Read Ebook: She Buildeth Her House by Comfort Will Levington Justice Martin Illustrator

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Ebook has 388 lines and 35985 words, and 8 pages

Paula rubbed her eyes, afraid lest it were not true; afraid for a moment that it was her own meditations that had wrought this miracle in clay. Lingering, she ceased to doubt the soul's transfiguration.... Father Fontanel beckoned a huge negro from a lighter laden with molasses-casks--a man of strength, bare to the waist.

"Take the little mother to my house," he said.

A young woman standing by was given charge of the child.... "Lift her gently, Strong Man. The woman will show you the way to the door." Then raising his voice to the crowd, the priest added, "You who are well--tell others that it is yet cool in the church. Carry the ailing ones there, and the little children. Father Pel?e will soon be silent again.... Does any one happen to know who owns the beautiful ship in the harbor?"

His French sentences seemed lifted above a pervasive hush upon the shore. The native faces wore a curious look of adulation; and Paula marvelled in that they seemed unconscious of this. She was not a Catholic; yet she uttered his name with a thrilling rapture, and with a meaning she had never known before:

He turned, instantly divining her inspiration.

"Why, yes, Child--who are you?"

"Just a visitor in Saint Pierre--a woman from the States."

Her arrangement was followed, and the negro went back to his work. Father Fontanel joined her behind the carriage.

"But you speak French so well," he observed.

"Not a few Americans do. I was grateful that it came back to me here."

"Yes, for I do not speak a word of English," he said humbly.

They walked for a moment in silence, his head bowed in thought. Paula, glancing at him from time to time, studied the lines of pity and tenderness which shadowed the eyes. His mouth was wonderful to her, quite as virgin to the iron of self-repression as to the soft fullness of physical desire. This was the marvel of the face--it was above battle. Here were eyes that had seen the Glory and retained an unearthly happiness--a face that moved among the lowly, loved, pitied, abode with them; yet was beautiful with the spiritual poise of Overman.

"It was strange that you did not meet Lafcadio Hearn when he was here," she said at length.

He shook his head, asked the name again and the man's work.

"A writer who tarried here; a mystic, too, strange and strong."

"I know no writer by that name--but how did you know that I did not meet him, Child?"

"I was thinking he would write about you in his book of Martinique sketches--had he known."

"Of whom I reminded you, Father?" she repeated excitedly. "You mean because I spoke of another writer?"

"No, I saw a resemblance--rather some relationship of yours to my wonderful young friend.... He said he would come again to me."

"You thought much of him then, Father Fontanel?"

"And the angels, Father?" she whispered.

"Such are the companions of the Lifted, my daughter.... It is when I meet one of great conflicts that I am suffused with the spirit of worship in that I am spared. God makes my way so easy that I must wonder if I am not one of His very weak. It must be so, for my mornings and evenings are made lovely by the Presence. My people hearken unto my prayers for them; they love me and bring their little children for my blessing--until I am so happy that I cry aloud for some great work to do that I may strive heroically to show my gratitude to God--and lo, the doors of my work are opened, but there are no lions in the way!"

She knew now all that Charter had meant. In her breast was a silent mystic stirring--akin to that endearing miracle enacted in a conservatory of flowers, when the morning sun first floods down upon the glass.... The initial doubt of her own valor in suffering Selma Cross to shatter her Tower, sprang into being now. Father Fontanel loved him, and had looked within.

Bellingham?... The mystery now, as she stood within this radiant aura, was that any point of his desire could ever have found lodgment within. Her sense of protection at this moment was absolute. She had done well to come here.... Again swept into mind, Quentin Charter's silent part in saving her from the Destroyer--the book, the letter, the voice; even to this sanctuary she had come through a sentence from him. For a moment the old master-romance shone glorious again--like a lone, valiant star glimpsed in the rift of storm-hurled clouds.

They had reached the low street door of Father Fontanel's house, a wing of the church. A native doctor had been summoned and helped to carry the woman in. She was revived presently.

"Father," Paula said, remembering the words of the washer-woman, as they emerged into the street, "when one is sick of soul--does one knock here?"

"One does not knock, but enters straightway," he answered. "The door is never locked.... But you look very happy, my daughter."

"I am happy," she answered.

She noted the instant contraction of his brows, and shrank inwardly at the hard, rapid tone, with which he darted the question:

"Are you a Catholic?"

"No, Mr. Stock."

"Yes. I'll see him." It was as if he were talking to his secretary, but Paula liked him too well to mind. They drew near the veranda.

"... Well, sir, what is it?" he spoke brusquely, and in French, studying the priest's upturned face. Mr. Stock believed he knew faces. Except for the years and the calling, he would have decided that Father Fontanel was rather too meek and feminine--at first glance.

"What I wished to ask depends upon your being here for a day or two," the priest said readily. "Father Pel?e's hot breath is killing our children in the lower quarters of the city, and many of the poor women are suffering. The ship out in the harbor looked to me like a good angel with folded wings, as I walked the water-front this morning. I thought you would be glad to let me send some mothers and babies--to breathe the good air of the offing. A day, or a night and a day, may save lives."

"Did you know I wasn't a Catholic?" he asked. The question apparently had been in his mind before he felt himself responding to the appeal.

"No," Father Fontanel answered sincerely. "The truth is, it didn't occur to me whether you were or not."

"Quite right," Mr. Stock said quickly. "It has no place, whatever, so long as you don't think so. You've got a good idea. I'll be here for a day or two. You'll need money to hire boats; then my first officer will have to be informed. My launch is at the Sugar Landing.... On second thought, I'll go back down-town with you.... Miss Wyndam--later in the day--a chat with you?"

"Of course."

Father Fontanel turned, thanking her with a smile. "And the name is 'Wyndam,'" he added. "I had not heard it before."

Paula watched them walking down the driveway to the carriage which she had retained for Father Fontanel. The inclination was full-formed to seek the solitude of her room and there review the whole delightful matter.... She was glad that the priest had not asked her name, for under his eyes--she could not have answered "Wyndam."

"Do you know--I think it is splendid?" she exclaimed.

"What?"

"The work--your ship filled with gasping unfortunates from the city!"

"Do you happen to know of any reason why an idle ship should not be used for some such purpose?"

"None, whatever," she said demurely, quite willing that he should adjust the matter to suit himself. His touchiness upon the subject of his own benefactions remanded her pleasurably of Reifferscheid. Her inward joy was to study in Peter Stock the unacknowledged influence of Father Fontanel--or was it an unconscious influence? The American's further activities unfolded:

Paula had not.

"The editor, M. Mondet, is the smug authority for a statement yesterday that Saint Pierre is in absolutely no danger from the mountain. Now, of course, this may be true, but he doesn't know it--unless he should have the Dealer in Destiny on the wire. There is always a big enough percentage of foolish virgins in a city, so it peeved me to find one in the sole editorial capacity. My first impulse was to calk up the throat of M. Mondet with several sheets of his abominable assurances. This I restrained, but nevertheless I called upon him to-day. His next issue appears day after to-morrow, and my idea is for him to print a vigorous warning against Pel?e. Why, he could clear the town of ten thousand people for a few days--until the weather settles. Incidentally, if the mountain took on a sudden destroying streak--just see what he would have done! Some glory in saving lives on that scale."

"Vine leaves, indeed," said Paula, "Did M. Mondet tell you he would print this warning?"

"Did you tell him that?" Paula asked hastily.

"Not in those words, Miss Wyndam, but he seemed to be a bit afraid of me--kept watching my hands and pulling at his cravat. When he finally showed me to the door, his was the delicacy of one who handles dynamite. At all events, I'm waiting for his next issue to see if my call 'took!' I really do wish that a lot of these people would forget their clothes, chickens, coals, coins, and all such, for a few days and camp somewhere between here and Fort de France."

Paula was thrilled by the American's zeal. He was not content, now that he had begun, to deal with boatloads, but wanted to stir the city. She would have given much to know the exact part of Father Fontanel in this rousing ardor of her new friend. "And you really think Pel?e may not hold out?" she asked.

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