La vie est un combat qu'ils ont change en fete.
_Lei Elus_, E. VERHAIREN.
The excitement a few days later spread through the village like a
flame. People came out of their way to steal a glance at the Pension
that now, for the first time in their--memory, was free of debt. Gygi,
tolling the bell at _midi_, forgot to stop, as he peered through the
narrow window in the church tower and watched the Widow Jequier
planting and digging recklessly in her garden. Several came running
down the street, thinking it was a warning of fire.
But the secret was well kept; no one discovered who had worked the
miracle. Pride sealed the lips of the beneficiaries themselves, while
the inhabitants of the Citadelle, who alone shared the knowledge, kept
the facts secret, as in honour bound. Every one wondered, however, for
every one knew the sum ran into several thousand francs; and a
thousand francs was a fortune; the rich man in the corner house, who
owned so many vineyards, and was reputed to enjoy an income of ten
thousand francs a year, was always referred to as 'le million naire.'
And so the story spread that Madame Jequier had inherited a fortune,
none knew whence. The tradespeople treated her thereafter with a
degree of respect that sweetened her days till the end of life.
She had come back from the Bank in a fainting condition, the sudden
joy too much for her altogether. A remote and inaccessible air
pervaded her, for all the red of her inflamed eyes and tears. She was
aloof from the world, freed at last from the ceaseless, gnawing
anxiety that for years had eaten her life out. The spirits had
justified themselves, and faith and worship had their just reward. But
this was only the first, immediate effect: it left her greater than it
found her, this unexpected, huge relief--brimming with new sympathy
for others. She doubled her gifts. She planned a wonderful new garden.
That very night she ordered such a quantity of bulbs and seedlings
that to this day they never have been planted.
Her interview with Henry Rogers, when she called at the carpenter's
house in all her finery, cannot properly be told, for it lay beyond
his powers of description. Her sister accompanied her; the Postmaster,
too, snatched fifteen minutes from his duties to attend. The ancient
tall hat, worn only at funerals as a rule, was replaced by the black
Trilby that had been his portion from the Magic Box, as he followed
the excited ladies at a reasonable distance. 'You had better show
yourself,' his wife suggested; 'Monsieur Rogairs would like to see you
with us--to know that you are there.' Which meant that he was not to
interfere with the actual thanksgiving, but to countenance the
occasion with his solemn presence. And, indeed, he did not go
upstairs. He paced the road beneath the windows during the interview,
looking exactly like a professional mourner waiting for the arrival of
the hearse.
'My dear old friend--friends, I mean,' said Rogers in his fluent and
very dreadful French, 'if you only knew what a pleasure it is to
_me_--It is _I_ who should thank you for giving me the opportunity,
not you who should thank me.' The sentence broke loose utterly,
wandering among intricacies of grammar and subjunctive moods that took
his breath away as he poured it out. 'I was only afraid you would
think it unwarrantable interference. I am delighted that you let me do
it. It's such a little thing to do.'
Both ladies instantly wept. The Widow came closer with a little rush.
Whether Rogers was actually embraced, or no, it is not stated
officially.
'It is a loan, of course, it is a loan,' cried the Widow.
'It is a present,' he said firmly, loathing the scene.
'It's a part repayment for all the kindness you showed me here as a
boy years and years ago.' Then, remembering that the sister was not
known to him in those far-away days, he added clumsily, 'and since--I
came back.... And now let's say no more, but just keep the little
secret to ourselves. It is nobody's business but our own.'
'A present!' gasped both ladies to one another, utterly overcome; and
finding nothing else to embrace, they flung their arms about each
other's necks and praised the Lord and wept more copiously than
ever.... 'Grand ciel' was heard so frequently, and so loudly, that
Madame Michaud, the carpenter's wife, listening on the stairs, made up
her mind it was a quarrel, and wondered if she ought to knock at the
door and interfere.
'I see your husband in the road,' said Rogers, tapping at the window.
'I think he seems waiting for you. Or perhaps he has a telegram for
me, do you think?' He bowed and waved his hand, smiling as the
Postmaster looked up in answer to the tapping and gravely raised his
Trilby hat.
'There now, he's calling for you. Do not keep him waiting--I'm sure--'
he didn't know what to say or how else to get them out. He opened the
door. The farewells took some time, though they would meet an hour
later at _dejeuner_ as usual.
'At least you shall pay us no more _pension_,' was the final sentence
as they flounced downstairs, so happy and excited that they nearly
tumbled over each other, and sharing one handkerchief to dry their
tears.
'Then I shall buy my own food and cook it here,' he laughed, and
somehow managed to close his door upon the retreating storm. Out of
the window he saw the procession go back, the sombre figure of the
Postmaster twenty yards behind the other two.
And then, with joy in his heart, though a sigh of relief upon his
lips--there may have been traces of a lump somewhere in his throat as
well, but if so, he did not acknowledge it--he turned to his letters,
and found among them a communication from Herbert Montmorency Minks,
announcing that he had found an ideal site, and that it cost so and so
much per acre--also that the County Council had made no difficulties.
There was a hint, moreover--a general flavour of resentment and
neglect at his master's prolonged absence--that it would not be a bad
thing for the great Scheme if Mr. Rogers could see his way to return
to London 'before very long.'
'Bother the fellow!' thought he; 'what a nuisance he is, to be sure!'
And he answered him at once. 'Do not trouble
about a site just yet,' he wrote; 'there is no hurry for the moment.'
He made a rapid calculation in his head. He had paid those mortgages
out of capital, and the sum represented just about the cost of the
site Minks mentioned. But results were immediate. There was no loss,
no waste in fees and permits and taxes. Each penny did its work.
'There's the site gone, anyhow,' he laughed to himself. 'The
foundation will go next, then the walls. But, at any rate, they needed
it. The Commune Charity would have had 'em at the end of the month.
They're my neighbours after all. And I must find out from them who
else in the village needs a leg up. For these people are worth
helping, and I can see exactly where every penny goes.'
Bit by bit, as it would seem, the great Scheme for Disabled
Thingumagigs was being undermined.