Part 69

"I don't know; I never thought much about that. But--my god was human, oh, for so many years!--I loved Louis Champney."

Again there was a long inhalation and exhalation. It seemed as if each admission, which she forced herself to make, loosened more and more the tension of the long-racked nerves; as a result the muscles of the throat relaxed, the articulation grew distinct, the voice stronger.

"--And he loved me--better than life itself. I was so young when it began--only sixteen. My husband's father took me into his home then to bring up; I was an orphan. And Louis Champney loved me then and always--but Almeda Googe, my husband's sister, loved him too--in her way. Her own father could do nothing with her awful will--it crushed everybody that came in contact with it--that opposed it; it crushed me--and in the end, Louis."

She took a little of the lemonade to moisten her lips and went on:

"She was twelve years older than he. She took him when he was in college; worked on him, lied to him about me; told him I loved her brother; worked backwards, forwards, underhanded--any way to influence him against me and get her hold upon him. He went to Europe; she followed; wrote lying letters to her brother--said she was engaged to be married to Louis before her return; told Louis I was going to marry her brother, Warren Googe--in the end she had her way, and always has had it, and will have it. I married Warren Googe; she was forty when she married Louis at twenty-eight."

She paused, straightened herself. Something like animation came into her face.

"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 Honore 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 Honore 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 Honore 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.