III

THRIFT

The end of March had come.  The firm Canadian snow roads had suddenly changed their surface and become a chain of miniature rivers, lakes interspersed by islands of ice, and half-frozen bogs.

A young priest had started out of the city of Montreal to walk to the suburb of Point St. Charles.  He was in great haste, so he kilted up his long black petticoats and hopped and skipped at a good pace.  The hard problems of life had not as yet assailed him; he had that set of the shoulders that belongs to a good conscience and an easy mind; his face was rosy-cheeked and serene.

Behind him lay the hill-side city, with its grey towers and spires and snow-clad mountain.  All along his way budding maple trees swayed their branches overhead; on the twigs of some there was the scarlet moss of opening flowers, some were tipped with red buds and some were grey.  The March wind was surging through them; the March clouds were flying above them,—­light grey clouds with no rain in them,—­veil above veil of mist, and each filmy web travelling at a different pace.  The road began as a street, crossed railway tracks and a canal, ran between fields, and again entered between houses.  The houses were of brick or stone, poor and ugly; the snow in the fields was sodden with water; the road——­

’I wish that the holy prophet Elijah would come to this Jordan with his mantle,’ thought the priest to himself.

This was a pious thought, and he splashed and waded along conscientiously.  He had been sent on an errand, and had to return to discharge a more important duty in the same afternoon.

The suburb consisted chiefly of workmen’s houses and factories, but there were some ambitious-looking terraces.  The priest stopped at a brick dwelling of fair size.  It had an aspect of flaunting respectability; lintel and casements were shining with varnish; cheap starched curtains decked every window.  When the priest had rung a bell which jingled inside, the door was opened by a young woman.  She was not a servant, her dress was fur-belowed and her hair was most elaborately arranged.  She was, moreover, evidently Protestant; she held the door and surveyed the visitor with an air that was meant to show easy independence of manner, but was, in fact, insolent.

The priest had a slip of paper in his hand and referred to it.  ’Mrs. O’Brien?’ he asked.

‘I’m not Mrs. O’Brien,’ said the young woman, looking at something which interested her in the street.

A shrill voice belonging, as it seemed, to a middle-aged woman, made itself heard.  ’Louisy, if it’s a Cath’lic priest, take him right in to your gran’ma; it’s him she’s expecting.’

A moment’s stare of surprise and contempt, and the young woman led the way through a gay and cheaply furnished parlour, past the door of a best bedroom which stood open to shew the frills on the pillows, into a room in the back wing.  She opened the door with a jerk and stared again as the priest passed her.  She was a handsome girl; the young priest did not like to be despised; within his heart he sighed and said a short prayer for patience.