EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

  PAULA IS INVOLVED IN THE RENDING FORTUNES OF SAINT PIERRE AND _THEPANTHER_ CALLS WITH NEW YORK MAIL

  Father Fontanel was out in the parish somewhere. One of the washer-womentold her this, at the door of the church. There were many sick in thecity from the great heat and the burned air--many little children sick.Father Fontanel always sought the sick in body; those who were sick insoul, sought him.... So the woman of the river-banks, in her simple way,augmented the story of the priest's love for his people. Paula restedfor a few moments in the dim transept. Natives moved in and out for abreath of coolness, some pausing to kneel upon the worn tiles of thenave. Later she walked among the lower streets of the suffering city,her heart filled with pity for the throngs housed on the low breathlesswater-front. Except when the wind was straight from the volcano, thehotel on the _Morne d'Orange_ was made livable by the cool Trades.

  The clock in the _Hopital l'Militaire_ struck the hour of nine. Paulahad just hired a carriage at the Sugar Landing, when her eye wasattracted by a small crowd gathering near the water's edge. The blackcassock of a priest in the midst drew her hurrying forward. A young man,she thought at first, from the frail shoulders and the slender waist....A negress had fallen from the heat. Her burdens lay together upon theshore--a tray of cakes from her head, and a naked babe from her arms....A glimpse at the priest's profile, and she needed not to be told thatthis was the holy man of Saint Pierre.

  Happiness lived in the face above the deep pity of the moment. It was anattraction of light, like the brow of Mary in Murillo's _ImmaculateConception_; or like that instant ethereal radiance which shines fromthe face of a little child passing away without pain. The years had putan exquisite nobility upon the plain countenance, and the inner life hadadded the gleam of adoration--"the rapture-light of holy vigils kept."

  Paula rubbed her eyes, afraid lest it were not true; afraid for a momentthat it was her own meditations that had wrought this miracle in clay.Lingering, she ceased to doubt the soul's transfiguration.... FatherFontanel beckoned a huge negro from a lighter laden withmolasses-casks--a man of strength, bare to the waist.

  "Take the little mother to my house," he said.

  A young woman standing by was given charge of the child.... "Lift hergently, Strong Man. The woman will show you the way to the door." Thenraising his voice to the crowd, the priest added, "You who arewell--tell others that it is yet cool in the church. Carry the ailingones there, and the little children. Father Pelee will soon be silentagain.... Does any one happen to know who owns the beautiful ship in theharbor?"

  His French sentences seemed lifted above a pervasive hush upon theshore. The native faces wore a curious look of adulation; and Paulamarvelled in that they seemed unconscious of this. She was not aCatholic; yet she uttered his name with a thrilling rapture, and with ameaning she had never known before:

  "Father Fontanel----"

  He turned, instantly divining her inspiration.

  "Mr. Stock, who owns the ship yonder, is staying at the _Hotel desPalms_," she said quickly. "I have a carriage here. I was thinking thatthe sick woman and her child might be taken to your house in that.Afterward, when she is cared for, you might wish to ride with me to theHotel--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 andtenderness which shadowed the eyes. His mouth was wonderful to her,quite as virgin to the iron of self-repression as to the soft fullnessof physical desire. This was the marvel of the face--it was abovebattle. Here were eyes that had seen the Glory and retained an unearthlyhappiness--a face that moved among the lowly, loved, pitied, abode withthem; 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 meethim, Child?"

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

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

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

  "No, I saw a resemblance--rather some relationship of yours to mywonderful young friend.... He said he would come again to me."

  She had spoken of Hearn in the hope that Father Fontanel would bereminded of another writer whose name she did not care to mention. Hisidea of relationship startled her to the heart; yet when she askedfurther, the good man could not explain. It had merely been his firstthought, 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,--suchthirsts as I have never known. Some moments as he walked beside me, Ihave felt him--like a giant with wolves pulling at his thighs, andangels lifting his arms. Great strength of mind, his presence endowedme, so that I would have seen more of him, and more,--but he will comeback! And I know that the wolves shall have been slain, when he comesagain----"

  "And the angels, Father?" she whispered.

  "Such are the companions of the Lifted, my daughter.... It is when Imeet one of great conflicts that I am suffused with the spirit ofworship in that I am spared. God makes my way so easy that I must wonderif I am not one of His very weak. It must be so, for my mornings andevenings are made lovely by the Presence. My people hearken unto myprayers for them; they love me and bring their little children for myblessing--until I am so happy that I cry aloud for some great work to dothat I may strive heroically to show my gratitude to God--and lo, thedoors 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 silentmystic stirring--akin to that endearing miracle enacted in aconservatory of flowers, when the morning sun first floods down upon theglass.... The initial doubt of her own valor in suffering Selma Cross toshatter her Tower, sprang into being now. Father Fontanel loved him, andhad looked within.

  That the priest had perceived a "relationship" swept into the woman'ssoul. Low logic wrought from the physical contacts of Selma Crosstrembled before the other immaterial suggestion--that Quentin Charterwould come back to Saint Pierre triumphantly companioned, his wolvesslain.... She forgot nothing of the actress's point of view; nor thatthe Westerner did not reach her floor in the _Zoroaster_ and encounteran old attraction by accident. He was not one to force his way there, ifthe man at the elevator told him Miss Linster was not in. All of thesethings which had driven her to action were still inexplicable, but finalcondemnation 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 wellto come here.... Again swept into mind, Quentin Charter's silent part insaving her from the Destroyer--the book, the letter, the voice; even tothis sanctuary she had come through a sentence from him. For a momentthe old master-romance shone glorious again--like a lone, valiant starglimpsed in the rift of storm-hurled clouds.

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

  "Father," Paula said, remembering the words of the washer-woman, as theyemerged into the street, "when one is sick of soul--does one knockhere?"

  "One does not knock, but enters straightway," he answered. "The door isnever 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, thoughshe had something of an idea regarding the priest's purpose in askingfor Peter Stock. Though she had formed a very high opinion of theAmerican, it occurred to her that he would hardly approve of any onedirecting arteries of philanthropy to his hand. He had been one of thoseruffian giants of the elder school of finance who began with the axe andthe plow; whose health, character and ethics had been wrought upon theanvil of privation; whose culture began in middle life, and, beinghard-earned, was eminent in the foreground of mind--austere andinelastic, this culture, yet solidly founded. Stock was rich and lovedto give, but was rather ashamed of it. Paula could imagine him saying,"I hate the whining of the strong." For twenty years since hisretirement, he had voyaged about the world, learning to love beautifulthings, and giving possibly many small fortunes away; yet he much wouldhave preferred to acknowledge that he had knocked down a brute thanendowed an asylum. Mr. Stock was firm in opinion, dutiful inappreciation for the fine. His sayings were strongly savored, reliantwith facts; his every thought was the result of a direct physicalprocess of mind,--a mind athletic to grip the tangible, but which hadnot yet contracted for its spiritual endowment. In a word a splendidtype of American with which to blend an ardently artistictemperament.... Paula, holding something of this conception of thecapitalist, became eager to see what adjustment could follow a meetingwith his complement in characteristic qualities--her revered mystic. Mr.Stock was pacing up and down the mango grove. Leaving Father Fontanel onthe veranda, she joined the American.

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

  She noted the instant contraction of his brows, and shrank inwardly atthe 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, butPaula liked him too well to mind. They drew near the veranda.

  "... Well, sir, what is it?" he spoke brusquely, and in French, studyingthe priest's upturned face. Mr. Stock believed he knew faces. Except forthe years and the calling, he would have decided that Father Fontanelwas 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 ourchildren in the lower quarters of the city, and many of the poor womenare suffering. The ship out in the harbor looked to me like a good angelwith folded wings, as I walked the water-front this morning. I thoughtyou would be glad to let me send some mothers and babies--to breathe thegood 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, nomatter what it proved to be. She was pleased beyond measure to find thathe was entirely incapable of awe or cringing, before a man of stern anddistinguished mien and of such commanding dignity. Moreover, he statedthe favor quite as if it were an advantage which the American had notthought 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 thereamazed her. And like the natives of the water-front, the American didnot seem to be _aware_ of the benign influence. He had followed theFrench sentences intently at first, but caught the whole idea before thepriest was finished.

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

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

  "Quite right," Mr. Stock said quickly. "It has no place, whatever, solong as you don't think so. You've got a good idea. I'll be here for aday or two. You'll need money to hire boats; then my first officer willhave to be informed. My launch is at the Sugar Landing.... On secondthought, I'll go back down-town with you.... Miss Wyndam--later in theday--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 shehad retained for Father Fontanel. The inclination was full-formed toseek the solitude of her room and there review the whole delightfulmatter.... She was glad that the priest had not asked her name, forunder his eyes--she could not have answered "Wyndam."

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

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

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

  "What?"

  "The work--your ship filled with gasping unfortunates from the city!"

  "Do you happen to know of any reason why an idle ship should not be usedfor some such purpose?"

  "None, whatever," she said demurely, quite willing that he should adjustthe matter to suit himself. His touchiness upon the subject of his ownbenefactions remanded her pleasurably of Reifferscheid. Her inward joywas to study in Peter Stock the unacknowledged influence of FatherFontanel--or was it an unconscious influence? The American's furtheractivities unfolded:

  "By the way, have you been reading the French paper here--_LesColonies_?"

  Paula had not.

  "The editor, M. Mondet, is the smug authority for a statement yesterdaythat Saint Pierre is in absolutely no danger from the mountain. Now, ofcourse, this may be true, but he doesn't know it--unless he should havethe Dealer in Destiny on the wire. There is always a big enoughpercentage of foolish virgins in a city, so it peeved me to find one inthe sole editorial capacity. My first impulse was to calk up the throatof M. Mondet with several sheets of his abominable assurances. This Irestrained, but nevertheless I called upon him to-day. His next issueappears day after to-morrow, and my idea is for him to print a vigorouswarning against Pelee. Why, he could clear the town of ten thousandpeople for a few days--until the weather settles. Incidentally, if themountain took on a sudden destroying streak--just see what he would havedone! Some glory in saving lives on that scale."

  "Vine leaves, indeed," said Paula, "Did M. Mondet tell you he wouldprint this warning?"

  "Not exactly. He pointed out the cost of detaching a third of the city'sinhabitants. I told him how this cost could be brought down withinreason, and showed myself not unwilling to back the exodus. I'm apractical man, Miss Wyndam, and these things look bigger than theyreally are. But you never can tell what a tubby little Frenchman willdo. It's atrocious for a man in his position to say that a volcano won'tvolcane--sorely tempting to old Father Pelee--a sort of challenge. Itwould be bad enough to play Pilate and wash his hands of the city'sdanger--but to be a white-lipped, kissing Judas at the last supper ofSaint Pierre----"

  "Did you tell him that?" Paula asked hastily.

  "Not in those words, Miss Wyndam, but he seemed to be a bit afraid ofme--kept watching my hands and pulling at his cravat. When he finallyshowed me to the door, his was the delicacy of one who handles dynamite.At all events, I'm waiting for his next issue to see if my call 'took!'I really do wish that a lot of these people would forget their clothes,chickens, coals, coins, and a
ll such, for a few days and camp somewherebetween here and Fort de France."

  Paula was thrilled by the American's zeal. He was not content, now thathe had begun, to deal with boatloads, but wanted to stir the city. Shewould have given much to know the exact part of Father Fontanel in thisrousing ardor of her new friend. "And you really think Pelee may nothold out?" she asked.

  "I'm not a monomaniac--at least, not yet," he replied, and his voicesuggested a certain pent savagery in his brain. "Call it an experimentthat I'm sufficiently interested in to finance. The ways of volcanoesare past the previsions of men. I'd like to get a lot of folks out ofthe fire-zone, until Pelee is cool--or a billion tons lighter. Thisordered-up-to-Nineveh business is out of my line, but it's absorbing. Idon't say that Pelee will blow his head off this week or thismillennium, but I do say that there are vaults of explosives in thatmonster, the smallest of which could make this city look like a leper'scorpse upon the beach. I say that the internal fires are burning high;that they're already playing about the vital cap; that Pelee has alreadysprung several leaks, and that the same force which lifted this cheerfularchipelago from the depths of the sea is pressing against the cratersat this moment. I say that Vesuvius warned before he broke; thatKrakatoa warned and then struck; that down the ages these safety valvesscattered over the face of the earth have mercifully joggled beforegiving way; that Pelee is joggling now."

  "If M. Mondet would write just that," Paula said softly, "I think youwould have your exodus."

  She sought her room shortly afterward. Pelee's moods had been variablethat day. The north had been obscured by a fresh fog in the afternoon.The ash and sulphur fumes, cruel to the lungs on the breezy _Morne_, sixmiles from the craters, gave her an intimation of the anguish of thepeople in the intervening depression where the city lay. The twilighthad brought ease again and a ten-minute shower, so there was realfreshness in the early evening. Rippling waves of merriment reached herfrom the darky quarters, as the young men from the fields came forth tobathe in the sea. Never before was the volatile tropic soul so stronglyevidenced for her understanding, as in that glad hour ofreaction--simple hearts to glow at little things, whose swift tragediescome and go like blighting winds which, though they may slay, leave nowound; instant to gladden in the groves of serenity, when a black cloudhas blown by.

  Her mind was sleepless.... Once, long after midnight, when she fell intoa doze, it was only to be awakened by a dream of a garrote upon herthroat. The ash had thickened again, and the air was acrid. The hoursseemed to fall asleep in passing. From her balcony she peered into thedead-black of the North where Pelee rumbled at intervals. Back in thesouth, the blurred moon impended with an evil light. A faint wailing ofchildren reached her from the servants' cabins. The sense of isolationwas dreadful for a moment. It seemed to rest entirely with her that timepassed at all; that she must grapple with each moment and fight it backinto the past....

  The _Panther_, a fast ship with New York mail, was due to call at SaintPierre within forty-eight hours. Paula, to hasten the passing of time,determined to take the little steamer over to Fort de France for a day,if morning ever came. She must have slept an hour after this decision,for she was unconscious of the transition from darkness to the parchedand brilliant dawn which roused her tired eyes. The glass showed her apallid face, darkly-lined.

  The blinding light from the East changed the dew to steam before ittouched the ground. The more delicate blossoms in the gardens witheredin that hectic burning before the sun was an hour high. Driving downthrough the city to the Landing she found the _Rue Victor Hugo_ almostdeserted. The _porteuses_ were gone from the highway; all doors weretightly shut, strangely marring the tropical effect; broken window-paneswere stuffed with cloths to keep out the vitiated air. The tough littleisland mules (many in their panniers with no one leading), scarcelymoved, and hugged the east walls for shade. From the by-ways sheimagined the smell of death.

  * * * * *

  "Hottest morning Saint Pierre has known for years," the captain said, asshe boarded the little steamer which hurriedly put off.... Night hadfallen (and there had been little to break the misery of Saint Pierrethat day), when she reached the Hotel once more. She retired immediatelyafter dinner to take advantage of a fresh, south wind which came withthe dark and promised to make sleep possible.... Rumblings from thevolcano awoke her just before dawn. Glancing out over the harbor, sheperceived the lights of a big liner lying near the _Saragossa_. Therewas no sleep after this discovery, since she felt this must be the_Panther_ with letters from New York. According to her schedule, thesteamer had cleared from Manhattan a full week after the _Fruitlands_.Paula breakfasted early, and inquired at the desk how soon the mailswould be distributed.

  "Did you arrange at the post-office to have your mail sent care of theHotel?" the clerk inquired.

  "Yes."

  "The bags should be here very shortly, Miss Wyndam. The _Panther_anchored at two this morning."

  "Please send any letters for me to my room at once," she told him, andwent there to wait, so that she might be alone to read.... MadameNestor's writing was upon one envelope, and Reifferscheid's uponanother, a large one, which contained mail sent to Paula Linster in hiscare to be forwarded to Laura Wyndam, among them letters from SelmaCross and Quentin Charter, as well as a note from the editor himself.

  The latter she read first, since the pages were loose in the bigenvelope. It was a joyous, cheery message, containing a humorous accountof those who called to inquire about her, a bit of the gospel of workand a hope for her health--the whole, brief, fine and tonic--like herfriend.... Tearing open the Charter letter, she fell into a vortex ofemotions:

  This is my fifth day in New York, dear Skylark, and I have ceased trying to find you. It was not to trouble or frighten you that I searched, but because I think if you understood entirely, you would not hide from me. I hope Miss Cross has had better success than I in learning your whereabouts, because she has changed certain views regarding me. If you shared with her those former views, it is indeed important that you learn the truth, though it is not for me to put such things in a letter. I have not seen Miss Cross since that first night; nor have I had the heart yet to see _The Thing_. Reifferscheid tells me that you may be out of the city for two or three months. I counted him a very good friend of mine, but he treats me now with a peculiar aversion, such as I should consider proper for one to hold toward a wife-beater. It is all very strange and subtly terrifying--this ordeal for which I have been prepared. I see now that I needed the three full years of training. What I cannot quite adjust yet is that I should have made you suffer. My every thought blessed you. My thoughts bless you to-night--sweet gift of the world to me.

  Live in the sun and rest, Skylark; put away all shadowy complications--and you will bring back a splendid store of energy for the tenser New York life. I could not have written so calmly a few days ago, for to have you think evil of me drove straight and swiftly to the very centres of sanity--but I have won back through thoughts of you, a noon-day courage; and it has come to me that our truer relation is but beginning.

  I have not yet the fibre for work; New York is empty without you, as my garret would be without your singing. I shall go away somewhere for a little, leaving my itinerary--when I decide upon it--at the _Granville_. Some time soon I shall hear from you. All shall be restored--even serenity to your beautiful spirit. I only suffer now in that it proved business of mine to bring you agony. I wanted to make you glad through and through; to lift your spirit, not to weight it down; to make you wiser, happier,--to keep you _winged_. This, as I know the truth, has been my constant outbreathing to you....

  My window at the _Granville_ faces the East--the East to which I have come--yet from the old ways, I still look to the East for you. New York has found her Spring--a warm, almost vernal night, this, and I
smell the sea.... Two big, gray dusty moths are fluttering at the glass--softly, eagerly to get at the light--as if they knew best.... They have found the way in, for the window was partly open, and have burned their wings at the electric bulb. The analogy is inevitable ... but _you_ would not be hurt, for flame would meet flame.... I turned off the light a moment and remembered that you have already been hurt, but that was rather because flame was not restored by flame....

  One moth has gone away. The other has curled up on my table like a faded cotton umbrella. So many murder the soul this way in the pursuit of dead intellectual brilliance....

  Bless your warm heart that brims with singing--singing which I must hear again.... An old sensation comes to me now as I cease to write. My garret always used to grow empty and heartless--as I closed and sealed a letter to you.... You are radiant in the heart of Quentin Charter.

  She was unconscious of passing time, until her eye was attracted by theheavy handwriting of Selma Cross upon a _Herriot Theatre_ envelope. Thiscommunication was an attempt to clear herself with Paula, whoseintrinsic clarity had always attracted truth from the actress; also itseemed to contain a struggle to adjust herself, when once she began towrite, to the garment of nettles she had woven from mixed motives.

  I am almost frantic searching for you. I knew you were in the hall _that night_, because I saw your hat as you started to walk down. Charter was saying things about the stage that made me want to shut the door, but I must tell you why I made him come there. When it occurred to me how horribly you had been hurt by my disclosures regarding him, the thought drove home that there might be some mistake. You would not see him, so I sent a telephone-message to the _Granville_ for him to call. He, of course, thought the message from you. Indeed, he would not have come otherwise. He avoided me before, and that night, he certainly would have seen no one but you. Our elevator-man at the _Zoroaster_ had orders from me to show a gentleman inquiring for you about seven, to my apartment.

  My thought was, to learn if by any possibility I was wrong in what I had told you. I even thought I might call you in that night. Anyway, you would be just across the hall--to hear at once any good word. He thought at first that it was a trap that _we_ had arranged--that you were somewhere in the apartment listening! Oh, I'm all in a welter of words--there is so much, and your big brute of an editor would give me no help. The woman in your rooms is quite as blank about you. I never beat so helplessly against a wall.

  But here's the truth: Charter did not talk about our relations. Villiers had a spy watching all our movements--and was thus informed. Then, when he got back, Villiers told me that Charter had talked to men--all the things that his spy had learned. He did this to make me hate Charter. This is the real truth. Charter seems to have become a monk in the three years. This is not so pleasant to write as it will be for you to read, but he would not even mention your name in my room! I want to say that if it is not you--some woman has the new Quentin Charter heart and soul. I could have done the thing better, but the dramatic possibility of calling him to the _Zoroaster_ blinded my judgment, and what a hideous farce it turned out! But you have the truth, and I, my lesson. Please forgive your fond old neighbor--who wasn't started out with all the breeding in the world, but who meant to be square with you.

  Paula felt that she could go down into the tortured city at this momentwith healing for every woe. She paced the room, and with outstretchedarms, poured forth an ecstasy of gratitude for his sake; for therestoration of her Tower; for this new and glorious meaning of herwomanhood. The thought of returning to New York by the first boatoccurred; and the advisability of cabling Quentin Charter for his easeof mind.... At all events, the time of the next steamer's leaving forNew York must be ascertained at once. She was putting on her hat, whenMadame Nestor's unopened letter checked her precipitation. The firstline brought back old fears:

  I'm afraid I have betrayed you, my beloved Paula. It is hard that my poor life should be capable of this. Less than two hours ago, as I was busied about the apartment, the bell rang and I answered. At the door stood Bellingham. He caught my eyes and held them. I remember that instant, the suffocation,--the desperate but vain struggle to keep my self-control. Alas, he had subjected my will too thoroughly long ago. Almost instantly, I succumbed to the old mastery.... When his control was lifted, I was still standing by the opened door, but he was gone. The elevator was at the ground-floor. He must have passed by me and into the apartment, for one of your photographs was gone. I don't think he came for that, though of course it will help him to concentrate I cannot tell what else happened in the interval, but my dreadful fear is that he made me divulge your place of refuge. What other purpose could he have? It is almost unbearable that I should be forced to tell him--when I love you so--if, indeed, that has come to pass.... He has altered terribly since the accident. I think he has lost certain of his powers--that his thwarted desire is murdering him. He did not formerly need a photograph to concentrate. His eyes burned into mine like a wolf's. I know, even in my sorrow, that yours is to be the victory. He is breaking up or he would not _come to you_....

  For a moment or two Paula was conscious of Pelee, and the gray menacethat charged the burnt-out air.

  Then came the thought of Father Fontanel and the door that was neverlocked; and presently her new joy returned with ever-risingvibration--until the long-abated powers of her life were fully vitalizedagain.... She was wondering, as she stepped into the hall and turned thekey in her door, if she would be considered rather tumultuous in cablingCharter.... At the stairway, she halted, fearing at first some newmental seizure; then every faculty furiously-nerved, she listened at thebalustrade for the repetition of a voice that an instant before hadthrilled her to the soul.... There had only been a sentence or two fromthe Voice. Peter Stock was now replying:

  "He's a man-servant of the devil, this pudgy editor," he said stridingup and down the lower hall in his rage. "A few days ago I called uponhim, and in sweet modesty and limping French explained the proper policyfor him to take about this volcano. To-day he devotes a half-column ofinsufferable humor to my force of character and alarmist views. Oh, theflakiness of the French mind! M. Mondet certainly fascinates me. I shallhave to call upon him again."

  Paula heard the low laugh of the other and the words:

  "Let's sit down, Mr. Stock. I want to hear all about the editor and themountain. I was getting to sea somewhere, when the New York papers ran aline about Pelee's activity. It started luring memories, and I berthedat once for Saint Pierre. It was mighty good to see the _Saragossa_lying familiarly in the roadstead----"

  Trailing her fingers along the wall to steady herself, Paula made herway back to the door of her room, which she fumblingly unlocked.

 
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