"We have reached the summit at last, Cecile? The hill seemed unusually
steep to-night and the way unusually long."
"Yes, mother, we have reached the top at last and here is the rustic
bench on which we usually sit and watch the sun go down behind those
blue and misty hills in the distance."
"Ah! those hills, Cecile. How I have always loved them. To me this has
ever seemed the fairest spot on earth, and the view from this hill just
at sunset the most beautiful I have ever seen. It is ten long years
since my eyes have beheld it, but in my mind I still see it all so
clearly. Tell me it is all there, Cecile, just as it was on that evening
so many, many years ago when I first looked upon its beauties. Your dear
father had just brought me, a happy bride, here to his northern home. We
walked up the hill together to watch the sun set and I thought then I
had never seen a lovelier view: the green fields of waving corn, and
the apple orchards all in blossom, sloping down gradually to the river;
the river itself tumbling and tossing madly over the waterfall far up
there to the left, then swirling and eddying on for a space, only to
grow calm once more quietly, steadily, resume its placid journey to the
ocean. Beyond the river, those wonderful forests, dark, mysterious and
silent. They rise and rise, higher, ever higher, and terminate at last
in the blue and misty hills of which you were just speaking. I love it
all, Cecile, and I could not bear to think that any part of it had
changed with the advancing years. Tell me it is just the same; tell me
it is all there as it was so long ago."
"Yes, mother dear," answered the younger woman, "it is all there just as
it has ever been; the fields and the river, the forests and the hills
beyond."
Cecile neglected to mention that the fields were now mere barren stubble
and that the river was visible only here and there as it peeped through
between the many buildings lining its banks; immense buildings of
factory and mill, smaller structures, cottages and tenement houses
occupied by the workers in factory and mill. She supposed the forests
were still there but the day had been very sultry with scarce a breath
of air stirring and a heavy pall of smoke from the huge chimneys hung
over the valley, hiding everything which lay beyond. Only the tops of
the distant hills rose in triumph above it.
"I am glad to think it is all unchanged," said the mother with a sigh of
content. "I know it is foolish to feel as I do about it, but it would be
a real grief to me to think that my beautiful valley had been sacrificed
to the need or the greed of advancing civilization."
"God has been very good to me, Cecile, and I thank Him with all my heart
for the blessings He has sent me to compensate for that one dreadful
calamity, your dear father's sudden death ten years ago and my long
illness and subsequent blindness. As I sat to-day in my little garden
listening to the twittering of the birds, and inhaling the fragrance of
my flowers, I was thinking how peaceful and happy my life is and how
grateful I should be. You know, dear, just occasionally I long to be
able to see again, to see the birds and the flowers, to see the
beautiful world around me. That is very wrong and wicked I know, and I
chase the rebellious wish away by thinking of my many blessings,
especially of you and my Philippe. You have both been my comfort and
consolation. By the way, dear, no letter has come from Philippe to-day?"
"No, mother, not yet."
"It is strange that we have not heard from him. This is the first time
he has not written to me for my birthday."
"But he did not forget you, mother. Are you not wearing his beautiful
gift to you which arrived this morning?"
"No, he did not forget," replied the older woman, as her fingers strayed
lovingly over the lace scarf resting so lightly on her snow-white hair.
"My Philippe never forgets and that is why I worried just a little this
morning when his usual birthday letter did not come. Then, this
afternoon, a sudden idea occurred to me which made me very happy. Shall
I tell you what it was, Cecile? I am quite sure I have discovered the
reason why Philippe did not write me for my birthday."
It was well the blind eyes could not see the look of startled fear which
flashed across Cecile's face.
"You have discovered why he did not write?" she exclaimed, and her voice
trembled slightly.
The mother laughed happily. "Yes, I am quite sure I have discovered the
reason. I have a feeling, and I know it is a true feeling, that before
my birthday is quite over Philippe will be here with us. He is coming,
Cecile; he is not far away at this very moment, and before the evening
is over he will be with us."
Tears filled Cecile's eyes but she rose quietly and said, trying to
speak lightly:
"The night mist is rising from the river, mother dear. Had we not better
turn our faces toward the east and home?"
"You are right, child, it will be as well for us to go home a little
early to-night. I am feeling unaccountably weary though very, very
happy. It will be best for me to go home and rest a little before the
evening train arrives bringing my Philippe back to me."
Cecile said nothing, but very gently, very tenderly guided the blind
mother's steps as they wended their way homeward in the sweet summer
twilight.
Half an hour later Cecile paced restlessly up and down the broad veranda
of her home. She had left her mother sleeping on the couch in her pretty
sitting-room upstairs and could now face the problems and difficulties
which confronted her. In her mind she reviewed the years that had come
and gone since that sad night when her dying father had whispered almost
with his last breath:
"Your mother, Cecile; I trust her to you. Take care of her for me when I
am no longer here to watch over her myself. Promise me you will shield
her from every worry, that you will stand between her and all troubles
as I have always done."
The girl had promised and right faithfully had she kept her word, but at
what a cost to herself! She was thinking now of her promise and of how
she had kept it. She was thinking, too, of her mother's serious illness
which had followed that night, an illness from which she had recovered,
it is true, but which left her blind for life. What a terrible calamity
her mother's blindness had appeared to be at that time, and yet, there
came a day, that dreadful day two years ago, when she had thanked God on
her knees for the affliction which enabled her to conceal the trouble
which had come upon them.
Once more she lived through that day two years ago, the day when those
awful letters had come, one from Philippe, one from the lawyers. She had
read them at first without comprehending their meaning. Then as the
truth began to dawn upon her, she cried to herself that it could not be
true, it could not be. There was some terrible mistake somewhere. But
there it was before her in black and white; Philippe's own confession,
the lawyers' letter confirming all the facts. They were ruined,
penniless, and Philippe had done this thing; Philippe, her tall handsome
brother, the pride and darling of their mother's heart. But worse than
poverty, worse than ruin faced them. Philippe was a disgraced man,
sentenced to jail for fifteen years.
It was an old, old story; she had heard of such cases before but paid
little heed to them. Now it was Philippe, her brother, and oh! how
different it all seemed. It was simply the story of an ambitious young
man, making his way in the world, winning name and fame among the ablest
financiers of the Western city in which he had elected to live his
life. It was simply the story of one who had much and who wanted more,
who strained every nerve to win in the great game he was playing, the
game of money-getting. It was the story of one who risked all in one
grand final coup, who risked all and lost all. And what was risked and
lost was not his alone; everything belonging to his mother and sister
had gone too. Worse still, he had made use of money which was not
theirs, funds of the bank of which he was treasurer. Of course, he had
only borrowed them, he had been so sure of success, and he intended
replacing the money in a few days. He had reasoned as so many men before
him had reasoned, as men will continue to reason as long as this world
shall be.
Such had been the trial which faced Cecile that day two years ago. Her
one thought had been that mother must never know; her heart had always
been weak and the shock would kill her, simply kill her. Words her
mother had once spoken to her returned to her mind as she had finished
reading those letters. The remark had been caused by some little act of
thoughtfulness on Philippe's part, some little gift he had sent her,
for Philippe had always been careful to remember all the little
household feast days with beautiful and often costly gifts.
"Cecile," her mother had said, "you have both been good children to me,
you and Philippe, good and kind and thoughtful. I think it would break
my heart if my children should ever forget me, ever cease to love me. I
can imagine but one thing worse, to have them forget their God, to know
that they had committed any grievous wrong. I have sometimes heard of
mothers whose sons have been led astray into ways of wickedness and
proved a disgrace to themselves and to their families, and I have said
to myself: 'Poor woman, how can she bear it, how can she go on living
knowing what her boy has become? It would kill me, I know it would.
Thank God, my Philippe is a good boy, brave and upright like his father;
I shall never have cause to worry about him.'"
Those words kept ringing through Cecile's brain as she had read the
letters over, and over again, and she had determined then and there, at
all costs, her mother should never know. But how was she going to
conceal the fact of their poverty, of their absolute ruin?
They had always lived in comfort and where was she to find the money to
supply their daily needs? Since her father's death and her mother's
affliction, they had lived in the utmost seclusion. The few friends of
her earlier life had drifted away one by one and there was no one to
whom she could turn for help or advice in her hour of need. She must
manage alone somehow, she and faithful black Mandy to whom her mother
was still the "li'l Missy" of long years ago, the "l'il Missy" of the
happy days on the southern plantation.
For two years they had succeeded, but by what sacrifices to themselves
no one would ever know. Many a time they had been reduced almost to the
verge of starvation in order to provide for the blind mother the little
delicacies to which she had been accustomed. Gradually, articles of
furniture disappeared from their accustomed places; costly pieces of
bric-a-brac, rare old china, everything of value which Cecile thought
her mother would not be likely to miss. Cecile's own apartment had been
reduced to four walls, a bare floor, one chair and the bed upon which
she slept. The mother's rooms and Philippe's alone remained untouched.
Then Cecile found employment in the office of one of those new
factories which had recently been erected over there beyond the town.
This step had been the cause of the first disagreement between her
mother and herself.
"Why, Cecile, what do you mean?" the poor mother had gasped in her utter
bewilderment when informed of her daughter's intention. "Surely, I
misunderstood what you just said. Bookkeeper in the office of a
_factory_! Earn your own living! What _are_ you talking about! What
strange jest is this, my dear? For you certainly cannot be in earnest."
"Indeed I am not jesting, mother dear, but am very much in earnest. I
really want to earn money of my own, and shall be so much happier if I
have a regular occupation. And you want me to be happy, do you not?"
"I cannot understand you at all, Cecile. I really cannot. In my youth,
we of the south considered it a disgrace for a young lady to even dream
of earning her living. Your father left us plenty of money. I do not
know just how it was invested, for I never cared to trouble my head
about money matters. I preferred to leave all that to you and the
lawyers. Still, I know my income is quite sufficient for our wants. Even
if we should lose our money, there is Philippe to provide for us. He
would agree with me, I know. He would never, never allow his sister to
work for a living."
Of course Cecile had persisted in her resolution, and it grieved her to
feel that her mother had never become reconciled to what she considered
a mere whim.
Letters from Philippe came at occasional intervals, letters which were
carefully edited before she read them aloud to her mother. Gifts from
Philippe came too, just as they had always done, but now each gift meant
some added sacrifice for poor Cecile. Her very last bit of jewelry, a
gift from her father on the Christmas before he died, had been sold to
purchase the lace scarf which had come that morning in Philippe's name.
Of all this Cecile was thinking as she paced the veranda that summer
night. It had all been very hard to bear but it was as nothing compared
with that last blow which had fallen two nights ago.
She had been to the town for necessary supplies and was returning rather
late in the evening. The road was lonely, deserted, and she could not
suppress the cry of fright which rose to her lips as a man sprang from a
little thicket which she was passing and stood directly before her,
barring her path. Her second cry was one, not of fear, but of startled
recognition. The man was Philippe, no longer her handsome Philippe, but
a ragged, wild-eyed, desperate man. His story was told in a few words.
He had grown restive under the confinement of prison life, then frantic,
simply frantic, and had made up his mind to escape. How, he did not
know, but he schemed and planned and watched his chance and finally
succeeded in getting away. He had managed to make his way to her, and
now she must give him money to enable him to get out of the country.
Money? Where was she to find money to give him?
"But you must, Cecile; you must give me every cent you can lay hands
on," he had cried savagely. "They are after me, I tell you, and if I am
taken back it will be to answer to a charge of murder. Of course, I
didn't mean it, you understand. One of the guards was in my way,
and--well, there's one guard less in the world, that's all."
He had come to the house late that night and she had given him food,
some of his own clothes which still hung in his room and which the
mother had never allowed anyone to touch, and all the money she "could
lay hands on." It was not much but it was every cent she had. She had
heard nothing from him since, and the suspense of the last two days had
been agonizing, the alternate hopes and fears, the wondering, wondering
where he was, what was happening to him at that very moment.
The click of the garden gate and a footstep upon the gravel walk caused
her to turn hastily and descend the veranda steps. At first, she thought
it was Philippe come back to her, but a second glance showed that the
figure approaching through the dusk was that of good Father Anselm, her
parish priest. He was a young man, only recently appointed to the town,
but he knew her story and had frequently helped her with kindly advice
and sympathy. Her heart stood still as she watched his approach.
Something in his manner, something in his face seen dimly through the
gathering darkness, told her that he was the bearer of evil tidings.
"What is it, Father?" she asked tremulously. "Is it that they have taken
him?"
"Yes, my child, they have taken him. They are bringing him here."
"Bringing him here! But why, why should they bring him here?" A sudden
dreadful thought flashed through her mind. "Father, you have not told me
all; there is something else."
"My poor child, there _is_ something else to tell you."
"You need not tell it, Father, I know. They have taken him, but
not--alive. My poor Philippe is gone, dead. Tell me how it happened,
Father, will you please?"
The girl's unnatural calm was more pitiful than any outburst of grief
could have been, and an immeasurable compassion spoke in the priest's
voice as he told the story of Philippe's death.
"He was hiding in the deserted hut in Planter's Wood (you know the spot,
Cecile) and they discovered his place of concealment. They had been
following after him for days but he thought he would be safe there and
could come out at night and procure food from you. There was a short,
sharp struggle in which he received a mortal wound. Doctors were sent
for; I, too, was summoned. Thank God, he was conscious up to the very
last and I arrived in time to reconcile him with the Master whose love
he had outraged, whose commands he had broken. His end was very quiet
and peaceful, he simply closed his eyes and fell asleep as a little baby
might.
"But we must not stand here talking, my child. We have a duty to
perform, you and I, and we must be brave and perform that duty at once,
difficult though it may be. Where is your mother, Cecile? She will have
to be told before--before they arrive. I came on ahead for that very
purpose."
"We cannot tell her, Father, we cannot. It will kill her."
"We _must_ tell her; it will be impossible to hide it. Take me to her
and we will tell her together. God will be with us and will help us, my
child."
"Oh! if God would only spare her, if He would only spare her! If He
would only open a way so we need not tell her!"
Her brain was in a whirl as she mounted the stairs; she was stunned,
broken. Of one thing only was she perfectly conscious. Philippe was
coming and his mother must be awakened. That mother's last words as she
had closed her eyes were:
"I am strangely weary, Cecile, weary and very drowsy. I think I shall
sleep a little, but be sure and wake me when Philippe comes."
Wake her when Philippe comes! Yes, for Philippe _is_ coming and his
mother must be wakened.
They stood beside the couch and looked down upon the sleeping woman. How
quietly she rested there, how still she was and peaceful! But how _very_
still she was, and what was that scarcely palpable shadow resting on the
sweet, calm face? Was it only a shade cast by the lamp which Cecile had
brought in and placed upon a table behind them, or was it----?
With a cry of alarm, the girl fell on her knees and caught frantically
at her mother's hand. It lay in hers absolutely passive and cold, so
cold. The priest raised the lamp till the light shone full upon the face
of the sleeper. Sleeping she was indeed, the last long sleep from which
not they, not Philippe, not anyone could waken her.
Father Anselm laid his hand on the head of the stricken girl and said
gently:
"A moment ago, my child, you prayed that God might spare her. He had
granted your prayer even before it was uttered. We need not tell her now
for she has learned it all from One who could tell it far more gently,
far more mercifully than we could."
The sound of shuffling steps, as of men who carried a heavy burden, came
up to them from the gravel walk below.
"Requiescant in pace," whispered the priest.
Cecile knelt as if turned to stone. Mechanically, she listened to the
voice of the priest reciting the De Profundis; she listened to the call
of the crickets shrilling through the summer night without; she listened
to the heart-breaking sobs of faithful black Mandy crouching on the
floor by the side of her "li'l Missy;" she listened to those shuffling
footsteps as they entered the house, slowly mounted the staircase and
paused at the door of what had once been Philippe's room.
Yet again the priest's voice recited:
"Requiescant in pace."
And this time, Cecile, laying her cheek upon the dear cold hand she held
in hers, responded brokenly:
"Amen."