charter and stock are called to the priest's house in the night, and the wyndam woman stays at the palms

peter stock was abroad in the palms shortly after charter left for the wine-shop to join jacques, for the day's trip. the absence of the younger man reminded him of the project charter had twice mentioned in the wine-shop.

"i can't quite understand it," he said to miss wyndam as he started for the city, "if he really has gone to the craters. he had me thinking it over—about going along. why should he rush off alone? i tell you, it's not like him. the boy's troubled—got some of the groan-stuff of pelée in his vitals."

the day began badly for paula. her mind assumed the old dread receptivity which the occultist had found to his advantage; terrors flocked in as the hours drew on. one pays for being responsive to the finer textures of life. under the stimulus of heat, good steel becomes radiant with an activity destructive to itself, but quite as marvellous in its way as the starry heavens. what a superior and admirable endowment, this, though it consumes, compared to the dead asbestos-fabric which will not warm. paula felt the city in her breast that day—the restless, fevered cries of children and the answering maternal anguish, the terror everywhere, even in bird-cries and limping animals—that cosmic sympathy.

she knew that charter would not have rushed away to the mountain without a "good morning" for her, had she told him yesterday. she saw him turn upon the morne, look steadily at her window, almost as if he saw the outline of her figure there—as the call went to him from her inner heart.... she had reconstructed his last week in new york, from the letter of selma cross and his own; and in her sight he had achieved a finer thing than any warrior who ever broadened the borders of his queen. not a word from her; encountering a mysterious suspicion from reifferscheid; avoiding selma cross by his word and her own; vanquishing, who may know how many devils of his own past; and then summoning the courage and gentleness to write such a letter as she had received—a letter sent out into the dark—this was loyalty and courage to woo the soul. with such a spirit, she could tramp the world's highway with bruised feet, but a singing heart.... and only such a spirit could be true to skylark; for she knew as "wyndam" she had quickened him for all time, though he ran from her—to commune with pelée. she felt his strength—strength of man such as maidens dream of, and, maturing, put their dreams away.

"... as i sat by my study window, facing the east!" well she knew those words from his letters; and they came to her now, from the talk of yesterday in the high light of an angelic visitation. always in memory the dining-room at the palms would have an occult fragrance, for she saw his great love for skylark there, as he spoke of "facing the east." how soon could she have told him after that, but for the evil old french face that drew him away.... "you deserve to suffer, paula linster," she whispered. "you let him go away,—without a tithe of your secret, or a morsel of your mercy."

inevitable before such a conception of manhood—paula feared her unworthiness. she saw herself back in new york, faltering under the power of bellingham; swayed by those specialists, reifferscheid in books, madame nestor in occultism; and, above all blame-worthily, by selma cross of the passions. she seemed always to have been listening. selma cross had been strong enough to destroy her tower; and this, when the actress herself had been so little sure of her statements that she must needs call charter to prove them. nothing that she had done seemed to carry the stamina of decision.... so the self-arraignment thickened and tightened about her, until she cried out:

"but i would have told him yesterday—had not that old man called him away!"

peter stock returned at noon, imploring her to go out to the ship, for even on the morne, pelée had become a plague. he pointed out that she was practically alone in the palms; that nearly all of father fontanel's parishioners had taken his word and left for fort de france or morne rouge, at least; that he, peter stock, was a very old man who had earned the right to be fond of whom he pleased, and that it seriously injured an old man's health when he couldn't have his way.

"there are big reasons for me to stay here to-day—big only to me," she told him. "if i had known you for years, i couldn't be more assured of your kindness, nor more willing to avail myself of it, but please trust me to know best to-day. possibly to-morrow."

so the american left her, complaining that she was quite as inscrutable as charter.... an hour or more later, as she was watching the mountain from her room, a little black carriage stopped before the gate of the palms, and father fontanel stepped slowly out. she hurried downstairs, met him at the door, and saw the rare old face in its great weariness.

"you have given too much strength to your work, father," she said, putting her arm about him and helping him toward the sitting-room.

"i am quite well," he panted. "i was among my people in the city, when our amazing friend suddenly appeared with a carriage, bustled me in and sent me here, saying there were enough people in saint pierre who refused to obey him, and that he didn't propose that i should be one."

"i think he did very well," she answered, laughing. "what must it be down in the city—when we suffer so here? we cannot do without you——"

"but there is great work for me—the great work i have always asked for. believe me, i do not suffer."

"one must not labor until he falls and dies, father."

"if it be the will of the good god, i ask nothing fairer than to fall in his service. death is only terrible from afar off in youth, my dear child. when we are old and perceive the glories of the reality, we are prone to forget the illusion here. in remembering immortality, we forget the cares and ills of flesh.... i am only troubled for my people, stifling in the gray curse of the city, and for my brave young friend. my mind was clouded when he asked me certain questions last night; and to-day, they say he has gone to the craters of the mountain."

"what for?" she whispered quickly.

"ah, how should i know? but he tells me of people who make pilgrimages of sanctification to strange cities of the east—to mecca and benares——"

"but they go to benares to die, father!"

"i did not know, my daughter," he assured her, drawing his hand across his brow in a troubled fashion. "he has not gone to the mountain for that, though i see storms gathering about him, storms of the mountain and hatreds of men. but i see you with him afterward—as i saw him with you—when you first spoke to me."

she told him all, and found healing in the old man's smile.

"it is well, and it is wonderful," he whispered at last. "much that my life has misunderstood is made clear to me—by this love of yours and his——"

"'and his,' father?"

"yes."

there was silence. she would not ask if quentin charter had also told his story. father fontanel arose and said he must go back, but he took the girl's hands, looked deeply into her eyes, saying with memorable gentleness:

"listen, child,—the man who cannot forget a vision that is lost, will be a brave mate for the envisioned reality that he finds."

at intervals all that afternoon she felt the influence of bellingham. it was not desire. dull and impersonal, it appealed, as one might hear a child in another house repeatedly calling to its mother. within her there was no response, save that of loathing for a spectre that rises untimely from a past long since expiated. she did not ask herself whether she was lifted beyond him, or whether he was debased and weakened, or if he really called with the old intensity. glimpses of the strange place in which he lodged occasionally flashed before her inner mind, but it was all far and indefinite, easily to be banished. to her, he had become inextricable from the reptiles. there was so much of living fear and greater glory in her mind that afternoon, that these were but evil shadows of slight account.

the torturing hours crawled by, until the day turned to a deeper gray, and the north was reddened by pelée's cone which the thick vapor dimmed and blurred. paula was suffered to fight out her battle alone. she could not have asked more than this. a thousand times she paced across her room; again and again straining her eyes northward, along the road, over the city into the darkness, and the end of all things—the mountain.... there was a moment in the half-light before the day was spent, in which she seemed to see quentin charter, as father fontanel had told her, hemmed in by all the storms and hates of the world. over the surface of her brain was a vivid track for flying futile agonies.

the rumbling that had been incessant was punctuated at intervals now by an awesome and deeper vibration. altogether, the sound was like a steady stream of vehicles, certain ones heavier and moving more swiftly than others, pounding over a wooden bridge. to her, there was a pang in each phase of the volcano's activity, since quentin charter had gone up into that red roar.... she did not go down for dinner. when it was eight by her watch, she felt that she could not live, if he did not return before another hour. several minutes had passed when there was a tapping at her door, and paula answering, was confronted by a sumptuous figure of native womanhood. it was soronia.

"mr. charter is at the wine-shop of pere rabeaut in rue rivoli," she said swiftly, hatefully, as though she had been forced to carry the message, and would not utter a word more than necessary. "he has been hurt—we do not think seriously—but he wants you to come to him at once."

"thank you. i will go to him at once," paula said, turning to get her hat. "pere rabeaut's wine-shop in the rue rivoli?... you say he is not seriously hurt——"

she had not turned five seconds from the door, but the woman was gone. there was much that was strange in this; many thoughts occurred apart from the central idea of glad obedience, and the fullness of gratitude in that pelée had not murdered him.... the rue rivoli was a street of the terraces, she ascertained on the lower floor; also that it would be impossible to procure a carriage. mr. stock had been forced to buy one outright, her informer added, and to use one of his sailors for a driver.... so she set out alone and on foot, hurrying along the sea-road toward the slope where rue victor hugo began. the strangeness of it all persistently imposed upon her mind, but was unreckonable, compared to the thought that quentin charter would not have called for her, had he been able to come. from this, the fear of a more serious wound than the woman had said, was inevitable.

paula had suffered enough from doubting; none should mar her performance now. unerringly, the processes of mind throughout the day had borne her to such an action. she would have gone to any red-lit door of the torrid city.... vivid terrors of some dreadful crippling accident hurried her steps into running....

pelée, a baleful changing jewel in the black north, reminded her that charter would not have gone up to that sink of chaos, had she spoken the word yesterday. the thought of that wonderful hour brought back the brooding romance in tints almost ethereal. higher in her heart than he had reached in any moment of the day's fluctuations, the image of charter wounded, was upraised now and sustained, as she turned from rue victor hugo into the smothering climb to the terraces. all she could feel was a prayer that he might live; all the trials and conflicts and hopes of the past six months hovered afar from this, like navies crippled in the roadstead....

she must be near the rue rivoli, she thought, suddenly facing an empty cliff. it was at this moment that she heard the soft foot-falls of a little native mule, and encountered quentin charter....

quickly out of the great gladness of the meeting arose the frightful possibilities from which she had just escaped. they were still too imminent to be banished from mind at once. again charter had saved her from the destroyer. she would have wept, had she ventured to speak as he lifted her into the saddle. charter was silent, too, for the time, trying to adjust and measure and proportion.

constantly she kept her eyes upon him as he walked slightly ahead, for she needed this steady assurance that he was there and well. she felt her arms where his stiffened fingers had been, as he lifted her so easily upon the mule. she wanted to reach forward and touch his helmet. they had descended almost to rue victor hugo, when he said:

"as i looked down the fiery throat of that dragon up there to-day, everything grew black and still for a minute, like a vacuum.... will you please tell me if i came back all right, or are we 'two hurrying shapes in twilight land—in no man's land?'"

his amusing appeal righted her. "i have not heard of donkey shapes in twilight-land," she answered.... and then in the new silence she tried to bring her thoughts to the point of revelation, but she needed light for that—light in which to watch his face. moreover, revelations contained bellingham, and she was not quite ready to speak of this. it was dreadful to be forced to think of the occultist, when her heart cried out for another moment such as that of yesterday, in which she could watch his eyes and whisper, "i am very proud to be the skylark you treasure so...."

"do you think it kind to frighten your friends?" she asked finally. "when they told me you had gone to the craters—it seemed such a reckless thing to do——"

"you see, i rode around behind the mountain. it's very different to approach from the north. i wished you were there with me in the clean air. pelée's muzzle is turned toward the city——"

"i sent you many cheers and high hopes—did they come?"

"yes, more than you know——" he checked himself, not wishing to frighten her further with the story of jacques, "you said you were looking for the little wine-shop. did some one send for you?"

"yes."

"some one you know?"

"they told me you were there—hurt. that's why i came, mr. charter."

he drew up the mule and faced her. "i was there this morning, but not since.... there's something black about this. pere rabeaut was rather officious in furnishing a guide for me. i'd better find out——"

"i don't want you to go back there to-night!" she said intensely. "i think we are both half-dead. i don't feel coherent at all. it has been a life—this day."

"i am sorry to have made it harder for you. certainly i shall not add to your worry to-night. i was thinking, though, it's rather a serious thing to call you out alone at this hour, through a city disordered like this—in my name."

"there's much need of a talk. we shall soon understand it all.... that must be mr. stock coming. he has the only carriage moving in saint pierre, they say."

charter pulled the mule up on the walk to let the vehicle pass, but the capitalist saw them and called to his driver to stop.

"well," he said gratefully, "i'm glad to get down to earth again. you two have had me soaring.... charter, you don't mean to tell me you called miss wyndam to meet you in the wine-shop?"

"no. there's a little matter there which must be probed later. i had the good fortune to meet miss wyndam before she reached there."

paula watched charter as he spoke. light from the carriage-lamp fell upon him. his white clothing was stained from the saddle, his hair and eyebrows whitened with dust. his eyes shone in a face haggard unto ghastliness.

"i'd go there now," stock declared, after asking one or two questions further, "but i have to report with sorrow that father fontanel is in a very weak condition and has asked for you. i just came from the palms, hoping that you had returned, and learned that miss wyndam was mysteriously abroad. my idea is to make the good old man go out to the ship to-night. that's his only chance. he just shakes his head and smiles at me, when i start in to boss him, but i think he'll go for you. the little parish-house is like a shut-oven—literally smells of the burning.... the fact is, i'm getting panicky as an old brood-biddy, among all you wilful chicks.... miss wyndam has promised for to-morrow, however."

her heart went out to the substantial friend he had proved to every one, though it was all but unthinkable to have quentin charter taken from the palms that night.

"i'll go with you at once, but we must see miss wyndam safely back.... she'll be more comfortable in the carriage with you, and we can hurry," charter declared.

he held his arms to her and lifted her down.

"how i pity you!" she whispered. "you are weary unto death, but i am so glad—so glad you are safely back from the mountain."

"thank you.... you, too, are trembling with weariness. it would not do, not to go to father fontanel—would it?"

"no, no!"

at the hotel, charter took a few moments to put on fresh clothing. paula waited with peter stock on the lower floor until he appeared. the capitalist did not fail to see that they wanted a word together, and clattered forth to see the "pilot of his deep-sea hack."

"you'd better go aboard to-morrow morning," charter said.

"yes, to-morrow, possibly,—we shall know then. you will be here in the morning—the first thing in the morning?"

"yes." there was a wonder-world of emotion in his word.

"and you will not go to the wine-shop, before you see me—in the morning?"

he shook his head. his inner life was facing the east, listening to a skylark song.

"there is much to hear and say," she whispered unsteadily. "but go to father fontanel—or i—or you will not be in time! he must not die without seeing you—and take my love and reverence——"

they were looking into each other's eyes—without words.... peter stock returned from the veranda. charter shivered slightly with the return to common consciousness, clenched his empty left hand where hers had been.

"the times are running close here," he whispered huskily. "sometimes i forget that we've only just met. father fontanel alone could call me from here to-night. somehow, i dread to leave you. you'll have to forgive me for saying it."

"yes.... but in the morning—oh, come quickly.... good-night."

she turned hastily to the staircase, and charter's remarks as he rode townward with the other, were shirred, indeed....