IV

In the priest's soul there was rejoicing. He was anticipating the

victorious outcome of the struggle to which, in part, he had been

witness. But he acknowledged afterwards that he had had not the faintest

conception, not the remotest intimation of the actual truth. It remained

for Champney Googe to enlighten him.

"I've been digging for the root of the whole matter," he began simply.

His hand was clenched and pressed hard on his knee, otherwise he showed

no sign of the effort that speech cost him. "I've been clearing away all

obstructions, trying to look at myself outside of myself; and I find

that, ever since I can remember, I've had the ambition to be rich--and

rich for the power it apparently gives over other men, for the amplitude

of one kind of living it affords, for the extension of the lines of

personal indulgence and pleasure seemingly indefinitely, for the

position it guarantees. There has been but one goal always: the making

of money.

"I rebelled at first at the prospect of the five years' apprenticeship

in Europe. I can see now that those six years, as they proved to be,

fostered my ambition by placing me in direct and almost daily contact

with those to whom great wealth is a natural, not an acquired thing."

(Father Honore noted that throughout his confession he avoided the

mention of any name, and he respected him for it.) "On my return, as

you know, I was placed in a position of great responsibility, as well

as one affording every opportunity to further my object in life. I began

to make use of these opportunities at once; the twenty thousand received

from the quarry lands I invested, and in a short time doubled the sum. I

was in a position to gain the inside knowledge needed to manipulate

money with almost a certainty of increment; this knowledge, I was given

to understand, I might use for any personal investment of funds; I took

advantage of the privilege.

"I soon found that to operate successfully and largely, as I needed to

in order to gain my end and gain it quickly, I must have a larger amount

of cash. For this reason, I re-invested the forty thousand on the

strength of my knowledge of a rise that was to be brought about in

certain stocks within two months. This rise was guaranteed, you

understand; guaranteed by three influential financiers. It would double

my investment. They let it be known in a quiet way and in certain

quarters, that this rise would occur at about such a date, and then

forced the market up till they themselves had a good surplus. All this I

know for a fact, because I was on the inside. Just at this time the

syndicate intrusted to me three hundred thousand as a workable margin

for certain future investments. My orders were to invest in this

prepared stock only _after_ October fifteenth. Meanwhile the

manipulation of this amount was in my hands for eight weeks.

"I knew the forty thousand I had purposely invested in these stocks

would double itself by the fifteenth of October; this was the date set.

I knew this because I had the guaranty of the three men behind me; and,

knowing this, I took a hundred thousand of the sum intrusted to me, in

order to make a deal with a Wall Street firm which would net me twenty

thousand within two weeks.

"I knew perfectly well what I was doing--but there was never any

intention on my part of robbery or embezzlement. I knew the sum eighty

thousand, from my personal investment of forty thousand, was due on

October fifteenth; this, plus the twenty thousand due from the Wall

Street deal, would insure the syndicate from any loss. In fact, they

would never know that the money had been used by me to antedate the

investment of the three hundred thousand--a part of the net yearly

working profits from the quarries--intrusted to me."

He paused for a moment to pass his hand over his forehead; his eyebrows

contracted suddenly as if he were in pain.

"The temptation to take this money, although knowing well enough it was

not mine to take, was too great for me. It was the resultant of every

force of, I might say, my special business propulsion. This temptation

lay along the lines on which I had built up my life: the pursuance of a

line of action by which I might get rich quick.--Then came the crash.

That special guaranteed stock broke--never to rally in time to save

me--sixty-five points. The syndicate sent out warning signals to me that

I was just in time to save any part of the three hundred thousand from

investment in those stocks. Of course, I got no return from the forty

thousand of my personal investment, and the hundred thousand I had used

for the deal went down too. So much for the guaranty of the

multi-millionaires.--Just then, when everything was chaotic and a big

panic threatened, came a call from the manager of the quarries for

immediate funds; the men were getting uneasy because pay was two weeks

overdue. The syndicate told me to apply the working margin of three

hundred thousand at once for this purpose. Of course there was a

shortage; it was bound to be discovered. I tried to procrastinate--tried

to put off the payment of the men; then came the threatened strike on

account of non-payment of wages. I knew it was all up with me. When I

saw I must be found out, I fled--

"I never meant to rob them--to rob any one, never--never--" His voice

broke slightly on those words.

"I believe you." Father Honore spoke for the first time. "Not one man in

ten thousand begins by meaning to steal."

"I know it; that's what makes the bitterer cud-chewing."

"I know--I know." The priest spoke under his breath. He was sitting on

the side of the cot, and leaned forward suddenly, his elbows on his

knees, his chin resting in his palms, his eyes gazing beyond Champney to

something intangible, some inner vision that was at that moment

projecting itself from the sensitive plate of consciousness upon the

blank of reality.

Champney looked at him keenly. He was aware that, for the moment, Father

Honore was present with him only in the body. He waited, before

speaking, until the priest's eyes turned slowly to his; his position

remained the same. Champney went on:

"All that you have done to obtain this reprieve, has been done for

me--for mine--"; his voice trembled. "A man comes to know the measure of

such sacrifice after an experience like mine--I have no words--"

"Don't, Champney--don't--"

"No, I won't, because I can't--because nothing is adequate. I thought it

all out last night. There is but one way to show you, to prove anything

to you; I am going to do as you said: make good my manhood--"

Father Honore's hand closed upon Champney's.

"--And there is but one way in which I can make it good. I can take only

a step at a time now, but it's this first step that will start me

right."

He paused a moment as if to gather strength to voice his decision.

"I should disown my manhood if I shirked now. The horror of prospective

years of imprisonment has been more to me than death--I welcomed _that_

as the alternative. But now, the manhood that is left in me demands that

if I am willing to live as a man, I must take my punishment like a man.

I am going to let things take their usual course; accept no relief from

the money guaranteed to reimburse the syndicate; plead guilty, and let

the sentence be what it may: seven, fifteen, or twenty years--it's all

one."

He drew a long breath as of deliverance. The mere formulating of his

decision in the presence of another man gave him strength, almost

assurance to act for himself in furthering his own commitment. But the

priest bowed his head into his hands and a groan burst from his lips, so

laden with wretchedness, with mental and spiritual suffering, that even

Champney Googe was startled from his hard-won calm.

"Father Honore, what is it? Don't take it so hard." He laid his hand on

his shoulder. "I can't ask you if I've done right, because no man can

decide that for me; but wouldn't you do the same if you were in my

place?"

"Oh, would to God I had!--would to God I had!" he groaned rather than

spoke.

Champney was startled. He realized, for the first time, perhaps, in his

self-centred life, that he was but a unit among suffering millions. He

was realizing, moreover, that, with the utterance of his decision, he

had, as it were, retired from the stage for many years to come; the

curtain had fallen on his particular act in the life-drama; that others

now occupied his place, and among them was this man before him who,

active for good, foremost in noble works, strong in the faith, helpful

wherever help might be needed, a refuge for the oppressed of soul, a

friend to all humanity because human, _his_ friend--his mother's, was

suffering at this moment as he himself had suffered, but without the

relief that is afforded by renunciation. Out of a great love and pity he

spoke:

"What is it? Can't you tell me? Won't it help, just as man to man--as it

has helped me?"

Father Honore regained his control before Champney ceased questioning.

"I don't know that it will help; but I owe it to you to tell you, after

what you have said--told me. I can preach--oh yes! But the practice--the

practice--" He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"What you have just told me justifies me in telling you what I thought

never to speak of again in this world. You have done the only thing to

do in the circumstances--it has taken the whole courage of a man; but I

never for a moment credited you with sufficient manhood to dare it. It

only goes to show how shortsighted we humans are, how incomprehensive of

the workings of the human heart and soul; we think we know--and find

ourselves utterly confounded, as I am now." He was silent for a few

minutes, apparently deep in meditation.

"Had I done, when I was twenty years old, as you are going to do, I

should have had no cause to regret; all my life fails to make good in

that respect.--When I was a boy, an orphan, my heartstrings wound

themselves about a little girl in France who was kind to me. I may as

well tell you now that the thought of that child was one of the motives

that induced me to investigate Aileen's case, when we saw her that night

at the vaudeville."

He looked at Champney, who, at the mention of Aileen's name, had started

involuntarily. "You remember that night?" Champney nodded. How well he

remembered it! But he gave no further sign.

"I was destined for the priesthood later on, but that did not stifle the

love in my heart for the young girl. It was in my novitiate years. I

never dared ask myself what the outcome of it all would be; I wanted to

finish my novitiate first. I knew she loved me with a charming, open,

young girl's love that in the freedom of our household life--her

grandfather was my great-uncle on my mother's side--found expression in

a sisterly way; and in the circumstances I could not tell her of my

love. It was the last year of my novitiate when I discovered the fact

that a young man, in the employ of her grandfather, was paying her

attention with the intention of asking her of him in marriage. The mere

thought of the loss of her drove me half mad. I took the first

opportunity, when at home for the holidays, to tell her my love, and I

threatened, that, if she gave herself to another, I would end

all--either for myself or for him. The girl was frightened, indignant,

horrified almost, at the force of the passion that was consuming me;

she repelled me--that ended it; I took it for granted that she loved

that other. I lay in wait for him one night as he was going to the

house; taunted him; heaped upon him such abuse as makes a man another's

murderer; I goaded him into doing what I had intended. He struck me in

the face; closed with me, and I fought him; but he was wrestling with a

madman. We were on the cliff at Dieppe; the night was dark;

intentionally I forced him towards the edge. He struggled manfully,

trying to land a blow on my head that would save him; he wrestled with

me and he was a man of great strength; but I--I knew I could tire him

out. It was dark--I knew when he went over the edge, but I could see

nothing, I heard nothing....

"I fled; hid myself; but I was caught; held for a time awaiting the

outcome of the man's hurt. Had he died it would have been manslaughter.

As it was I knew it was murder, for there had been murder in my heart.

He lived, but maimed for life. The lawyer, paid for by my great-uncle,

set up the plea of self-defence. I was cleared in the law, and fled to

America to expiate. I know now that there was but one expiation for

me--to do what you are to do; plead guilty and take my punishment like a

man. I failed to do it--and _I_ preach of manhood to you!"

There was silence in the room. Champney broke it and his voice was

almost unrecognizable; it was hoarse, constrained:

"But your love was noble--you loved her with all the manhood that was in

you."

"God knows I did; but that does not alter the fact of my consequent

crime."

He looked again at Champney as he spoke out his conviction, and his own

emotion suffered a check in his amazement at the change in the

countenance before him. He had seen nothing like this in the thirty-two

hours he had been in his presence; his jaw was set; his nostrils white

and sharpened; the pupils of his eyes contracted to pin points; and into

the sallow cheeks, up to the forehead knotted as with intense pain, into

the sunken temples, the blood rushed with a force that threatened

physical disaster, only to recede as quickly, leaving the face ghastly

white, the eyelids twitching, the muscles about the mouth quivering.

Noting all this Father Honore read deeper still; he knew that Champney

Googe had not told him the whole, possibly not the half--_and never

would tell_. His next question convinced him of that.

"May I ask what became of the young girl you loved?--Don't answer, if I

am asking too much."

"I don't know. I have never heard from her. I can only surmise. But I

did receive a letter from her when I was in prison, before my trial--she

was summoned as witness; and oh, the infinite mercy of a loving woman's

heart!" He was silent a moment.

"She took so much blame upon herself, telling me that she had not known

her own heart; that she tried to think she loved me as a brother; that

she had been willing to let it go on so, and because she had not been

brave enough to be honest with herself, all this trouble had come upon

me whom she acknowledged she loved--upon her and her household. She

begged me, if acquitted, never to see her, never to communicate with her

again. There was but one duty for us both she said, guilty as we both

were of what had occurred to wreck a human being for life; to go each

_the way apart_ forever--I mine, she hers--to expiate in good works, in

loving kindness to those who might need our help....

"I have never known anything further--heard no word--made no inquiry. At

that time, after my acquittal, my great-uncle, a well-to-do baker,

settled a sum of money on the man who had been in his employ; the

interest of it would support him in his incapacity to do a man's work

and earn a decent livelihood. My uncle said then I was never again to

darken his doors. He desired me to leave no address; to keep secret to

myself my destination, and forever after my whereabouts. I obeyed to the

letter--now enough of myself. I have told you this because, as a man, I

had not the face to sit here in your presence and hear your decision,

without showing you my respect for your courage--and I have taken this

way to show it."

He held out his hand and Champney wrung it. "You don't know all, or you

would have no respect," he said brokenly.

The two men looked understandingly into each other's eyes, but they both

felt intuitively that any prolongation of this unwonted emotional strain

would be injurious to both, and the work in hand. They, at once, in

tacit understanding of each other's condition, put aside "the things

that were behind" and "reached forth to those that were before": they

laid plans for the speedy execution of all that Champney's decision

involved.

"There is one thing I cannot do," he spoke with decision; "that is to

see my mother before my commitment--or after. It is the only thing that

will break me down. I need all the strength of control I possess to go

through this thing."

The priest knew better than to protest.

"Telegraph her to-day what you think best to ease her suspense. I will

write her, and ask you to deliver my letter to her after you have seen

me through. I want _you_ to go up with me--to the very doors; and I want

yours to be the last known face I see on entering. Another request: I

don't want you, my mother, or any one else known to me, to communicate

with me by letter, message, or even gift of any kind during my term,

whether seven years or twenty. This is oblivion. I cease to exist, as an

identity, outside the walls. I will make one exception: if my mother

should fall ill, write me at once.--How she will live, I don't know! I

dare not think--it would unsettle my reason; but she has friends; she

has you, the Colonel, Tave, Elvira, Caukins; they will not see her want,

and there's the house; it's in her name."

He rose, shook himself together, drew a long breath. "Now let us go to

work; the sooner it's over the better for all concerned.--I suppose the

clothes I had on are worth nothing, but I'd like to look them over."

He spoke indifferently and went into the adjoining bath closet where

Father Honore, not liking to dispose of them until Champney should have

spoken of them at least, had left the clothes in a bundle. He had put

the little handkerchief, discolored almost beyond recognition, in with

them. Champney came out in a few minutes.

"They're no good," he said. "I'll have to wear these, if I may. I

believe it's one of the regulations that what a man takes in of his own,

is saved for him to take out, isn't it?"

"Yes." An hour later when Father Honore disposed of the bundle to the

janitor, he knew that Aileen's handkerchief had been abstracted--and he

read still deeper into the ways of the human heart....

* * * * *

Within ten days sentence was passed: seven years with hard labor.

There was no appeal for mercy, and speedy commitment followed. A

paragraph in the daily papers conveyed a knowledge of the fact to the

world in general; and within ten days, the world in general, as usual,

forgot the circumstance; it was only one of many.