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EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER
 PAULA IS INVOLVED IN THE 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, 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 . Later she walked among the lower streets of the suffering city, her heart filled with pity for the 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 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 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 nobility upon the plain , and the inner life had added the gleam of adoration—"the -light of holy vigils kept."
 
Paula rubbed her eyes, afraid lest it were not true; afraid for a moment that it was her own that had this miracle in clay. Lingering, she ceased to doubt the soul's transfiguration.... Father Fontanel a huge negro from a with molasses-casks—a man of strength, bare to the waist.
 
"Take the little mother to my house," he said.
 
A young woman 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 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 upon the shore. The native faces wore a curious look of adulation; and Paula 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. , 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 .
 
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 to the iron of self-repression as to the soft fullness of physical desire. This was the 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, with them; yet was beautiful with the spiritual 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 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 , 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 , 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 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 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 in a of flowers, when the morning sun first floods down upon the glass.... The initial doubt of her own 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 wrought from the physical contacts of Selma Cross trembled before the other immaterial suggestion—that Quentin Charter would come back to Saint Pierre 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 , but final 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 she had come through a sentence from him. For a moment the old master-romance shone glorious again—like a , star glimpsed in the 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 of philanthropy to his hand. He had been one of those ruffian giants of the elder school of finance who began with the and the ; whose health, character and had been wrought upon the of privation; whose culture began in middle life, and, being hard-earned, was 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 of the strong." For twenty years since his , 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 than endowed an . Mr. Stock was firm in opinion, dutiful in for the fine. His sayings were strongly , reliant with facts; his every thought was the result of a direct physical process of mind,—a mind to grip the , but which had not yet contracted for its spiritual endowment. In a word a splendid type of American with which to blend an .... Paula, holding something of this conception of the capitalist, became eager to see what adjustment could follow a meeting with his in characteristic qualities—her mystic. Mr. Stock was pacing up and down the mango . Leaving Father Fontanel on the , 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 the instant of his brows, and shrank inwardly at the hard, rapid tone, with which he 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 that Father Fontanel was rather too 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 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 interest in Father Fontanel's mission, no matter what it proved to be. She was pleased beyond measure to find that he was of or , before a man of stern and 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 , that when her eyes turned from his face to Stock's—the there amazed her. And like the natives of the water-front, the American did not seem to be aware of the 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 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 was full-formed to seek the of her room and there review the whole 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 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 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 , quite willing that he should adjust the matter to suit himself. His 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 in Destiny on the wire. There is always a big enough percentage of foolish in a city, so it 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 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
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