those
linK ,111(1 ^clf-s.-ui'ilicin^" nun.

'\'\\v n,'!iur,il rt'Milt of Ikt ii.'inc.cfyrir wa^^ tliat
wlu-n all had ri^i'ii ir<mi tlu' trihlc Mv^. Rud-
ra\' was ^\\\\ loviii'^- with Ikt sonp; and siu"
was t-atinL;- a halt' hdnr later wlu-n Manricc, in
his field clwihcs. hni'si into the dininn-room on
hi-^ way to the stahle-.

The mother atteini)led to speak, hnl the
yonth was in no mood for parley.

Knshint;' ont oi' the room, he slammed the
door hehind him and left the hon^e.

That ni.^ht. Maurice (lro\e to Sant^low.

lie hilehed Rol) to a tree at some distance
from the church and walked over to the pres-
bytery.

An old female answered the nell.

"I wish to talk with the father who
preached the openinir sermon this morninj^,"
he said, in French.

"Ah, oui. Monsieur Rodray, le Pere Sa-
vard." she replied, sniilinq;.

She motioned liim to a ^e;it in the i)arlor.
and went after the priest.
The latter came at once.

He was a tall, dark man, w itli a slight limp.

KMr.KRS

lli^ lace l)cainc(l with :i smile tliat never
clouded.

Ills \oii-i- was dcej) and imisical.
"At your -ei-\ icT, my dear yoiiiii; man," said
llic priest, closiiii; the door.

And now. lor the first ti:iie, it struck Mau-
rice th.it he had undertaken much.

Ills tyvs t'ell uix.n the floor, and he flushed
peiceplihly.

I he missionavx came o\er to him and placed
his arm tenderly ahout his neck.

"lie who sent you to me. his unworthy serv-
am. w ill <4i\e words to your lips and courag-c to
your heart. Let us recite an *Ave Maria!"
X<»\v. then, all is well. N'our name, my little
man, and how can I serve vou?"

•Maurice g^athcred confidence from the words
and manner of' the priest.

He came to the point at once:
"I want to Qo tr, eollege. .-;nd my father .says
1 mu<t remain at home, on the farm. \\'e arc
tlie Rodrays, of Lasalle. Aly father owns a
general store and ahout three hundred acres of
I'arm and timher land. He can well afford to
.give me an education, hut he will not hear of
my going away."

l-Ml'.I'RS

"f Iiavr lu'ard ot your fatlirr irom I-'alhcr
Xadcaii." rcjoiiud Saxard. "lie i^, a> I take
It, a man <'i parN aii<l one who lias himself a
:L;()(Hlly sinre ut' kiK i\\ ledjL^e. Have you de-
cided upon a prote^siitn ?"

■"I lia\c tlioUL^hi <onie of the priesthood."

"Ah, l)Ui do yon tt'el thit \ ou iiave the call-
in,L(, the \ocation ; It is ;i serious step, my
sou!" And the ])rie^i shook his head with a
sad, in^cnUahle smile.

"1 can not say." replied Maurice; "but 1
want to iu) to college. I can not bear this life
of the farm."

"My boy, there is a j^rcat deal worse," said
the jjood man — "Mon Dieu! — c great deal
worse!"

Then, changing his tone to one of dccisiv.,!. .

"I will .see your father tomorrow," he an-
noimced ; "tomorrow afternoon!"

Maurice went home with a light heart. In-
deed, he whistled and sang aloud all the way.

And the follownig day he toiled in the oat
field without e\-en a thought of grumbling.

P^laine, who was with him in the field, noted
his mood and remarked upon it, saying:

"Maurice, what makes you so happy today?
Yoti surely have good news."

EM HERS

.Vt

I lu' \(.iuli Ic-t'i tho plow and came over to
l^laiiie.

" I'hc la-st of ne\s>."* lu- exclaimed. "I'or
n'^ >ate to s.iy tlia' I am .i^oiui; to collej:,^'. < )iie
ot the niisMoiiarie.> ha- pi )miso(l to see iiiv
lather and a-k liini to let me >:;()."

Alaiirice did tiol see ihe cloud -te.il o\er ihe
tare of his little friend.

Dazzled hy the lit'e which he pictm-ed hefore
liini. I.y the very tluniolu of shaking- (his hithy
-"il from his j„„,is. he never saw the tears thai
welled in her eyes as he Inrned awav to re-
sume his journey around the field.

She was a stranq^e little parcel of ; cd hair,
cluihhy lc.q:s and hlue eyes, as she sat on the
wooden fence, watchinj^- Maurice at ln\s labors.
Her hair ran wild down about her shoulders
and her chin rested snuj^dy in her hands.
Anything but iM-ench. one would have said.
^ et she was as much so as her father, whose
name was Baptiste I.e Rlanc. and her mother
who had been a I.alonde.

-Maurice was the crowning passion of her
ten years of life.

To her the tall, uncouth boy was an idol, a
protector, sometiiinq- noble and' w orthv of great
love, a being beautiful.

assxbimmm

36 EMBERS

She felt herself drawn to him as to a mag-
net.

From earU- chiUlhocHl he had hovered over
her with ali the eare and tenderness ot a
brother for his l)ai)y sister.

The orccn and vellow fields, the river with
it. roar'in- cataract, the orchards, the woods
on the edoe oi the villaiie, all had been silent
witnesses to their childish l(^^-e.

The Le Blancs had come to look npon Mau-
rice as a son in the family.

\r.d indeed, when certain women had whis-
pered '■beware.- or "maybe thi^. ' or "perhaps
that." the bov having taken to si)ronting like a
weed, the siinple parents of the little Le Blanc
girl bade them be silent for shame.

How could they dream of such a thing?
Whv, the boy would give his life for their
little ibain-, if need there were.

Under the wing of Maurice, Elaine Le
P.lanc lived a happy childh(wd.

She folkwved him everywhere; to the barns,
into the fields, where lal)or took him.

On grist days, she perched alongside of
^Liurice. on the spring seat of the big wagon
laden with sacks of corn and wheat, in her

EMBERS

arms her rag doll ;ind by licr side the basket of
lunch prepared by Maninian Le Blanc for the
two travelers.

It was a loni; wa\ to the mill, and the day
was consumed witli the wearisome trip.

Ihit Maurice entertained his little comp.-'.nion
with manv stories .alonii' the road, and regaled
her at intervals uilh candy and sweets out of
his drrp. mysterious pockets, which seemed to
111 lid an inexhaustible supply.

At the mill, he winild gi\e Elaine into the
care of the miller's wife, while he busied him-
self with the work of unloading and reloading
tlie wagon.

Twilight would see them starling for home
with a long ride ahead.

\\y this time the day's exertions had usually
])roved too strenuous for Elaine.

She would sit for a while, her little hands in
her lap. her short, plum]) legs hanging tiredly
from the seat, and watch the red moon pee;^
n\cr the dark shailows of the hori/^on.

Then the lilJe weary he.-id would nod for a
moment; and she would come to .say in her
soft, coaxing voice:

"Maurice, put your arm around me: Em so
sleepy!"

EMBERS

The long journey ended. Maurice would de-
posit the sleepinj,^ child in the arms of her
mother and, l)efore going home, have a bowl
of hot soup saved from the evening meal by
Madame Le Blanc.

Before taking leave, lie would glance at
Elaine, still asleep, on the old hair sofa by the
fireplace, and smik timidly at the proud, sim-
ple-hearted parents.

Then home — home that was not so much a
home to him as was the plain farm house of
the Le Blancs, with its long strips of home-
made carpet, its warm, old-fashioned hearths,
built deep into the walls, its blue and scarlet
pictures of the Holy Family and the patron
saints, and all the quiet, homelike dignity of
humble happiness.

Years had passed since tlic first trip.

But Elaine had never once missed ihe
monthly journey to the mill. She looked for-
ward to the event as children do to Christmas.

It was a great day.

It was a day when she had her Maurice all
to herself, without interruption or the pang of
separation.

liMBERS

-i
-■5

Then, there were the fishing trips on Satur-
days and hohdays, when there was no school ;
and protracted voyages into the woods for
flowers and honey trees; and, later on in the
year, for l)eech and butternuts.

It had come to be said by the women in their
doorways :

"1 see Maurice — Elaine nuist be near by."
This strong attachment was looked upon
with divided feelings by the elder Rodrays.

The father gave it his tacit approval, for he
was a champion of early marriage and home
life an<l frowned upon celibacy.

On the other hand, the mother looked wath
disfavor upon the dec ening devotion of her
son for the little French girl, believing, as she
(lid, and hoping with all her mother's heart
that her sons were destined to the "higher
service"' — to the priesthood of the chalice and
the cross.

Rodrav was at work in the store when Fa-
ther Savard drove up and alighted.
"Mr. Rodrav. 1 believe, sir?"

EMBERS

"Yes, sir. 1 am William Rodray."

"I have come ^o ha\e a talk with you, Mr.
Rodray, on a suhjecl of some delicacy."

"Noll refer to m\ son Maurice and his de-
^ire to .G^o to college?"

"[Precisely. Mr. Rodray."
'\'o harm in ihat," said the storekeeper.

"And that is wry well said, sir," replied the
priest. "lUit, to come to the point, I will ask
yon if yon would deliherately stand in the hoy's
way. once you had reason to l)elie\e him called
t(j liie ser\ ice of the Church?"

"1 will answer you hest hy sayint^ that [
have no animosity towards the Church as a
callinii:. nf)r have I any feeling against any one
of the professions. It is the natural duty of
all men to the soil that has actuated me in the
matter of my refusal to send Maurice to col-
lege. If you will step with me, sir, to the top
of yonder hill, 1 will ])oint out an ohject lesson
that will he worth the walk."

■'J shall go with you gladly," the priest re-
plied.

They climhed in silence to the summit of the
hill, from which a wide expanse of countrv
could he seen.

EMBERS

In the valle\- Maurice was at work with his
team. l"!lainc was astride one of the horses.

They did not seem to >ee the priest and Rod-
ray.

Savard sjxjke tirst.

"A peaceful scene," he remarked, "and one
thai all hut make*^ me envy yonder lad."

"And Nonder lad i< Maurice." rejoined the
elder Rodrav.

"Ah, indeed!" exclaimed Saxard. a trifle
taken hack hy the coincidence.

"Do you see the red house on the knoll, with
the g-ahle windows and <^reen shutters?"

"That I do." said Savard.

"Do you see the o-arden. ihe shade trees, the
dri\eways. the lawn, the harns and stahles?"

"\'es. yes; a heautiful home, sir!"

"And the fields and meadows adjoininji- the
highway from the harns down to the cattle
i^^razing hy the river side'"

"Ves. I see |)erfectly."

"Well. sir. thirty years .-igo, when T came to
this spot, the land 1 have just shown you was
a wilderness of stones and trees. [ have given
my life to the soil. And hchold what the soil
has given me in -eturn. Ah. she is a jenlou^

EMBERS

mistress, but a noble one! Xovv look to the
south, where the smoke is rising from the
chimney; the slate-colored house, with the
white blinds — do you see?"
Savard nodded.

"Can vou see where the fences are broken
down and the cattle straying out upon the
liighway; the broken wheel on the windmill;
the shutter hanging by a hinge; the barns in
want of paint — tell me, blither Savard. can
vou see the place — I mean the things I have
])ointe(l oiu to }ou?"

"Why, yes, most clearly, si;-. But what pos-
sible bearing can all this have on the business
in hand?"

"It's the house of the Frenchettes," replied
Rodray. "I'renchette and myself came here
about the same time. I le was a saving, hard-
working fellow. He brought with him a
young wife to Lasalle. They had a family of
five children, three sons and two daughters.
Xothing would do but the sons should go to
college. Two of them stayed there and be-
came priests. The other studied medicine,
and is now ending his ill-spent life, a hope-
less victim of drugs. The wretched place now

EMBERS

awaits the sheriff's hammer, to satisfy usurers
and creditors, lon^ unpaid."

"Vou draw a o-loomy picture, my dear sir.
But, tell me the appHcation of it, to your way
of thinking."

"I am tliinking," said Rodray, "that it is a
devil of a hard matter to say whether a hov
has the calHng or not ; and that if lie must take
a seven-year course of studies to learn the yea
or nay of it, he is mighty lucky to find, in the
end, that his path docs, in fact, lie that way.
For if it do not, and all his preparation he in
vain, (iod help him for a misfitted thing in life,
is what I sav."

"But, still, it is your duty, my friend, to give
the boy the chance to learn his vocation."

"I understand," replied Rodray, his eyes be-
yond, on the house of the h'renchettes. "I un-
derstand," he said a second time.

Then he wheeled about and stood with his
back to Savard, ^vho understood that a strug-
gle was taking place between opposing forces.
The priest walked off a few paces, fingering
the rosary which hung from his belt.

And now Rodray came towards the priest.
He was pale and his voice unsteadv:

EMBERS

'"Tlic lad may .2^0.' said he. "Bu*. mark
mc. I shall have ii" I'urtluM- voice in the mailer
of his callinc;'. I wash my hands of it for all
lime, lie ahandons the sod — well, let him lie
in his hod as he makes it!"

CllAPTl'lR THREE.

'I'lie crops iln"i\c(l. that }t'ar, in tlic HeUls of
William Rodray.

Tlie soil brought forth a bounteous yield.

The bumpers were filled to overflowing; and
the harvest moon rose o\er ]>eace and plenty in
Lasalle.

The summer, with all her gladness, passed
away, and autumn. stri])ped of bloom and blos-
som, came in stark i)regnancy.

Mrs. Rodray had put the last touch to her
preparations for her son's departure.

Cetween smiles and sobs and softly-breathed
prayers, she now awaited the tragic hour of
his going forth.

It was a cold, gra}- morning in September;
and the earth la\- wra|)ped in a thick, white
mantle of rime.

Many of the trees were leafless.

A pale, sickly moon was pasted on the dull
sky, like a patch.

[45]

KMf^ERS

Maurice mounted to the seat, Ite>idc his fa-
tlier, who took the rein^.

Ah'ce eaiiie i-unninj^ out of the house with
some apples, and. ••Iitr.l)inj4- onto the huh.
shoved them into Maurice's pockets.

There was a sad effort at cheerfulness from
the mother and the ,i^irls, who were standinj^ in
the doorway of the "oodshed.

'rhe\- held their aprons, and their lips
twitched in the stru^'-.[::le to keej) hack the tears.

W illiam Rodray said no word.

I Ic was like a thinp^ of stone.

The old horse turned tlow n the driveway.

A little hide-covered trunk was in the rear
of the wagon.

Maurice pulled up his coat collar and looked
back.

The women were weepinj^ now. their faces
buried in their aprons.

Maurice felt something strange, like a clutch,
at his throat ; but he choked it back.

He was on the path of his desire.

In the house of the Le Blancs. a little, tear-
streamed face gazed out upon the wagon, as it
crept over the hill and passed out of sight.

ciiArri:R four.

The old. j^ray collcj^v li.ul taken on an air of
activity and life.

The iron ^ates of the courtyard hanfjcd in-
cessantly, as Brother Beatrix svviinj^ them to
and fro for the waj^on-loads of trunks and
boxes that were arrivins^ for the students.

It was the first Monday in September — the
day set for the openinp; of the classes: and tlie
long corridors of the building, the visitors'
apartments and the play-grounds in the rear of
the college swarmed with students and their
relatives.

Here and there, in the dingy, ill-lighted par-
lors, a sob broke out above the hubbub of chat-
ter, where a mother was taking her first leave
of a young son.

Some looked upon it all as a pleasant nov-
elty; and laughed in anticipation of the conges
and the many visits to come.

[47]

KMinCRS

Nouiil;- hoys — iDcrt- l);il)c> in yr;ir>>, iiiunchcd
.swcrt meats and clun^- t(i their mothers*
dresses, (|uite unsn^i)ei-tin,L; of tin- pan.^s oi' the
separation that \\a> nearinj; lor them.

In thv iilay-,L;roun(ls, croups of hoys stood
ehaltin,!^ and .i^ettin- ae(|uainted. while others
inchilj^cd 111 a .i,^'in)r of laorossc, haschall, or
erieket.

In the recreation hall, wiiere a refreshment-
>tand had heeii esiahlishi'<l. oiu- of the older
students, who was workin,^- Ins ua\-, was sell-
in-' ehoeolates. hnrnt almonds, pies, eakes and
I'ruils.

A little farther on. has^hall l)ats. laero.^se
slicks, still V. liaid halls, and a variety of >porl-
ins goods were sdlin- at a g(j(j(l profit lo the
institution

At the tar end ol the room a priest was chat-
tin,^- pleasantly with a ^roup of hovs a»i(l ta.k-
ino- applications for enrollment in the Socictc
dc St. I.onis dc (ion/asne and the Societe de^
Entants de Mane.

Here and there in the l)lack swarm, a lonely
little soul mii^ht he seen keping timidly to him-
self, in the shadow of the walls, or standing
apart on the skirt of a group of noisv vouno--

emi:p:rs

^tcr>>, not venturin;:^ to lake part in tlu- plav or
the conversation.

Somctinies two oi' ilic^c lonely ones chanced
to meet and torni an ao(|naintance.

This was perhapN the starting point ot' ;i
friendshij) that would endure throntj^h the Um^
years ot" collep^e Vik', nay. who nii^^ht say? — till
life was at .m end.

Maurice Rodray arrived on the noon train.

A number of students were g^ointj;- in as he
rea-'hed the college.

lie followed them, with an indefinable sense
of awe.

There was a cold, forbiddinj;^ aspect to the
great stone buildinj^. that reminded him of
stories he had read of i)risons and donjon-
keeps.

He hesitated on the threshold.

The homestead at Lasalle. the trees, the
river, the fields. Alice, h:iaine. flashed before
him in panorama. The little world he 'lad fled
seemed, of a sudden, bright and alluring.

A lay brother motioned him. impatiently, to
enter.

He obeyed.

"From the country, I perceive?" remarked
the brother.

EMBERS

"'^es. sir, from Lasalle."
-Little matter; they'll take the dross off
your coat, my lad."

The youth l)it his lip and walked away into
the hall, his face a deep red.

Maurice saw a priest emerge from one of
the guests' parlors and turn off towards the
lower end of the hall.

Me caught up with him.

"Father!" he said.

"Well, mon ami ?" replied the priest, slapping
the youth good-naturedly on the back.

"I am Maurice Rodray, from Lasalle," be-
gan the newcomer, producing a letter, written
by Father Nadeau, and another, by Savard,
and addressed to the rector of the college, in-
troducing Maurice.

"Ah. oui. this is the young monsieur Rod-
ra\', of Lasalle! T have heard of you from the
good Father Savard himself. He wants us to
consider you his protege. But," said he, up-
• •n a brief scrutiny of Maurice, ''this is a fine
young man. this young Rodray, of Lasalle!
Have you had any Latin?"
"No."

( I

EiMBERS

"Too bad; I wanted you in my class — Versi-
Ikation. But, the world is not going to split
over that, is it, Maurice? Allons! We shall
go, together, to the Father Rector. I will
leave you with him, for he will likely wish to
give you a word or two of advice. But, Mau-
rice, come and see me — you understand? 'Sans
ceremonie.' you know ; yes, come and see me !"

"I would like to know your name," ventured
Maurice, becoming more assured.

"Demers — Father Demers."

The rector, an old, gray-haired man with
thick spectacles, received the young Rodray
kindly, and turned him over, after a moment's
conversation, to the prefect. Father Lacroix.

The prefect took him to his professor, and,
after a brief introduction, handed him over to
an older student, by name Bangneulo.

The latter was to act as the new student's
guardian in the matter of acquainting him
with ♦^^he rules and routine of the college.

"Well," said Bangneulo, when they were by
themselves, "what do you think of it, so far?"

Maurice had no answer. He looked up into
the face of his companion, as if to find one
there.

EMBERS

"The -c-ows" arc hell." >aid the guardian;
"you'll find that out."

"The 'crows'?"

"N'es, the professors and prefects. Oh. you
have lots to learn ! Where are you from?"

"Lasalle."

"Xot from the city, eh ^^ What class are
}ou m?''

"I don't know; I've had no Latin."
"Are you j^oing to take the classics'^"

"^>s."

"That's seven years. 1 have three more to
do. Here comes a toad— Chaput. He's got
an idea that he's a bully. Out f blacked both
Ins eyes, last year, for stealing figs out of niv
trunk m the dormitory: They starve you
here."

Chai)ut came boldly up to the pair and
stoi>ped short in front of Maurice.

He was a short, stocky fellow, with an evil
ghnt m his small black eyes.

His hair was straight and jet. like an In-
dian's.

His face and neck were covered with pim-
ples and black-heads.

He addressed Maurice in French:

EMBERS

"Where are you from?"

■'I conic from Lasalle."

"'The devil, you say! And pray tell me
where is Lasalle?"

Maurice cau^dil the sneer on the other's face
and understood the nudj^e froiu Bani^neulo.

The gihe of the lay brother was still fresh in
his mind.

"You'll do well to study your map, Monsieur
Timpleface,' and attend to your own afifairs."

"Well said, my lord," retorted Chaput,
growing white under the sting, but with an
admirable effort at composure. "Well said,"
he repeated, bowing low, in mock humility. 'T
do believe we'll J3e able to make something of
him — upon my word! Will my lord excuse
his humble servant ? Au revoir, Monseigneur !
Au plaisir!" And he strode ofif towards a
group of students at the other side of the
grounds.

"I like your grit," said Bangneulo, when
they were alone again. "But you'll have to
watch him. ^'ou should have knocked him
down. Do you box?"

"Box?"

"Yes — this way?"

KMBERS

"No; in Lasalk* I had no need for that sort
of thing."

"Have you never liad any battles in school?"

"Oh. yes, lots of theni."

"^'ou did. eh? How did you come out?"

"Well. I'm not much of a fighter; but I have
always managed lo lake care of mj^self."

"There's the bell." said Bangneulo. "We
have to fall in ranks fo- supper."

The students came, in response to the bell,
from all parts of the building and grounds and
assembled in the main hall.

Tn a few minutes the second bell rang. The
students now fell in in the military formation
of "company front." At the third bell, which
sounded a moment later, the long line came to
a "left face" and moved off in double file in the
direction of the refectory.

Th.ere was more than one awkward move-
ment on the part of newcomers, but the ma-
jority of the boys had been in college at least
one year; and these guided the undrilled.

The refectory was a long hall, with rows of
tables on either side.

Wooden benches served as seats.

EMBERS

luicli table seated troii) twelve to fourteen
sttidents.

A religious or historical work was read
aloud by one of the older students during the
meal.

On holidays conversation was allowed.

It happened, strangely enough, that Maurice
was assigned to a seat directly opposite Chaput.

For the latter he had already conceived an
implacable hatred. The fellow's face, actions,
speech and manner were repulsive to him.

After the incident of the afternoon, Chaput
paid no heed to Maurice, but contented himself
with eyeing hin: covertly when Rodray was in
sight.

At the table, he sucked his soup loudly and
gulped his food like a savage.

His mouth and chin were smeared with
grease and atoms of meat and bread.

He criticised the food aloud, saying it was
not fit for pigs.

"In that event, Monsieur Chaput, you,
above all, should refuse to eat it," said the sub-
prefect, who was passing the table at that mo-
ment, and overheard the remark.

EMBERS

Ilieii, by way of <rood measure, he added:
"^ou uill a)i)y three hundred Hues of Aristo-
tlo Ml the orioinal Greek. Have it ready for
me by hechinie. day after tomorrow."

The suh-,,refect. Father Adam, was a thin,
dark, undersized man, who preferred sarcasm
lo o-ood Nvine. He was a terror to tlie stu-
dents, by whom he was thoroughly disliked.

Maurice had but poorly satisfied his hunger
when the signal was given to rise.

And there were others of the "new ones"
who glanced longingly at the food left on the
tables, as they filed out of the refectory.

That night, on his cot, Maurice remained
.-'wake, long after the lights were out, and
went over the incidents of the day.

He was sorr)-, now, that he had not struck
Chaput.

He felt that he could easily have whipped
him. '■ '

He worked himself into a fever.

He saw himself lay low this insolent fellow
with a single blow.

He could hear the others shouting their ad-
nnration tor him, the newcomer, and their ex-
ultation over Chaput's defeat.

EMBERS

Tlien the bitter thouirht came to him that lie
had missed, out of sheer stupidity, the chance
to attain, in one stroke, an enviable standing
among his fellows.

He dwelt, with bitterness of heart, on the
affront ofifercd him on the very threshold of
the college by a lay brother.

He smarted, even now, under the sting of
this rude fellow's words.

The more so, when it occurred to him that
this man was beneath him; that he was but a
lackey in black cloth, performing menial tasks
for the priests, and, as to attainment or educa-
tion—a blank.

Perhaps Bangneulo was right about the
"crows."

He regretted not having gone to another
college, on the outskirts of the city, where the
sons of plain people and country folk were not
despised for a little mud on their boots.

Here, at Saint Mary's, they all seemed to
think themselves of the nobility.

They went with their heads in air, with
haughty manners ill becoming their stations,
which were, in truth, no better than his own'

EMBERS

It was \ery late, and the dorniitory snored
loudly wiien he fell asleep.

The following day. Maurice was assigned lo
"Syntax," the lowest of the Latin grades.

He went through the various phases of in-
itiation like one who, seeing many unwonted
things at once, retains hut a vaguj impression
of the whole.

There were sixty pupils in his class.

Me came into the class-room with a hundle
of new hooks under his arm.

The seats, for the most part, were taken.

The professor was speaking.

Maurice stood hefore him, hesitating.

There was a sudden ripple of laughter
among the students.

The professor glanced at Maurice, who was
now blushing deeply.

"Well, my good man," said the priest, "can
you not find a seat? Have ] your name on the
roster?"

Maurice did not find words at once.
He tried to speak, hut his lips refused to
move.

He felt the sj)irit of ridicule bubbling about
him.

EMBERS

A student left his place and, coming over to
Maurice, pointed out a vacant seat in the rear
of the room.

Rodray turned round to see.

The faces of the students jrrinned mali-
ciousl}'.

There were titters, cat-mews, groans.

"Silence!" shouted the priest, conung down
heavily ui)on the desk with his ruler.

Then, to, Maurice, in a <[uiet tone:

"^'our name?"

"I am Maurice Rodray— from Lasalle."

"Take Ihe vacant seat on the left aisle, in the
last row.''

C-[IArTI-R FIVE,

Maurice settled down to his studies and
ua.i^-ed a iosin^^ hattle with "AJensa" and
"I/l'^|)itonie."

Latin was a stone wall before him.
The declensions were a maze; the conjuga-
tions imj)ossil)le.

Others in his class made headway and re-
ceived commendation for their work.'

Bin it struck Maurice that these, who need-
ed It less, were assisted through diftkult pas-
sages by the professor, while he. who was at
the tad-end of the class, was passed over with-
out notice.

In the examinations preceding the Christ-
mas holid.iys, Maurice was among the la^t five
of his class.

On the eve of the home-going, he was on his
way to the study-hall, when he met up with
rather Rheaume, his professor.

[60]

EMIJERS

and sec

ic latter was coniini;,' out of the refectory

iiied

in j^ood spirit:

Vli. Rodray." he said, not unkindlv. "I

have heen pronii.siiij,r myself a word witl

•11

1 voii.

me, my son, do you not think it would be

better tor you to stej) down, for a whil
the I'Vench class, and there build

ie, into

uj) a sfron^^er
foundation )> [ had a talk with l-ather Savard,
the other day, about you."

'f'^ither Savard? lias he been 1
or a few moments, on his way throuLd

•i

lere

the city,

"And you — vou told 1

mine?
'•\V

inn of this— failure of

iy, my son, you look at it in tl

li.q:lU, 1 assure you. It is not your fault—'

ours. Wq should 1

le w ronq-

)Ut

grasp the classics instead of ni

lave given you time to

without
Lat

piun^tng vou,
a moment's notice, into (jrcek and

Jld

could never consent t., that," .said Mau-
rice after a moment's silence.

The i)riest placed his fincrer o^, er the boy's
heart. -^

;'So fell the angels! Maurice, bew.re of
))ride. And. durin- the holidays, o-jve my
suggestion thought.

EMIU'RS

"\'ou arc j^'-oing^ home, I dare say?"

"Lntil yon spoke to me, I was j^oiiij;; Inn
n(»\\ I shall remain here."

"Well. well, and why thi> snddcn resolution?
\\ hat will your j^ood parents he thinking?"

"I would like to -o. to Ik- sure, but Til not.
I'm goinj; to stay here and >tudy."

"Bravo!" exclaimed Rhcamne, clapping his
student on the hack. "Bravo, niv son! A„d
rest assured that I shall help you. We shall
Mart in tom(./r(n\ !"

It came as a shock t,, Mrs. Rodrav. that
Maurice would not he home tor the holidays.
She l;ad a i^reat many things to tell him'
And, hcsides, she !iad counted not a little (>n
ihe honor of walking up the main aisle of the
church. Christmas day on the arm of her eld-
est son, "home from college."

She had grown quite proud of hi. heino-
there. "^

She would find a way. invariably, to intro-
duce the subject to friends and strangers alike

It would be "since my ;.on has gone to the
Jesuits"; or. "I feel quite lost without Mau-

K-MfUCRS

ncc. my i;oy. ulio is i„ mlkgc" : or. apai.i.
"All. (i,„i is a jealous inaMcr! lie rIvcs nic a
M)n aiKl ta!:c< iiirn froin ,„e. The dear boy is
m the Jesuits' Colle-e, you knou-. H,. hopes
lo i)t'(.-oine a priest."

•A iMr.thcr's lieart." slu- H-ouM often sav 'a
•••""■^•■■^ I-eart! ^••ho hut a mother k.i'nv.
^^'••'"•'^'•'love? VouMhere's my Maurice-
,i^"ne. you nii..ht >ay ; ho is with t.lie ftsuits'
v'U knov.-studyincr ,-„r the j.riesthoo,! Ah'
'low we suffer, we poor mothers!"

ilowever, >he resi^^med herself reluctai.ih'
'<' 'lor son-s letter and set ahout to prepare a
'••'^ «> sweet., and delicacies for the absent one.
1 Ins was done by the mother and the -iris
C'corj^^e drove lo the station, that night ''v.ith
tl^e box, while the elder Rodrav was away
irom home. "^

I or the father must not know of this
The latter, on the other liand, upon hearing
<)t .vlaunce s decision to remain at the college
^vrote him a long letter in which he spoke of
the horses, the cattle, the sheep, and the cut-
ting of cord -wood in the timber land.

i le admonished his son to give all his time to
^tudy, to shun evil coir.panio. , and. if at any

EMBERS

time he miglit l>e tempted, to give women a wide
bertli.

There was a twenty-dollar bill in the letter
—"a Christmas gift which, I trust, you will
put to good use and of which I enjoin you not
to speak to your mother."

Maurice flushed as he read that part of the
letter which told of the live stock and the wood.

An American, from Montana, who was also
spending the holidays at the college, was com-
ing towards hi)ii at this moment.

Ke folded the letter hastily and p. it in his
poc! et.

When the ciasses reopened, in January,
Maurice was well grounded in the declensions
and regular conjugations.

True to his word, Rheaume had spent every
available moment of his time drilling his pupil.

"Dc you see the tall, dark boy yonder?" th
I'riest would say to guests or intimates. "What
do you think of him? A gooc^ face, is it not?
He is making Syntax under a handicap. I tried
to reason with him, to show him that he would
do better to step down a grade. And what do
you think he did? He refused point-blank!
And don't you know that he is going to make

EMBERS

It? ^Vs, sir, hanging on by his teeth, and
going to make it!"

After the return of the students, the Hfe of
the college settled down into the monotony of
dull routine.

At Easier, Mrs. Rodray ciime to sec Maurice.

Alice was with her.

They were shown into one of the guests'
parlors. Mrs. Rodrax carried a little black
satchel; Alice a large carpet-bag. which was
over eighted and bulging.

Upon Maurice's appearance in the doorway,
the motiier began to weep.

Alice ventured to say that she slK.uld not
carry on in this style; that there were other
people in the room, and that Maurice would not
be ai)t to take it in good p;irt.

The latter had halted, for a moment, to speak
to a priest in the doorway.

He came over now to the women.

Me made a faint effort at a smile.

Hf .as visibly put out at sight of his mother,
who vas now wiping her eyes and smiling at
him in her tears.

Alice rose to kiss her brother, and sat down
again.

EMF^ERS

Tliere were two red spots on her cheeks.
She shuffled her hands in her lap and moved
her feet nervously on the roui^h floor.

Mer hair was bang-ed over the forehead and
done in a hi": knot at the hack of her liead.

Slie wore a j)laid woolen dress of a j^ray and
black mixture.

The skirt, which fell above her boot-tops,
showed tvvo white bands of stockings.

^\irs. Rodray was tastily dressed in black
and wore gloves and a new bonnet.

After the first few words of greeting, there
was an interval of silence.

Alice, with a view to starting a conversation,
caught up the carpet-bag md made as if to
open it.

Maurice took her arm:

"Don't open that here." he said, in a hoarse
undertone. "My God! I would never hear the
end of it from the students !"

Alice dropped the bag and looked up at her
brother, and from him to Mrs. Rodray.

The mother was gazing at the son, her hands
crossed o\ er the little satchel, an ecstatic smile
lighting up her pale, thin face, a strange, glint-
like fire in her brown eyes.

EM HERS

"If you're ashamed of me, Maurice. I can
.•-TO I)ack home." said Alice, .s^oing- white.

She was on her feet as she spoke.

Maurice laid his hands upon hers and said:

"Xo, no. Alice: I never meant anything like
that— you know 1 didn't. Rut the boys, you
know." turning i,> Afrs. Rodray for contirma-
tion. "the boys are such upstarts! I'll have a
porter take it up to the dormitory, after a
while, and put it under my bed."

"\\ hy. what a silly thing to say, Alice!" said
Mrs. Rodray. "As'l.amed of you? What an
idea ! Poor girl ! \o<a ha\e ycmr father's teni-
])er— oh, that man ! that cruel man !"

"Mother," said Maurice, "leave off this fam-
ily talk; some one may o\erliear it: and, be-
sides, it's very disagreeable to sit here and go
over those thinirs."

"U'hy. Maurice!" exclaimed the mother,
"what has come over you? N'ou never acted
hke this before. I thought surelv to find con-
solation here, with you, for wlun.; I have made
so many sacrifices!"

As she spoke, the tears welled again in her
eyes, and her lips twitched in the etifort to re-
strain them.

EMBERS

At tliis moment, Father Rhcaiime entered the
room.

Maurice called him over to his party.

"lie is rny eldest son." said Mrs. Rodray to
the priest, smilinj^ sweetly. "Ah, you priests
are such nohlt men ! A mother should be glad,
indeed, to give her son to the Church. I be-
lieve, in fact, that, in doing this, 1 will fmd
great consolation and a reward for past sacri-
fices."

"I had no idea." remarked Rheaume, "that
our Maurice had thoughts of the priesthood."

The priest glanced from son to mother.

Mrs. Rodray said no more, but looked at
Maurice with a strange hxity of gaze and a
smile that hovered close to tears.

They left early.

Mrs. Rodray broke down completely at the
leaxc-taking. and Maurice experienced a sud-
den relief when the mother and sister had gone.

He had never had this feeling towards Mrs.
Rodray in the past.

But, to-day, she had seemed to have about
her an indefinable atmosphere of impending
disaster.

EMBERS

She was ever too eager to air her troubles to
strangers.

And that would never do here in the college.

She dragged out the faniilv skeleton for the
gaze and scrutiny of all or any who wished to
hear or see, much as his father showed off his
finest horses — at least such had been her habit
n 1 asalle: and he knew she had not changed
her habit in so short a while.

And Alice !

Why had his mother not seen to her clothes?

Xo gloves.

.\nd then, those abmninable white rags of
stockings !

Things ran on smoothly to the end of June,
and ilie close of the first year of his studies saw
him rise from a despised tail-ender ti) be the
twentieth pupil in a class of sixty.

1 here was now the summer vacation of two
months.

.Maurice went back to f.asalle.

1 le came at the close of the day.

The elder Rodrav met him at the station.

EMBERS

Farmer^ and idlers stood about in little
groups on the platform.

They knew Maurice.

But, few spoke to him.

Some raised their hats in silent salutation.

There was, already, a ,Qap between this son
Of the soil and the tillers thereof.

Maurice had strai.q'htened.

The stooj) in the shoulders was gone.

His chin struck a higher angle, and he
seemed a trifle conscious of superiority.

Rob, the favorite horse of the returning son,
turned his head to Maurice, lie whinnied in
recognition and pricked up his ears.

The station-master hoisted the student's
trunk onto the spring-wagon of the Rodways.

It was a large, square, massive thing. The
little hide-covered thing he had taken away
was not there.

Along the way, the wheat and oat fields lay
in \el\et mantles of green.

The frogs were piping their shrill songs, to
which Maurice had been wont to listen as a
farm lad.

The wild flowers were bursting forth in riot-
ous bloom along the banks of the dustv, yellow
highway.

EMBERS

Men and women stood in their doorways,
staring, as father and son drove h\

On the hill beyond, >ii the \eianda of the
Rodway honle'^tead. a little knot of white-
aproned women waved white ki rchiefs to the
retnrninj^- son. seated beside his father in the
waf^on.

When the greeting- was over and the hubbub
of excitement had subsided to a softer note.
Mrs. Rodray stole away to her bedroom and
wept — wept for very jov.

J'^or wa. ibis not a day to remember?

Was there another mother in all Lasalle who
luul so much cause to rejoice?

191

CMAPTRR SIX.

On tlie nii»rro\v oi lii's honie-coniin^-. "Maurice
rose late.

'riir()iii.^h tlie open window of In's bedroom,
on tlie ui)|)er floor, a warm breeze swelled ilie
wliite nuill curtains, like sails in L;racioiis
winds.

The ai)])le orchard below had lost its bloom,
and the round, (T;-reen fruit was be.Q^inninj^- to
l)eep throui^h the heavy foliafte.

.\ robin chir])ed boldly on the top of the
nearest tree and. seeinc? Maurice. t1ew awav.

I ie gazed long upc^i the simple scene.

His mind groped through a maze of things
which came to him obscurely, like the remnant
of a dream.

This he knew:

Some change was taking place within him;
a slow, subtle change which |)assed his under-
standing, and in the pr. cess of which he was,
like i)otter"s clay, a plastic and helpless subject.

f"21

EMBERS

He was conscious of a \ery delinile desire lo
heconie a cereal man in the world.

He j)icture(l himself lea(hn^ an army in
battle; or. ^arhed in the hlack rohe of the
l)leader. crushinj^-, with sheer elo(|iience of
speech, the case of the Crown a,i,^•lin^t one whom
the world knew to he guilty; or, ai;ain. he saw
himself appealed to hy the sick and diseased of
the realm as the coiuM of last reort in the heal-
ing- of human ills.

The paths of i^lory called him.

P.ut it was the jnilpit which drew him most —
ih.e mysticism of the Word and the i,dory of the
. Iatter-da\- prophet.

-Ml. Xotre Dame! just to preach an Easter
>ermon in the I'asilica of Xotre Dame!

Me thought of the respectful hearing
towards him. of the villagers and farmer.s at
the station upon his arrival.

They would how lower than that, some day!

I le would soar upon the wings of greatness.

Then, a humiliating thought came to him,
unhicklen: At the college he was nobody; a
mediocre student; a country lad; conspicuous
tor no other quality than that of being the
tallest and oldest student of his class.

EMP.ERS

He tntMicd from the window.

1 1 i^ iiioiluT was callinjj;' liiiii.

I lor \()icc oaiiH- t<> lii^ vAy< like an echo-

"Mv son. \i)uv liri'akfasi is waitinji."

\\ In'lc 111' was eatiMii-. ilic I'all'cr c.ar'e 'nlf
ilie rooni.

Mrs. Kodray. .Mii'o and (ioori^c were seated
around the tahk'. their cm's on Miurice, who
\(»iu-hsate(k heiween ni"niht'uk si(k'lii;hts on
liis ht'e in eoUej^'^e.

Maurice was sparing- \ ith the-i- h'tle scraps
of nilormalion hearing- upon ini'^eh', and dealt
them out slowly and wiili a show of di^'nitv
becoming an ekdest son.

Upon the entrance of ih.e elder Rodray the
family laj)se(l into silence.

Idle father \^ as in his stable clothes, which
smelled stron^-ly of cattle, and his loni;- boots
were cru-ted with duns;-. I le said:

"When you have eaten, .Maurice, I want you
to take a walk with me; I shall be in the store."

William Rodray was sorting a i)ile of dried
hides in the ^^ore-room, cutting off the tail-tips
and horns, and making two sep-;ate heaps, one
of rtawless. the other of imper;"ect skins.

EM".ERS

lie sMaij^lit. iu'(l uj. fr(»iii his task and looked
;it Maurice as the laller entered the r<X)in.

The younger Rodray noticed, for the first
time since his return to Lasalle, that his father
had aged during the inotuhs of his ahscnce.

I he hues in the face w ere deeper ; there were
more gray hair- on the temples and around the
edge of the hea\ v shock.

Too, he f.iiicu'd that hi'- father stooped a
little now.

"1 >ha ' lock up the store," said William
Rodray. taking down a heavy key from its peg
on the wall and ijroceeding to suit the action
% to the word.

1 e led hi- son to the .->tables, where he
-howed bin. certain improvement^ which had

en made.

-V w mangers had Ix^en installed, and a long
woooen duct had been built, which ran the en-
tire length of the stable>. at the outer edge of
the stalls, for tl. • purj)ose of carrying away the
urine to a cistern in the barnyard :

"iMjr," explained he, "it is an excellent ferti-
lizer of the soil.

"We will now walk over to the pasture — I
have bought some very fine .>tock while you
have been awav."

EMBERS

( )ii their \va\ to till- pasture, the father
iminteti nut K'liaiu ( liau^a's which, he thought,
would imrea^e the yield of the crops.

"\-n\ must ^wc the soil a chance lo rest, to
retriexe itself — Uiucli the >auie as men. It
would ue\er do to keep on sowing the same
fu-ld lor c'\er and e\ er in wheat, or in corn, or
in oats. In fact. I would he in fa\or. if I had
surticient land, and could alTord it. of lettiiiij
the fields take turn ahout and have a year ofT.
once e\ery so often — a holiday of the soil. The
land would he the hetter for it."

At the hars of the pasture, he j)ointed out to
Maurice three Jersey cow s and a hull which had
l)een added to the stock that s|)rin^^

A line hay i^eldirij^- looked up from the ^rass
and came t^-allopiui"^ over to the gate.

The cows followed slowlw mooing.

"Over there, in the large lield. is all the old
stock that was here when you went away; [
want them all to get acfpiainted gradually. It's
not safe to turn strange cattle into the same
field with the old stock.

'■| ha\e turne<i the sheep over to Duquette
for the summer; sheep ruin the land."

Mam-ice stroked the cool, wet noses of the
cows.

EMHERS

lUit \^ licn he attoiiiptcd to dress the peldinj:^,
he !nriic(I ah<.iit, kicked up liis feet and ji^allopcd
'•It' ajj^aiii.

■"Well." said the father. Iurni^^ to Maurice,
what do you ihink of the farm tiow ? (jr are
you still deteniimed to ti,i;ht it out wiih
( aesar"

'■^es. father. I have he-un, and I an. ^ouicr
to lii;ht it out."

"Ah. well," said the older one.

And now. aJ,^ain, it struck the son that the
lather was j^rouin;;- old.

in the afternoon, Maurice walked over to the
J.e I'lanc's.

Mrs. Le Mlanc was cliurninn^ in the summer
kitchen.

She hesitated an instant, then clasped the
youth about the neck and planted a kis.s
sijuarely on his lips.

fJajniste Le I'.lanc was in the fields.

"FJaine!" cried tiie mother, running out into
the yard and looking up at the open window of
her daughter's room. "Elaine, my girl, come
down quick ; some one is here to see you !"

h'laine came into the room.

She had grown.

EMBERS

Slie smiled at siq-ht of the guest, and, walk-
ii\, up to him. lOok the jirofFered hand.

'Well, and i>^ that all?" queried Mrs. Le
lUanc, thoroughly hapjn-. and enjoying the c\ i-
dent emharrassment of the two youngsters.

Then Maurice took the yielding child in his
arms and kissed her. as had been his wont in
the old davs.

Xothing would do hut that Maurice should
.'-tay for sup])er.

And when Bajniste came in from the fields,
he nuist ope i a quart of gooseberry wine, which
was served with generous slices of "la bonne
femme's" cake.

"IClaine goes to the convent in September,"
>aid Mamman Le Blanc to Maurice; "we have
about decided f»n Saint Athanase."

The two parents looked at young Rodray,
as if to ask him if the plan met with his
a{)proval.

Maurice remarked that both they, the par-
ents, and Elaine would suffer from the separa-
tion.

"^ou know," he said, with the air of one
who has smi muc.i of life, "she is the only
child. Bui. of course, it w ill be very nice in the

EMBERS

end. For there is nothing; to be compared to
an edncation."

"Of course," rejoined ^Jrs. Le Blanc, "it will
I)c very trying, especially at first. But we will
try to get over the ennui; is it not so 'la
Petite'?"'

Elaine, seated close to Maurice, bit into her
cake and nodded to her mother, smiling.

"Why, Mamman," broke in Bapti.ste, "Saint
Athan;.se is but eighteen miles from Lasalle.
Just a .>hort run for the black team."

"F^ah!" he exclaimed, springing from his
se.-it and coming over to Elaine. "\\'e shall see
her every week when tlie roads are fit."

So saying, he stroked her cheek for a mo-
ment thoughtfully. Then he added:

"We must make a fine lady of our 'Petite.'
Is It not so, Mamman? French, English, music,
needlework, mon Dieu, goodness knows what
not! Maurice, you'll not know her. I tell you.
you'll not know her — some day!"

With that, he tossed off a glass of the goose-
berry wine, lighted his pipe and went out to
teed the pigs.

In the evening. Baptistc hitched his best
horse to the new phaeton and led it around to
the front of the house.

EMBERS

"Jiini]) in. you two, and take a drive," sjiid ht
to Maurice and T^lainc. "Saj)risti, if there's a
lit^rse in the cfuintry that can reach this fel-
low's hcvis. I want to see him."

lie caressed the nohle l)ruie. stroking" its
n x'k. and hekl the bridle w hile tlie pair got in.

And as they drove down the winding piF*'
and disappeared in the shadow> of the night,
r)aptiste Le Blanc and his wife stood gazing
>ilently after them.

In the long summer months Maurice spent
nuich time with Elaine.

At home he was treated more like a g"ues>-
than a son of the family.

1 le rose late.

His breakfast was cooked scjiarately for him
or kept warm in the o\-en till such time as he
dme doAvn from his room.

r")elicacies we! e saved .uul set apart for him.

If it w; s ham, the leaner slice was for
Maurice.

The outer cut of a roast must go to him, for
he liked his meat well done.

Jf there was a shortage of any fruit or vege-
table, Maurice was not permitted to suffer

EMBERS

il'.erefroni. for he was always the first to be
served.

And no one made objection, not c\en WilHani
Rod.ay, who belie\ed in absohite ecinahtv
aniont;' his children.

'idle latter was himself, a man of anstere
appetite.

lie connted himself well started ont upon
the day with a rasher or two of salt pork,
boiled j)olatoes and a bowl of weak tea.

A plumj) hen for Sunday, a fat goose for
special occasions, and plenty of plain fare the
year round — what more could one wish for?
he was wont to say.

The summer tied like a dream.

Again the day of parting came.

Maurice went buck to his studies. I-daine Le
Pdanc to the convent of Xotre Dame at Saint
Athanase.

The Le JJlancs drove (ner to the convent.

The leave-taking went hard with lie mother,
who broke down, towards t'-'e last, and wept.

Raptiste, who had something of a woman's
heart himself, kissed bdaine. without speaking,
and, turning his back u[)on the women, walked
down the gravel path to the roadside and un-
lethered the team.

EMBERS

When his wife joined hihi. Iii< eve> had
tell-tale iioistnes.v and he dared no\ truss his
voice to speech.

They had left the little ' ' v several in'les
hehind.

A few faint stars were out.

The wind had risen.

The Richelieu was lashin^^ die river l)ank,
t^ruinhlini^- loudly.

P>a])tiste hroui^hl i1ie ' tr^e-^ l<i a sto]) and.
turnins^ lo .Manmian I .e l.ianc-

"Shall we iurn round and go back for her?"
he asked. Something- lells me this is a bad
bu-iness. atter all. Alamn; n, and it's Loing to
be dreadfully loriCNonie without "la Petite.'
W hat do you say. MauDuan — shall we turn
back?"

■■] think we would do bciier lo lea\e her
ihere till next werk. and see. then, what she
think- about it." replied the wife. ■"Br, . I see
now how lonesome li's going to be. IJaptiste."

"As you say." sighed the man. inilling on
the reins and turning off on the pike that led
to La.salle.

The home was very lonely without bilaiue.
who was the onlv child.

KMIJERS

S.3

riic hi'st week seemed an eterniU' wiiliom

ler

And when 'rimr-day eanie, at last, which

was \isiunj2^ cia\ at the eonxent. ii \\;is witli the

full expectation ui hrini^ini;- her hack home that

ihe Le Hlancs set out t'. ir Saint Athanase.

r.ut iliey found their dau.ii;-hte:- well pleased

!ih the new life, and unwillinj;;- to ^ive it up.

ti' i\'iurn lo I .asalle.

.So. once more they dro\e hack alone, a great
\()id in their hearts.

' )ne (lav Le Blanc came in from (he fields

:iter

than

usual

1 le had little to sa_\" during su])per.
lie lighted his pipe and crossed his legs
in front of the hlazing hearth.

.\hamman Le Blanc wa< clearing away the
lahle. singing an >)ld l-'rencli song at her work:
"L'n Canadien errant
Banni de son I'oyer
Parcourait en pleurant

s pays eirangers.

"f say. Maninian." said I5aptiste, hreaking
his long silence, "what ihink }-ou of this educa-
tion husint ^s, anyhow? Vou think it's really
worth while?"

v^'^V

EMliERS

Tlie wife lunied to Baptisle:

"Worth while? W'hv, \e<, nf course, Bap-
tiste. Bui, what arc you iliinkiuj^^ of? Maybe
I don't i^et your meauiui;."

"1 mean Elaine. She's ^oi t'our years to go,
ovcr there, and I've hern thinkini; wiiat will it
amount to in the end? Will she he nearer to us
or farthei- away — 1 mean in the heart, you
know. \'ou saw wliat one week did — one*
short week; sh- preferred the place to us. Of
course. I know she loves us; but, I say, what
will it come to four years from now? Will she
1)0 content to live here on the fa'-m ; to wed in
l.asalle; and bear children to a man who. as
there are many hereabouts, has no :.,^reater idea
of life than U) eat. drink and <^o to bed with
his wife? 1 fear, Mamman, we iiave done un-
wisely for 'la Petite.' and in saying that I mean
for her own good. Maybe we have done much
lo make her unhappv."

"My dear, you always did run far ahead to
meet trouble, and so you are doing now. It is
the best thing for I':iaine. It can not hurt her.
And as for her marriage, when the time comes,
she can find a suitor, easily encnigh, among the
young professionals. She is a very loving

EM15ERS

child and I tan not \n\\ hclicvo she will aUvavs
be the same lo us."

liaptiste lai)sed into silence .ij^ain, and Mani-
nian look up the thread of her soni;":
"I'n jour, irisle et pensif.
Assis aux bord des flots
Au courant fut;^itii"

II addressait ccs mots."
Maurice corresponded with I^laine.
The latter was very much taken up with the
life of the convent and was fond of the sisters
who. she said, were very ^ijood and kind.

Her father and mother were weekly \i-itor>
at the convent and saw to it thai she wauled (or

notiunj^.

She was ^'■ettinL;■ aloni;' splendidly in her
.-ludies, and was, indeed, \ery hai)p}', only for
the thouy^ht of him, Maurice, for whom she
fell, at times, very lonesome.

1 ler letters usually terminated in an outburst
of naive confidences as lo the tuiure and sintple
expressions of her attachment for him.

Sometimes she would enclose the picture of
a saint, an "Agnus Dei," or a little medal,
which she had purchased for him at the store-
in the convent.

And Maurice sent her 'jifis in kind.

CHAPTj-,R si:\i:x.

Vouv years passed (juickly enouci^li.

Maurice apijlied himself (lili,<;ently to his
sliuHes and proj^resscd. by slow dej^recs, lo an
enviable position of excellence in class standing;.

lii the final examinations in "Rhetoric." he
(hvided honors with a I'rench student from
Sorel.

Two years remained for him in "Philoso-
ph}'."

i'^lair.c had tinished her four-\ear coi'.r>e.

She was the belle of the convent, a maid of
ijueenly bearinL,^

The red hair of the child had turned to bur-
nished g^old.

The large, blue e) i'^ seen- 'd to have sunken
deeper beneath the long, uiack lashes.

And the form of her, slim and willowy, har-
monized with her grace ''ul step, like the cadence
of xoluptuous music.

(861

IiMl'.ERS

Maurice and ["Jainc had uritlcn but liltlc to
cacli other in the last year.

A birthday letter and one at b'.a-^ter — that
was all.

There had l)een no eslranj4"enient.

It was but the natural death of a childhood
love.

I'.Iaine had ^rc-wn to be more reserved, or
I)erhaj)s, less exjjressive of her feelinj^s, as she
|)ri>L!ressed in \ears. which was to be exf)ectcd
in one of her ^cx.

Maurice had i^iven much t!iouL;"ht. of late, to
the ([uestion of his future.

I le leaned to the priesthood; but did not feel
Hire of the \ocation.

I'ather Savard was now attached to the col-
l'j.i"e. Maurice consulted him fre(|uently.

lOj^ether ihey took Ioul;" walks on the prome-
nade overlooking the ])layiL;Tounds. Time after
lime, the pair went over the subject of young
Ro(lray's future life work.

But they never seemed to reach a solution of
the trying problem.

Savard would say:

'"Of course, you know, my dear Maurice, thai
1 can only do so much and that then and there

K.Mr.KKS

mv (lnt\ si'als mv lii)'. I can n'>t make \hv
ik'ci->i('n ff)r vou. It il were onW a matter nt
dccidinj; hctwci-n l,i\\ and incfliciiK', it would
l)c a coni|)arativc'l\ c'a~\ matter. Hut between
the world and the |)rie>lli<">d oi (lod — oh. mv
^on, that i.s a very dilTerent thin:^. and 1 would
not ha\e it upon n)y -~(»ul to ha\e ad\'ise(l you
wrouf.:^."

"I know, I know," Mauriee would say in
reply. "lUit. if il were only L;i\en me to .see!"

The end of the schola.>tie year found him in
the same uncertain frame of mind.

lie dared not make decision.

And when the college closed it> door> for the
sum'mer \acation, he turned once more towar'ls
Lasalle, perturbed in spirit and racked with a
thousand doubts.

(leorj^c met him at the station.

The father had been stricken with apoplexy
that day, while hoeinj^ in the jj^arden.

There had been three doctors at the house
the greater part of the day.

They thought he would live.

"Father hasn't done much w ith the farm this
year," said (jeorge. ""1 told him in April that I
wanted to go to college this coming" fall and it

i-:Mi5b:k>

vccuicd to break him all up. lie liaMi't taken
niiuh heart in anything >>inee. He say>^ the
eonnlrv's ,i,^nin|Li^ to the devil. The harns and
stahles need a enal of paiiU, hnt he\ kept put
tini; it off all sprintj;'. sayinj^ he doesn't see the
n'^e. "^\\a^ all I eonld do to i^et him to repau'
the fences where the vails had been broken and
cattle were straying into the fields."

When they reached the house, P'athcr Xa-
deau was there. I le siiook Maurice warmly by
the hand

■'Vou must come to see me. Maurice"; he
said. "It is lime you and 1 were haxin.i,'- a little
talk about the luture."

Then he tip-toed his wa> to the front duor
and closed it softly behind him.

The father lay upon the bed.

The merest movements of the white covering;
betrayed a lins^erins;- spark of life.

'1 he face was cadaverous; the skin tii^ht and
drawn and of a pasty pallor; the lii)s puri)lish.

The eyes were closed.

About the head the long white hair accentu-
ated the death-like features of the man.

Maurice shuddered at the sii;hl of this, his
father.

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^= 716) 288 - 5989 - Fa.

9(J

E^■r.ERS

Mrs. Rodray entered the sick r(^()ni and beck-
oned liini a\va\'.

"Oil. my s'>n," she he.i^an, "what a time 1
ha\e liad witli liimi lie haMi't the heart of a
stone. Wn- months lie has done nothing hut
rail at scliools and colleges. .And he says the
jjriests are to blame for the land being aban-
doned. He says they encourage the young men
to leave the farms and go to college in the city.
And he blames me for your going awav, and
says I am putting it into (leorge's head to do
the same. And tliere's Alice, going to be mar-
ried this August. And here [ am. alone, with
iiim this way on my hands, without so much as
a kind word, or a soul to help me!"

Maurice heard her out in silence. When she
had done, he changed the subject abruptly.

"Have you anything to eat? I declare J am
famished."

And when meat was laid u])on the table:
"And now," said he. "I beg of you. let us talk
of something i)leasant."'

Alice blushed and told of her approaching
marriage.

The bridegroom to l)e was the son of a pros-
perous farmer in the neighboring j)arish of

EMBERS

Saint X'alcnlinc and himself a young notary
in>t out of the university.

His name was Francois Gregoirc.

I ie was a tall, \\ell-l)uilt fellow of mild man-
ner.

The Rodrays were pleased with the match.

Alice was desperately in love.

She sat at the parlor window for an hour or
two hefore the time appointed for his visits,
gazing anxiously down the pike that led from
Saint Valentine, her fingers nervously thrum-
ming the wind(wv sill, or opening and closing
a little black silk tan which Maurice had sent
her from the city.

Mrs. Rodray had telegrai)lied for Ann. the
eldest daughter, who was living with her hu.s-
hand in Ouehec.

The couple had been married five years and
had already three children, two girls and a

1)0\'.

They were looking for another in the fall.

Thev had not prospered.

They lived from hand to mouth in a crazy,
weather-beaten tenement in Irishtown, near
ihe river front.

liugh O'Malley, die husband, had aban-

EMBERS

(loncd the strenuous life of a trax eliuQ- auction-
eer to stay at home and be closer to his wife, as
he j)ut it.

He cared little for what he termed '"the lux-
uries and jKnnposities of life," and it must he
said that he saw \-ery little of them.

lie professed himself thoroui^hly hai)i)v with
Ann.

I le reeled honie drunk three or four times a
week with a lump of beef or mutton under hi',
arm and a j)ai)er-back novel for his wife, whom
he conciliated with the j^ift; for Ann had not
lost her love for the heroes of Romance.

With the baby nursing- at her breast and the
two older ones roll ins;- at her feet or tuc-^inii
at her skirts, she would sit, by the hour, her
work undone, and the rooms in frightful disor-
der, and read to the '•jinis" the latest peace
offering of her bibulous lord.

She was eternally with child.

"Give me a potful of potatoes." O'Malley
would say to his intimates, "and a fat jug of
ale and my wife— and the devil take the rest !
Let the young ones come as fast as they like;
that's God's business, and I'm only his servant,
to be sure."

KMBERS

*-K^

They had not gone l)ack to Lasalle since
(heir wedding.

The Rodravs knew httle of their affairs.

'Hie telegram was dehvered to Ann while
( )'M alley was away from the hotise.

She took it down to the dock where lie was
ci]-,ployed as a tally clerk.

I le read the message over several times with-
f>nt speaking.

"Well," said Ann, finally, "can I go?"

"Can you go? To he sure, yon can! And
so will I — and the lot of us!"

"But, the fare? Can you raise the money to
take us?"

"Leave that to me, Annie dear. It'll be a
cold day when I can't get you as far as Lasalle.
And where you are, it's my duty to be, likewise,
to he sure."

A second telegram was sent the O'Malleys
the night of Maurice's arrival at Lasalle.

The message said it would not be necessary
to come home, as the elder Rodray was now out
of danger.

But the O'Malleys were now on their wa\.

They had taken tlie night steamer for Mon-
treal.

94 EMBERS

Tlu'v arrived at l.aNalle the f()Il(nviniJ: nitrht.
llic Rodravs had rt'ccixed no word of their

coming^.

Tlierc was no one to meet llieni at tlie sta-
tiV)n.

So they walked the three miles lo the homc-
>t(.ad.

They were a pathetic si.^hi a^ t]ie\ left the
pike and turned up the j^raxel driveway to the
house.

Ann. in a che;i]). faded, hlack dres^, trudt^vd
I.ehind ( )'Alalley. holding;- the hahe in her arms.
There was a careless droo]) in her lioiire and
her hair, from beneath a disreputable bonnet,
showed itself to he sadl>- in need of the comb.

O'AIalley went ahead. leadiniLC the oldest i^irl
by the hand and carrying- the other in his arms.

His trousers came above his ankles and the
coat was very short in the skirt and at the
sleeves.

The suit was of a qreeni'^h black, worn slick
and shiny.

A narrow white collar, almost entirelv hid-
den by a ready-made, black bandd)ow, sur-
mounted a white shirt, which was streaked with
the soil of travel.

EMBERS

The cIiiKlren wore wliilc muslin bonnets that
barely hunj^- onto ilic backs ol' their heads, so
small they were and insufricicnt.

The two ^irls wore little black shoes of thick,
stiff leather, with copper toes.

Their dresses, of coarse white nui>lin. bore
unmistakable stains of the jonrney.

On making' the turn from the pike, they
found themselv in ])lain view of the house.

O'Mallev sto])pe(l and craned his neck anx-
iously, expecting- to see crepe on the front door.

'Tie's not dead yet."" he remarked to his wife,
and they struggled on towards the house.

^laurice met them in the doorway.

I lis face changed expression at sight of
them.

1 'overt V was stamped in every line of their
faces, in everv shred of their wretched gar-
ments.

There was more than that : ()"Malley"s face
had taken on the puffed and bruised appear-
ance of the sot, and his breath stank as he
spoke.

"Why. son. you've grown, to be sure —
sprouted like a weed since I saw you, five years
ago, ploughing the oat field."'

EMBERS

And, pointing- to his I'.iiiiily b^-liiinl hiii.:
■■|k'rc'> the younj^cr jT^eneration, sonny, and
\-onr own -isicr Ann. And how's iIr- scjuire?
\\ f'\c hecn worried so alioin him. Better, say
\ou 1 \\ ch, now, thiat's .^ood. lo he sm-e. Annie,
j^iil. your lather'shetter; isn't tliat tine. now?"

Ann, who had hi^-.^ed hehind, h.id now re-
joined her hushand on the \eranda.

.She kissed Maurice and asked ahoui her
fatlier.

Alice came runnin.i;- down th.c hallway from
the kitchen and ]Mrs. Rodray emerged from
Iier hcdrooni. (ieorge, who had hecn pulling
lettuce for sui)])cr, saw the i)arty on the veranda
and came hurrying over from the g-arden, a
large hunch of the tender green leaves in his
hands.

When the greetings were over, (ieorsfe fol-
lowed Alice into the kitchen.

The latter looked at the lettuce and said:

"That won't he half enough; you had hetter
go for more."

The following day, Sunday, Maurice drove
alone to church.

He arrived during the "Kyrie" and was the
center of attention as he walked up the main

EMBERS

;iisle to the Rodray pew. near the coninnmion
tahle.

After the service, he went to the sacristy to
acquaint I'^ather Xadeau with his father's con-
(Htion.

On leavine: the priest, he came around to
the front of the church, where he came face to
face with Elaine Lc Blanc.

She was waiting her father, who had some
husiness with the notary.

Their faces underwent a chans^e as they met.

They appeared very different to each other,
now, from the lad and the i;\v\ of the old days.

There was the merest interval of embarass-
ment.

Maurice was the first to speak:

••\\ hv, Elaine, I would hardly have known
you!"

lie came nearer and held out his hand.

She was very charming, in her simple dress
of softly tinted organdie.

The sun played in her glorious auburn hair.

She held a blue silk parasol at the tips of her
white-gloved fingers, like a fairy queen, hold-
ing a wand.

They were man and woman now.

■«BB^»«iHHHH

EMP.ERS

The border line had hcon crossed, and the
sex in tlieiii had (juickencd into dangerous
flame.

Little was said.

They fed upon each other's eyes.

There was an indefinite, subconscious strug-
gle in their niind.s.

Their hearts were beating fast.

They felt that something strange and here-
tofore unknown to them was taking place
within them.

The carriage of the Le Rlancs appeared at
the foot of the long walk.

"I shall be over after dinner," said Maurice.

"We shall be glad to have you." sbe replied,
smiling, as she turned towards the waiting car-

nage.

Maurice found his father much improved.

He was now able to sit up in bed and talk
in a low, uncertain voice.

"I am glad to have you home, Maurice," he
said, with that simplicity which was character-
istic of the man.

Maurice brought him a tumbler of cold
water and arranged the pillows.

Then the father spoke again :

t-i,,

EMBERS

"My son. I may not be hm^ for this world.
Ilavc'you decided what you arc ^<nn^ to do?"

"Not as yet, father. I hope to come to a de-
cision soon."

"Well, go slowly, Maurice; don't leap in the

dark."

Cfl.\I'Ti:K I'.KillT

r-ai)tistc \.v r.lanc was sniokin.t; Iiis pipe on
tile tVunl p,M-ch when Alanrice drove np in front
o} ilie house.

"Ah, AlnnMeur .Maurice!" c.xclaiiMcd Bap-

tiste, risino- in.ni his chair and coniin- forward

to meet youn- Roch-ay. "I'm nu-ohtv -lad

you ve conic. Manunan and la Petite and niv-

selt. we've all heen talkin- .ahout vou. Con'ie

into the house. Monsieur Maurice— walk right

in. .Sapristi ! how he's filled out ! I say, Mani-

ninn. what think you of him now?"

Mrs. Le lUanc <;rceted Maurice affection-
ately.

"P.lcss nie. he's too hiq- to kiss, now; my
P.aptiste would he jealous." she said, lauHiin"-
hcartily. '^

"Xo, f wouldn't," rejoined the man, good-
naturedly; "kiss him if you want to, Mamman."

J':iaine, who had heen upstairs, entered the
room at this moment.

[looj

KMliERS

101

P.,'ij)tisti> wont out .'111(1 rcturnc'l presently
witli a Ixittle ot' lli^ nwn \inl;ii;e. and "Mam-
man" cut intd a l)iu,'. iroNtecj cake, in iKUior of
the i;nest.

Then Maurice a-ked h'.laine U) qo for a (iri\'e.

"W h\', of Course, ^he will l;o," hroke in Iki])-
tiste. sla])])in,L,^ hi^ thiL;h. "Mow could .she re-
fu-^e her "caNalier'?"

They turned off on the road to the Toinl, a
prettv town on the edi;e of Lake I'hamplain.

The lonL,^ .straight i)ike wa.s shaded, the
greater pari of the way, with the overhan^ini;
hranches of i;ianl oaks and maples.

The dust lay very thick, and rose hehind
them like a cloud of yellow smoke.

Aloni;' the wav the ditches and the road-
hanks were hidden heneath an interminable
stretch of elder bloom.

Lar<;e Hocks of L^eese ([uacked spitefully,
opened their bills and snread their wings.

Dogs came out from the farmhoitses, bark-
ing indolently at the passing carriage, and re-
trt'ated int(^ the shade of the buildings.

The sun was very hot.

Xot a leaf stirred.

Maurice and Mlaine exchanged experiences
of their lives awav from home.

102

EMBERS

They chatted faniiharly.

The stranj^eness of a few hours ago had en-
tirely disappeared.

They were, once more, on the old footing" of
intimate friemlship.

They drove through the little town on the
American frontier and came, presently, to tlie
uike.

It looked like i sea of glass, so transparent
and motionless it was.

Out upon the blue water, white sails glim-
mered here and there, like the wings of great
sea birds.

Along the beach, birds dip])ed dieir bills
silently into the water and resought Uie grate-
ful shelter of the woods that skirted the shore.

The heat was now crushing in its intensity.

"I am afraid to start back," said Maurice,
"on account of the horse: he might go down
under the iieat. ^.\'q can spread a robe under
a tree in the woods and look out upon the lake.
In a couple of hours the sun will weaken."

Elaine agreed readily to this, and the horse
was tethered to a shady maple on the edge of
the road.

EMBERS

103

They had retreated from the merciless heat
of the beach into the shade of the woods.

Maurice fetched the rohe and spread it upon
the ground at the foot of a towering oak.

Here they seated themselves.

They sat for a long while watching the sails
and the wide expanse beyond, where the sky
seemed to bend and kiss the waters.

^Maurice had taken Maine's hand.

It lay in his, contented.

And now, a strong and sudden change came
over him.

The blood shot to his head.

His heart beat wildly.

He wanted to fling aside this woman's hand
that was burning him with a strange fire, the
like of which he had never felt before.

He made a vain effort to rise, for he wished
with all the strength left in him to rush away
from her.

But the small white hand, lying there in his,
held him.

She was gazing out upon the lake.
In the branches of a maple, near by, doves
cooed.

The earth was dreaming.

104

EMBERS

The air wns hurtheiied with t!ie wild and
passionate son<^' of love's awakening.

The scarlet sun was sinkini,^ into tlie western
edge of the lake.

A delicious coolness was in the air.

The waters lapped the heach rocks fretfully.

Th.e white sails rocked uneasily upon the
trouhled waters.

"Shall we go'" asked the woman, her arms
ahout the neck of the man.

"Yes, dearest," he replied.

She drew him to her and held hi^ face in
both her hands.

Her great blue eyes filled with tears.

"Maurice, oh, Maurice!" she sobbed.

"Don't weep, dear heart," he said, and kissed
her tenderly upon the lips.

A storm was hanging, black and onn'nous,
in the sky, when they reached home.

Baptiste and Mamman Le Blanc were on the
front porch.

"Ah, there they are at last!" exclaimed Bap-
tiste. "Parbleu! I was beginning to fear the
storm would overtake vou."

CHAPTER NINE

Maurice went to his room without supper.
The storm broke with terrific fury, slam-
mini? the doors and ratthng the w indows.

Big guns boomed in the heavens and hind
flamel danced in the blackness without, lick-
ing the tops of the drenched and bending trees.
^Maurice locked the door and diew a chair
over to the window.
He watched the storm.
The raging elements seemed strangly in ac-
cord with his own warring emotions.
What had he done?

Was this the end of his ambitions, the col-
lapse of his "chateau en Espagne," the blast-
ing of his hopes?

Had tlie act been of his volition?

Had he not resisted with what will-power he

possessed?

Certainly his mind had had no part in the

deed.

[105]

106

EMBERS

if!

"P)iit, I^lainc — was he not ans\veral)le to her
— he the stronLjj'er one?

Was slie aware of the l)attle he had waged
a^ninst the flesh?

Would she understand?

Could she for_G;-ive?

( )r would she insist upon the perfornu nee to
whieh she stood justly entitled?

What would his father say? his niothc, the
impetuous Haptiste — and Maninian Le Blanc
— if it were known?

What would they think at the college — the
professors and the scholars ?

In fine, what was his duty?

Supi)osing his vocation to he the priesthood,
which was the straight and honorahle course
of action now: to marry Elaine or forge ahead,
weighted down hy his sin. to the altar of the
Eucharist ?

He fell upon his knees hy the side of the hed
and huried his face in his arms.

He pra}ed long and fervently.

When he rose to his feet agam, a round,
white moon was starin- into the room.

The skv was hright with the light of mvriad
stars.

EMBERS

107

Onlv, far to the north, a black strip of cloud

Nvas driflinp: hurriedly away.
There was a knock at the door.
:rRoc,rav..,a,cr..lK.re,es.n.han

„„,„,in„,,K.rl1atl.o.M.r.MnsamltaUmgrai,

"'nc- hands were clasped over her stomach.
Slie beckoned Maurice t.. lollow.
m. went downstairs to the J-"S-ro™-
\ ice was setting a cold chicken on the tab.c.
S^ 1. ked both doors leading into the roon,
,,;a .oin, over to the sideboar.l. drew out a
Ctle oi ^vine and placed it l,es,de the fowl.
Thev ate in silence for some time.
Thin, Mrs. Rodray. no longer able to con-
tain herself, broke out: .,-.,^, Were
"Well what do you thuik, Maurice, nvc
wen, . ^g to
saddled now, in earnest. Hey are

,-1, \ nil had no sooner leiu,

:;• ; rr;;t c)>u,i:;; hitches tn. and

\n ^he st-ition And what do you
,lr \•o^ down to i.ne sianon. -^ . ^

:';;;:. ,. brought back m t,. w.gon. two

oj it off, O'Malley went "owntown be ore th
storm, and has just come home as drunk

108

EMBERS

a lord! Oh. tliis is too much to 1)car, Maurice.
Tell nie, what are we s^oinii^ to do? Is there
no way to rret lid of them ?"

"Vou would do well to let them have their
visit out." re])lied Maurice, "for we must re-
memhcr that Ann is one of ourselves. But, are
you sure he was drunk?"

"lie couldn't he any drunker and walk." said
Alice.

"Well," rejoined Maurice, "let us wait a few-
days, till father is ahle to s^ct ahout; then we'll
leave it lo him— he'll not fool with O'Malley."

"Another day like this." protected Mrs. Rod-
ray, weakly, "mij^ht he the death of me. ( )h.
the disgrace of it! The drunken sot! Then,
the children, shrieking at the top of their voices
and galloping over the house, as if it was a
barn. And Ann just laughs at them and says
it's cute."

She took a sij) of the wine and added: "()h,
my son. I'm building so on you! The dav of
your ordination will be the hapi)iest of'mv
life."

Maurice made no "eply. but went back to
his room as soon as he could take himself off.

He went to bed, but found it impossible to
sleep.

EMBERS

109

Tlic £?rav dawn was stcalin.c: through tbc

window wl'icn he at last fell into a fit fill doze.

The children, romping in the hallway, awoke

hini.

lie dress^a and went down to breakfast.

( )n the w;iy to the dining--rooni, he stopped
in to see his father.

The elder Rodray was sleepinjj^.

The face had a'sli.^dit flush and the deep

lines were gone.

Maurice drew the blinds and tiptoed out of

the room.

The others had eaten.

Maurice partook sparingly of eggs, toast

and cotfee.

Then he went over to the stables and saddled

a horse.

He was passing out of the barn-yard when a
sudden furore of cackling in the hen-house
arrested his attention.

He left the horse standing and crossed the
yard in the direction of the noise.

A hen Hew over his shoulder as he went in.

In a far corner he saw a man bending over
one of the nests.

On the floor, egg shells were scattered about.

EMIiERS

Maurice kicked the wall lightly with his

i)()()t.

The man turned around abruptly.
It was O'Malley.

"Hello, there. Maurice," said he. affecting
to be not the least disconcerted; "I'm sanipliui^
the eggs. I iust suck 'em. you know. A hole
here and a hole there and a pinch of salt and
there you are ! I can suck a dozen of 'em with-
out stopping. And what makes them stdl
better is a dash or two of the real stuff, whisky
or brandy, with a little sugar to tone it down.
My, oh, my, but you've got the fine eggs!^ As
sweet as nuts and as big as your fist. Delicious,
to be sure !"

Maurice turned on his heels and, walking
over to the horse, leaped astride and rode away.

He had no intention of doing so before
mounting, but a force stronger than himself
turned him towards the lake.

The parched roads had already drunk up the
rain.

The sun was out.

A cool breeze waved the green fields of oats
and wheat and played in the foliage of the
trees.

EMBERS

The Lc r.lanc house appeared deserted.
The bhnds were drawn and no one was

about.

He arrived at the lake about noon.

lie tethered the horse to a tree and went
down to the beach.

He was going over the events ot the day

be 'ore.

He climbed the slope and sought out the tree
under which they had been together.

The grass was still trampled.

Something glittered on the ground at his

feet.

He stooped down and picked it up.

It was Elaine's locket.

He opened it.

It contained two tintype photographs, one
of Mam... n, the other of Baptiste Le Blanc.

He close 1 the locket and turned to go.

Then he : topped short and his hand went to
his throat: Elaine was coming through the

glade to him. , uac • ^i"

' ^he said but the one word : Maurice

Then she threw her arms about his neck and

o-azed into his eyes. ,

"You should not have followed me, he said.
'Tt will be noticed and cause talk."

i> i

112

EMBERS

"Follow you?" she replied, withdrawing;
from liini: "1 came to look for my locket!"

I le came o\er to her .and took hoth her hands
in his.

"Voii don't understand, hdaine," he said.
"i5elie\c me, I meant it for }-our f^ood."

lie drew her close to him and kissed her.

"Say you forgive UiC." he pleaded.

Elaine did not answer, hut, lookim:^ up iiuo
his face, she smiled crladly, like a child, and
souq-ht the rcfus:;e of his lips a.G;-ain.

"Mow did you come?" he asked.

"I rode o\er on the white marc."

They sat down in the same spot.

C)ut U])on the lake the waters rolled lan-
guidly.

A long string of coal harges moved lazily in
the distrmce.

A great streamer of hlack smoke from the
tug drifted slowly towards the west.

White sails flitted ahout, like huttcrflies.

The hreezc from the lake came in i)layful
gusts.

Elaine was gazing far away, where the sky
seemed to bend and kiss the waters.

JMaurice held her hand in his.

EMIiERS

113

A youn^; bird llcw out over llic aVj;^ <>f the
lake .-iiul (lrM|)])e(l, lieli)le^->, into the water.

The p.ireiit hird^ hovered o\er the lled.i^hii.i::.
frantic and e(|nally helpK--;.

Maurice thou^lit he ^a\v a retlection ot' him-
self in the traL;edy.

1 le had ceased to re^i-^t.

It was late in the afternoon when they re-
turned to l.asalle.

Ikiptiste, who was coming- in from the fields,
hailed them.

"Sapristi! Are we to see no more of yon,
Monsieur Maurice? It doesu"! seem (|uite fair
for 'la Petite' to keep you all to herself."

It had been his intention to i^o home without
stoppiuij^. hut now Maurice .s.iid:

'T shall he s^lad t(j take supper with you, if
\ou sav the word."

"Say the word? Parhleu! What need to
say the word? You're as welcome as ITainc
herself. Mamman was sayinjj;-, no later than
last nit^ht (and T aj^reed with her) that we
should have more of your conii)any."

When Maurice reached home, Mrs. Rodray
and Alice were on the front porch.

The mother had been weeping.

114

KMr.KRS

"More trouMr.'" ini|iiiri'(l Maurice, strant^^c-
ly irritalt'd.

'•( )'Malk-y." said Alice.

"Drunk af^ain," hroke in the mother ; "stai,''-
j^erini;-. reehni; drunk."

And now .Xkuiriee i.".k to si)en(Hn,L;' most of
the time with l.laine.

The) took (h-ives into the couiurv.

They would leave early in the dav and return
lati- in the at'iernoon or at ni^ht.

Mrs. Rodray and .Mamman I.e Hlanc prc-
I-ared lunches t'or the ])air. and Ikaplisie would
add a holtle of his <'-()()>eherrv wine, for iroud
luck, as he would say.

Maurice was no longer trouhled with scru-
j)les as to his conduct or its conse(|Uences.

lie went ahout, eaiinj;- .and drinkinsj;-, as if
nothing- unusual had taken i)lace in his life.

lie sle[)l .soundly and continued to rise late.

The elder Rodray was now uj) and ahout.

lie was ([uite feehle, as yet, and C(jntented
himself with short walks in the garden or in
the fields.

Sometimes he sat in his armchair under a
tree in the orchard.

1 le had changed greatly of late, and his man-

ICMllERS

115

tier w.t; more that of a tinii<l ^lU'^t tlirin of the
o\\ inT of the estate.

1 li> walk was <haky ami nnceiMain.
lli> hair wa^ ii<>\\ wvy white.
( )ne luornitic;- Matiriee was on his way to the
.qahles when his father h.ailed him from the
potato field nearhy. He was knocking bugs
off the vines with his cane.

"Maurice," he said, "have you ma<Ie any
plans for your future, as yet.-'"

"None other, for the present, than to tak.-
'Philosophy' and complete the course."
"Ah!"

There was a moment's silence.
\\illiani Rodray picked a large bug off a leaf
and placed it carefully ui)on a small tkit stone
at his feet.

Then he crushed it with his hoot.
"And the Ix^ Blanc girl," he continued. i)ur-
suing a well-defined line of thought; "what
are your intentions as to her? I am your
fa.ther. I have a right to know the truth.
Maurice went white.

A sudden weakness struck him in the knees
and began to mount to his head.
Ikit he fought it off and replied:

V '

116

EMBERS

"You have no reason to believe that my
intentions are anything- hut honoral)Ie."

"^'()U are ri^ht. my son. and I pray God it
nny ah\ays he so."

Then, after an interval, he added:

"P)Ut, I warn you, if you must ])e a priest,
be a ^"ood one."

CIIAPTKR TEN.

"Yrm ?cc." said D'Mallcy to Ann, when they
liad been in Lasalle a few days, "it's hke this,
Annie dear: The squire's not hn^^r for this
world, and for the while that remains for him
on earth, he's as good as dead, so far as work's
concerned. Then there's Maurice, who's facing
back to college in September; and (korge, who
thinks he's got to go too. They sent for us,
von know— don't forget that — they tele-
graphed for us, and here we are, by Harry,
boots and all! And all you've got to do is to
say so, Annie (as you're a daughter of the
house), and we'll stay till it suits us to leave."

"It's the black looks. Hugh, that I can't
take," said Ann. "The food gags me."

"Danm their black looks, Aimie girl. Not ^i
one of them had a hand in the making of the
monev hut the s(iuire, as I understand, and he's
not objecting, is he? Leastways, I haven't
heard of it, if he is. And, besides, there's

[1171

II'

118

EMBERS

plenty of work to he done about tlic place that
will pay handsomely for the keep of the lot of
us. Now, why can't I do the work as well as
a stran.c^er. who'd steal them blind?"

"1 think it's the drink. Ilu^-h. that they're
objecting- to more than anythinc; else. You
see. this colle^-e business seems to have made
them miq^hty uppish, as compare:; o how they
used to be when I was a ^kl at home. And,
besides, you know it's wroiig. Here T am with-
out a stitch of decent clothin.^- to m^• back. And
the children in tatters, (^h. if you'd only
straig-hten uj), I lui^h, we could .c^et alcwi;- well
enouq-h without my people. When I think of
the one that's coming, and not a penny to our
name, I wish that I was dead!''

"Well, well, now, don't work yourself up
over it. Who knows what may happen betwixt
now and then? Don't take on so. Worry's
an old lodg-er; but. for all the time he's been on
earth and meddling with i)eople's business, I
don't know of a single good deed to his credit.
There's a fact, to be sure! Cheer up, Annie
girl, and take my advice — hold a stiller ui)per
lip! I'll see the squire and have a talk with
him when he gets out again."

EMBERS

119

O'Mallcy had t ken advantap^c of the elder
Rodray's illness to edp^e in on the work of the
farm and the chores ahout the house.

None of the family ohjected to this at first;
in fact, they felt j^rateful to O'Malley for these
services, especially George, who was lazy and
who was held responsible for the work by the
father.

But O'Malley didn't stop at the daily routine
of the farm.

With hammer and saw. he went about doing
odd jobs here and there over the place; or,
again, he would be seen going towards the
barns with a paint pot in his hand and a ladder
under his arm.

He was not long in Lasalle when he began
to assume an air of grave responsibility in all
matters pertaining to the farm.

George now took charge of the store, where
there was less to do.

O'Malley worked and managed the farm.

And when the elder Rodray left his bed and
walked about the grounds, O'Malley said not
a word, but kept on with his chores and his
labors, as if this had always been his occu-
pation.

120

EMBERS

At ni^ht he went down io the villas^c inn.

He usually came home late and drunk.

But he took jealous care not to let liquor
interfere with his \\ork.

']"he day finally drew near for the h"rvest.

It was Sunday.

The mowers and threshers were at Le
Blanc's, wh.ere another (Lay's work remained
to he done.

Tuesday they woi rart in at Rodray's.

William Rodray was walking- slowly around
the edge of the wheatficld, lookint,^ over the
crop.

He had stooi)ed to examine an car of wheat,
when he heard a swishing .,ound in the grass
hehind him.

It was O'Malley.

The latter had been waiting this opportunity
for several days.

He had seen the older man leave the house
and followed him.

lie lost no time in preamble, but came
straight to the point:

'T've been wanting to have a little private
talk with you, S(|uire," he began.

"Very well, Hugh."

Ili

EMBERS

121

"About the work here on the farm. I thoup^ht
we niis:ht be a1)le to strike a bargain. I'd do
the work, or some of it, and see to the doing of
the rest."

"And how much do you expect for your

services?"

"Well, Sciuire, I hadn't got that far. I want-
ed to see what you thought of it first."

"How much have you been making, Hugh?"
"All the way from nine to twelve dollars a
week."

"When did }ou take to drinking?"
"Drinking? Why, I've taken a little sup all

IT "

my lite.

"You did not say so when you asked me for
my daughter. She's in rags, Hugh, and so arc
your little ones. Do you purpose to keep this
up? If so, 1 wouldn't have you here at any
price."

"Why, no. Squire; the fact is, I've been a
little down in my luck of late and driftetl in
wiih the boys, which was wrong in me, to be
sure, but it's not habitual. Squire, I can assure
vou that."

"Well." said Rodray, "I'll think the matter
over and see what I can do. In the meantime,

122

EMBERS

say not a word about this to the family; you
understand?"

O'AIalley erossed the road and let down the
bars for the cows.

'I hey rushed out. mooing, their bulging-
udders swinging from side to side.

O'Malley put up the bars again to keep in
the horses.

Ilien he caught up w itii the cow:s.

William Rodray gazed after liis son-in-law,
as the latter swung his long whip over the
backs of the laggards.

And when the herd ar^l the man had climbed
the hill in the road antl (lisaj)peared in the val-
ley beyond, he turned back to the field and
scanned the mellow wheat that waved golden
in the sunlight.

"It's as good as settled, Annie dear," said
0']\lalley to his wife, when they were alone in
their room that night. "I got your father's
car. Ah, girl, it's myself that played trumps
to-day, to be sure! I've got it fixed now, that
I know. It's a secret betwixt me and the
squire. But I will tell you this: Skep easy
and eat hearty, for all's well and the danger's
past!"

EMBERS

123

Ann stared nl her lr»r(l, a smile of incredulity
playing- al)out her lips.

He noted her humor.

He looked serious for a moment. Then he
turned upon her and said:

"What are you g-rinning at? Do you think
I'm drunk?"

"Xo," slie replied. "1 know you're not. But,
did you really get around the governor?"

"To he sure I did, girl, or T wouldn't l)e wast-
ing my hreath telHng you."

The harvesters came on Tuesday.

Eor four days the Rodray homestead was the
scene of much a- .ivity.

O'Malley spent tlie days with the hands and
gave g-lowing accounts to William Rodray of
his work a-field.

He remained soher and took his drink judi-
ciouslv from a stone jug which he had hidden
in the hay loft.

At night he retired, virtuously, after supper,
together with Ann and the children.

He understood that he must convince his
father-in-law of his reformation.

Henceforth he would not go to the village
tavern.

124

EMI5ERS

TTc conlfl easily (lri\c over lo the Point and
lia\-e liis Jul;- filled.

None \\oul(l ln' the wiser.

Alice and Mrs. Rodr.'iy were hnsy with the
weddin.L;- trnu->-fau. for tlie :lay wn^ drawincif
near.

Maurice was h.ead over hecN m love with
I'-lainc.

And i-daine returned his l()\e with a j^reat,
un-pariuL;" de\-otii)n.

They were rarely a]iart: hut little was
thou-ht of it h\ the neiL^hhors, who knew of
their lit'edon^- attachment.

Mrs. R()(lra\- :L;rie\e(l oxer her son's prefer-
ence I'or the I'rench ^irl, as >he used to call
T'daine, hni said nau^dit of her chai;rin to
Maurice, whom she was i^rowinc^ dailv more
loath to displease.

She horc this part of her hurden in silence,
confinini;" her expressi<,ns of ^''^|)leasure to the
D'Malleys, who seemed to have taken root in
the homestead.

O'M alley was takin,^- a livel}' interest in the
affairs of the farm.

Me did not hesitate. U])on occasion, to voice
his mind openly at the table or in the councils

'•i*v

EMBERS

125

of ihc family as to what hv thoiv^lU should or
5-li(>nl(l not l)e done .abniit the place.

The eonciliatiniL;- lone and manner of the
earlier da\s of his stay at Lasalle had ;L,n\'en
wav to a more ])ereni])l()r\', almost authorita-
ii\e. hearinj^.

Mrs. Rodr.ay attempted to la_\- the matter he-
fore her hnshand.

Ikil he turned away from her, without a
word, and left the room.

i^nuilatini;' the example set hy O'Malley,
/\nn now went ahout the house, making the
heds, carryinj^ slops or i)erf(jrnung sundry
ta<ks in the dinini^'-room and kitchen.

ihis, in a measure, conciliated the mother,
who looked forward to the coming loss of Alice
with a feeling akin to trepidation.

But O'Malley was too much for her to en-
dure.

1 ler skin crept at sight of this cheeky, ill-
nicinnered fellow. She was never the first to
spea.

And she answered him in the briefest pos-
sible words.

Not in the least abashed, O'Malley went
about his business much the same as though
she had never been in Lasalle.

12()

EMIIKRS

Tlio WfddiiiLT canio at last.

It was a quiet atTair.

Francois rirc'.i::oirc looked ([uite trat^ic in a
Mack "Prince Albert" suit.

He wore a white rose "b<iiitonniere" and his
hlack, wavy hair was resplendent with strong-
ly-scented O'l.

He walked like one in a dream, and lu.-^ tace
was while.

( )n his wav tu the aliar, his foot caught in
the carpet and he stumbled.

Some one in a jk'w j^igj^led.

Alice, who had his arm, turned very red.

All Lasalle was at its doors to see the bridal
couple returnini,^ from the church.

Alice made a beautiful bride.

She was dressed in a white gown with a lonj^
train and wore a wreath of oranc^e blossoms.

She carried a large bouquet of lilies-of-the-
valley which Ann had gathered on the edge of
the garden.

There were sever carriages.

Tiny, white silk ribbons lluttered on the
whii)s.

The coachmen all seemed alive to the im-
portance of the occasion.

EM15ERS

127

TIk'\- bore tlieiiisclvcs crcrt on the boxes and
looked straiL;lit ahead.

'Idle sun smiled down upon Lasalle.

The house\vi\es, in tlieir doorways, said:

"What a day for a wechhrn;;'!"

A _i;Teat feast was laid.

And when they had eaten and drunk their
fill, the f.;uests drove haek to their homes, and
the In'ide and groom set out upon their wedding
journey.

'The time was now approaching for Maurice
to leave Lasalle.

Elaine counted the days that remained with
a feeling of vague, indefinable dread.

She had hoped he woukl abandon the idea of
going back to college; the more so now that the
elder Rodray was no longer able to work.

.She had even hoped to become his bride in
the fall.

b'or he had told her, in his transports of pas-
sion, of the great, undying love which he
bore her.

She dared not question him.

For the subject was painful to her.

;;1 :

2i^

kmi;kks

AikI c\v]\ tn iliiiik of the comint^ sopar.'ilioii
sent the tears weUiiii^ (<» her e\e>i and Iier heart
heating' u ildl)'.

She hoped a.L^ainst ho])e tliat lie would not
go; that ^otuethiiii;' would happen to keep him
with her.

And, with the hnoyancy of youth, she wo'dd
]»a^^. of a sudden, from the veri^e of tears Uj
li(|uid ripples of laUL^hter, seeinj^" as she did, in
this feehle ray of hope, the possihihty of con-
tinued liapi)iness.

I hit Maurice, who had ^ixen no thoui;h* to
eonse(|uences, and saw no ohstaclc in his way,
!iad not C(^nsi(k'red I'.laine or the comphcations
that nii,L;ht arise frt)m their "liaison.

! lis lo\e was the li)\e of the hutterfly for the
tlower.

When away from her, his thouj^hts, his as-
l>irati(»ns ran to his future with increasing
force and fe\'er.

On the e\e of his return to college, he was
with I'daine far into the night.

\\ hen Baptiste and Alamman iiad gone to
l)ed, ihey went out in the moonlight.

They walked, arm in arm, througi; the fields
of vellow stubble.

KMIU-:i<.S

129

I'unipkitis stood out rc'<l in the p.iK^ sheen,
;iinl upon the ;\iur rniK a silvery niDc w.ns
j^athtTJiii; that L;a\c to tin- tu'liK the ^"ii'hlaiicc
lit' pa^tural paintings in t'raine- nf crystal.

I.ca\inL;' the lirliK hrhind ihi'Pi, ihcy wan-
dered over to the edL;i' of the woniN ami lnj
I'twed the winding;' pathway that led to the
ri\'er.

d'hero was a t'allen tree, an oal; that had heen
>truck down 1)\- li^htnin;^. upon the hank of the
stream. A .i^reat rift had heen torn in tlie trunk
and the hark wa^ blackened and ch.irred in
j)atchcs.

'i'hey seate<l theni.seho in silent accord and
gazed npon tiie water.

Each was ^tran.i^ely preoccupied.

Neither ff>und words for speech.

The ni^ht air was cold.

h'laine huddled uj) to Maurice, and he placed
hi^ arm tenderly round her waist.

They sat there a loni:^ while, not spcakiiiGf.

Sometimes he would press her hand.

Sometimes he would draw her lips to his and
kiss them.

Rut her eyes welled up eacli titnc. and he
became strani^ely atYeC d. as thouq-h some one
\'erv dear to him were )out to die.

130

EMP.ERS

And when iliey Nvalked back over tlic wind-
mfr path that skirted the woods and throuj:^h
the fields of yellow stubble to the house of the
Le Blancs, and when thcv j^azed into each
other's eyes for the last time, it was in silence
still, sax'e a sob that broke from the lips of
Elaine.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

The students' annual retreat was held late in
September.

It lasted a week.

This retreat consisted of a series of sermons
and religious exercises, and had for end the
invocation of Providence ujion the labors of the
students during the year just beginning.

It was during this week of prayer and medi-
tation that Maurice Rodray thought, at last,
that his vocation was discovered to him.

A great light burst in upon him; and he
trembled at thought of his un worthiness.

What would the vow of chastity mean, com-
ing from him now?

Yet, he heard the call distinctly.

There could be no mistake.

But. .here was an obstacle.

It stood before him. silent, immovable.

Do what he would, he might not argue it
aside.

[1.31]

132

EiMBERS

And, what was worse, it was of his own

doing;.

But, oh, the throhhinc: at his heart!

And tlic voice in the tahcrnacle, calhng to

liini !

And Christ. Icach'ni]: the way witli liis cross,
l^rnclainiini;" all sins forgiven.

The retreat was j)reachcd Iw a young priest
of the order of ""tlie most Holy Saviour."

He was a man of passionate eloquence.

It was towards the end of the week that
Maurice, after much hesitation, found himself
alone with Father \'an der Ptlave, in the room
of the latter.

The priest was a nervous, wiry little man,
with piercing black eyes and ever restless arms.

He had a way of swinging his hands over
his head, as he spoke, or throwing them out
before him, like one swimming.

Me was seldom still for a moment.

A dynamo of imtiring energy.

He would change from laughter to deeper
moods with all the swiftness of a cat.

He was essentially happy in his calling.

And the great joy he found therein lit up his
thin, ascetic face with a beatific smile.

EMBERS

133

A sudden allusion to the sufferings of Christ
for mankind would brim bis eyes with tears.

lie was an enthusiast of the Cross.

Tlie young missionary made a profound im-
pression on Maurice.

It was due to him that the clouds seemed
about to dissipate on the horizon of his life.

V^an der IMlave made it clear to Maurice that
if he felt called to the jjriesthood, it was his
duty to respond to the call without hesitation:
"Unhappy the man.'" he said many times, "who
loses his vocation !"

"How would you like to become one of us?"
he asked ]^Iaurice: "A Salvatori^t; a preacher
of the word; a saviour of souls?

Maurice had not thought of this before.

But he caught the priest's fjuestion eagerly
and asked \'an der PHavc about the life of the
missionaries.

The priest spoke glowingly of his order and
assured Maurice that he had every outward
mark of the calling.

"You could leave here in a week or two; that
is, as soon as we could communicate with the
l-'ather Provincial. Then, when your adieux
were made, you would take ship for Belgium.

134

EMBERS

You would make your novitiate, and complete
your studies in our coment at Saint Trond:
For we have no 'studentat' in Canada. You
would see the \vorld; round out your educa-
tion; and. upon receivinj^ Holy Orders, come
back to us, a i)ricst, a full-fledged soldier of
tk. Cross."

"J would i^ladly i^o," rejoined Maurice; "but
1 fear that I am too unuorthv."

"You have in mind your .sin, nion ami. Xow
tell me, how could you hope t(^ better atone for
the j)ast than by j^ivin,^- your life to God and
His holy service? And, besides, you should
not forget that the mercy of God is grf iter
than any sin of man. Can He not do for vou
what He did for Saint Augustine, who had
been a libertine, Saint Ignatius, who had lived
the life of a worldling, the Abbe de Rancy, a
free and easy courtier, and countless numbers
of others, who barkened to the call ? Sleep on
it. tonight, mon ami ; and come to me tomorrow,
after :\Iass. Pray the Blessed Yirgin for
guidance, and your good guardian angel. I
will say a Mass to the same end. Au revoir !"

Maurice went to the chapel and knelt before
the "Mater Dolorosa."

EMBERS

135

There was no lonn^er any doubt in his mind.

But, Elaine — what about that?

Then the words of \'an der Pflave recurred
to him: "The mercy of God is i:^reater than
any sin of man."

There nuist be a decision somewhere: he
would be a priest !

This settled, he wrote a lono- letter to the
elder Rodrays, in which he spoke at lenj.^th of
his great happiness.

Too, he wrote to Elaine; but the tone of his
letter to her differed from that of the other.

It was a duty thrust suddenly upon him, he
told her — a stern, irrevocable decree which he
must not and dared not resist.

The letters written, Maurice locked them in
his desk and went to find \'an der Pflave.

The latter was reading his breviary on the
promenade.

'T will go to Belgium," said Maurice to the
priest ; "I knovv' it is my calling."

"Bravo!" exclaimed Van der Pflave, closing
his book, and putting his arm round the other's
neck: 'T thank the good God who heard my
prayer. Deo gratias !"

CHAPTER TWFJA'M

The FatluT I^r()\inci;il of the Order of the
-Ah)st Holy Saviour was tlieii in Oiiehee.

He rephed |)roni])tly to \;ni der Ptlave's let-
ter, atttliorizin-j;- him to make arrant^-emeiits
wiih the steamship ecjiiipany for yotmg- Rod-
ray's i)assag-e.

Tlie 'T)ominion of Canada" was to sail in
three days.

It was decided he wotdd complete his i)repa-
ralions and settle his affairs, to leave on that
date.

He concluded not to go to Pasalle. His
])eople could as easily come to see him off. This
would lessen the pane's of partinsj;-.

Mrs. Rodray came at once, upon receipt of
the telegram from Alaurice.

There was an affecting scene between
mother and son.

Airs. Rodray gazed long and tenderly at

[136]

EMBERS

137

^Maurice, who se<?nied to lia\e taken on an air
of dee]) filial affection and humility.

"Ah, my son," she assured him, the tears
coursin.i^ down her thin face, "this repays me
for the past. This is the heavenly reward for
all mv trials and sufferini^s. (jod is just! God
is just!"

And then: "A'our father cannot come. The
wicked man is struck down a^i^ain in this hour
of his son's triumph. The doctors say he will
recover; hut that he will never reg'ain his
health com])letely. Ah, God is just!"

Alice and Francois came on the last day.

The O'Malleys remained at home.

Maurice paid a farewell visit to Alary, at the
1 hotel Dieu.

The latter was very happy in her vocation.

She was proud of her hrothei, and intro-
duced him to the ^Mother Superioress.

The main deck was crowded when the Rod-
ray party went ahoard ship.

The night air was laden with the perfume of
flowers.

Blase men and beautiful women stood in
groups, chatting.

Sometimes, a peal of laughter rang out.

138

EMBERS

P)iit it seemed strans^ely out of tune, here.

It told too })laiiily of tears forced back and
held in check; of hearts wtuiil;- with anj^uish ;
of souls that must defy their feelini^s, else weej).

The scene bewildered Maurice.

Francois assisted him to his cabin with hi.s
lujT^age.

The women waited on deck.

When the men returned, Maurice went up
to iiis mother and kissed her; then he kissed
Alice and g-a\e hVancois and George his hand.

In the twinkling of an eye, he had gone
below.

Francois led the women down the gang-way,
onto the wharf.

They were weeping.

When Maurice awoke, the daylight was
streaming in through the portdiole and the
ship throbbed like a living thing.

A man came into the cabin.

He was tall and boney. He wore a Norfolk
suit of gray tweed and a cap of the same ma-
terial.

"Good morning, sir," said the stranger.

EMBERS

139

"I'm your cabin mate for tlio voyage, ^'ol^re
a late sleeper, T see."

•'Have we started?" askeil .Maurice.

"Started?" rejoined the man, looking at his
watch. "We've left Montreal some forty miles
hehind us."

Maurice dressed and went on deck.

A few men and women v.ere exercising.

Others leaned over tiie railing and watched
the fleeting shores.

Some were seated on long, frail-looking
steamer chairs, reading or chatting.

They all appeared very nnich at home.

^Taurice saw a stout, l)earded man, in a uni-
form of blue and gold, talking to a tall, dark
woman, in a heavy cape of Scotch plaid.

He judged the man to be the ship's captain.

The woman glanced at him and as their
eyes met, Maurice felt a strange dislike for her,
thoueh he had never seen her before.

He dropped his eyes and crossed the deck
to the guard-rail.

The trees along the shore of the river were
black and leafless.

The grass was dead on the banks ; the fields
stripped of their yield.

140

EMP.ERS

The air was (lanij) and raw.

Xo one spoke to Maurice.

Lasalle came hack to him.

lie thought ot" l''.laine. The life he was ahout
to take U]) ai)iieare(l, for the tirst time, heset
with |)(»s>ihle disaster for him.

A feeliiii^^ ot intense loneliness came over
him; and he longed for the emhrac^> of h^laine.

1 he hreakta^t i;on^- recalled him.

lie was assii.^iied to the ca])tain's tahle.

r.y hi> side sat the dark woman whom he had
seen conversing- with the chief oflicer.

A faint perfume wa.> exhaled from the
woman; rui indefitiahle. ex(»tic odor, as of deli-
cate flowers, that miL;-ht have heen home in
upon warm winds from dista.nl shores.

The\- passed the old h^-ench cities of Sorel
and Frois Rivieres and the sun was settins^"
over Ouehec as the shij. sailed past the Citadel
on her way to the sea.

In the (lulf the sea was rough and choj)py.

The third day otu Maurice, who was hadly
shaken up. remained in his cahin.

It was late in llie afternoon when the door
(>pened niid the ship's doctor entered, followed
by the dark woman in the i)laid cape.

KMT^.KRS

141

She caiiiL- o\cr to liis berth and placed her
hand upon his forehead.

"I'iMir i)(ty!" '~\\v iiuirniurcd, tenderly. "\'<»u
nui^t try tn enuic on deck, t< hik irrow. Von
lia\e to ri:.^ht it ot'f, yon know."

Then she rani,-- for the steward and ordered
a pint of (']ic([not.

.She poured the sparklinc: lifjnor into a thick
glass tnnihler and L;a\e it to Maurice:

"T am a L;ood sailor." -^aid she, turninsj^ to
the doctor. "I know ])relt\- well what they
need."

■"I sjiall send you something; to read,"" she
continued, addressinm' .Maurice. "You like ad-
venture?"

"\'es. very nuich." he re])lied: "and — thank
3011 a thousand times!"

As she turned to g-o, she smiled upon the
sick man and Maurice saw that she was beau-
tiful.

The following day she came again.

With her was the captain, who inquired, in
a blustering way, after the health of Maurice.

It struck the latter that the chief officer had
come to see him merely to be in the company of
tlie woman. And he was surprised to feel a

142

i:Mr.KKS

p.'injT (\f icnloii^v .'it thouLrlit of this old man's
conceit.

'riic ncM (lay .she came alone.

r.ut K'lKJi-av's ca1»in n' ite \\a> lyiiiiJ^ in lii-^
l)tilli.

So. slu' liaiidcd liim I'danherl's "MadamCi
J'.o\ary"" ami anntlKT honK- of Clic(|Uot; and
went awaN'.

She did nm come ai^ain.

i\nd ilie\- were in mid-ocean hcfort Maurice
fell \\(.'ll I'tioni^h t(» ^() on d''ck.

They \Ncre ti,i;htin,L;' a h.eaey sen and tlic ship
lurched an<l rolled in a mam'er (!iat made .all
look i( I their sea lei;"s.

\ steward assisted .\hanrice to a cliair on the
starhoard deck.

A >tity, cold w ind stnni;' hi> face.

The movement of the shi|) struck the pit of
liis stomach.

lie came to his tVet (|uickly in an effort to
j^et to the ^-uard-rail.

At this moment a ^reat \\a\e struck the ves-
sel and she went rolling- over, a heavy spray
dashinc: the deck.

M run-ice felt a hand q-rasp his arm, and.
turnint:;-. ocheld his visitor bv his side.

KMI'.KRS

14.^

"Go back,"" lie -aid; "it's rlaiiL^^froiis."
••\..l at all," ^Iir replied, piillin.L,^ a red taiii
o' sliaiiter Will down (>\i'r her wealth of raveii
hair. "I love the ^ea and have no fear of its
(lan,«,i:crs."

She held hi- arm in hers as thoitf^di lu" were
a child of teiicU'r \ears and led him aronnd to
larboard, where the wind was w.arded ott by a
tari)au1in. wliich iiad been stretched over the
deck, in roof md-wall fa-hion.

Thcv seated themselves on lon^ steruncr
chairs and a -teward fetched nij:::s from the
woman's cabin, in which they wrapped them-
selves.

Their chairs tonchcd.

Maurice could feel tiie heat of the woman's
arm against his.

lie tingled with a strange emotion; but
thought instantly of his calling and turned a
deaf ear to the rumbling of his blood which
jiounded madly at his temples.

Then he heard her voice, riding the wind,
like the tinkling of a bell.
He turned his face to hers.
Her cheeks were flushed and the background
was like the transparent white of Carrara.

144

EMBERS

Her eyes were black and of tlie softness of
velvet ; the lashes lon.q- and thick, like an
l{!g-yptian's.

Her teeth were white and flawless.

Her ears pink, like coral.

Her ho.Mim ro^c and fell in rhythmic cadence.

Maurice had never seen a woman like her.

She was lau,Qhin_^- no.v, and looking into his
eyes.

"Ts my patient better?" she was saving.

And, with a sickening throbbing at his heart,
he replied:

"^'es, yes, I feel much improved."

A volume >lid from her la]j and fell upon
the deck.

Maurice picked it up and handed it to her.

Their hands met and his cheeks flushed per-
ceptibly.

For a moment her hand lay in his.

Then, starting up, she said:

"^^ou are feverish : let me send for the doc-
tor."

"Xo. no," he protested. "I am doing splen-
didly; I am much better than I was."

She looked at him in silence for some time.
'Hien she asked :

EMBERS

145

"Where are you going?"

"To Belgium; to study."

"Art?"

"No— theology."

"Oh'"

She gazed down upon the deck for what
seemed a long while to Maurice.

Then she spoke again:

"Are you going to be a minister?"

"No — a priest. I am a Catholic."

lie glanced at her; and he noted that her
face had undergone a change.

I-Jer cheeks had paled and her eyes dimmed in
thougiit.

At this moment the captain catne up and
drew a chair beside them.

He was in very good humor and predicted a
fall in the wind and a smooth sea for the re-
mainder of the voyage.

That night, in his berth. Maurice w^as a
prey to whirling thoughts.

He rolled and tossed and found it impossible
to sleep.

And among the shadows that crept in upon
his restless soul were the dark woman and the
captain.

146

EMBERS

And he himself gave the matter some
thought, and stopped for a moment in his
dream fever, to wonder why he felt so deep a
hatred for this old fool with a grandfather's
heard.

I lis heart heat lotidly and his ears sang.

Many lewd and awful images flashed hefore
his waking c\ os as though clothed in garments
of flesh.

And always it was he and the dark woman
together.

1 le thought no longer of the convent in
Saint Trond; of \'an der Pflave, of Elaine.

It was the woman, the dark woman, now; he
did not even know her name — oh, God, only
to possess that woman!

( )n the morrovv- she did not appear on deck.

Xor the next day.

The third day a steward hrought him a note
fro:;; her. It read:

"Coine. Cabin Sij. X'aldette Bergere."

He followed the steward, who led him to the
door of the cabin.

lie went in without knocking.

X'aldette was lying in her berth.

She was ])aled, like a flower that has suf-
fered from the caresses of the sun.

ExMBERS

147

But Maurice thought she was very lovely.

And he trembled before her.

"I didn't expect to have to send for you,"
she said. "1 went to sec you when you were
ill."

"I did come," he rejoined. ''And I was
about to knock on the door when I heard the
voice of a man — the captain's voice — and I
went back."

"Oh, the captain! That old fossil; why
didn't you come in? You are going to become
a priest. Vou need have no fear of women.
\'ou are of the anointed. Will you please
])ress the button? And order a quart of Clic-
([uot and glasses. You can sit on the edge of
my berth. Right here, near me — that's it.
Now tell me about all the souls you are going
to save — you interest me so! You don't know?
Well, let us talk about something else. Have
you ever been in love? No? I have often
wondered if priests were things of bone and
flesh, like ourselves, or mere spirits in outward
forms of men, and free of human frailties and
base passions. Now, here is the story of
Manon Lescault: I have read it many times.
The autlior, who was a priest — "

148

EMBERS

"My God!" exclaimed Maurice. "Voii are
driving me mad. I lo\ e you ; I love you with
all my .soul !"

He flung himself ui)on her in the delirium
of his passion.

But she pushed him hack gently, like a
mother refusing her bahe the breast.

"The steward!" she said softly in 1.:.-. ear.
"He's at the door with the wine!"

When the champagne was drunk \'aldette
said :

"Will you be honest if I ask vou a ques-
tion ?"
"Yes."

"You didn't like me at first, did you?"
i\o.

"That's a good boy. Now you must go on
deck and let the sea breezes cool that 'grande
passion' of yours. Foi I would never consent
to being the cause of your remorse in the cold
corridors of a cloister."

"At least," said he, "lei me kiss your hand."

"No, no," she laughed; and her silvery, mel-
low voice rang out above the plashing 'of the
waves.

"Then, why this note— whv did you send for
me?"

EMFSERS

149

(IJ

''I have already told you, my dear. Really,
you are very interest in,2^ to nie. Xow, go,
])lease; that's a good hoy — an rcvoir!"

Maurice went on deck, his soul racked with
rcgrtts.

Why had he ever told her the truth about
his destination, his calling?

What had come over him to admit he had
not fancied her at first sight?

And his vocation — was there really such a
thing?

Or was it not more like a chimerical moth
that must take flame and perish wretchedly at
slightest contact with the fir^^s of passion?

Was it too late?

Could he turn back?

Or must he go forward into the life he had
chosen ?

lie thought again, as in the old days in col-
lege, of the mysticism of the Word and the
glory of the latter-day prophet.

But, now, these were dimmed and undesira-
ble ; and a woman of daz;^ling grace and splen-
dor \vas beckoning him to follow back over the
wastes, to a realm of more sentient joys, where
love lingered.

150

EMBERS

His flesh thrilled.

Then the i)riesthood, black-robed, passed be-
fore him.

He th()u,o-ht of the vow of chastity, which
must endure while life was.

Again he saw himself in the pulpit, convert-
inrr multitudes, the revered of the faithful:
Father Rodra} — the name would be on the lips
of thousands; would be lisped by the tongues
of infants.

Then, he knew she would not listen to him,
now. The woman in "89."

And, even if she would, the disgrace — he
could never rdurn to Lasalle; nor appeal to his
father for aid.

He was as helpless as a bird unfledc-ed.
He went below to his cabin; and was glad
to find no one there.

He rang for the steward and ordered a bot-
tle of Clicquot.

He had never drank this wine before; but
now it had a peculiar charm for him.

He inhaled the intoxicating perfume of it,
before drinking, as though it might be the hot
breath of his beloved.

He drank deep.

EMBERS

151

The steward smiled when he called for the
second quart.

And when Maurice ordered another hottle
of the champaij^ne, the man merely nodded and
withdrew — but he was too good a servant to
obey.

The next day passed; and the next; and ho
did not see Valdette.

And on the followin<>- morning they sighted
tlie coast of Ireland.

The grim, gray rocks rose out of the sea,
flanking the green fields and defying the
waves.

Mediaeval castles sentineled the topmost
heights, battered by time and tempest, and
deserted by men.

White clouds of gulls rose above the clitifs
and descended into their nesting places, among
ravines.

Maurice stood at the guard-rail, watching
the panorama of green and gray as it unfolded
l)efore him.

The ship trailed along very close to the
shore.

At times they could see the Irish farmers
emerge from their little white houses and go
towards the barns.

152

EMBERS

Maurice even saw the smoke rise from a
man's pii)e. as he stood on the edi,^e of a cliff
and waved at the shij). Maurice waved back
at the fellow.

lie even wished, at that moment, that he
had been horn upon the isle, so that he niifrht
feel the pani^^s of the e\-icted. and know the
imjmlse to fight for the cause— for his father
had told him much of the suffer int^s and the
oppression of Ireland.

The ship took on her pilot at Movillc.

Slowly the coast of Ireland grew gray and
indistinct and finally, late in the day, was but
a shadowy outline against the sky.

The Isle of Man went by and, at nightfall,
the ship dropped anchor at the bar of Liver-
pool.

There was much merriment aboard.
A concert was given for the relief of sailors'
orphans.

Maurice remained on deck.

The waters played about the great seafarer,
and a round, blood-red moon was up.

Here on the threshold of the old world,
Maurice repented his haste and trembled at the
enormity of the undertaking before him.

EMBERS

153

Too, he was consumed with a ^reat desire,
a mad, unreasoninjr passion for this woman
who had so stran.q-ely entered into his hfe.

Gulls swooped and skimmed over the sea,
emitting their shrill, weird cries.

The ship rolled drowsily, like a cradle.

lie thou,L,dn of Elaine, of the Rodrays who
were keenly proud of him. the eldest son.

And now it came in upon him that the love
of h:iaine was a great, burning love — a flame
of ex(iuisite purity that would not, in time, con-
sume itself and flicker out; but must endure
wliile life was, and would not chill until the
heart was dead.

And in this moment he pitied Elaine, as wc
are prone to pity those who love us and whose
love we cannot return.

He had not seen Valdette since the day of
his dismissal.

He had watched and waited for her con-
stantly; but she did not appear on deck.

He saw her in the forms of others who did
not in the least resemble her.

He conceived a genuine hatred for a pussy
old woman who took X'aldette's seat at table
while the latter was ill in her cabin.

r i

5 1

154

EMBERS

;.i

He scowled villaitiously; and the offense was
not repeated.

lie drank lart^e (|nantiiies of CIie(|not, be-
cause she was fond of the wine.

And now that the hour of partinj;- was near,
he reahzetl what a s^n-eat void must conic into
iiis life w hen she had gone.

It was well on in the forenoon of the follow-
ing day when the "Dominion of Canada"
slipped into her dock.

Maurice was standing near the forecastle,
watching the sailors, when X'aldette emerged
from the hatchway and came toward him.

She wore a trim travelling suit of dark mate-
rial.

Her face was pale and somewhat thoughtful.
"Ah, Monsieur Rodray, I suppose you will
be Hitting away on the first train to your be-
loved retreat?"

"I had counted on seeing London," he re-
plied. "But now — "

"But now? Go on. I pray!"
"^'ou know what I told vou the dav I made
such a fool of myself in your cabin — well, that's
it. I don't care what becomes of me if I am
not to have you."

EMr.ERS

155

"Poor hoy. it's hut a tlcctinp: fatuv, I assure
you — a tVctini!: fancy. I shall ^o to sec you
in your convent some day; and 1 will waiter
that you will not receive me. so taken up will
_\ou he with your devotions. Do you take me
up?"

"\'es. hy the (iod aho\e me!"

"Good. Ah, they are hoist inj.^ the <j:an,i;-wa\-.
1 am i;lad it's over."

They passed oft' the ship onto the slantinj^
.L,'-.n.<,n)Iank, Maurice holding Xaldette's arm in
his.

A crowd was j^athcred on the dock.

A lart^-e, fierccdookinj^ man detached himself
from the mass and. comin-;- forward to \'al-
dette, clasped her in his arms and kissed her
repeatedly on the mouth.

Then he turned to Maurice and said:

"Thank you, sir — and a very good day to
you."

And now they were gone.

And Maurice felt very much alone and ahan-
doned in the midst of this howling Bahel of
carters and cahhies and half-naked urchins.

He wandered about the thoroughfares until
noon.

15r,

I-MIU'RS

Tlio (■(.iitimMital express f<ir Harwich had
Ji:>t startt'(l lo iii<i\c. as he >\viin^- onto the tool-
hoard ami vcraiiihk'd into Iiis coiiipartnieiit.

I lir iiii^hi liad settled thick and hiack when
the train pulled into the '<ld h'.n^dish seaport.

'Idle niL^ht vteainer I'or Antwerp was thie lo
lea\f within the li(»nr.

Maurice lo>i no linu-. hut went ahoard.

lie walked d^wn a lon^'. douhle line ol" little
white doors wiih hrass k.ohs, until he came to
his cahin.

lie crawled into his herth and directly fell
asleep.

'hhey were in the waters of the Schcld when
he awoke; and it was daw

In the distance. lh(> ("athedral tf)wcr rose
j^rini and stolid ajj^ainst a hack,L;round of spot-
less sk_\ .

A priest of the order met him at the dock.

"You are welcome, my dear hrother." he said
simply. takin,i^ Maurice hy the hand. And he
led him to a waiting" carriage.

They drove to the Antwerp convent of the
Salvatorists.

Maurice was warmly welcomed by the
priests.

•■-MI'.RRS

15;

Meat \\a> laid: and a lar^o stone jng of beer
K'ok lip its place- upon the table.

Manrice fell to and ate heartilv.

I hv (la\- was spent viewinLi: the masterpieces
oi the I'deniish painters and in the Zoolo<^ical
( lardens.

In the evenino; he hoarded the train for Saini
Troiid. where he arri\ed after an hour's jour-
ney.

Another jiriest of tlie order was at the sta-
tion to meet him. I le was a youn<i^ man, sliL^du
oi Irame and of pleasant manner.

••] i)resume this is the dear Brother Rodray?"
he inquired, coming- up to Maurice.

■'>'es. Ivilher," replied the latter.

.And they turned from the tracks which had
hroui,dit him frr.m over the world, to the old
convent city, now indistinct in the i^atherin.^-
shades of ni^ht.

I'hey walked through windiny: streets for
some time, and finally came to a hij^di brick wall
which rose hijrher at a certain point and took
on the dignity of a facade.

There was a door.

And over the door, the statue cf the founder
of tlie order.

158

EMBERS

At the toot of the statue ran the inscription
in Latin: "Peace to all who enter here."

The I'-riest spoke.

He, too. was younj? and knew the sacrifice.

"My dear friend, is there anything you would
care to do while y(Hi are still tr.^e?"

"No, Father."

The priest turned to the door.

A song from within clanged harshly.

An old lay brother opened the door.

For an instant, Maurice Rodray glanced
back into the dark, deserted stt ■■:.

Then he went forward and the door closed
softlv behind him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When Elaine received the letter from Mau-
rice, in which he told her of his decision to
enter the Order of the Salvatorists, a hollow
moan escaped her.

Her head whirled and sang; and her heart
throbhed so that it sickened her.

The walls of her room, whither she had re-
tired to read his letter, swam round and round;
and a death-like weakness overcame her.

She reeled to the bed and fell heavily upon it.

Pain flitted from her; and she sank into a
deep, merciful sleep.

When she awoke, Mamman was standing
beside her.

Elaine thought of the letter.

She cast a swift glance over the floor; but it
was not there.

"The letter? Here it is, my dear,' said
Mamman.

[159]

160

EMBERS

;* i

Then, after a silence, she turned from the
w indow, through which she could see the ga-
I)led homestead of the Rodrays, and said, more
to herself than to Elaine:

"And so, he's going to be a priest !"

At this, Elaine sank back upon the bed and
Iniricd her face in the pillows.

And now, no longer able to restrain her
grief, she sobbed pitifully.

Alamman knelt down beside her and stroked
her hand.

"Bless the child," she was saying. "It's very
hard. But you mustn't take on so. For there
are many others as good as he. The voice of
Baptiste recalled them.

"I say, Maman, when will supper be ready?"

"It's ready now, Baptiste, only for setting
the table. I'm coming."

Elaine did not come down to supper.

]\Iamman told Baptiste of the letter and its
contents, over their soup.

"Going to become a priest, say you, Mam-
man? Does he say he is going to be a priest?"

"Yes, a priest — a Salvatorist."

"And you say he's going to the old country
— I mean, does he say that in his letter?"

EMBERS

161

"Yes, Baptiste — to Belgium, to enter the
novitiate."

"And when does he sail, Mamman?"

"I believe he says on the twenty-seventh of
this month."

"And what day of the week will that be?"

"Saturday."

"Saturday, the twenty-seventh," he repeated
to himself, rising from the table.

"Why, Baptiste, I ihought you were hungry;
you haven't eaten anything!"

He came over to Mamman and placed his
hand upon her shoulder.

"Mamman, something's wrong. I can feel it.
I know it. Else, why should Ma Petite' take it
to heart as you say she does? Then, why didn't
he come back to Lasalle to make his adieux?
I tell you there's something wrong; and don't
mistake me!"

A thought struck him suddenly.

His tone changed and a deadly glint flashed
in his eye.

"I will go to Montreal — "

"Why, Baptiste," brok;^ in Mamman, rising
from her chair, "what would you be doing in
Montreal?"

162

EMBERS

1 )

"I will £^0 to ■Montreal." he repeated dog-
o-edlv; "1 will meet him face to face, before he
sails; I will have the truth."

"What do you mean?"

"lie will tell me. yes or no, whether harm has
come to 'la Petite' — that's what I mean."

Baptiste made good his word and went to
Montreal to sec Maurice.

P)Ut it was late in the forenoon when he
reached the dock ; and the ship was well under
way.

lie returned to Lasalle, morose, crestfallen
and strongly convinced that his suspicions
were true.

He spoke no more about the matter.

In fact he turned very glum and had little
to say in or out of the house.

Onlv, he showed an increasing tenderness
for Elaine.

Xot that he spoke more to her.

But he became very mindful of her comfort
and saved her many steps, by anticipation, in
her work about the house.

Suddenly, he left off going to the village or
to church.

He took to roaming the woods and fields.

EMBERS

163

Si)nictinics lie would icnc home in the morn-
ing' and not return until late at nigiit.

I !e would come in bespattered with nuul and
filth and covered with burr.s.

Mamman. who had iioted the chang-e in him.
would greet him kindly and lay his supper.

i le would snatch a bite or two from the table
wiihout sitting down.

He would remove his big, heavy boots
and tiptoe his way up the stairs, candle in hand,
to Elaine's room.

He would place his ear to the keyhole and
listen.

Then he would turn the knob softly, like a
thief, and steal up to her bed.

Gently, tenderly, he would tuck the cover-
ings under the feet and shoulders of the sleep-
ing girl and creep away to his room as softly
as he had come.

When Mamman came to bed, she found him
sleeping deeply, like a tired child.

She was always careful not to wake him.

For she was l)eginning to fear Bai)tiste.

He was so unlike himself, of late.

In the mornings he would rise before the
others, and build a fire in Elaine's room, so she
might not have to dress in tLj cold.

EMBERS

111

He brought her the reddest apples from the
bin in the cellar, and laid them by her plate, at
table.

And if perchance he prayed, Elaine came first
upon his lips.

The work about the place and on the farm
was neglected or, in some instances, not done
at all.

The corn had not been shucked.

The cattle were left to run much as they
pleased.

The horses were ill-shod.

A fine mare, with foal, hobbled about on three
shoes.

Alamman had taken to feeding the stock and
milking the cows.

Baptiste went on his daily pilgrimage, none
knew where, through field and forest.

Some who had chanced upon him unex-
pectedly, in the course of his wanderings, had
been strangely affected by his mien.

For he saw no one, be that one ever so near,
looked neither to right nor left along his way,
and spoke aloud to himself, shaking his clenched
fist in air.

EMBERS

165

It was not lon.s^;- bcfure stranjT^-e rumors were
afloat about Baptiste.

L^pon his api)roach, children ran, screaming,
to their mothers.

PeopK craned their necks at him, as he
passed their houses.

Men j^rinned, and, looking at one another,
touched their heads with a finger.

Even the dogs seemed to know him; and
harked savagely, their fur rising in a stiff comb
on their backs, as P.aptiste went by, looking
ne-' .er to right nor left, speaking aloud to him-
self, and shaking his clenched fist in ?ir.

One night, he did not return home.

Towards midnight Alamman awoke Elaine,
who had taken to going to d, of late, shortly
after the evening meal.

The t\\o women searched the fields and, go-
ing over to the edge of the wood, called for
Baptiste at the top of their voices.

A thick, soft snow, the first of the season,
was falling, covering their tracks.

The echoes came back to them in clear and
tomb-like tone.

But no answer from Baptiste.

166

EMI5ERS

Lart^e, feathery flakes fell upon their lan-
terns and melted into hot, ])carl-like tears.

The stillness, more than the cold, chilled the
women.

They retraced their steps reluctantly towards
the house.

Then Maniman said:

"The barns — let us try the barns."

Elaine clambered ip into the mow; and
Mamman went into the granary.

Thev searched in the carriaire-house; and
turned over piles of sheepskins and driving
robes.

They came to the stables.

The cows were lying flat.

One, near the door, was wide awake, chew-
ing her cud.

The gentle brute looked around peacefully at
the women and mooed softly.

They had about given up hope and were go-
ing towards the door, wiien Mamman stum-
bled against an object on tlie floor of the empty
stall.

She raised the lantern (piickly with an in-
stinct of self-defense mingled with fear.

Daptiste lay ujKjn his belly, the full length of
the stall, his head i.nder the manger.

EMRERS

167

Ilo was pamiiiL,'- heavily, like a (1()<>^ that has
overrun.

"P.ai)ti>te!" said Maniinan, softly: "My
dear Pjaptiste, come with us!"

He did not reply; hut crawled up further
heneath the ni.an.^er, hiding- his face from them.

"Poor father," hesought Klaine. "It's only
Mamman and your 'Petite.' Come, please come
with us!"

She stooped down, and pulled him gently hy
the coat.

"Come!" she pleaded. "Do you no longer
love your 'Petite'?"

There was a moment's hesitation.

Then the hig; man struggled out on all fours
and rose to his feet.

He had chang^ed greatly since morning.

His face was seamed and pallid.

His eyes had a wild, frightened stare.

He did not speak ; and did not seem to know
where he stood.

He looked ahout him with wide-open eyes,
like a bahc in a strange house.

"We got thirty-seven eggs to-day," said
Elaine, in an effort to reassure him.

168

EMBERS

He j^azcd upon his daii.i^litcr, and then at
the wife, and hack upon h^daine a.u^ain.

He smiled a wan, tired smile, that made
him seem very stranjj^e ai.d unearihly.

And the women, takin.q^ him hy the hands, led
him, unresisting", towards the house.

They put him to Ijed and watched c.er him
while he slei)t.

The next day they sent for the villat=^e doctor.
The latter si)ent an hour with Uapf'ste.

He asked the patient a numb<r ( f questions
about the farm, the crops and the stock; hut
without avail. Lc Blanc would not spc ik.

He stared vacantly at the floor, at the wall,
or out the window at the wide expanse of snow-
fields, where the sun played.

He was visibly upset over a sparrow that
flew onto the window-sill and pecked an atom
off the pane.

"My dear madamc," said the physician to
Mamman, "I fear we will have to send him
awry. He has suffered some great mental
strain or shock. This is not the place for him.
However, it will do no harm to wait t lew days
and see. Have you no one to do the work about
the farm? No? That is unfortunate. You

EMBERS

169

should j^^et soincf)nc at onc( ; for Monsieur Lc
lllcinc cannot he relied iipoti for that; and he
sides, Ml his jiresent condition, tlie work would

1. t

oo nmcli l./i' hini.

I I'

tnd run down.

lid hiiii (|uile unstrun«r

'Where would \ on ha\c u-
tl

> -^eml hull, doc-

tor." the wife asked, suspiciously

'W hv, to AloiiLreal; that

is, risjlit near Alon

treal— the a.syluin — jusi for a while, you knoW;

until he jrets hetter.

le wotiiei hur^t intM (ears.

The doctor, lirowiiiLr nervoi

s ui die pre ence

f>t L:rier, \ ijniised to come airai

ijj'ain on iJie nior-

ruw, and, hiddint,^ them take coura.^^e, hurried
awa-

h:i;

mil

foil

owini^ instructions from Mani-
iiian, wrote to Isidore Lalonde. the second son
of her mother's hrother, and who lived on his
father's farm, near Sa.:it Lanihert.

The letter requested him to start at once for
Lasalle.

("iiAi'Ti'R i'oruri'.i'.x

vnHk

0'M;illc\ was now rnajor-doiiio of ilic Rod-
ra\- lioiiK'-tcad.

W itli Maurice in a coincm, (Icorju^c at col-
lc';;v and tlic- (.-Idcr Ro(lra\' completely broken in
liealth. he came, went and did much as he
pleased.

I le did little work himself.

A stranded laborer, who was jKissinjj^
throui^h Lasalle. on his way to the .Slates, was
jjicked u], by ()"Malley and put to work doinj.^
the winter chores about the place.

O'Alalley saw to it th;it the man was i^iven
plenty to do.

"Idleness is the father of mischief," he said
one day, with the air of a confessor, as he was
about to lay out another task for the "hired
man."' "Sure, 1 didn't start out any too well
shod my>elf, in life. liut. honesty and hard
work and i)erseverance bnni.^ht me to where
you see me to-day. T.v the wav, there's another

[170]

KMP.ERS

171

cord ot wood hack of the ^umiiRT kitchen
that II ha\c to he sawed ii|) some time in the
near t'litm-e. Wonldn't luirt it' von'd start in
"II it to day. I\emem1)er the |)roverh — 'Xever
put olV till tomorrow what yon can do to-dav.'
Is the hay pitched down t'or the cattle? Well,
von'd hetter do that first.

it. And while \nu'r
of hran to the sick hor

so yon won t iorL,''el

e over there, t^ivc this pail

se; and kt-ep an e\e oni

lor that sknnk; he stole a tine hen last niL;ht
the l)e->t laver in the ilock. ilnrr\ hack n

o\v

Inn. and irel [o woi

So saviiiL;-. he sannlered off towards ll

store, whisthnir

die Rainhl

er Irom

CI,

ire.

W illiam Rodrav now remained in the hon

tor the most part, leaving- the nianai^-ement of
the store and farm to his son-indaw, who felt
his imi)ortancc increasinf^ dailv in the honse-

hold.

O'AIalley took a liij^h hand in the ad
t ration of the familv affairs.

mmis-

Il(

le carried the store cash in his pocket and
l)nt it to his own nse without scruple.

I le made res^ular trips to the Point for litiuor
and I)rou.<^ht l)ack presents and trinkets I'or Ann
and the vounjj- O'Mallevs.

172

EMBERS

■J ,

lie was seldom sober.

Towards Mrs. Rodray he had assumed, of
late, an air of cold independence, which, when
he was drunk, bordered on tlie humorous.

He came and went without so much as
speaking to her.

But if someone else happened to be near, he
would address the latter in a tone of deep solici-
tude and affection, with a view to making Mrs.
Rodray feel the want of his filial love, no less
than the s^ing of his contempt.

On a number of occasions, Ann attempted to
bring the two together in a truce.

But the usurpation of the home by O'Malley,
just when she had hoped to have peace and
quiet for her declining days, was more than
Mrs. Rodray could endure.
She rejected all overtures.
For a considerable time A.nn persisted in her
negotiations for peace.

She approached her husband on the subject ;
but O'AIalley preferred to remain on the de-
fensive, which posit:( ; he now occupied, and
refused to commit himself.

"Peace in the house is fine, Annie dear, to
be sure. But it's all up to your mother, mv

EMBERS

173

.q-irl, as ynii understand well enoiii^h. To the
victors belon.n- the spoils, as son]ebody with a
lon.ir jiead has said. Now that's a fine line, to
be sure. It wouldn't surprise me if Sha'ke-
si)eare had said it— or Dan O'Connell."

Convinced, finally, that further efifort at
pcaceniakinj^ would be futile, Ann reluctantly
went over to her husband's camp.

There we- ^ however, no open hostilities.

It was more like a grim, silent struggle for
teniporal power.

Like a spectator, viewing maneuvers from a
well-chosen point of vantage, the elder Rodray
ga/^ed upon the warring forces, without com-
ment or interference, as thougn the people con-
cerned in the strife were nothing to him, nor
the outcome of much import? nee.

O'Malley had transferred his jug from the
lu'iyloft to a secluded corner of the store. It
would be easier of access here, besides lessen-
ing the danger of detection.

And then there was the moral and more im-
portant reason that its presence in the barn
"light at any time be discovered by Jim and
tempt him.

He put in a stock of candy, of which he was

:|^'

174

E31BERS

ill: }

iii

fond. Tic kept a su|)])ly of pcpperniinis about
him which, he claimed, aided liis digestion.

I ie had :i nay of gettinjj^ one of the pungent
lo/enges to his mouth, without being noticed,
u])oi. the ai)proach of a customer, or in the
cr)urse of conversation.

It pleased him to lean over tlie counter, a
])encil in his ear and twirling his spectacles in
his fingers, and talk over with a crony the lat-
est happening in the village, or even more
)\eighty matters, such as the sensation of the
day or ])olitical issues nov/ before the House.

When asked for his opinion, he would draw
his red kerchief from his pockeL and wipe the
steam and finger grease from his glasses. Then
slowly he would adjust them over his ears and
clear his throat, like a judge about to pro-
nounce sentence.

"Well — " he would say to his waiting audi-
ence, before delivering the dictum; this with
a view to impressing the store loafers with a
proper respect for the opinion about to be
rendered.

And these latter grew to look up to this staid
and well-balanced man who w';S at all times

EMBERS

175

pretty iiuich of the same temper, even when
in his cups.

Ann now filled the role of honsckccpcr, after
a fashion.

She rose late and shambled through the prep-
arations for hreakfast.

Her hair hung in a loose braid down her
l)ack.

'J'he vent of her dress lay open, revealing
cheap, coarse undergarments in need of repair.

Her shoe-tongues fell back upon the vamps
and the laces trailed upon the door, tripping
her as she walked.

She was still a great reader; and O'.Malley
seldom overlooked the hook store on his trips
to the Point.

The rooms lay under a thick pall of dust.

The bannisters and door-knobs, the furniture
and bric-a-brac throughout the pla- i were
sticky from the hands of the O'Malley children,
who were allowed "carte blanche" and went
through the rooms nmnching candies and
sweets.

Mrs. Rodray was driven to desperation.

She wished to flee; t6 forget all about La-
salle; to end her days away from this sordid
hole that was no better than a hell.

S.'fe,

176

ExMBERS

Slic wTOic to Alice, asking if slie mii;ht go
to the Gregoirc home to live.

Alice handed the letter to F mcois, but he
would not hear of it.

lie wanted his wife all to himself, he said.

She laid the matter jiefore Father Nadeau.

But the priest advised her to 1 -^ar her cross
bravely and pray heaven for .oriitude in his
her hour of trial.

"Crosses, tribulations," he sn'd, "are the
greatest proofs God can give us of His infinite
love. The sorest trials come to those He loves
most. Take courage, my dear Madame Rod-
ray. There are manv \\ho have no home to
leave!"

She went home and '^ccluded herself in her
room.

She appeared rarel\ at table.

Sometimes she w^nt away in the moi ling
and spent the day with friends in the village,
whom she had enlisted in her sympathy.

Sometimes she drove over to the Point,
merely to be away from her surroundings,
which were daily becoming more unbearable.

One day she sat down to dinner with the
others.

EMBERS

177

"William," she said, "I want about a hun-
dred dollars; I am .c:oin,!:^ to spend tlie winter
months in Montreal, at the Kirbys', aiid I shall
' 'ed some money.

William Rodray did not raise his eyes from
his plate, nor make reply at once.

O'ATalley, seeing a possible chance to cross
iiis mother-in-law, leered a])ologetically o-er
iiis soup and said:

"A hundred dollars! Goodness me, what a
lot of money! I know there isn't half that
much in the store, squire."

Mrs. Rodray turned a livid white.

Her spoon fell back into the soup-dish and
she came quickly to her feet.

I fer shaking ha^ds clasped the edge of the
table in an effort to stay her swaying ])ody.

Her eyes snapped like sparks in tiie dark.

For a moment she was silent, rent with ter-
rible passion.

Then her hand stole to her bosom and went
upwards over her shoulder.

For an instant something glinted in the sun-
light, then flashed through space with terrifc
swiftness, as though shot.

The knife grazed O'Malley's cheek, skinnin^r

I i

178

EMBERS

'll

the cuticle and threading his face with a thin
trickle of hlood, like a crimson yarn.

iMrs. Rodray fell back upon her chair, in a
faint.

O'AIalley dashed from Mie room.

'^f'he children ran, screaming^, over the house.

Ann bathed her mother's face in a hastily
prepared solution of vinegar and water.

William Rodruy rose up from his seat and
came over to his wife, who was now conscious.

"Nothing would do you but that our s(^ns
go to college," he began. 'They must study
for the Church. Well, others must take their
place, forsooth. The soil will not till itself."

He drew the hundred dollars from his wallet
and slai)ped it down upon the table ; then added :

"Vou have broken up the home; you have
brought it all upon yourself."

And now he turned on his heel and strode
out of the room.

CHAPTER FIFTRKN

Tliey took Baptistc away.

Two sirouii; men came for him, one day, in
the morning".

He was in hed.

"Monsieur Le Blanc," said one, "we've come
lo take you with us for a ride through the coun-
try. It will do you good; what think you of
it?" ^

Baptiste stared at them for a moment, va-
cantly; then rolled over in bed, his face to the
wall.

Klaine and Alamman, who had come in with
the men, left the room, uttering convulsive
sobs.

Suddenly Elaine, unable to remain away, re-
turned.

Her grief was pitiful.

She went up to the men and pleaded with
them n- i to take Baptiste away.

[179]

4 -^

ISO

EMIiERS

'i'licn ].c Ill.nic, foarino- I-'.lainc to he in dan-
s^vr. uiriivd (|uickly <)\cr nud IcajK'd out of licd.
i lie ii c-ii now coaxed Haptiste; and lie finally
consented to dress liiniself.

He refused breakfast.

And between tlie two men, be walked out of
tbe liou.^e and down the steps to the slei^!;b with-
out utterinj^- a word.

i he women came out on the porch. They
were s.jbbin- loudly; and their forms shook in
spasms.

When they had s^otten into the sleigh, one of
the men looked back and said :

"Goodbye, Aladame Le Hlanc; \\c'll take
g(jod care of him."

'1 here was a (|uick command to the horse.

';'he sleigh lurched forward.

'idle bells shrilled niadly, rending the air, as
with the shrieks of pain.

"Baptistc!" cried Mamman, throwing her
hands abo\e her head.

lUit in the wild jangle her voice went waste.

Isidore Lalonde had sot out at once for La-
sallc upon receipt of Elaine's letter.

ICMP.ERS

181

No was a slrappinq^ fellow of tliiii

V years

or Ihcrcahouts; of powcrfr.I |)hysique and

ciar

is niollicr was a halfhrccd Indian f

C "oknowau'LTa

r(jni

.•>,-i'

•lor to his arrival at l.asallo, lie had

never

seen ins eonsm. l^laine l.c Bl;

mc.

unman made liir: an offer which he

ac-

ce!)ti-

The ],

irq-ain struck, Isirlore ciian"-ed 1

clotlies and went strai-luway to work
^ 'I'iicre was much to he done: the corn to he
MUicked and shelled; peas to he llireshed hy
Hail; hoc^-s to he hutchered.

. Tlie barns and stables had been -oin- to
rack. ^ "^

Isidore would have iiis hands full for tlie
winter.

1 Ic was no dawdler, iliis dark, brawny cousin
of Fdanie's. rising at cock-crow and toiling until
long after dark.

A bo\\l of pea soui). a thick slice of salt
pork, and potatoes satisfied him.

He asked for no more.

And as for women, he had never given them
a serious thou"-ht.

1S2

EMP.ERS

?(s.

Of course, he had had his httic affairs in
town, hke the usnal run of countrv lads.

lUit these had heen merely (hversions.

There had heen no hearts hroken.

Two years in the httle i)arish school, at Saint
Lanihert, were resjxuisihle for his meager store
of learning.

His I'reneh was nn"\ed witli a thick, impcnc-
trahle "t)atois."

ilc A-as poHte. with that crude alTal)ih"tv
common amon.i,'- the peasantry of Ouehec. And
hy no means a chihard.

Witty and daring-, he risked many a cuff
horn the wf)men folk, hy sandwichin,!,^ into his
conversation shady and douhle-cd.^^ed "hons
mots."

More than that, he was somethinj^ of a
dandy; and was ([uite vain of his lonj^, droop-
ing mustache, which, when he frowned hefore
his mirror, gnvc hnii, he thought, the air of
a general on the eve of hattle.

He stood at length, many times, hefore the
little glass, twirling his mustaches and smiling,
til is way and that.

He bought oils and cosmetics with which he
forced the coarse, rebellious hairs into submis-
sion.

kmiU':rs

183

«• was fuinly (Yuivimofl that few uotncn, if

.'iii\, C(»uM i\'sist h

r.nt,
fellow

"11. ir piii t,, (est.

"' <•"".-.(', he uas a decent. honorahL
"Hi w.nild ii,,t ojve thou-ht to such

H- injustice it would

deeds, kn. a iutr. ,,^ he did, tl
carry to other nicii.

And,

refusiui;- to share the spoils of possihk

victories, he had turned his h.-ck lik
niatriniony.

At si<;ht of j:l-

Ih- felt a stran,i,a' thrill
"cr pale, sweet face 1;

owise upon

line. up(Mi their first mcetin<

'''<-' '>arns, that ni,-ht, as 1

n.i^ered heforc h

work.

ini in
lie went ahout liis

lie wondered h

( »

ilicy were cousins — for si

w it e\er came ahout that

iH'inir (

le aj)peared to h.iin

)f another i)eople— a hetter and cl

nice; this, thou,<,di he u,
name and of himself.

eancr

IS V

cry proud of his

P.ut, somehow, she differed from others

stranj^ely

Then he tired of think

au-hed at himself for a fool
And to convince himself that his 1

inj? upon it and

free. 1

ic san^ in lusty voice :

"Au clair de la lunc.

icart was

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''6) ?P8 ^989 - r^.

184

EAIliERS

h ■

r.cliocs cnnic in tuneful cadence and mingled
riotously with the sono;.

P)Ut, in his room, hefore going down to sup-
j)er. he stood somewlial longer than usual be-
fore the mi'.ror, twirling his mustaches and
rulibing d(nvn his hair.

Fdaine had eaten.

She had gone to her room.

Isidore ate supper with I\Iamman.

He enquired if F^laine were ill.

"Xo," said ■\Iamman, coloring. "But, she is
not in very good health.'"

She changed the subject to the stock.

They decided to butcher the following week.

In the meantime, Isidore would start in on
the corn.

"\'ou have plenty of peas?" enc[uired Isidore,
looking up from his plate, at Maniman.

"Ves, more than we have use for," the latter
replied.

"I'm glad of that," he said, going back to
his plate, "for I'm fond of the soup."

The winter was long and rigorous in Lasalle,
that year.

It rode in a-bellow on the first piercing winds
of November, scattering the dry, powdery snow

EMBERS

185

over the frozen earth, until rido-cs of crystal
mountains chained along- the highway as
though they niig-ht have been the handiwork
of ages.

But the croi)s had been abundant; and there
was full and plenty for the needs of the "habi-
tants."

So they drew on their thick frieze coats and
worked among the stock for a few hours each
da}', until the sun sank below the verge.

Then they went into the house and, drawing
their chairs close to the flaming logs, smoked
their pipes until time for supper; then smoked
again, and went to bed.

Not so with Isidore.

He must rise early and work late; so nuich
had been left undone by Baptiste.

But he toiled with a willing heart and sang
over his task.

For he was pricked with a sharp ambition, of
late, to marry Elaine.

He throbbed with joy at sight of his day's
work.

He was ])roud of his great strength, of his
ability to withstand fatigue.

He loved the dumb brutes abotit the place.

KS6

EMBERS

'I > '

And these know him and came at his call.

On Sundays, he drove to San.q-low.

None hut the fastest horse would do; the
new slei.^h, the rich fur rohes. with red trini-
niin^^s. the shininir snow-hells which he had
prevailed upon Maninian to h,uy.

He had thou.^ht lon.c: "P"" it before speak-
nv^; hut at last he made up his mind, and ap-
l)roached Elaine.

"La Petite." he hes'an. and there was a .q-leam
of tenderness in his hold, hlack eyes, as he
drew near to her, "I've heen thinking? a deal
about you since luy coniin.^- here to Lasalle. I
like your looks; I fancy your ways; and I don't
care a straw for any little thin^!^: ^bat may have
,t;-one wrono' in your life — now that's frank,
isn't it? At any rate it's my way of tbinkiufj.
What say you to a drive — over to the Point?
The roads are good and everything's in ship-
shape?"

^A\'ho told you?" gasped Elaine, starting up.
"Why, I needed none to tell me: any one
could see. When I received your letter, asking
me to come to Lasalle, I wondered then what
you were like; and I remember thinkiiig how
funny it would he if you and T should some day
come together.''

EMBERS

187

Elaine was silent for sonic time.

Isidore came very close to her, looking into
her eyes.

"I am glad yon spoke frankly," she said, at
last. "For it enables me to give you an equallv
frank reply : I cannot and will not go out with
you, now, nor at any other time. ^ Moreover,
I beg of you, waste no thought on me ; for there
^^^'^^^ "ever possibly be anything bet^^'een us."

"W^ell," rejoined Isidore dejectedlv, "as you
say. But, you'll have i)lenty of time in wilicli
to change your mind. If you do, what then-
do I come first?"

^ "I will not change my mind— nor my heart.
Now. please, Isidore, won't you go?"

"Why, certainly," he said, striding off to the
door, like a grand seigneur.

Elaine did not think ill of :\raurice for his
desertion of her.

She knew he was not aware of her predica-
ment.

Too, being well schooled in her religion she
understood the gravity of the problem which
had confronted him in the choosing of his vo-
cation.

She even went so far as to blame herself for

i ''

iss

EMBERS

his falling- oil. For. tb.ouoht she, had she not,
alhcit un\vittini;ly, Icmpted him?

And _\\t. at limes, a feeling of great hitter-
ne>s would eoiue surging to her heart, which
she nui-t. wiili great effort, put hack.

Ftr lie had >aid much of his love for her.

.\nd when tlie days came hack to her of his
hot wooing, she trembled, even now, with pain.

She had hoped vaguely that he might write
h.er from his grim retreat.

lUn no letter had come from him — no word
of solace in these hours oi trial and anguish.

The long winter days dragged in wretched
monotony.

Mamman .'ind Idaine were kept busy sewing.

There were many little garments to make.

One bv one. the days were told off, like the
beads i^\ an internn'nable rosary.

C)ne dav in April, when the trees had drunk
their sap and blossomed out in leaf and bud,
-Mamman dexi)atched Isidore to Long-Point, to
see Baptiste.

1 le was also given a conge, to visit his people
ai Saint Lambert.

Three days later, Isidore, who had just re-
tin-ned, was beiiding over a bowl of soup, in the

EMBERS

189

kitchrn. when the door into the liallway opened

and he lieard a shrill litll
iineei-tain tone.

e voice, scoldincr in no

.glanced in the direction of the sonnd.

e ones.

He was very fond of littl

I ('(\ he was deeply in love with Eh

'Xom de Dieu!" he exclaimed aloud.cl;

unc.

pin^i,'- his hand on the tahle; "iW
to he its daddy!"'

In the chaniher above, wliere a 1
come to life throuo-h the agonv of I
nient, Elaine looked into her daucl
and thrilled.

For they were the eyes of M

;"ive an

:ip-
eye

ttle soul had
ove's atone-

liter'

eyes

:iurice.

chapti:r sixtrkn

The convent of the Salvntorists was situate
in the Ixmri^^eois (jiiartcr of Saint Trend.

The structure, which was of red brick, was
of hirge proi)ortions and was huilt in the shape
of an H — one winp^ beins^ for the resident
])riests and missionaries ; the other for the stu-
dents and novices.

The convent stood on the street side of an
immense garden.

Wide cinder i)aths ran in all directions over
the garden and on the edges of the paths were
short, stubby hedges of boxwood which never
changed from its dark green shade.

The paths were shaded by fruit trees of many
kinds.

Pears, peaches, apples, plums and cherries
grew in abundance.

The high brick wall that ran round the gar-
den, shutting out the world, was mantled with

[190]

IV.

EMBERS

191

a thick covcriii- of orrapcvines which horo heav-
ily and furnished wine for the Mass.

Here and there, over the .garden. 'were suni-
nier-Iioiises, the walls and roofs of which were
the trunks and hranches of growing trees and
vines.

The religious came each dav to sit in these
bowers for an hours' relaxation after the noon-
day meal.

There were, at Saint Trond. three separate
iKuids, the priests, the students and the novices
each of which had its own particular rules of
conduct.

The novices, nho were going through the
period of prohation as to lltness and tempera-
ment, led much the stricter life.

Out of the one hundred and sixty-eio-ht
hours of the week, they must keep silence one
hundred and fifty-six.

Eacli Saturday the entire day was spent in
retreat and absolute silence.

The novices never spoke before one o'clock
in the afternoon of any day.

However, there were long promenades out
111 the country and pilgrimages to various
shrines, in the course of which the rule of si-

m r

I'JJ

KMIJKRS

Icucv was relaxed and the novices were permit-
ted to speak.

All ihini^s went like clockwork in the noviti-
ate: I'nncinality. an^terity, piety, luiniility,
obedience. po\erl>-. chastity, fitted into the rules
ot the order like the wheels in the frame of the
clock.

And the least false tick on the part of any of
these was detected instanter l)y h'ather
Devt)S. the ever watchful master of novices.
Kind to a fault, this loni^-. thin, saint-like man
could equally he cruel to persecution — if he
once helieved that the chastenint;-, the ultimate
perfectini; of the novice required treatment of
a heroic nature.

I J is favorite method of puttinj,*- a religious to
the test was to despatch him on some particu-
hirly tryini;- and humiliating^ errand.

This usually happened while the three com-
munities were in recreation in their different
parts of the garden.

"Brother So-and-so," he would say, quite
unexpectedly, "run in haste to I-^ather Rector
and ask him to forgive you for ever coming
here. Kneel before him until I send for you."

"And you," i)ointing to another, "go to the

EMr.ERS

193

students and tell tlieni that the convent is not
iniilt of hrick. hut of stone. Tell them they
have nr)t ^ood eyes; that you have; and that
you know it is of stone."

"Did you tell theni:^" he would ask the
shame-faced novice upon his return, a few mo-
ments later. •Well, now o-o hack to them and
kneel hefore them and accuse yourself of j:^ross
vanity and of sayin-; that which you knew to
I)c untrue."

Of course, these self-accusinq- mcsseni^^ers
t'rom the novitiate were received with kindly
snn'les and pityin^q- ^dances hy the priests and
students.

I'^)r these latter had travelled over the same
desert wastes, to the joyful oasis of their pro-
fession.

When the doors of the convent closed hehind
Maurice for the first ti^uc, he stood upon stone
na,£,^s, hefore a hi.jrh s:ratins: of thick iron bars.

In the center of it was a little door.

A dim. vacillating tlame, a long distance
^ii, conveyed the impression to his gropi.ig
tmnd that he was in a great, empty corridor. ""

But he saw unclearly and stumbled on the
Hags, as he made to follow the priest.

194

EMBERS

.At tlu' cud ot tlie Ioiil;' ^nacc. a wide door
opi'iu'il. and Mauficc found lliIn^(.■]f iti another
corridor, much uiilcr and louL^cr than tlic first.

ddiis was well lighted with lamps, that hunc^
from the ceiliiij^'.

1 1 ere, too. the lltior was of stone.

The walls were \erv w hitc.

An air of cold damp chilled Maurice.

1 le shi\ered involuntarily, partly from the
cold, partly from ;i feelini; of nervousness that
now o\ ercanie him.

The priest led him down the corridor, past
hi,L;hly-c<»l(tred statues of saints, mysterious
arches and doorways, and hells of various sizes,
which stood out grimly a^-aiust the white of the
w.alls, their Ioulj: i"<'>pcs dans^ling slaek to the
iloor.

"Vim must be liunq'ry," the priest said at
last, to Maurice, as they came to a door lar_i[;er
than the others.

"\'es, Father, 1 am," replied IMaurice, re-
lieved somewhat.

The priest pushed o])en the door and they
went in.

The refectory was a lonp^, severe-lookinc^
room with rows of tables alomj^ the walls and
a wide empty space in the center.

KM HERS

195

'rii'-rr was a piili-it. f.-r.ni wliicli tlie k-rttircr
rrad aloiid (h.riii-- tin,- iiu-aN.
^'viT llic pulpit Iiiiii-- a lari,a' white plaster
^'Iiri>t on a hiack cfoss.

I'Ih- liead was incliiiefl.

I'Ik' liaiuls and feet, pierced witli iron spikes,
l)k-d i)r()fiisel7.

I lie lett side was torn open, and revealed
iIk- red llesh on the wail> of the terrible wound.
Hut no hlood flowed fr(»ni the opening.

A ,L;-reen olive branch peeped from between
tlie livid slunilder of the C"hri>t and the black
wood of the cross.

riie tables were covered with white oilcloth,
and Maurice noted that they were in spotless
condition.

An old lay brother, very fat and very bald,
kiid a substantial meal before the pair and
letched the indispensable stone jug of beer.

Maurice ate heartily.

He had nearly done, when a number of
priests entered the refectory and came up to
the table.

They greeted him warmly, and asked many
questions about the Belgian Fathers of the
order in Montreal.

196

EMBERS

Tliey were like a large family of boys; and
appeared very happy.

I liey laui^hed imich and seemed quite free
from care.

It was now late, as time went with the Sal-
vatorists.

So, Maurice was taken to the chapel for a
moment's pra>er and thence to his room.

I he rooms of .,ie reli,<,^(.ius were pretty much
like the cells of the older and more austere
orders of the Church.

With this excei)tion, however, that they were
considerably laro-cr, well liulued, by means of
larj^-e windows, and thorouq;hly ventilated.

The rooms flanked each other, running down
long, narrow corridors.

The name of each religious, printed in large,
black letters, on a strip of heavy cardboard,'
stood out boldly over his doorway.

A thick, coarse covering of jute ran the
length of the halls, to deaden the sounds of feet.

:\Iaurice. alone in his room, looked about
him.

I here was an old wooden bed, with a white
covering, in one corner.

EMBERS 197

At tlie foot of the bed stood a table ; and on
tin's was a desk that opened.

Near the door, he saw a waslistand, with
ewer and basin of delph, soap and towels.
There was a chair over near the window, as
thou<,di someone might have been sitting there,
looking out.

A crucifix hung on the wall, over the desk;
and on either side were framed pictures of Saint
Ann and the \'irgin.

The rough, wooden floor was bare.

Maurice placed his candle on the desk and
breathed a long sigh.

Then he crossed the room to the window.

The night was very black.

He could not see without.

Something scratched against the panes.

He raised the window and thrust out his
hand.

It was the branch of a tree.

He seated himself.

The chair squeaked and startled him.

'J'he wind was rising.

It moaneci dolefully in the branches of the
trees.

Lasalle struggled back to him.

198

EMBERS

But he refused himself thouq-lit of home; for
lie felt that he was very near to S'ivin.i? way,
that he must hattle hard against the call of the
hlood, else turn and flee.

Memories surged in u\)nn him, in great,
tumultuous waves.

Some were women, some men, some places
and events.

But he was firm; and fought them off one
and all. as he would have done deadly foes.

Elaine received like treatment; and, for that
matter, even X'aldette Bergvre.

This triumph won, he felt chastened of evil.

A sensation of sweet peacefulness stole over
him.

He knelt by the side of the bed and prayed a
long while.

It was late in the niglU when he rose to his
leet.

In the street below, roisterers passed, noisily,
disturbing the (|uiet of the night with ribald
son""s.

"Fools!" he exclaimed to himself, in a tone
that had s-.ir.ething of i)ity and contempt.
I Je went to bed.

CHAPTP.R SR\'R\TEEN

111

rice awoke to the new dav refreshed

body and in helter spir

It;

]]ell

s were rin-^ino- in the

convent: but he

nicaiiinL'".

knew nau,q-ht of their

Far to tlie east, a bm-si of fire-like h'-'I
llanied ag-ainst a sjiotless back

He dressed and left th

ground of bhie.

e room.

e doors alon.- the corridor sioud open f

the most part

'idle occupants were "-one.

e came to a stairway at the end of the hall

and follow

cd It to the "ground floor.

impse of the ijarden.

rough an open door, M,

lurice cauQht a

e went out.

The

:iir was sharp.

IJc judg-ed the hour to be littl

SIX o'clock.

TIebcg-an to walk; and a-^ 1
mitted himself to reilect on tl

1 199 J

e more than

le w.'dked, he per-
le many events

200

1 1

EMBERS

that had crowded tlK-nisclvcs into liis hfe with-
in so sho'-l a time.

He came to tiic vine-clad wall that separated
one side of the .i^arden from the street.

It rose he fore him as a grim reminder of his
self-made hondao-e— an implacahle harrier he-
tween himself and the world.

The tears of the ni-ht lay heavy in the hol-
lows of the leaves; and liere and there, a filmy
network threaded its way in the noo'-s and cor-
ners of the foliage, like silver spider-webs.

From the other side of the wall, the harsh
rai)pmo- of wooden shoes on the cohhles of the
street came to his ear in rude melange with the
voices of workmen on their way to the shops.
There was a sound of steps Ijehind him.
lie turned and saw Father DeVos, the
master of novices, coming towards him.

"Good morning, my dear Brother Rodray; I
thought to find you in your room, but you were
already up and gone. Did you have a good
night's rest?"

"\es, indeed, heather: a very good nieht."
^"Ah, very good— the slee]) of the just, eh?
Nothing like a clear conscience, n'cst-cc pas,
IMaurice.^ You can serve at Mass? Yes?

EMBERS

201

\'ery n-cll ; conic alon- and servo me. I shall
send tor you durin- tlie dav and we shall talk
over matters. I suppose you arc anxious to
beo^m your noxitiatc as soon as possible > It is
no teathcr-bed affair, you know, this novitiate
ot ours— no velvet cushions, Alaurice, you un-
derstand?"

"I didn't expect — "

"Of course not. Here we arc-in this way
^ou will tnid cassock and surplice in vender
closet."

After Mass, Maurice was taken in chari^c by
a protessed student who was, like himself /from
Canada.

Brother Haley was about twenty years of
ai?e and had been in the convent some four
years.

lie conducted Maurice to the refectory.

The breakfast was eaten in silence. It con-
sisted of "tartines"-sandwichcs of bread and
butter, and a large bowl of coffee and chicorv

After breakfast. Brotlier Halev led Maurice
over the conx cnt and grounds, plving him, the
Wilde, with questions about xMontrcal; and
sharing with the newcomer reminiscences of

his college days in that city.

202

EMBERS

Maurice ilioii^ht he dctecicd, ril tiipcs, n note
of re-ret in tlie other'.s voice— ri .L^ieani of
liMio-ing in his eyes, as he spoke of the far away
land.

"Is this a very happy hfe?" he asked the
brother, snddeidy. "Of course, you knoH'—
you have lieen here so lon.q-."

The oilier hoitated a moment.

Ihen lie said: "I have !)een very liappy
liere."

"But now— perhaps I shoukhi't ask; Imt I
woukl orjve a great (\c:\\ to know. 'WW me. are
you happy now?"

Again, the guide was slow to make reply.

r>nt he finally sp(-,ke;

"Xo two men's lives are the same. And,
therefore, whether or not I am ha])py should
not affect your case m the lea>>t. in fact, I
nng-ht do you an irreparable injustice by speak-
ing- of my own experience to one who has not
as yet h.-id the oi)portunity to see for himself.
r»m T will say this to you: If ever you are in
want of advice, if ever you feel the need of a
Iriend. I want you to come to me."

Maurice studied the face of the brotlier for
a space. The e)es had a sad, disappointed

EMBERS

203

look, as thous^rh sonictliinq- of much import in
Ii's life had srone wroni^-.

Of a common impulse, their hands met.

"f will do it." said Maurice.
^ The ne , postulant had a lon.ij talk with
I''ather De\'os during- the dav.

1 1 was decided he would take the hahit and
enter the novitiate on the feast of the Circum-
cision.

Gradually. Maurice settled down into the life
of the community.

Customs and penancs which, at first, had
impressed him as absurd and lau,r,diaole. lost,
to his eyes, their air of -rim comedy; and now
seemed to him (juite proper and in keeping- with
the life of the convent.

lie found consolation in prayer, and assur-
ance of forgiveness.

He thought no more of his sins. When they
came before him, he waved them aside with an
'"Ave Maria," as he would a temptation of
Satan.

lie looked upon these transgressions as
shadows from anotiier life; not as facts which
had taken hnnh by his consent and operation;
but as myths, paraded now before his eyes, to
drive him to despair and shake his good resolve.

204

EMBERS

He steeped his soul in meditation.
^ It was not Ion,-: before the piety of Brother
Rodray was noticed and commented on by the
reh"^-ious.

Few exceeded him in acts of penitence.

He humbled himself on least occasion: and
practiced tenderness and charity towards his
brothers.

And in his heart there was great joy at the
thoiio-ht of havin,!- found hai)i)iness. "

I lis mind seldom ran to home.

"i.eave all and follow me" did not mean in
the body alone, but in the heart and soul like-
wise.

Lasalle was fornrotten. A brief letter at
long intervals, in uhich he spoke of his new-
found bliss and exhorted his people to prayer,
was the only worldly distraction that broke in
upon the quiet of his life.

He grudged the hours he gave, perforce, to
recreation, wishing these might be spent be-
fore an image of the X'irgin or her holy son.

Alaurice took the habit on the feast of the
Circumcision.

It was a great day in the convent, when a
new brother was chnhed in the long black sou-

KMBKRS

205

tanc of ;li.- Otvlcr \ .i r • • .

y\' ''I'ltr. A (lay for rcjoicin- and
tlianksoivinj:^. f> i '"

'I'l^^Tc was a pontiHcal Ilic.1, Mass i„ the

clujrch oMlKM-athcrs. adjoining the convent.
' ^e altar was illunn'ned with a thousand

•n,oti,in,„,|,,-,^,n,,,,,,,,.,,,^^^,^^.^.

1-1.0 ui ,-cc«., like , he, H,„s,s of tortured .souls
1 lie church filled raj)id)v.

The hio- doors .errunihled'on thei' hin-cs a^
they swuno- to and fro. t, - , -^

The scrapin,^ of chairs, the loud patter of
uooden sahots. on the stone flai,^s of the edi-
lice, were deafenin<T-.

Poor and rid, alike ean.e to see the corentony
or the in vesture. ^

Those wb.> stood spotless before their God
touched elbow •, with nan.eless things fron. the
slums, near th. Barracks.

The.e denizens of the denii-nionde found a
-strange fascination in this spectacle of volun-
tary renunciation of the flesh and of self

After the Mass came the ceremony-the
stripping off of the secular garments in plain

v|ew ottlKMuultitude; and the taking on of le
Ijlack gown of the Order.

206

KMl'KRS

I. >

\\ liilo tlic corcnKiiiv \vas in progress, the
relicrious of the convent stood in a semicircle
around the sanctuary and clianted. in voices
that tlH'illcd with emotion, tlie liymn:

"O, quani honuni et ciuam jucundum

Plahitare fratre? in ununi !"

"Oh. liow good And joyful it i?

For hrotlier^ to live together a!s one!"
And now. Brother Rodray felt that Ils cup
of happinc?5 was near to overflowing.

Clothed in the rol^es of the apostle, a crucifiy
at his side and a rosary hanging from his cein-
ture. he went to his room, flung himself on his
knees before the Christ, and wept wild tears of
cxtiltation.

I*)
ll

ciiapti.:r i:iGifTr':r£N

Contrary to expectations, it wn«^ not until
the second week in Dcceiiil .r tliat Ann was cle-
hvered of Iut fourth child— a hoy.

'I'lie mother recovered rapidly.

The youn-()\MaIK.v thrived at the hreast.
I\rrs. R,,(h-ay had '^ouc to .Montreal.
A letter fro,,, her to Alice said she was well
and haj)pier than in n,anv rears.
_ She expressed some anxic v over Ann's com-
in- accouchement ; hut made no other reference
to the Rod ray homestead or its people.

She spoke at Icn-th of xMary and George, in
whom her Iicart now seemed to he centered;
and of Maurice, across the sea.

The old fcelin- of anta,c:onism and bitterness
seemed to have lost its ed^-c.

She sent her love to Francois and hoped
that Alice's child, which was expected some
tmie m the spring, would be, as he wished a
son. '

[207]

I(i

208

i-:mi:I':rs

SIic thonoht sIk' nii-lit I,c l,;.,-k in L.isalle
hy \\\c time of Alice's conriiu-niciit ; .itid, in tliat
event, would i^ladly render what assistance lay
in her power.

She was attendiiinr Mass, daily, at the Jesu-
it-, where she saw Cicori^e. servin,<^ the priest.

It was a ,<;reat relief to he away from La-
sall. and feel the unhounded freedom of a lai-a-
city.

No one seemed to care, no one seemed to sec
wliat his iieij^dihor did.

Alice must he careful of her health.

It would iie\er do for lu'r to take cold, or
S:et her feet wet. now.

She rememhered them in her prayers; and
hoped to find them well and happy upon her
return.

Alice took the letter with her to Lasalle. and
read it to the O'Malleys.

Ami was Ljlad to receive news from her
mother; and the children, who wore .q-rowin.q-
like weeds, in the country air, gathered round
her to listen to the reading.

(/Alalley, himself, who had seen the Greg-
oire team hitched i^ear the front entrance,

K.Mi'.I-kS

209

'^'■mii.ol Iiravilv inf. tl
'» 'Ih' m'.ircst cli.iir.

ic n K >

"1 aiul sank limply

'<' \v.is \vvy rlriink.

Mis I

I air I'd I dnw

i>^ hii-i'Iu-ad; ji

11 m a r,iL'-v<I frin;

1^ I'M's had

,(.• over

aii'l Ins i(.n-iic I

'lit

i< iiK'd

■I \^ i'lo. stupid stare
"1 Ill's iiK.iitli and

1^' ,^riimcd at Alici" I

>nt said notliititr.

"1^"^' '"^ iiK'thcr in law had -one to M

"•^•al. f)'.Mallcy held nn<lisp„ted
hoiiiesiead.

on-

swav over tl

'Hu- el.ier Rodray remained, tor the most

part. ai)out the hon.>

md A

c-ares to the l.edrooms and the kitcl

nn confined her

What
to no\els.

ion.

line was lett over from theses!

O'Alalley. his Jicad

^'t wealth and ease, stn.d

le fjave

swnnnnni,^ with visions

like the proudest of cocl

c over the harnvard.

onle

rs to f

jini. or e.\j)Iainin<'- h

<s. ,t;ivm^- j)ereniptf)rv

ou,i;ht or oui^ht not to he d

.^^ now soniethniir

one.

I'll' It was in the store lint he held
'"li^; i'llc of the villa-e made of

I'leir ta\-orite haunt.

I Ikw sat around, throuo-h the 1

''ays, on chairs, b.

court,
the store

oxes and ke

oiisj wniter

g's. chcwmq- to-

I't !

210

EMBERS

1)acco and smoking- their pijies, jxirin^- apples
or \\lmt]!iii^- sticks, and listening;- reverently to
the w ise saws of tlie overlord.

hew made so hold as to take exception to his
nihn--s. For the heat I'roni the stove was al-
luring-: and. after all. it was only a matter of
sdein >nhmis<ion— not ... all a prostitution of
principles.

So. they smoked and chewed and ncxlded
their heads; and wondered where O'AIalley
was gettino- his drams

For. of late, he was seldom sober.
The fact th;it ( )\Malley was now drunk the
greater part of the time did not in anv way
tend to affect the respectful attitude of his sat-
ellites toward him.

On the contrary, they th<-.nght more of him
for it, n arvelling. as they did, that one could
he so wise and yet so drunk.

iUit they kei)t a watcht'ul eye for the hidden
treasnre and advanced many theories, anion"-
themselves, as to its whereabouts.

For they knew he must have liquor hidden
somewhere al)out the place, as a man could not
get drunk on water; and O'Malley never went
to the village tavern.

EMBERS

211

One (I.uy. P.artlett. tlie dean of the cronies
came mlo the store c,uite unexpectedly, when
[ A alley had the jug; tihed lu^h and pressed to
Jus hps.

This discovery was the cause of a conspir-
acy hetween tlie storekeeper and Bartlett as
attectin- the otiiers of the circle.

The secret lix-cd undisturhed for a while; and
J>artiett made regular trips to the store for a
dram while the others were away.

But Kdens are too ideal to endure.

Bartlett uas g-jvcn charg-e of the store, for
a tew hours, one day, while O'AIalley drove
to the Point.

_ When the latter returned, Bartlett was danc-
ing- an Irish jig.

The cronies had formed a ring about him
I hey were clapping their hands, stamping
their teet and shouting hilarious approval.
All were drunk.

O'Alalley's jug lay on its side, near the stove
the cork out.

The spirit of cnviviality f^nallv melted
O Malley. who, at first, cast indignant glances
at Bartlett.

But, being, himself, in cups, he thought bet-

212

EMBERS

tcr of liis earlier mood, nnd went out to tl
sleii^Ii for another jut;-.

I Ill's was the crownini^- event.

iloneel..nh O'Malley was tlie ood of the
I'il)iili.iis in I.asalle.

\i swelled him wiili pride to see this swarm
<>t Ih'es ahout him.

It ,i;-ave him a i)ronounced o nion of his ini-
portanee in the eommunity.

He fell liimself ,L,n-ovin,<,'- in prestige.
It was a splendid thin--, this mixing a bit
wnh liis fellows.

They were all his friends.
1 hey had no money, true cnou"-)i.
But he had.

And money and friendship were snrelv more
to he desired than money alone.

After some thouQht he decided to take a
larger jng to the Point.

And now the store seemed to take on new
lite, (jrave questions of state were hot'y dis-
cussed.

There were songs and jigs and games of
cards and checkers.

There was warmth: and merrymaking from
early morning until la,e in the ni-dit.

EMBERS

213

And in tl; midst of the scene O'Malley
niove.I al)'.in, co(,l. imperiurbable, the leadini^
spirit of them all and the wilh'ni,- disj)enser ol
liospitaHty.

He took no active part in the games or dis-
cussions, preferring to hold aloof and sit in
iniiKirlial judgment on the questions left to his
decision, as the final court.

One day, Isidore Lalonde happened into the
store and got a whiff of the whisky.

1 le w alked o\er to the jug, whicli was stand-
ing uncorked on the counter, and raising it to
liis lips, took a stiff drink and laid it down

agam.

And now, he, too, became a daily visitor at
the store.

The strong licjuor made him very fiery; and
he invariably sought battle while in his cups.

But there was none in the set that would face
him; for he was very formidable, and more-
over, scowled terribly and gnashed his teeth.

O'AIalley regretted having let him into the
secret; the more so because Isidore was be-
coming a bully, taking advantage of his supe-
rior strength to sneer and rail at the others.

214

KMBERS

) ^

u
i ■

spit very iH-ar to ihcir feet

co,!,e ,,"■""''' ""'■'■,' ''-•■•■""■■"S oaths and

C'.ne cl,nv„ „,„„, the cottmer „ith his fist as

"'?,","'" " "^■'■^' '- f"" inlenlio,, to s,„ash it "

1 lie,, sat,s|-,ed at the lert-or he had inspire,!,
.e nottid shrtts Lis great, sr,t,are shot, der,
lansh londly i„ their faces and stride o„t of ti,
slore, slanmiins- Hie door hehin<l him

Soher he „„,„ .,,.-,, .and cha, pleasantly,
liiNeanyliahit.anl

r.ut. drunk, he „as the terror of the O'Mal-
icy circle.

_ Isidore became sullen about the house At
times he was very sulky,

Mannnan Lc Blanc' was chagrined at the
chang-e m her nephew; and. one day, asked him
why he no longer seemed pleased to work for
her.

"\\'hat has o-one wrong- v/ith you, Isidore^"
she enciuired. "Haye we displeased you in any
wa}^ ." ' -^

^ Isidore was at his soup. "Displeased me'"
lie exc am,ed. looking up into ,he woman s face
"^'nk you I am a king.^ Displeased: why
no; how could you displease me?"

EMBERS

215

"Well, perhaps I was hasty. But, you never
si>cak. r>t laic, oxccpt in yes' and 'no' ; and, you
kn.nv, ue-rc all in the family. La Petite spoke
to me alxnit it. this nicrnin-; and I thought I
would ask vou."

"Ah, la Petite." he replied ahsentlv, droppin^r
Ins sp<H,n in the houl. "By the way; Alamman";
what thmk you of the way they have treated
lier.'"

"Who?"

"Who • Why. the Rodravs vonder, of cour.se
—who else? Afaurice Rodray, who has taken
fliglit to a convent to have his crown shaved—
you think I don't know? I am one of the fam-
ily, as you say; and yet you think this does not
sting? Let me tell you, Mamman, someone's
g-omo- to smart for this ; my word for it, some-
one will pay the toll !"

"Who told you it was ALiurice?" a.sked
lAIamman, coming closer and lowering her voice
to a whimper.

"O'AIallev."

"What?"'

"^ es— and no one else. Did vou not know^"
"Ves. of course; Elaine told me. But that
the Rodrays should know the truth and still
encourage him to hecome a priest!"

216

EAllJERS

\.lMhcy(lokn.>u-.jn.t the same; that is,
O.MalK-y <lues. ]\, ^vas drunk uluai he told
'"e:an.l I pretended that T was too. I'.ut oh
tlierell he a rerkonin."-! ft will strike the
clanined hreed to its heart. There'll he venge-
ance a-plenty. Why. 1 wanted 'la Petite' ?or
niysclt !

"^id you approach iier?"

/•Vcs, I .\n\. Dut she'd have naught to do
withnie. I toldher I did not eare ahout the
other thin^-. And what do vou think she said^
Mie tol.l n,e there could ncNer he anvthinq- he-
tween us; and ad<ed nie to leave the room
Acnv. Isidore,' she said, 'won't von please leave

me.- 1 Ills tome, who could have had any girl

111 S-unt Lambert for the asking!"

"Don't do anything you mav have cau^c

to regret." said Mamman. timidh-; for she saw

that Isidore was shaking with passion.

^ "I said there would he a reckoning " he re-
joined, rising trom the tahle and lighting his
pipe. ''And J'ni not one who is given to idle
llireats.

With that !,c picked up the huckets of swill
under the sink and marched off to';ards the
Pig^ty.

CIIAITF.R XrXRTKEN

Wint

or j)as.scd.

And Sprin;

came on tlic winds of M

^\•rcatlKvl in ])ud and bl

ossom.

c n

Ncr o-roancd I)cncatli its burthen of

'>c troni the upper waters, disci

larjjuit,'- o-reat

lalano-cs ot iee upon its banks, which' niehed

in the noonday sun and ran d
rL'jinn the strea'.i.

own eag-erly to

Hie I)rooks rose U]) and overflowed, fecun-

datin."- the eartl

Dandehons

•s dotted tht

fiekls with gokk
Tlie eartli beamed

reen carpet of the

All

in sunh'oflit.

ness.

nature joined in a wild medley of "-lad-

Men drove their teams a-field,
ily- or whistlini^r old French airs.'

sinmns: lust-

rum far and wide, the "habitants" rod

Lasalle, t

market. Thev lin^-ered 1

rm sun, chatting pleasantly.

tJ17J

e nito

ong in the

!|i

218

EMIJERS

Isidore went over the farm, scttino- „,, the
faiccs an.l scrapino- the ditches to facilitate
tile draiiiai^e of the soil.

He turned the cattle into the pasture and
Plouo-hed the fields for the sowin- of .£^rain

rnder his care, the h ; ,es slione sleek and
round.

Their lono- release from work made them
wild and fiery.

Tliey would -all.)p over the field, kickin-
then- heels m air and nei^^hini,'-.

I'.ut they loved their keeper; and. in their
fn.hcs. seemed nnndful of his safelv, if he hap-
pened ahout.

The hio-. suarthy fellow would stand in the

open field, his hands in his pockets, and hlow-

"l^- .£;reat whiffs from his pipe, and watch the

icrd of cr.ants trampling the ground ahout

him.

At times they would come suddenly to a stop
and ook at Isidore, as thoi-h expec'ting some
word of mouth from their master

I aloncle would take his nij^e from his lips
and laugh loudly m their faces.

"r)n with you. good-t-or-no.hings!" he would
CO, as he nnght have spoken to children at

EMBERS

219

And they, iinclcrstandino:. would turn about
and ,l,^-dI()I) off madly a.^-ain.

Isidore ha<l made no further advances to
Llaine.

He contented himself with eyeini,^ her fur-
lively when she happened to he near him or
caressmnr tjie baby, of which he was cxtremelr
fond.

He brou.n^ht wild floNvers from the woods and
fields and armfuls of satiny catkins from the
^\ diows along- the river hanks.

These he gave Mamman for "la Petite"- or
laid them on the table before Elaine without
speaking.

But his soul was wrought with great passion
and hatred of Maurice, whom he had never
known, and likewise of all the Rodrays.

He counted the years that must elapse before
Maurice might return from abroad.

It would be too long to wait.

He wondered, himself, why he hated this
prie.. h'ng so.

For he admitted grudginglv to himself that
Maurice had done no more than might be ex-
pected of any one ; and certainly no more than
he himself had done many times in his life.

!|l

220

KMniiRS

['^■l"voIianncui,I, sava:,v.aninu,II.>vo
. '>"lielid,l.. in il,c" Lams. >lie was ever be-
J'Tc Iiim.

jj^'^ '•''•'''' •'■'^-'-^ ■•'"'Mr- lonox^d to HMhracc

nu(lI.cunni.nfI,erownlipscan>ctohi„,
cliillin,','- and cruel:

"There can never he anvthin- hetween us"

""/ '''^■"- ^^-'^^vhy he hate.I.Maurire: he-
cause he had oune hefore hun, leaving hho-hied

;"'"V'''^''^'""^''^^^^''''"l^^'-^'>/-lse;nuist
l!a\e heen his.

He threshed over , he n,atter manv limes, al
nis work ,,r m hed at nioht.

lie had little rest.

He devised many plans ("or reven-e

I>nt al,vays there uas a flaw somewhere in
tlie scheme.

TlK-re was danger of detection liere, cer-
tamty of discovery there.

One da^. when 'the fields were plot,c,hed and
the ^rass fluttered thick and soft in the warm
uuid. a techno- ..f i,,„i,„i, ^._.^„^^. ^^^.^^, j^.^^^^,^

J le wandered oxer to the river hank where
>e la)- down and watched the stream ^o rum-
hhng by. ^^

K.Mr.KRS

221

(' s

.'ipart.

I'"\vc<I iiiik-h inclination, of laic to I

\\ lid ])vc^ ImniiiK'd ahuul h

^nii. (

iiii. in llic dad

"US canii- >uin-in,<^- dnwn. from d
I'a>lure near l.y. to drink at the water's cd-

r.ird> |]

ew near to him for ,stra

\v> and sticks

liich ihcy took auay in their hills to tl

iK'sts in the trees.

icir

n the distance a cowd)elI tinkled faintly,
was the season of mat

l>idnre thon;;ht loiii-- of }.;]
anty; of the wrongs .she had 1
ffer.

Then the hoi)elessness of ]
to him and he sprang to his f
awfnl oath.

niL!f and of love.

line; of her
)cen made to

lis snit recnrred
cet ntterinsf an

for

He went hack to the honse.

'Idiat ni-ht, after snpper, he asked M

hert.

'I day oh, to visit hi>

aminan

peoi)le in Saint Lam-

imn

lan consented readily to th

IS.

was a passenefcr on

On the morrcnv. Isidore
the Montreal exj)ress.

Bnt he did not step off at Saint Lambert.

Instead, he went on to Long Point to
Baptiste.

see

222

KMilKRS

l''U-k iK-ar tik' asylum.

^Ianyo|,lK.„nn-viMK.nt niniatrs urrc (hero

'|^;>^rnK..l,|n,u.I,u„lan<lwasvcrv^a<llo

IIc..skc-<i,incMio„. a,u!;;avccai-oalllhc
<»iIht had to say.

;'-\r>.l -la iVtitc- he said Hnallv. his eves

i>riiiinim^-.

"Ah

tistc."

yt.-s. 'tis on her account T came, Bap-

■■Ila> s<.nietlu-n- happened her?" he asked
starling- up.

;l^'-'U^b has happened," n'-.^e,! Isidore
^'"t -""t Ret ,xcncd; you u u. need vvhai
nerve you have hefore this afTair is over with "
^^-^ on : tell me ahout it," hroke m Le iJlanc

■^'^^■^'i;'<l a child since you've come here.
And ulio do you suppose is the father of it?"
"Maurice Rodray, of course."

knel?" '"■' '"'"' ^'^''''''- ^"^->-°^^

"Ves. I knen-but he .c^ot away. I went to
AJontreal to see him tlie (Lay he sailed. I was
late by several hours. The ship was gone "

EMIiERS

223

.k-nl

And your IkmIiIi^" cnquirol Lalond

c sud-

s'. sci"iiliiii/in

1 1

apti^tc.

'I'lTUrt.'" rr|)lir,l iln- laitcr; ''hut fr)r tl

iViin

Is, every wnk or two. |;iit. uliat ahoat 'la

Wdl.

to "la iVtitc" luT^rlf. there's litlk

to say, l)e\(.n(l the fart that ->!
11(1

10 lias the child

and is ruined for lit'e in the coniiiuinitv. 'id
doo- who sedneed her is over tl

le seas.

what's to he done? l]ai)ti>te. we're of the same
hloud. Are you conteni to snore upon it? Or
tlo you understand me? is there to he no

reel'

(lav

.omui

ly are \(tu conliued here to-

Is it not on

account of the (lis<'Tace to

your family and the wron-^s heaj)ed upon 1

i elite"?

^ "Hut," said r.apliste. "wliat would you do?
\-U nie why you've come here. 1 don't k

what vou want of me.

now

'\'cry well. When xMaurice Rodrav defiled

'la Petite' he struck at
Is that not soi

"Yes."

"Good; then. I say it
and all, which should he

cvervone of her hlood.

is an insult to us, one

'How so? He'; :ot iiere!'

repaid in kind.

224

EMBERS

"We will strike at tlio Rodrays: l)nrn their
i)anis and slaMes. the store, the homestead.
Ah. r,ai)ii-~te. 1 have planned a hrilliant coiip-
de-niain. And you're to take the leadini;- part,
as yon were the party most wronj^'ed. ^'on're
to make your e^eape t'rom here, at niijiit ; jour-
ney hy stealth to l.asalle .md set the match. I
have thouLdn it all out. The doctors sav vou
are crazy. So. you cannot he ])unishe(k If I
sh.ould he caught having- a hand in it. it would
mean the rope for me. But you — they could
do no more than send you hack here. Ah, my
man, that would he a honlire worth seeinsr,
would it not ? And to think that you would be

revenL;'e(!

Baptiste's e}-es snajiped lire and his hands
clutche : nerxously at hi., coat.

"Yes, yes," he sai'.' hoarselv; "\es. yes."

"\'ou would ha\e no trouble i^ettinu;- to Ea-
salle," continued Isidore. "In fact, none would
ha\'e to kni'W who set the match."

lie ceased -peakin.^- for a moment to look at
I'aptiste. who was eyeing' him closely.

The face of the mani;;c was \ery while and
his eyes were like balls of glass.

EMBERS

225

"What's wroncf. Baptiste?" said Isidore,
turnini^ pale himself.

Baptiste made no rejily: but, suddenly, lie
sprang- to his feet, and, clutching Lalonde
aliont the throat, hurled him, with terrific im-
pact, to the ground, and brought his boot down
hea\-ily on his chest.

Then, without s|)eaking a word, Le Blanc
turned towards the keeper wiio was running to
him. and walked stiffly off without glancing
back at Lalonde.

The doctoi- saw the incident from a window
of the office and hurried down the pathway to
Isidore.

"Are vou hurt?" he enquired.

"No, sir."

"Do you know the name of the patient who
attacked you?"

"Yes, sir — Baptiste Le Blanc is his name;
he is my uncle. We had no words. It came
on him quite suddenly."

"Oh, Le Blanc — from Lasalle. He has those
spells frequently of late. I fear we shall have
to shift him to another ward."

Isidore, liis heart full of bitterness at this,
his disappointment, went back to Lasalle.

CHAPTER TWRXTY

]Mrs. Roflrav liad come in haste from ]\Ion-
treal and ,q"one on to Saint \ ;ilentinc, where
AHcc was not expected to hve.

She had .c^ivcn birth to a twelve-ponnd boy.

Three doctors were in attendance.

Thev feared ])eritonilis mii^ht develop at any
moment.

Francois, the husband, was in a frenzy of
ji^rief. He refused to look at the child, for it.s
part in the mother's suffering.

He n alked the tloor like a madman, stopping-
only to implore the physicians, for the hun-
dredth time, to save Alice.

Mrs. Rodray knelt at the bedside and prayed
for the recovery ot' her daughter.

William, the father, was there.

He was aging rapidly.

He said no \v'ord; but. leaning on his cane,
gazed stolidly down upon his daughter's face,
which was deathlike in its paleness.

[226]

EMBERS

227

From the room beyond came the squalling- of
the newborn anri the chrttering- of the nurse.

Through the open windows, the subdued
voices of children came into the sick room.

Thev were talking about the Gregoire in-
fant, which they were anxious to see.

A cool breeze fanned the face of the sick
woni.-in. Huttering the hair ujxm her forehead
and temples.

The parish priest came.

He was very fat; and wabbled about the
room clumsily, panting.

The others left the room.

In a few moments they Wv.e permitted to
return.

There were I'ghted candles near Alice.

The doctors made another examination.

There was no hope.

She would die.

Francois groaned loudly and tiung himself
on his knees, his arm over Alice, his face upon
hers.

They knelt in a circle about the bed.

■Mrs. Rodray placed a crucifix in the dying
woman's hands :

mf.

' ■

r ■

•

228

EMBERS

"Ha\c mercy on n-^. O, Lord!" she was say-
ing.

The priest intoned the prayers for the dying.

The sun had sank to rest, when a shght fall
of the coverlet told of the passing.

!\lrs. Rodra\- was the last to leave the cham-
her.

With clock-like regularity she kept up her
sing-song jirayer :

" Have mercy on us, O. Lord, have mercy
on us!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

The two years of Brother Rodray's novitiate
went by. Aq-ain it was tlie feast of the Circum-
cision; and again the ahar wa> resplendent in
the hght of many Hames.

Manv had been his trials.

But he had borne them cheerfully through
out, believing them, as he did, to be manifesta-
tions of God's love for him.

He had given proof upon proof of his piety
and devotion.

He was looked upon as one far advanced in
the |)ath\\a\'s of sanctity.

None among the Fathers (juestioned his
fitness for the religious life.

He was admitted to profession.

Seven others took, with him, the vows of
Poverty, Chastity and Obedience, for life.

Each was given a little, three-cornered bi-
retta and a wider belt than that worn by the
novices.

[229]

J30

EMBERS

The ceremony was very simple; and con-
sisted merely in the profession of the vows.

Tn the afternoon Brother Rodray passed
from the novitiate into the "stndentnt" or
house of studies, to resnme his course for the
priesthood.

Here the disci|)lino was less rii;'oron^ than
in the novitiate.

Tt was quite a holiday in the convent.

The students went for a promenade in the
country.

It was a new lit'e I'or Brother Rodray.

There was more freedom here.

One was less under constraint — more at
ease.

He wondered, nevertheless, if this world
not. in time, have a tendency to cool his ardor,
to relax his vii^ilance over himself and his cu-
pidities; for he knew these were by no means
dead.

A thought strtick him: ])erhaps this would
be the hardest trial of all.

The idea pained him. lie resolved to banish
it as an evil suggestion.

They walked far, along the "chemin de
Liege."

EMBERS

231

The fields lay beneath a thin mantle of snow,
o\er which harer zigzagged crazily.

llie sky wTiS leaden; the air damp and raw;
tlie road rough to the f(^ot.

It was the same road he had trodden these
two year^, unchanged even to the slightest
detail.

P)Ht to-day it seemed unbounded, broader
tlian before, like the life which he was pleased
to picture before him.

Came to his mind the words: "Many are
called but few are chosen," and he shuddered.

Could such a thing ever come to pass that he
would renounce his sacred vows and go back
into the whirlpool which he had fled?

No, no, a thousand times.

And. yet, others had gone through the same
irdeal, had taken the same vows and had lost
in the struggle that ensued— the long struggle.

But surely they must not have been faithful
in the little things, to fail so utterly in the
greater ones.

One could not, over night, reconcile one's
soul to so tremendous a loss.

Yes, that was it : there were degrees.

It was a ladder of descent.

111

EMBERS

It could not hai)pen all at once.

Well, he would see to it.

He woukl \\^^i allow hiniselt to be taken by
surprise.

And. beside^. Tiod would help him to perse-
vere.

He would pra\'. if tempted; God wotild hear
him.

When they returned to the convent they were
scr\ed a collation of chocolate and cakes, in the
students' recreation hall.

On the morrow he went into class and took
up his studies where he had left off two years
ago.

He and Brother 1 laley became fast friends,
now that they were together the greater part of
the time.

The latter had turned moody, of late.

Sometimes the jolliest of the black-robed
flock, he would become, of a sudden, morose,
and seemingly indifferent to all about him.

These spells usually lasted three or four
days.

Then he would break forth again in jest and
laughter, as thougli he had never had cause to
be otlier than hap.py in his calling.

EMBERS

233

The other stiulents used to see him taking
loni,^ walks in the q-arden with the Father Pre-
fect.

The two were always talking" very earnestly.

And from the manner of the Prefect, they
did not seem to agree.

leather Moreau would .stop suddenly and,
facing the student, would throw up his hands
in a wild gesture of interrogation.

Then he would hring down one hand upon
the other with a loud clap, as much as to say:
"There you are; the prohlem is solved!"

Sometimes, the i)riest and Brother Haley
would be seen in the little chai)el of "Our Lady
of Sorrows," praying together.

The Prefect always seemed to be deadly in
earnest.

Brother Rodray noted that the older students
seemed to give the matter little thought, though
they must know that something unusual was
going on.

He spoke to a student about it.

"My dear Brother Rodray," said the latter,
for only answer, "many come and go. We must
pray, pray, pray."

Spring came — Spring, as she comes only in

234

EMBERS

the T.itnhour.s^ valley: glorious, intoxicating in
her perfumed mantle of hloom.

Far as the eye could reach, the "hii^arreau'*
trees filled the wide ex[)ansc, like a softlv-tinted
sea of j^reen and coral.

The March air thrilled the senses, like mel-
low wine.

The i^rapevines. sprou <x their velvet
lea\es, wept pearl-like tears of j(^v.

It was jL^ood to live; to hear the hird souths,
the j^lad hahhle of the hrooks; to feel the warm
hreath of Sjjrinij;- caress tiie hrow.

Each year the students, under the direction
of Father Morcau, made a pil.L,^rimas'e to Mont
Aigu. a famous shrine, some eighteen miles
away. j

The event was looked forward to with pleas-
urahle anticipation hy the young religious.

It was a day free from routine and hright-
ened hy scenes that were picturesque and
quaint.

Brother Rodray had never made the pilgrim-
age.

He looked forward to the day as one that
would redound with fruits and blessings.

On the day appointed, the students arose at

EMBERS

235

t\v(j in ilie ni(jniin<; and hoard Mass in the
chapel.

Then tlicv wmt to the rcfoctorv, where larL'-e
howls of steam iiii;- coffee waited.

Great platters were jjiled high with thin
sandwiches ni hread and hiitter.

It \va^ a little after three, and still ([uite dark,
when they filed out of the little door in the ,<;ar-
ilen wall, and were lost in the shadows without.

The entire journey was made a-foot.

Litanies, rosaries and monotonous, intermin-
ahle pr.ayers were told aloud alonp;- the wav.

They were (jutside the fortifications of
Diest, when the sun. in gold and purple, hurst
forth over the old Memish citv.

The pilgrims came to an old church and went
in, to kneel, for a moment, hcfore its lonelv
tenant.

And now they passed on into the country

agam.

Along the way, peasants in quaint garb,
straightenetl u]) from their tasks and gazed at
the passing band.

Stout, red-faced girls and women toiled in
the endless fields t)f wheat and sugar beets, side
by side with brawnv, stern-faced men.

236

EMBERS

A lout who reougiiized llie liabit of the Sal-
vatorists dolTcd his cap and held it in both
liands, until a jeer from one of his companions
l)rou.i;iit him to his senses.

It wa^ well on in the forenoon when they
arrived, tn-ed and footsore, at .Mont .\i,t;;u.

The little town i^ piTclied on the suininit of
a knoh of mild dccIi\U\-.

It is typically Meniish, with its plaster cot-
tages nestlim;- under ro<)fs of dull red tiles and
thatch.

The men movei' about in i^reat wooden
"sabots ' and loose-fittinn' ^^ni')cks of blue or
black cotton, tied snui,d\ about the neck.

The women wore \ery short skirts of cheap
textures, the same wooden shoes as the men,
and short kirtles of various colors.

Tii.!^ht-rittin_^-, insufticieiU bonnets covered the
back of their heads.

The hair was combed strait^ht and done in a
flat knot at the base of the head.

Four roads lead into Mont Aij^n.

The church, in which is the shrine, has stood
for centuries in the center of the plateau which
crowns the top of the hill.

MM HERS

2}^7

The pilc^riins caiiK- tn a house somewhat
l.iri^cT than the otlicrs.

Over the doorway a sign-boarrl. with a pic-
ture* of a fat bar maid hearinu^ i^reat bumpers
of beer, swunjj;' lazil\ in the bree/e and s(|ueaked
on its rusty hinp^cs.

Underneath the picture ran the impo>in;^
hue "( afe I.eo])old 1 1."

They went in.

'I'hey ate cold Iamb and r\e l)read, and <h'ank
Diable beer.

The landlady sat at the head of the lonp^
table and chatted about Mont Ai.q-u and the
miracles which were bcin^ performed at the
shrine.

She told of men and women whom she her-
self (this was no hearsay) had seen hobble into
the little edifice on crutches, and walk out
whole.

She had heard the dumb speak.

She had seen the deaf hear.

Paralytics had risen, unaided, from their
stretchers, and, before her very eyes, brushed
aside their guides and. walking to the altar of
the \'irgin. shouted the "Te Deum" of their
joyful gratitude.

238

EMBERS

They went to the shrine.

The cluirch was well filled with pil^qrims.

There were men and \\on;en of all classes
and deserii)tions.

There were people of many nations.

Pa, l)crs elbowed the rich.

Peasants knelt beside nobles.

All were e(|nal here.

The stndents made their way slowly to the
shrine, on the right of the church, near tlio
main aliar.

Here they knelt and praved.

All about them arose groans of pain and
loud-spoken prayers for relief.

Many wept and tore their hair, calling upon
the \'irgin to hear them.

Some knelt upon the stone flagging of the
church, their arms extended above their heads,
their eyes fixed upon the image of Marv hold-
ing the Babe to her breast, and clothed in gar-
ments of white and gold.

Others knelt with their heads touching the
floor, their hands under their knees, the backs
of the hands upon the stones.

Many lay prostrate, face downward, before
the shrine.

Numbers licked the cold, sandv flags with

EMBERS

239

their tongues, tracinc^ little crosses with their
saliva upon the stone floor.

There were men, women and children on
crutches.

The blind, the deaf, the mute were there.

A man, with his nose eaten off to the bone,
approached the shrine and knelt by the side of
Brother Rodray.

'Hie stench from his body was sickening.

A voung girl came forward with a babe at
her breast.

The little one turned its face to Maurice.

It w^as a mass of bleeding sores.

An old woman was praying aloud for the re-
turn of her son, who had been sent to the Congo
as a "chasseur."

Black-robed abbes wormed their way silent-
ly, noiselessly, throng., the crowded aisles.

Xuns prayed.

Suddenly there was a commotion in the rear
of the church.

"]\Iake way!" the sexton was saying, in a
low voice; and the crowd parted.

Two men, bearing a stretcher, came for-
ward, towards the shrine.

A young man. in the last stages of tubercu-

240

EMBERS

losis, looked lip from a while pillov with
vacant, p^lassy eyes.

The hollow cheeks, the wasted, sunken face,
the lonci', wavy hair fallin^^ in curls ahout his
forehead, ears and neck, i^ave liim the appear-
ance of a saint of the early church.

He paid little heed Id what was i^oini^ on
ahout him, except to look intently at Brother
Haley, who was kneeliuL^ near him.

When they raised the stretcher to bear him
away, his face expressed relief.

Hundreds of tapers illumined the shrine.

One great candle, as large as a soup bowl
and as high as an average man, burned in
front of the statue of Xotre Dame de Aiont
Aigu.

A great pyramid of crutches, sticks, trusses
and many other tokens of miraculous cures,
stood by the side of the shrine.

Father Moreau gave the signal to go.

'^he students rose to their feet.

A sea of pain-racked, crippled wretches
faced the shrine.

A great family of diseased and cankerous
humans, weeping over their sorrows and their
sores and begging surcease of pain.

EMBERS

241

They returned to the inn.

The landlady brought them cheese, "pain
noir" and beer.

They ate and drank hastily, standing".

And now they took leave of the hostess, and
swung off in a long, black line, down the tree-
arched highway that led to Saint Trond.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

The impressions of the pilgrimajje remained
a long- while on Brother Rodray's inind.

The ills of the flesh, the disgusting state of
living, human bodies, and the faith of these
charnal spectres, burning in their souls, like
the lone flame in the sanctuary, and lighting
their way with a flickering ray of hope — all
this lay heavily upon him for many days.

But, as time wore, the anguish he had ex-
perienced at sight of all this misery and pain
gave way to a more passive contemplation of
the eternal wisdom of Providence ; and, finally,
he thought no more upon it.

Spring passed into Summer; and the earth
brought forth her harvest of fruits.

The green fields turned to gold in the August
sun; and the trees and vines strained under
their ripening burthens.

In these Summer days, the students went

l242]

EMBERS

243

frequently for walks in the surrounding^
country.

Over the estates of "seigneurs," over paths
that wound through fields of waving wheat,
over highways that led to far-away lands, the
Salvatorists went their way, telling their
beads, or rapt in meditation.

Sometimes they conversed among them-
selves.

But for the most part their speech was
prayer.

One day, when they went into the country,
Brother Haley was not with them.

Brother Rodray was the first to note his
absence. A feeling of loneliness came into his
heart; and he felt that something had gone
wrong with his friend.

They had left the city a sliort distance behind
them, when Brother Rodray decided to return
at once to the convent to find Haley.

He approached Father Moreau, who was in
charge of the band:

"1 feel quite di/^7.y," he lied. "May I go
back?"

"Yes, dear Brother," the Prefect replied,
"and, walk slowly, lest you add to your weak-
ness."

244

EMBERS

It was ilie first deliberate falsehood he could
recall in 'lis life.

It confii>e(l him to think of it.

He tell the hot hloud mounting to his cheeks
from -hame.

He ihoughl of lurnin-- hack and overtaking
the students.

He could say that he felt better.

He gazed after them.

Thev were moving slowiy up the slope of a
distant hill, like small black blotches on the
dun and green.

But. the wrong was done.

He might not mend it now.

And, perhai)s. Haley needed him.

He faced about.

The spires of the city shot up like fkunes in
the sunlight.

He hurried on.

The students' (piarters were deserted.

Bui he met Haley coming out of the chapel.

He was dressed in a black suit, and carried a
satchel.

Haley was the first to speak:

*T am leaving the Order," he said, "going-
back to begin all o\xr. 1 was never cut out for

EMBERS

245

this life. Oh. Rodray, Rodray, the years I've
thrown away — seven long-, merciless years!"

"Why did y(ni not tell me, the day I came?
^'ou rememher — I asked you."

"Ah. that would have heen unwise. Besides,
}ou seem very happy, Rodray."

"Ves, but this upsets me terribly. I'm so
sorry to lose you. We were like brothers in
the flesh."

Ai^ain their hands met, as on the day when
iheir friendship was pledged.

But, now^ their eyes filled; and their clasped
hands shook as with the ague.

Their lips twitched.

They dared no longer trust their voices.

A lay brother appeared at the end of the long
corridor and beckoned Haley.

The clasped hands gripi)ed each other for a
moment, tightly — very tightly, as in a spasm of
great pain.

The men nodded in silence; and tried to
smile.

Then Haley tore away and rushed down the
long corridor, after the lay brother who had
beckoned him.

Brother Rodray slept but little that night.

246

EMBERS

Thoughts whirled in upon his waking brain
in wild confusion.

Once he started up from a fitful doze, think-
ing that Elaine was standing by his bedside.

He put out his hand and waved it gently to
make sure it was but a dream.

Day was breaking when he fell asleep again.

An hour later the convent bell called him to
the duties of the day.

He could not pray or study for thinking of
Haley. But, more especially, what seemed to
prey upon his mind was Haley's renunciation
of his vows and going forth into the world
again — his surrender to the flesh, as he
deemed it.

He did not think ill of Haley — he loved him
too well for that.

But a great wave of pity came into his heart
for the fallen one.

Indeed, he wept, many times, when alone,
for him.

And now a great aridity of soul stole over
him; and he lost all heart for prayer.

He performed the same exercises as of oM,
said the same prayers, invoked the same saints
and knelt long before the tabernacle, calling

EMBERS

247

upon the Christ to hear him and make him glad
with heavenly consolation.

But his orisons went unheedi d.

And his soul was a great void.

A change came over him.

lie moped; and lost ground in his studies.

He turned taciturn and glum.

Time passed. Winter came again.

And again Spring.

And his heart was sick.

Then, one day, Father Moreau handed him a
letter.

It was from his mother.

He took it to his room to read it.

It was the usual rigmarole of family disturb-
ances which he had known from childhood.
But, towards the end, he read:

"Elaine Le Blanc's little girl is very ill. Poor
little thing! Perhaps it would be better for
her to die, not having a father."

Elaine the mother of a child !

No father !

Could it be possible the child was his own?

He had never thought of that.

And none of his people had mentioned it
before, in the letters from home.

24S

EMI'.ERS

(li»(l. if it wore so — what tlien?

lie sat down and penned a letter to Mrs.
Rodray. recinestini; lier, w illiout effort at diplo-
macy, to tell him all she knew conccrnin.c^
hdaine's child, lie would he grateful for an
early answer.

A month ])as.se(l hefore the letter came.

Mrs. Rodray went at leni^lh into the matter
of IClaine's motherhood.

She thou.^ht Maurice knew all ahoiit it.

The child, a daughter, was horn some seven
or eii;ht months after Maurice's departure
from Lasalle.

It was not known in the villaii^c who was the
father of the unfortunate child.

The little L,drl was now out of (kuisj^er.

She was very l)ri.<;ht and ])retty.

The peoi)le in Lasalle did not look down
upon l^laine for her transc^ression.

Thev did not min,c:le with her, of course.

But there was no feelini; at^ainst her.

Baptiste had taken it very hard and his mind
had given way under the strain.

He was now in the asylum, at Long Point.

A cousin of Elaine's was doing the work
about the Le Blanc farm.

. )■■

EMP.KRS

249

This was about all she knew of the affair.

I'rothcr Rodray looked iij) from the letter
at the white wall i^\ the room.

Then, he was the father of l^laine's child.

It was his child, in fact, as much as hers.

And all these years had passed without his
knowiuL^'!

I lis child ; his daui^^hter !

What was he to do? N'e^. even now that he
did know, what was there that he could do?
Was it possible to ri^ht the wrong?

1 f so, how ?

There was a taj) on the door.

"Ah, I'rother Rodray. there's someone to see
you in the guests' rjuarters." It was Father
Moreau who was speaking. "It is a lady — a
cousin of vours, from Canada. Put on your
good soutane and go down."

"Mv cousin!" exclaimed Brother Rodray;
for he had no cousin.

"Yes, yes, my dear brother. But, make
haste; you should not keep the lady waiting!
And you must entertain her well; I shall send
wine to the jiarlor."

The good man came (^ver to his charge, and
])Ut his arm around his shoulder.

250

EMIiKRS

"i am i^lad she has conic," he said. "It will
f^ivc von cheer, j)crhaps. ^'ou have heen very
(lownhcartcd. of late."

Maurice said no more ; hut chanj^^ed cassocks,
and went to the i^uests (juarters, in a ditant
winj^ of the jji'reat Iniildin.ij:.

He opened the door of the parlor.

The room was empty.

The door of the second was open. There
was no one there.

He came to the private parlor, which was
reserved for ahhots and hishops and guests
of high position in the world.

His heart thumped as he laid his hand upon
the knoh.

The door ope.ied :

On the red plush sofa, in a far corner of the
room, a woman was smiling.

It was Waldette Bergere.

She rose from her seat and came forward,
extending her hand.

She had lost none of her beauty.

Brother Rodray grasped the proffered hand.

It was warm and very soft, like velvet.

She was smiling into his eyes.

EMRERS

251

Her red lips were parted, showing llie pearl-
like teeth.

She did not withdraw her hand.

Maurice felt anew the old tinj^ling in his
veins.

.iiJ

CMAPTI'.R 'rW'KXTV-THREE

lM)()tstcj)s sounded on llic stone Ha,i^ging- in
the hall.

X'aldctte drew lu rself free: "The brother
who ope. led the door," she whispered, ;ked
nie if I as a relative of yours. I said yes, that
I was your cousin, Mademoiselle Bergere, from
Montreal."

Brother Rodray nodded approval.
The door ,)])ene(l and a lay brother entered
the room, be iring a tray of meat.

He set down the tray audi ])roceedcd to lay
the table.

There were "tartines" and salad and a large
bowl of cherries.

A quart bottle of wine took up its place in
the ccntei of the tabl''.

The lay i)rother, who was I-deniish and knew
no French, smiled beamingly upon the pair;
and, as he - .s about to leave, made a grand

[252]

EMBERS

253

gesture of invitation towards the table, bowing
low.

And now they were alone again.

They were sealed at table; and Brother Rod-
ray was ])oiiring the dark Bordeaux.

The first heal of passion had cooled; and al-
ready Maurice felt a keen pang of conscience
at thought of his llagrant violation of the most
sacred of his vows.

He wa'^ visibly embarrassed in the presence
of Xaldetic and dared not raise his eyes to hers.

Then Elaine and her child — his child, came
to his mind : Elaine the vestal, who had fallen
through him ; and wlio had borne the burden
of her shame, all these years, not murnun-ing,
but in the silence of great love.

Why was he here, dawdling with this
creature ?

Jf there must be a woman in his life, it was
not this one, but the other, who had a claim
u])on hir.i,

1:1 is pr ie suffered greatly from the knowl-
edge of his fall from grace.

lie knew he could no longer trust his heart
— that, indeed, he was not, as he had thought
these years, master of himself.

254

EMBERS

iii

A woman, of whom he knew but little, had
made of him her toy and a fool.

These thoughts whirled through his brain,
unwelcome and unbidden.

If he fell so «\isily now, thought he, in the
sacred precincts of the cloister, what must be
his lot later on when souls were unveiled to him
in the confessional; and the sins of those souls
revealed to him for forgiveness.

With incredible clearness and rapidity he
viewed his act and its consequences.

Jle had been a traitor.

He had in spirit broken the great vow.

He had touched a woman an ^ desired her,
because she was good to look upon.

And then again Elaine and the child — his
child, passed before him.

He had violated his trust.

He had outraged heaven.

His sin was a scarlet sin, that would rise up
against him.

What right did he have to preach the Word,
weakling that he was ?

Ah, he was unworthy — more so than the
flagging at his feet.
Valdette had removed her hat and coat.

EMBERS

255

She was helpin^r herself to the salad and tar-
tines and gave no thought to the silence of her
host.

The door opened and Father Moreau entered
the room, smilinj^.

The priest drew a chair to the table and
asked many questions of Valdette as to her
trip, and her impressions of the various coun-
tries through wh'ch she had passed.

He incjuired after the health of Brother Rod-
ray's people.

Valdette replied that they were all well when
she left Canada; but that, of course, as she
lived in Montreal, she would not know of any
slight or very recent indisposition.

"But," persisted the Prefect, evidently think-
ing it a good joke, "wheii you decided to come
all the way from Canada, intending to visit
your cousin, Brother Rodray, did you not go
to Lasalle, to see his people, so that you might
bring a message from ihem to him? Ah," he
laughed, '"you Canadians ! You "hink no more
of crossing the ocean than we do of going to
Brussels."

Brother Rodray v»as visibly nervous.

Valdette colored a triHe.

256

EMBERS

But the priest laid their eniharrassment to
his remark; for he prided himself much upon
his wit.

So he laug-hed on, good-naturedly, and re-
filled the glasses.

And X'aldette and Maurice laughed, too.

Father Moreau remained w ith the pair a few
moments longer.

When he rose to leave, he said to Maurice:

"Brother Rodray, you nuist take Mademoi-
selle to the churches of the city and show her
the surrounding country. It is very heautiul
now. in Ma\ ."

And. turning to Waldette. he added:

"We Belgians are proud of our dear Flan-
ders, Mademoiselle Bergere. An revoir. And
do not hurry away from Saint 'frond. "

When they were alone again, Maurice found
himself in hetler mood.

The wine had mellowed him; and he felt but
the faintest ])ricking of remorse.

It came in upon him like a siia<low dimming
the sunlight ; and even imparled a certain flavor
that was not altogether distasteful.

He chatted pleasantly; but ate little.

\'aklette was very hungry.

EMBERS

257

The chicory salad pleased her immensely.

And the wine she declared to be famous.

When she raised the cherries over her red
mouth and bit them off their stems, Brother
Rodray quivered with desire, at the very splen-
dour of her beauty.

The lay brother brought cheese and coffee;
smiled again as before, and bowed himself out.

And now they rose from table ; and went into
the garden of the guests.

Here they walked for a while, in the shade
of trees laden with cherries.
I Flowers were everywhere, their perfumes

•' mingling wildly, like voices.

For a while they were silent.

Presently Valdette turned to Maurice and
said :

"You did not think I would come?"

"When you failed to appear that first year, I
hardly thought you would, and gave you up."

"And you are glad to see me?"

"Oh, yes ; very glad !"

"\ou have changed, Alaurice: you arc taller,
and, I really believe, more handsome."

"And you, Valdette, have not changed: you
are beautiful — as ever."

258

EM HERS

Slic smiled and, ^toopini;- down, plucked a
bkx)d-rcd tulip which slie j)inncd o\er her
breast.

■"Are \()u .q'niiic,^ to sliow inc over the citv?"
she asked.

"^e^; hut it is a ])ri\ileL;e 1 ha\'e never
known to he granted hetOrc.'"

"Ah. I shall he so L;iad to haxe \ou ! Those
Flenii>h l>ore one so with their hroken h'rench."

Father .Moreau appeared in the doorway:

"Xow, then lU}- children."' he cried, ■■\<ni had
l>etter he starting, if you wish to visit all the
churches this afternoon. Urother Rodrav, vou
can take Madenioiselle into the countr\' tomor-
row. Brother Pierre is awaiting you at the
main entrance. He is going along with you,
as he knows the city and under'^tands F"lemish."

At the door, Brother Pierre, who had served
the luncheon, joined them.

His honest face heamed contentment and he
-eem.ed well pleased with his task.

They walked, o\-er the cohhled streets, from
church to church: and reached the convent at
nightfall, tired and footsore.

Tlie evening meal was served in the same
room, hv Brother Pierre.

EMBERS

259

Shortly after sii])|)cr, Xaldottc ro-'> to leave.

She felt <|tiite fati.^ued from the loni; walk
o\er the city.

"How lon<^ , re yoii lvouij;- \>> he in Saint
Trond?" Maurice etKjtiired.

"Just a short while, my dear." she replied,
cominir ,,ver t(; him. "W ill \nu take me to the
country tomorrow ?"

He tremhied sh-lilly as he .^a^ed at her; and
his Hps moved in spite of him:

"Yes." I^ ' said, "tomorrow."

CHAPTER TWT.XTY-FOUR.

Brotlicr Pierre accompanied them into the
country.

He was an odd sii^ht, perched upon the box
of the shaky old carriage, with his faded tri-
corn hat pulled down over his ears, and his
greenish-black soutane, mottled with grease
spots, and bursting open over his belly.

He scolded the old convent horse, who threw
back his ears in resentment and swished his
tail petulantly by way of retort.

"Pegase" had spent the better part of his
life in the service of the convent; and permitted
no one, not even Brother Pierre, to whom he
stood indebted for many an extra measure of
oats, to dictate his course of conduct.

Particularly did he object to being prescribed
a faster gait than suited his whim.

The vehicle was a coupe of a style almost for-
gotten. The paint was ba-Hy checkered, and,
in patches, rubbed off entirely, leaving bare the

[260J

EMBERS

261

woodwork which was cracked in places, and
warped.

But Valdette was deh.crhted with the scenery
and j^ave httle thous^ht to the wretched vehicle.

Brother Rodra}- sat beside her, torn by con-
flicting emotions.

They drove in a widening circuit around the
city.

The broad highway's were coxcred with a
thick, high arch of oaks and elms.

A delightful breeze cooled the ardor of the
sun, fanning their faces.

Interminable fields of wheat and sugar beets
stretched over the wide expanse like soft car-
pets of green upon the yellow soil.

Here and there, along the way, a hare, sur-
prised upon the roadway, pricked up its ears,
and bounded off.

Men and women, toiling in the fields, stared
at the passing carriage, and bent down again
over their tasks.

They came to a fork in the road and Brother
Pierre turned ofiF on the highway that passed
Saint Trudon.

They visited the church.

262

I'Mi;i-:ks

■■^()U (Idii'i kiK.w lU'l^iiiiii."' said Maurice,
"unk'ss ynii >ih' it^ i liurclics."

'I'lie al)l)0 came Min of iln- pai i. si i house, and
welcomed iIk- \ isjtors.

lie was an old man. thin an<l wliitc liaired.

I Ic in\ ilc-d dicni inio tlu- housc and laid ni"al
and wine before tliem.

lie was \iTy lolly; and walked widi tlieni
down the Ioul;' .^raxcl pathwaN'. lo il,. ca-Tiai^e,
to SCO them otT.

They left the little red-roofed to-- n hehind
them and journevi'd into the heart <<f th • hct
country, where the L^reen lo(.ked hke a shore-
less sea. rollini^- .aw.ay to the \ er-e.

'I hey had ii-a\elk(l, ])erli;i])s. an hour, when
the lowers ot ,i j^reat chateau loomed against
the spotless hack^round of the sk\-.

A wiu(hn,L;- drixeuay came down t" the road
from the castle.

A wide park lay between the chateau and the
hii^-hway.

I'^rother Tierre ah^hted aiuk t^oiuL,^ over to
tlic lodL,^e, swunj^- open the ,<;.ate. Then ! led
"Peg-ase" into the grounds and. after closing
the gate, mouiUed ilir hox and drove on *o-
wards the chateau.

E.\fi:KRS

263

■■ I li'^ -■sCilc." cxplamcd I'.r, iIut Rclr.iv t.,
\ aldcitc. ••iK"I..iiMs to ;i,i l-n-lisli iK.hlcm.m
nliM s|, ,1,1, ,,„.,, ,,, i,j, ,j,„^, j,, ^.„„i,^.,.„ ,,-,,_

ropL-. \\ (• ;,rc' -uin ilu- frcoloui m|" \hv -touikIs
at nil tiiiK's."

Arrivin- urur \\w v:i.\U . the li-.i-si- ua> tctli-
t-ix'(l; and iIk" three waikal up tlu- drivcwnv to
the inorit.

Sw.-in. tl.Mifd pc;uH-i"nlly 111 \hc ^^■^\^.y ain..n,<,r
i^w-Al cliivtrrs ..r w, UT lilies.

TliiTo wa- IK. ^i-n ..t life ah-uit tl ,- rli,iU-;iu;
I'Ut the -n.und.s vvv in [h -feet o uidition . and
llif pancrres in 1)1()( m.

Two sh.nc dnio-,,ns -uardid the Ti-mi i en-
trance. Siatiies .f the kin-s and (jtieens .,f
Kno-land oeenpie.i n;ehes in the walls ot the
towerini^- strnctnre.

They cnssed the stone l)nd--e over the moat
and passed on into the preserve, a short dis-
tance hack of the chateau.

Brother Pierre, -vho was in the advance, led
them to the 1 ,nk of the stream that lan
throui^di i,>e enter of the wood.

The hn^lier ik.w husied himself empiyino-
the content, of a hasket which he had taken
Injni under the hox of the carriage.

'■ll

264

EMRERS

He set about to find an open space upon
which to lay the meat.

Valdctte and Maurice seated themselves
upon the bank.

Presently the voice of the lay brother called
out:

Brooder Rodray ! ici. ici !"

He stood at the far end f)f a loni,^ ,i,dade.
beckoning, and pointing to the ground at his
feet.

"He has found a place," said Maurice; and
they followed the aisle to where the meat lay
upon the ground.

There was a quart of wine; and after this,
another.

Brother Pierre partook of the meal with the
others; and when it was over, and the wine
was drank, the good man never moved from
his seat upon the grass ; but leaned trustingly
against the tree at his back, and snored loudly.

Valdette and Brother Rodray went back to
the edge of the stream.

They were in mellov, mood, and one to en-
courage confidences.

"Tne river," said Maurice, presently, gazing
at the water: "how like the human hfe."

EMBERS

265

"Yes," the woman rejoined; "hut witli this
exception, that the river is much (he purer of
the two."

"That is so, Valdette. Men make vows and
— forn^et them, at sight of the first pretty
woman."

"Maurice, I had no such thou,i,dU in mind, 1
assure you. [ was only rambhng. Do you
beheve me?"

"Of course T do. But, Oli !"

He shuddered.

"You are unhappy, Maurice?"

"Yes, very unhappy."

"Poor boy! Tell me about it. Perhaps
something can be done— who knows?"

She took his hand in hers and repeated in
the softest voice:

"Tell me about it."

And Maurice yielded to her insistence ; and
unfolded to her the story of his life and the
story of Elaine.

She listened attentively to all he said.

When he had done, she remained silent for a
long time, her eyes gazing fixedly upon the
water.

He took her silence as a condemnation of
nim and his acts.

266

EAir.LRS

II.

Ik- rc.nrcttcd Iiaviii^;- told Ikt.

At lent^-ili. slic put lonh lier hand to him
a.^ain: and a- she looked into his eves th.ere
were tears in Iiei- own.

"1 piiy yon." she he.qan, "t'or I know what
yon nuisi he suffering-.""

■"Bnt."" said Ahmrice, "it is torlnre to think
'>t it. It will drive me mad. Last ni-'ht I conld
iK'l sleej). I saw the '-hild helore me— hdaine
holdino- the ehild in lier arms, deiyin- the world
in her silence. .\nd (hen. my v.-ws— for life!"

"Let me tell yon the stor}' of another life,"
said \'aldette; "a woman's life."

It'

CHAPTKR TWKXTV-FIVE.

"It's an old sS)ry and a sordid one. But I
want yon to lirai it, ne\ertIicloss. for the appli-
cation it may liave on your life.

"1 was horn of humhle parents. My father
was a reporter on one of the Montreal' dailies.
Me was underpaid for his services, and. many
times, saw his family in want for the hare
necessities of life.

"T can recall, in |)articular. one winter when
we took turn ahout to play in the yard, there
not hein.c: -^Ik^cs for the lot of us.

•'M\ n:other was a o-ood, kind soul, who had
left a home of luxury a.^-ainst ihc will of her
people, to marry my father.

"Throu-J^h all the trials of poverty and semi-
starvation which attended the raising- of a large
family, her ])ride was too strong to permit her
to appeal for help to any of her relatives.

"But the struggle for existence wore her
down hy degrees until linally she took sick with

[267]

268

EMBERS

■' I
■1 i

typhoid fever and died. Her death was due
more to the lack o^ proper care and nourish-
ment than to the malady itself.

"And now, hroken in spirit and daunted by
the spectre of poverty that seemed to grow
more relentless as time went on, my father took
to drinking.

"I was the eldest child; and the care of the
younger ones devolved upon me.

"The loss of my poor mother, whom I loved
dearly, the life of privation which had been
forced upon me from the cradle, the sudden
falling off of my father and the new responsi-
bility for the little brood of orphans, made of
me a woman before my time.

"I saw little for me in life.

"Two years went by.

"My father was now a hopeless drunkard.

"The paper which had taken the best of his
liie for a beggarly pittance now discharged
him.

"For a time he sought employment from the
other newspapers.

"But none would have him.

"He had no money; but he still managed to
get his drink in the saloons where lie was
known.

EMBERS

269

Tn the course of time, however, thev refused
hini any more Hqiior. And now those leeches
who had m the past accepted the wages which
they knew were due to the keep of his little
ones, turned him out like a dog and hade him
not return.

"A little French bakery in the neighborhood
Iiad given us credit, else we must have starved
to death.

"One day my father kissed us all before leav-
ing home.

'"That night a police officer came to the
house.

"He turned quite pale, and his eyes glistened
when he saw the utter wretchedness of the
household.

"We were eating supper.

'There was bread on the table; nothing else.
J he big man drew me to one side and said •
Are you a brave girl ?'

" 'Yes,' I replied: 'Where's father.''

"At the station, daughter,' he said: 'He's
<lcad. He killed himself. Come along with
nie; and don't tell the little ones. W^'ll see
what can be dene.'

"I quieted tue little ones who were afraid of

270

EAIBKRS

the big- man in uniforiii. and k-fi tlu- l^ •I'^e in
company witli the oHicer.

"Arriving- at the station. I \va^ pcrniincd lo
view the remains of my jjoor fatlier in a rear
room of the hniUhn^-. There \va-> a lon^- Mack-
cloth over tlie body, wliich the capta.:i arew
back j^ently off ilie pahid face.

'"There was a little, round, red hole aI)o\ ■ the
temi)le. which told too plainly the trai;ic story
of our loss.

"I did not weep. I did not. for a;: instant,
feel threatened by emotion. 1 felt C(.ld. as if
the blood had o^one out i>\ mv veins. A faint-
ness came over me and the tips of my fm^-ers
stung numbly. A cold >weat cam- out over
my body. I swayed Strong arms caught me
as I was falling backwards, and carried me to a
lounge in the matron's room.

"I did not faint. This last, cru^hin.;- blow
seemed unneeded for my preparatir,n for the
life that awaited me.

"In a few moments. I sat up : for I was think-
ing, little mother that I \\a>. of the others
waiting for me, there, at Imnie.

"Presently the captam eanie into the ro.nn
and drew a chair n\-vr \n the luimge.

EMBERS

271

"He Miked very Icindly, s'lvin- anioncr r.thcr
tliin,^-s that we un,il,l all he taken care of.

■•T Men he t-.ok me to a cah that was standin-
at the station door, and o-ot in heside me.

••When we arrived home, the si.i^ht hewil-
dered me.

■"I had seen plenty in the homes of nei.t^dihor-
""^- children and playmates; hut never in our
"wn home had there hecn such a varied and
l)ountitul suj)j)ly of pro\isions.

'•f'Ut I could n..t eat. 'j'he food -a^'i^ed me.

It \\as the meat of charity. And 'l. who was

"Mer than the others and could miderstand.

titrnvd from these cr\its of stran^re hands, sick-

etied and pained at heart.

"The captain went away. Me came again
the following day.

■It had hcen arranged, he told me, that [
would go to his home to live, i would be al-
lotted lighL tasks about the house for mv keep,
n) order, he explained, that i might feel inde-
pendent.

'•Julia, the next oldest of the family, was to
be given employment in the home of a wealthy
merchant. The others were to be placed in an

?7'>

EMBERS

5*1

institution, where I could visit them from time
to time.

"It wrung my heart to think of breaking up
our wretched home and parting trom the httle
(Kies.

•"But after ihey had gone to sleep, Julia and
I talked it over for manv hours, and finally
concluded it was the best thing to do.

"Three days later I entered my new home.

■"Madame La Force, the captain's wife, re-
ceived me kindly; and the first weeks of niy
?tay under their roof were happy ones, consid-
ering:, of course, my recent bereavement.

"But the captain, a good enough man at
heart, was destined to bring about my undoing.

"The La Forces had been married some ten
vTears when I went to live with them. They
had had no children, which was a source of
biner disappointment to him.
^^••After the first few years of their wedded
life, the captain had grown indififerent to his
wife's caresses; and though never quarreling,
there was little in common between them as
man and ^'if'^

^ "Madame La Force and I soon became fast
friends. We worked together about the house,

EMBERS

272>

like sister

teach

s : and she took a d

'nnf nic sewiiin;- and f

'ccp iiitcTcst in nic.
inc\- work.

"I had h-ved with then, something ovn- .jv
nionths, before any notieeahle chan<a> canK-
over the Iiouschold.

"Then one day, a violent ,,iK-u-rel broke out
between the eaptain and his wife. There were
hard words; and onee [ heard n,y nan.e spoken
hy Madame La Force.

''r knew instantly. thou,^d. 1 can swear before
^od that I was innocent of anv wroni^^ i„tcnt
or ac , that \ was the cause of the quarrel.

They tell us that o-uih manifests itsdf in
^le face of the wrongdoer. I ^uni belie^•e it
For, though blameless, mv natural sensitive-
ness now cau.sed n.e to blush and turn awav
-y eyes hke the guiltiest of won.en whenever
Uound myseh face to face with Aladan.e La
^orce I know she noted this and tliat it
served to confirm her in her false opinion
I had never interpreted the captain's kind-

pity for an orphaned, homeless crirl

"But the new attitude of my mistress seemed

o open n.y eyes. 1 saw now with nmch pain

that .she was to a degree justified in her sus-

274

EMBERS

l)ici()iis. I !(.■ \\a> ()\\T solicitous of mv comfort,
i n)ul(i see li'ai he followed mc with Jiis eyes
when I passed throu-h the fooin. He would
make me little presents of wearing'- ai)parel. At
table his conversation was directed almost
wholly to me. If I did or made aiiythins", it
was perfect.

"His nei;Iect of his wife soon became brutal.
One day. I resolved to leave. We were at suj)-
per when I i(»ld ihem of my decision. Captain
Ea Force made no reply. His wife ro.-e from
the table and went uj)stairs, to her room. An
bour later, w hen she came into the kitchen, she
was quite pale and her e\ es were red and swol-
len. She came u\) to me and took both my
hands iii her own:

■■"Where are yon i^oing, \"aldette?' she
asked.

"1 replied that [ did not know, and turned
back to the dishe-, for my eyes were full.

'"You're a -ood. brave girl,' slie rejoined
and left the room hurriedly.

"That nio-ht. ben, re -oing to bed, 1 .^.j-athered
together what fe-v belongings J posst'ssed, as
I was determined to leave on the morrow.

"This done, 1 sal down on the edge of my

>he

KMUHRS

275

'n-fl to ihiiik

< "vir tl:

wcc'k.s ;iiul pl.in ,"nr il

I' rvriiN of the Ia-,t f
ic 1 in lire.

t--\v

f went l).i(k

'>y^'y iii\- lile. :i> niK

'Alii, when

•■^'1 iiiiportant rh;:n-v is ;i!,o„t t,, take [.lace.

'•I nuist have^al there I'Mr a km- lime, when
ilie kn-.h tnnied -^.ntly i,. the (l,.,,r. and f saw
Captain La \-nvcc Man<hn- he|-nre nie on the
tlH-csh.Id. II,. faee ua^ pak- and his eves
larger than I !,ad ever .een them.

"I si)ran- to iii\- iVet and motioned him. with
a sweep ..f the arm. to lea\e.

"He threw out his hands lo me in a -esture
ol mnte appeak

" '('O away!" I eommanded in a hoarse whis-
per.

" 'Von know, ilicn?- he a.sked. "is that why
you re leaving.^'

"'Ves.' I rcph-ed. 'Co away!' and I pushed
tlie door a-ainsi him and j-oreed him hack.

••Tlie next day, hefore hre.aklast. I was gone.

"I found k)dgino- i„ a hitle house on Saint
l^awrence street, and set ahoui to IukI some new
means of livelihoo(k

"For three day. 1 k.fi niv room earlv in the
niornmg and tramped about the streets until
late in the afternoon.

270

I-Mi'.KRS

"I would meet with a rrhnff lu-re. a eurl
answer there. Sonic were kind; and ..trered
me tea, and qiiestioiu-d me al.out iiu liie. I'.ut
it so happened that none wvw in luvd of lu-lp.
"On the fourth day. I was passin-- a
churcli on X.,ire Dame siRel when I hecame
suddenly very faint, li was noon; and I had
liad no food that da v.

"With ,i,M-eai effort I eh'mhed the steps lead-
mg up to the door of the cliurch. and went in.
I can recall makin- „,y way uncertainly to a
pew. Then all grew dim heiore me. My ears
rang with sounds that seeiiud vcrv I'ar away. I
felt strong arms about me. Then everything
turned black; and a mercil'ul numbness came
over me that was like a peaceful sleep.

"When 1 awoke, 1 was lying on a little white
cot in a room with green and vellow walls.
•'An old woman was seated bv the bedside
She rose from the chair when i opened my
eyes, and left the room. A moment later she
relurned with a priest. 1 learned from 'him
tliat 1 was in the parish house.

" 'Wbere is your home, my girl?' he asked,
nor unkindly.

"I told him I had no home, as well as the
rest ot my sad story.

EMBERS

He tlioui^-ht a lonq- while- tl
rou

277

len sriid

cannot sK'cp jui-i- tonifrlit

cause scandal. Are
with me? I hall fuRl you a pi
"A I '

it niii^-ht
you \vell cn()ui,di to drive

ice.

nonient;

the streets to a far section of the ciU'""'' "'

"The priest spoke little. Me was well alouo-

>n years He was :, little, stooped man with an
ascetic face.

"We had driven several miles when he said-
1 am takm.j^ you to a convent.'

"I started up.

"He laughed; and placin.^^ his hand upon n,v
shoulder said, in an assuring tone: "Xow lunv
you must not be frightened so easilv. Did vou'
thmk r meant to make a nun of you? Not at
all, my girl. You will have a good home wi[h
the sKsters; a very good home-vou shall see''

We drew rein, as night was falling, before
the entrance of a large, severe-looking gray
structure. Over the doorway, in a niche, wis a

tatue of the Good Shepherd, holding a latnb to
his breast.

"My heart failed me at sight of the grim re-
treat. But my companion took me gently by
the arm and I permitted him to lead nte in.

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278

EMP.ERS

"Sister Ldrclia. the suiierioress, came at once
to the reception rdiMii; and alter a few words
in private with the i)riest, conducted nic into
the cloister.

•'My feehn;? of dread was soon dissipated by
the many kimhiesses of the sisters.

"There were many iin fortunate ,L;-irls in the
institution who Avere tliere for the purpose of
reformation. Hut 1 was not permitted to min-
o-le with any of these. I was o-ivcn charge of
the guests' (|uarters and only came in contact
with the nuns and the visitors.

"From time to time I went to see Julia and
th.e little ones.

"Then, one day. a man came to the convent;
a young man, tall and dark, with large black

eyes.

' "I well remember the look we exchanged on
meeting that fn'st time— a long, lingering look,
as though we had been 'peeking each other all
the years of our life and had only now found
our hearts" desire.

"We did not speak th:it first time. We would
not have known wh.-it to say. It would take
time to formulate -])eech. 1 made enquiries
about him; and learned that he was Sister

EMBERS

279

Loretta's nejjhcw, and that he was studying for
the priestliood.

''When he came a,i;ain. a month later, he
sought me out and spoke to me. This time he
wore a soutane.

" 'You are going to he a priest." \ said in a
tone that betrayed my feeliniis.

''He did not answer; hut grasped my hand
quickly and i)ressed it to liis lips. 1'hen he
hurried away.

"His visits became frequent now.

"He would always manage to see me for a
moment before leaving.

"Indeed, we had agreed U|)on a trysting place
— a dark corner where no one went.

"But love grows bold; and one day when I
was working in one of the guests" parlors, he
rushed into the room and, taking me in both
his arms, kissed me a dozen times.

"When I finally freed myself. I glanced in-
stinctively at the door. Sister Loretta was
standing there, speechless and very white.

"Fully half a minute nuist have passed while
the three of us stood there facing one another
in silence.

"Presently, the nun motioned me to leave
and go back into the cloister.

if !

280

EMBERS

"Just then Paul stepped in front of me and
faced his aunt.

" 'I am the one. not she,' he said, 'who is to
blame. I love Valdette; and she returns my
love. She will go where I go, tonight.'

"Then he turned to me and led me past the
nun, out of the room and down the steps to the
street.

"There was a carri.'igo nearby. He hailed it
and T got in.

"'Wait,' he said to the driver; and went
back into the convent. When he came out, a
few moments later, he said: 'We will be mar-
ried tonight. I have decided that love is best.'

" 'Was it he,' broke in Maurice, 'who met
you at the dock in Liver])ool ?"

"Yes, that was Paul. We are so happy!
And, mind you, he has never a regret for what
he did for me."

She rose to her feet.

"Maurice," she said, placing her hands on
his shoulders: "It ill becomes me to speak.
But I am about to leave you. x\nd, before go-
ing, I would say just this, that if you are un-
happy now, what must be the bitterness of
heart of that noble girl who has mothered your

EMBERS

281

little one, who has been content to suffer in
silence, all these years, for the splendid love
she bears vou?"

"Then you would have me ?"

"Yes, a thousands times, yes!"

"What! Go back? Renounce my vows?
Disgrace my family? Are you mad?"

"Maurice, tell me, did you not undertake an
obligation to Elaine, long before you made
those vows you speak of? Has she not rights
— even before God?

"But, forgive me, .Maurice. I have spoken
in this manner, because of my affection for you.
And I have already said that it ill becomes me
to speak. I only wanted to light the way. Per-
haps you will see, in time.

"My husband will be here for me tonight.
We are to spend the summer at Ostende. I
shall bid you farewell at the convent door. Ah,
here comes good Brother Pierre."

There was a great cloud of gold and purple
in the west. The sun was gone.

The breeze from the river was damp and
cool.

282

EMBERS

IP'

They followed Brother Pierre hack to the
waiting carriage.

"Pe,i^ase" was ([uite npset over the lone: de-
lay. He threw hack his ears in a manner more
eloquent than words.

In the gathering- gloom, the old carriage
struggled on towards the city.

They parted at the door of the convent.

Brother Pierre turned the horse towards the
stable: and Maurice was left alone with Val-
dette, in the darkness.

The sound of wooden shoes came near and
passed, dying away in the distance.

They could not see each other ; for the night
was black.

A cool wind fluttered the leaves in the trees,
fretfully.

The woman spoke:

"Adieu, Maurice."

A sob rose to the man's throat :

"Adieu, Valdette."

He put out his hand to her.

But she was gone.

He turned to the door.

A gong horn within clanged harshly.

An old lay brother opened the door.

EMBERS

283

For an instant, Brother Rodray ij^lanced back
into the dark, deserted street.

Then he went forward, and the door closed
softly behind him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.

And now a great conflict arose within him;
a struggle to the death l)etweeii opposing
forces.

In the cloister, things and men seemed to
him to have undergone a change.

To Maurice they were no longer the same.

The corridors were cold and cheerless; his
room a dungeon.

The brothers and priests moved about him
like beings from another world, with whom he
had naught in common.

He looked forward to his meals as the only
pleasurable incidents of the day.

His aridity of soul increased.

He found but bitterness in prayer.

The conversation of the students bored him.

He sought seclusion.

The public penitences were horribly out of
tune with his mood.

[284]

EMBERS

285

im;

1 to

his

lim
I he

(Illy

im.

Whenever possible, he omitted them.

Those of a private nature, such as eating
aloes, wearmg the girdle of horse-hair or steel
points, the flagellation on Friday nights in
commemoralion of the Passion of Christ, and
many other deeds having for end the purifying
of the heart and the chastening of the body,
were no longer performed by him.

He read much of romance, taking books se-
cretly from the priests' library and secreting
them under his mattress until such time as he
could read them.

On his way through the city streets with his
fellows, he would catch himself gazing into the
eyes of women, with a poignant hungering at
heart.

He argued this matter over by himself.

He knew he was no longer pure ; and yet he
felt quite innocent of grievous sin.

At times, he would defend his conduct with
V'aldette.

Who, bemg placed in a like position, would
have resisted ? And, besides, that had been all.
It had stopped there.

He went so far as to tell himself that he had
achieved much against the flesh, in turning

.. :)]

2^h

l-.MT.F'.RS

Iiack, ilin^, fri.ni tin.' liiri' oi' a palliway strewn
with tlic red tlowc'Vs oi' pa-^inii, and rallin,^- liini
on to the least.

1 le wonid ^il for honr> hy tlie win<low. while
tlie others slept. ,L;a/inL; out into the ni^lu.

The stars, tlie moon -heen, tlie swishin,^- of
the l)ree/.e in tlie lea\e-, the wee])in.i^ of the
rain on the sodden earth, had now a Lani^iiai^^e
to the ear of hi> soul.

And always they were callin.L;- him away,
hack o\er the wastes, to the l.e^inninL^. where
[I woman held his face in hoth her hands, her
p^reat blue eyes tilled with tears, and tenderly
murmuring his name: "Maurice, oh. Maurice!"

Xow that X'aldette was gone, he gave her
but little thought.

At times, the menior\ of her even caused
him irritation; for it was she who had pointed
the way to him, back o\er the wastes.

He knew his life could not run on forever in
this way; that he must, sooner r)r later, make
decision between the cloister and the world.

He shrank instinctively from thought of the
final hour, be the outcome of the struggle what
it might. For in either instance, it must cause
him pain.

EMP>ERS

287

One nisj^ht he trii-d to prav.
FUit his words wi-rc like i^rill to his hps. He
turned anew to the moon sheen and the stars
and the swishing- of the breeze in the leaves.

By decrees, his fervor had relaxed until now
his inditterence was as much a matter of com-
ment in the community as had been his former
devotion.

Weeks went by. Life became intolerable.

One day, he failed to attend Mass, remain-
ing' in his room instead.

For this he was penalized in open chapter,
and sent into retreat for seven days.

The enforced silence, the meditations, the re-
ligious exercises of this period of discipline
were unendurable to Maurice.

He was himself astonished at the great depth
of his fall from grace.

He thought constantly, now, of Elaine.

He longed for her emb"aces.

For the first time in his life, he yearned for
the open spaces of the country, the streams, the
forests.

He came to love the tender blades of grass
at his feet, the humblest flowers.

He would w^atch the birds mating.

28<S

EMBERS

The lowliest scenes of nature Idok on :m in-
definable charm to his eye.

lie hunj^ered for his child.

lie xvondered if shr was like l-Maine.

I lis heart throbbed with love lust : and. all
unconsciously, his arms went out to clasp her.

The days dragged slowly by, growing longer
as they went.

Maurice \vas crushed by the very intensity
of his loneliness.

lie grew to hate the walls that rose about
him, cold, forbidding, austere.

There was no ray of gladness in his life.

lie was wretched; and his heart burned with
desire for the love that was denied him.

It dawned upon him now that he had played
her false — the woman in Lasalle.

Why had he not seen it in this light long
ago, when he prated of his love to her?

He struck his breast, and called upon heaven,
madly, to give hini light.

Clearly did he see his duty to the child; and
likewise, to her mother.

But a voice in his heart recused him of a
baser passion.

The thought whelmed him with confusion.

MI'.KKS

J8<'

I""!-, if Ik- should lake \hv stq) — it lu- slmuld
v<» bai-k, ii iiui>t ])v with a ch-.m licari.

.\.i,Min he prayed for Ljuidalue; and a^ain.

lUit his words wc-iii waste: and he feU hke a
hollow thing-.

1 lien, one day tlu n i.niiii«4 >uii hiiist jn iipon
him in passionate warmth.

I he bird.s awoke him with their son^^s.

I'Voni the parterres, the novvers .smiled up at
him, and the dew-pearls ..n their petals glisi-
<'ned like tears of )oy.

All nature was callin;^ him.

There could be no mistake.

lit yearned for tiie <on^ of the wind in the
niai)!es, the dull r.xir of the cataract, the wild,
riotous bloom of field and wood, f<,r the em-
braces of }<:iaine, his mate, who was callin,i,r.

The humming of love-laden voices f'illed
his ears.

'Phe perfumes of the earth and her flowers
dilated his nostrils and riuickened his brain t..
intoxication.

Had he been asleep all these year,>?

Why had he not heard the call before r Ah.
there was much good in the world, where man
and maid followetl the eternal law. and em-
braced and lived as one!

J'X)

KM15EKS

III

There was tio i^n-caler law. tig purer law,
when love abode between.

It sprang- in the human heart like the water
ill the spring.

It called for a mate for man; and was as in-
in>cent f»f wronj^ful lust as the flower that is
sterile until favcred with the pollen of the male.

Love, the all-consuminj^ flame, the greatest
of heaven's gifts.

He drank in the glad air.

His thoughts bounded away, over the seas,
to Elaine and the child.

The blood surged to his temples.

1 lis heart throbbed with a great desire for
freedom.

He glanced back from the window, at the
bare wliite walls of his room, at the crucifix
and the images of Saint Ann and the \'irgin.

The severity of the scene chilled him.

He turned anew to the bird -^ongs. the trees
and the flowers.

His head swam; and his heart throbbed with
great emotion.

The woman had coiKiuercd.

He shouted aloud, in very ecstasy of joy:

"I shall go back, laaine! [ shall go back!"

ciJ.\riKRi\VKN.TN-si':\i:.\.

<♦

It was one thing for Brother Rodray to de-
cide and another to put his decision to execu-
tion.

This much was settled in his mind: he would
leave the Order. He would return to Lasalk-,
to Elaine, to the .soil.

But he had no sooner reached the decision
than it dawned upon him that what he was
about to undertake was by no means an eas\'
task.

lM)r one could not merely pick up one's be-
longings and walk out of the great iron gates
of the convent to freedom.

He knew that in the Order of the .Most Holy
Saviour, the renunciation of the three life vows,
b\- a religious, was a thing shuddered at; an act
heinous, despicable.

The apostasy of a S.alvatorist was spoken of
in whispers among the remaining faithful.

[291]

292

KM15ERS

J t

P.ut the siil)ion wa- (lisia^^tcfiil. and ^eldimi
broached.

In his sorn ons upon Perseverance. Father
Moreau would alhide to ilie departed ones, for-
l)earini^ to mention their names, as deserters
and fallen sohhers of the Cross: .Manx- were
called, hut few were chosen.

This violation of the \ows hv the troth-
I)lii::hted would redound to them in miserv. sor-
row and death.

Their joys would he tin^^ed with hiiterness,
their lives overshadowed In the ever present
memory of their sin.

They had proven false to their trust.

Their defection was n<5 less a heirayal than
that of Judas Iscariot. For they had I'allen
from the hei.^hls to which tlie\- had heen called,
with full knowledge and consent, into the
ilepths where darkness was and desolation.

r.roiher Rodray was well aware of the mood
in which the l*refect had received others who
hail gone to him, to give notice (»f their deter^
mination to leave the (Jriler.

He shuddered ;it thought of the jjrie.st's
wratli; for he knew him to he (juite terrible in
his denunciation of ijiosc about to unfrock.

EMBERS

293

S(.. no\'.. Uv <c\ ahoui to derive ways and
means ot esca|)e. by which lie might avoid the
(h-cadcd conflict with P'ather Moreau.

He sought to evolve a scheme by which all
might he easily arranged, and in' a friendly
manner.

Accordingly. ..ne day, he wrote to the Pro-
vincial, in Brnssels, asking the latter dignitarv
lor a transfer to the l-jiglish province of the
' )rder.

I lie application was gixcn due consideration
'"11 ret'uscd. for the reason that thev were ver>
much in need of luiglish speaking missionaries
in Canada.

A desperate plan occurred to him.

He thought of going to \'aldeltc for assist-
ance.

She would he at (Jslend for the summer.
I le would need hut sufficient funds to take
liin) across the water.
Ne was penniless.
She would understand.

Once in l.asalle. he could easilv return the
loan.

He c.juld scale the garden wall at night
while the others slept.

294

EMBERS

It would be an unmanly, cowardly under-
taking, this wild hegira in the darkness of
night.

But it was the easiest way out of the diffi-
culty.

lie shrank from explanations on his part
and hrowheatings on that of the Prefect.

After much (liought he decided to adopt the
plan.

'I here was a promenade into the coimtry that
day.

I'rother Rodrav did ni»t accompany the
students.

Instead, he remained at the convent, un-
der pretext of being indisposed.

When the others had been gone .-ome time,
he went to the clothes room where hung the
civilian garments of those who had taken the
habit and remained in the Order.

After a long search he recognized the black
suit he had worn l)et\)re donning the cassock.

It was co\ered a\ ith h thick layer of soft,
gray dust.

He took it to his room.

After restoring it to its former color, by
means of a stiff brush, he removed his habit
and tried on the suit.

EMBERS

295

tlu

un-

it was very much too small.
^ The trouser lei^s came above his ankles.
The waist was ver}- tight. The coat sleeves
were too short, as was the c(X'it itself, which
would not button.

He walked tlu- length r,f the room, as one
struts before a tailor.

He made to sit down : but, with laudable tact,
desisted.

"Well," he said I'mallv to himself, grazing at
his sorry reflection in the glass : "It 's the only
suit I possess. If I took one of (he others, it
would be theft. This v.ill have to do.-

He thrust his hand in a coat i-ocket.

He felt something crumpled, like stiff paper.

It was seven dollars in Canadian monev.

It must have been left over from his journey
to Saint Trond.

He would need it for his trip to Ostend.
It was his.

He disrobed again and slipped into his
>outane.

He folded the niit and laid it carefullv under
his mattress.

Then he went down into the garden and
walked alr>ng the \mh that skirted the wall, at

J9()

EMBERS

the tar end, where the trees hid the enelosure
from the convent.

That niL,dit he (hd not trust himself to sleen:
hut sat by his window until the carillon in the
tower of the town-hall had chimed the tnid-
niqht hour.

Xow he dressed in civilian garh, and left his
room, lie .stood for a moment, still, in the
Corridor.

I'iie heavy hreathin.!; ot the sleepers was all
lie could hear.

lie closed tlie door i^^nlly behind him and
^tole down the corridor to the stairway.

A stc]) creaked treacherously under his
wei,^•lll and his I,eart leaped to his throat.

A cold sweat came out on his face and he
trembled wretchedlv.

lie <1(hh\ still a mom"nt. listening; then,
went on.

lie came u> an open door. and. taking the
■^horiesi path, lip-toed his wav to the most ob-
scure end of the garden.

He ran his hands u]) over his head on the
rough bricks of the wall.

it had never seemed so high to him.

He could not. e\ en by jumping up, touch the

lO]).

I'^K

tier

KM HERS

He thought ot a ladder which the -irde
used in the pruiiiuo- „f trees.

ft must he in the tooI-hoUM- in the rear of
the convent, lie started hack over the little
path, hreathlo^s. heavilv laden with a sense of
shameful guilt, hut confident of success.
The night \va> still and clear.
'Hie earth lay hathed in pale, ghostiv light.
Great glittering continents ..f stars fi'lled^'the
sky, making the night heautiful.

The moon \\as very rMund and white.
Hrother R..dray had covered half the dis-
tance to the tool-house.

He oould .see the laddc r leaning against the
wall o^ the huilding.
His i)lan was entire and go(Kl.
He would reach the toj) of the garden wall
hy means of the ladder. Me woul.l then drag
It up and place it again-t the outer side.

This done, he had hui to descend the ladder
to the street to he free.
■'Brother Rodrav!""

He stopped shon and reeled, hke a man shot
In the moonlight he saw Father Aloreau, ap-
proachmg al a quick pace.
"\\ hat dr>es this mean'""

298

EMBERS

"I was lookine: tor the ladder, to scale the
wall, yonder. I am i^oiii^^ back into the world,
hack to Lasallc. to ;•. wo>iati there, and her
child — our child."

Then he told Moreau the .story of T^laine and
t!ie child.

"Why did yon not lell nu- this before, mv
son?"

"I feared yon wonld not nnderstand."

And now Morean was like a woman.

He embraced Maurice and wept (n-er the
coming separation.

"f cannot advise yon. my son. Do as your
conscience speak>. The \va\s of God are in-
scrutable: and we are but feeble thinj::;-s at best.
Come, my dear P.rothe-. ^o to your room and
to bed. Tomorrow 1 shall w rite the Provincial
and explain things. Jn the meantime, pray the
\^irgin, that yon mav be guided in this most
important matter. .\h, Maurice, my lad, little
did 1 ever dream that it would come to this —
with you! And yei, 1 feared something might
be wrong. Tonight 1 heard you leave your
room; and followed you. Ah, the ways of
God!"

I\ather .Moreau made good his word and

KM HERS

299

wrote to the Fatlier Provincial, requesting the
release of Brother Rodray.

Two da\s later the answer came, -nd the
I 'refect notitied Maurice that he was free.

The Provincial's letter was received on Tues-
day, late in the afternoon.

By makini,' haste he would still be in time
for the Antwer[) train which made connections
with the Channel steamer for Harwich.
Jle was ready an houi* lvfr)re train lim(\
He slipped the ca»ock over his civilian dre.vs
so that the >tudenls mi.^ht not surmi.>e his aj)
proachincr flepariure. and went to tlie rciector\-
in company with F'.ithe,- Moreau.

After a Vv^hl lunch, hv announced him-elf
read}-.

He passed down tlie lonj;-. damj) corridors,
his steps re- nndinr^ harshly in his ears.

It seemed t > him that the saints, in image
and statue, loo :v(\ down upr>n him sadly, re-
proaclifuily, as lir uent by. never to return.

Arriving in the gue-ts" quarters, Father
Moreau opened tlie door of a parlor and men-
tioned him to enter.

It was the room with the red sofa, in which
he and X'aldetfv- had been together.

.-.(Ml

kmhF':ks

ll<-iv Ik- irii)()\i-,l ihr liahjt.

fvrs (illcd with ((.-ars.

.Main-ia- km-l, to rm-ivc- the lK-,u-(l,ction. Ins
iK-ad hciit u|)(,n his hfoast :

•'i^.encdiVai t,- Dontinii. i„ „..„„,„. Catn. .1
'•''" ot Spiritiis Saitcti. aim-n!"

''^Iie o-ato ssvmv^ hack. Ma.nicc ualkrd

'"i«'ntothc-o.hhk.(istrcc-t.uhichuas,„hi
tlH'hesinniiio-nf a u ..rid st ra.i.or attd all h

• "I'lr'^ttfii.

till
itt

I II \|'Ti:r t\\|.;\t\m;i(,u

"■ """■■•■" ■" lsi,l„r..s visi, ,„ I,,,,,
'"">•■ '•■•U'l.sio 1.0 1!I..„K- «..,s lrans,>rre,l m
.. e of ,l,ev,,,l™,„,.„-,U. „,„,,„„„,„,,,
the asylum. ^

Twice he ha.l hcvn rrcornnu-ndcd for dis-
l^^l'arge, as he appeared to the physicians to be
recovered, and in nnrn.al condition

f-^ach tune, hou e^ er. he had broken out anew

^ t"l^' the cuesfon of his, elea^e was .still un-
der consideration.

newonidcro, forweeksalatin.e.toallan-
l-an.nce. tully posses<ed of his faculties '

';>on. suddenly and witi^nn warnin- he
uouid turn violent.

'>" a nuniber of occasions he had even -u-
^<'"Mned thehvesottho.se about him

It Nvas decided, after ihe visit .>r hi. uepiiew

and ns attack t,p<>ninm. that it was no loWe

^afe to allow hinMhefreedouM.- the o,.und;

(301)

3i)>

l.MIJKKS

li'

W lic-ti i;apn\(f caiiu- to lii> ncusc-s three days
later lie v. as i,, a lart^ro. hare n.oiii. with wild-
eyed iiianiaes ahnui liim.

A liiiard stood at thr door to prevent ej^ress.

Tlie windows were h.Mied heavily.

He realized, at once, the hoiK-Iessness of his
position; and determined upon escape.

At times the conversation of Isidore would
recur to him.

Little uy little, the su-tre.,tion ot hurnini,^ the
Rodray homestead hecame fixed in his mind.

One day, when Alamman came to see him, he
told her that he j-rew very lonesome at times
and that he felt the Jieed of somethin^r ,vith
which to amuse himself and help pass the time.

Mamman su-i,a\sted cards, checkers and
dominoes.

Hut iJaptiste would have none of these.

"I tell you, Alamman. what would suit me
iK-tter than all that: hlocks. little huildinj,-
I'locks, such as 1 used to buv for 'la Petite'
when she was a bain . The wooden ones, you
know. I understand they are making- them of
>tone, now; but I want the wooden ones. Mam-
man, luring mc sexerai boxes of ihem, so that
I can put up a j.retty g.>od-sized building."

KMI'.KkS

303

iminan uiiit t.. iln * ii

the hlocks. hcforc I

\ .111.1 iitiirm-<l with

IcaxiiiL: iMf li,)ini.

ipli' te was ovtTi«.M-.I.

!<• ^et

■II led

an\i(jn> \n ]k- k-i{ aUjiw with tJi

t<»ys, stiKiyiiiiL; tlir i)ictiuv> Mti tl
^^ iiii all the i'a.L,'(.Tncss <u' a cliild

MaiHiuaii wnii |)afk (.. 1
wrarv of lieart.

U- >(|ll;!i-c' l)()\<.'

'.•^allt

il«

sad

anc

And

now liaptistc took anotlicr cli

UK- belter.

ini^e tor

I. lock

I'or days at a time, lie huMed himself with his
s, in a corner of the ward, while the other

inmates stocd about, in

circle, watching; ih<

structure assume definite -hape.

icre was a house with "fables- th

harns. sheep-j)ens and stabl

ere were

es.

lere were fences over tiie plac

( )iie day, when the build

erected for the hundredth time. llaDt
to his feet, and trazed. f

and tree>.

in.us had been

ptiste rose
or a moment, in silence

at the unfortunates about him.

Then he pointed to his handiwork, and said:
•'Suppose the man ulu, lives in this house

has a son who ha^ done you a .j^reat wron^tr.

Suppose this son leave, i'.r a forei-n country

.^(14

:.MHr-:Rs

iiiakni-- 11 iuipovviWIo I'-.r sou to hriiij^ him lo :m
.•K-couniin^i;-, mvM ilu-rc ii-u still he revenj^e^"
■\'*>ne made rc'[)l\ .

iliii all looked down at ilu> tn\- liouse and
'>.'iriis oil the ll(»or.

'"Ah. \(>u d-.n't know!" snapped I'.aptisie.
liis faec a livid white, hi:, eves startinjr out of
his head. -Well, here's on-" who does know, as
you shall see."

Ilo drew from };is pocket a handful of
crumpled pai)er> xvhich he placed in the space
hetween the harns and the s^ibles.

Then he struck a match and licrhted the
the paper.

In a trice the little structures were ablaze.

Some o) the maniacs ran shrieking- over the
ward.

C.uards came running- with buckets of water,
which the- dashed on the flames.

^ Baptiste. '.vho had retired to the (.pposite side
ot the r.,om, looked on in silent di.sgust.

From this day. he was considered a danger
Hus lunatic by the auihoniics, while on his part
he became daily i);ore determined u])on escape.

To formulate .i plan .»f escape from the
asylum was by no means an easy task for Bap-

fiiMi'.KRS

30-

ti>tc Lc JJlanc. who \va> dn.ch walched since
the episode of the fire.

To be successml j„ i„\ aitenipt \n roach the
open country, he niu>t wait tor ^tlch time as
two of the ^aiards were ..IT (hity.

This would leave hut «me in char<re of the
ward.

It nuist al>., he at ni-hi. so that darkness
might assist him in his flight.

Many scliemes were evolved hv him. and re-
jected torthwith. for some daw or weak point
'n the plan, that mi-ht work t.. his undoin-

On a number of occasions, he was on^he
point ot putting into execution some newly de-
^•i^ed plan of escape, u hen he gave ^^■ay under
the high tension of suspense and went'to rav-
ing madly.

When these spdls came on him, it was neces-
sary, of late, to place him in a padded cell,
where he remained for several davs. until the
malady abated.

He emerged ;\eak and treml)hng from head
1'^ font ; but conscious and ^■ery much depressed.

He would write rambling letters to Mamman
and Elaine-pitiful, heart-rending missive.

mh<

hMHEHS

'.(•lllll!; <i|

lii^ wificlied loneliness and beg^in'^'
llu-ni to o.ine and take liini home with them.

He heo-an to ne.i^deet hiin>e1t.

fie refused food.

I lis heard o-rew thick and sora.ir.iry.

I lis hair was nfn\ verv j^ra\-.

I lis e_\e.> took (.n a furti\e. hunted look.

I Ic .sat Ihn.u.ijh the l(.n,o- fla\ v. ,„-; a hench in
a corner of the ward, alone anrj ' :ent, always
waitni^q:, always watchino for the chance which
he ])clie\ed would come.

One day. two ..f the inmates sat clo.se to him
on the bench in the corner of the ward.

They were both "periodicals." like himself:
and were now in their rij^ht senses.

"There is g:oing to he a ball."" said one, a tall,
raw-boned man. with mild blue eyes and the
manners of a gentleman. "It's to'be quite an
affair. The doctors and nurses and guards
will dance with the inmates.'"

"That s net for us." rejoined his companion,
a short. hea\ \- fellow . with ueazel eyes and a
low, narrow brow. "Tt^ for the others, that
don't get spells. It's to be Thursday night.
The guards were talkinj; about it a while ago.
Crane and Murray are going. Rut >\'i1son. the

KMBKRS

307

:H-u<,t,arcUv,Ilstayo„dmyinthcuard. Cod
" -^n,c-I,ody ooi „,<1. oh ? ffso,nehoclv,^otl,arr
\\iiat then, vhr"

Atthis mon.ent \\i)son. ,he new ouard. hap
pcned to pass. '

'I'lie two men icascd talking-.
Baptisto. ;vhM had ..verheard the oMuer.a
t'on. scnuim^cd the ouard oa-erh
"Thursday ni^dtt.' he said under h,> breath
I nnrsday night, or never !""

niAI'TI-.R T\\ i:xrv-NiNE.

The asylum rlauco ucrc <^'\\cn al iiucrvals
lor the recreation ni the harmless, non-violent
inmates.

They were product-- of nmch good in the
institution, relaxing i . i-nds of these unfor-
tunate> and relic\ ing them, t'or the time being,
of their cares and their sorrows.

Those there were, however, who. for various
reasons, were not permitted to attend the enter-
tainments.

And among the numher was Baptistc Le
Blanc.

The night of the dance found hitn well
prepared to do l)attle. if need arose, for his
freedom.

F?ut, as a lir^t inean> of escape, he would con-
tent himself with stealth and strateL"\-.

J le had l"orniul.-itcd no definite ]ilan of action;
for he knew not \vh:\\ :.\ew:e< nn'ght open to
fa\'-»r hi- deli^■er^ .

13081

f':.\lt{KRS

MY)

'"^ 'i^- knvw iliai all ti

nig-lit would I
\vi

"»^e iiMi on (Iiii\ liiai

•^' in tiu' lar \vini>- of tl

!<-' as\lnni.

HTc the hall wouhlh, Ik I.l; ami. al... that .1

"UIMC WdUld ,]i

"w:" aii\- iiMi.e ,,r ..uui\ that

■'">^Hthen,adct.>,hwanhi>attc,npta,cscaiH-

, '■'■'"" :"^'""^^''>'"--^'^'lH-l,a.lhou^d.t a. stout
sharp pona,., jack-knife, with uhich he woul<i

<f^"n'n,IInn,<df,n the event of <lJso>vcM-v

He was fully ,lete..nine(l to gain h,; liheriv
l''-'^ "'.^iil or die in the attcm]n.

Hie night anie on clear and stillv
llic sky was .tudded with stars and ihe
I'artli lay hathed in sot't inoonlio-ht.

I^apiisto ^^aited a long wink-, his eve fur-

t'volyonWdson.thcnewguanl.whowasnow
alone m charge of the ward

Through the barred windows the strains of

^'" •^•''■^■^•"^•'•^vah.d.au-d into the great, hare
room.

•^<""e of ,he maniacs gral.hed each other
^ --'Iv about the l,odv and wen, through a
slired Mt the number.

(Hhers attempted to sing.

Some cHmbe<l upon die window .ilK and
!-ered kniginglv across the,;,,, !,,,,„ ,.,^ ,he

l':.MP.KKs

lii;ln> m iln- ball ro-.ni. tli;-: twiiikU-,! like link-
-tar-> ill ilic nii,'-!!!.

< )iK-i', ihc .L;iiar(l k-fi liiv |„,s| at tlu- door and
went oni into the hall.

lUu llaptisU' feared a ru^e <>u tlie pari n\
\\ ils(in ; and remained seated.

His heart llu:nij)ed wiidl}- an<I in>tinclivelv
his hand souij^ht the jack-knife.

His eyes were ri\eted (.n the half ..pen door.

it moved a little and the o-uard reaj^pcared.

\V ilson was a new man. I le knew naught of

this Imsiness (.f carina- fnr lunatics; and liad

already expressed himself as heintj dissatisfied

w ith the work.

On entcrino- the ward he k-ft the door ajar
and went over tt. a window where a number of
the inmates stood watchin^ the liijits. and the
fi.^ures ^e^lidin^- in the distance.

All the |)aiients were now standing in little
KJ'oups at the window s. dieir backs to Baptiste.
Jiut, to reach the door w iihoui detection, ii
would re(|uire extreme caution on his part,
i'or, ai any moment >oine<jne mi«lit tuni anumd
an<l catch him in the act.

i'he inmates were not to be tru-,trd.
rhe\ curried I'avor witii the .i,aiardv

HMI5KRS >,i

H<- >vn,a..icd ,n a sutn,.- posture, and Uv
;"'''"\ ''\ '"^ »^^^"*i^- -noved along sloul'v

iliemenai ilu- uindou.. '

Once. Wilson lunu-dahoni and cvccihun
i--iptiste n.adc a supmne eftori'io o.n.n.I

'"'nsell, and .nnU-d at the <^nuu\

rhis relieNni ll,.. o.lu-r'. Mi^j.ic.on, and he

turned back to the uindou

1" another n.onu-nt he had eon.e to the end or
Hie bench.

■'''^^'•-;^^;-'ill a distance of. .n.e, en ,,aee.
" 'Cover heiore reaching the dooi-

Hc grasped t'v,ackd<nife and ope.ted it.
'^-Itly hke a cat. he tiptoed across the
>I>ace. u h'ch to him .een.ed iniernnnable

Kc^chtng the do..- ,„ safety, he glanced back

i'^^^'^^^7 •-->•■■-. along the uall.
'" niake sin-e he had not been v,vn

'iien- laces uvre still tnrned auav ,n the
<l'rect,on ol the light, and the inn^.c '

i here was no one in the main hall lo .ton or
question him. '

He passed the.. ir.ce and dcM-endcltlK- Ion.,
flight otstan-s to the onier door.

Hiere was a ...ft patter behind Inn..

.^1-' l':MliKRS

lie drew iiis 'Kiiife and wheeled ahoul.

It was Rover, the superintendent's New-
foundland do^', coming- towards him. his tail
\\ai4J4inj^' in token oi liiendshij).

liaptiste stroked the hi;^- fellow on the head,
and turned to the donr.

It opened.

Then closed aj^ain.

Baptiste was tree.

CIIArTKR TIIIR•|•^■.

I lu' <la\ after iln- imcriiieiii nt Alice. Mrs.
kodniy (how hack to f.asallc lot^^cthcr with
W'ilhani aiui (Jeor^e.

The dcatli of the daughter seemed to have
narrowed the i^ap hetween the parents.

Tiiey were hoth very sad.

They reminded each other, along the way, of
this or that j^ood trait in the departed child.

Mrs. Rodray referred, at times, to her slay
m Montreal, and William spoke of certain im-
provements to he made on the homestead and of
the spring planting and sowing.

(leorge had grown to he quite a man.

lie had not, as \et. decided upon a vocation.

lie was very fond of women; and something
of a gahant.

fn Mis classes he wa- a dullard, but managed
to get along at a fair rate, by reason of his con-
ciliatory attitude towards the various pro-
fessors and prefects.

i-:.\ii;Kks

I he pric^t^ Would s;i\, ;iiiioiil; tlKiiiM-l\i*» :

"All. lie is not like lii^ hrotlu'r. Maurice:
Maurii'o wa^ so pioud and dcternuiR-il '"

I lu' improved relations l>ct\\een ilu- elder
kodrays continued at'tc-i tlnir return to Lasalle.

l'"or the lir.st tiini- in many vears. thev chatte*!
ai tahle. studiously a\()idini; anv topic that had.
in the past, hie'i the cause of ill-feelinm hetween
ihem.

Trin' enough, there were old wounds, thai

niij^ht ne\er lie healed or tori^otten.

r.ut the |)ain ot" iheni was home in silence
and in resiirnatj,,,!

riiere si-cmed to he heiwcen them a tacit tni
derstandin^. an unspoken aj^fceinent to lav
aside the i)asi wiih all its hitterness and to
strive lor hetter thini^s now that the\ were
.L^row ino- old.

( )ne kind w»»rd encouraged another until the
old itchiiii;- of antajoonisin was no lousier evi-
dent, even in matters which had used to he the
cause of i>reat conteinion.

The death of Alice had awakened them, as
from a sound sleep.

The love of IVancoi^ for their daughter hlos-

J':Mi'.hK'

;'onKM lK-r..ir tia.,.,. l,kc- a tluucT Ml ,-,,u- hc.uilv
111 tlic wmuT (.f tlu-ir lives.

And ihcv >;ii.|. n, tlu-ir liean... ihai lu- I,,vc.!
"HTl.c-tter than (l.cy had lovc-.H,..,-, thonoh .h,-
was then- llcsh and their hKu.d.

Tht'v w,nild c-von (have imr. th,. omnirv i..
visit fonhoday at the Iioum- ..| a frien.l.

S.unetin.r. Ihcy went Mvor ,o the lakr. uhrrr
•^^''•^"■'^^^' ^.nd |.:iainc- ha.i ,^..„o. Ilu-v u..„M
,^a/e nni np.,n the uau-r.. thnr hea'n. hur
t'lenci with the nis<K-n .f ,h. n.nrn.urin.--
waves. '^

'f'lK- rm.ncihatiun heiuiru \\ ,||,a,„ R..drav

;';:Vir '^'" '''' ^' <'-Mt.K.,ino- ,,ro, u,«.n

<'Alallcy. who vieucd v,ith apprdu-nMon the
poacctnl closino- .,,„, ,.,- ,,,^.^^. .,,„-.,„,,,,„
lues.

lie had lost none of his |.res,i.v .n„o,
tronies.

<)" the contrary, he uas lookol „,, ,,.1,, ,11

whognx.ledhiswhiskvandsa, ihron.h their
day.s m the store.

He was nuieh -iven 1.. ronu^elhn.. !hr..e
.gathered ahout him. 01, ,veaM"..n.

"Xmv. hoys.- he wonKNay .0 „:rn older than
hnnselt. -rememher uhai the ,.,.,.,1 I k .av>

IJ tile

l-.Mr.KKS

'!)(< iiiiiu oilier^,' li(>\>. Ml) iiiUt) iiilni>. I li;it
rule's <4(J(k1 cnoiiirh for anyone: I've followed
it all ni\ lite."

rile circle had j^^rown lo c(jnsi(lerable i)ro])Oi"
lions. I'ut the liherality of the host never
halked at the nuinher.s.

All the more cause, thoui^dit he. to he pleased
witli himself.

l're(iuently, when in his cups, he would staj.^-
^er out from behind the counter and face the
^rouj) of tipplers, who were usuall\' as drunk as
himself:

"Thcvre all niv friends," he would solilo-
(lui/.e, in their hearin<^. "Xc^i a man jack
amonj^- 'em that's not a friend o' Hu,2^h
O'Malley':,."

And they would take up the cue and chorus
-libly:

"It's Mr. O'Alallev that knows his friends,
and no mistake!"

Or:

"And where would a man be lookint^- for a
l)etter friend than hi.iiself?"

To which Bartlett, the dean of the cronies,
w ould invariably add :

"Three cheers for D'Mallev!"

i:mi'.kks

riii^ oiitluir^t ot" ;iH'r;ti('ii ,iiitl l<i\alt\ iicwr
i^rcw (A<\ to ( )"MaIlcv.

Tt iK-\iT t'ail--(l to wtll irai-s of jo\ in his
l)lo()d-shot eyes,

Brinj^iii^ his soiled ro] kcrchift' into phiy, he
would make his uay iincertainlv to the chest
where the c<.veted ju^ ua> kept ; and. drawing'
it forth from its hidiii<^-plaee. hear it in hoth
arm>. slowly, and with a pitiful show of diqnity.
t<» the waitinpf group.

There were wild or/jies in the store. T.oiifj
nocturnal carousals.

There were card gamc^. small gambUn.!?.
songs, wild, ghoulish yarn-; and fiddling; and
always liquor — for 0"Mallcy's jug formed the
pi^•ot, the center and horizon of their little
lives.

O'Malley had taken on flesh.

His red. flabby face was now streaked w ith
little branches of purplish veins.

And under his watery c}Cs were putl"\- s-.-ks.
blackish, like the touch of mortalit} .

His hands, which \\crc '-wollen and red,
shook like lea\cs on a tree when IiC rai.sed them
to hib face.

.-. 1 s

f'.xi i;i-:K'.-

! \c lia'l loiiL; -inc*' tirvMl i>\ raw (.'.^l;-. He ate

I'lll Itlllc ]\'<\\ .

Ill' ^\)v\M 1)11! liiilv time with Ann. who was
a^ain with child.

lie inwxT railrij in hrini; her nM\t'ls from ihc
I'Mini. which -he irad \\i;h vvcv incrca-in^"
iiitcrc-^t.

I lor I'll! w,i\> ah'iiit ihe Imu>c ha<l not
iii'I>ro\o(l.

I '|yon luT rrtnin t'roni Montreal. Mr--. Kod-
ra\- was cl'li-i'd to ;i^-U"u- the hni'thcn of ihc
duiic^ in ihc h' 'iisc^h' 'Id.

I "ndcr Aini"^ nii-niana,Li'cniciit the liouse was
goinc' ^''' I'Hoh.

A L;hirii)^c ;,i liic jk-M- -aid little hetter for
ihc farm.

Theti it wa- that it came to Mr-. Ri^drax- that
perhap> -he wa- [)artly toltlanie.

."^he and r)\\i'i]ley did not speak.

Fhn. as he came hut rarel\ to the house, dur-
in;^- the day. Iter -on in law"- presence on the
pl.ice wa- c>| little matter i<'' her.

It was now -.mie time ^ince die iiad heafl
frrun Maurice.

Site was Worried alx'Ut his iono- silence.

[ le misfht he -ick.

KM HERS

319

She w.'iitcd from (h\\ t., day. hopefully at
first, and then, as the days dragged into weeks,
with a stranj^e nn"snrivinj> which she could not.
Iierseh'. undersiand.

<')ne da_\ Airs. Rodray was in the garden,
when Elaine I,e lUanc's little ^irl ran uj) to the
paling- and sh-niied. in childish jov:
".M\ jtajja's coming- hotne!"
'■^'our papa, my child T^"
■■\ es : mama says he went very far away ; and
that he's comin;^- home: and that he'll never
leave us any more."'

Mrs. Rodray I'.oked into the eyes of the child.
A dreadful thought struck her.
She started.

The little girl was gazing up at her, smiling
delightedly over her good new^.
Mrs. Rodray said to her kindiv:
"It will be very nice to have your papa home
again, my dear."

Then the little one saw her mother waving to
her. in the distance; and ran off towards the
house of the Le Blancs.

Mrs. Rodray said naught of her misgiving
to William or the others.

Manv taties she went over the matter in her
mind.

Mi)

KMBERS

She admitted, with i^reat reluctance, that
Maurice was not tree from suspicion.

Where wa.s he now?

Why this long silence?

.She rememhered. now. the many days her
son had spent with h^laine. during his last vaca-
tion in Lasalle. They had ])een inseparable.

And then, the eyes of the child — it was as if
Maurice himself had stood there before her.

.\nd his last letter, enquiring about Elaine
and her child :

Why had she nut th<)Ught of it long ago?

She shuddered at thought of the disgrace, if
it were so that he was coming home:

God, what some mothers had to bear I

She plucked a few pansies and went back into
the house, where she souglit the quiet of her
room.

William found her. an hour later, kneehng
by the bed and weeping softly.

""It was the will of God," he said, referring
to the loss of Alice. ""He gave her \o us, and
He took her auav. We should not complain."

And Mrs. Rodray made no reply; but, brush-
ing away the tears, walked out with William
into the twilight.

• ■*

EiMBERlr

321

The katy-dids filled the air with their per-
sistent, tell-tale son^.

And from the river the triHing of frogs came
to their ears.

They walked, in silence, down the gravel
driveway that led to the road.

The sounds of voices came from the store, as
they went by.

All words were drowned in loud, discordant
laughter and song.

Mrs. Rodray brought her hands together
impatiently and gazed upwards, at the sky, in
mute appeal.

William spoke at last :

•'O'Malley has to go: I shall endure it no

longer.

"But Ann, the way she is now: Have you
thought of that?"'

'•Ann may remain if she wishes to; she is our
daughter ; but O'AIalley will have to go. I shall
tell him in the morning."

The incident cut short their walk.

They turned about and retraced their steps to
the house.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.

In the home of the Le Blancs, Elaine sat far
into Liie night, reading over and over the letter
which she had received that day from Maurice.

He had heard but recently of his paternity.
He loved Elaine as he had loved her on that
first day; and longed to set eyes on their child.

He realized the great wrong he had done her,
and would atone.

He had left the Order of the Most Ho^y
Saviour — renounced his vows.

By many he would be considered a renegade,
a traitor to heaven.

But this he would endure gladly, if only she
would give him back her love.

If still her heart was true to him, she must
watch for him, as he might not say just what
day he would arrive in Lasalle.

Mamman was overjoyed to hear the good
news, and laughed and sang throughout the
day as she used to do when all was well with
them.

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323

At the supper table, after Elaine had gone to
her room, Maniman imparted the news to her
nephew, Isidore Lalonde.

He made no comment ; but seemed to lose his
appetite at once.

For several moments he gazed down absent-
ly at his plate.

And now, with sudden decision, he rose up
from the table and went out to the barns.

From its peg on the wall, he to )k down a
short, vicious-looking knife and drew it from
its sheath.

He felt tlie edge of it with his thumb, and
shook his head dubiously.

It would have to be sharper than that.

He took it over to the grind-stone in the cor-
ner of the barn.

He worked for a long while, until the knife
had an edge like a razor.

Then he replaced it in the sheath and slipped
it into his pocket.

As he started off for the Rodray store, he
sang aloud in clear, resonant voice:
"Si tu vois mon pays,
Men pays malheureux,
Va dire a mes amis
Que je me souvicns d'eux."

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EMBERS

The crq;)' was at its height when Lalonde
entered the store.

The newcomer cast a glance about him at
tlie circle.

They '\ere all very drunk.

The jug stood solemnly on the counter.

Isidore crossed the Hoor and, taking it delib-
erately in both hands, drank a long draught.

He lighted his pipe and seated himself on
a box. by the side of O'AI alley.

One by one the revellers rose and tilted the
jug to their lips, growing more boisterous, the
while, and more unconstrained.

They we^e very loud.

They sang wild, rambling songs.

They stamped the floor heavily in a hope-
less effort to go through the movements of a

Some laughed excessively over nothing.

Others fdund cause to weej) over the pledg-
ing of their devotion.

When the last of the litiuor was drank, Isi-
dore was as well along in his cups as the others.

The cronies straggled out into the moonlight
and staggered down the village street, parting,
at i)(>ints. and going their various ways.

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325

When they were left alone, Isidore looked

up at O'Malley, and said :

"I hear your priestling's to be back shortly."
"Who do you mean, not Maurice?"
"Himself, and no one else. As [ understand

it, he's not very far from Lasallc oven now.

He has given up the idea of becoming a saint.

He has come back to earih again; and already

he's hunting him a wife."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed O'Malley.

"Damn, but you're a sharp one at getting the

news! My, my! Coming back to Lasalle, is

he? Bad 'cess to the fool! Now I wonder

what he thinks there's here for him to do."
"He wants to marry Elaine Le Blanc, of

course," rejoined Isidore, with an oath.

"Come along," said O'Malley, changing the

subject: "I keep a little drop in the barn, for

em^-gencies, as the doctors w^ould say. I'll

lociv up and take you with me."

He turned the key in the door and put it in
his pocket.

Then Isidore and O'Malley, hanging on to
each other for support, turned towards the
barn and struggled for the goal.

Arriving at the barn, they went in and closed
the door behind them.

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Isidore sat down heavily I'pon a heap of hay,
and O'Malley fumbled for the jug.

"Damned if I know just where I hid it," he
said, after a vain search. "Seems to me it
ought to be right here, under the robes. Ah,
I thought so: there she is, Isidore, my boy; and
it's good and full she is, to be sure. Come now,
my laddie-buck, and drink hearty. We'll drink
to each other's health and good fortune. How's
that, Isidore? Health and good fortune!
That's all anyone can wish for in this world,
Isidore. It is, to be sure."

"You may drink as you please," replied La-
londe, struggling to his feet. "But I have a
different toast — I toast your priestling — with
this."

As he spoke, he drew the knife from his
pocket, and out of its sheath.

The moonlight, coming in through the cracks
in the walls, played on the short, pointed blade.

"What!" said O'Malley: "You wouldn't
do that, would you, man? You wouldn't kill,
would you?"

"Kill? Did you say kill? You talk plain,
to be in so dark a place. Well, let that go. I
have nothing against you. f3ut, tell me, your

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327

priestling, did he not kill? Give me the jug.
I'll have a drink and go home. I don't like
this place. Give me the jug !"

"Nonsense, my lad ; it's nonsense you're talk-
mg: Sure you've got nothing against the
place, at all. And here's the jug. And it's
welcome you are, to be sure."

Lalonde drank ; but did not leave.

Instead, he fell back limply upon the hay.

O'ATalley now raised the jug to his lips.

He threw his head back and opened his
mouth to receive the liquor.

As he did so, he lost his balance and fell
backward by the side of Lalonde.

The jug fell to the floor, in pieces.

O'Malley made no attempt to regain his feet ;
but lay where he had fallen, like dead.

And now the quiet of the night was broken
only by the snores of the two, who lay there,
oblivious to all about them.

Some time passed. *

It was well on in the night.

Without the barn, not a thing stirred.

The moon was a silver disk.

There were many stars.

The countryside lay bathed in soft, pale light.

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EMBERS

The earth slept.

The pair lay where they had fallen, still snor-
inj^ deeply.

Suddenly, the door of the harn opened, and
the moonlight flooded the floor.

In the framework of the door, hatless, wild-
eyed, unkempt, stood Baptiste Le Blanc.

Fortune had favored his escape from the
asylum and his suhsequent flight th jgh the
country hack to La.salle. He had avoided the
railways, fearing detection and arrest. He
rode some twenty miles with a farmer who
was returning home from Montreal.

The remainder of the way he walked, stop-
ping at farm houses along the road for food
and drink.

He arrived in the countryside of Lasalle on
the morrow of his escape from Long Point.

A league or so to the north of the village, he
entered a thickly wooded forest of pines and
lay down to rest until darkness came to shield
him.

When he awoke it was night.

The sleep had refreshed him.

He thought of his mission; and started oflf
towards the sleeping village at a steady gait.

EMBERS

.^29

His brain seemed to him quite clear.

He knew what he was about.

He reasoned out the justice of the act which
he contemplated.

These people beyond, in the house on the hill,
or one of them, which amounted to the same,
had wronged "la Petite."

It was meet and proper that she be avenged.

He approached the barn with the utmost
caution.

Once he turned and gazed across the moon-
lit fields at his home by the wayside.

There was a light in Elaine's room.
The night wind fluttered the leaves in clumps
of trees nearby.

He started.

But, becoming reassured, he went on.

Arriving at the barn, he pushed the slide-
door.

It opened without noise.
For a moment he surveyed the scene.
He saw the mows filled to the roof with hay.
He saw the floors piled up with the overflow
of last year's harvest.

He saw, as he would have seen in the light

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of day, the faces of O'Malley and Ualonde, a
bluish white in tlie pale sheen.

Their months were wide open, their anus
stretched out, hel|)less and limp.

He examined the door.

The key was in the loc'.c, on the outside.

lie took a match from his pocket and struck
k noiselessly on his thigh.

He stooped down quickly and touched
the flame to the hay on the floor.

And now, with the cunning of a fiend, lie
closed the door and turned the key.

This done, he started olT, on a run, for the
pine forest, where he had .s.jpt that afternoon,
and from which he could watch the fire.

There was a low muffled roar, as of a storm
gathering strength.

There was a shriek — a wild, blood-curdling
yell.

Then voices mingled, weeping madly, calling
aloud.

But only for a space.

A moment later, the flames had burst free of
the barn and were leaping upwards from the
roof, in a mad endeavor to reach the sky.

The great blaze awoke the Rodrays.

KMIiERS

331

1 he villagers canic running to the .-^cenc.

The fire spread to the stahies and sheep-
pens ; and snaked along the fence rails, towards
the orchards and the house, with incredihle
rapidity.

Neighbors came running with buckets, lad-
ders and axes.

A number ran up to the burning fences and
began to chop them down, in an effort to keep
back the fire from tlie house.

But the flames swirled and gyrated madly
about them, dri\ing them back, like sheep, to
the highway.

All I.asallc was now awake and there.

For many miles the great flaming pile cast
the crimson shadows of its fire over the sleep-
ing land.

Birds, in their nests in the trees, awoke, call-
ing wildly to their mates, and darted oflF, in
deadly fright, they knew not whither.

In the pastures cows stampeded, bellowing
pitifully.

Horses galloped madly over the fields in a
vain effort to escape the awful spectre of the
fiery light.

Sheep huddled into flocks, bleating.

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!•■

When all hope was abandoned, the villagers
grouped together on the flank of a hill at a safe
distance from the flying sparks; and from this
amphitheatre they watched, with varying emo-
tions, the ruthless, pitiless flames in their work
of death and devastation.

Strangers, attracted by the flaming sky,
came from neighboring villages, to see.

It was a sight such as there had never been
in Lasalle.

It would never be forgotten.

It made the blood stop at the heart.

It filled the soul with the horror of its
majesty.

William Rodray and his wife stood together,
apart from the crowd, watching the scene.

The red flare lighted their faces, which were
pale and drawn.

The woman leaned upon her husband's arm.

William was barefoot and hatless.

He wore a pair of trousers and a shirt which
was open at the chest.

His long white hair fluttered wistfully in the
hot wind.

He leaned heavily upon his cane and gazed,
speechless, on the awful spectacle before him.

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333

A few steps away stood Ann, with her Httle
ones huddled about her.

She was clad in a petticoat and shawl; and
the children wore only their night gowns.

Ann did not speak to the elder Rodrays.

She looked about her nervously for some
sign of O'Malley, whom she would never again
see in life.

She shuddered, as women do, when struck
by premonition of disaster.

She tried to comfort the little ones, by say-

"Don't cry, dears; father will be here soon."

Suddenly a stiff gust of wind struck the

flames, bending them over towards the house

and carrying upon its breast a fiery clouQ of

sjiarks.

A dozen throats shouted :

"The house is on fire!"

The circle widened.

The sky was hidden by a great, wide canopy
of red.

The fire stopped at nothing.

It swept away the fences, swooped down
upon the orchards, leaving the trees black,
leafless and dead.

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EMBERS

Then the store caught fire and shot up into
flames, Hke tinder.

The Rodrays looked upon the burning home,
motionless, tearless, like lifeless things.

There was a sharp, crackling sound, fol-
lowed by a swaying of the gable timbers ; then
a loud, booming crash, as the roof sank within
the walls of the house.

A great belch of fire and smoke shot up to
heaven, scattering sparks for acres around.

The fire lasted far into the night.

By degrees, the flames paled, growing lurid
in the darkness.

Towards dawn, they had died down to whirl-
ing columns of smoke.

When the sun rose again over Lasalle,
naught remained of the Rodray homestead but
a blackened, smouldering mass.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

It was the day after the fire.

There was a knot of villagers and farmers
on the station platform.

The same little group of the curious and idle
of Lasalle that had come, for years, to witness
the arrival and departure of the trains.

They chewed and smoked, their hands in
their pockets, sitting on trucks and crates and
boxes.

A lazy, desultory conversation wagged
among them.

The train was late.

Sometimes, one of the little group would
rise slowly to his feet and lumber out to the
tracks, to scan the horizon.

The baggage master went about his duties
with a show of quiet, awkward dignity.

He chewed and spat with the gravity becom-
ing office, and paid little heed to the loafers
squatted about on the platform.

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EMBERS

The day, warm and laden with the breath of
new mown fields, was closing', in a halo of fiery
gold.

There was a shrill, far-ofiF call, like a muf-
fled shriek ; and a small puff of light blue smoke
went up from something like a black dot on the
horizon.

A moment later the thing took shape and
the tracks vibrated with the sound of the ap-
proaching train.

The loungers came near to the edge of the
platform, as the train thundered down the
track and came to a stop before the station.

A woman and a child came down the steps
of the second coach and walked over to a wait-
ing carriage.

They were followed by Father Nadeau, who
had been to Montreal that day. He, too,
stepped into a vehicle and drove off towards
Sanglow.

Then, from the rear coach, a man stepped
stiffly onto the platform.

He was tall, and dark, and none too stoutly
built.

But he walked erect and, as he passed the
group of men, who were now nudging one an-

EMBERS

337

other and whispering among themselves, he
looked them calmly in the eyes.

lie did not speak; nor look back, when some-
one tittered.

But with head still erect, he turned oflF onto
the road that led to the village.

He was tired.

He had journeyed long and far.

He did not halt to rest; but, footsore and
hungry of heart, he trudged wearily on, his
eyes fixed eagerly upon the knoll in the road,
overlooking the valley.

He stumbled against the stones at his feet.

For he did not look upon the ground; but
gazed steadily ahead, his eyes uplifted, scan-
ning the distance, where he hoped to see her
coming to meet him.

But she did not appear; and with a cruel,
death-like flutter at the heart, he climbed the
ascent.

Women in the farm houses recognized him
and hurried away to tell their brood.

Doors and windows were filled with awe-
struck, wondering faces, as he passed upon his
way.

An old French woman who had lived for

! il

■■'■«'- ■*i*«a«i

338

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many years oft the bounty of the Rodrays,
crossed herself at sight of the tall, dark tnan,
and hobbled into her cabin, muttering:

"Apostat! Apostat!"

The highway from the field to the home-
stead stretched out like a giant snake, hidden,
in patches, by undulating slopes of green and
yellow.

In the meadow grasshoppers sang drowsily.

From the river hard by the shrill piping of
frogs broke in upon the (piiet serenity of the
scene.

Along the way the eglanterre ran riot, over-
burdened with laughing bloom, tilling the air
with the perfume of simplicity and the sweet
mysticism of the earth.

The dust lay thick upon the road.

Cat-birds mewed sadly in the haw tre-^:..

Arriving upon the elevation in the road, the
man halted and looked back.

He drew a long, deei) breath, which was
more like the heaving of a sigh, and mopped
his face with a cotton kerchief, smutty and
soiled with travel.

"Home!" exclaimed the man aloud.

The faint sound of a bell came to him.

EM HERS

339

He started and looked around.

Tlie sun had set heliind Lasalle.

Before him la\- another valley; and on the
summit of the wide plateau heyond, lav, in a
low and shapeless pile, the homestead of the
Rodrays, who were his people.

The trees aboiit the place were black and
stark; the fields near the house laid waste.

Spirals of smoke floated upwards from the
smouldering heap.

The man swayed like a sai)ling-, his hand
clutching his throat.

And this was home!

Nothing stirred.

No human being was there.

His head swam; and his cars sang with a
nuiltitude of sounds.

And now he leaned ui)on a charred and
broken picket by the roadside, and wept galling
tears.

And when, with a last flicker of hope, he
raised his eyes again, feariul lest she might not
come, he saw Elaine moving towards him in
the distance.

She was clad in simple garments of white;
and by her side was a little one, who seemed to
be making great haste.

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EMBERS

And at sight of these who loved him, his
soul felt the .pulse of fortitude for coming
struggles ; and in his heart burst forth an old,
wild song, an exultant echo of a past that was
not dead.

Over the landscape stole the hush of coming
twilight, and far to the west, where the blue
hills raised their spurs into shifting banks of
fleece, a great flare of fire and copper told
where the sun had been and gave promise of
a golden morrow.

They vscre nearer now, hurrying towards
him, hand in hand, their lips parted for the glad
welcome.

He went forward, in a glimmering haze of
tears, to meet them whose love was great.

THE END.