In the earlier part of the winter Jo and he had met two or three times a week, but now Jo had come to help him with his work in the shop—two silent, devoted companions. They understood each other, and in that understanding were life and death. For never did Jo forget that a year from the day he had confessed his sins he meant to give himself up to justice. This caused him no sleepless nights. He thought more of Charley than of himself, and every month now he went to confession, and every day he said his prayers. He was at his prayers when Charley went to tell him of his purpose. Charley had often seen Jo on his knees of late, and he had wondered, but not with the old pagan mind. “Jo,” he said, “I am going away—to Montreal.”
“To Montreal!” exclaimed Jo huskily. “You are going back—to stay?”
“Not that. I am going—to see—Rosalie Evanturel.” Jo was troubled but not dumfounded. It had slowly crept into his mind that Charley loved the girl, though he had no real ground for suspicion. His will, however, had been so long the slave of the other man’s that he had far-off reflections of his thoughts. He made no reply in words, but nodded his head.
“I want you to stay here, Jo. If I don’t come back, and—and she does, stand by her, Jo. I can trust you.” “You will come back, M’sieu’—but you will come back, then?” Jo asked heavily.
“If I can, Jo—if I can,” he answered.
Long after he had gone, Jo wandered up and down among the trees on the river-road, up which Charley had disappeared with Jo’s dogs and sled. He kept shaking his head mournfully.
CHAPTER XLVI. THE FORGOTTEN MAN
It was Easter morning, and the good sunrise of a perfect spring made radiant the high hill above the town. Rosy-fingered morn touched with magic colour the masts and scattered sails of the ships upon the great river, and spires and towers quivered with rainbow light. The city was waking cheerfully, though the only active life was in the pealing bells and on the deep flowing rivers. The streets were empty yet, save for an assiduous priest or the cart of a milkman. Here and there a window opened and a drowsy head was thrust into the eager air. These saw a bearded countryman with his team of six dogs and his little cart going slowly up the street. It was plain the man had come a long distance—from the mountains in the east or south, no doubt, where horses were few, and dogs, canoes, and oxen the means of transportation.
As the man moved slowly through the streets, his dogs still gallantly full of life after their hard journey, he did not stare about him after the manner of countrymen. His movements had intelligence and freedom. He was an unusual figure for a woodsman or river-man—he did not wear ear-rings or a waist-sash as did the river-men, and he did not turn in his toes like a woodsman. Yet he was plainly a man from the far mountains.