"What do you think of him?"
"Who?--Rag or Mr. Googe?"
She was always herself with Mrs. Champney, and her daring spirit of
mischief rarely gave offence to the mistress of Champ-au-Haut. But by
the tone of voice in which she answered, Aileen knew that, without
intention, she had irritated her.
"You know perfectly well whom I mean--my nephew, Mr. Googe."
Aileen was silent for a moment. Her young secret was her own to guard
from all eyes, and especially from all unfriendly ones. She was standing
on the hearth, in front of Mrs. Champney. Turning her head slightly she
looked up at the portrait of the man above her--looked upon almost the
very lineaments of him whom at that very moment her young heart was
adoring: the fine features, the blue eyes, the level brows, the firm
curving lips, the abundant brown hair. It was as if Champney Googe
himself were smiling down upon her. As she continued to look, the lovely
light in the girl's face--a light reflected from no sunset fires over
the Flamsted Hills, but from the sunrise of girlhood's first
love--betrayed her to the faded watchful eyes beside her.
"He looks just like your husband;" she spoke slowly; her voice seemed to
linger on the last word; "when Tave saw him he said he thought it was
Mr. Champney come to life, and I think--"
Mrs. Champney interrupted her. "Octavius Buzzby is a fool." Sudden anger
hardened her voice; a slight flush came into her wasted cheeks. "Tell
Hannah I want my supper now, let Ann bring it in here to me. I don't
need you; I'm tired."
Aileen turned without another word--she knew too well that tone of voice
and what it portended; she was thankful to hear it rarely now--and left
the room to do as she was bidden.
"Little fool!" Almeda Champney muttered between set teeth when the door
closed upon the girl. She placed both hands on the arms of her chair to
raise herself; walked feebly to the hearth where a moment before Aileen
had stood, and raising her eyes to the smiling ones looking down into
hers, confessed her woman's weakness in bitter words that mingled with a
half-sob:
"And I, too, was a fool--all women are with such as you."
V
Although Mrs. Champney remained the only one who read Aileen Armagh's
secret, yet even she asked herself as the summer sped if she read
aright.
During the three weeks in which her nephew was making himself familiar
with all the inner and outer workings of the business at The Gore and in
the sheds, she came to anticipate his daily coming to Champ-au-Haut, for
he brought with him the ozone of success. His laugh was so unaffectedly
hearty; his interest in the future of Flamsted and of himself as a
factor in its prosperity so unfeigned; his enjoyment of his own
importance so infectious, his account of the people and things he had
seen during his absence from home so entertaining that, in his presence,
his aunt breathed a new atmosphere, the life-giving qualities of which
were felt as beneficial to every member of the household at The Bow.
Mrs. Champney took note that he never asked for Aileen. If the girl were
there when he ran in for afternoon tea on the terrace or an hour's chat
in the evening,--sometimes it happened that the day saw him three times
at Champ-au-Haut--her presence to all appearance afforded him only an
opportunity to tease her goodnaturedly; he delighted in her repartee.
Mrs. Champney, keenly observant, failed to detect in the girl's frank
joyousness the least self-consciousness; she was just her own merry self
with him, and the "give and take" between them afforded Mrs. Champney a
fund of amusement.
On the evening of his departure for New York, she was witness to their
merry leave-taking. Afterwards she summoned Octavius to the library.
"You may bring all the mail for the house hereafter to me, Octavius; now
that I am feeling so much stronger, I shall gradually resume my
customary duties in the household. You need not give any of the mail to
Aileen to distribute--I'll do it after to-night."
"What the devil is she up to now!" Octavius said to himself as he left
the room.
But no letter from New York came for Aileen. Mrs. Champney tried another
tack: the next time her nephew came to Flamsted, later on in the autumn,
she asked him to write her in detail concerning his intimacy with her
cousins, the Van Ostends, and of their courtesies to him. Champney,
nothing loath--always keeping in mind the fact that it was well to keep
on the right side of Aunt Meda--wrote her all she desired to know. What
he wrote was retailed faithfully to Aileen; but the frequent dinners at
the Van Ostends', and the prospective coming-out reception and ball to
be given for Alice and scheduled for the late winter, called forth from
the eagerly listening girl only ejaculations of delight and pleasant
reminiscence of the first time she had seen the little girl dressed for
a party. If, inwardly she asked herself the question why Alice Van
Ostend had dropped all her childish interest in her whom she had been
the means of sending to Flamsted, why she no longer inquired for her,
her common sense was apt to answer the question satisfactorily. Aileen
Armagh was keen-eyed and quick-witted, possessing, without actual
experience in the so-called other world of society, a wonderful
intuition as to the relative value of people and circumstances in this
ordinary world which already, during her short life, had presented
various interesting phases for her inspection; consequently she
recognized the abyss of circumstance between her and the heiress of
Henry Van Ostend. But, with an intensity proportioned to her open-minded
recognition of the first material differences, her innate womanliness
and pride refused to acknowledge any abyss as to their respective
personalities. Hence she kept silence in regard to certain things;
laughed and made merry over the letters filled with the Van Ostends'
doings--and held on her own way, sure of her own status with herself.
Aileen kept her secret, and all the more closely because she was
realizing that Champney Googe was far from indifferent to her. At first,
the knowledge of the miracle of love, that was wrought so suddenly as
she thought, sufficed to fill her heart with continual joy. But,
shortly, that was modified by the awakening longing that Champney should
return her love. She felt she charmed him; she knew that he timed his
coming and going that he might encounter her in the house or about the
grounds, whenever and wherever he could--sometimes alone in her boat on
the long arm of the lake, that makes up to the west and is known as
"lily-pad reach"; and afterwards, during the autumn, in the quarry woods
above The Gore where with her satellites, Dulcie and Doosie Caukins, she
went to pick checkerberries.
Mrs. Champney was baffled; she determined to await developments, taking
refuge from her defeat in the old saying "Love and a cough can't be
hidden." Still, she could but wonder when four months of the late
spring and early summer passed, and Champney made no further appearance
in Flamsted. This hiatus was noticeable, and she would have found it
inexplicable, had not Mr. Van Ostend written her a letter which
satisfied her in regard to many things of which she had previously been
in doubt; it decided her once for all to speak to Aileen and warn her
against any passing infatuation for her nephew. For this she determined
to bide her time, especially as Champney's unusual length of absence
from Flamsted seemed to have no effect on the girl's joyous spirits. In
July, however, she had again an opportunity to see the two together at
Champ-au-Haut. Champney was in Flamsted on business for two days only,
and so far as she knew there was no opportunity for Aileen to see her
nephew more than once and in her presence. She managed matters in such a
way that Aileen's services were in continual demand during Champney's
two days' stay in his native town.
But after that visit in July, the singing voice was heard ringing
joyfully at all times of the day in the house and about the grounds of
The Bow. Sometimes the breeze brought it to Octavius from across the
lake waters--Luigi's was no longer with it--and he pitied the girl
sincerely because the desire of her heart, the cultivation of such a
voice, was denied her. Mrs. Champney, also, heard the clear voice,
which, in this the girl's twentieth year, was increasing in volume and
sweetness, carolling the many songs in Irish, English, French and
Italian. She marvelled at the light-heartedness and, at the same time,
wondered if, now that Romanzo Caukins could no longer hope, Aileen would
show enough common sense to accept Luigi Poggi in due time, and through
him make for herself an established place in Flamsted. Not that she was
yet ready to part with her--far from it. She was too useful a member of
the Champ-au-Haut household. Still, if it were to be Poggi in the end,
she felt she could control matters to the benefit of all concerned,
herself primarily. She was pleasing herself with the idea of such
prospective control of Aileen's matrimonial interests one afternoon,
just after Champney's flying visit in July, when she rose from her chair
beneath the awning and, to try her strength, made her way slowly along
the terrace to the library windows; they were French casements and one
of them had swung outwards noiselessly in the breeze. She was about to
step through, when she saw Aileen standing on the hearth before the
portrait of Louis Champney. She was gazing up at it, her face illumined
by the same lovely light that, a year before, had betrayed her secret to
the faded but observant eyes of Louis Champney's widow.
This was enough; the mistress of Champ-au-Haut was again on her
guard--and well she might be, for Aileen Armagh was in possession of the
knowledge that Champney Googe loved her. In joyful anticipation she was
waiting for the word which, spoken by him when he should be again in
Flamsted, was to make her future both fair and blest.