Flamsted quarries Part 56

"Yes, but it is death in life. Aileen is still with her--faithful as the sun, but rebelling at times as is only natural. The girl gave promise of rich womanhood, but even you would wonder at such fine development in such an environment of continual invalidism. Mrs. Champney has had two strokes of paralysis; it is only a question of time."

"There is _one_ who never was my friend--I've often wondered why."

Into the priest's inner vision flashed that evening before his departure for New York--the bedroom--the mother--that confession--

"It looks that way, I admit, but I've thought sometimes she has cared for you far more than any one will ever know."

Champney started suddenly to his feet.

"What time is it? I must be going."

"Going?--You mean home--to-night?"

"Yes, I must go home. I came to ask you to go to my mother to prepare her for this--I dared not shock her by going unannounced. You'll go with me--you'll tell her?"

"At once."

He reached for his coat and turned off the lights. The two went out arm and arm into the March night. The wind was still rising.

"It's only half-past nine, and Mrs. Googe will be up; she is a busy woman."

"Tell me--" he drew his breath short--"what has my mother done all these years--how has she lived?"

"As every true woman lives--doing her full duty day by day, living in hope of this joy."

"But I mean _what_ has she done to live--to provide for herself; she has kept the house?"

"To be sure, and by her own exertions. She has never been willing to accept pecuniary aid from any friend, not even from Mr. Buzzby, or the Colonel. I am in a position to know that Mr. Van Ostend did his best to persuade her to accept something just as a loan."

"But what has she been doing?"

"She has been taking the quarrymen for meals the last six years, Champney--at times she has had their families to board with her, as many as the house could accommodate."

The arm which his own held was withdrawn with a jerk. Champney Googe faced him: they were on the new iron bridge over the Rothel.

"You mean to say my mother--_my_ mother, Aurora Googe, has been keeping a quarrymen's boarding-house all these years?"

"Yes; it is legitimate work."

"My mother--_my_ mother--" he kept repeating as he stood motionless on the bridge. He seemed unable to grasp the fact for a moment; then he laid his hand heavily on Father Honore's shoulder as if for support; he spoke low to himself, but the priest caught a few words:

"I thank Thee--thank--for life--work--"

He seemed to come gradually to himself, to recognize his whereabouts. He began to walk on, but very slowly.

"Father Honore," he said, and his tone was deeply earnest but at the same time almost joyful, "I'm not going home to my mother empty-handed, I never intended to--I have work. I can work for her, free her from care, lift from her shoulders the burden of toil for my sake."

"What do you mean, Champney?"

"I made application to the manager of the Company this afternoon; I saw they were all strangers to me, and they took me on in the sheds--Shed Number Two. I went to work this afternoon. You see I know my trade; I learned it during the last six years. I can support her now--Oh--"

He stopped short just as they were leaving the bridge; raised his head to the black skies above him, reached upwards with both hands palm outwards--

"--I thank my Maker for these hands; I thank Him that I can labor with these hands; I thank Him for the strength of manhood that will enable me to toil with these hands; I thank Him for my knowledge of good and evil; I thank Him that I have 'won sight out of blindness--'" his eyes strained to the skies above The Gore.

The moon, struggling with the heavy drifting cloud-ma.s.ses, broke through a confined ragged circle and, for a moment, its splendor shone upon the heights of The Gore; its effulgence paled the arc-lights in the quarries; a silver shaft glanced on the Rothel in its downward course, and afar touched the ruffled waters of Lake Mesantic....

"I'll stay here on the lawn," he said five minutes afterwards upon reaching the house. A light was burning in his mother's bedroom; another shone from her sitting-room on the first floor.

The priest entered without knocking; this house was open the year round to the frequent comers and goers among the workmen. He rapped at the sitting-room door. Mrs. Googe opened it.

"Why, Father Honore, I didn't expect you to-night--didn't you have the--What is it?--oh, what is it!" she cried, for the priest's face betrayed him.

"Joyful news, Mrs. Googe,"--he let her read his face--"your son is a free man to-night."

There was no outcry on the mother's part; but her hands clasped each other till the nails showed white.

"Where is he now?"

"Here, in Flamsted--"

"Let me go--let me go to him--"

"He has come to you--he is just outside--"

She was past him with a rush--at the door--on the porch--

"Champney!--My son!--where are you?" she cried out into the night.

Her answer came on swift feet. He sprang up the steps two at a time, they were in each other's arms--then he had to be strong for both.

He led her in, half carrying her; placed her in a chair; knelt before her, chafing her hands....

Father Honore made his escape; they were unconscious of his presence or his departure. He closed the front door softly behind him, and on feet shod with light-heartedness covered the road to his own house in a few minutes. He flung aside his coat, took his violin, and played and played till late into the night.

Two of the sisters of The Mystic Rose, who had been over to Quarry End Park nursing a sick quarryman's wife throughout the day, paused to listen as they pa.s.sed the house. One of them was Sister Ste. Croix.

The violin exulted, rejoiced, sang of love heavenly, of love earthly, of all loves of life and nature; it sang of repentance, of expiation, of salvation--

"I can bear no more," whispered Sister Ste. Croix to her companion, and the hand she laid on the one that was raised to hush her, was not only cold, it was damp with the sweat of the agony of remembrance.

The strains of the violin's song accompanied them to their own door.

VII

The Sat.u.r.day-night frequenters of The Greenbush have changed with the pa.s.sing years like all else in Flamsted. The Greenbush itself is no longer a hostelry, but a cosy club-house purveyed for, to the satisfaction of every member, by its old landlord, Augustus Buzzby. The Club's members.h.i.+p, of both young and old men, is large and increasing with the growth of the town; but the old frequenters of The Greenbush bar-room head the list--Colonel Caukins and Octavius Buzzby paying the annual dues of their first charter member, old Joel Quimber, now in his eighty-seventh year.