Chapter 20

"It does me good to speak--at last. I've never spoken in all these years--and I can tell you. My child was born seven months after my husband's death. Louis Champney came to see me then--up here, in this room; it was the first time we had dared to see each other alone--but the baby lay beside me; _that kept us_. He said but little; but he took up the child and looked at him; then he turned to me. 'This should have been our son, Aurora,' he said, and I--oh, what will you think of me!" She dropped her head into her hands.

"I knew in my heart that during all those months I was carrying Warren Googe's child, I had only one thought: 'Oh, if it were only Louis' and mine!' And because I was a widow, I felt free to dwell upon that one thought night and day. Louis' face was always before me. I came in thought to look upon him as the true father of my boy--not that other for whom I had had no love. And I took great comfort in that thought--and--and--my boy is the living image of Louis Champney."

She withdrew her hands, clasping them nervously and rubbing them in each other.

"Oh, I sinned, I sinned in thought, and I've been punished, but there was never anything more--and last night I had to hear that from her!"

For a moment the look of deadly fear returned to the eyes, but only for a moment; her hands continued to work nervously.

"Never anything more; only that day when he took my boy in his arms and said what he did, we both knew we could not see much of each other for the rest of our lives--that's why I've kept so much to myself. He kissed the baby then, laid him in my arms and, stooping, kissed me once--only once--I've lived on that--and said: 'I will do all I can for this boy.' And--and"--her lips trembled for the first time--"that little baby, as it lay on my breast, saved us both. It was renunciation--but it made me hard; it killed Louis.

"I saw Louis seldom and always in the presence of my boy. But Almeda Champney was not satisfied with what she had done; she transferred her jealousy to my son. She was jealous of every word Louis spoke to him; jealous of every hour he was with him. When Louis died, still young--my son was left unprovided for. That was Almeda Champney's work--she wouldn't have it.

"Then I sold the first quarry for means to send Champney to college; and I sold the rest in order to start him well in business, in the world. But I know that at the bottom of my ambition for him, was the desire that he might succeed in spite of the fact that his aunt had kept from him the property which Louis Champney intended to be his. My ambition has been overweening for Champney's material success--I have urged him on, when I should have restrained. I have aided him to the extent of my ability to attain his end. I longed to see him in a position that, financially, would far out-shine hers. I felt it would compensate in part. I loved my son--and I loved in him Louis Champney. I alone am to blame for what has come of it--I--his mother."

Her lips trembled excessively. She waited to control them before she could continue.

"Last night, when I begged her to help me, she answered me with what I told you. I could bear no more--"

She leaned back on the pillows, exhausted for a while with her great effort, but the light of renewed life shone from every feature.

"I am better now," she said, turning to Father Honoré the dark hollow eyes so full of gratitude that the priest looked away from her.

While this page in human history was being laid open before him, Father Honoré said nothing. The confession it contained was so awful in its still depths of pure passion, so far-reaching in its effects on a human soul, that he felt suddenly the utter insignificance of his own existence, the futility of all words, the meagreness of all sympathetic expression. And he was honest enough to withhold all attempt at such.

"I fear you are very tired," he said, and rose to go.

"No, no; I am better already. The telling has done me such good. I shall soon be up and about. When do you go?"

"This afternoon; and you may expect telegrams from me at almost any time; so don't be alarmed simply because I send them. I thought you would prefer to know from day to day."

"You are good--but I can say nothing." The tears welled at last and overflowed on her cheeks.

"Don't say that--I beg of you." He spoke almost sharply, as if hurt physically. "Nothing is needed--and I hope you will let Sister Ste. Croix come in for a few days and care for you. She wants to come."

"Tell her to come. I think I am willing to see any one now--something has given way here;" she pressed her hand to her head; "it's a great relief."

"Good-bye." He held out his hand and she placed hers in it; the tears kept rolling down her cheeks.

"Tell my darling boy, when you see him, that it was my fault--and I love him so--oh, how I love him--" Her voice broke in a sob.

Father Honoré left the room to cover his emotion. He spoke to Ellen from the hall, and went out at the front door in order to avoid Mrs. Caukins. He had need to be alone.

* * * * *

That afternoon at the station, Octavius Buzzby met him on the platform.

"Mr. Buzzby, is there any truth in the rumor I heard, as I came to the train, that Mrs. Champney has had a stroke?"

The face of Champ-au-Haut's factotum worked strangely before he made answer.

"Yes, she's had a slight shock. The doctor told me this morning that he knew she'd had the first one over three years ago; this is the second. I've come down for a nurse he telegraphed for; I expect her on the next train up--and, Father Honoré--" he hesitated; his hands were working nervously in each other.

"Yes, Mr. Buzzby?"

"I come down to see you, too, on purpose--"

"To see me?" Father Honoré looked his surprise; his thoughts leaped to a possible demand on Mrs. Champney's part for his presence at Champ-au-Haut--she might have repented her words, changed her mind; might be ready to help her nephew. In that case, he would wait for the midnight train.

The man of Maine's face was working painfully again; he was struggling for control; his feelings were deep, tender, loyal; he was capable of any sacrifice for a friend.

"Father Honoré--I don't want to butt in anywhere--into what ain't my business, but I do want to know if you're going to New York?"

"Yes, I am."

"Are you going to try to see _him_?"

"I'm going to try to find him--for his mother's sake and his own."

Octavius Buzzby grasped his hand and wrung it. "God bless you!" He fumbled with his left hand in his breast pocket and drew forth a package. "Here, you take this--it's honest money, all mine--you use it for Champney--to help out, you know, in any way you see fit."

Father Honoré was so moved he could not speak at once.

"If Mr. Googe could know what a friend he has in you, Mr. Buzzby," he said at last, "I don't think he could wholly despair, whatever might come,"--he pressed the package back into Octavius' hand,--"keep it with you, it's safer; and I promise you if I need it I will call on you." Suddenly his indignation got the better of him--"But this is outrageous!"--he spoke in a low voice but vehemently,--"Mrs. Champney is abundantly able to do this for her nephew, whereas you--"

"You're right, sir, it's a damned outrage--I beg your pardon, Father Honoré, I hadn't ought to said that, but I've seen so much, and I'm all broke up, I guess, with what I've been through since yesterday. I went to her myself then and made bold to ask her to help with her riches that's bringing her in eight per cent, and told her some plain truths--"

"You went--!" Father Honoré exclaimed; he had almost said "too," but caught himself in time.

"Yes, I went, and all I got was an insult for my pains. She's a she-dev--I beg your pardon, sir; it would serve me right if the Almighty struck me dumb with a stroke like hers, only hers don't affect her speech any, Aileen says--I guess her tongue's insured against shock for life, but it hadn't ought to be, sir, not after the blasphemy it's uttered. But I ain't the one to throw stones, not after what I've just said in your presence, sir, and I do beg your pardon, I know what's due to the clo--"

The train, rounding the curve, whistled deafeningly.

Father Honoré grasped both Octavius' hands; held them close in a firm cordial grip; looked straight into the small brown eyes that were filled with tears, the result of pure nervousness.

"We men understand each other, Mr. Buzzby; no apology is necessary--let me have your prayers while I am away, I shall need them--good-bye--" He entered the car.

Octavius Buzzby lifted his hat and stood bareheaded on the platform till the train drew out.

PART FOURTH

Oblivion

I

"I have called to see Mr. Van Ostend, by appointment," said Father Honoré to the footman in attendance at the door of the mansion on the Avenue.

He was shown into the library. Mr. Van Ostend rose from the armchair to greet him.

"I am glad to see you, Father Honoré." He shook hands cordially and drew up a chair opposite to his own before the blazing hearth. "Be seated; I have given orders that we are not to be interrupted. I cannot pretend ignorance as to the cause of your coming--a sad, bad matter for us all. Have you any news?"

"Only that he is here in New York."

Mr. Van Ostend looked startled. "Here? Since when? My latest advice was this afternoon from the Maine detectives."

"I heard yesterday from headquarters that he had been traced here, but he must be in hiding somewhere; thus far they've found no trace of him. I felt sure, from the very first, he would return; that is why I came down. He couldn't avoid detection any longer in the country, nor could he hold out another week in the Maine wilderness--no man could stand it in this weather."

"How long have you been here, Father Honoré?"

"Three days. I promised Mrs. Googe to do what I could to find him; the mother suffers most."

"I know--I know; it's awful for her; but, for God's sake, what did he do it for!"

"Why do we all sin at times?"

"Yes, yes--I know; that's your point of view, but that does not answer me in this case. He had every opportunity to work along legitimate lines towards the end he professed to wish to attain--and he had the ability to attain it; I know this from my experience with him. What could have possessed him to put himself in the place of a sneak thief--he, born a gentleman, with Champney blood in his veins?"

Father Honoré did not answer his question which was more an indignant ejaculation.

"You spoke of my 'point of view,' Mr. Van Ostend. I think I know what that implies; you mean from the point of view of the priesthood?"

The man on the opposite side of the fire-lighted hearth looked at him in surprise. "Yes, just that; but I intended no reflection on your opinion; perhaps I ought to say frankly, that it implied a doubt of your powers of judgment in a business matter like the one in question. Naturally, it does not lie in your line."

Father Honoré smiled a little sadly. "Perhaps you may recall that old saying of the Jew, Nathan the Wise: 'A man is a man before he is either Christian or Jew.' And we are men, Mr. Van Ostend; men primarily before we are either financier or priest. Let us speak as man to man; put aside all points of view entailed by difference of training, and meet on the common ground of our manhood, I am sure the perspective and retrospective ought to be in the same line of vision from that standpoint."

Mr. Van Ostend was silent. He was thinking deeply. The priest saw this, and waited for the answer which he felt sure would be well thought out before it found expression. He spoke at last, slowly, weighing his words:

"I am questioning whether, with the best intentions as men to meet in the common plane of our manhood, to see from thence alike in a certain direction, you and I, at our age, can escape from the moulded lines of our training into that common plane."

"I think we can if we keep to the fundamentals of life."

"We can but try; but there must be then an absolutely unclouded expression of individual opinion on the part of each." His assertion implied both a challenge and a doubt. "What is your idea of the reason for his succumbing to such a temptation?"

"I believe it was the love of money and the power its acquisition carries with it. I know, too, that Mrs. Googe blames herself for having fostered this ambition in him. She would only too gladly place anything that is hers to make good, but there is nothing left; it all went." He straightened himself. "What I have come to you for, Mr. Van Ostend, is to ask you one direct question: Are you willing to make good the amount of the embezzlement to the syndicate and save prosecution in this special case--save the man, Champney Googe, and so give him another chance in life? You know, but not so well, perhaps, as I, what years in a penitentiary mean for a man when he leaves it."

"Are you aware that you are asking me to put a premium on crime?" Mr. Van Ostend asked coldly. He looked at the priest as if he thought he had taken leave of his senses.

"That is one way of putting it, I admit; but there is another. Let me put it to you: if you had had a son; if he were fatherless; if he had fallen through emulation of other men, wouldn't you like to know that some man might lend a hand for the sake of the mother?"

"I don't know. Stealing is stealing, whether my son were the thief or another man's. Why shouldn't a man take his punishment? You know the everyday argument: the man who steals a loaf of bread gets nine months, and the man who steals a hundred thousand gets clear. If the law is for the one and not for the other, the result is, logically, anarchy. Besides, the man, not he of the street who steals because he is hungry, but the one who has every advantage of education and environment to make his way right in life, goes wrong knowingly. Are we in this case to coddle, to sympathize, to let ourselves be led into philanthropic drivel over 'judge not that ye be not judged'? I cannot see it so."

"You are right in your reasoning, but you are reasoning according to the common law, man-made; and I said we could agree only if we keep to the fundamentals of life."

"Well, if the law isn't a fundamental, what is?"

"I heard Bishop Brooks once say: 'The Bible _was_ before ever it was written.' And perhaps I can best answer your question by saying the law of the human existed before the law of which you are thinking was ever written. Love, mercy, long-suffering _were_ before the law formulated 'an eye for an eye,' or this world could not have existed to the present time for you and me. It is in recognition of that, in dealing with the human, that I make my appeal to you--for the mother, first and foremost, who suffers through the son, her first-born and only child, as your daughter is your only--" Mr. Van Ostend interrupted him.

"I must beg you, Father Honoré, not to bring my daughter's name into this affair. I have suffered enough--enough."

"Mr. Van Ostend, pardon me the seeming discourtesy in your own house, but I am compelled to mention it. After you have given your final decision to my importuning, there can be no further appeal. The man, if living, must go to prison. Mrs. Champney positively refuses to help her nephew in any way. She has been approached twice on the subject of advancing four-fifths of the hundred thousand; she can do it, but she won't. She is not a mother; neither has she any real love for her nephew, for she refuses to aid him in his extremity. I mentioned your daughter, because you must know that her name has been in the past connected with the man for whom I am asking the boon of another chance in life. I have felt convinced that for her sake, if for no other, you would make this sacrifice."

"My daughter, I am glad to inform you, never cared for the man. She is too young, too undeveloped. It is the one thing that makes it possible for me to contemplate what he has done with any degree of sanity. Had he won her affections, had she loved him--" He paused: it was impossible for him to proceed.

"Thank God that she was spared that!" Father Honoré ejaculated under his breath. Mr. Van Ostend looking at him keenly, perceived that he was under the influence of some powerful emotion. He turned to him, a mute question on his lips. Father Honoré answered that mute query with intense earnestness, by repeating what, apparently, he had said to himself:

"I thank my God that she never cared for him in that way, for otherwise her life would have been wrecked; nor could you, who would lay down your life for her happiness, have spared or saved her,--her young affections, her young faith and joy in life, all shattered, and Life the iconoclast! That is the saddest part of it. It is women who suffer most and always. In making this appeal to you, I have had continually in mind his mother, and you, the father of a woman. I know how your pride must have suffered in the knowledge that his name, even, has been connected with hers--but your suffering is as naught compared with that mother's who, at this very moment, is waiting for some telegram from me that shall tell her her son is found, is saved. But I will not over urge, Mr. Van Ostend. If you feel you cannot do this, that it is a matter of principle with you to refuse, there is no need to prolong this interview which is painful to us both. I thank you for the time you have given me." He rose to go. Mr. Van Ostend did likewise.

At that moment a girl's joyous voice sounded in the hall just outside the door.

"Oh, never mind that, Beales; papa never considers me an interruption. I'm going in, anyway, to say good night; I don't care if all Wall Street is there. Has the carriage come?"

There was audible the sound of a subdued protest; then came a series of quick taps on the door and the sound of the gay voice again:

"Papa--just a minute to say good night; if I can't come in, do you come out and give me a kiss--do you hear?"

The two men looked at each other. Mr. Van Ostend stepped quickly to the door and, opening it, stood on the threshold. Something very like a diaphanous white cloud enwrapped him; two thin arms, visible through it, went suddenly round his neck; then his arms enfolded her.

"Oh, Papsy dear, don't hug me so hard! You'll crush all my flowers. Ben sent them; wasn't he a dear? I've promised him the cotillon to-night for them. Good night." She pecked at his cheek again as he released her; the cloud of white liberty silk tulle drifted away from the doorway and left it a blank.

Mr. Van Ostend closed the door; came back to the hearth; stood there, his arms folded tightly over his chest, his head bowed. For a few minutes neither man spoke. When the clock on the mantel chimed a quarter to nine, Father Honoré made a movement to go. Mr. Van Ostend turned quickly to him and put out a detaining hand.

"May I ask if you are going to continue the search this evening; it's a bad night."

"Yes; I've had the feeling that, after he has been so long in hiding, he'll have to come out--he must be at the end of his strength. I am going out with two detectives now; they have been on the case with me. This is quite apart from the general detective agency's work."

"Father Honoré," Mr. Van Ostend spoke with apparent effort, "I know I am right in my reasoning--and you are right in your fundamentals. We both may be wrong in the end, you in appealing to me for this aid to restrain prosecution, and I in giving it. Time alone will show us. But if we are, we must take the consequences of our act. If, by yielding, I make it easier for another man to do as Champney Googe has done, may God forgive me; I could never forgive myself. If you, in asking this, have erred in freeing from his punishment a man who deserves every bit he can get, you will have to reckon with your own conscience.--Don't misunderstand me. No spirit of philanthropy influences me in my act. Don't credit me with any 'love-to-man' attitude. I am going to advance the sum necessary to avoid prosecution if you find him; but I do it solely on that mother's account, and"--he hesitated--"because I don't want her, whom you have just seen, connected, even remotely, by the thought of what a penitentiary term implies. I don't want to entertain the thought that even the hem of _my_ child's garment has been so much as touched by a hand that will work at hard labor for seven, perhaps fifteen, years. And I want you to understand that, in yielding, my principle remains unchanged. I owe it to you to say this much, for you have dealt with me as man to man."

"Mr. Van Ostend, we may both be in the wrong, as you say; if it prove so, I shall be the first to acknowledge my error to you. My one thought has been to save that mother further agony and to give a man, still young, another chance."

"I've understood it so."

He went to his writing table, sat down at it, and, for a moment, busied himself with making out his personal check for one hundred thousand dollars payable to the Flamsted Granite Quarries Company. He handed it to Father Honoré to look at. The priest read it.

"Whatever bail is needed, if an arrest should follow now," said Mr. Van Ostend further and significantly, "I will be responsible for."

The two men clasped hands and looked understandingly into each other's eyes. What each read therein, what each felt in the other's palm beats, they realized there was no need to express in words.

"Let me hear, Father Honoré, so soon as you learn anything definite; I'll keep you posted so far as I hear."

"I will. Good night, Mr. Van Ostend."

* * * * *

On reaching the iron gates to the courtyard, the priest stepped aside to give unimpeded passage to a carriage just leaving the house. As it passed him, the electric light flashed athwart the bowed glass front, already dripping with sleet, and behind it he caught a glimpse of a girl's delicate face that rose from out the folds of a chinchilla wrap, like a flower from its sheath. She was chatting gaily with her maid.

II

The night was wild. New York can show such in late November. A gale from the northeast was driving before it a heavy sleet that froze as it fell, coating the overhead wires and glazing the asphalt and sidewalks.

It lacked an hour of midnight. From Fleischmann's bakery, the goal of each man among the shivering hundreds lined up on Tenth Street, the light streamed out upon a remnant of Life's jetsam--that which is submerged, which never comes to the surface unless drawn there by some searching and rescuing hand; that which the home-sheltered never see by daylight, never know, save from hearsay. In the neighboring rectory of Grace Church one dim light was burning in an upper room. The marble church itself looked a part of the winter scene; its walls and pinnacles, already encrusted with ice crystals, glittered fantastically in the rays of the arc-light; beneath them, the dark, shuffling, huddling line of humanity moved uneasily in the discomfort of the keen wind.

At twelve o 'clock, each unknown, unidentified human unit in that line, as he reaches the window, puts forth his hand for the loaf, and thrusting it beneath his coat, if he be so fortunate as to have one, or under his arm, vanishes....

Whither? As well ask: Whence came he?