Right of Way — 05 - Chapters 12, 13, & 14
CHAPTER XII. THE COMING OF ROSALIE
Charley Steele saw himself as he had been through the eyes of another.
He saw the work that he had done in the carpentering shed, and had no memory of it.
The real Charley Steele had been enveloped in oblivion for seven months.
During that time a mild phantom of himself had wandered, as it were in a somnambulistic dream, through the purlieus of life.
Open-eyed, but with the soul asleep, all idiosyncrasy laid aside, all acquired impressions and influences vanished, he had been walking in the world with no more complexity of mind than a new-born child, nothing intervening between the sight of the eyes and the original sense.
Now, when the real Charley Steele emerged again, the folds of mind and soul unrolling to the million-voiced creation and touched by the antenna of a various civilisation, the phantom Charley was gone once more into obscurity.
The real Charley could remember naught of the other, could feel naught, save, as in the stirring industrious day, one remembers that he has dreamed a strange dream the night before, and cannot recall it, though the overpowering sense of it remains.
He saw the work of his hands, the things he had made with adze and plane, with chisel and hammer, but nothing seemed familiar save the smell of the glue pot, which brought back in a cloudy impression curious unfamiliar feelings.
Sights, sounds, motions, passed in a confused way through his mind as the smell of the glue crept through his nostrils;
and he struggled hard to remember.
But no--seven months of his life were gone for ever.
Yet he knew and felt that a vast change had gone over him, had passed through him.
While the soul had lain fallow, while the body had been growing back to childlike health again, and Nature had been pouring into his sick senses her healing balm; while the medicaments of peace and sleep and quiet labour had been having their way with him, he had been reorganised, renewed, flushed of the turgid silt of dissipation.
For his sins and weaknesses there had been no gall and vinegar to drink.
As Charley stood looking round the workshop, Jo entered, shaking the snow from his moccasined feet.
“The Cure, M’sieu’ Loisel, has come,” he said.
Charley turned, and, without a word, followed Jo into the house.
There, standing at the window and looking down at the village beneath, was the Cure.
As Charley entered, M. Loisel came forward with outstretched hand.
“I am glad to see you well again, Monsieur,” he said, and his cool thin hand held Charley’s for a moment, as he looked him benignly in the eye.
With a kind of instinct as to the course he must henceforth pursue, Charley replied simply, dropping his eye-glass as he met that clear soluble look of the priest--such a well of simplicity he had never before seen.
Only naked eye could meet that naked eye, imperfect though his own sight was.
“It is good of you to feel so, and to come and tell me so,” he answered quietly.
“I have been a great trouble, I know.
” There was none of the old pose in his manner, none of the old cryptic quality in his words.
“We were anxious for your sake--and for the sake of your friends, Monsieur.
” Charley evaded the suggestion.
“I cannot easily repay your kindness and that of Jo Portugais, my good friend here,” he rejoined.
“M’sieu’,” replied Jo, his face turned away, and his foot pushing a log on the fire, “you have repaid it.
” Charley shook his head.
“I am in a conspiracy of kindness,” he said.
“It is all a mystery to me.
For why should one expect such treatment from strangers, when, besides all, one can never make any real return, not even to pay for board and lodging!
” “‘I was a stranger and ye took me in,”’ said the Cure, smiling by no means sentimentally.
“So said the Friend of the World.
” Charley looked the Curb steadily in the eyes.
He was thinking how simply this man had said these things; as if, indeed, they were part of his life; as though it were usual speech with him, a something that belonged, not an acquired language.
There was the old impulse to ask a question, and he put the monocle to his eye, but his lips did not open, and the eye-glass fell again.
He had seen familiarity with sacred names and things in the uneducated, in excited revivalists, worked up to a state clairvoyant and conversational with the Creator; but he had never heard an educated man speak as this man did.
At last Charley said: “Your brother--Portugais tells me that your brother, the surgeon, has gone away.
I should have liked to thank him--if no more.
” “I have written him of your good recovery.
He will be glad, I know.
But my brother, from one stand-point--a human stand-point--had scruples.
These I did not share, but they were strong in him, Monsieur.
Marcel asked himself--” He stopped suddenly and looked towards Jo.
Charley saw the look, and said quickly: “Speak plainly.
Portugais is my friend.
” Jo turned slowly towards him, and a light seemed to come to his eyes--a shining something that resolved itself into a dog-like fondness, an utter obedience, a strange intense gratitude.
“Marcel asked himself,” the Cure continued, “whether you would thank him for bringing you back to--to life and memory.
I fear he was trying to see what I should say--I fear so.
Marcel said, ‘Suppose that he should curse me for it?
Who knows what he would be brought back to--to what suffering and pain, perhaps?
’ Marcel said that.
” “And you replied, Monsieur le Cure?
” “I replied that Nature required you to answer that question for yourself, and whether bitterly or gladly, it was your duty to take up your life and live it out.
Besides, it was not you alone that had to be considered.
One does not live alone or die alone in this world.
There were your friends to consider.
” “And because I had no friends here, you were compelled to think for me!
” answered Charley calmly.
“Truth is, it was not a question of my friends, for what I was during those seven months, or what I am now, can make no difference to them.
” He looked the Cure in the eyes steadily, and as though he would convey his intentions without words.
The Curb understood.
The habit of listening to the revelations of the human heart had given him something of that clairvoyance which can only be pursued by the primitive mind, unvexed by complexity.
“It is, then, as though you had not come to life again?
It is as though you had no past, Monsieur?
” “It is that, Monsieur.
” Jo suddenly turned and left the room, for he heard a step on the frosty snow without.
“You will remain here, Monsieur?
” said the Cure.
“I cannot tell.
” The Cure had the bravery of simple souls with a duty to perform.
He fastened his eyes on Charley.
“Monsieur, is there any reason why you should not stay here?
I ask it now, man to man--not as a priest of my people, but as man to man.
” Charley did not answer for a moment.
He was wondering how he should put his reply.
But his look did not waver, and the Cure saw the honesty of the gaze.
At length he replied: “If you mean, have I committed any crime which the law may punish?
--I answer no, Monsieur.
If you mean, have I robbed or killed, or forged--or wronged a woman as men wrong women?
No. These, I take it, are the things that matter first.
For the rest, you can think of me as badly as you will, or as well, for what I do henceforth is the only thing that really concerns the world, Monsieur le Cure.
” The Cure came forward and put out his hand with a kindly gesture.
“Monsieur, you have suffered,” he said.
“Never, never at all, Monsieur.
Never for a moment, until I was dropped down here like a stone from a sling.
I had life by the throat; now it has me there--that is all.
” “You are not a Catholic, Monsieur?
” asked the priest, almost pleadingly, and as though the question had been much on his mind.
“No, Monsieur.
” The Cure made no rejoinder.
If he was not a Catholic, what matter what he was?
If he was not a Catholic, were he Buddhist, pagan, or Protestant, the position for them personally was the same.
“I am very sorry,” he said gently.
“I might have helped you had you been a Catholic.
” The eye-glass came like lightning to the eye, and a caustic, questioning phrase was on the tongue, but Charley stopped himself in time.
For, apart from all else, this priest had been his friend in calamity, had acted with a charming sensibility.
The eye-glass troubled the Cure, and the look on Charley’s face troubled him still more, but it passed as Charley said, in a voice as simple as the Cure’s own: “You may still help me as you have already done.
I give you my word, too”--strange that he touched his lips with his tongue as he did in the old days when his mind turned to Jean Jolicoeur’s saloon--“that I will do nothing to cause regret for your humanity and--and Christian kindness.
” Again the tongue touched the lips--a wave of the old life had swept over him, the old thirst had rushed upon him.
Perhaps it was the force of this feeling which made him add, with a curious energy, “I give you my word, Monsieur le Cure.
” At that moment the door opened and Jo entered.
“M’sieu’,” he said to Charley, “a registered parcel has come for you.
It has been brought by the postmaster’s daughter.
She will give it to no one but yourself.
” Charley’s face paled, and the Cure’s was scarcely less pale.
In Charley’s mind was the question, Who had discovered his presence here?
Was he not, then, to escape?
Who should send him parcels through the post?
The Cure was perturbed.
Was he, then, to know who this man was--his name and history?
Was the story of his life now to be told?
Charley broke the silence.
“Tell the girl to come in.
” Instantly afterwards the postmaster’s daughter entered.
The look of the girl’s face, at once delicate and rosy with health, almost put the question of the letter out of his mind for an instant.
Her dark eyes met his as he came forward with outstretched hand.
“This is addressed, as you will see, ‘To the Sick Man at the House of Jo Portugais, at Vadrome Mountain.
’ Are you that person, Monsieur?
” she asked.
As she handed the parcel, Charley’s eyes scanned her face quickly.
How did this habitant girl come by this perfect French accent, this refined manner?
He did not know the handwriting on the parcel; he hastily tore it open.
Inside were a few dozen small packets.
Here also was a sheet of paper.
He opened and read it quickly.
It said: Monsieur, I am not sure that you have recovered your memory and your health, and I am also not sure that in such case you will thank me for my work.
If you think I have done you an injury, pray accept my profound apologies.
Monsieur, you have been a drunkard.
If you would reverse the record now, these powders, taken at opportune moments, will aid you.
Monsieur, with every expression of my good- will, and the hope that you will convey to me without reserve your feelings on this delicate matter, I append my address in Paris, and I have the honour to subscribe myself, with high consideration, Monsieur, yours faithfully, MARCEL LOISEL.
The others looked at him with varied feelings as he read.
Curiosity, inquiry, expectation, were common to them all, but with each was a different personal feeling.
The Cure’s has been described.
Jo Portugais’ mind was asking if this meant that the man who had come into his life must now go out of it; and the girl was asking who was this mysterious man, like none she had ever seen or known.
Without hesitation Charley handed over the letter to the Cure, who took it with surprise, read it with amazement, and handed it back with a flush on his face.
“Thank you,” said Charley to the girl.
“It is good of you to bring it all this way.
May I ask--” “She is Mademoiselle Rosalie Evanturel,” said the Cure smiling.
“I am Charles Mallard,” said Charley slowly.
“Thank you.
I will go now, Monsieur Mallard,” the girl said, lifting her eyes to his face.
He bowed.
As she turned and went towards the door her eyes met his.
She blushed.
“Wait, Mademoiselle; I will go back with you,” said the Cure kindly.
He turned to Charley and held out his hand.
“God be with you, Monsieur--Charles,” he said.
“Come and see me soon.
” Remembering that his brother had written that the man was a drunkard, his eyes had a look of pity.
This was the man’s own secret and his.
It was a way to the man’s heart; he would use it.
As the two went out of the door, the girl looked back.
Charley was putting the surgeon’s letter into the fire, and did not see her; yet she blushed again.
CHAPTER XIII. HOW CHARLEY WENT ADVENTURING AND WHAT HE FOUND
A week passed.
Charley’s life was running in a tiny circle, but his mind was compassing large revolutions.
The events of the last few days had cut deep.
His life had been turned upside down.
All his predispositions had been suddenly brought to check, his habits turned upon the flank and routed, his mental postures flung into confusion.
He had to start life again; but it could not be in the way of any previous travel of mind or body.
The line of cleavage was sharp and wide, and the only connection with the past was in the long-reaching influence of evil habits, which crept from their coverts, now and again, to mock him as his old self had mocked life--to mock him and to tempt him.
Through seven months of healthy life for his body, while brain and will were sleeping, the whole man had made long strides towards recreation.
But with the renewal of will and mind the old weaknesses, roused by memory, began to emerge intermittently, as water rises from a spring.
There was something terrible in this repetition of sensation--the law of habit answering to the machine-like throbbing of memory, as, a kaleidoscope turning, turning, its pictures pass a certain point at fixed intervals--an automatic recurrence.
He found himself at times touching his lips with his tongue, and with this act came the dry throat, the hot eye, the restless hand feeling for a glass that eluded his fingers.
Twice in one week did this fever surge up in him, and it caught him in those moments when, exhausted by the struggle of his mind to adapt itself to the new conditions, his senses were delicately susceptible.
Visions of Jolicoeur’s saloon came to his mind’s eye.
With a singular separateness, a new-developed dual sense, he saw himself standing in the summer heat, looking over to the cool dark doorway of the saloon, and he caught again the smell of the fresh-drawn beer.
He was conscious of watching himself do this and that, of seeing himself move here and there.
He began to look upon Charley Steele as a man he had known--he, Charles Mallard, had known--while he had to suffer for what Charley Steele had done.
Then, all at once, as he was thinking and dreaming and seeing, there would seize upon him the old appetite, coincident with the seizure of his brain by the old sense of cynicism at its worst--such a worst as had made him insult Jake Hough when the rough countryman was ready to take his part that wild night at the Cote Dorion.
At such moments life became a conflict--almost a terror--for as yet he had not swung into line with the new order of things.
In truth, there was no order of things; for one life was behind him and the new one was not yet decided upon, save that here he would stay--here out of the world, out of the game, far from old associations, cut off, and to be for ever cut off, from all that he had ever known or seen or felt or loved!...
Loved!
When did he ever love?
If love was synonymous with unselfishness, with the desire to give greater than the desire to get, then he had never known love.
He realised now that he had given Kathleen only what might be given across a dinner-table--the sensuous tribute of a temperament, passionate without true passion or faith or friendship.
Kathleen had known that he gave her nothing worth the having; for in some meagre sense she knew what love was, and had given it meagrely, after her nature, to another man, preserving meanwhile the letter of the law, respecting that bond which he had shamed by his excesses.
Kathleen was now sitting at another man’s table--no, probably at his own table--his, Charley Steele’s own table in his own house--the house he had given her by deed of gift the day he died.
Tom Fairing was sitting where he used to sit, talking across the table--not as he used to talk--looking into Kathleen’s face as he had never looked.
He was no more to them than a dark memory.
“Well, why should I be more?
” he asked himself.
“I am dead, if not buried.
They think me down among the fishes.
My game is done; and when she gets older and understands life better, Kathleen will say, ‘Poor Charley--he might have been anything!
’ She’ll be sure to say that some day, for habit and memory go round in a circle and pass the same point again and again.
For me--they take me by the throat--” He put his hand up as if to free his throat from a grip, his tongue touched his lips, his hands grew restless.
“It comes back on me like a fit of ague, this miserable thirst.
If I were within sight of Jolicoeur’s saloon, I should be drinking hard this minute.
But I’m here, and--” His hand felt his pocket, and he took out the powders the great surgeon had sent him.
“He knew--how did he know that I was a drunkard?
Does a man carry in his face the tale he would not tell?
Jo says I didn’t talk of the past, that I never had delirium, that I never said a word to suggest who I was, or where I came from.
Then how did the doctor--man know?
I suppose every particular habit carries its own signal, and the expert knows the ciphers.
” He opened the paper containing the powders, and looked round for water, then paused, folded the paper up, and put it in his pocket again.
He went over to the window and looked out.
His shoulders set square.
“No, no, no, not a speck on my tongue!
” he said.
“What I can’t do of my own will is not worth doing.
It’s too foolish, to yield to the shadow of an old appetite.
I play this game alone--here in Chaudiere.
” He looked out and down.
The sweet sun of early spring was shining hard, and the snow was beginning to pack, to hang like a blanket on the branches, to lie like a soft coverlet over all the forest and the fields.
Far away on the frozen river were saplings stuck up to show where the ice was safe--a long line of poles from shore to shore--and carioles were hurrying across to the village.
Being market-day, the place was alive with the cheerful commerce of the habitant.
The bell of the parish church was ringing.
The sound of it came up distantly and peacefully.
Charley drew a long breath, turned away to a pail of water, filled a dipper half full, and drank it off gaspingly.
Then he returned to the window with a look of relief.
“That does it,” he said.
“The horrible thing is gone again--out of my brain and out of my throat.
” As he stood there, Jo came up the hill with a bundle in his arms.
Charley watched him for a moment, half whimsically, half curiously.
Yet he sighed once too as Portugais opened the door and came into the room.
“Well done, Jo!
” said he.
“You have ‘em?
” “Yes, M’sieu’.
A good suit, and I believe they’ll fit.
Old Trudel says it’s the best suit he’s made in a year.
I’m afraid he’ll not make many more suits, old Trudel.
“He’s very bad.
When he goes there’ll be no tailor--ah, old Trudel will be missed for sure, M’sieu’!
” Jo spread the clothes out on the table--a coat, waistcoat, and trousers of fulled cloth, grey and bulky, and smelling of the loom and the tailor’s iron.
Charley looked at them interestedly, then glanced at the clothes he had on, the suit that had belonged to him last year--grave-clothes.
He drew himself up as though rousing from a dream.
“Come, Jo, clear out, and you shall have your new habitant in a minute,” he said.
Portugais left the room, and when he came back, Charley was dressed in the suit of grey fulled cloth.
It was loose, but comfortable, and save for the refined face--on which a beard was growing now--and the eye-glass, he might easily have passed for a farmer.
When he put on the dog-skin fur cap and a small muffler round his neck, it was the costume of the habitant complete.
Yet it was no disguise, for it was part of the life that Charles Mallard, once Charley Steele, should lead henceforth.
He turned to the door and opened it.
“Good-bye, Portugais,” he said.
Jo was startled.
“Where are you going, M’sieu’?
” “To the village.
” “What to do, M’sieu’?
” “Who knows?
” “You will come back?
” Jo asked anxiously.
“Before sundown, Jo.
Good-bye!
” This was the first long walk he had taken since he had become himself again.
The sweet, cold air, with a bracing wind in his face, gave peace to the nerves but now strained and fevered in the fight with appetite.
His mind cleared, and he drank in the sunny air and the pungent smell of the balsams.
His feet light with moccasins, he even ran a distance, enjoying the glow from a fast-beating pulse.
As he came into the high-road, people passed him in carioles and sleighs.
Some eyed him curiously.
What did he mean to do?
What object had he in coming to the village?
What did he expect?
As he entered the village his pace slackened.
He had no destination, no object.
He was simply aware that his new life was beginning.
He passed a little house on which was a sign, “Narcisse Dauphin, Notary.
” It gave him a curious feeling.
It was the old life before him.
“Charles Mallard, Notary?
”--No, that was not for him.
Everything that reminded him of the past, that brought him in touch with it, must be set aside.
He moved on.
Should he go to the Cure?
No; one thing at a time, and today he wanted his thoughts for himself.
More people passed him, and spoke of him to each other, though there was no coarse curiosity--the habitant has manners.
Presently he passed a low shop with a divided door.
The lower half was closed, the upper open, and the winter sun was shining full into the room, where a bright fire burned.
Charley looked up.
Over the door was painted, in straggling letters: “Louis Trudel, Tailor.
” He looked inside.
There, on a low table, bent over his work, with a needle in his hand, sat Louis Trudel the tailor.
Hearing footsteps, feeling a shadow, he looked up.
Charley started at the look of the shrunken, yellow face; for if ever death had set his seal, it was on that haggard parchment.
The tailor’s yellow eyes ran from Charley’s face to his clothes.
“I knew they’d fit,” he said, with a snarl.
“Drove me hard, too!
” Charley had an inspiration.
He opened the halfdoor, and entered.
“Do you want help?
” he said, fixing his eyes on the tailor’s, steady and persistent.
“What’s the good of wanting--I can’t get it,” was the irritable reply, as he uncrossed his legs.
Charley took the iron out of his hand.
“I’ll press, if you’ll show me how,” he said.
“I don’t want a fiddling ten-minutes’ help like that.
” “It isn’t fiddling.
I’m going to stay, if you think I’ll do.
” “You are going to stop-every day?
” The old man’s voice quavered a little.
“Precisely that.
” Charley wetted a seam with water as he had often seen tailors do.
He dropped the hot iron on the seam, and sniffed with satisfaction.
“Who are you?
” said the tailor.
“A man who wants work.
