"Unworthy--unworthy!" was Champney Googe's cry, as he knelt before
Aileen in an access of shame and contrition in the presence of such a
revelation of woman's love.
[Illustration: "'Unworthy--unworthy!' was Champney Googe's cry, as he
knelt before Aileen"]
Aileen lifted his head, laid her arms around his neck, drew him by her
young strength and her gentle compelling words to a seat beside her on
the granite block. She kept her arms about him.
"No, Champney, not unworthy; but worthy, worthy of it all--all that life
can give you in compensation for those seven years. We'll put it all
behind us; we'll live in the present and in hope of a blessed future.
Take heart, my husband--"
The bowed shoulders heaved beneath her arms.
"So little to offer--so little--"
"'So little'!" she exclaimed; "and is it 'little' you call your love for
me? Is it 'little' that I'm to have a home--at last--of my own? Is it
'little' that the husband I love is going out of it and coming home to
it in his daily work, and my heart going out to him both ways at once?
And is it 'little' you call the gift of a mother to her who is
motherless--" her voice faltered.
Champney caught her in his arms; his tears fell upon the dark head.
"I'm a coward, Aileen, and you are just like our Father Honore; but I
_will_ put all behind me. I _will_ not regret. I _will_ work out my own
salvation here in my native place, among my own and among strangers. I
vow here I _will_, God helping me, if only in thankfulness for the two
hearts that are mine...."
* * * * *
The afterglow faded from the western heavens. The twilight came on
apace. The two still sat there in the darkening shed, at times
unburdening their over-charged hearts; at others each rested heart and
body and soul in the presence of the other, and both were aware of the
calming influence of the dim and silent shed.
"How did you happen to come down here just to-night, and after work hours
too, Champney?" she asked, curious to know the how and the why of this
meeting.
"I came down for my second chisel. I remembered when I got home that it
needed sharpening and I could not do without it to-morrow morning. Of
course the machine shop was closed, so I thought I'd try my hand at it
on the grindstone up home this evening."
"Then is this it?" she exclaimed, picking up the chisel from the block.
"Yes, that's mine." He held out his hand for it.
"Indeed, you're not going to have it--not this one! I'll buy you
another, but this is mine. Wasn't I holding it in my hand and thinking
of you when I saw you coming over the meadows?"
"Keep it--and I'll keep something I have of yours."
"Of mine? Where did you get anything of mine? Surely it isn't the
peppered rosebud?"
"Oh, no. I've had it nearly seven years."
"Seven years!" She exclaimed in genuine surprise. "And whatever have you
had of mine I'd like to know that has kept seven years? It's neither
silver nor gold--for I've little of either; not that silver or gold can
make a man happy," she added quickly, fearing he might be sensitive to
her speech.
"No; I've learned that, Aileen, thank God!"
"What is it then?--tell me quick."
He thrust his hand into the workman's blouse and drew forth a small
package, wrapped in oiled silk and sewed to a cord that was round his
neck. He opened it.
Aileen bent to examine it, her eyes straining in the increasing dusk.
"Why, it's never--it's not my handkerchief!--Champney!"
"Yes, yours, Aileen--that night in all the horror and despair, I heard
something in your voice that told me you--didn't hate me--"
"Oh, Champney!"
"Yes. I've kept it ever since--I asked permission to take it in with
me?--I mean into my cell. They granted it. It was with me night and
day--my head lay on it at night; I got my first sleep so--and it went
with me to work during the day. It's been kissed clean thin till it's
mere gossamer; it helped, that and the work, to save my brain--"
She caught handkerchief and hand in both hers and pressed her lips to
them again and again.
"And now I'm going to keep it, after you're mine in the sight of man, as
you are now before God; put it away and keep it for--" He stopped short.
"For whom?" she whispered.
He drew her close to him--closer and more near.
"Aileen, my beloved," his voice was earnestly joyful, "I am hoping for
the blessing of children--are you?--"
"Except for you, my arms will feel empty for them till they come--"
"Oh, my wife--my true wife!--now I can tell you all!" he said, and the
earnest note was lost in purest joy. He whispered:
"You know, dear, I'm but half a man, and must remain such. I am no
citizen, have no citizen's rights, can never vote--have no voice in all
that appeals to manhood--my country--"
"I know--I know--" she murmured pityingly.
"And so I used to think there in my cell at night when I kissed the
little handkerchief--Please God, if Aileen still loves me when I get
out, if she in her loving mercy will forgive to the extent that she will
be my wife, then it may be that she will bestow on me the blessing of a
child--a boy who will one day stand among men as his father never can
again, who will possess the full rights of citizenship; in him I may
live again as a man--but only so."
"Please God it may be so."
* * * * *
They walked slowly homewards to The Bow in the clear warm dark of the
midsummer-night. They had much to say to each other, and often they
lingered on the way. They lingered again when they came to the gate by
the paddock in the lane.
Aileen looked towards the house. A light was burning in Mrs. Champney's
room.
"I'm afraid Mrs. Champney must be much worse. Tave never would have
forgotten me if he hadn't received some telephone message while he was
at Father Honore's. But the nurse said there was nothing I could do when
I left with Tave--but oh, I'm so glad he didn't stop! I _must_ go in
now, Champney," she said decidedly. But he still held her two hands.
"Tell me, Champney, have you ever thought your aunt might remember
you--for the wrong she did you?"
"No; and if she should, I never would take a cent of it."
"Oh, I'm so glad--so glad!" She squeezed both his hands right hard.
He read her thought and smiled to himself; he was glad that in this he
had not disappointed her.
"But there's one thing I wish she would do--poor--_poor_ Aunt Meda--" he
glanced up at the light in the window.
"Yes, 'poor,' Champney--I know." She was nodding emphatically.
"I wish she would leave enough to Mr. Van Ostend to repay with interest
what he repaid for me to the Company; it would be only just, for, work
as I may, I can never hope to do that--and I long so to do it--no
workman could do it--"
She interrupted gayly: "Oh, but you've a working-woman by your side!"
She snatched away her small hands--for she belonged to the small people
of the earth. "See, Champney, the two hands! I can work, and I'm not
afraid of it. I can earn a lot to help with--and I shall. There's my
cooking, and singing, and embroidery--"
He smiled again in the dark at her enthusiasm--it was so like her!
"And I'll lift the care from our mother too,--and you're not to fret
your dear soul about the Van Ostend money--if one can't do it, surely
two can with God's blessing. Now I _must_ go in--and you may give me
another kiss for I've been on starvation diet these last seven
years--only one--oh, Champney!"...
* * * * *
The dim light continued to burn in the upper chamber at Champ-au-Haut
until the morning; for before Champney and Aileen left the shed, the
Inevitable had already crossed the threshold of that chamber--and the
dim light burned on to keep him company....
* * * * *
A month later, when Almeda Champney's will was admitted to probate and
its contents made public, it was found that there were but six
bequests--one of which was contained in the codicil--namely:
To Octavius Buzzby the oil portrait of Louis Champney.
To Ann and Hannah one thousand dollars each in recognition of faithful
service for thirty-seven years.
To Aileen Armagh (so read the codicil) a like sum _provided she did not
marry Champney Googe_.
One half of the remainder of the estate, real and personal, was
bequeathed to Henry Van Ostend; the other half, in trust, to his
daughter, Alice Maud Mary Van Ostend.
The instrument bore the date of Champney Googe's commitment.