|THE train had come and gone, as Raymond reached the station platform.
He had meant it so. He had meant to avoid the lights from the car
windows that would have illuminated the otherwise dark platform; to
avoid, if possible, a disclosure in Labbée's, the station agent's,
presence. Afterwards, Labbée would know, as all would know--but not now.
It was not easy to tell; the words perhaps would not come readily even
when alone with Monsignor the Bishop, as they drove back together to the
village.
There were but two figures on the platform--Labbée, who held a satchel
in his hand; and a tall, slight form in clerical attire.
“Ah, Father Aubert--_salut!_” Labbée called out. “You are late; but we
saw your light coming just as the train pulled out, and so----”
“Well, well, François, my son!”--it was a rich, mellow voice that broke
in on the station agent.
Raymond stood up and lifted his hat--lifted it so that it but shaded his
face the more.
“Monsignor!” he said, in a low voice. “This is a great honour.”
“Honour!” the Bishop responded heartily. “Why should I not come, I--but
do I sit on this side?”--he had stepped down into the buckboard, as he
grasped Raymond's hand.
“Yes, Monsignor”--Raymond's wide-brimmed clerical hat was far over his
eyes. The lantern on the front of the dash-board left them in shadow;
Labbée's lantern for the moment was behind them, as the station agent
stowed the Bishop's valise under the seat. He took up the reins, and
with an almost abrupt “goodnight” to the station agent, started the
horse forward along the road.
“Good-night!” Labbée shouted after them. “Goodnight, Monsignor!”
“Good-night!” the Bishop called back--and turned to Raymond. “Yes, as I
was saying,” he resumed, “why should I not come? I was passing through
St. Marleau in any case. I have heard splendid things of my young
friend, the curé, here. I wanted to see for myself, and to tell him how
pleased and gratified I was.”
“You are very good, Monsignor,” Raymond answered, his voice still low
and hurried.
“Excellent!” pursued the Bishop. “Most excellent! I do not know when
I have been so pleased over anything. The parish perhaps”--he laughed
pleasantly--“would not object if Father Allard prolonged his holiday a
little--eh--François, my son?”
Raymond shook his head.
“Hardly that, Monsignor”--he dared indulge in little more than
monosyllables--it was even strange the Bishop had not already noticed
that his voice was not the voice of Father François Aubert. And yet what
did it matter? In a moment, in five minutes, in half an hour, the Bishop
would know all--he would have told the Bishop all. Why should he strive
now to keep up a deception that he was voluntarily to acknowledge almost
the next instant? It was not argument in his mind, not argument again
that brought indecision and chaotic hesitancy, it was not that--the way
was clear, there was only one way, the way that he would take--? and
yet, perhaps because it was so very human, because perhaps he sought
for still more strength, because perhaps it was so almost literally the
final, closing act of his life, he waited and clung to that moment more,
and to that five minutes more.
“Well, well,” said the Bishop happily, “we will perhaps have to look
around and see if we cannot find for you a parish of your own, my son.
And who knows--eh--perhaps we have already found it?”
How queerly the lantern jerked its rays up and down the horse's legs,
and cast its shadows along the road! He heard himself speaking again.
“You are very good, Monsignor”--they were the same words with which he
had replied before--he uttered them mechanically.
He felt the Bishop's hand close gently, yet firmly, upon his shoulder.
“François, my son”--the voice had suddenly become grave--“what is the
matter? You act strangely. Your voice does not somehow seem natural--it
is very hoarse. You have a cold perhaps, or perhaps you are ill?”
“No, Monsignor--I am not ill.”
“Then--but, you alarm me, my son!” exclaimed the Bishop anxiously.
“Something has happened?”
“Yes, Monsignor--something has happened.”
How curiously his mind seemed to be working! He was conscious that the
Bishop's hand remained in kindly pressure on his shoulder as though
inviting his confidence, conscious that the man beside him maintained a
sympathetic, tactful silence, waiting for him to speak; but his thoughts
for the moment now were not upon the immediate present, but upon the
immediate afterwards when his story had been told.
The buckboard rattled on along the road; it entered the wooded
stretch--and still went on. When he had told this man beside him all,
they would drive into the village. Then presently they would set out for
Tournayville, and Monsieur Dupont, and the jail. But before that--there
was Valérie. He turned his head still further away--even in
the blackness his face must show its ashen whiteness. There was
Valérie--Valérie who would believe--but Valérie who was to suffer, and
to know agony and sorrow--and he, who loved her, must look into her face
and see the smile die out of it, and the quiver come to her lips, and
see her eyes fill, while with his own hands he dealt her the blow,
which, soften it as he would, must still strike her down. It was the
only way--the way of peace. It seemed most strange that peace should lie
in that black hour ahead for Valérie and for himself--that peace should
lie in death--and yet within him, quiet, undismayed, calm and untroubled
in its own immortal truth, was the knowledge that it was so.
Raymond lifted his head suddenly--through the-trees there showed the
glimmer of a light--as it had showed that other night when he had walked
here in the storm. Had they come thus far--in silence! Involuntarily he
stopped the horse. It was the light from old Mother Blondin's cottage,
and here was the spot where he had stumbled that night over the priest
whom he had thought dead, as the other lay sprawled across the road.
It was strange again--most strange! He had not deliberately chosen this
spot to tell----
“François, my son--what is it?”--the Bishop's voice was full of deep
concern.
For a moment Raymond did not move, and he did not speak. Then he laid
down the reins, and, leaning forward, untied the lantern from the
dash-board--and, taking off his hat, held up the lantern between them
until the light fell full upon his face.
There was a quick and startled cry from the Bishop, and then for an
instant--silence. And Raymond looked into the other's face, even as the
other looked into his. It was a face full of dignity and strength and
quiet, an aged, kindly face, crowned with hair that was silver-white;
but the blue eyes that spoke of tranquillity were widened now in
amazement, surprise and consternation.
And then the Bishop spoke.
“Something has happened to François,” he said, in a hesitant, troubled
way, “and you have come from Tournayville to take his place perhaps, or
perhaps to--to be with him. Is it as serious as that--and you were loath
to break the news, my son? And yet--and yet I do not understand. The
station agent said nothing to indicate that anything was wrong, though
perhaps he might not have heard; and he called you Father Aubert,
though, too, that possibly well might be, for it was dark, and I myself
did not see your face. My son, I fear that I am right. Tell me, then!
You are a priest from Tournayville, or from a neighbouring parish?”
“I am not a priest,” said Raymond steadily.
The Bishop drew back sharply, as though he had been struck a blow.
“Not a priest--and in those clothes!”
“No, Monsignor.”
The fine old face grew set and stern.
“And Francois Aubert, then--_where is Father Francois Aubert?_”
“Monsignor”--Raymond's lips were white--“he is in the condemned cell at
Tournayville--under sentence of death--he is----”
“Condemned--to death! François Aubert--condemned to death!”--the Bishop
was grasping with one hand at the back of the seat. And then slowly,
still grasping at the seat, he pulled himself up and stood erect, and
raised his other hand over Raymond in solemnity and adjuration. “In the
name of God, what does this mean? Who are you?”
“I am Raymond Chapelle,” Raymond answered--and abruptly lowered the
lantern, and a twisted smile of pain gathered on his lips. “You have
heard the name, Monsignor--all French Canada has heard it.” The Bishop's
hand dropped heavily to his side.
“Yes, I have heard it,” he said sternly. “I have heard that it was a
proud name dishonoured, a princely fortune dissolutely wasted. And you
are Raymond Chapelle, you say! I have heard this much, that you had
disappeared, but after that----”
Raymond put his head down into his hands, and drew his hands tightly
across his face.
“This is the end of the story,” he said. “Listen, Monsignor”--he raised
his head again. “You have heard, too, of the murder of Théophile Blondin
that was committed here a little while ago. It is for that murder that
François Aubert was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to be hanged.”
He paused an instant, his lips tight. “Monsignor, it is I who killed
Théophile Blondin. It is I who, since that night, have lived here as the
curé--as Father François Aubert.”
How ghastly white the aged face was! As ghastly as his own must be! The
other's hands were gripping viselike at his shoulders.
“Are you mad!” the Bishop whispered hoarsely. “Do you know what you are
saying!”
“I know”--there was a sort of unnatural calm and finality in Raymond's
tones now. “I was on the train the night that Father Aubert came to St.
Marleau. I had a message for the mother of a man who was killed in the
Yukon, Monsignor. The mother lived here. There was a wild storm that
night. There was no wagon to be had, and we both walked from the
station. But I did not walk with the priest. You, who have heard
of Raymond Chapelle, know why--I despised a priest--I knew no God.
Monsignor”--he turned and pointed suddenly--“you see that light through
the trees? It is the light I saw that night, as I stumbled over the body
of a man lying here in the road. The man was Father Aubert. The limb of
a tree had fallen and struck him on the head. I thought him dead. I went
over to that house for help.”
He paused again. The Bishop's hands, withdrawn,* were clasped now upon a
golden crucifix--it was like his own crucifix, only it was larger, much
larger than his own. But the Bishop's white face was still close to his;
and the blue eyes seemed to have grown darker, and were upon him in a
fixed, tense way, as though to read his soul.
“And then?”--he saw the Bishop's lips move, he did not hear the Bishop
speak.
At times the horse moved restively; at times there came the chirping of
insects from the woods; at times a breeze stirred and whispered through
the leaves. Raymond, staring at the yellow flicker of the lantern, set
now upon the floor of the buckboard at their feet, spoke on, in his
voice that same unnatural calm. It seemed almost as though he himself
were listening to some stranger speak. It was the story of that night he
told, the story of the days and nights that followed, the story of old
Mother Blondin, the story of the cross, the story of the afternoon in
the condemned cell, the story of his ride for liberty of an hour ago,
the story of his sacrilege and his redemption--the story of all, without
reservation, save the story of Valérie's love, for that was between
Valérie and her God.
And when he had done, a silence fell between them and endured for a
great while.
And then Raymond looked up at last to face the condemnation he thought
to see in the other's eyes--and found instead that the silver hair was
bare of covering, and that the tears were flowing unchecked down the
other's cheeks.
“God's ways are beyond all understanding”--the Bishop seemed to be
speaking to himself. He brushed the tears now from his cheeks, as he
looked at Raymond. “It is true there is not any proof, and without proof
that it was in self-defence, then----”
“It is the end,” said Raymond simply--and, standing up, took the
sacristan's old coat from under his _soutane_. “We will drive to the
village, Monsignor; and then, if you will, to the jail in Tournayville.”
Slowly he unbuttoned his _soutane_ from top to bottom, and took it off,
and laid it over the back of the seat; and, standing there erect,
his face white, his eyes half closed, like a soldier in unconditional
surrender, he unclasped the crucifix from around his neck, and held it
out to the Bishop--and bowed his head.
He felt the Bishop's hands close over his, and over the crucifix, and
gently press it back.
“Cling to it, my son”--the Bishop's voice was broken. “It is yours,
for you have found it--and, with it, pardon, and the faith that is more
precious than life, than the life you are offering to surrender now. It
seems as though it were God's mysterious way, the hand of God--the hand
of God that would not let you lose your soul. And now, my son, kneel
down, for I would pray for a brave man.”
A quiet pressure upon his shoulders brought Raymond to his knees. His
eyes, were wet; he covered his face with his hands.
“Father, have mercy upon us”--the Bishop's voice was tremulous and low.
“Lord, have mercy upon us. Look down in pity upon this man whom Thou
hast brought unto Thyself, and who now in expiation of his past offences
offers his life that another may not die. Father, grant us Thy divine
mercy. Father, show us the way, if there be a way, and if it be Thy
will, that he may not drink of this final cup; and if that may not be,
then in Thy love continue unto him the strength Thou gavest him to bring
him thus far upon his road.”
And silence fell again between them. And there was a strange gladness in
Raymond's heart that this man, where he had thought no man would, should
have believed. It altered no fact, the cold and brutal evidence, clear
cut before a jury would not be a scene such as this, for the evidence in
the light of logic and before the law would say he _lied_; it held out
no hope, he knew that well--but it brought peace again. And so he rose
from his knees, and feeling out blindly for the old sacristan's coat,
put it on, and spoke to the horse, and the buckboard moved forward.
And a little way along, just around the turn of the road, they came out
of the woods in front of old Mother Blondin's cottage. And standing by
the roadside in the darkness was a figure. And a voice called out:
“Is that you, Father Aubert? I went to the _presbytère_ for you, and
mother said you had gone to meet Monsignor. I have been waiting here to
catch you on the way back.”
It was Valérie.