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WALLACE AND COMPAxNY 1919 All Rights Reserved Copyright, 1SI18 Hy (. W. WAlJ.AfK AND COMPAN". 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] ]0 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 11 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. 12 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 13 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 14 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 15 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. 16 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 17 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. 18 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 19 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 head han,c,ri„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 27 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. 2S 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 29 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. 30 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, hasly 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 31 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 I take It, a man <'i parN aii."* 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 37 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!" 38 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 39 -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 anee 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^ 42 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 43 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: 44 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] 4o 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] 48 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'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 49 ^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. 50 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 51 "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. 52 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 53 "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?" 54 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 55 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. 56 EMBERS Ilieii, by way of [ 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 m. 'I 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. 62 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 63 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 64 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 65 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. 66 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 67 "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 ! \oii 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 71 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. 74 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 75 lie sMaij^lit. iu'(l uj. fr(»iii his task and looked ;it Maurice as the laller entered the rha ' 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." 76 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^ 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 79 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. 80 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 I EMBERS 81 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. 82 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)ld l-'rencli song at her work: "L'n Canadien errant Banni de son I'oyer Parcourait en pleurant De 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 84 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 85 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 87 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 ss 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> 89 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. MICROCOPY RESOIUTION TEST CHART ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No 2: 1.0 12.8 I.I 1.25 It i^ I: 1^ 1.4 lll'l 2-5 II 2.2 1 2.0 1.8 1.6 ^ .APPLIED irvl^GE 1,-ic ^^ 'Hii Easl Main SIree' r^^ -Rochester, New 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 91 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- 92 EMBERS Fl TV (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. w^ EMBERS 95 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."' hi 96 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 97 ;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 98 EMP.ERS n, i! 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 99 "My son. I may not be hm^ for this world. Ilavc'you decided what you arc ^ 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 H! 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. M< 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! m "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 hi 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. HO 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 HI 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 walk was 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 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- i 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 Mann 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. MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART ANSI end ISO TEST CHART No 2' 1.0 I.I 1.25 '^ flM MM 32 y36 >- ,. 1.4 2.2 !r 1^ 1 2.0 1.8 1.6 ^ APPL IED IIVMG ^J ^^_ '553 East Woin ':-t'eet - -= 'fochesler, Ne» I'ork U609 USA ■= '16) 482 -0300 -Phone ''6' ;88 b9S'i - f T ' \ 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 ! I 280 EMBERS ^i "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. of 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 I .. :)] jL 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 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. 28t ])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 ? 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 V m 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:.\. H <♦ m 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 II 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 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 posseson. 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 1. 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 M iminan uiiit t.. iln * ii the hlocks. hcforc I \ .111.1 iitiirm- \n ]k- k-i{ aUjiw with tJi t<»ys, stiKiyiiiiL; tlir i)ictiuv> Mti tl ^^ iiii all the i'a.L,'(.Tncss (|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. TI icre was a house with "fables- th harns. sheep-j)ens and stabl ere were es. T\ 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., 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!; 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 woulvcM-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 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}- antinclivelv 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,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,ackdI>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 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' s ;'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 IJ tile ii Un 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 M7 riii^ oiitluir^t ot" ;iH'r;ti('ii ,iiitl l 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. I .-. 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 haro\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 It 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 r 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. [322] EMBERS 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." 324 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. EMBERS 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. 326 EMBERS 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 EMBERS 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. ' 328 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 330 EMBERS 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. 352 EMBERS !•■ 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. EMBERS 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. 334 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. [335] I > w 336 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 EMBERS 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. 1 340 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.