Part 108

He thrust his hand into the workman's blouse and drew forth a small package, wrapped in oiled silk and sewed to a cord that was round his neck. He opened it.

Aileen bent to examine it, her eyes straining in the increasing dusk.

"Why, it's never--it's not my handkerchief!--Champney!"

"Yes, yours, Aileen--that night in all the horror and despair, I heard something in your voice that told me you--didn't hate me--"

"Oh, Champney!"

"Yes. I've kept it ever since--I asked permission to take it in with me?--I mean into my cell. They granted it. It was with me night and day--my head lay on it at night; I got my first sleep so--and it went with me to work during the day. It's been kissed clean thin till it's mere gossamer; it helped, that and the work, to save my brain--"

She caught handkerchief and hand in both hers and pressed her lips to them again and again.

"And now I'm going to keep it, after you're mine in the sight of man, as you are now before God; put it away and keep it for--" He stopped short.

"For whom?" she whispered.

He drew her close to him--closer and more near.

"Aileen, my beloved," his voice was earnestly joyful, "I am hoping for the blessing of children--are you?--"

"Except for you, my arms will feel empty for them till they come--"

"Oh, my wife--my true wife!--now I can tell you all!" he said, and the earnest note was lost in purest joy. He whispered:

"You know, dear, I'm but half a man, and must remain such. I am no citizen, have no citizen's rights, can never vote--have no voice in all that appeals to manhood--my country--"

"I know--I know--" she murmured pityingly.

"And so I used to think there in my cell at night when I kissed the little handkerchief--Please God, if Aileen still loves me when I get out, if she in her loving mercy will forgive to the extent that she will be my wife, then it may be that she will bestow on me the blessing of a child--a boy who will one day stand among men as his father never can again, who will possess the full rights of citizenship; in him I may live again as a man--but only so."

"Please God it may be so."

* * * * *

They walked slowly homewards to The Bow in the clear warm dark of the midsummer-night. They had much to say to each other, and often they lingered on the way. They lingered again when they came to the gate by the paddock in the lane.

Aileen looked towards the house. A light was burning in Mrs. Champney's room.

"I'm afraid Mrs. Champney must be much worse. Tave never would have forgotten me if he hadn't received some telephone message while he was at Father Honore's. But the nurse said there was nothing I could do when I left with Tave--but oh, I'm so glad he didn't stop! I must go in now, Champney," she said decidedly. But he still held her two hands.

"Tell me, Champney, have you ever thought your aunt might remember you--for the wrong she did you?"

"No; and if she should, I never would take a cent of it."

"Oh, I'm so glad--so glad!" She squeezed both his hands right hard.

He read her thought and smiled to himself; he was glad that in this he had not disappointed her.

"But there's one thing I wish she would do--poor--poor Aunt Meda--" he glanced up at the light in the window.

"Yes, 'poor,' Champney--I know." She was nodding emphatically.

"I wish she would leave enough to Mr. Van Ostend to repay with interest what he repaid for me to the Company; it would be only just, for, work as I may, I can never hope to do that--and I long so to do it--no workman could do it--"