The Cure stood with his back to the ruins of the church, at his feet two
newly made graves, and all round, with wistful faces, crowds of reverent
habitants. A benignant sorrow made his voice in perfect temper with
the pensive striving of this latest day of spring. At the close of his
address he said:
“I owe you much, my people. I owe him more, for it was given him, who
knew not God, to teach us how to know Him better. For his past, it is
not given you to know. It is hidden in the bosom of the Church. Sinner
he once was, criminal never, as one can testify who knows all”--he
turned to the Abbe Rossignol, who stood beside him, grave and
compassionate--“and his sins were forgiven him. He is the one sheaf
which you and I may carry home rejoicing from the pagan world of
unbelief. What he had in life he gave to us, and in death he leaves
to our church all that he has not left to a woman he loved--to Rosalie
Evanturel.”
There was a gasping murmur among the people, but they stilled again, and
strained to hear.
“He leaves her a little fortune, and to us all else he had. Let us
pray for his soul, and let us comfort her who, loving deeply, reaped no
harvest of love.
“The law may never reach his ruthless murderers, for there is none to
recognise their faces; and were they ten times punished, how should
it avail us now! Let us always remember that, in his grave, our friend
bears on his breast the little iron cross we held so dear. That is
all we could give--our dearest treasure. I pray God that, scarring his
breast in life, it may heal all his woes in death, and be a saving image
on his bosom in the Presence at the last.”
He raised his hands in benediction.
EPILOGUE
Never again was there a Passion Play in the Chaudiere Valley.
Spring-times and harvests and long winters came and went, and a blessing
seemed to be upon the valley, for men prospered, and no untoward things
befel the people. So it was for twenty years, wherein there had been
going and coming in quiet. Some had gone upon short mortal journeys and
had come back, some upon long immortal voyages, and had never returned.
Of the last were the Seigneur and a woman once a Magdalene; but in a
house beside a beautiful church, with a noble doorway, lived the Cure,
M. Loisel, aged and serene. There never was a day, come rain or shine,
in which he was not visited by a beautiful woman, whose life was one
with the people of the valley.
There was no sorrow in the parish which the lady did not share, with the
help of an old Irishwoman called Mrs. Flynn. Was there sickness in the
parish, her hand smoothed the pillow and soothed the pain. Was there
trouble anywhere, her face brought light to the door way. Did any suffer
ill-repute, her word helped to restore the ruined name. They did not
know that she forgave so much in all the world, because she thought she
had so much in herself to forgive.
She was ever called “Madame Rosalie,” and she cherished the name, and
gave commands that when her grave came to be made near to a certain
other grave, Madame Rosalie should be carved upon the stone.
Cheerfulness and serenity were ever with her, undisturbed by wish to
probe the mystery of the life which had once absorbed her own. She never
sought to know whence the man came; it was sufficient to know whither
he had gone, and that he had been hers for a brief dream of life. It
was better to have lived the one short thrilling hour with all its pain,
than never to have known what she knew or felt what she had felt. The
mystery deepened her romance, and she was even glad that the ruffians
who slew him were never brought to justice. To her mind they were but
part of the mystic machinery of fate.
For her the years had given many compensations, and so she told the
Cure, one midsummer day, when she brought to visit him the orphaned
son of Paulette Dubois, graduated from his college in France and making
ready to go to the far East.
“I have had more than I deserve--a thousand times,” she said.
The Cure smiled, and laid a gentle hand upon her own. “It is right for
you to think so,” he said, “but after a long life, I am ready to say
that, one way or another, we earn all the real happiness we have. I mean
the real happiness--the moments, my child. I once had a moment full of
happiness.”
“May I ask?” she said.
“When my heart first went out to him”--he turned his face towards the
churchyard.
“He was a great man,” she said proudly.
The Cure looked at her benignly: she was a woman, and she had loved
the man. He had, however, come to a stage of life where greatness alone
seemed of little moment. He forbore to answer her, but he pressed her
hand.
ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:
A left-handed boy is all right in the world
Always hoping the best from the worst of us
Damnable propinquity
Good fathers think they have good daughters
Have not we all something to hide--with or without shame?
He has wheeled his nuptial bed into the street
He left his fellow-citizens very much alone
He had had acquaintances, but never friendships, and never loves
Hugging the chain of denial to his bosom
I have a good memory for forgetting
I am only myself when I am drunk
I should remember to forget it
Importunity with discretion was his motto
In all secrets there is a kind of guilt
Is the habit of good living mere habit and mere acting
It is good to live, isn’t it?
Know how bad are you, and doesn’t mind
Liquor makes me human
Nervous legs at a gallop
Pathetically in earnest
Shure, if we could always be ‘about the same,’ we’d do
So say your prayers, believe all you can, don’t ask questions
Strike first and heal after--“a kick and a lick”
Suspicion, the bane of sick old age
Things that once charmed charm less
Was not civilisation a mistake
Who knows!
Youth is the only comrade for youth
Youth is the only comrade for youth
End of Project Gutenberg’s The Right of Way, Complete, by Gilbert Parker