She Buildeth Her House Part 20

Afterward, when she is cared for, you might wish to ride with me to the Hotel--where I also live."

"Why, yes, Child--who are you?"

"Just a visitor in Saint Pierre--a woman from the States."

Her arrangement was followed, and the negro went back to his work.

Father Fontanel joined her behind the carriage.

"But you speak French so well," he observed.

"Not a few Americans do. I was grateful that it came back to me here."

"Yes, for I do not speak a word of English," he said humbly.

They walked for a moment in silence, his head bowed in thought. Paula, glancing at him from time to time, studied the lines of pity and tenderness which shadowed the eyes. His mouth was wonderful to her, quite as virgin to the iron of self-repression as to the soft fullness of physical desire. This was the marvel of the face--it was above battle. Here were eyes that had seen the Glory and retained an unearthly happiness--a face that moved among the lowly, loved, pitied, abode with them; yet was beautiful with the spiritual poise of Overman.

"It was strange that you did not meet Lafcadio Hearn when he was here,"

she said at length.

He shook his head, asked the name again and the man's work.

"A writer who tarried here; a mystic, too, strange and strong."

"I know no writer by that name--but how did you know that I did not meet him, Child?"

"I was thinking he would write about you in his book of Martinique sketches--had he known."

He accepted the explanation innocently. "There was a writer here--a young man very dear to me--of whom you reminded me at once----"

"Of whom I reminded you, Father?" she repeated excitedly. "You mean because I spoke of another writer?"

"No, I saw a resemblance--rather some relations.h.i.+p of yours to my wonderful young friend.... He said he would come again to me."

She had spoken of Hearn in the hope that Father Fontanel would be reminded of another writer whose name she did not care to mention. His idea of relations.h.i.+p startled her to the heart; yet when she asked further, the good man could not explain. It had merely been his first thought, he said,--as if she had _come_ from his friend.

"You thought much of him then, Father Fontanel?"

He spoke with power now. "A character of terrible thirsts, Child,--such thirsts as I have never known. Some moments as he walked beside me, I have felt him--like a giant with wolves pulling at his thighs, and angels lifting his arms. Great strength of mind, his presence endowed me, so that I would have seen more of him, and more,--but he will come back! And I know that the wolves shall have been slain, when he comes again----"

"And the angels, Father?" she whispered.

"Such are the companions of the Lifted, my daughter.... It is when I meet one of great conflicts that I am suffused with the spirit of wors.h.i.+p in that I am spared. G.o.d makes my way so easy that I must wonder if I am not one of His very weak. It must be so, for my mornings and evenings are made lovely by the Presence. My people hearken unto my prayers for them; they love me and bring their little children for my blessing--until I am so happy that I cry aloud for some great work to do that I may strive heroically to show my grat.i.tude to G.o.d--and lo, the doors of my work are opened, but there are no lions in the way!"

She knew now all that Charter had meant. In her breast was a silent mystic stirring--akin to that endearing miracle enacted in a conservatory of flowers, when the morning sun first floods down upon the gla.s.s.... The initial doubt of her own valor in suffering Selma Cross to shatter her Tower, sprang into being now. Father Fontanel loved him, and had looked within.

That the priest had perceived a "relations.h.i.+p" swept into the woman's soul. Low logic wrought from the physical contacts of Selma Cross trembled before the other immaterial suggestion--that Quentin Charter would come back to Saint Pierre triumphantly companioned, his wolves slain.... She forgot nothing of the actress's point of view; nor that the Westerner did not reach her floor in the _Zoroaster_ and encounter an old attraction by accident. He was not one to force his way there, if the man at the elevator told him Miss Linster was not in. All of these things which had driven her to action were still inexplicable, but final condemnation was gone from the evidence--as the stone rolled away.

Bellingham?... The mystery now, as she stood within this radiant aura, was that any point of his desire could ever have found lodgment within.

Her sense of protection at this moment was absolute. She had done well to come here.... Again swept into mind, Quentin Charter's silent part in saving her from the Destroyer--the book, the letter, the voice; even to this sanctuary she had come through a sentence from him. For a moment the old master-romance shone glorious again--like a lone, valiant star glimpsed in the rift of storm-hurled clouds.

They had reached the low street door of Father Fontanel's house, a wing of the church. A native doctor had been summoned and helped to carry the woman in. She was revived presently.

"Father," Paula said, remembering the words of the washer-woman, as they emerged into the street, "when one is sick of soul--does one knock here?"

"One does not knock, but enters straightway," he answered. "The door is never locked.... But you look very happy, my daughter."

"I am happy," she answered.

They drove together to the _Hotel des Palms_. Paula did not ask, though she had something of an idea regarding the priest's purpose in asking for Peter Stock. Though she had formed a very high opinion of the American, it occurred to her that he would hardly approve of any one directing arteries of philanthropy to his hand. He had been one of those ruffian giants of the elder school of finance who began with the axe and the plow; whose health, character and ethics had been wrought upon the anvil of privation; whose culture began in middle life, and, being hard-earned, was eminent in the foreground of mind--austere and inelastic, this culture, yet solidly founded. Stock was rich and loved to give, but was rather ashamed of it. Paula could imagine him saying, "I hate the whining of the strong." For twenty years since his retirement, he had voyaged about the world, learning to love beautiful things, and giving possibly many small fortunes away; yet he much would have preferred to acknowledge that he had knocked down a brute than endowed an asylum. Mr. Stock was firm in opinion, dutiful in appreciation for the fine. His sayings were strongly savored, reliant with facts; his every thought was the result of a direct physical process of mind,--a mind athletic to grip the tangible, but which had not yet contracted for its spiritual endowment. In a word a splendid type of American with which to blend an ardently artistic temperament.... Paula, holding something of this conception of the capitalist, became eager to see what adjustment could follow a meeting with his complement in characteristic qualities--her revered mystic. Mr.

Stock was pacing up and down the mango grove. Leaving Father Fontanel on the veranda, she joined the American.

"I found a holy man down on the water-front, mildly inquiring who owned the _Saragossa_," she said laughingly, "and asked him to share my carriage. He has not told me what he wants, but he's a very wonderful priest."

She noted the instant contraction of his brows, and shrank inwardly at the hard, rapid tone, with which he darted the question:

"Are you a Catholic?"

"No, Mr. Stock."

"Yes. I'll see him." It was as if he were talking to his secretary, but Paula liked him too well to mind. They drew near the veranda.

"... Well, sir, what is it?" he spoke brusquely, and in French, studying the priest's upturned face. Mr. Stock believed he knew faces. Except for the years and the calling, he would have decided that Father Fontanel was rather too meek and feminine--at first glance.

"What I wished to ask depends upon your being here for a day or two,"

the priest said readily. "Father Pelee's hot breath is killing our children in the lower quarters of the city, and many of the poor women are suffering. The s.h.i.+p out in the harbor looked to me like a good angel with folded wings, as I walked the water-front this morning. I thought you would be glad to let me send some mothers and babies--to breathe the good air of the offing. A day, or a night and a day, may save lives."

Paula had felt a proprietary interest in Father Fontanel's mission, no matter what it proved to be. She was pleased beyond measure to find that he was entirely incapable of awe or cringing, before a man of stern and distinguished mien and of such commanding dignity. Moreover, he stated the favor quite as if it were an advantage which the American had not thought of for himself. So interested was she in the priest's utterance, that when her eyes turned from his face to Stock's--the alteration there amazed her. And like the natives of the water-front, the American did not seem to be _aware_ of the benign influence. He had followed the French sentences intently at first, but caught the whole idea before the priest was finished.

"Did you know I wasn't a Catholic?" he asked. The question apparently had been in his mind before he felt himself responding to the appeal.

"No," Father Fontanel answered sincerely. "The truth is, it didn't occur to me whether you were or not."

"Quite right," Mr. Stock said quickly. "It has no place, whatever, so long as you don't think so. You've got a good idea. I'll be here for a day or two. You'll need money to hire boats; then my first officer will have to be informed. My launch is at the Sugar Landing.... On second thought, I'll go back down-town with you.... Miss Wyndam--later in the day--a chat with you?"

"Of course."

Father Fontanel turned, thanking her with a smile. "And the name is 'Wyndam,'" he added. "I had not heard it before."

Paula watched them walking down the driveway to the carriage which she had retained for Father Fontanel. The inclination was full-formed to seek the solitude of her room and there review the whole delightful matter.... She was glad that the priest had not asked her name, for under his eyes--she could not have answered "Wyndam."

It was not until the following evening, after a day of actual physical suffering from Pelee and the heat, even on the _Morne_, that she had the promised talk with Peter Stock.

"I like your priest," he said, "He works like a man, and he hasn't got a crook in his back. What he wants he seems to get. I have sent over a hundred natives out yonder on the _Saragossa_, negotiated for the town's whole available supply of fresh milk, and Laird, my chief officer, is giving the party a little cruise to-night----"

"Do you know--I think it is splendid?" she exclaimed.

"What?"