paula is involved in the rending fortunes of saint pierre and the panther calls with new york mail

father fontanel was out in the parish somewhere. one of the washer-women told her this, at the door of the church. there were many sick in the city from the great heat and the burned air—many little children sick. father fontanel always sought the sick in body; those who were sick in soul, sought him.... so the woman of the river-banks, in her simple way, augmented the story of the priest's love for his people. paula rested for a few moments in the dim transept. natives moved in and out for a breath of coolness, some pausing to kneel upon the worn tiles of the nave. later she walked among the lower streets of the suffering city, her heart filled with pity for the throngs housed on the low breathless water-front. except when the wind was straight from the volcano, the hotel on the morne d'orange was made livable by the cool trades.

the clock in the hopital l'militaire struck the hour of nine. paula had just hired a carriage at the sugar landing, when her eye was attracted by a small crowd gathering near the water's edge. the black cassock of a priest in the midst drew her hurrying forward. a young man, she thought at first, from the frail shoulders and the slender waist.... a negress had fallen from the heat. her burdens lay together upon the shore—a tray of cakes from her head, and a naked babe from her arms.... a glimpse at the priest's profile, and she needed not to be told that this was the holy man of saint pierre.

happiness lived in the face above the deep pity of the moment. it was an attraction of light, like the brow of mary in murillo's immaculate conception; or like that instant ethereal radiance which shines from the face of a little child passing away without pain. the years had put an exquisite nobility upon the plain countenance, and the inner life had added the gleam of adoration—"the rapture-light of holy vigils kept."

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 pelée 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:

"father fontanel——"

he turned, instantly divining her inspiration.

"mr. stock, who owns the ship yonder, is staying at the hotel des palms," she said quickly. "i have a carriage here. i was thinking that the sick woman and her child might be taken to your house in that. afterward, when she is cared for, you might wish to ride with me to the hotel—where i also live."

"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."

he accepted the explanation innocently. "there was a writer here—a young man very dear to me—of whom you reminded me at once——"

"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."

she had spoken of hearn in the hope that father fontanel would be reminded of another writer whose name she did not care to mention. his idea of relationship startled her to the heart; yet when she asked further, the good man could not explain. it had merely been his first thought, he said,—as if she had come from his friend.

"you thought much of him then, father fontanel?"

he spoke with power now. "a character of terrible thirsts, child,—such thirsts as i have never known. some moments as he walked beside me, i have felt him—like a giant with wolves pulling at his thighs, and angels lifting his arms. great strength of mind, his presence endowed me, so that i would have seen more of him, and more,—but he will come back! and i know that the wolves shall have been slain, when he comes again——"

"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.

that the priest had perceived a "relationship" swept into the woman's soul. low logic wrought from the physical contacts of selma cross trembled before the other immaterial suggestion—that quentin charter would come back to saint pierre triumphantly companioned, his wolves slain.... she forgot nothing of the actress's point of view; nor that the westerner did not reach her floor in the zoroaster and encounter an old attraction by accident. he was not one to force his way there, if the man at the elevator told him miss linster was not in. all of these things which had driven her to action were still inexplicable, but final condemnation was gone from the evidence—as the stone rolled away.

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.

they drove together to the hotel des palms. paula did not ask, though she had something of an idea regarding the priest's purpose in asking for peter stock. though she had formed a very high opinion of the american, it occurred to her that he would hardly approve of any one directing arteries of philanthropy to his hand. he had been one of those ruffian giants of the elder school of finance who began with the axe and the plow; whose health, character and ethics had been wrought upon the anvil of privation; whose culture began in middle life, and, being hard-earned, was eminent in the foreground of mind—austere and inelastic, this culture, yet solidly founded. stock was rich and loved to give, but was rather ashamed of it. paula could imagine him saying, "i hate the whining of the strong." for twenty years since his retirement, he had voyaged about the world, learning to love beautiful things, and giving possibly many small fortunes away; yet he much would have preferred to acknowledge that he had knocked down a brute than endowed an asylum. mr. stock was firm in opinion, dutiful in appreciation for the fine. his sayings were strongly savored, reliant with facts; his every thought was the result of a direct physical process of mind,—a mind athletic to grip the tangible, but which had not yet contracted for its spiritual endowment. in a word a splendid type of american with which to blend an ardently artistic temperament.... paula, holding something of this conception of the capitalist, became eager to see what adjustment could follow a meeting with his complement in characteristic qualities—her revered mystic. mr. stock was pacing up and down the mango grove. leaving father fontanel on the veranda, she joined the american.

"i found a holy man down on the water-front, mildly inquiring who owned the saragossa," she said laughingly, "and asked him to share my carriage. he has not told me what he wants, but he's a very wonderful priest."

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 pelée'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."

paula had felt a proprietary interest in father fontanel's mission, no matter what it proved to be. she was pleased beyond measure to find that he was entirely incapable of awe or cringing, before a man of stern and distinguished mien and of such commanding dignity. moreover, he stated the favor quite as if it were an advantage which the american had not thought of for himself. so interested was she in the priest's utterance, that when her eyes turned from his face to stock's—the alteration there amazed her. and like the natives of the water-front, the american did not seem to be aware of the benign influence. he had followed the french sentences intently at first, but caught the whole idea before the priest was finished.

"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."

it was not until the following evening, after a day of actual physical suffering from pelée and the heat, even on the morne, that she had the promised talk with peter stock.

"i like your priest," he said, "he works like a man, and he hasn't got a crook in his back. what he wants he seems to get. i have sent over a hundred natives out yonder on the saragossa, negotiated for the town's whole available supply of fresh milk, and laird, my chief officer, is giving the party a little cruise to-night——"

"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:

"by the way, have you been reading the french paper here—les colonies?"

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 pelée. 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?"

"not exactly. he pointed out the cost of detaching a third of the city's inhabitants. i told him how this cost could be brought down within reason, and showed myself not unwilling to back the exodus. i'm a practical man, miss wyndam, and these things look bigger than they really are. but you never can tell what a tubby little frenchman will do. it's atrocious for a man in his position to say that a volcano won't volcane—sorely tempting to old father pelée—a sort of challenge. it would be bad enough to play pilate and wash his hands of the city's danger—but to be a white-lipped, kissing judas at the last supper of saint pierre——"

"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 pelée may not hold out?" she asked.

"i'm not a monomaniac—at least, not yet," he replied, and his voice suggested a certain pent savagery in his brain. "call it an experiment that i'm sufficiently interested in to finance. the ways of volcanoes are past the previsions of men. i'd like to get a lot of folks out of the fire-zone, until pelée is cool—or a billion tons lighter. this ordered-up-to-nineveh business is out of my line, but it's absorbing. i don't say that pelée will blow his head off this week or this millennium, but i do say that there are vaults of explosives in that monster, the smallest of which could make this city look like a leper's corpse upon the beach. i say that the internal fires are burning high; that they're already playing about the vital cap; that pelée has already sprung several leaks, and that the same force which lifted this cheerful archipelago from the depths of the sea is pressing against the craters at this moment. i say that vesuvius warned before he broke; that krakatoa warned and then struck; that down the ages these safety valves scattered over the face of the earth have mercifully joggled before giving way; that pelée is joggling now."

"if m. mondet would write just that," paula said softly, "i think you would have your exodus."

she sought her room shortly afterward. pelée's moods had been variable that day. the north had been obscured by a fresh fog in the afternoon. the ash and sulphur fumes, cruel to the lungs on the breezy morne, six miles from the craters, gave her an intimation of the anguish of the people in the intervening depression where the city lay. the twilight had brought ease again and a ten-minute shower, so there was real freshness in the early evening. rippling waves of merriment reached her from the darky quarters, as the young men from the fields came forth to bathe in the sea. never before was the volatile tropic soul so strongly evidenced for her understanding, as in that glad hour of reaction—simple hearts to glow at little things, whose swift tragedies come and go like blighting winds which, though they may slay, leave no wound; instant to gladden in the groves of serenity, when a black cloud has blown by.

her mind was sleepless.... once, long after midnight, when she fell into a doze, it was only to be awakened by a dream of a garrote upon her throat. the ash had thickened again, and the air was acrid. the hours seemed to fall asleep in passing. from her balcony she peered into the dead-black of the north where pelée rumbled at intervals. back in the south, the blurred moon impended with an evil light. a faint wailing of children reached her from the servants' cabins. the sense of isolation was dreadful for a moment. it seemed to rest entirely with her that time passed at all; that she must grapple with each moment and fight it back into the past....

the panther, a fast ship with new york mail, was due to call at saint pierre within forty-eight hours. paula, to hasten the passing of time, determined to take the little steamer over to fort de france for a day, if morning ever came. she must have slept an hour after this decision, for she was unconscious of the transition from darkness to the parched and brilliant dawn which roused her tired eyes. the glass showed her a pallid face, darkly-lined.

the blinding light from the east changed the dew to steam before it touched the ground. the more delicate blossoms in the gardens withered in that hectic burning before the sun was an hour high. driving down through the city to the landing she found the rue victor hugo almost deserted. the porteuses were gone from the highway; all doors were tightly shut, strangely marring the tropical effect; broken window-panes were stuffed with cloths to keep out the vitiated air. the tough little island mules (many in their panniers with no one leading), scarcely moved, and hugged the east walls for shade. from the by-ways she imagined the smell of death.

"hottest morning saint pierre has known for years," the captain said, as she boarded the little steamer which hurriedly put off.... night had fallen (and there had been little to break the misery of saint pierre that day), when she reached the hotel once more. she retired immediately after dinner to take advantage of a fresh, south wind which came with the dark and promised to make sleep possible.... rumblings from the volcano awoke her just before dawn. glancing out over the harbor, she perceived the lights of a big liner lying near the saragossa. there was no sleep after this discovery, since she felt this must be the panther with letters from new york. according to her schedule, the steamer had cleared from manhattan a full week after the fruitlands. paula breakfasted early, and inquired at the desk how soon the mails would be distributed.

"did you arrange at the post-office to have your mail sent care of the hotel?" the clerk inquired.

"yes."

"the bags should be here very shortly, miss wyndam. the panther anchored at two this morning."

"please send any letters for me to my room at once," she told him, and went there to wait, so that she might be alone to read.... madame nestor's writing was upon one envelope, and reifferscheid's upon another, a large one, which contained mail sent to paula linster in his care to be forwarded to laura wyndam, among them letters from selma cross and quentin charter, as well as a note from the editor himself.

the latter she read first, since the pages were loose in the big envelope. it was a joyous, cheery message, containing a humorous account of those who called to inquire about her, a bit of the gospel of work and a hope for her health—the whole, brief, fine and tonic—like her friend.... tearing open the charter letter, she fell into a vortex of emotions:

this is my fifth day in new york, dear skylark, and i have ceased trying to find you. it was not to trouble or frighten you that i searched, but because i think if you understood entirely, you would not hide from me. i hope miss cross has had better success than i in learning your whereabouts, because she has changed certain views regarding me. if you shared with her those former views, it is indeed important that you learn the truth, though it is not for me to put such things in a letter. i have not seen miss cross since that first night; nor have i had the heart yet to see the thing. reifferscheid tells me that you may be out of the city for two or three months. i counted him a very good friend of mine, but he treats me now with a peculiar aversion, such as i should consider proper for one to hold toward a wife-beater. it is all very strange and subtly terrifying—this ordeal for which i have been prepared. i see now that i needed the three full years of training. what i cannot quite adjust yet is that i should have made you suffer. my every thought blessed you. my thoughts bless you to-night—sweet gift of the world to me.

live in the sun and rest, skylark; put away all shadowy complications—and you will bring back a splendid store of energy for the tenser new york life. i could not have written so calmly a few days ago, for to have you think evil of me drove straight and swiftly to the very centres of sanity—but i have won back through thoughts of you, a noon-day courage; and it has come to me that our truer relation is but beginning.

i have not yet the fibre for work; new york is empty without you, as my garret would be without your singing. i shall go away somewhere for a little, leaving my itinerary—when i decide upon it—at the granville. some time soon i shall hear from you. all shall be restored—even serenity to your beautiful spirit. i only suffer now in that it proved business of mine to bring you agony. i wanted to make you glad through and through; to lift your spirit, not to weight it down; to make you wiser, happier,—to keep you winged. this, as i know the truth, has been my constant outbreathing to you....

my window at the granville faces the east—the east to which i have come—yet from the old ways, i still look to the east for you. new york has found her spring—a warm, almost vernal night, this, and i smell the sea.... two big, gray dusty moths are fluttering at the glass—softly, eagerly to get at the light—as if they knew best.... they have found the way in, for the window was partly open, and have burned their wings at the electric bulb. the analogy is inevitable ... but you would not be hurt, for flame would meet flame.... i turned off the light a moment and remembered that you have already been hurt, but that was rather because flame was not restored by flame....

one moth has gone away. the other has curled up on my table like a faded cotton umbrella. so many murder the soul this way in the pursuit of dead intellectual brilliance....

bless your warm heart that brims with singing—singing which i must hear again.... an old sensation comes to me now as i cease to write. my garret always used to grow empty and heartless—as i closed and sealed a letter to you.... you are radiant in the heart of quentin charter.

she was unconscious of passing time, until her eye was attracted by the heavy handwriting of selma cross upon a herriot theatre envelope. this communication was an attempt to clear herself with paula, whose intrinsic clarity had always attracted truth from the actress; also it seemed to contain a struggle to adjust herself, when once she began to write, to the garment of nettles she had woven from mixed motives.

i am almost frantic searching for you. i knew you were in the hall that night, because i saw your hat as you started to walk down. charter was saying things about the stage that made me want to shut the door, but i must tell you why i made him come there. when it occurred to me how horribly you had been hurt by my disclosures regarding him, the thought drove home that there might be some mistake. you would not see him, so i sent a telephone-message to the granville for him to call. he, of course, thought the message from you. indeed, he would not have come otherwise. he avoided me before, and that night, he certainly would have seen no one but you. our elevator-man at the zoroaster had orders from me to show a gentleman inquiring for you about seven, to my apartment.

my thought was, to learn if by any possibility i was wrong in what i had told you. i even thought i might call you in that night. anyway, you would be just across the hall—to hear at once any good word. he thought at first that it was a trap that we had arranged—that you were somewhere in the apartment listening! oh, i'm all in a welter of words—there is so much, and your big brute of an editor would give me no help. the woman in your rooms is quite as blank about you. i never beat so helplessly against a wall.

but here's the truth: charter did not talk about our relations. villiers had a spy watching all our movements—and was thus informed. then, when he got back, villiers told me that charter had talked to men—all the things that his spy had learned. he did this to make me hate charter. this is the real truth. charter seems to have become a monk in the three years. this is not so pleasant to write as it will be for you to read, but he would not even mention your name in my room! i want to say that if it is not you—some woman has the new quentin charter heart and soul. i could have done the thing better, but the dramatic possibility of calling him to the zoroaster blinded my judgment, and what a hideous farce it turned out! but you have the truth, and i, my lesson. please forgive your fond old neighbor—who wasn't started out with all the breeding in the world, but who meant to be square with you.

paula felt that she could go down into the tortured city at this moment with healing for every woe. she paced the room, and with outstretched arms, poured forth an ecstasy of gratitude for his sake; for the restoration of her tower; for this new and glorious meaning of her womanhood. the thought of returning to new york by the first boat occurred; and the advisability of cabling quentin charter for his ease of mind.... at all events, the time of the next steamer's leaving for new york must be ascertained at once. she was putting on her hat, when madame nestor's unopened letter checked her precipitation. the first line brought back old fears:

i'm afraid i have betrayed you, my beloved paula. it is hard that my poor life should be capable of this. less than two hours ago, as i was busied about the apartment, the bell rang and i answered. at the door stood bellingham. he caught my eyes and held them. i remember that instant, the suffocation,—the desperate but vain struggle to keep my self-control. alas, he had subjected my will too thoroughly long ago. almost instantly, i succumbed to the old mastery.... when his control was lifted, i was still standing by the opened door, but he was gone. the elevator was at the ground-floor. he must have passed by me and into the apartment, for one of your photographs was gone. i don't think he came for that, though of course it will help him to concentrate i cannot tell what else happened in the interval, but my dreadful fear is that he made me divulge your place of refuge. what other purpose could he have? it is almost unbearable that i should be forced to tell him—when i love you so—if, indeed, that has come to pass.... he has altered terribly since the accident. i think he has lost certain of his powers—that his thwarted desire is murdering him. he did not formerly need a photograph to concentrate. his eyes burned into mine like a wolf's. i know, even in my sorrow, that yours is to be the victory. he is breaking up or he would not come to you....

for a moment or two paula was conscious of pelée, and the gray menace that charged the burnt-out air.

then came the thought of father fontanel and the door that was never locked; and presently her new joy returned with ever-rising vibration—until the long-abated powers of her life were fully vitalized again.... she was wondering, as she stepped into the hall and turned the key in her door, if she would be considered rather tumultuous in cabling charter.... at the stairway, she halted, fearing at first some new mental seizure; then every faculty furiously-nerved, she listened at the balustrade for the repetition of a voice that an instant before had thrilled her to the soul.... there had only been a sentence or two from the voice. peter stock was now replying:

"he's a man-servant of the devil, this pudgy editor," he said striding up and down the lower hall in his rage. "a few days ago i called upon him, and in sweet modesty and limping french explained the proper policy for him to take about this volcano. to-day he devotes a half-column of insufferable humor to my force of character and alarmist views. oh, the flakiness of the french mind! m. mondet certainly fascinates me. i shall have to call upon him again."

paula heard the low laugh of the other and the words:

"let's sit down, mr. stock. i want to hear all about the editor and the mountain. i was getting to sea somewhere, when the new york papers ran a line about pelée's activity. it started luring memories, and i berthed at once for saint pierre. it was mighty good to see the saragossa lying familiarly in the roadstead——"

trailing her fingers along the wall to steady herself, paula made her way back to the door of her room, which she fumblingly unlocked.