Weeks went by. Summer was done, autumn was upon the land. Harvest-home
had gone, and the “fall” ploughing was forward. The smell of the burning
stubble, of decaying plant and fibre, was mingling with the odours of
the orchards and the balsams of the forest. The leafy hill-sides, far
and near, were resplendent in scarlet and saffron and tawny red. Over
the decline of the year flickered the ruined fires of energy.
It had been a prosperous summer in the valley. Harvests had been reaped
such as the country had not known for years--and for years there had
been great harvests. There had not been a death in the parish all
summer, and births had occurred out of all usual proportion.
When Filion Lacasse commented thereon, and mentioned the fact that even
the Notary’s wife had had the gift of twins as the crowning fulness of
the year, Maximilian Cour, who was essentially superstitious, tapped on
the table three times, to prevent a turn in the luck.
The baker was too late, however, for the very next day the Notary was
brought home with a nasty gunshot wound in his leg. He had been lured
into duck-hunting on a lake twenty miles away, in the hills, and had
been accidentally shot on an Indian reservation, called Four Mountains,
where the Church sometimes held a mission and presented a primitive sort
of passion-play. From there he had been brought home by his comrades,
and the doctor from the next parish summoned. The Cure assisted the
doctor at first, but the task was difficult to him. At the instant when
the case was most critical the tailor of Chaudiere set his foot inside
the Notary’s door. A moment later he relieved the Cure and helped to
probe for shot, and care for an ugly wound.
Charley had no knowledge of surgery, but his fingers were skilful, his
eye was true, and he had intuition. The long operation over, the rural
physician and surgeon washed his hands and then studied Charley with
curious admiration.
“Thank you, Monsieur,” he said, as he dried his hands on a towel. “I
couldn’t have done it without you. It’s a pretty good job; and you share
the credit.”
Charley bowed. “It’s a good thing not to halloo till you’re out of the
woods,” he said. “Our friend there has a bad time before him--hein?”
“I take you. It is so.” The man of knives and tinctures pulled his
side-whiskers with smug satisfaction as he looked into a small mirror on
the wall. “Do you chance to know if madame has any cordials or spirits?”
he added, straightening his waistcoat and adjusting his cravat.
“It is likely,” answered Charley, and moved away to the window looking
upon the street.
The doctor turned in surprise. He was used to being waited on, and he
had expected the tailor to follow the tradition.
“We might--eh?” he said suggestively. “It is usually the custom to
provide refreshment, but the poor woman, madame, has been greatly
occupied with her husband, and--”
“And the twins,” Charley put in drily--“and a house full of work, and
only one old crone in the kitchen to help. Still, I have no doubt she
has thought of the cordials too. Women are the slaves of custom--ah,
here they are, as I said, and--”
He stopped short, for in the doorway, with a tray, stood Rosalie
Evanturel. The surgeon was so intent upon at once fortifying himself
that he did not see the look which passed between Rosalie and the
tailor.
Rosalie had been absent for two months. Her father had been taken
seriously ill the day after the critical episode in the but at Vadrome
Mountain, and she had gone with him to the hospital at Quebec, for an
operation. The Abbe Rossignol had undertaken to see them safely to the
hospital, and Jo Portugais, at his own request, was permitted to go in
attendance upon M. Evanturel.
There had been a hasty leave-taking between Charley and Rosalie, but
it was in the presence of others, and they had never spoken a word
privately together since the day she had said to him that where he went
she would go, in life or out of it.
“You have been gone two months,” Charley said now, after their touch of
hands and voiceless greeting. “Two months yesterday,” she answered.
“At sundown,” he replied, in an even voice.
“The Angelus was ringing,” she answered calmly, though her heart was
leaping and her hands were trembling. The doctor, instantly busy with
the cordial, had not noticed what they said.
“Won’t you join me?” he asked, offering a glass to Charley.
“Spirits do not suit me,” answered Charley. “Matter of constitution,”
rejoined the doctor, and buttoned up his coat, preparing to depart. He
came close to Charley. “Now, I don’t want to put upon you, Monsieur,” he
said, “but this sick man is valuable in the parish--you take me? Well,
it’s a difficult, delicate case, and I’d be glad if I could rely on you
for a few days. The Cure would do, but you are young, you have a sense
of things--take me? Half the fees are yours if you’ll keep a sharp eye
on him--three times a day, and be with him at night a while. Fever is
the thing I’m afraid of--temperature--this way, please!” He went to the
window, and for a minute engaged Charley in whispered conversation. “You
take me?” he said cheerily at last, as he turned again towards Rosalie.
“Quite, Monsieur,” answered Charley, and drew away, for he caught the
odour of the doctor’s breath, and a cold perspiration broke out over
him. He felt the old desire for drink sweeping through him. “I will do
what I can,” he said.
“Come, my dear,” the doctor said to Rosalie. “We will go and see your
father.”
Charley’s eyes had fastened on the bottles avidly. As Rosalie turned to
bid him good-bye, he said to her, almost hoarsely: “Take the tray back
to Madame Dauphin--please.”
She flashed a glance of inquiry at him. She was puzzled by the fire in
his eyes. With her soul in her face as she lifted the tray, out of the
warm-beating life in her, she said in a low tone:
“It is good to live, isn’t it?”
He nodded and smiled, and the trouble slowly passed from his eyes. The
woman in her had conquered his enemy.