"But of course you don't know it. The fact is she had set heart on
having for a daughter-in-law Aileen Armagh--you remember little Aileen?"
Champney Googe's hands closed spasmodically on the arms of his chair. To
cover this involuntary movement, he leaned forward suddenly and kicked a
burning brand, that had fallen on the hearth, back into the fireplace. A
shower of sparks flew up chimney.
Father Honore went on without waiting for the answer he knew would not
be forthcoming: "Aileen gave me a fright the other day. I met her on the
street, and she took that occasion, in the midst of a good deal of noise
and confusion, to inform me with her usual vivacity of manner that she
was to be housekeeper to a man--'a job for life,' she added with the old
mischief dancing in her eyes and the merry laugh that is a tonic for the
blues. Upon my asking her gravely who was the fortunate man--for I had
no one in mind and feared some impulsive decision--she pursed her lips,
hesitated a moment, and, manufacturing a charming blush, said:--'I don't
mind telling you; it's Mr. Octavius Buzzby. I'm to be his housekeeper
for life and take care of him in his old age after his work and mine is
finished at Champo.' I confess, I was relieved."
"My aunt is still living, then?" Champney asked with more eagerness and
energy than the occasion demanded. His eyes shone with suppressed
excitement, and ever-awakening life animated every feature. Father
Honore, noting the sudden change, read again, as once six years before,
deep into this man's heart.
"Yes, but it is death in life. Aileen is still with her--faithful as the
sun, but rebelling at times as is only natural. The girl gave promise of
rich womanhood, but even you would wonder at such fine development in
such an environment of continual invalidism. Mrs. Champney has had two
strokes of paralysis; it is only a question of time."
"There is _one_ who never was my friend--I've often wondered why."
Into the priest's inner vision flashed that evening before his departure
for New York--the bedroom--the mother--that confession--
"It looks that way, I admit, but I've thought sometimes she has cared
for you far more than any one will ever know."
Champney started suddenly to his feet.
"What time is it? I must be going."
"Going?--You mean home--to-night?"
"Yes, I must go home. I came to ask you to go to my mother to prepare
her for this--I dared not shock her by going unannounced. You'll go
with me--you'll tell her?"
"At once."
He reached for his coat and turned off the lights. The two went out arm
and arm into the March night. The wind was still rising.
"It's only half-past nine, and Mrs. Googe will be up; she is a busy
woman."
"Tell me--" he drew his breath short--"what has my mother done all these
years--how has she lived?"
"As every true woman lives--doing her full duty day by day, living in
hope of this joy."
"But I mean _what_ has she done to live--to provide for herself; she has
kept the house?"
"To be sure, and by her own exertions. She has never been willing to
accept pecuniary aid from any friend, not even from Mr. Buzzby, or the
Colonel. I am in a position to know that Mr. Van Ostend did his best to
persuade her to accept something just as a loan."
"But what has she been doing?"
"She has been taking the quarrymen for meals the last six years,
Champney--at times she has had their families to board with her, as many
as the house could accommodate."
The arm which his own held was withdrawn with a jerk. Champney Googe
faced him: they were on the new iron bridge over the Rothel.
"You mean to say my mother--_my_ mother, Aurora Googe, has been keeping
a quarrymen's boarding-house all these years?"
"Yes; it is legitimate work."
"My mother--_my_ mother--" he kept repeating as he stood motionless on
the bridge. He seemed unable to grasp the fact for a moment; then he
laid his hand heavily on Father Honore's shoulder as if for support; he
spoke low to himself, but the priest caught a few words:
"I thank Thee--thank--for life--work--"
He seemed to come gradually to himself, to recognize his whereabouts. He
began to walk on, but very slowly.
"Father Honore," he said, and his tone was deeply earnest but at the
same time almost joyful, "I'm not going home to my mother empty-handed,
I never intended to--I have work. I can work for her, free her from
care, lift from her shoulders the burden of toil for my sake."
"What do you mean, Champney?"
"I made application to the manager of the Company this afternoon; I saw
they were all strangers to me, and they took me on in the sheds--Shed
Number Two. I went to work this afternoon. You see I know my trade; I
learned it during the last six years. I can support her now--Oh--"
He stopped short just as they were leaving the bridge; raised his head
to the black skies above him, reached upwards with both hands palm
outwards--
"--I thank my Maker for these hands; I thank Him that I can labor with
these hands; I thank Him for the strength of manhood that will enable me
to toil with these hands; I thank Him for my knowledge of good and evil;
I thank Him that I have 'won sight out of blindness--'" his eyes
strained to the skies above The Gore.
The moon, struggling with the heavy drifting cloud-masses, broke through
a confined ragged circle and, for a moment, its splendor shone upon the
heights of The Gore; its effulgence paled the arc-lights in the
quarries; a silver shaft glanced on the Rothel in its downward course,
and afar touched the ruffled waters of Lake Mesantic....
* * * * *
"I'll stay here on the lawn," he said five minutes afterwards upon
reaching the house. A light was burning in his mother's bedroom; another
shone from her sitting-room on the first floor.
The priest entered without knocking; this house was open the year round
to the frequent comers and goers among the workmen. He rapped at the
sitting-room door. Mrs. Googe opened it.
"Why, Father Honore, I didn't expect you to-night--didn't you have
the--What is it?--oh, what is it!" she cried, for the priest's face
betrayed him.
"Joyful news, Mrs. Googe,"--he let her read his face--"your son is a
free man to-night."
There was no outcry on the mother's part; but her hands clasped each
other till the nails showed white.
"Where is he now?"
"Here, in Flamsted--"
"Let me go--let me go to him--"
"He has come to you--he is just outside--"