He waited in silence for some further word; for her to open her eyes at
least. But none was forthcoming; the eyes remained closed. After a while
he said gently:
"Perhaps I might understand, if you felt willing to tell me, if the
effort is not too great."
She opened her eyes and fixed them apathetically on the strong helpful
face.
"I wonder if you could understand--I don't know--you're not a woman--"
"No, but I am human, Mrs. Googe; and human sympathy is a great
enlightener."
"The weight here--and here!" She raised one hand to her head, the other
she laid over her heart. "If I could get rid of that for one hour--I
should be strong again--to live--to endure."
Father Honore was silent. He knew the long pent stream of grief and
misery must flow in its own channel when once it should burst its
bounds.
"My son must never know--you will give me your word?"
"I give you my word, Mrs. Googe."
She leaned forward from her pillows, looked anxiously at the door, which
was open into the hall, then whispered:
"She said--my son was Louis Champney's--bastard;--_you_ don't believe
it, do you?"
For the space of a second Father Honore shrank within himself. He could
not tell at that moment whether he had here to do with an overwrought
brain, with a mind obsessed, or with an awful fact. But he answered
without hesitation and out of his inmost conviction:
"No, I do not believe it, Mrs. Googe."
"I thought you wouldn't--Octavius didn't." She sighed profoundly as if
relieved from pain. "That's why she hates me--why she will not help."
"In that case I will go to Mr. Van Ostend. I asked to see you that I
might tell you this."
"Will you--oh, will you?" She sighed again--a sigh of great physical
relief, for she placed her hand again over her heart, pressing it hard.
"That helps here," she said, passing her other hand over her forehead;
"perhaps I can tell you now, before you go--perhaps it will help more."
Her voice grew stronger with every full breath she was now able to draw.
Gradually a look of comprehension replaced the apathetic stare. She
looked squarely at the priest for the first time since his entrance.
Father Honore could but wonder if the thought behind that look would
find adequate expression.
"You haven't said 'God' to me once since that--that night. Don't speak
to me about Him now, will you? He's too far away--it doesn't mean
anything to me."
"Mrs. Googe, there comes a time in most lives when God seems so far away
that we can find Him only through the Human;--perhaps such a time has
come in your life."
"I don't know; I never thought much about that. But--my god was human,
oh, for so many years!--I loved Louis Champney."
Again there was a long inhalation and exhalation. It seemed as if each
admission, which she forced herself to make, loosened more and more the
tension of the long-racked nerves; as a result the muscles of the throat
relaxed, the articulation grew distinct, the voice stronger.
"--And he loved me--better than life itself. I was so young when it
began--only sixteen. My husband's father took me into his home then to
bring up; I was an orphan. And Louis Champney loved me then and
always--but Almeda Googe, my husband's sister, loved him too--in her
way. Her own father could do nothing with her awful will--it crushed
everybody that came in contact with it--that opposed it; it crushed
me--and in the end, Louis."
She took a little of the lemonade to moisten her lips and went on:
"She was twelve years older than he. She took him when he was in
college; worked on him, lied to him about me; told him I loved her
brother; worked backwards, forwards, underhanded--any way to influence
him against me and get her hold upon him. He went to Europe; she
followed; wrote lying letters to her brother--said she was engaged to be
married to Louis before her return; told Louis I was going to marry her
brother, Warren Googe--in the end she had her way, and always has had
it, and will have it. I married Warren Googe; she was forty when she
married Louis at twenty-eight."
She paused, straightened herself. Something like animation came into her
face.
"It does me good to speak--at last. I've never spoken in all these
years--and I can tell you. My child was born seven months after my
husband's death. Louis Champney came to see me then--up here, in this
room; it was the first time we had dared to see each other alone--but
the baby lay beside me; _that kept us_. He said but little; but he took
up the child and looked at him; then he turned to me. 'This should have
been our son, Aurora,' he said, and I--oh, what will you think of me!"
She dropped her head into her hands.
"I knew in my heart that during all those months I was carrying Warren
Googe's child, I had only one thought: 'Oh, if it were only Louis' and
mine!' And because I was a widow, I felt free to dwell upon that one
thought night and day. Louis' face was always before me. I came in
thought to look upon him as the true father of my boy--not that other
for whom I had had no love. And I took great comfort in that
thought--and--and--my boy is the living image of Louis Champney."
She withdrew her hands, clasping them nervously and rubbing them in each
other.
"Oh, I sinned, I sinned in thought, and I've been punished, but there
was never anything more--and last night I had to hear that from her!"
For a moment the look of deadly fear returned to the eyes, but only for
a moment; her hands continued to work nervously.
"Never anything more; only that day when he took my boy in his arms and
said what he did, we both knew we could not see much of each other for
the rest of our lives--that's why I've kept so much to myself. He kissed
the baby then, laid him in my arms and, stooping, kissed me once--only
once--I've lived on that--and said: 'I will do all I can for this boy.'
And--and"--her lips trembled for the first time--"that little baby, as
it lay on my breast, saved us both. It was renunciation--but it made me
hard; it killed Louis.
"I saw Louis seldom and always in the presence of my boy. But Almeda
Champney was not satisfied with what she had done; she transferred her
jealousy to my son. She was jealous of every word Louis spoke to him;
jealous of every hour he was with him. When Louis died, still young--my
son was left unprovided for. That was Almeda Champney's work--she
wouldn't have it.
"Then I sold the first quarry for means to send Champney to college; and
I sold the rest in order to start him well in business, in the world.
But I know that at the bottom of my ambition for him, was the desire
that he might succeed in spite of the fact that his aunt had kept from
him the property which Louis Champney intended to be his. My ambition
has been overweening for Champney's material success--I have urged him
on, when I should have restrained. I have aided him to the extent of my
ability to attain his end. I longed to see him in a position that,
financially, would far out-shine hers. I felt it would compensate in
part. I loved my son--and I loved in him Louis Champney. I alone am to
blame for what has come of it--I--his mother."
Her lips trembled excessively. She waited to control them before she
could continue.
"Last night, when I begged her to help me, she answered me with what I
told you. I could bear no more--"
She leaned back on the pillows, exhausted for a while with her great
effort, but the light of renewed life shone from every feature.
"I am better now," she said, turning to Father Honore the dark hollow
eyes so full of gratitude that the priest looked away from her.
While this page in human history was being laid open before him, Father
Honore said nothing. The confession it contained was so awful in its
still depths of pure passion, so far-reaching in its effects on a human
soul, that he felt suddenly the utter insignificance of his own
existence, the futility of all words, the meagreness of all sympathetic
expression. And he was honest enough to withhold all attempt at such.
"I fear you are very tired," he said, and rose to go.
"No, no; I am better already. The telling has done me such good. I shall
soon be up and about. When do you go?"
"This afternoon; and you may expect telegrams from me at almost any
time; so don't be alarmed simply because I send them. I thought you
would prefer to know from day to day."
"You are good--but I can say nothing." The tears welled at last and
overflowed on her cheeks.
"Don't say that--I beg of you." He spoke almost sharply, as if hurt
physically. "Nothing is needed--and I hope you will let Sister Ste.
Croix come in for a few days and care for you. She wants to come."
"Tell her to come. I think I am willing to see any one now--something
has given way here;" she pressed her hand to her head; "it's a great
relief."
"Good-bye." He held out his hand and she placed hers in it; the tears
kept rolling down her cheeks.
"Tell my darling boy, when you see him, that it was my fault--and I love
him so--oh, how I love him--" Her voice broke in a sob.
Father Honore left the room to cover his emotion. He spoke to Ellen from
the hall, and went out at the front door in order to avoid Mrs. Caukins.
He had need to be alone.
* * * * *
That afternoon at the station, Octavius Buzzby met him on the platform.
"Mr. Buzzby, is there any truth in the rumor I heard, as I came to the
train, that Mrs. Champney has had a stroke?"
The face of Champ-au-Haut's factotum worked strangely before he made
answer.
"Yes, she's had a slight shock. The doctor told me this morning that he
knew she'd had the first one over three years ago; this is the second.
I've come down for a nurse he telegraphed for; I expect her on the next
train up--and, Father Honore--" he hesitated; his hands were working
nervously in each other.
"Yes, Mr. Buzzby?"
"I come down to see you, too, on purpose--"
"To see me?" Father Honore looked his surprise; his thoughts leaped to a
possible demand on Mrs. Champney's part for his presence at
Champ-au-Haut--she might have repented her words, changed her mind;
might be ready to help her nephew. In that case, he would wait for the
midnight train.
The man of Maine's face was working painfully again; he was struggling
for control; his feelings were deep, tender, loyal; he was capable of
any sacrifice for a friend.
"Father Honore--I don't want to butt in anywhere--into what ain't my
business, but I do want to know if you're going to New York?"
"Yes, I am."
"Are you going to try to see _him_?"
"I'm going to try to find him--for his mother's sake and his own."
Octavius Buzzby grasped his hand and wrung it. "God bless you!" He
fumbled with his left hand in his breast pocket and drew forth a
package. "Here, you take this--it's honest money, all mine--you use it
for Champney--to help out, you know, in any way you see fit."
Father Honore was so moved he could not speak at once.
"If Mr. Googe could know what a friend he has in you, Mr. Buzzby," he
said at last, "I don't think he could wholly despair, whatever might
come,"--he pressed the package back into Octavius' hand,--"keep it with
you, it's safer; and I promise you if I need it I will call on you."
Suddenly his indignation got the better of him--"But this is
outrageous!"--he spoke in a low voice but vehemently,--"Mrs. Champney is
abundantly able to do this for her nephew, whereas you--"
"You're right, sir, it's a damned outrage--I beg your pardon, Father
Honore, I hadn't ought to said that, but I've seen so much, and I'm all
broke up, I guess, with what I've been through since yesterday. I went
to her myself then and made bold to ask her to help with her riches
that's bringing her in eight per cent, and told her some plain truths--"
"You went--!" Father Honore exclaimed; he had almost said "too," but
caught himself in time.
"Yes, I went, and all I got was an insult for my pains. She's a
she-dev--I beg your pardon, sir; it would serve me right if the Almighty
struck me dumb with a stroke like hers, only hers don't affect her
speech any, Aileen says--I guess her tongue's insured against shock for
life, but it hadn't ought to be, sir, not after the blasphemy it's
uttered. But I ain't the one to throw stones, not after what I've just
said in your presence, sir, and I do beg your pardon, I know what's due
to the clo--"
The train, rounding the curve, whistled deafeningly.
Father Honore grasped both Octavius' hands; held them close in a firm
cordial grip; looked straight into the small brown eyes that were filled
with tears, the result of pure nervousness.
"We men understand each other, Mr. Buzzby; no apology is necessary--let
me have your prayers while I am away, I shall need them--good-bye--" He
entered the car.
Octavius Buzzby lifted his hat and stood bareheaded on the platform till
the train drew out.