The Right of Way, Complete - Gilbert Parker
Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27
In all that befell Rosalie Evanturel thereafter, never could come such
another great resolute moment. There was nothing to support her in the
crisis but her own faith. It needed high courage to tell this man who had
first given her dreams, then imagination, hope, and the beauty of doing
for another's well-being rather than for her own--to tell this man that
he was a suspected criminal. Would he hate her? Would his kindness turn
to anger? Would he despise her for even having dared to name the
suspicion which was bringing hither an austere Abbe and officers of the
law?
"We are harbouring a man the law is tracking down," she said with an
infinite appeal in her eyes.
He did not quite understand. He thought that perhaps she meant Jo, and he
glanced towards the door; but she kept her eyes on him, and they told him
that she meant himself. He chilled, as though ether were being poured
through his veins.
Did the world know, then, that Charley Steele was alive? Was the law
sending its officers to seize the embezzler, the ruffian who had robbed
widow and orphan?
If it were so. . . . To go back to the world whence he came, with the
injury he must do to others, and the punishment also that he must suffer,
if he did not tell the truth about Billy! And Chaudiere, which, in spite
of all, was beginning to have a real belief in him--where was his
contempt for the world now! . . . And Rosalie, who trusted him--this new
element rapidly grew dominant in his thoughts-to be the common criminal
in her eyes!
His paleness gave way to a flush as like her own as could be.
"You mean me?" he asked quietly.
She had thought that his flush meant anger, and she was surprised at the
quiet tone. She nodded assent. "For what crime?" he asked.
"For stealing."
His heart seemed to stand still. Then, it had come in spite of all it had
come. Here was his resurrection, and the old life to face.
"What did I steal?" he asked with dull apathy. "The gold vessels from the
Catholic Cathedral of Quebec, after--after trying to blow up Government
House with gunpowder."
His despair passed. His face suddenly lighted. He smiled. It was so
absurd. "Really!" he said. "When was the place blown up?"
"Two days before you came here last year--it was not blown up; an attempt
was made."
"Ah, I did not know. Why was the attempt made to blow it up?"
"Some Frenchman's hatred of the English, they say."
"But I am not French."
"They do not know. You speak French as perfectly as English--ah,
Monsieur, Monsieur, I believe you are whatever you say." Pain and appeal
rang from her lips.
"I am only an honest tailor," he answered gently. He ruled his face to
calmness, for he read the agony in the girl's face, and troubled as he
was, he wished to show her that he had no fear.
"It is for what you were they will arrest you," she said helplessly, and
as though he needed to have all made clear to him. "Oh, Monsieur," she
continued, in a broken voice, "it would shame me so to have you made a
prisoner in Chaudiere--before all these silly people, who turn with the
wind. I should not lift my head--but yes, I should lift my head!" she
added hurriedly. "I should tell them all they lied--every one--the
idiots! The Seigneur--"
"Well, what of the Seigneur-Rosalie?"
Her own name on his lips--the sound of it dimmed her eyes.
"Monsieur Rossignol does not know you. He neither believes nor
disbelieves. He said to me that if you wanted consideration, to command
him, for in Chaudiere he had heard nothing but good of you. If you
stayed, he would see that you had justice--not persecution. I saw him two
hours ago."
She said the last words shyly, for she was thinking why the Seigneur had
spoken as he did--that he had taken her opinion of Monsieur as his guide,
and she had not scrupled to impress him with her views. The Seigneur was
in danger of becoming prejudiced by his sentiments.
A wave of feeling passed over Charley, a rushing wave of sympathy for
this simple girl, who, out of a blind confidence, risked so much for him.
Risk there certainly was, if she--if she cared for him. It was cruelty
not to reassure her.
Touching his breast, he said gravely: "By this sign here, I am not guilty
of the crime for which they come to seek me, Rosalie. Nor of any other
crime for which the law might punish me--dear, noble friend."
He did so little to get such rich return. Her eyes leaped up to brighter
degrees of light, her face shone with a joy it had never reflected
before, her blood rushed to her finger-tips. She abruptly sat down in a
chair and buried her face in her hands, trembling. Then, lifting her head
slowly, after a moment she spoke in a tone that told him her faith, her
gratitude--not for reassurance, but for confidence, which is as water in
a thirsty land to a woman.
"Oh, Monsieur, I thank you, I thank you from the depth of my heart; and
my heart is deep indeed, very, very deep--I cannot find what lies lowest
in it! I thank you, because you trust me, because you make it so easy
to--to be your friend; to say 'I know' when any one might doubt you. One
has no right to speak for another till--till the other has given
confidence, has said you may. Ah, Monsieur, I am so happy!"
In very abandonment of heart she clasped her hands and came a step nearer
to him, but abruptly stopped still; for, realising her action, timidity
and embarrassment rushed upon her.
Charley understood, and again his impulse was to say what was in his
heart and dare all; but resolution possessed him, and he said quickly:
"Once, Rosalie, you saved me--from death perhaps. Once your hands helped
my pain--here." He touched his breast. "Your words now, and what you do,
they still help me--here . . . but in a different way. The trouble is in
my heart, Rosalie. You are glad of my confidence? Well, I will give you
more. . . . I cannot go back to my old life. To do so would injure
others--some who have never injured me and some who have. That is why.
That is why I do not wish to be taken to Quebec now on a false charge.
That is all I can say. Is it enough?"
She was about to answer, but Jo Portugais entered, exclaiming. "M'sieu',"
he cried, "men are coming with the Seigneur and Cure."
Charley nodded at Jo, then turned to Rosalie. "You need not be seen if
you go out by the back way, Mademoiselle." He held aside the bear-skin
curtain of the door that led into the next room.
There was a frightened look in her face. "Do not fear for me," he
continued. "It will come right--somehow. You have done more for me than
any one has ever done or ever will do. I will remember till the last
moment of my life. Good-bye."
He laid a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her from the room.
"God protect you! The Blessed Virgin speak for you! I will pray for you,"
she whispered.
CHAPTER XXXI
CHARLEY STANDS AT BAY
Charley turned quickly to the woodsman. "Listen," he said, and he told Jo
how things stood.
"You will not hide, M'sieu'? There is time," Jo asked.
"I will not hide, Jo."
"What will you do?"
"I'll decide when they come."
There was silence for a moment, then the sound of voices on the
hill-side.
Charley's soul rose up in revolt against the danger that faced him--not
against personal peril, but the danger of being dragged back again into
the life he had come from, with all that it involved--the futility of
this charge against him! To be the victim of an error--to go to the bar
of justice with the hand of injustice on his arm!
All at once the love of this new life welled up in him, as a spring
of water overflows its bounds. A voice kept ringing in his ears,
"I will pray for you." Subconsciously his mind kept saying,
"Rosalie--Rosalie--Rosalie!" There was nothing now that he would not do
to avert his being taken away upon this ridiculous charge. Mistaken
identity? To prove that, he must at once prove himself--who he was,
whence he came. Tell the Cure, and make it a point of honour for his
secret to be kept? But once told, the new life would no longer stand by
itself as the new life, cut off from all contact with the past. Its
success, its possibility, must lie in its absolute separateness, with
obscurity behind--as though he had come out of nothing into this very
room, on that winter morning when memory returned.
It was clear that he must, somehow, evade the issue. He glanced at Jo,
whose eyes, strained and painful, were fixed upon the door. Here was a
man who suffered for his sake. . . . He took a step forward, as though
with sudden resolve, but there came a knocking, and, pausing, he motioned
Jo to open the door. Then, turning to a shelf, he took something from it
hastily, and kept it in his hand.
Jo roused himself with an effort, and opened to the knocking.
Three people entered: the Seigneur, the Cure, and the Abbe Rossignol, an
ascetic, severe man, with a face of intolerance and inflexibility. Two
constables in plain clothes followed; one stolid, one alert, one English
and one French, both with grim satisfaction in their faces--the
successful exercise of his trade is pleasant to every craftsman. When
they entered, Charley was standing with his back to the fireplace, his
eye-glass adjusted, one hand stroking his beard, the other held behind
his back.
The Cure came forward and shook hands in an eager friendly way.
"My dear Monsieur," said he, "I hope that you are better."
"I am quite well, thank you, Monsieur le Cure," answered Charley. "I
shall get back to work on Monday, I hope."
"Yes, yes, that is good," responded the Cure, and seemed confused. He
turned uneasily to the Seigneur. "You have come to see my friend
Portugais," Charley remarked slowly, almost apologetically. "I will take
my leave." He made a step forward. The two constables did the same, and
would have laid their hands upon his shoulder but that the Seigneur said
tartly:
"Stand off, Jack-in-boxes!"
The two stood aside, and looked covertly at the Seigneur, whose temper
seemed unusually irascible. Charley's face showed no surprise, but he
looked inquiringly at the Cure.
"If they wish to be measured for uniforms--or manners--I will see them at
my shop," he said.
The Seigneur chuckled. Charley stepped again towards the door. The two
constables stood before it. Again he turned inquiringly, this time
towards the Cure. The Cure did not speak.
"It is you we wish to see, tailor," said the Abbe Rossignol.
Soft-tongued irony leaped to Charley's lips: "Have I, then, the honour of
including Monsieur among my customers? I cannot recall Monsieur's figure.
I think I should not have forgotten it."
It was now the old Charley Steele, with the new body, the new spirit, but
with the old skilful mind, aggravatingly polite, non-intime--the
intolerant face of this father of souls irritated him.
"I never forget a figure which has idiosyncrasy," he added, with a bland
eye wandering over the priest's gaunt form. It was his old way to strike
first and heal after--"a kick and a lick," as old Paddy Wier, whom he
once saved from prison, said of him. It was like bygone years of another
life to appear in defence when the law was tightening round a victim. The
secret spring had been touched, the ancient machinery of his mind was
working almost automatically.
The illusion was considerable, for the Seigneur had taken the only
arm-chair in the room, a little apart, as it were, filling the place of
judge. The priest-brother, cold and inveterate, was like the attorney for
the crown. The Cure was the clerk of the court, who could only echo the
decisions of the Judge. The constables were the machinery of the Law, and
Jo Portugais was the unwilling witness, whose evidence would be the crux
of the case. The prisoner--he himself was prisoner and prisoner's
counsel.
A good struggle was forward.
He had enraged the Abbe as much as he had delighted the Abbe's brother;
for nothing gave the Seigneur such pleasure as the discomfiture of the
Abbe Rossignol, chaplain and ordinary to the Archbishop of Quebec. The
genial, sympathetic nature of the Seigneur could not even be patient with
the excessive piety of the churchman, who, in rigid righteousness, had
thrashed him cruelly as a boy. At Charley's words upon the Abbe's figure,
gaunt and precise as a swaddled ramrod, he pulled his nose with a grunt
of satisfaction.
The Cure, the peace-maker, intervened. The tailor's meaning was
sufficiently clear: if they had come to see him personally, then it was
natural for him to wish to know the names and stations of his guests, and
their business. The Seigneur was aware that the tailor did know, and he
enjoyed the 'sang-froid' with which he was meeting the situation.
"Monsieur," said the Cure, in a mollifying voice, "I have ventured to
bring the Seigneur of Chaudiere"--the Seigneur stood up and bowed
gravely--"and his brother, the Abbe Rossignol, who would speak with you
on private business"--he ignored the presence of the constables.
Charley bowed to the Seigneur and the Abbe, then turned inquiringly
towards the two constables. "Friends of my brother the Abbe," said the
Seigneur maliciously.
"Their names, Monsieur?" asked Charley.
"They have numbers," answered the Seigneur whimsically--to the Cure's
pain, for levity seemed improper at such a time.
"Numbers of names are legally suspicious, numbers for names are
suspiciously legal," rejoined Charley. "You have pierced the disguise of
discourtesy," said the Seigneur, and, on the instant, he made up his mind
that whatever the tailor might have been, he was deserving of respect.
"You have private business with me, Monsieur?" asked Charley of the Abbe.
The Abbe shook his head. "The business is not private, in one sense.
These men have come to charge you with having broken into the cathedral
at Quebec and stolen the gold vessels of the altar; also with having
tried to blow up the Governor's residence."
One of the constables handed Charley the warrant. He looked at it with a
curious smile. It was so natural, yet so unnatural, to be thus in touch
with the habits of far-off times.
"On what information is this warrant issued?" he asked.
"That is for the law to show in due course," said the priest.
"Pardon me; it is for the law to show now. I have a right to know."
The constables shifted from one foot to the other, looked at each other
meaningly, and instinctively felt their weapons.
"I believe," said the Seigneur evenly, "that--" The Abbe interrupted. "He
can have information at his trial."
"Excuse me, but the warrant has my endorsement," said the Seigneur, "and,
as the justice most concerned, I shall give proper information to the
gentleman under suspicion." He waved a hand at the Abbe, as at a
fractious child, and turned courteously to Charley.
"Monsieur," he said, "on the tenth of August last the cathedral at Quebec
was broken into, and the gold altar-vessels were stolen. You are
suspected. The same day an attempt was made to blow up the Governor's
residence. You are suspected."
"On what ground, Monsieur?"
"You appeared in this vicinity three days afterwards with an injury to
the head. Now, the incendiary received a severe blow on the head from a
servant of the Governor. You see the connection, Monsieur?"
"Where is the servant of the Governor, Monsieur?"
"Dead, unfortunately. He told the story so often, to so much hospitality,
that he lost his footing on Mountain Street steps--you remember Mountain
Street steps possibly, Monsieur?--and cracked his head on the last
stone."
There was silence for a moment. If the thing had not been so serious,
Charley must have laughed outright. If he but disclosed his identity, how
easy to dispose of this silly charge! He did not reply at once, but
looked calmly at the Abbe. In the pause, the Seigneur added "I forgot to
add that the man had a brown beard. You have a brown beard, Monsieur."
"I had not when I arrived here."
Jo Portugais spoke. "That is true, M'sieu'; and what is more, I know a
newly shaved face when I see it, and M'sieu's was tanned with the sun. It
is foolish, that!"
"This is not the place for evidence," said the Abbe sharply.
"Excuse me, Abbe," said his brother; "if Monsieur wishes to have a
preliminary trial here, he may. He is in my seigneury; he is a tenant of
the Church here--"
"It is a grave offence that an infidel, dropping down here from, who
knows where--that an acknowledged infidel should be a tenant of the
Church!"
"The devil is a tenant of the Almighty, if creation is the Almighty's,"
said Charley.
"Satan is a prisoner," snapped the Abbe.
"With large domains for exercise," retorted Charley, "and in successful
opposition to the Church. If it is true that the man you charge is an
infidel, how does that warrant suspicion?"
"Other thefts," answered the Abbe. "A sacred iron cross was stolen from
the door of the church of Chaudiere. I have no doubt that the thief of
the gold vessels of the cathedral was the thief of the iron cross."
"It is not true," sullenly broke in Jo Portugais.
"What proof have you?" said the Seigneur. Charley waved a deprecating
hand towards Jo.
"I shall not call Portugais as evidence," he said.
"You are conducting your own case?" asked the Seigneur, with a grim
smile.
"It is dangerous, I believe."
"I will take my chances," answered Charley. "Will you tell me what object
the criminal could have in stealing the gold vessels from the cathedral?"
he added, turning to the Abbe.
"They were gold!"
"And for taking the cross from the door of the church in Chaudiere?"
"It was sacred, and he was an infidel, and hated it."
"I do not see the logic of the argument. He stole the vessels because
they were valuable, and the iron cross because he was an infidel! Now how
do you know that the suspected criminal was an infidel, Monsieur?"
"It is well known."
"Has he ever said so?"
"He does not deny it."
"If you were charged with being an opium-eater, does it follow that you
are one because you do not deny it? There was a Man who was said to
blaspheme, to have all 'the crafts and assaults of the devil'--was it His
duty to deny it? Suppose you were accused of being a highwayman, would
you be less a highwayman if you denied it? Or would you be less guilty if
you denied it?"
"That is beside the case," said the priest with acerbity.
"Faith, I think it is the case itself," said the Seigneur with a
satisfied pull of his nose.
"But do you seriously suggest that only infidels rob churches?" Charley
persisted.
"I am not here to be cross-examined," answered the Abbe harshly. "You are
charged with robbing the cathedral and trying to blow up the Governor's
residence. Arrest him!" he added, turning to the constables.
"Stand where you are, men," sharply threatened the Seigneur. "There are
no lettres de cachet nowadays, Francois," he added tartly to his brother.
"If it is the exclusive temptation of an infidel to rob a church, has
infidelity also an inherent penchant for arson? Is it a patent? Why did
the infidel blow up the Governor's residence?" continued Charley.
"He did not blow it up, he only tried," interposed the Cure softly.
"I was not aware," said Charley. "Well, did the man who stole the patens
from the altar--"
"They were chalices," again interrupted the Cure, with a faint smile.
"Ah, I was not aware!" again rejoined Charley. "I repeat, what reason had
the person who stole the chalices to try to blow up the Governor's
residence? Is it a sign of infidelity, or--"
"You can answer for that yourself," angrily interposed the Abbe. The
strain was telling on his nerves.
"It is fair to give reasons for the suspicion," urged the Seigneur
acidly.
"As I said before, Francois, this is not the fifteenth century."
"He hated the English government," said the Abbe. "I do not understand,"
responded Charley. "Am I then to suppose that the alleged criminal was a
Frenchman as well as an infidel?"
There was silence, and Charley continued. "It is an unusual thing for a
French Abbe to be so concerned for the safety of an English Protestant's
life and housing . . . the Governor is a Protestant--eh? That is, indeed,
a zeal almost Christian--or millennial."
The Abby turned to the Seigneur. "Are you going to interfere longer with
the process of the law?"
"I think Monsieur has not quite finished his argument," said the
Seigneur, with a twist of the mouth.
"If the man was a Frenchman, why do you suspect the tailor of Chaudiere?"
asked Charley softly. "Of course I understand the reason behind all: you
have heard that the tailor is an infidel; you have protested to the good
Cure here, and the Cure is a man who has a sense of justice, and will not
drive a poor man from his parish by Christian persecution--without cause.
Since certain dates coincide and impulses urge, you suspect the tailor.
Again, according to your mind, a man who steals holy vessels must needs
be an infidel; therefore a tailor in Chaudiere, suspected of being an
infidel, stole the holy chalices. It might seem a fair case for a grand
jury of clericals. But it breaks down in certain places. Your criminal is
a Frenchman; the tailor of Chaudiere is an Englishman."
The Abbe's face was contracted with stubborn annoyance, though he held
his tongue from violence. "Do you deny that you are French?" he asked
tartly.
"I could almost endure the suspicion because of the compliment to my
command of your charming language."
"Prove that you are an Englishman. No one knows where you came from; no
one knows what you are. You are a fair subject for suspicion, apart from
the evidence shown," said the Abbe, trying now to be as polite as the
tailor.
"This is a free country. So long as the law is obeyed, one can go where
one wills without question, I take it."
"There is a law of vagrancy."
"I am a householder, a tenant of the Church, not a vagrant."
"Monsieur, you can have your choice of proving these things here or in
Quebec," said the Abbe, with angry impatience again.
"I may not be compelled to prove anything. It is the privilege of the law
to prove the crime against me."
"You are a very remarkable tailor," said the Abbe sarcastically.
"I have not had the honour of making you even a cassock, I think.
Monsieur le Cure, I believe, approves of those I make for him. He has a
good figure, however."
"You refuse to identify yourself?" asked the Abbe, with asperity.
"I am not aware that you possess any right to ask me to do so."
The Abbe's thin lips clipped-to like shears. He turned again towards the
officers.
"It would relieve the situation," interposed the Seigneur, "if Monsieur
could find it possible to grant the Abbe's demand."
Charley bowed to the Seigneur. "I do not know why I should be taken for a
Frenchman or an infidel. I speak French well, I presume, but I spoke it
from the cradle. I speak English with equally good accent," he added,
with the glimmer of a smile; for there was a kind of exhilaration in the
little contest, even with so much at stake. This miserable, silly charge
had that behind it which might open up a grave, make its dead to walk,
fright folk from their senses, and destroy their peace for ever. Yet he
was cool and thinking clearly. He measured up the Abbe in his mind,
analysed him, found the vulnerable spot in his nature, the avenue to the
one place lighted by a lamp of humanity. He leaned a hand upon the ledge
of the chimney where he stood, and said, in a low voice:
"Monsieur l'Abbe, it is sometimes the misfortune of just men to be
terribly unjust. 'For conscience sake' is another name for prejudice--for
those antipathies which, natural to us, are, at the same time,
trap-doors, for our just intentions. You, Monsieur, have a radical
antipathy to those men who are unable to see or to feel what you were
privileged to see and feel from the time of your birth. You know that you
are right. Do you think that those who do not see as you do are wicked
because they were not given what you were given? If you are right, may
they, poor folk! not be the victims of their blindness of heart--of the
darkness born with them, or of the evils that overtake them? For
conscience sake, you would crush out evil. To you an infidel--so
called--is an evil-doer, a peril to the peace of God. You drive him out
from among the faithful. You heard that a tailor of Chaudiere was an
infidel. You did not prove him one, but you, for conscience sake, are
trying to remove him, by fixing on him a crime of which he may, with
slight show of reason, be suspected. But I ask you, would you have taken
the same deep interest in setting the law upon this suspected man did you
not believe him to be an infidel?"
He paused. The Abbe made no reply. The Cure was bending forward eagerly;
the Seigneur sat with his hands over the top of his cane, his chin on his
hands, never taking his eyes from him, save to glance once or twice at
his brother. Jo Portugais was crouched on the bench, watching.
"I do not know what makes an infidel," Charley went on. "Is it an honest
mind, a decent life, an austerity of living as great as that of any
priest, a neighbourliness that gives and takes in fairness--"