"The trouble is she has borne up too long."
The doctor was talking to Father Honore while untying the horse from the
hitching-post at the kitchen porch.
"She has stood it longer than I thought she could; but without the
necessary sleep even her strong constitution and splendid physique can't
supply sufficient nerve force to withstand such a strain--it's fearful.
Something had to give somewhere. Practically she hasn't slept for over
three weeks, and, what's more, she won't sleep till--she knows one way
or the other. I can't give her opiates, for the strain has weakened her
heart--I mean functionally." He stepped into the carriage. "You haven't
heard anything since yesterday morning, have you?"
"No; but I'm inclined to think that now he has put them off the track
and got them over the border, he will make for New York again. It's my
belief he will try to get out of the country by that door instead of by
way of Canada."
"I never thought of that." He gathered up the reins, and, leaning
forward from the hood, looked earnestly into the priest's eyes. "Make
her talk if you can--it's her only salvation. She hasn't opened her lips
to me, and till she speaks out--you understand--I can do nothing. The
fever is only the result of the nerve-strain."
"I wish it were in my power to help her. I may as well tell you
now--but I'd like it to remain between ourselves, of course I've told
the Colonel--that I determined last night to go down to New York and see
if I can accomplish anything. I shall have two private detectives there
to work with me. You know the city agency has its men out there
already?"
"No, I didn't. I thought all the force was centred here in this State
and on the Canada line. It strikes me that if she could know you were
going--and for what--she might speak. You might try that, and let me
know the result."
"I will."
The doctor drove off. Father Honore stood for a few minutes on the back
porch; he was thinking concentratedly:--How best could he approach the
stricken mother and acquaint her with his decision to search for her
son?
He was roused by the sound of a gentle voice speaking in French:
"Good-morning, Father Honore; how is Mrs. Googe? I have just heard of
her illness."
It was Sister Ste. Croix from the sisterhood home in The Gore.
The crisp morning air tinged with a slight color her wrinkled and
furrowed cheeks; her eyelids, also, were horribly wrinkled, as could be
plainly seen when they drooped heavily over the dark blue eyes. Yet
Sister Ste. Croix was still in middle life.
"There is every cause for great anxiety, I grieve to say. The doctor has
just gone."
"Who is with her, do you know?"
"Mrs. Caukins, so Ellen says."
"Do you think she would object to having me nurse her for a while? She
has been so lovely to me ever since I came here, and in one way and
another we have been much together. I have tried again and again to see
her during these dreadful weeks, but she has steadily refused to see me
or any of us--just shut herself out from her friends."
"I wish she would have you about her; it would do her good; and surely
Mrs. Caukins can't leave her household cares to stay with her long, nor
can she be running back and forth to attend to her. I am going to make
the attempt to see her, and if I succeed I will tell her that you are
ready to come at any minute--and only waiting to come to her."
"Do; and won't you tell Ellen I will come down and see her this
afternoon? Poor girl, she has been so terrified with the events of these
last weeks that I have feared she would not stay. If I'm here, I feel
sure she would remain."
"If Mrs. Googe will not heed your request, I do hope you will make it
your mission work to induce Ellen to stay."
"Indeed, I will; I thought she might stay the more willingly if I were
with her."
"I'm sure of it," Father Honore said heartily.
"Are you going in now?"
"Yes."
"Well, please tell Ellen that if Mrs. Googe wants me, she is to come up
at once to tell me. Good morning."
She walked rapidly down the road beside the house. Father Honore turned
to look after her. How many, many lives there were like
that!--unselfish, sacrificing, loving, helpful, yet unknown, unthought
of. He watched the slight figure, the shoulders bowed already a little,
but the step still firm and light, till it passed from sight. Then he
entered the kitchen and encountered Mrs. Caukins.
"I never was so glad to see any living soul as I am you, Father Honore,"
was her greeting; she looked up from the lemon she was squeezing; "I
don't dare to leave her till she gets a regular nurse. It's enough to
break your heart to see her lying there staring straight before her and
not saying a word--not even to the doctor. I told the Colonel when he
was here a little while ago that I couldn't stand it much longer; it's
getting on my nerves--if she'd only say _something_, I don't care what!"
She paused in concocting the lemonade to wipe her eyes on a corner of
her apron.
"Mrs. Caukins, I wish you would say to Mrs. Googe that I am here and
would like to speak with her before I leave town this afternoon. You
might say I expect to be away for a few days and it is necessary that I
should see her now."
"You don't mean to say you're going to leave us right in the lurch,
'fore we know anything about Champney!--Why, what will the Colonel do
without you? You've been his right hand man. He's all broken up; that
one night's work nearly killed him, and he hasn't seemed himself
since--"
Father Honore interrupted this flow of ejaculatory torrent.
"I've spoken to the Colonel about my going, Mrs. Caukins. He agrees with
me that no harm can come of my leaving here for a few days just at this
time."
"I'll tell her, Father Honore; I'm going up this minute with the
lemonade; but it's ten to one she won't see you; she wouldn't see the
rector last week--oh, dear me!" She groaned and left the room.
She was back again in a few minutes, her eyes wide with excitement.
"She says you can come up, Father Honore, and you'd better go up quick
before she gets a chance to change her mind."
He went without a word. When Mrs. Caukins heard him on the stair and
caught the sound of his rap on the door, she turned to Ellen and spoke
emphatically, but with trembling lips:
"I don't believe the archangel Gabriel himself could look at you more
comforting than Father Honore does; if _he_ can't help her, the Lord
himself can't, and I don't mean that for blasphemy either. Poor
soul--poor soul"--she wiped the tears that were rolling down her
cheeks,--"here I am the mother of eight children and never had to lose a
night's sleep on account of their not doing right, and here's Aurora
with her one and can't sleep nor eat for the shame and trouble he's
brought on her and all of us--for I'm a Googe. Life seems sometimes to
get topsy-turvy, and I for one can't make head nor tail of it. The
Colonel's always talking about Nature's 'levelling up,' but I don't see
any 'levelling'; seems to me as if she was turning everything up on edge
pretty generally.--Give me that rice I saw in the pantry, Ellen; I'm
going to make her a little broth; I've got a nice foreshoulder piece at
home, and it will be just the thing."
Ellen, rejoicing in such talkative companionship, after the three weeks
of dreadful silence in the house, did her bidding, at the same time
taking occasion to ask some questions on her own part, among them one
which set Mrs. Caukins speculating for a week: "Who do you suppose
killed Rag?"
Aurora was in bed, but propped to a sitting position by pillows. When
Father Honore entered she started forward.
"Have you heard anything?" Her voice was weak from physical exhaustion.
"No, Mrs. Googe--"
She sank back on the pillows; he drew a chair to the bedside.
"--But I have decided to go down to New York and search for myself. I
have a feeling he is there, not in Maine or Canada; and I know that city
from Washington Heights to the Battery."
"You think he'll be found?" She could scarcely articulate the words;
some terror had her by the throat; her eyes showed deadly fear.
"Yes, I think he will."
"But she won't do anything--I--I went to her--"
"Don't exert yourself too much, Mrs. Googe, but if you can tell me whom
you mean, to whom you have applied, it might help me to act
understandingly."
"To his aunt--I went last night."
"Mrs. Champney?"
She closed her eyes and made a motion of assent.
"And she will do nothing?"
"No."
"I fail to understand this. Surely she might give of her abundance to
save one who is of her own blood. Would it do any good, do you think,
for me to see her? I'll gladly go."