Oh, but her heart was hot with indignation as she walked along the road,
her eyes were stung with scalding tears, her thoughts turbulent and
rebellious! Why must he suffer such indignities from a man like Jim
McCann! How dared a man, that was a man, taunt another like that! The
hand holding her sun umbrella gripped the handle tightly, and through
set teeth she said to herself: "I hate them all--hate them!"
The declining July sun was hot upon her; the road-bed, gleaming white
with granite dust, blinded her. She looked about for some shelter where
she could wait for the down car; there was none in sight, except the
pines over by Father Honore's and the sisterhood house an eighth of a
mile beyond. She continued to stand there in the glare and the
heat--miserable, dejected, rebellious, until the tram halted for her.
The car was an open one; there was no other occupant. As it sped down
the curving road to the lake shore, the breeze, created by its movement,
was more than grateful to her. She took off her shade-hat to enjoy the
full benefit of it.
At the switch, half way down, the tram waited for the up car. She could
hear it coming from afar; the overhead wires vibrated to the extra power
needed on the steep grade. It came in sight, crowded with workmen on
their way home to Quarry End; the rear platform was black with them. It
passed over the switch slowly, passed within two feet of her seat. She
turned to look at it, wondering at its capacity for so many--and
looked, instead, directly into the face of Champney Googe who stood on
the lower step, his dinner-pail on his arm, the arm thrust through the
guard.
At sight of her, so near him that the breath of each might have been
felt on the cheek of the other, he raised his workman's cap--
She saw the gray head, the sudden pallor on brow and cheek, the deep,
slightly sunken eyes fixed upon her as if on her next move hung the
owner's hope of eternal life--the eyes moved with the slowly moving car
to focus _her_....
To Aileen Armagh that face, changed as it was, was a glimpse of heaven
on earth, and that heaven was reflected in the smile with which she
greeted it. She did more:--unheeding the many faces that were turned
towards her, she leaned from the car, her eyes following him, the
love-light still radiating from her every feature, till he was carried
beyond sight around the curving base of the Flamsted Hills.
She heard nothing more externally, saw nothing more, until she found
herself at The Corners instead of The Bow. The tumult within her
rendered her deaf to the clanging of the electric gong, blind to the
people who had entered along Main Street. Love, and love alone, was
ringing its joy-bells in her soul till external sounds grew muffled,
indistinct; until she became unaware of her surroundings. Love was
knocking so loudly at her heart that the bounding blood pulsed rhythmic
in her ears. Love was claiming her wholly, possessing her soul and
body--but no longer that idealizing love of her young girlhood and
womanhood. Rather it was that love which is akin to the divine rapture
of maternity--the love that gives all, that sacrifices all, which
demands nothing of the loved one save to love, to shield, to
comfort--the love that makes of a true woman's breast not only a rest
whereon a man, as well as his babe, may pillow a weary head, but a round
tower of strength within which there beats a heart of high courage for
him who goes forth to the daily battlefield of Life.
She rode back to The Bow. Hannah called to her from the kitchen door
when she saw her coming up the driveway:
"Come round here a minute, Aileen."
"What is it, Hannah?" Her voice trembled in spite of her effort to speak
naturally. She prayed Hannah might not notice.
"Here's a little broth I've made for Uncle Jo Quimber. I heard he wasn't
very well, and I wish you'd take this down to him before supper. Tell
him it won't hurt him and it's real strengthenin'."
"I will go now, and--Hannah, don't mind if I don't come home to supper
to-night; I'm not hungry; it's too hot to eat. If I want anything, I'll
get a glass of milk in the pantry afterwards. If Mrs. Champney should
want me, tell Octavius he'll find me down by the boat house."
"Mis' Champney ain't so well, to-night, the nurse says. I guess it's
this heat is telling on her."
"I should think it would--even I feel it." She was off again down the
driveway, glad to be moving, for a strange restlessness was upon her.
She found Joel Quimber sitting in his arm chair on the back porch of the
little house belonging to his grand-niece. The old man looked feeble,
exhausted and white; but his eyes brightened on seeing Aileen come round
the corner of the porch.
"What you got there, Aileen?"
"Something good for you, Uncle Jo. Hannah made it for you on purpose."
She showed him the broth.
"Hannah's a good soul, I thank her kindly. Set down, Aileen, set down."
"I'm afraid you're too tired to have company to-night, Uncle Jo."
"Lord, no--you ain't comp'ny, Aileen, an' I ain't never too tired to
have your comp'ny either."
She smiled and took her seat on the lower step, at his feet.
"Jest thinkin' of you, Aileen--"
"Me, Uncle Jo? What put me into your head?"
"You're in a good part of the time ef you did but know it."
"Oh, Uncle Jo, did they teach you how to flatter like that in the little
old schoolhouse you showed me years ago at The Corners?"
Old Joel Quimber chuckled weakly.
"No--not thar. A man, ef he's any kind of a man, don't have to learn his
a-b-c before he can tell a good-lookin' gal she's in his head, or his
heart--jest which you're a min' ter--most of the time. Yes, I was
thinkin' of you, Aileen--you an' Champney."
The color died out entirely from Aileen's cheeks, and then surged into
them again till she put her hands to her face to cool their throbbing.
She was wondering if Love had entered into some conspiracy with Fate
to-day to keep this beloved name ever in her ears.
"What about me and Mr. Googe?" She spoke in a low tone, her face was
turned away from the old man to the meadows and the sheds in the
distance.
"I was a-thinkin' of this time fourteen year ago this very month. Champ
an' me was walkin' up an' down the street, an' he was tellin' me 'bout
that serenade, an' how you'd give him a rosebud with pepper in it--Lord,
Aileen, you was a case, an' no mistake! An' I was thinkin', too, what
Champ said to me thet very night. He was tellin' 'bout thet great
hell-gate of New York, an' he said, 'You've got to swim with the rest or
you'd go under, Uncle Jo,'--'go under,' them's his very words. An' I
said, 'Like enough _you_ would, Champ--I ain't ben thar--'"
He paused a moment, shuffled out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.
Then he spoke again, but in so low a tone that Aileen could barely catch
the words:
"An' he went under, Champ did--went under--"
Aileen felt, without seeing, for her face was still turned to the
meadows and the sheds, that the old man was leaning to her. Then she
heard his voice in her ear:
"Hev you seen him?"
"Once, Uncle Jo."
"You're his friend, ain't you, Aileen?"
"Yes." Her voice trembled.
"Guess we're all his friends in Flamsted--I heered they fit in the shed,
Champ an' Jim McCann--it hadn't ought 'a'-ben, Aileen--hadn't ought
'a'-ben; but't warn't Champ's fault, you may bet your life on thet.
Champ went under, but he didn't stay under--you remember thet, Aileen.
An' I can't nowise blame him, now he's got his head above water agin,
for not stan'in' it to have a man like McCann heave a stone at him jest
ez he's makin' for shore. 'T ain't right, an' the old Judge use ter say,
'What ain't right hadn't ought ter be.'"
He waited a while to regain his scant breath; the long speech had
exhausted it. At last he chuckled weakly to himself, "Champ's a devil
of a feller--" he caught up his words as if he were saying too much;
laid his hand on Aileen's head; turned her face half round to his and,
leaning, whispered again in her ear:
"Don't you go back on Champ, promise me thet, Aileen."
She sprang to her feet and laid her hand in his.
"I promise, Uncle Jo."
"Thet's a good girl." He laid his other hand over hers. "You stick by
Champ an' stick up for him too; he's good blood, an' ef he did go under
for a spell, he ain't no worse 'n the rest, nor half ez bad; for Champ
went in _of his own accord--of his own accord_," he repeated
significantly, "an' don't you forget thet, Aileen! Thet takes grit;
mebbe you wouldn't think so, but it does. Champ makes me think of them
divers, I've read an' heerd about, thet dives for pearls. Some on 'em
comes up all right, but some of 'em go under for good an' all. Champ
dove mighty deep--he was diving for money, which he figured was his
pearl, Aileen--an' he most went under for good an' all without gettin'
what he wanted, an' now he's come to the surface agin, it's all ben wuth
it--he's got the pearl, Aileen, but t'ain't the one he expected to
get--he told me so t' other night. We set here him an' me, an'
understan' one 'nother even when we don't talk--jest set an' smoke an'
puff--"
"What pearl is it, Uncle Jo?" She whispered her question, half fearing,
but wholly longing to hear the old man's answer.
"Guess he'll tell you himself sometime, Aileen."
He leaned back in his chair; he was tired. Aileen stooped and kissed him
on the forehead.
"Goodnight, Uncle Jo," she said softly, "an' don't forget Hannah's
broth or there'll be trouble at Champo."
He roused himself again.
"I heered from Tave to-day thet Mis' Champney is pretty low."
"Yes, she feels this heat in her condition."
"Like enough--like enough; guess we all do a little." Then he seemed to
speak to himself:--"She was rough on Champ," he murmured.
Aileen left him with that name on his lips.
On her return to Champ-au-Haut, she went down to the boat house to sit a
while in its shade. The surface of the lake was motionless, but the
reflection of the surrounding heights and shores was slightly veiled,
owing to the heat-haze that quivered above it.
Aileen was reliving the experience of the last seven years, the
consummation of which was the knowledge that Champney Googe loved her.
She was sure of this now. She had felt it intuitively during the
twilight horror of that October day in The Gore. But how, when, where
would he speak the releasing word--the supreme word of love that alone
could atone, that alone could set her free? Would he ever speak
it?--could he, after that avowal of the unreasoning passion for her
which had taken possession of him seven years ago? And, moreover, what
had not that avowal and its expression done to her?
Her cheek paled at the thought:--he had kissed love into her for all
time; and during all his years of imprisonment she had been held in
thrall, as it were, to him and to his memory. All her rebellion at such
thraldom, all her disgust at her weakness, as she termed it, all her
hatred, engendered by the unpalatable method he had used to enthrall
her, all her struggle to forget, to live again her life free of any
entanglement with Champney Googe, all her endeavors to care for other
men, had availed her naught. Love she must--and Champney Googe remained
the object of that love. Father Honore's words gave her courage to live
on--loving.
"Champney--Champney," she said low to herself. She covered her face with
her hands. The mere taking of his name on her lips eased the exaltation
of her mood. She rejoiced that she had been able that afternoon to show
him how it stood with her after these many years; for the look in his
eyes, when he recognized her, told her that she alone could hold to his
lips the cup that should quench his thirst. Oh, she would be to him what
no other woman could ever have been, ever could be--no other! She knew
this. He knew it. When, oh, when would the word be spoken?
She withdrew her hands from her face, and looked up the lake to the
sheds. The sun was nearing the horizon, and against its clear red light
the gray buildings loomed large and dark.--And there was his place!
She sprang to her feet, ready to act upon a sudden thought. If she were
not needed at the house, she would go up to the sheds; perhaps she could
walk off the restlessness that kept urging her to action. At any rate,
she could find comfort in thinking of his presence there during the day;
she would be for a time, at least, in his environment. She knew Jim
McCann's section; she and Maggie had been there more than once to watch
the progress of some great work.
On the way up to the house she met Octavius.
"Where you going, Aileen?"
"Up to the house to see if I'm needed. If they don't want me, I'm going
up to the sheds for a walk. They say they look like cathedrals this
week, so many of the arches and pillars are ready to be shipped."
"There's no need of your going up to the house. Mis' Champney ain't so
well, and the nurse says she give orders for no one to come nigh
her--for she's sent for Father Honore."
"Father Honore! What can she want of him?" she asked in genuine
surprise. "He hasn't been here for over a year."
"Well, anyway, I've got my orders to fetch Father Honore, and I was just
asking Hannah where you were. I thought you might like to ride up with
me; I've harnessed up in the surrey."
"I won't drive way up, Tave; but I'd like you to put me down at the
sheds. Maggie says it's really beautiful now in Shed Number Two. While
I'm waiting for you, I can nose round all I want to and you can pick me
up there on your way back. Just wait till I run up to the house to see
the nurse myself, will you?" Octavius nodded.
She ran up the steps of the terrace, and on her return found Octavius
with the surrey at the front door.
Aileen was silent during the first part of the drive. This was unusual
when the two were together, and, after waiting a while, Octavius spoke:
"I'm wondering what she wants to see Father Honore for."
"I'd like to know myself."
"It's got into my head, and somehow I can't get it out, that it's
something to do with Champney--"
"Champney!--" the name slipped unawares through the red barrier of her
lips; she bit them in vexation at their betrayal of her thought--"you
mean Champney Googe?" She tried to speak indifferently.
"Who else should I mean?" Octavius answered shortly. Aileen's ways at
times, especially during these last few years when Champney Googe's name
happened to be mentioned in her presence, were irritating in the extreme
to the faithful factotum at Champ-au-Haut.
"I wish, Aileen, you'd get over your grudge against him--"
"What grudge?"
"You can tell that best yourself--there's no use your playing off--I
don't pretend to know anything about it, but I can put my finger on the
very year and the very month you turned against Champney Googe who
never had anything but a pleasant word for you ever since you was so
high--" he indicated a few feet on his whipstock--"and first come to
Champo. 'T ain't generous, Aileen; 't ain't like a true woman; 't ain't
like you to go back on a man just because he has sinned. He stands in
need of us all now, although they say at the sheds he can hold his own
with the best of 'em--I heard the manager telling Emlie he'd be foreman
of Shed Number Two if he kept on, for he's the only one can get on with
all of the foreigners; guess Jim McCann knows--"
"What do you mean by the year and the month?"
"I mean what I say. 'T was in August seven years ago--but p'r'aps you
don't remember," he said. His sarcasm was intentional.
She made no reply, but smiled to herself--a smile so exasperating to
Octavius that he sulked a few minutes in silence. After another eighth
of a mile, she spoke with apparent interest:
"What makes you think Mrs. Champney wants to see Father Honore about her
nephew?"
"Because it looks that way. This afternoon, when you was out, she got me
to move Mr. Louis' picture from the library to her room, and I had to
hang it on the wall opposite her bed--" Octavius paused--"I believe she
don't think she'll last long, and she don't look as if she could either.
Last week she had Emlie up putting a codicil to her will. The nurse told
me she was one of the witnesses, she and Emlie and the doctor--catch her
letting me see any of her papers!" He reined into the road that led to
the sheds.
"I hope to God she'll do him justice this time," he spoke aloud, but
evidently to himself.
"How do you mean, Tave?"
"I mean by giving him what's his by rights; that's what I mean." He
spoke emphatically.
"He wouldn't be the man I think he is if he ever took a cent from
her--not after what she did!" she exclaimed hotly.
Octavius turned and looked at her in amazement.
"That's the first time I ever heard you speak up for Champney Googe, an'
I've known you since before you knew him. Well, it's better late than
never." He spoke with a degree of satisfaction in his tone that did not
escape Aileen. "Which door shall I leave you at?"
"Round at the west--there are some people coming out now--here we are.
You'll find me here when you come back."
"I shall be back within a half an hour; I telephoned Father Honore I was
coming up--you're sure you don't mind waiting here alone? I'll get back
before dusk."
"What should I be afraid of? I won't let the stones fall on me!"
She sprang to the ground. Octavius turned the horse and drove off.
* * * * *
On entering the shed she caught her breath in admiration. The level rays
of the July sun shone into the gray interior illumining the farthest
corners. Their glowing crimson flushed the granite to a scarcely
perceptible rose. Portions of the noble arches, parts of the architrave,
sculptured cornice and keystone, drums, pediments and capitals, stone
mullions, here and there a huge monolith, caught the ethereal flush and
transformed Shed Number Two into a temple of beauty.
She sought the section near the doors, where Jim McCann worked, and sat
down on one of the granite blocks--perhaps the very one on which _he_
was at work. The fancy was a pleasing one. Now and then she laid her
hand caressingly on the cool stone and smiled to herself. Some men and
women were looking at the huge Macdonald machine over in the farthermost
corner; one by one they passed out at the east door--at last she was
alone with her loving thoughts in this cool sanctuary of industry.
She noticed a chisel lying behind the stone on which she sat; she turned
and picked it up. She looked about for a hammer; she wanted to try her
puny strength on what Champney Googe manipulated with muscles hardened
by years of breaking stones--that thought was no longer a nightmare to
her--but she saw none. The sun sank below the horizon; the afterglow
promised to be both long and beautiful. After a time she looked out
across the meadows--a man was crossing them; evidently he had just left
the tram, for she heard the buzzing of the wires in the still air. He
was coming towards the sheds. His form showed black against the western
sky. Another moment--and Aileen knew him to be Champney Googe.
She sat there motionless, the chisel in her hand, her face turned to the
west and the man rapidly approaching Shed Number Two--a moment more, he
was within the doors, and, evidently in haste, sought his section; then
he saw her for the first time. He stopped short. There was a cry:
"Aileen--Aileen--"
She rose to her feet. With one stride he stood before her, leaning to
look long into her eyes which never wavered while he read in them her
woman's fealty to her love for him.
He held out his hands, and she placed hers within them. He spoke, and
the voice was a prayer:
"My wife, Aileen--"
"My husband--" she answered, and the words were a _Te Deum_.
X
Octavius drew up near the shed and handed the reins to Father Honore.
"If you'll just hold the mare a minute, I'll step inside and look for
Aileen."
He disappeared in the darkening entrance, but was back again almost
immediately. Father Honore saw at once from his face that something
unusual had taken place. He feared an accident.
"Is Aileen all right?" he asked anxiously.
Octavius nodded. He got into the surrey; the hands that took the reins
shook visibly. He drove on in silence for a few minutes. He was
struggling for control of his emotion; for the truth is Octavius wanted
to cry; and when a man wants to cry and must not, the result is
inarticulateness and a painful contortion of every feature. Father
Honore, recognizing this fact, waited. Octavius swallowed hard and many
times before he could speak; even then his speech was broken:
"She's in there--all right--but Champney Googe is with her--"
"Thank God!"
Father Honore's voice rang out with no uncertain sound. It was a
heartening thing to hear, and helped powerfully to restore to Octavius
his usual poise. He turned to look at his companion and saw every
feature alive with a great joy. Suddenly the scales fell from this man
of Maine's eyes.
"You don't mean it!" he exclaimed in amazement.
"Oh, but I _do_," replied Father Honore joyfully and emphatically....
"Father Honore," he said after a time in which both men were busy with
their thoughts, "I ain't much on expressing what I feel, but I want to
tell you--for you'll understand--that when I come out of that shed I'd
had a vision,"--he paused,--"a revelation;" the tears were beginning to
roll down his cheeks; his lips were trembling; "we don't have to go back
two thousand years to get one, either--I saw what this world's got to be
saved by if it's saved at all--"
"What was it, Mr. Buzzby?" Father Honore spoke in a low voice.
"I saw a vision of human love that was forgiving, and loving, and saving
by nothing but love, like the divine love of the Christ you preach
about--Father Honore, I saw Aileen Armagh sitting on a block of granite
and Champney Googe kneeling before her, his head in the very dust at her
feet--and she raising it with her two arms--and her face was like an
angel's--"
* * * * *
The two men drove on in silence to Champ-au-Haut.
The priest was shown at once to Mrs. Champney's room. He had not seen
her for over a year and was prepared for a great change; but the actual
impression of her condition, as she lay motionless on the bed, was a
shock. His practised eye told him that the Inevitable was already on the
threshold, demanding entrance. He turned to the nurse with a look of
inquiry.
"The doctor will be here in a few minutes; I have telephoned for him,"
she said low in answer. She bent over the bed.
"Mrs. Champney, Father Honore is here; you wished to see him."
The eyes opened; there was still mental clarity in their outlook. Father
Honore stepped to the bed.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Champney?" he asked gently.
"Yes."
Her articulation was indistinct but intelligible.
"In what way?"
She looked at him unwaveringly.
"Is--she going--to marry--him?"
Father Honore read her thought and wondered how best to answer. He was
of the opinion that she would remember Aileen in her will. The girl had
been for years so faithful and, in a way, Mrs. Champney cared for her.
Humanly speaking, he dreaded, by his answer, to endanger the prospect of
the assurance to Aileen of a sum that would place her beyond want and
the need to work for any one's support but her own in the future. But as
he could not know what answer might or might not affect Aileen's future,
he decided to speak the whole truth--let come what might.
"I sincerely hope so," he replied.
"Do--you know?" with a slight emphasis on the "know."
"I know they love each other--have loved each other for many years."
"If she does--she--won't get anything from me--you tell her--so."
"That will make no difference to Aileen, Mrs. Champney. Love outweighs
all else with her."
She continued to look at him unwaveringly.
"Love--fools--" she murmured.
But Father Honore caught the words, and the priest's manhood asserted
itself in the face of dissolution and this blasphemy.
"No--rather it is wisdom for them to love; it is ordained of God that
human beings should love; I wish them joy. May I not tell them that you,
too, wish them joy, Mrs. Champney? Aileen has been faithful to you, and
your nephew never wronged you personally. Will you not be reconciled to
him?" he pleaded.
"No."
"But why?" He spoke very gently, almost in appeal.
"Why?" she repeated tonelessly, her eyes still fixed on his face,
"because he is--hers--Aurora Googe's--"
She paused for another effort. Her eyes turned at last to the portrait
of Louis Champney on the wall at the foot of her bed.
"She took all his love--all--all his love--and he was my husband--I
loved my husband--But you don't know--"
"What, Mrs. Champney? Let me help you, if I can."
"No help--I loved my husband--he used to lie here--by my side--on this
bed--and cry out--in his sleep for her--lie here--by my side in--the
night--and stretch out his arms--for her--not me--not for me--"
Her eyes were still fixed on Louis Champney's face. Suddenly the lids
drooped; she grew drowsy, but continued to murmur, incoherently at
first, then inarticulately.
The nurse stepped to his side. Father Honore's eyes dwelt pityingly for
a moment on this deathbed; then he turned and left the room, marvelling
at the differentiated expression in this life of that which we name
Love.
Octavius was waiting for him in the lower hall.
"Did you see her?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes; but to no purpose; her life has been lived, Mr. Buzzby; nothing
can affect it now."
"You don't mean she's gone?" Octavius started at the sound of his own
voice; it seemed to echo through the house.
"No; but it is, I believe, only a question of an hour at most."
"I'd better drive up then for Aileen; she ought to know--ought to be
here."
"Believe me, it would be useless, Mr. Buzzby. Those two belong to life,
not to death--leave them alone together; and leave her there above, to
her Maker and the infinite mercy of His Son."
"Amen," said Octavius Buzzby solemnly; but his thought was with those
whom he had seen leave Champ-au-Haut through the same outward-opening
portal that was now set wide for its mistress: the old Judge, and his
son, Louis--the last Champney.
He accompanied Father Honore to the door.
"No farther, Mr. Buzzby," he said, when Octavius insisted on driving him
home. "Your place is here. I shall take the tram as usual at The Bow."
They shook hands without further speech. In the deepening twilight
Octavius watched him down the driveway. Despite his sixty years he
walked with the elastic step of young manhood.