Part 21 (1/2)

She sprang away from him, with a quick exclamation of excitement.

”Oh, come then!” she cried impulsively, and caught his hand to pull him toward the door.

Father Anton turned away his head. Tears had sprung to his eyes. He was indeed a criminal--the criminal of the ages! But if it would save Marie-Louise! Ah, yes, he must keep that thought always before him.

He looked at her again, as he fumbled once more with his spectacles.

”Yes, yes; at once!” he said mechanically. ”But”--he was staring at her now in sudden consternation--”but you cannot go like that! Have you no other clothes?”

She pointed at the little bundle on the floor.

He shook his head.

”No hat? No coat?”

”No-o,” she said tremulously, as though she sensed an impending tragedy.

”But this is not Bernay-sur-Mer, Marie-Louise!” he said, in concern.

”You cannot go about dressed like that in Paris; and, besides, you would freeze, my child.”

She looked at him in silence--a sort of pitiful despair, mingling bitter disappointment and helpless dependence, in her eyes, in the expression of her face.

”Tut, tut!” murmured Father Anton, pulling at his under lip. And then quickly: ”But wait--wait! We shall see!” And he ran into the other room.

There were always clothes there--for his poor. The rich people, the friends of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss were always sending him their old things for distribution amongst his poor. Mademoiselle Bliss had sent him a package that afternoon. He remembered that there was a long cloak and a hat amongst the other things. Ah, yes; here they were! He held them up to look at them in the light from the doorway of the connecting rooms. They had strange notions about ”old things,” the rich! These, for example--he turned them about in the light--were as good as new. They bought clothes one day, the rich, wore them the afternoon, and gave them to him the next morning--because overnight there had been created a new style! Father Anton smiled at his little conceit. But it was almost literally true. He had seen Myrna Bliss wearing these very things only a few days ago--the same black velvet cloak, and the same black velvet turban with the little white c.o.c.kade.

At least, he supposed it was a c.o.c.kade! Ah, well--he shrugged his shoulders--his poor were the gainers!

”Here, Marie-Louise!” he called out, returning into the front room.

”You may have these, child.”

”Oh!” she exclaimed, as she took them. Her eyes widened. ”Oh--they are pretty! But--but, Father Anton, where did you get them? They are new.”

”No, not quite,” he smiled; ”but new enough, I think, to last you all the winter. They were”--he stopped suddenly, in gentle tactfulness.

Marie-Louise knew Myrna Bliss--it might cause her diffidence if she were aware that the cloak and hat had been mademoiselle's. ”They were sent to me by the rich people amongst many other things,” he amended, ”to be distributed where”--he smiled again--”where I think they will do most good. So now they are yours. Put them on, and we will go.”

”Oh, Father Anton!” she cried again, in wonder at the sudden luxury that was hers--and slipped on the cloak; and ran to the cure's shaving gla.s.s, which was the only semblance of a mirror in evidence, to set the turban daintily upon her head. ”Dear, dear Father Anton--how good you are!”

But Father Anton did not answer. He was brus.h.i.+ng his threadbare black overcoat--and making a very poor business of it. There was a great lump in his throat that refused to go either up or down--and he brushed continuously at one sleeve, because that was all he could see through the sudden mist that had come before his eyes. And then, as he caught her gazing at him, he put on the coat hurriedly.

”Yes, yes,” he said hastily. ”But we are all ready, are we not--eh?

Come then, Marie-Louise, we will go.”

And presently they were on the street--and somehow to Father Anton the crisp cold of the night was very grateful, preferable for once to the soft warmth of his far-away South, since the hot flushes now kept coming and burning in his cheeks, as he walked abstractedly along. And they were silent for a little while, until a pressure of her fingers on his arm aroused him, and he turned his head to look at her. Her cheeks, too, he could see even in the murky light from the street lamps, were flushed, and the dark eyes were very bright.

”Couldn't--couldn't we hurry a little, Monsieur le Cure?” she suggested timidly.

”Hurry? Ah--you are cold!” he said contritely, and quickened his step.

”No,” she answered. ”I--it is only that it might be over--that we might be too late.”