|SHE came forward toward the buckboard, and into the lantern light--and
stopped suddenly, looking from Raymond to the Bishop in a bewildered and
startled way.
“Why--why, Father Aubert,” she stammered, “I--I hardly knew you in that
coat. I--Monsignor”--she bent her knee reverently--“I”--her eyes were
searching their faces--“I---”
Raymond's eyes fixed ahead of him, and he was silent. Valérie! Ay, it
was the end! He had thought to see her before they should take him to
Tournayville--but he had thought to see her alone. And even then he had
not known what he should say to her--what words to speak--or whether
she should know from him his love. He was conscious that the Bishop was
fumbling with his crucifix, as though loath to take the initiative upon
himself.
It was Valérie who spoke--hurriedly, as though in a nervous effort to
bridge the awkward silence.
“Mother Blondin became conscious a little while ago. She asked for
Father Aubert, and--and begged for the Sacrament. I ran down to the
_presbytère_, and when mother told me that Monsignor was coming I---I
brought back the bag that my uncle, Father Allard, takes with him to--to
the dying. Oh, Monsignor, I thought that perhaps--perhaps--she is an
_excommuniée_, Monsignor--but she is a penitent. And when I got back she
was unconscious again, and then I came down here to wait by the side of
the road so that I would not miss you, for Madame Bouchard is there, and
she was to call me if--if there was any change. And so--and so--you will
go to her, Monsignor, will you not--and Father Aubert--and--and----” Her
lips quivered suddenly, for Raymond's white face was lifted now, and his
eyes met hers. “Oh, what is the matter?” she cried out in fear. “Why
do you look like that, Father Aubert--and why do you wear that coat,
and----”
“My daughter”--the Bishop's grave voice interrupted her. He rose from
his seat, and, moving past Raymond, stepped to the ground. “My daughter,
Father Aubert is---”
“No!”--Raymond, too, had stepped to the ground. “No, Monsignor”--his
voice caught, then was steadied as he fought fiercely for
self-control--“I will tell her, Monsignor.”
How clearly her face was defined in the lantern light, how pure it was,
and, in its purity, how far removed from the story that he had to tell!
And how beautiful it was, even in its startled fear and wonder--the
sweet lips parted; the dark eyes wide, disturbed and troubled, as they
held upon his face.
“Father Aubert!”--it was a quick cry, but low, and one of apprehension.
“Mademoiselle Valérie”--the words came slowly; it seemed as though his
soul faltered now, and had not strength to say this thing--“I am not
Father Aubert.”
She did not move. She repeated the words with long pauses between,
as though she groped dazedly in her mind for their meaning and
significance.
“You--are--not--Father--Aubert?”
The Bishop, hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed, had withdrawn
a few paces out of the lantern light toward the rear of the buckboard.
Raymond's hands closed and gripped upon the wheel-tire against which
he stood--closed tighter and tighter until it seemed the tendons in his
hand must snap.
“Father Aubert is the man you know as Henri Mentone”--his eyes were upon
her hungrily, pleading, searching for some sign, a smile, a gesture
of sympathy that would help him to go on--and her hands were clasped
suddenly, wildly to her bosom. “When you came upon me in the road that
night I had just changed clothes with him. I--I was trying to escape.”
She closed her eyes. Her face became a deathly white, and she swayed a
little on her feet.
“You--you are not a--a priest?”
He shook his head.
“It was the only way I saw to save my life. He had been struck by the
falling limb of a tree. I thought that he was dead.”
“To save your life?”--she spoke with a curious, listless apathy, her
eyes still closed.
“It was I,” he said, “not Father Aubert, who fought with Théophile
Blondin that night.”
Her eyes were open wide now--wide upon him with terror.
“It was you--_you_ who killed Théophile Blondin?”--her voice was dead,
scarce above a whisper.
“I caught him in the act of robbing his mother--I had gone to the house
for help after finding Father Aubert”--Raymond's voice grew passionate
now in its pleading. He must make her believe! He must make her believe!
It was the one thing left to him--and to her. “It was in self-defence.
He sprang at me, and we fought. And afterwards, when he snatched up the
revolver from the _armoire_, it went off in his own hand as I struggled
to take it from him. But I could not prove it. Every circumstance
pointed to premeditated theft on my part--and murder. And--and my life
before that was--was a ruined life that would but--but make conviction
certain if I were found there. My only chance lay in getting away. But
there was no time--nowhere to go. And so--and so I ran back to where
Father Aubert lay, and put on his clothes, meaning to gain a few hours'
time that way, and in the noise of the storm I did not hear you coming
until it was too late to run.”
How mercilessly hard her hands seemed to press at her bosom!
“I--I do not understand”--it was as though she spoke to herself. “There
was another--a man who, with Jacques Bourget, tried to have Henri--Henri
Mentone escape.”
“It was I,” said Raymond. “I took Narcisse Pélude's old clothes from the
shed.”
She cried out a little--like a sharp and sudden moan, it was, as from
unendurable pain.
“And then--and then you lived here as--as a priest.”
“Yes,” he answered.
“And--and to-night?”--her eyes were closed again.
“To-night,” said Raymond, and turned away his head, “to-night I am going
to--to Tournayville.”
“To your death”--it was again as though she were speaking to herself.
“There is no other way,” he said. “I thought there was another way.
I meant at first to escape to-night when I learned that Monsignor was
coming. I took this coat, Narcisse Pélude's old clothes from the shed
again, the clothes I wore the night I went to Jacques Bourget, and
I meant to escape on the train. But”--he hesitated now, groping
desperately for words--he could not tell her of that ride along the
road; he had no right to tell her of his love, he saw that now, he had
no right to tell her that, to make it the harder, the more cruel for
her; he had no right to trespass on his knowledge of her love for him,
to let her glean from any words of his a hint of that; he had the right
only, for her sake and for his own, that, in her eyes and in her soul,
the stain of murder and of theft should not rest upon him--“but”--the
words seemed weak, inadequate--“but I could not go. Instead, I gave
myself up to Monsignor. Mademoiselle”--how bitterly full of irony was
that word--mademoiselle--mademoiselle to Valérie--like a gulf
between them--mademoiselle to Valérie, who was dearest in life to
him--“Mademoiselle Valérie”--he was pleading again, his soul in
his voice--“it was in self-defence that night. It was that way that
Théophile Blondin was killed. I could not prove it then, and--and the
evidence is even blacker against me now through the things that I have
done in an effort to escape. But--but it was in that way that Théophile
Blondin was killed. The law will not believe. I know that. But
you--you--” his voice broke. The love, the yearning for her was rushing
him onward beyond self-control, and near, very near to his lips,
struggling and battling for expression, were the words he was praying
God now for the strength not to speak.
She did not answer him. She only moved away. Her white face was set
rigidly, and the dark eyes that had been full upon him were but a blur
now, for she was moving slowly backward, away from him, toward where
the Bishop stood. And she passed out of the lantern light and into the
shadows. And in the shadows her hand was raised from her bosom and was
held before her face--and it seemed as though she held it, as she had
held it in the dream of that Walled Place; that she held it, as she had
held it to shut out the sight of his face from her, as she had closed
upon him that door with its studded spikes. And like a stricken man he
stood there, gripping at the buckboard's wheel. She did not believe him.
Valérie did not believe him! There was agony to come, black depths of
torment yawning just before him when the numbness from the blow had
passed--but now he was stunned. She did not believe him! That man there,
whom he had thought would turn with bitter words upon him, had believed
him--but Valérie--Valérie--Valérie did not believe him! Ay, it was the
end! The agony and the torment were coming now. It was the dream come
true. The studded gate clanged shut, and the horror, without hope,
without smile, without human word, of that Walled Place with its slimy
walls was his, and, over the shrieking of those winged and hideous
things, that swaying carrion seemed to scream the louder: “_Dies ilia,
dies iro_--that day, a day of wrath, of wasting, and of misery, a great
day, and exceeding bitter.”
He did not move. Through that blur and through the shadows he watched
her, watched her as she reached the Bishop, and sank down upon the
ground, and clasped her hands around the Bishop's knees. And then he
heard her speak--and it seemed to Raymond that, as though stilled by a
mighty uplift that swept upon him, the beating of his heart had ceased.
“Monsignor!” she cried out piteously. “Monsignor! Monsignor! It is true
that they will not believe him! I was at the trial, Monsignor, I know
the evidence, and I know that they will not believe him. He is going
to--to his--death--to save that man. Oh, Monsignor--Monsignor, is there
no other way?”
Slowly, mechanically, as slowly as she had retreated from him, Raymond
moved toward the kneeling figure. The Bishop was speaking now--he had
laid his hands upon her head.
“My daughter,” he said gently, “what other way would you have him take?
It is a brave man's way, and for that I honour him; but it is more, it
is the way of one who has come out of the darkness into the light,
and for that my heart is full of thankfulness to God. It is the way of
atonement, not for any wrong he has done the church, for he could do the
church no wrong, for the church is pure and holy and beyond the reach of
any human hand or act to soil, for it is God's church--but atonement to
God for those sins of sacrilege and unbelief that lay between himself
and God alone. And so, my daughter, if in those sins he has been brought
to see and understand, and in his heart has sought and found God's
pardon and forgiveness, he could do no other thing than that which he
has done to-night.” The Bishop's voice had faltered; he brushed his hand
across his cheek as though to wipe away a tear. “It is God's way, my
daughter. There could be no other way.”
She rose to her feet, her face covered by her hands.
“No other way”--the words were lifeless on her lips, save that they were
broken with a sob. And then, suddenly, she drew herself erect, and there
was a pride and a glory in the poise of her head, and her voice rang
clear and there was no tremor in it, and in it was only the pride and
only the glory that was in the head held high, and in the fair, white,
uplifted face. “Listen, Monsignor! I thought he was a priest, and
I promised God that he should never know--but to-night all that is
changed. Monsignor, does it matter that he has no thought of me! He is
going to his death, Monsignor, and he shall not face this alone because
I was ashamed and dared not speak. I love him, Monsignor--I love him,
and I believe him, and---”
“_Valérie!_” Raymond's hands reached out to her. Weak he was. It seemed
as though in his knees there was no strength. “Valérie!” he cried, and
stumbled toward her.
And she put out her hand and held him back for an instant as her eyes
searched his face--and then into hers there came a wondrous light.
“I did not know,” she whispered. “I did not know you cared.”
His arms were still outstretched, and now she came into them, and for
a moment she lifted her face to his, and, for a moment that was glad
beyond all gladness, he drank with his lips from her lips and from the
trembling eyelids. And then the tears came, and she was sobbing on his
breast, and with her arms tight about his neck she clung to him--and
closer still his own arms enwrapped her--and he forgot--and he
forgot--_that it was only for a moment_.
And so he held her there, his face buried in the dark, soft masses
of her hair--and he forgot. And then out of this forgetfulness, this
transport of blinding joy, there came a voice, low and shaken with
emotion--the Bishop's voice.
“There is some one calling from the house.”
Raymond lifted up his head. A woman's figure was framed in the now open
and lighted doorway of the cottage. It was Madame Bouchard; and now he
heard Madame Bouchard as she called again.
“Valerie! Father Aubert! Come! Come quickly! Madame Blondin is conscious
again, but she is very weak.”
He drew his breath in sharply as one in bitter pain, and then gently he
took Valerie's arms from about him, and his shoulders squared. He had
had his moment. This was reality now. He heard Valérie cry out, and saw
her run toward the cottage.
“Monsignor,” he said hoarsely, and, moving back, lifted the _soutane_
from the buckboard's seat, “Monsignor, she must not know--and she
has asked for me. It is for her sake, Monsignor--that she be not
disillusioned in her death, and lose the faith that she has found
again. Monsignor, it is for the last time, not to perform any office,
Monsignor, for you will do that, but that she may not die in the belief
that God, through me, has only mocked her at the end.”
“I understand, my son,” the Bishop answered simply. “Put it on--and
come.”
And so Raymond put on the _soutane_ again, and they hurried toward the
cottage. And at the doorway Madame Bouchard courtesied in reverence to
the Bishop, and Raymond heard her say something about the horse, and
that she would remain within call; and then they passed on into Mother
Blondin's room.
It was a bare room, poor and meagre in its furnishings--a single rag mat
upon the floor; a single chair, and upon the chair the black bag that
Valerie had brought from the _presbytère_; and beside the rough wooden
bed, made perhaps by the Grandfather Bouchard in the old carpenter shop
by the river bank, was a small table, and upon the table a lamp, and
some cups with pewter spoons laid across their tops.
Extraneous things, these details seemed to Raymond to have intruded
themselves upon him as by some strange and vivid assertiveness of their
own, for he was not conscious that he had looked about him--that he had
looked anywhere but at that white and pitifully sunken face that was
straining upward from the pillows, and at Valérie who knelt at the
bedside and supported old Mother Blondin in her arms.
“Quick!” Valerie cried anxiously. “Give her a teaspoonful from that
first cup on the table. She has been trying to say something, and--and
I do not understand. Oh, be quick! It is something about that man in the
prison.”
The old woman's head bobbed jerkily, as though she fought for strength
to hold it up; the eyes, half closed, were dulled; and she struggled,
gasping, for her breath.
“Yes--the prison--the man”--the words were almost inarticulate. Raymond,
beside her now, was holding the spoonful of stimulant to her lips.
She swallowed it eagerly. “I--I lied--I lied--at the trial. Hold
me--tighter. Do not let me--go. Not yet--not--not until----” Her body
seemed to straighten, then wrench backward, and her eyes closed, and her
voice died away.
Raymond felt the Bishop's hand close tensely on his shoulder.
“What is this she says, my son?”
Raymond shook his head.
“I do not know,” he said huskily.
The eyes opened again, clearer now--and recognition came into them as
they met Raymond's. And there came a smile, and she reached out her hand
to him.
“You, father--I--I was afraid you would not come in time. I--I am
stronger now. Give Valerie the cup, and kneel, father--don't you
remember--like that night in the church--and hold my hand--and--and do
not let it go because--because then I--I should be afraid that God--that
God would not forgive.”
He took her hand between both his own, and knelt beside the bed.
“I will not let it go,” he said--and tried to keep the choking from his
throat. “What is it that you want to say--Mother Blondin?”
Her fingers twined over his, and clung tighter and tighter.
“That man, father--he--he must not hang. I--I cannot go to God with that
on my soul. I lied at the trial--I lied. I hated God then. I wanted only
revenge because my son was dead. I said I recognised him again,
but--but that is not true, for the light was low, and--and I do not see
well--but--but that--that does not matter, father--it is not that--for
it must have been that man. But it was not that man who--who tried to
rob me--it--it was my own son. That man is innocent--innocent--I tell
you--I----” She raised herself wildly up in bed. “Why do you look at
me like that, Father Aubert--with that white face--is it too late--too
late--and--and--will God not forgive?”
“It is not too late. Go on, Mother Blondin”--it was his lips that formed
the words; it was not his voice, it could not be--that quiet voice
speaking so softly.
Her face grew calmer. The fear was gone.
“It is not too late--it is not too late--and--and God will forgive,” she
whispered. “Listen then, father--listen, and pray for me. I--I was sure
Théophile had been robbing me. I watched behind the door that night.
I saw him go to take the money. And--and then that man came in, and
Théophile rushed at him with a stick of wood. The man had--had done
nothing. It was in self-defence he fought. And then I--I helped
Théophile. It was Théophile who took the revolver to kill him,
and--and--it went off in Théophile's hand, and----” she sighed heavily,
and sank back on the pillow.
The room seemed to sway before Raymond--and
Valérie's face, across the bed, seemed to move slowly before him with
a pendulum-like movement, and her face was very white, and in it was
wonder, and a great dawning hope, and awe. And he put his head down upon
the coverlet, but his hands still held old Mother Blondin's hand between
them.
And then she spoke again, with greater difficulty now; and somehow her
other hand had found Raymond's head, and her fingers played tremblingly
through his hair.
“You will tell them, father--and--and this other father here will tell
them--and--and Valérie will bear witness--and--and the man will live.
And you will tell him, father, how God came again and made me tell the
truth because you were good, and--and because you made be believe again
in--in you--and God--and-----”
A broken cry came from Raymond. The scalding tears were in his eyes.
“Hush, my son!”--it was the Bishop's grave and gentle voice. “God has
done a wondrous thing tonight.”
There was silence in the little room.
And then suddenly Raymond lifted his head--and the room was no more,
and in its place was the moonlit church of that other night, and he saw
again the old withered face transfigured into one of tender sweetness
and ineffable love.
“Pierre, monsieur?”--her mind was wandering now--they were the words she
had spoken as she had sat beside him in the pew. “Ah, he was a good boy,
Pierre--have you not heard of Pierre Letellier? And there was little
Jean--little Jean--he went away, monsieur, and I--I do not know
where--where he is--I do not know-----”
Raymond's voice was breaking, as he leaned forward toward her.
“He is with God, Mother Blondin. Jean--Jean has sent you a message. His
last thoughts were of you--his mother.”
The old eyes flamed with a dying fire.
“Jean--my son! My little Jean--his--his mother.” A smile lighted up
her face, and hovered on her lips; and her hand, clinging to Raymond's,
tightened.
“Father--I----” And then her fingers slipped from their hold, and fell
away.
The Bishop's arm was around Raymond's shoulders.
“Go now, my son--and you, my daughter,” he said gently. “It is very near
the end, and the time is short.”
Raymond rose blindly from his knees. Mother Blondin was very still, and
a pallor, gray and premonitory, had crept into her face. Her eyes were
closed. He raised the thin hand, and touched it with his lips--and
turned away.
And Valérie passed out of the room with him.
And by the open window of the room beyond, Valérie knelt down, and he
knelt down beside her.
It was quiet without--and there was no sound, save now the murmur of the
Bishop's voice from the inner room. He was to live--and not to die. To
go free! To give himself up--but to be set free--and there were to
be the years with Valérie. He could not understand it yet in all its
fulness.
Valérie was crying softly. With a great tenderness he put his arm about
her.
“It was the _Benedictus_--'into the way of peace'--that you said for her
that night,” she whispered. “Say it now again, my lover--for her--and
for us.”
He drew her closer to him, and, with her wet cheek against his own, they
repeated the words together.
And after a little time she raised her hands, and held his face between
them, and looked into his face for a long while, and there was a great
gladness, and a great love, and a great trust in the tear-wet eyes.
“I do not know your name,” she said.
“It is Raymond,” he answered.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Sin That Was His, by Frank L. Packard