Part 26 (1/2)

”Two women?” he repeated slowly.

”The one stayed in her home and prayed, and the other came.”

”I do not understand,” he said: and he spoke truly.

”Love is always praying for its own, therefore one woman prayed at home.

The other woman who came was full of grat.i.tude, for the man was n.o.ble, she owed him a great debt, and she believed in him always. She knew that if at any time in his life he had done wrong, the sin was without malice or evil.”

”The woman is gentle and pitiful with him, G.o.d knows.”

She spoke quietly now, and her gravity looked strange in one so young.

”G.o.d knows she is just, and would see him fairly treated. She is so far beneath him! and yet one can serve a friend though one is humble and poor.”

”How strange,” he rejoined, ”that the man should think himself miserable who is befriended in such a way! Mademoiselle, he will carry to his grave the kindness of this woman.”

”Monsieur,” she added humbly, yet with a brave light in her eyes, ”it is good to care whether the wind blows bitter or kind. Every true woman is a mother, though she have no child. She longs to protect the suffering, because to protect is in her so far as G.o.d is.... Well, this woman cares that way....” She held out her hand to say good-bye. Her look was simple, direct, and kind. Their parting words were few and unremarkable.

Roscoe watched Justine Caron as she pa.s.sed out into the shade of the woods, and he said to himself: ”Grat.i.tude like that is a wonderful thing.” He should have said something else, but he did not know, and she did not wish him to know: and he never knew.

CHAPTER XVI. A DUEL IN ARCADY

The more I thought of Mrs. Falchion's att.i.tude towards Roscoe, the more I was puzzled. But I had at last reduced the position to this: Years ago Roscoe had cared for her and she had not cared for him. Angered or indignant at her treatment of him, Roscoe's affections declined unworthily elsewhere. Then came a catastrophe of some kind, in which Alo (whoever she was) suffered. The secret of this catastrophe Mrs.

Falchion, as I believe, held. There was a parting, a lapse of years, and then the meeting on the 'Fulvia': with it, partial restoration of Mrs.

Falchion's influence, then its decline, and then a complete change of position. It was now Mrs. Falchion that cared, and Roscoe that shunned.

It perplexed me that there seemed to be behind Mrs. Falchion's present regard for Roscoe some weird expression of vengeance, as though somehow she had been wronged, and it was her duty to punish. In no other way was the position definable. That Roscoe would never marry her was certain to my mind. That he could not marry her now was also certain--to me; I had the means to prevent it. That she wished to marry him I was not sure, though she undoubtedly cared for him. Remained, therefore, the supposition that if he cared for her she would do him no harm, as to his position. But if he married Ruth, disaster would come--Roscoe himself acknowledged that she held the key of his fortunes.

Upon an impulse, and as a last resort, I had taken action whereby in some critical moment I might be able to wield a power over Mrs.

Falchion. I was playing a blind game, but it was the only card I held.

I had heard from the lawyer in Montreal that Madras, under another name, had gone to the prairie country to enter the mounted police. I had then telegraphed to Winnipeg, but had got no answer.

I had seen her many times, but we had never, except very remotely, touched upon the matter which was uppermost in both our minds. It was not my wish to force the situation. I knew that my opportunity would come wherein to spy upon the mind of the enemy. It came. On the evening that Justine Caron called upon Roscoe, I accidentally met Mrs. Falchion in the grounds of the hotel. She was with several people, and as I spoke to her she made a little gesture of invitation. I went over, was introduced to her companions, and then she said:

”Dr. Marmion, I have not yet made that visit to the salmon-fishers at Sunburst. Unfortunately, on the days when I called on Miss Devlin, my time was limited. But now I have a thirst for adventure, and time hangs heavy. Will you perform your old office of escort, and join a party, which we can make up here, to go there to-morrow?”

I had little love for Mrs. Falchion, but I consented, because it seemed to me the chance had come for an effective talk with her; and I suggested that we should go late in the afternoon of the next day, and remain till night and see the Indians, the half-breeds, and white fishermen working by torch-light on the river. The proposition was accepted with delight.

Then the conversation turned upon the feud that existed between Viking and Sunburst, the river-drivers and the fishers. During the last few days, owing to the fact that there were a great many idle river-men about, the river-driving for the season being done, there had been more than one quarrel of a serious nature at Sunburst. It had needed a great deal of watchfulness on the part of Mr. Devlin and his supporters to prevent fighting. In Sunburst itself, Mr. Devlin had much personal influence. He was a man of exceedingly strong character, bold, powerful, persuasive. But this year there had been a large number of rough, adventurous characters among the river-men, and they seemed to take delight in making sport of, and even interfering with, the salmon-fishers. We talked of these things for some time, and then I took my leave. As I went, Mrs. Falchion stepped after me, tapped me on the arm, and said in a slow, indolent tone:

”Whenever you and I meet, Dr. Marmion, something happens--something strange. What particular catastrophe have you arranged for to-morrow?

For you are, you know, the chorus to the drama.”

”Do not spoil the play by antic.i.p.ation,” I said.

”One gets very weary of tragedy,” she retorted. ”Comedy would be a relief. Could you not manage it?”

”I do not know about to-morrow,” I said, ”as to a comedy. But I promise you that one of these days I will present to you the very finest comedy imaginable.”