XV

Since Champney Googe's escape on that October night, two weeks had been

added to the sum of the hours that his friends were counting until they

should obtain some definite word of his fate. During that time the love

of the sensational, which is at the root of much so-called communal

interest, was fed by the excitement of the nominal proceedings against

Luigi Poggi. On the night of Champney's flight he went to Father Honore

and Elmer Wiggins, and confessed his complicity in the affair at the

sheepfold. Within ten days, however, the Italian had been exonerated for

his attack on the escaped criminal; nor was the slightest blame attached

to such action on his part. He had been duly sworn in by the Colonel,

and was justified in laying hands on the fugitive, although the wisdom

of tackling a man, who was in such desperate straits, of his own accord

and alone was questioned. Not once during the sharp cross examination,

to which he was subjected by Emlie and the side-judge, was Aileen's name

mentioned--nor did he mention it to Father Honore. Her secret was to be

kept.

During those two weeks of misery and suspense for all who loved Champney

Googe, Octavius Buzzby was making up his mind on a certain subject. Now

that it was fully made up, his knock on the library door sounded more

like a challenge than a plea for admittance.

"Come in, Octavius."

Mrs. Champney was writing. She pushed aside the pad and, moving her

chair, faced him. Octavius noted the uncompromising tone of voice when

she bade him enter, and the hard-set lines of her face as she turned

inquiringly towards him. For a moment his courage flagged; then the

righteousness of his cause triumphed. He closed the door behind him.

This was not his custom, and Mrs. Champney looked her surprise.

"Anything unusual, Octavius?"

"I want a talk with you, Mrs. Champney."

"Sit down then." She motioned to a chair; but Octavius shook his head.

"I can say all I've got to say standing; it ain't much, but it's to the

point."

Mrs. Champney removed her glasses and swung them leisurely back and

forth on their gold chain. "Well, to the point, then."

He felt the challenge implied in her words and accepted it.

"I've served this estate pretty faithful for hard on to thirty-seven

years. I've served the Judge, and I've served his son, and now I'm going

to work to save the man that's named for that son--"

Mrs. Champney interrupted him sharply, decisively.

"That will do, Octavius. There is no occasion for you to tell me this; I

knew from the first you would champion his cause--no matter how bad a

one. We'll drop the subject; you must be aware it is not a particularly

pleasant one to me."

Octavius winced. Mrs. Champney smiled at the effect of her words; but he

ignored her remark.

"I like to see fair play, Mrs. Champney, and I've seen some things here

in Champo since the old Judge died that's gone against me. Right's right

and wrong's wrong, and I've stood by and kept still when I'd ought to

have spoken; perhaps 't would have been better for us all if I had--and

I'm including Champney Googe. When his father died--" Mrs. Champney

started, leaned forward in her chair, her hands tightly grasping the

arms.

"His father--" she caught up her words, pressed her thin lips more

closely together, and leaned back again in her chair. Octavius looked at

her in amazement.

"Yes," he repeated, "his father, Warren Googe; who else should I mean?"

Mrs. Champney made no reply, and Octavius went on, wetting his lips to

facilitate articulation, for his throat was going dry:

"His father made me promise to look out for the child that was a-coming;

and another man, Louis Champney, your husband,"--Mrs. Champney sat up

rigid, her eyes fixed in a stare upon the speaker's lips,--"told me when

the boy come that he'd father him as was fatherless--"

She interrupted him again, a sneering smile on her lips:

"You know as well as I, Octavius Buzzby, what Mr. Champney's will

was--too feeble a thing to place dependence on for any length of time;

if he said that, he didn't mean it--not as you think he did," she added

in a tone that sent a shiver along Octavius' spine. But he did not

intend to be "downed," as he said to himself, "not this time by Almeda

Champney." He continued undaunted:

"I do know what he meant better'n anybody living, and I know what he was

going to do for the boy; and _I_ know, too, Mrs. Champney, who hindered

him from having his will to do for the boy; and right's right, and

now's your time to make good to his memory and intentions--to make good

your husband's will for Champney Googe and save your husband's name from

disgrace and more besides. _You_ know--but you never knew I did till

now--what Louis Champney promised to do for the boy--and he told me more

than once, Mrs. Champney, for he trusted _me_. He told me he was going

to educate the boy and start him well in life, and that he wasn't going

to end there; he told me he was going to leave him forty thousand

dollars, Mrs. Champney--and he told me this not six weeks before he

died; and the interest on forty thousand has equalled the principal by

this time,--and you know best _why_ he hasn't had his own--I ain't blind

and nobody else here in Flamsted. And now I've come to ask you, if

you've got a woman's heart instead of a stone in your bosom, to make

over that principal and interest to the Quarry Company and save the boy

Louis Champney loved; he told me once what I knew, that his blood flowed

in that child's veins--"

"That's a lie--take that back!" she almost shrieked under her breath.

She started to her feet, trembling in every limb, her face twitching

painfully.

Octavius was appalled at the effect of his words; but he dared not

falter now--too much was at stake--although fearful of the effect of any

further excitement upon the woman before him. He spoke appeasingly:

"I can't take that back, for it's true, Mrs. Champney. You know as well

as I do that far back his mother was a Champney."

"Oh--I forgot." She dropped into her chair and drew a long breath as of

exhaustion. "What were you saying?" She passed her hand slowly over her

eyes, then put on her glasses. Octavius saw by that one movement that

she had regained her usual control. He, too, felt relieved, and spoke

more freely:

"I said I want you to make good that eighty thousand dollars--"

"Don't be a fool, Octavius Buzzby,"--she broke in upon him coldly, a

world of scornful pity in her voice,--"you mean well, but you're a fool

to think that at my time of life I'm going to impoverish myself and my

estate for Champney Googe. You've had your pains for nothing. Let him

take his punishment like any other man--he's no better, no worse; it's

the fault of his bringing up; Aurora has only herself to thank."

Octavius took a step forward. By a powerful effort he restrained himself

from shaking his fist in her face. He spoke under his breath:

"You leave Aurora's name out of this, Mrs. Champney, or I'll say things

that you'll be sorry to hear." His anger was roused to white heat and he

dared not trust himself to say more.

She laughed out loud--the forced, mocking laugh of a miserable old age.

"I knew from the first Aurora Googe was at the bottom of this--"

"She doesn't know anything about this, I came of--"

"You keep still till I finish," she commanded him, her faded eyes

sending forth something from behind her glasses that resembled blue

lightning; "I say she's at the bottom of this as she's been at the

bottom of everything else in Flamsted. She'll never have a penny of my

money, that was Louis Champney's, to clear either herself or her

state's-prison brat! Tell her that for me with my compliments on her

son's career.--And as for you, Octavius Buzzby, I'll repeat what you

said: I'm not blind and nobody else is in Flamsted, and I know, and

everybody here knows, that you've been in love with Aurora Googe ever

since my father took her into his home to bring up."

She knew that blow would tell. Octavius started as if he had been struck

in the face by the flat of an enemy's hand. He stepped forward quickly

and looked her straight in the eyes.

"You she-devil," he said in a low clear voice, turned on his heel and

left the room. He closed the door behind him, and felt of the knob to

see that he had shut it tight. This revelation of a woman's nature was

sickening him; he wanted to make sure that the library door was shut

close upon the malodorous charnel house of the passions. He shivered

with a nervous chill as he hurried down the hall and went upstairs to

his room in the ell.

He sat down on the bed and leaned his head on his hands, pressing his

fingers against his throbbing temples. Half an hour passed; still he sat

there trying to recover his mental poise; the terrible anger he had

felt, combined with her last thrust, had shocked him out of it.

At last he rose; went to his desk; opened a drawer, took out a tin box,

unlocked it, and laid the papers and books it contained one by one on

the table to inspect them. He selected a few, snapped a rubber about the

package and thrust it into the inner breast pocket of his coat. Then he

reached for his hat, went downstairs, left word with Ann that he was

going to drive down for the mail but that he should not be back before

ten, proceeded to the stable, harnessed the mare into a light driving

trap and drove away. He took the road to The Gore.

On approaching the house he saw a light in Aurora's bedroom. He drove

around to the kitchen door and tied the mare to the hitching-post. His

rap was answered by Ellen, a quarryman's daughter whom Mrs. Googe

employed for general help; but she spoke behind the closed door:

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Octavius Buzzby."

She drew the bolt and flung open the door. "Oh, it's you, is it, Mr.

Buzzby? I've got so nervous these last three weeks, I keep the door

bolted most of the time. Have you heard anything?" she asked eagerly,

speaking under her breath.

"No," said Octavius shortly; "I want to see Mrs. Googe. Tell her I must

see her; it's important."

The girl hesitated. "I don't believe she will--and I hate to ask

her--she looks awful, Mr. Buzzby. It scares me just to see her goin'

round without saying a word from morning to night, and then walking half

the night up in her room. I don't believe she's slept two hours a night

since--you know when."

"I guess she'll see me, Ellen; you go and ask her, anyway. I'll stay in

the lower hall."

He heard her rap at the bedroom door and deliver the message. There

followed the sharp click of a lock, the opening of the door and the

sound of Aurora's voice:

"Tell him to come up."

Octavius started upstairs. He had seen her but once in the past three

weeks; that was when he went to her on the receipt of the news of

Champney's flight; he vowed then he would not go again unless sent for;

the sight of the mother's despair, that showed itself in speechless

apathy, was too much for him. He could only grasp her hand at that time,

press it in both his, and say: "Aurora, if you need me, call me; you

know me. We'll help all we can--both of you--"

But there was no response. He tiptoed out of the room as if leaving the

presence of the dead.

Now, as he mounted the stairs, he had time to wonder what her attitude

would be after these three weeks of suspense. A moment more and he stood

in her presence, mute, shocked, heartsick at the change that this month

of agony had wrought in her. Her face was ghastly in its pallor; deep

yellowish-purple half-circles lay beneath her sunken eyes; every

feature, every line of the face was sharpened, and on each cheek bone

burned a fever spot of vivid scarlet; her dry eyes also burned with

unnatural and fevered brightness, the heavy eyelids keeping up a

continuous quivering, painful to see. The hand she held out to him

throbbed quick and hard in his grasp.

"Any news, Tave?" Her voice was dull from despair.

He shook his head; the slow tears coursed down his cheeks; he could not

help it.

"Sit down, Tave; you said it was important."

He controlled his emotion as best he could. "Aurora, I've been thinking

what can be done when he's found--"

"If he ever is! Oh, Tave, Tave--if I could only know something--where he

is--if living; I can't sleep thinking--" She wrung her clasped hands and

began to walk nervously back and forth in the room.

"Aurora, I feel sure he's living, but when he's found--then's the time

to help."

"How?" She turned upon him almost savagely; it looked as if her

primitive mother-passion were at bay for her young. "Where's help to

come from? I've nothing left."

"But I have." He spoke with confidence and took out the package from

his breast pocket. He held it out to her. "See here, Aurora, here's the

value of twenty thousand dollars--take it--use it as your own."

She drew away from it.--"Money!" She spoke almost with horror.

"Yes, Aurora, honest money. Take it and see how far 't will go towards

saving prosecution for him."

"You mean--," she hesitated; her dry eyes bored into his that dropped

before her unwavering gaze, "--you mean you're giving your hard-earned

wages to me to help save my boy?"

"Yes, and glad to give them--if you knew how glad, Aurora--"

She covered her face with her hands. Octavius took her by the arm and

drew her to a chair.

"Sit down," he said gently; "you're all worn out."

She obeyed him passively, still keeping her hands before her face. But

no sooner was she seated than she began to rock uneasily back and forth,

moaning to herself, till suddenly the long-dried fount was opened up;

the merciful blessing of tears found vent. She shook with uncontrollable

sobbing; she wept for the first time since Champney's flight, and the

tears eased her brain for the time of its living nightmare.

Octavius waited for her weeping to spend itself. His heart was wrung

with pity, but he was thankful for every tear she shed; his

gratefulness, however, found a curious inner expression.

"Damn her--damn her--damn her--" he kept saying over and over to

himself, and the mere repetition seemed to ease him of his over-powering

surcharge of pity. But it was Almeda Champney he had in mind, and, after

all, his unuttered inner curses were only a prayer for help, read

backwards.

At last, Aurora Googe lifted her face from her hands and looked at

Octavius Buzzby. He reddened and rose to go.

"Tave, wait a little while; don't go yet."

He sat down.

"I thought--I felt all was lost--no one cared--I was alone--there was no

help. You have shown me that I have been wrong--all wrong--such

friends--such a friend as you--" Her lips quivered; the tears welled

from the red and swollen lids. "I can't take the money, Tave, I

can't--don't look so--only on one condition. I've been coming to a

decision the last two days. I'm going straight to Almeda, Tave, and ask

her, beg her, if I have to, on my bended knees to save my boy--she has

more than enough--you know, Tave, what Champney should have had--"

Octavius nodded emphatically and found his voice.

"Don't I know? You may bet your life I know more'n I've ever told,

Aurora. Don't I know how Louis Champney said to me: 'Tave, I shall see

the boy through; forty thousand of mine is to be his'; and that was six

weeks before he died; and don't I know, too, how I didn't get a glimpse

of Louis Champney again till two weeks before his death, and then he was

unconscious and didn't know me or any one else?"

Octavius paused for breath. Aurora Googe rose and went to the closet.

"I must go now, Tave; take me with you." She took out a cloak and

burnous.

"I hate to say it, Aurora, but I'm afraid it won't do no good; she's a

tough cuss when it comes to money--"

"But she must; he's her own flesh and blood and she's cheated him out of

what is rightfully his. It's been my awful pride that kept me from going

sooner--and--oh, Tave, Tave,--I tried to make my boy promise never to

ask her for money! I've been hoping all along she would offer--"

"Offer! Almeda Champney offer to help any one with her money that was

Louis Champney's!"

"But she has enough of her own, Tave; the money that was my boy's

grandfather's."

"You don't know her, Aurora, not yet, after all you've suffered from

her. If you'd seen her and lived with her as I have, year out and year

in, you'd know her love of money has eat into her soul and gangrened it.

'T ain't no use to go, I tell you, Aurora." He put out his hand to

detain her, for she had thrown on her cloak and was winding the burnous

about her head.

"Tave, I'm going; don't say another word against it; and you must take

me down. She isn't the only one who has loved money till it blinded them

to duty--I can't throw stones--and after all she's a woman; I am going

to ask her to help with the money that is rightfully my boy's--and if

she gives it, I will take your twenty thousand to make up the amount."

She pressed the package into his hand.

"But what if she doesn't?"

"Then I'll ask Father Honore to do what he proposed to do last week: go

to Mr. Van Ostend and ask him for the money--there's nothing left but

that." She drew her breath hard and led the way from the room,

hurriedly, as if there were not a moment to lose. Octavius followed her,

protesting:

"Try Mr. Van Ostend first, Aurora; don't go to Mrs. Champney now."

"Now is the only time. If I hadn't asked my own relation, Mr. Van Ostend

would have every reason to say, 'Why didn't you try in your own family

first?'"

"But, Aurora, I'm afraid to have you."

"Afraid! I, of Almeda Champney?"

She stopped short on the stairs to look back at him. There was a trace

of the old-time haughtiness in her bearing. Octavius welcomed it, for he

was realizing that he could not move her from her decision, and as for

the message from Almeda Champney, he knew he never could deliver it--he

had no courage.

"You needn't sit up for me, Ellen," she said to the surprised girl as

they went out; "it may be late before I get home; bolt the back door,

I'll take the key to the front."

He helped her into the trap, and in silence they drove down to The Bow.