Chapter 18

Mrs. Caukins turned and looked at her sharply; the light from the kitchen shone out on the porch.

"Well, I must say you look as if you'd seen a ghost; you're all of a shiver; you'd better go in and warm you and take a hot water bag up to bed with you; it's going to be a frosty night. I'm going to stay here till 'Lias comes back. I'm thankful the twins are abed and asleep, or I should have three of you on my hands. Just as soon as 'Lias gets back, I'm going into my room to lie down--I can't sleep, but if I stay up on my feet another hour I shall collapse with my nerves and my head; you can do what you've a mind to."

Aileen went into the kitchen. When Mrs. Caukins came in, fifteen minutes later, with the information that she could see by the motion of 'Lias' lantern that he was near the house, she found the girl huddled by the stove; she was still wrapped in her cape. A few minutes afterwards she went up to her room for the night.

Late in the evening there was a rumor about town that Champney Googe had been murdered in the Colonel's sheepfold. Before midnight this was contradicted, and the fact established that 'Lias had found his dog stabbed to death in the fold, and that he said he had seen traces of a terrific struggle. The last news, that came in over the telephone from the quarries, was to the effect that no trace of the fugitive was found in the quarry woods and the posse were now on the county line scouring the hills to the north. The New York detectives, arriving on the evening train, were carried up to join the Flamsted force.

The next day the officers of the law returned, and confirmed the report, already current in the town, that Champney Googe had outwitted them and made his escape. Every one believed he would attempt to cross the Canada border, and the central detective agency laid its lines accordingly.

XV

Since Champney Googe's escape on that October night, two weeks had been added to the sum of the hours that his friends were counting until they should obtain some definite word of his fate. During that time the love of the sensational, which is at the root of much so-called communal interest, was fed by the excitement of the nominal proceedings against Luigi Poggi. On the night of Champney's flight he went to Father Honoré and Elmer Wiggins, and confessed his complicity in the affair at the sheepfold. Within ten days, however, the Italian had been exonerated for his attack on the escaped criminal; nor was the slightest blame attached to such action on his part. He had been duly sworn in by the Colonel, and was justified in laying hands on the fugitive, although the wisdom of tackling a man, who was in such desperate straits, of his own accord and alone was questioned. Not once during the sharp cross examination, to which he was subjected by Emlie and the side-judge, was Aileen's name mentioned--nor did he mention it to Father Honoré. Her secret was to be kept.

During those two weeks of misery and suspense for all who loved Champney Googe, Octavius Buzzby was making up his mind on a certain subject. Now that it was fully made up, his knock on the library door sounded more like a challenge than a plea for admittance.

"Come in, Octavius."

Mrs. Champney was writing. She pushed aside the pad and, moving her chair, faced him. Octavius noted the uncompromising tone of voice when she bade him enter, and the hard-set lines of her face as she turned inquiringly towards him. For a moment his courage flagged; then the righteousness of his cause triumphed. He closed the door behind him. This was not his custom, and Mrs. Champney looked her surprise.

"Anything unusual, Octavius?"

"I want a talk with you, Mrs. Champney."

"Sit down then." She motioned to a chair; but Octavius shook his head.

"I can say all I've got to say standing; it ain't much, but it's to the point."

Mrs. Champney removed her glasses and swung them leisurely back and forth on their gold chain. "Well, to the point, then."

He felt the challenge implied in her words and accepted it.

"I've served this estate pretty faithful for hard on to thirty-seven years. I've served the Judge, and I've served his son, and now I'm going to work to save the man that's named for that son--"

Mrs. Champney interrupted him sharply, decisively.

"That will do, Octavius. There is no occasion for you to tell me this; I knew from the first you would champion his cause--no matter how bad a one. We'll drop the subject; you must be aware it is not a particularly pleasant one to me."

Octavius winced. Mrs. Champney smiled at the effect of her words; but he ignored her remark.

"I like to see fair play, Mrs. Champney, and I've seen some things here in Champo since the old Judge died that's gone against me. Right's right and wrong's wrong, and I've stood by and kept still when I'd ought to have spoken; perhaps 't would have been better for us all if I had--and I'm including Champney Googe. When his father died--" Mrs. Champney started, leaned forward in her chair, her hands tightly grasping the arms.

"His father--" she caught up her words, pressed her thin lips more closely together, and leaned back again in her chair. Octavius looked at her in amazement.

"Yes," he repeated, "his father, Warren Googe; who else should I mean?"

Mrs. Champney made no reply, and Octavius went on, wetting his lips to facilitate articulation, for his throat was going dry:

"His father made me promise to look out for the child that was a-coming; and another man, Louis Champney, your husband,"--Mrs. Champney sat up rigid, her eyes fixed in a stare upon the speaker's lips,--"told me when the boy come that he'd father him as was fatherless--"

She interrupted him again, a sneering smile on her lips:

"You know as well as I, Octavius Buzzby, what Mr. Champney's will was--too feeble a thing to place dependence on for any length of time; if he said that, he didn't mean it--not as you think he did," she added in a tone that sent a shiver along Octavius' spine. But he did not intend to be "downed," as he said to himself, "not this time by Almeda Champney." He continued undaunted:

"I do know what he meant better'n anybody living, and I know what he was going to do for the boy; and _I_ know, too, Mrs. Champney, who hindered him from having his will to do for the boy; and right's right, and now's your time to make good to his memory and intentions--to make good your husband's will for Champney Googe and save your husband's name from disgrace and more besides. _You_ know--but you never knew I did till now--what Louis Champney promised to do for the boy--and he told me more than once, Mrs. Champney, for he trusted _me_. He told me he was going to educate the boy and start him well in life, and that he wasn't going to end there; he told me he was going to leave him forty thousand dollars, Mrs. Champney--and he told me this not six weeks before he died; and the interest on forty thousand has equalled the principal by this time,--and you know best _why_ he hasn't had his own--I ain't blind and nobody else here in Flamsted. And now I've come to ask you, if you've got a woman's heart instead of a stone in your bosom, to make over that principal and interest to the Quarry Company and save the boy Louis Champney loved; he told me once what I knew, that his blood flowed in that child's veins--"

"That's a lie--take that back!" she almost shrieked under her breath. She started to her feet, trembling in every limb, her face twitching painfully.

Octavius was appalled at the effect of his words; but he dared not falter now--too much was at stake--although fearful of the effect of any further excitement upon the woman before him. He spoke appeasingly:

"I can't take that back, for it's true, Mrs. Champney. You know as well as I do that far back his mother was a Champney."

"Oh--I forgot." She dropped into her chair and drew a long breath as of exhaustion. "What were you saying?" She passed her hand slowly over her eyes, then put on her glasses. Octavius saw by that one movement that she had regained her usual control. He, too, felt relieved, and spoke more freely:

"I said I want you to make good that eighty thousand dollars--"

"Don't be a fool, Octavius Buzzby,"--she broke in upon him coldly, a world of scornful pity in her voice,--"you mean well, but you're a fool to think that at my time of life I'm going to impoverish myself and my estate for Champney Googe. You've had your pains for nothing. Let him take his punishment like any other man--he's no better, no worse; it's the fault of his bringing up; Aurora has only herself to thank."

Octavius took a step forward. By a powerful effort he restrained himself from shaking his fist in her face. He spoke under his breath:

"You leave Aurora's name out of this, Mrs. Champney, or I'll say things that you'll be sorry to hear." His anger was roused to white heat and he dared not trust himself to say more.

She laughed out loud--the forced, mocking laugh of a miserable old age. "I knew from the first Aurora Googe was at the bottom of this--"

"She doesn't know anything about this, I came of--"

"You keep still till I finish," she commanded him, her faded eyes sending forth something from behind her glasses that resembled blue lightning; "I say she's at the bottom of this as she's been at the bottom of everything else in Flamsted. She'll never have a penny of my money, that was Louis Champney's, to clear either herself or her state's-prison brat! Tell her that for me with my compliments on her son's career.--And as for you, Octavius Buzzby, I'll repeat what you said: I'm not blind and nobody else is in Flamsted, and I know, and everybody here knows, that you've been in love with Aurora Googe ever since my father took her into his home to bring up."

She knew that blow would tell. Octavius started as if he had been struck in the face by the flat of an enemy's hand. He stepped forward quickly and looked her straight in the eyes.

"You she-devil," he said in a low clear voice, turned on his heel and left the room. He closed the door behind him, and felt of the knob to see that he had shut it tight. This revelation of a woman's nature was sickening him; he wanted to make sure that the library door was shut close upon the malodorous charnel house of the passions. He shivered with a nervous chill as he hurried down the hall and went upstairs to his room in the ell.

He sat down on the bed and leaned his head on his hands, pressing his fingers against his throbbing temples. Half an hour passed; still he sat there trying to recover his mental poise; the terrible anger he had felt, combined with her last thrust, had shocked him out of it.

At last he rose; went to his desk; opened a drawer, took out a tin box, unlocked it, and laid the papers and books it contained one by one on the table to inspect them. He selected a few, snapped a rubber about the package and thrust it into the inner breast pocket of his coat. Then he reached for his hat, went downstairs, left word with Ann that he was going to drive down for the mail but that he should not be back before ten, proceeded to the stable, harnessed the mare into a light driving trap and drove away. He took the road to The Gore.

On approaching the house he saw a light in Aurora's bedroom. He drove around to the kitchen door and tied the mare to the hitching-post. His rap was answered by Ellen, a quarryman's daughter whom Mrs. Googe employed for general help; but she spoke behind the closed door:

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Octavius Buzzby."

She drew the bolt and flung open the door. "Oh, it's you, is it, Mr. Buzzby? I've got so nervous these last three weeks, I keep the door bolted most of the time. Have you heard anything?" she asked eagerly, speaking under her breath.

"No," said Octavius shortly; "I want to see Mrs. Googe. Tell her I must see her; it's important."

The girl hesitated. "I don't believe she will--and I hate to ask her--she looks awful, Mr. Buzzby. It scares me just to see her goin' round without saying a word from morning to night, and then walking half the night up in her room. I don't believe she's slept two hours a night since--you know when."

"I guess she'll see me, Ellen; you go and ask her, anyway. I'll stay in the lower hall."

He heard her rap at the bedroom door and deliver the message. There followed the sharp click of a lock, the opening of the door and the sound of Aurora's voice:

"Tell him to come up."

Octavius started upstairs. He had seen her but once in the past three weeks; that was when he went to her on the receipt of the news of Champney's flight; he vowed then he would not go again unless sent for; the sight of the mother's despair, that showed itself in speechless apathy, was too much for him. He could only grasp her hand at that time, press it in both his, and say: "Aurora, if you need me, call me; you know me. We'll help all we can--both of you--"

But there was no response. He tiptoed out of the room as if leaving the presence of the dead.

Now, as he mounted the stairs, he had time to wonder what her attitude would be after these three weeks of suspense. A moment more and he stood in her presence, mute, shocked, heartsick at the change that this month of agony had wrought in her. Her face was ghastly in its pallor; deep yellowish-purple half-circles lay beneath her sunken eyes; every feature, every line of the face was sharpened, and on each cheek bone burned a fever spot of vivid scarlet; her dry eyes also burned with unnatural and fevered brightness, the heavy eyelids keeping up a continuous quivering, painful to see. The hand she held out to him throbbed quick and hard in his grasp.

"Any news, Tave?" Her voice was dull from despair.

He shook his head; the slow tears coursed down his cheeks; he could not help it.

"Sit down, Tave; you said it was important."

He controlled his emotion as best he could. "Aurora, I've been thinking what can be done when he's found--"

"If he ever is! Oh, Tave, Tave--if I could only know something--where he is--if living; I can't sleep thinking--" She wrung her clasped hands and began to walk nervously back and forth in the room.

"Aurora, I feel sure he's living, but when he's found--then's the time to help."

"How?" She turned upon him almost savagely; it looked as if her primitive mother-passion were at bay for her young. "Where's help to come from? I've nothing left."

"But I have." He spoke with confidence and took out the package from his breast pocket. He held it out to her. "See here, Aurora, here's the value of twenty thousand dollars--take it--use it as your own."

She drew away from it.--"Money!" She spoke almost with horror.

"Yes, Aurora, honest money. Take it and see how far 't will go towards saving prosecution for him."

"You mean--," she hesitated; her dry eyes bored into his that dropped before her unwavering gaze, "--you mean you're giving your hard-earned wages to me to help save my boy?"

"Yes, and glad to give them--if you knew how glad, Aurora--"

She covered her face with her hands. Octavius took her by the arm and drew her to a chair.

"Sit down," he said gently; "you're all worn out."

She obeyed him passively, still keeping her hands before her face. But no sooner was she seated than she began to rock uneasily back and forth, moaning to herself, till suddenly the long-dried fount was opened up; the merciful blessing of tears found vent. She shook with uncontrollable sobbing; she wept for the first time since Champney's flight, and the tears eased her brain for the time of its living nightmare.

Octavius waited for her weeping to spend itself. His heart was wrung with pity, but he was thankful for every tear she shed; his gratefulness, however, found a curious inner expression.

"Damn her--damn her--damn her--" he kept saying over and over to himself, and the mere repetition seemed to ease him of his over-powering surcharge of pity. But it was Almeda Champney he had in mind, and, after all, his unuttered inner curses were only a prayer for help, read backwards.

At last, Aurora Googe lifted her face from her hands and looked at Octavius Buzzby. He reddened and rose to go.

"Tave, wait a little while; don't go yet."

He sat down.

"I thought--I felt all was lost--no one cared--I was alone--there was no help. You have shown me that I have been wrong--all wrong--such friends--such a friend as you--" Her lips quivered; the tears welled from the red and swollen lids. "I can't take the money, Tave, I can't--don't look so--only on one condition. I've been coming to a decision the last two days. I'm going straight to Almeda, Tave, and ask her, beg her, if I have to, on my bended knees to save my boy--she has more than enough--you know, Tave, what Champney should have had--"

Octavius nodded emphatically and found his voice.

"Don't I know? You may bet your life I know more'n I've ever told, Aurora. Don't I know how Louis Champney said to me: 'Tave, I shall see the boy through; forty thousand of mine is to be his'; and that was six weeks before he died; and don't I know, too, how I didn't get a glimpse of Louis Champney again till two weeks before his death, and then he was unconscious and didn't know me or any one else?"

Octavius paused for breath. Aurora Googe rose and went to the closet.

"I must go now, Tave; take me with you." She took out a cloak and burnous.

"I hate to say it, Aurora, but I'm afraid it won't do no good; she's a tough cuss when it comes to money--"

"But she must; he's her own flesh and blood and she's cheated him out of what is rightfully his. It's been my awful pride that kept me from going sooner--and--oh, Tave, Tave,--I tried to make my boy promise never to ask her for money! I've been hoping all along she would offer--"

"Offer! Almeda Champney offer to help any one with her money that was Louis Champney's!"

"But she has enough of her own, Tave; the money that was my boy's grandfather's."

"You don't know her, Aurora, not yet, after all you've suffered from her. If you'd seen her and lived with her as I have, year out and year in, you'd know her love of money has eat into her soul and gangrened it. 'T ain't no use to go, I tell you, Aurora." He put out his hand to detain her, for she had thrown on her cloak and was winding the burnous about her head.

"Tave, I'm going; don't say another word against it; and you must take me down. She isn't the only one who has loved money till it blinded them to duty--I can't throw stones--and after all she's a woman; I am going to ask her to help with the money that is rightfully my boy's--and if she gives it, I will take your twenty thousand to make up the amount." She pressed the package into his hand.

"But what if she doesn't?"

"Then I'll ask Father Honoré to do what he proposed to do last week: go to Mr. Van Ostend and ask him for the money--there's nothing left but that." She drew her breath hard and led the way from the room, hurriedly, as if there were not a moment to lose. Octavius followed her, protesting:

"Try Mr. Van Ostend first, Aurora; don't go to Mrs. Champney now."

"Now is the only time. If I hadn't asked my own relation, Mr. Van Ostend would have every reason to say, 'Why didn't you try in your own family first?'"

"But, Aurora, I'm afraid to have you."

"Afraid! I, of Almeda Champney?"

She stopped short on the stairs to look back at him. There was a trace of the old-time haughtiness in her bearing. Octavius welcomed it, for he was realizing that he could not move her from her decision, and as for the message from Almeda Champney, he knew he never could deliver it--he had no courage.

"You needn't sit up for me, Ellen," she said to the surprised girl as they went out; "it may be late before I get home; bolt the back door, I'll take the key to the front."

He helped her into the trap, and in silence they drove down to The Bow.

XVI

Aurora Googe spoke for the first time when Octavius left her at the door of Champ-au-Haut.

"Tave, don't leave me; I want you to be near, somewhere in the hall, if she is in the library. I want a witness to what I must say and--I trust you. But don't come into the room no matter what is said."

"I won't, Aurora, and I'll be there in a few minutes. I'm just going to drive to the stable and send the boy down for the mail, and I'll be right back. There's Aileen."

The girl answered the knock, and on recognizing who it was caught her breath sharply. She had not seen Mrs. Googe during the past month of misery and shame and excitement, and previous to that she had avoided Champney Googe's mother on account of the humiliation her love for the son had suffered at that son's hands--a humiliation which struck at the roots of all that was truest and purest in that womanhood, which was drying up the clear-welling spring of her buoyant temperament, her young enjoyment in life and living and all that life offers of best to youth--offers once only.

She started back at the sight of those dark eyes glowing with an unnatural fire, at the haggard face, its pallor accentuated by the white burnous. One thought had time to flash into consciousness before the woman standing on the threshold could speak: here was suffering to which her own was as a candle light to furnace flame.

"I've come to see Mrs. Champney, Aileen; is she in the library?"

"Yes,"--the girl's lips trembled,--"shall I tell her you are here?"

"No." She threw aside her cloak as if in great haste; Aileen took it and laid it on a chair. Mrs. Googe went swiftly to the library door and rapped. Aileen heard the "Come in," and the exclamation that followed: "So you've come at last, have you!"

She knew that tone of voice and what it portended. She put her fingers in her ears to shut out further sound of it, and ran down the hall to the back passageway, closed the door behind her and stood there trembling from nervousness.--Had Mrs. Googe obtained some inkling that she had a message to deliver from that son?--a message she neither could nor would deliver? Did Champney Googe's mother know that she had seen that son in the quarry woods? Mrs. Googe's friends had told her the truth of the affair at the sheepfold, when it was found that her unanswered suspicions were liable to unsettle her reason.--Could she know of that message? Could any one?

The mere presence in the house of this suffering woman set Aileen's every nerve tingling with sickening despair. She determined to wait there in the dimly lighted back hall until Octavius should make his appearance, be it soon or late; he always came through here on his way to the ell.

Aurora Googe looked neither to right nor left on entering the room. She went straight to the library table, on the opposite side of which Mrs. Champney was still sitting where Octavius had left her nearly two hours before. She stemmed both hands on it as if finding the support necessary. Fixing her eyes, already beginning to glaze with the increasing fever, upon her sister-in-law, she spoke, but with apparent effort:

"Yes, I've come, at last, Almeda--I've come to ask help for my boy--"

Mrs. Champney interrupted her; she was trembling visibly, even Aurora Googe saw that.

"I suppose this is Octavius Buzzby's doings. When I gave him that message it was final--_final_, do you hear?"

She raised her voice almost an octave in the intense excitement she was evidently trying to combat. The sound penetrated to Aileen, shut in the back hall, and again she thrust her fingers into her ears. At that moment Octavius entered from the outer door.

"What are you doing here, Aileen?" For the first time in his life he spoke roughly to her.

She turned upon him her white scared face. "What is _she_ doing?" she managed to say through chattering teeth.

Octavius repented him, that under the strain of the situation he had spoken to her as he had. "Go to bed, Aileen," he said firmly, but gently; "this ain't no place for you now."