The Right of Way, Complete - Gilbert Parker
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"Wait-wait!"
M. Loisel looked towards the post-office musingly. "I have thought
sometimes that what man's prayers may not accomplish a woman's love might
do. If--but, alas, what do we know of his past! Nothing. What do we know
of his future? Nothing. What do we know of the human heart?
Nothing--nothing!"
The Seigneur was astounded. The Cure's meaning was plain. "What do you
mean?" he asked, almost gruffly.
"She--Rosalie--has changed--changed." In his heart he dwelt sorrowfully
upon the fact that she had not been to confession to him for many, many
months.
"Since her father's death--since her illness?"
"Since she went to Montreal seven months ago. Even while she was so ill
these past weeks, she never asked for me; and when I came . . . Ah, if it
is that her heart has gone out to the man, and his does not respond!"
"A good thing, too!" said the other gloomily. "We don't know where he
came from, and we do know that he is a pagan."
"Yet there she sits now, hour after hour, day after day--so changed."
"She has lost her father," urged M. Rossignol anxiously.
"I know the grief of children--this is not such a grief. There is
something more. But I cannot ask. If she were a sinner--but she is
without fault. Have we not watched her grow up here, mirthful, brave,
pure-souled--"
"Fitted for any station," interposed the Seigneur huskily. Presently he
laid a hand upon the Cure's arm. "Shall I ask her again?" he said,
breathing hard. "Do you think she has found out her mistake?"
The Cure was so taken aback that at first he could not speak. When he
realised, however, he could scarce suppress a smile at the other's simple
vanity. But he mastered himself, and said: "It is not that, Maurice. It
is not you."
"How did you know I had asked her?" asked his friend querulously.
"You have just told me."
M. Rossignol felt a kind of reproval in the Cure's tone. It made him a
little nervous. "I'm an old fool, but she needed some one," he protested.
"At least I am a gentleman, and she would not be thrown away."
"Dear Maurice!" said the Cure, and linked his arm in the other's. "In all
respects save one, it would have been to her advantage. But youth is the
only comrade for youth. All else is evasion of life's laws."
The Seigneur pressed his arm. "I thought you less worldly-wise than
myself; I find you more," he said.
"Not worldly-wise. Life is deeper than the world or worldly wisdom. Come,
we will both go and see Rosalie."
M. Rossignol suddenly stopped at the post-office door, and half turned
towards the tailor-shop. "He is young. Suppose that he drew her love his
way, but gave her nothing in return, and--"
"If it were so"--the Cure paused, and his face darkened--"if it were so,
he should leave her forever; and so my dream would end."
"And Rosalie?"
"Rosalie would forget. To remember, youth must see and touch and be near,
else it wears itself out in excess of feeling. Youth feels more deeply
than age, but it must bear daily witness."
"Upon my honour, Cure, you shall write your little philosophies for the
world," said M. Rossignol, and then knocked at the door.
"I will go in alone, Maurice," the Cure urged. "Good-you are right,"
answered the other. "I will go write the proclamation denying strangers
the valley after Wednesday. I will enforce it, too," he added, with
vigour, and, turning, walked up the street, as Mrs. Flynn admitted the
Cure to the post-office.
A half-hour later M. Loisel again appeared at the post-office door, a
pale, beautiful face at his shoulder.
He had not been brave enough to say what was on his mind. But as he bade
her good-bye, he plucked up needful courage.
"Forgive me, Rosalie," he said, "but I have sometimes thought that you
have more griefs than one. I have thought"--he paused, then went on
bravely--"that there might be--there might be unwelcomed love, or love
deceived."
A mist came before her eyes, but she quietly and firmly answered: "I have
never been deceived in love, Monsieur Loisel."
"There, there!" he hurriedly and gently rejoined. "Do not be hurt, my
child. I only want to help you." A moment afterwards he was gone.
As the door closed behind him, she drew herself proudly up.
"I have never been deceived," she said aloud. "I love him--love him--love
him."
CHAPTER LIV
M. ROSSIGNOL SLIPS THE LEASH
It was the last day of the Passion Play, and the great dramatic mission
was drawing to a close. The confidence of the Cure and the Seigneur was
restored. The prohibition against strangers had had its effect, and for
three whole days the valley had been at rest again. Apparently there was
not a stranger within its borders, save the Seigneur's brother, the Abbe
Rossignol, who had come to see the moving spectacle.
The Abbe, on his arrival, had made inquiries concerning the tailor of
Chaudiere and Jo Portugais, as persistently about the one as the other.
Their secrets had been kept inviolate by him.
It was disconcerting to hear the tales people told of the tailor's
charity and wisdom. It was all dangerous, for what was, accidentally, no
evil in this particular instance, might be the greatest disaster in
another case. Principle was at stake. He heard in stern silence the
Cure's happy statement that Jo Portugais had returned to the bosom of the
Church, and attended Mass regularly.
"So it may be, my dear Abbe," said M. Loisel, "that the friendship
between him and our 'infidel' has been the means of helping Portugais. I
hope their friendship will go on unbroken for years and years."
"I have no idea that it will," said the Abbe grimly. "That rope of
friendship may snap untimely."
"Upon my soul, you croak like a raven!" testily broke in M. Rossignol,
who was present. "I didn't know there was so much in common between you
and my surly-jowled groom. He gets his pleasure out of croaking. 'Wait,
wait, you'll see--you'll see! Death, death, death--every man must die!
The devil has you by the hair--death--death--death!' Bah! I'm heartily
sick of croakers. I suppose, like my grunting groom, you'll say about the
Passion Play, 'No good will come of it--wait--wait--wait!' Bah!"
"It may not be an unmixed good," answered the ascetic.
"Well, and is there any such thing on earth as an unmixed good? The play
yesterday was worth a thousand sermons. It was meant to serve Holy
Church, and it will serve it. Was there ever anything more real--and
touching--than Paulette Dubois as Mary Magdalene yesterday?"
"I do not approve of such reality. For that woman to play the part is to
destroy the impersonality of the scene."
"You would demand that the Christus should be a good man, and the St.
John blameless--why shouldn't the Magdalene be a repentant woman?"
"It might impress the people more, if the best woman in your parish were
to play the part. The fall of virtue, the ruin of innocence, would be
vividly brought home. It does good to make the innocent feel the terror
and shame of sin. That is the price the good pay for the fall of
man--sorrow and shame for those who sin." The Seigneur, rising quickly
from the table, and kicking his chair back, said angrily: "Damn your
theories!" Then, seeing the frozen look on his brother's face, continued,
more excitedly: "Yes, damn, damn, damn your theories! You always took the
crass view. I beg your pardon, Cure--I beg your pardon."
He then went to the window, threw it open, and called to his groom.
"Hi, there, coffin-face," he said, "bring round the horses--the quietest
one in the stable for my brother--you hear? He can't ride," he added
maliciously.
This was his fiercest stroke, for the Abbe's secret vanity was the belief
that he looked well on a horse, and rode handsomely.
CHAPTER LV
ROSALIE PLAYS A PART
From a tree upon a little hill rang out a bell--a deep-toned bell, bought
by the parish years before for the missions held at this very spot. Every
day it rang for an instant at the beginning of each of the five acts. It
also tolled slowly when the curtain rose upon the scene of the
Crucifixion. In this act no one spoke save the abased Magdalene, who
knelt at the foot of the cross, and on whose hair red drops fell when the
Roman soldier pierced the side of the figure on the cross. This had been
the Cure's idea. The Magdalene should speak for mankind, for the
continuing world. She should speak for the broken and contrite heart in
all ages, should be the first-fruits of the sacrifice, a flower of the
desert earth, bedewed by the blood of the Prince of Peace.
So, in the long nights of the late winter and early spring, the Cure had
thought and thought upon what the woman should say from the foot of the
cross. At last he put into her mouth that which told the whole story of
redemption and deliverance, so far as his heart could conceive it--the
prayer for all sorts and conditions of men and the general thanksgiving
of humanity.
During the last three days Paulette Dubois had taken the part of Mary
Magdalene. As Jo Portugais had confessed to the Abbe that notable day in
the woods at Vadrome Mountain, so she had confessed to the Cure after so
many years of agony--and the one confession fitted into the other: Jo had
once loved her, she had treated him vilely, then a man had wronged her,
and Jo had avenged her--this was the tale in brief. She it was who
laughed in the gallery of the court-room the day that Joseph Nadeau was
acquitted.
It had pained and shocked the Cure more than any he had ever heard, but
he urged for her no penalty as Portugais had set for himself with the
austere approval of the Abbe. Paulette's presence as the Magdalene had
had a deep effect upon the people, so that she shared with Mary the
Mother the painfully real interest of the vast audience.
Five times had the bell rung out in the perfect spring air, upon which
the balm of the forest and the refreshment of the ardent sun were poured.
The quick anger of M. Rossignol had passed away long before the Cure, the
Abbe, and himself had reached the lake and the great plateau. Between the
acts the two brothers walked up and down together, at peace once more,
and there was a suspicious moisture in the Seigneur's eyes. The demeanour
of the people had been so humble and rapt that the place and the plateau
and the valley seemed alone in creation with the lofty drama of the ages.
The Cure's eyes shone when he saw on a little knoll in the trees, apart
from the worshippers and spectators, Charley and Jo Portugais. His cup of
content was now full. He had felt convinced that if the tailor had but
been within these bounds during the past three days, a work were begun
which should end only at the altar of their parish church. To-day the
play became to him the engine of God for the saving of a man's soul. Not
long before the last great tableau was to appear he went to his own
little tent near the hut where the actors prepared to go upon the stage.
As he entered, some one came quickly forward from the shadow of the trees
and touched him on the arm.
"Rosalie!" he cried in amazement, for she wore the costume of Mary
Magdalene.
"It is I, not Paulette, who will appear," she said, a deep light in her
eyes.
"You, Rosalie?" he asked dumfounded. "You are distrait. Trouble and
sorrow have put this in your mind. You must not do it."
"Yes, I am going there," she said, pointing towards the great stage.
"Paulette has given me these to wear"--she touched the robe--"and I only
ask your blessing now. Oh, believe, believe me, I can speak for those who
are innocent and those who are guilty; for those who pray and those who
cannot pray; for those who confess and those who dare not! I can speak
the words out of my heart with gladness and agony, Monsieur," she urged,
in a voice vibrating with feeling.
A luminous look came into the Cure's face. A thought leapt up in his
heart. Who could tell!--this pure girl, speaking for the whole sinful,
unbelieving, and believing world, might be the one last conquering
argument to the man.
He could not read the agony of spirit which had driven Rosalie to
this--to confess through the words of Mary Magdalene her own woe, to say
it out to all the world, and to receive, as did Paulette Dubois, every
day after the curtain came down, absolution and blessing. She longed for
the old remembered peace.
The Cure could not read the struggle between her love for a man and the
ineradicable habit of her soul; but he raised his hand, made the sacred
gesture over leer, and said: "Go, my child, and God be with you."
He could not see her for tears as she hurried away to where Paulette
Dubois awaited her--the two at peace now. At the hands of the lately
despised and injurious woman Rosalie was made ready to play the part in
the last act, none knowing save the few who appeared in the final
tableau, and they at the last moment only.
The bell began to toll.
A thousand people fell upon their knees, and with fascinated yet abashed
and awe-struck eyes saw the great tableau of Christendom: the three
crosses against the evening sky, the Figure in the centre, the Roman
populace, the trembling Jews, the pathetic groups of disciples. A cloud
passed across the sky, the illusion grew, and hearts quivered in piteous
sympathy. There was no music now--not a sound save the sob of some
overwrought woman. The woe of an oppressed world absorbed them. Even the
stolid Indians, as Roman soldiers, shrank awe-stricken from the sacred
tragedy. Now the eyes of all were upon the central Figure, then they
shifted for a moment to John the Beloved, standing with the Mother.
"Pauvre Mere! Pauvre Christ!" said a weeping woman aloud.
A Roman soldier raised a spear and pierced the side of the Hero of the
World. Blood flowed, and hundreds gasped. Then there was silence--a
strange hush as of a prelude to some great event.
"It is finished. Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit," said the
Figure.
The hush was broken by such a sound as one hears in a forest when a wind
quivers over the earth, flutters the leaves, and then sinks away--neither
having come nor gone, but only lived and died.
Again there was silence, and then all eyes were fixed upon the figure at
the foot of the cross-Mary the Magdalene.
Day after day they had seen this figure rise, come forward a step, and
speak the epilogue to this moving miracle-drama. For the last three days
Paulette Dubois had turned a sorrowful face upon them, and with one hand
upraised had spoken the prayer, the prophecy, the thanksgiving, the
appeal of humanity and the ages. They looked to see the same figure now,
and waited. But as the Magdalene turned, there was a great stir in the
multitude, for the face bent upon them was that of Rosalie Evanturel. Awe
and wonder moved the people.
Apart from the crowd, under a clump of trees, knelt a woodsman from
Vadrome Mountain, and the tailor of Chaudiere stood beside him.
When Charley, touched by the heavy scene, saw the figure of the Magdalene
rise, he felt a curious thrill of fascination. When she turned, and he
saw the face of Rosalie, the blood rushed to his face; then his heart
seemed to stand still. Pain and shame travelled to the farthest recesses
of his nature. Jo Portugais rose to his feet with a startled exclamation.
Rosalie began to speak. "This is the day of which the hours shall never
cease--in it there shall be no night. He whom ye have crucified hath
saved you from the wrath to come. He hath saved others, Himself He would
not save. Even for such as I, who have secretly opened, who have secretly
entered, the doors of sin--"
With a gasp of horror and a mad desire to take her away from the sight of
this gaping, fascinated crowd, Charley made to rush forward, but Jo
Portugais held him back.
"Be still. You will ruin her, M'sieu'!" said Jo.
"--even for such as I am," the beautiful voice went on, "hath He died.
And in the ages to come, women such as I, and all women who sorrow, and
all men who err and are deceived, and all the helpless world, will know
that this was the Friend of the human soul." Not a gesture, not a
movement, only that slight, pathetic figure, with pale, agonised face,
and eyes that looked--looked--looked beyond them, over their heads to the
darkening east, the clouded light of evening behind her. Her voice rang
out now valiant and clear, now searching and piteous, yet reaching to
where the farthermost person knelt, and was lost upon the lake and in the
spreading trees.
"What ye have done may never be undone; what He hath said shall never be
unsaid. His is the Word which shall unite all languages, when ye that are
Romans shall be no more Romans, and ye that are Jews shall still be Jews,
reproached and alone. No longer shall men faint in the glare--the shadow
of the Cross shall screen them. No more shall woman bear her black
sorrows, alone; the Light of the World shall cheer her."
As she spoke, the cloud drew back from the sunset, and the saffron glow
behind lighted the cross, and shone upon her hair, casting her face in a
gracious shadow. Her voice rose higher. "I, the Magdalene, am the
first-fruits of this sacrifice: from the foot of the cross I come. I have
sinned more than all. I have shamed all women. But I have confessed my
sin, and He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us
from all unrighteousness."
Her voice now became lower, but clear and even, pathetically exulting:
"O world, forgive, as He hath forgiven you! Fall, dark curtain, and hide
this pain, and rise again upon forgiven sin and a redeemed people!"
She stood still, with her eyes upraised, and the curtain came slowly
down.
For a long time no one in all the gathered multitude stirred. Far over
under the trees a man sat upon the ground, his head upon his arms, and
his arms upon his knees, in a misery unmeasurable. Beside him stood a
woodsman, who knew of no word to say that might comfort him.
A girl, in the garb of the Magdalene, entered the tent of the Cure, and,
speaking no word, knelt and received absolution of her sins.
CHAPTER LVI
MRS. FLYNN SPEAKS
CHARLEY left Jo Portugais behind, and went home alone. He watched at a
window till he saw Rosalie return. As she passed quickly down the street
with Mrs. Flynn to her own door, he observed that her face was happier
than he had seen it for many a day. Her step was lighter, there was a
freedom in her air, a sense of confidence in her carriage.
She bore herself as one who had done a thing which relaxed a painful
tension. There was a curious glow in her eyes and face, and this became
deeper as, showing himself at the door, she saw him, smiled, and stood
still. He came across the street and took her hand.
"You have been away," she said softly. "For a few days," he answered.
"Far?"
"At Vadrome Mountain."
"You have missed these last days of the Passion Play," she said, a shadow
in her eyes.
"I was present to-day," he answered.
She turned away her head quickly, for the look in his eyes told her more
than any words could have done, and Mrs. Flynn said:
"'Tis a day for everlastin' mimory, sir. For the part she played this
day, the darlin', only such as she could play! 'Tis the innocent takin'
the shame o' the guilty, and the tears do be comin' to me eyes. 'Tis not
ould Widdy Flynn's eyes alone that's wet this day, but hearts do be
weepin' for the love o' God."
Rosalie suddenly opened the door, and, without another look at Charley,
entered the house.
"'Tis one in a million!" said Mrs. Flynn, in a confidential tone, for she
had a fixed idea that Rosalie loved Charley and that he loved her, and
that the only thing that stood in the way of their marriage was religion.
From the first Charley had conquered Mrs. Flynn. That he was a tailor was
a pity and a shame, but love was love, and the man had a head on him and
a heart in him; and love was love! So Mrs. Flynn said:
"'Tis one that a man that's a man should do annything for, was it havin'
the heart cut out uv him, or givin' the last drop uv his blood. Shure,
for such as her, murder, or false witness, or givin' up the last wish or
thought a man hugged to his boosom, would be as aisy as aisy."
Charley laughed to himself, her purpose was so obvious, but his heart
went out to her, for she was a friend, and, whatever came to him, Rosalie
would not be alone.
"I believe every word of yours," he said, shaking her hand, "and we'll
see, you and I, that no man marries her who isn't ready to do what you
say."
"Would you do it yourself--if it was you?" she asked, flushing for her
boldness.
"I would," he answered.
"Then do it," she said, and fled inside the house and shut the door.
"Mrs. Flynn--good Mrs. Flynn!" he said, and went back sadly to his house,
and shut himself up with his thoughts. When night drew on he went to bed,
but he could not sleep. He got up after a time, and taking pen and paper,
wrote for a long time. Having finished, he took what he had written, and
placing it with the two packets-of money and pearls--which he had brought
from his old home, he addressed it to the Cure, and going to the safe in
the wall of the shop, placed them inside and locked the door.
Then he went to bed, and slept soundly--the deep sleep of the just.
CHAPTER LVII
A BURNING FIERY FURNACE
Every man within the limits of the parish was in his bed, save one. He
was a stranger who, once before, had visited Chaudiere for one brief day,
when he had been saved from death at the Red Ravine, and had fled the
village that night because, as he thought, he had heard the voice of his
old friend's ghost in the trees. Since that time he had travelled in many
parishes, healing where he could, entertaining where he might, earning
money as the charlatan. He was now on his way back through the parishes
to Montreal, and his route lay through Chaudiere. He had hoped to reach
Chaudiere before nightfall--he remembered with fear the incident from
which he had fled many months before; but his horse had broken its leg on
a corduroy bridge, a few miles out from the parish in the hills, and
darkness came upon him before he could hide his wagon in the woods and
proceed afoot to Chaudiere. He had shot his horse, and rolled it into the
swift torrent beneath the bridge.
Travelling the lonely road, he drank freely from the whiskey-horn he
carried, to keep his spirits up, so that by the time he came to the
outskirts of Chaudiere he was in a state of intoxication, and reeled
impudently along with the "Dutch courage" the liquor had given him.
Arrived at the first cluster of houses in the place, he paused uncertain.
Should he knock here or go on to the tavern? He shivered at thought of
the tavern, for it was near it he had heard Charley Steele's voice
calling to him out of the trees. If he knocked here, would the people
admit him in his present state?--he had sense enough to know that he was
very drunk. As he shook his head in owlish gravity, he saw the church on
the hill not far away. He chuckled to himself. The carpet in the chancel
and the hassocks at the altar would make a good bed. No fear of Charley's
ghost coming inside the church--it wouldn't be that kind of a ghost. As
he travelled the intervening space, shrugging his shoulders, staggering
serenely, he told himself in confidence that he would leave the church at
dawn, go to the tavern, purchase a horse as soon as might be, and get
back to his wagon.
The church door was unlocked, and he entered and made his way to the
chancel, found surplices in the vestry and put a hassock inside one for a
pillow. Then he sat down and drew the loose rug of the chancel-floor over
him, and took another drink from the whiskey horn. Lighting his pipe, he
smoked for a while, but grew drowsy, and his pipe fell into his lap. With
eyes nearly shut he struck another match, made to light his pipe again,
but threw the match away, still burning. As he did so the pipe dropped
again from his mouth, and he fell back on the hassock-pillow he had made.
The lighted match fell on a surplice which had dropped from his arms as
he came from the vestry, and set it afire. In five minutes the whole
chancel was burning, and the sleeping man waked in the midst of smoke and
flame. He staggered to his feet with a terror-stricken cry, stumbled down
the aisle, through the front door, and out into the night. Reaching the
road, he turned his face again to the hill where his wagon lay hid. If he
could reach that, he would be safe; nobody would suspect him. He clutched
the whiskey-horn tight and broke into a run. As he passed beyond the
village his excited imagination heard Charley Steele's ghost calling
after him. He ran harder. The voice kept calling from Chaudiere.
Not Charley's voice, but the voices of many people in Chaudiere were
calling. Some wakeful person had seen the glare in the church windows and
had given the alarm, and now there rang through the streets the
call-"Fire! Fire! Fire!"
Charley and Jo were among the last to wake, for both had slept soundly,
but Jo was roused by a handful of gravel thrown at his window and a
warning cry, and a few moments later he and Charley were in the street
with a hurrying crowd. Over all the village was a red glare, lighting up
the sky, burnishing the trees. The church was a mass of flames.