Part 77

"I know it; that's what makes the bitterer cud-chewing."

"I know--I know." The priest spoke under his breath. He was sitting on the side of the cot, and leaned forward suddenly, his elbows on his knees, his chin resting in his palms, his eyes gazing beyond Champney to something intangible, some inner vision that was at that moment projecting itself from the sensitive plate of consciousness upon the blank of reality.

Champney looked at him keenly. He was aware that, for the moment, Father Honore was present with him only in the body. He waited, before speaking, until the priest's eyes turned slowly to his; his position remained the same. Champney went on:

"All that you have done to obtain this reprieve, has been done for me--for mine--"; his voice trembled. "A man comes to know the measure of such sacrifice after an experience like mine--I have no words--"

"Don't, Champney--don't--"

"No, I won't, because I can't--because nothing is adequate. I thought it all out last night. There is but one way to show you, to prove anything to you; I am going to do as you said: make good my manhood--"

Father Honore's hand closed upon Champney's.

"--And there is but one way in which I can make it good. I can take only a step at a time now, but it's this first step that will start me right."

He paused a moment as if to gather strength to voice his decision.

"I should disown my manhood if I shirked now. The horror of prospective years of imprisonment has been more to me than death--I welcomed that as the alternative. But now, the manhood that is left in me demands that if I am willing to live as a man, I must take my punishment like a man. I am going to let things take their usual course; accept no relief from the money guaranteed to reimburse the syndicate; plead guilty, and let the sentence be what it may: seven, fifteen, or twenty years--it's all one."

He drew a long breath as of deliverance. The mere formulating of his decision in the presence of another man gave him strength, almost assurance to act for himself in furthering his own commitment. But the priest bowed his head into his hands and a groan burst from his lips, so laden with wretchedness, with mental and spiritual suffering, that even Champney Googe was startled from his hard-won calm.

"Father Honore, what is it? Don't take it so hard." He laid his hand on his shoulder. "I can't ask you if I've done right, because no man can decide that for me; but wouldn't you do the same if you were in my place?"

"Oh, would to God I had!--would to God I had!" he groaned rather than spoke.

Champney was startled. He realized, for the first time, perhaps, in his self-centred life, that he was but a unit among suffering millions. He was realizing, moreover, that, with the utterance of his decision, he had, as it were, retired from the stage for many years to come; the curtain had fallen on his particular act in the life-drama; that others now occupied his place, and among them was this man before him who, active for good, foremost in noble works, strong in the faith, helpful wherever help might be needed, a refuge for the oppressed of soul, a friend to all humanity because human, his friend--his mother's, was suffering at this moment as he himself had suffered, but without the relief that is afforded by renunciation. Out of a great love and pity he spoke:

"What is it? Can't you tell me? Won't it help, just as man to man--as it has helped me?"

Father Honore regained his control before Champney ceased questioning.

"I don't know that it will help; but I owe it to you to tell you, after what you have said--told me. I can preach--oh yes! But the practice--the practice--" He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"What you have just told me justifies me in telling you what I thought never to speak of again in this world. You have done the only thing to do in the circumstances--it has taken the whole courage of a man; but I never for a moment credited you with sufficient manhood to dare it. It only goes to show how shortsighted we humans are, how incomprehensive of the workings of the human heart and soul; we think we know--and find ourselves utterly confounded, as I am now." He was silent for a few minutes, apparently deep in meditation.

"Had I done, when I was twenty years old, as you are going to do, I should have had no cause to regret; all my life fails to make good in that respect.--When I was a boy, an orphan, my heartstrings wound themselves about a little girl in France who was kind to me. I may as well tell you now that the thought of that child was one of the motives that induced me to investigate Aileen's case, when we saw her that night at the vaudeville."

He looked at Champney, who, at the mention of Aileen's name, had started involuntarily. "You remember that night?" Champney nodded. How well he remembered it! But he gave no further sign.

"I was destined for the priesthood later on, but that did not stifle the love in my heart for the young girl. It was in my novitiate years. I never dared ask myself what the outcome of it all would be; I wanted to finish my novitiate first. I knew she loved me with a charming, open, young girl's love that in the freedom of our household life--her grandfather was my great-uncle on my mother's side--found expression in a sisterly way; and in the circumstances I could not tell her of my love. It was the last year of my novitiate when I discovered the fact that a young man, in the employ of her grandfather, was paying her attention with the intention of asking her of him in marriage. The mere thought of the loss of her drove me half mad. I took the first opportunity, when at home for the holidays, to tell her my love, and I threatened, that, if she gave herself to another, I would end all--either for myself or for him. The girl was frightened, indignant, horrified almost, at the force of the passion that was consuming me; she repelled me--that ended it; I took it for granted that she loved that other. I lay in wait for him one night as he was going to the house; taunted him; heaped upon him such abuse as makes a man another's murderer; I goaded him into doing what I had intended. He struck me in the face; closed with me, and I fought him; but he was wrestling with a madman. We were on the cliff at Dieppe; the night was dark; intentionally I forced him towards the edge. He struggled manfully, trying to land a blow on my head that would save him; he wrestled with me and he was a man of great strength; but I--I knew I could tire him out. It was dark--I knew when he went over the edge, but I could see nothing, I heard nothing....

"I fled; hid myself; but I was caught; held for a time awaiting the outcome of the man's hurt. Had he died it would have been manslaughter. As it was I knew it was murder, for there had been murder in my heart. He lived, but maimed for life. The lawyer, paid for by my great-uncle, set up the plea of self-defence. I was cleared in the law, and fled to America to expiate. I know now that there was but one expiation for me--to do what you are to do; plead guilty and take my punishment like a man. I failed to do it--and I preach of manhood to you!"

There was silence in the room. Champney broke it and his voice was almost unrecognizable; it was hoarse, constrained:

"But your love was noble--you loved her with all the manhood that was in you."

"God knows I did; but that does not alter the fact of my consequent crime."

He looked again at Champney as he spoke out his conviction, and his own emotion suffered a check in his amazement at the change in the countenance before him. He had seen nothing like this in the thirty-two hours he had been in his presence; his jaw was set; his nostrils white and sharpened; the pupils of his eyes contracted to pin points; and into the sallow cheeks, up to the forehead knotted as with intense pain, into the sunken temples, the blood rushed with a force that threatened physical disaster, only to recede as quickly, leaving the face ghastly white, the eyelids twitching, the muscles about the mouth quivering.

Noting all this Father Honore read deeper still; he knew that Champney Googe had not told him the whole, possibly not the half--and never would tell. His next question convinced him of that.

"May I ask what became of the young girl you loved?--Don't answer, if I am asking too much."