Part 16 (1/2)

”That will do, thank you,” he said. ”Give me the whole packet.” She wrapped it up for him without a word, and he laid down a two-dollar note, the last he had in the world.

”How much of this paper have you?” he asked. The girl looked under the counter. ”Six packets,” she said. ”Six, and a few sheets over.”

”I will take it all. But keep it for me, for a week, or perhaps a fortnight, will you?” He did not need all this paper to write letters upon, yet he meant to buy all the paper of this sort that the shop contained. But he must get money from Louis Trudel--he would speak about it to-morrow.

”Monsieur does not want me to sell even the loose sheets?”

”No. I like the paper, and I will take it all.”

”Very good, Monsieur.”

Her heart was beating hard. All this man did had peculiar significance to her. His look seemed to say: ”Do not fear. I will tell you things.”

She gave him the parcel and the change, and he turned to go. ”You read much?” he asked, almost casually, yet deeply interested in the charm and intelligence of her face.

”Why, yes, Monsieur,” she answered quickly. ”I am always reading.”

He did not speak at once. He was wondering whether, in this primitive place, such a mind and nature would be the wiser for reading; whether it were not better to be without a mental aspiration, which might set up false standards.

”What are you reading now?” he asked, with his hand on the door.

”Antony and Cleopatra, also Enoch Arden,” she answered, in good English, and without accent.

His head turned quickly towards her, but he did not speak.

”Enoch Arden is terrible,” she added eagerly. ”Don't you think so, Monsieur?”

”It is very painful,” he answered. ”Good-night.” He opened the door and went out.

She ran to the door and watched him go down the street. For a little she stood thinking, then, turning to the counter, and s.n.a.t.c.hing up a sheet of the paper he had bought, held it up to the light. She gave a cry of amazement.

”Kathleen!” she exclaimed.

She thought of the start he gave when he looked at the water-mark; she thought of the look on his face when he said he would buy all this paper she had.

”Who was Kathleen?” she whispered, as though she was afraid some one would hear. ”Who was Kathleen!” she said again resentfully.

CHAPTER XVI. MADAME DAUPHIN HAS A MISSION

One day Charley began to know the gossip of the village about him from a source less friendly than Jo Portugais. The Notary's wife, bringing her boy to be measured for a suit of broadcloth, asked Charley if the things Jo had told about him were true, and if it was also true that he was a Protestant, and perhaps an Englishman. As yet, Charley had been asked no direct questions, for the people of Chaudiere had the consideration of their temperament; but the Notary's wife was half English, and being a figure in the place, she took to herself more privileges than did old Madame Dugal, the Cure's sister.

To her ill-disguised impertinence in English, as bad as her French and as fluent, Charley listened with quiet interest. When she had finished her voluble statement she said, with a simper and a sneer-for, after all, a Notary's wife must keep her position--”And now, what is the truth about it? And are you a Protestant?”

There was a sinister look in old Trudel's eyes as, cross-legged on his table, he listened to Madame Dauphin. He remembered the time, twenty-five years ago, when he had proposed to this babbling woman, and had been rejected with scorn--to his subsequent satisfaction; for there was no visible reason why any one should envy the Notary, in his house or out of it. Already Trudel had a respect for the tongue of M'sieu'.

He had not talked much the few days he had been in the shop, but, as the old man had said to Filion Laca.s.se the saddler, his brain was like a pair of shears--it went clip, clip, clip right through everything. He now hoped that his new apprentice, with the hand of a master-workman, would go clip, clip through madame's inquisitiveness. He was not disappointed, for he heard Charley say:

”One person in the witness-box at a time, Madame. Till Jo Portugais is cross-examined and steps down, I don't see what I can do!”

”But you are a Protestant!” said the woman snappishly. This man was only a tailor, dressed in fulled cloth, and no doubt his past life would not bear inspection; and she was the Notary's wife, and had said to people in the village that she would find out the man's history from himself.