Mrs. Flynn gave hopefulness to whatever life she touched, and Rosalie, buoyant and hopeful enough by nature, responded to the living warmth and the religion of life in the Irishwoman’s heart.
“‘Tis worth the doin’, ivery bit of it, darlin’, the bither an’ the swate, the hard an’ the aisy, the rough an’ the smooth, the good an’ the bad,” said Mrs. Flynn to her this very Easter morning. “Even the avil is worth doin’, if so be ‘twas not mint, an’ the good is in yer heart in the ind, an’ ye do be turnip’ to the Almoighty, repentin’ an’ glad to be aloive: provin’ to Him ‘twas worth while makin’ the world an’ you, to want, an’ worry, an’ work, an’ play, an’ pick the flowers, an’ bleed o’ the thorns, an’ dhrink the sun, an’ ate the dust, an’ be lovin’ all the way! Ah, that’s it, darlin’,” persisted Mrs. Flynn, “‘tis lovin’ all the way makes it aisier. There’s manny kinds o’ love. There’s lad an’ lass, there’s maid an’ man. An’ that last is spring, an’ all the birds singin’, an’ shtorms now an’ thin, an’ siparations, an’ misthrust, an’ God in hivin bein’ that aisy wid ye for bein’ fools an’ children, an’ bringin’ ye thegither in the ind, if so be ye do be lovin’ as man an’ maid should love, wid all yer heart. Thin there’s the love o’ man an’ wife. Shure, that’s the love that lasts, if it shtarts right. Shure, it doesn’t always shtart wid the sun shinin.’ ‘Will ye marry me?’ says Teddy Flynn to me. ‘I will,’ says I. ‘Then I’ll come back from Canaday to futch ye,’ says he, wid a tear in his eye.
“‘For what’s a man in ould Ireland that has a head for annything but puttaties! There’s land free in Canaday, an’ I’m goin’ to make a home for ye, Mary,’ says he, wavin’ a piece of paper in the air. ‘Are ye, thin?’ says I. He goes away that night, an’ the next mornin’ I have a lether from him, sayin’ he’s shtartin’ that day for Canaday. He hadn’t the heart to tell me to me face. Fwaht do I do thin? I begs, borrers, an’ stales, an’ I reached that ship wan minnit before she sailed. There was no praste aboord, but we was married six weeks afther at Quebec. And thegither we lived wid ups an’ downs—but no ups an’ downs to the love of us for twenty years, blessed be God for all His mercies!”
Rosalie had listened with eyes that hungrily watched every expression, ears that weighed eagerly every inflection; for she was hearing the story of another’s love, and it did not seem strange to her that a woman, old, red-faced, and fat, should be telling it.
Yet there were times when she wept till she was exhausted; when all her girlhood was drowned in the overflow of her eyes; when there was a sense of irrevocable loss upon her. Then it was, in her fear of soul and pitiful loneliness, that her lover—the man she would have died for—seemed to have deserted her. Then it was that a sudden hatred against him rose up in her—to be swept away as swiftly as it came by the memory of his broken tale of love, his passionate words: “I have never loved any one but you in all my life, Rosalie.” And also, there was that letter from Chaudiere, which said that in the hour when the greatest proof of his love must be given he would give it. Reading the letter again, hatred, doubt, even sorrow, passed from her, and her imagination pictured the hour when, disguise and secrecy ended, he would step forward before all the world and say: “I take Rosalie Evanturel to be my wife.” Despite the gusts of emotion that swayed her at times, in the deepest part of her being she trusted him completely.
When she reached the hospital this Sunday afternoon her step was quick, her smile bright—though she had not been to confession as was her duty on Easter day. The impulse towards it had been great, but her secret was not her own, and the passionate desire to give relief to her full heart was overborne by thought of the man. Her soul was her own, but this secret of their love was his as well as hers. She knew that she was the only just judge between.
Soon after she entered the ward, the chief surgeon said that all that could be done for her father had now been done, and that as M. Evanturel constantly asked to be taken back to Chaudiere (he never said to die, though they knew what was in his mind), he might now make the journey, partly by river, partly by land. It seemed to the delighted and excited Rosalie that Jo Portugais had been sent to her as a surprise, and that his team of dogs was to take her father back.
She sat by her father’s bed this beautiful, wonderful Sunday afternoon, and talked cheerfully, and laughed a little, and told M. Evanturel of the dogs, and together they looked out of the window to the far-off hills, in their golden purple, beyond which, in the valley of the Chaudiere, was their little home. With her father’s hand in hers the girl dreamed dreams again, and it seemed to her that she was the very Rosalie Evanturel of old, whose thoughts were bounded by a river and a hill, a post-office and a church, a catechism and a few score of books. Here in the crowded city she had come to be a woman who, bitterly shaken in soul, knew life’s sufferings; who had, during the past few months, read with avidity history, poetry, romance, fiction, and the drama, English and French; for in every one she found something that said: “You have felt that.” In these long months she had learned more than she had known or learned in all her previous life.
As she sat looking out into the eastern sky she became conscious of voices, and of a group of people who came slowly down the ward, sometimes speaking to the sick and crippled. It was not a general visitors’ day, but one reserved for the few to come and say a kindly word to the suffering, to bring some flowers and distribute books. Rosalie had always been absent at this hour before, for she shrank from strangers; but to-day she had stayed on unthinking. It mattered nothing to her who came and went. Her heart was over the hills, and the only tie she had here was with this poor cripple whose hand she held. If she did not resent the visit of these kindly strangers, she resolutely held herself apart from the object of their visit with a sense of distance and cold dignity. If she had given Charley something of herself, she had in turn taken something from him, something unlike her old self, delicately non-intime. Knowledge of life had rationalised her emotions to a definite degree, had given her the pride of self-repression. She had had need of it in these surroundings, where her beauty drew not a little dangerous attention, which she had held at arm’s-length—her great love for one man made her invulnerable.
Now, as the visitors came near, she did not turn towards them, but still sat, her chin on her hand, looking out across the hills, in resolute abstraction. She felt her father’s fingers press hers, as if to draw her attention, for he, weak man, was ever ready to open his hand and heart to any friendly soul. She took no notice, but held his hand firmly, as though to say that she had no wish to see.