Part 68

"Don't exert yourself too much, Mrs. Googe, but if you can tell me whom you mean, to whom you have applied, it might help me to act understandingly."

"To his aunt--I went last night."

"Mrs. Champney?"

She closed her eyes and made a motion of assent.

"And she will do nothing?"

"No."

"I fail to understand this. Surely she might give of her abundance to save one who is of her own blood. Would it do any good, do you think, for me to see her? I'll gladly go."

She shook her head. "You don't understand."

He waited in silence for some further word; for her to open her eyes at least. But none was forthcoming; the eyes remained closed. After a while he said gently:

"Perhaps I might understand, if you felt willing to tell me, if the effort is not too great."

She opened her eyes and fixed them apathetically on the strong helpful face.

"I wonder if you could understand--I don't know--you're not a woman--"

"No, but I am human, Mrs. Googe; and human sympathy is a great enlightener."

"The weight here--and here!" She raised one hand to her head, the other she laid over her heart. "If I could get rid of that for one hour--I should be strong again--to live--to endure."

Father Honore was silent. He knew the long pent stream of grief and misery must flow in its own channel when once it should burst its bounds.

"My son must never know--you will give me your word?"

"I give you my word, Mrs. Googe."

She leaned forward from her pillows, looked anxiously at the door, which was open into the hall, then whispered:

"She said--my son was Louis Champney's--bastard;--you don't believe it, do you?"

For the space of a second Father Honore shrank within himself. He could not tell at that moment whether he had here to do with an overwrought brain, with a mind obsessed, or with an awful fact. But he answered without hesitation and out of his inmost conviction:

"No, I do not believe it, Mrs. Googe."

"I thought you wouldn't--Octavius didn't." She sighed profoundly as if relieved from pain. "That's why she hates me--why she will not help."

"In that case I will go to Mr. Van Ostend. I asked to see you that I might tell you this."

"Will you--oh, will you?" She sighed again--a sigh of great physical relief, for she placed her hand again over her heart, pressing it hard.

"That helps here," she said, passing her other hand over her forehead; "perhaps I can tell you now, before you go--perhaps it will help more."

Her voice grew stronger with every full breath she was now able to draw. Gradually a look of comprehension replaced the apathetic stare. She looked squarely at the priest for the first time since his entrance. Father Honore could but wonder if the thought behind that look would find adequate expression.

"You haven't said 'God' to me once since that--that night. Don't speak to me about Him now, will you? He's too far away--it doesn't mean anything to me."

"Mrs. Googe, there comes a time in most lives when God seems so far away that we can find Him only through the Human;--perhaps such a time has come in your life."