Flamsted quarries Part 63

"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 a.s.surance 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 a.s.serted itself in the face of dissolution and this blasphemy.

"No--rather it is wisdom for them to love; it is ordained of G.o.d 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.

XI

"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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'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_, G.o.d 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.