"Perhaps some of you have worked in the limestone quarries on the Bay? All who have hold up hands."
A hundred hands, perhaps more, were raised.
"Any worked in the marble quarries of Vermont?"
A dozen or more Canucks waved their hands vigorously.
"Here are three pieces—limestone, marble, and granite." He held up specimens of the three. "All of them are well known to most of you. Now mark what I say of these three:—first, the limestone gets burned principally; second, the marble gets sculptured principally; third, the granite gets hammered and chiselled principally. Fire, chisel, and hammer at work on these three rocks; but, they are allquarriedfirst. This fact of their being quarried puts them in the Brotherhood—of Labor."
The men nudged one another, and nodded emphatically.
"They are all three taken from the crust of the earth; this Earth is to them the earth-mother. Now mark again what I say:—this fact of their common earth-mother puts them in the Brotherhood—of Kin."
He took up three specimens of quartz crystals.
"This quartz crystal"—he turned it in the light, and the hexagonal prisms caught and reflected dazzling rays—"I found in the limestone quarry on the Bay. This," he took up another smaller one, "I found after a long search in the marble quarries of Vermont. This here," he held up a third, a smaller, less brilliant, less perfect one—"I took out of our upper quarry after a three weeks' search for it.
"This fact, that these rocks, although of different market value and put to different uses, may yield the same perfect crystal, puts the limestone, the marble, the granite in the Brotherhood—of Equality.
"In our other talks, we have named the elements of each rock, and given some study to each. We have found that some of their elements are the basic elements of our own mortal frames—our bodies have a common earth-mother with these stones.
"This last fact puts them in the Brotherhood—of Man."
The seven hundred men showed their appreciation of the point made by prolonged applause.
"Now I want to make clear to you that, although these rocks have different market values, are put to different uses, the real value for us this evening consists in the fact that each, in its own place, can yield a crystal equal in purity to the others.—Remember this the next time you go to work in the quarries and the sheds."
He laid aside the specimens.
"We had a talk last month about the guilds of four hundred years ago. I asked you then to look upon yourselves as members of a great twentieth century working guild. Have you done it? Has every man, who was present then, said since, when hewing a foundation stone, a block for a bridge abutment, a corner-stone for a cathedral or a railroad station, a cap-stone for a monument, a milestone, a lintel for a door, a hearthstone or a step for an altar, 'I belong to the great guild of the makers of this country; I quarry and hew the rock that lays the enduring bed for the iron or electric horses which rush from sea to sea and carry the burden of humanity'?—Think of it, men! Yours are the hands that make this great track of commerce possible. Yours are the hands that curve the stones, afterwards reared into noble arches beneath which the people assemble to do God reverence. Yours are the hands that square the deep foundations of the great bridges which, like the Brooklyn, cross high in mid-air from shore to shore! Have you said this? Have you done it?"
"Ay, ay.—Sure.—We done it." The murmuring assent was polyglot.
"Very well—see that you keep on doing it, and show that you do it by the good work you furnish."
He motioned to the manipulators in the gallery to make ready for the stereopticon views. The blank blinding round played erratically on the curtain. The entire audience sat expectant.
There was flashed upon the screen the interior of a Canadian "cabin." The family were at supper; the whole interior, simple and homely, was indicative of warmth and cheerful family life.
The Canucks in the audience lost their heads. The clapping was frantic. Father Honoré smiled. He tapped the portrayed wall with the end of his pointer.
"This is comfort—no cold can penetrate these walls; they are double plastered. Credit limestone with that!"
The audience showed its appreciation in no uncertain way.
"The crystal—can any one see that—find that in this interior?"
The men were silent. Father Honoré was pointing to the mother and her child; the father was holding out his arms to the little one who, with loving impatience, was reaching away from his mother over the table to his father. They comprehended the priest's thought in the lesson of the limestone:—the love and trust of the human. No words were needed. An emotional silence made itself felt.
The picture shifted. There was thrown upon the screen the marble Cathedral of Milan. A murmur of delight ran through the house.
"Here we have the limestone in the form of marble. Its beauty is the price of unremitting toil. This, too, belongs in the brotherhoods of labor, kin, and equality.—Do you find the crystal?"
His pointer swept the hierarchy of statues on the roof, upwards to the cross on the pinnacle, where it rested.
"This crystal is the symbol of what inspires and glorifies humanity. The crystal is yours, men, if with believing hearts you are willing to say 'Our Father' in the face of His works."
He paused a moment. It was an understood thing in the semi-monthly talks, that the men were free to ask questions and to express an opinion, even, at times, to argue a point. The men's eyes were fixed with keen appreciation on the marble beauty before them, when a voice broke the silence.
"That sounds all right enough, your Reverence, what you've said about 'Our Father' and the brotherhoods, but there's many a man says it that won't own me for a brother. There's a weak joint somewhere—and no offence meant."
Some of the men applauded.
Father Honoré turned from the screen and faced the men; his eyes flashed. The audience loved to see him in this mood, for they knew by experience that he was generally able to meet his adversary, and no odds given or taken.
"That's you, is it, Szchenetzy?"
"Yes, it's me."
"Do you remember in last month's talk that I showed you the Dolomites—the curious mountains of the Tyrol?—and in connection with those the Brenner Pass?"
"Yes."
"Well, something like seven hundred years ago a poor man, a poet and travelling musician, was riding over that pass and down into that very region of the Dolomites. He made his living by stopping at the stronghold-castles of those times and entertaining the powerful of the earth by singing his poems set to music of his own making. Sometimes he got a suit of cast-off clothes in payment; sometimes only bed and board for a time. But he kept on singing his little poems and making more of them as he grew rich in experience of men and things; for he never grew rich in gold—money was the last thing they ever gave him. So he continued long his wandering life, singing his songs in courtyard and castle hall until they sang their way into the hearts of the men of his generation. And while he wandered, he gained a wonderful knowledge of life and its ways among rich and poor, high and low; and, pondering the things he had seen and the many ways of this world, he said to himself, that day when he was riding over the Brenner Pass, the same thing that you have just said—in almost the same words:—'Many a man calls God "Father" who won't acknowledge me for a brother.'
"I don't know how he reconciled facts—for your fact seems plain enough—nor do I know how you can reconcile them; but what I do know is this:—that man, poor in this world's goods, but rich in experience and in a natural endowment of poetic thought and musical ability,kept on making poems, kept on singing them, despite that fact to which he had given expression as he fared over the Brenner; despite the fact that a suit of cast-off clothes was all he got for his entertainment of those who would not call him 'brother.' Discouraged at times—for he was very human—he kept on giving the best that was in him, doing the work appointed for him in this world—and doing it with a whole heart Godwards and Christwards, despite his poverty, despite the broken promises of the great to reward him pecuniarily, despite the world, despitefacts, Szchenetzy! He sang when he was young of earthly love and in middle age of heavenly love, and his songs are cherished, for their beauty of wisdom and love, in the hearts of men to this day."
He smiled genially across the sea of faces to Szchenetzy.
"Come up some night with your violin, Szchenetzy, and we will try over some of those very songs that the Germans have set to music of their own, those words of Walter of the Bird-Meadow—so they called him then, and men keep on calling him that even to this day."
He turned again to the screen.
"What is to be thrown on the screen now—in rapid succession for our hour is brief—I call our Marble Quarry. Just think of it! quarried by the same hard work which you all know, by which you earn your daily bread; sculptured into forms of exceeding beauty by the same hard toil of other hands. And behind all the toil there is thesoul of art, ever seeking expression through the human instrument of the practised hand that quarries, then sculptures, then places, and builds! I shall give a word or two of explanation in regard to time and locality; next month we will take the subjects one by one."
There flashed upon the screen and in quick succession, although the men protested and begged for an extension of exposures, the noble Pisan group and Niccola Pisano's pulpit in the baptistery—the horses from the Parthenon frieze—the Zeus group from the great altar at Pergamos—Theseus and the Centaur—the Wrestlers—the Discus Thrower and, last, the exquisite little church of Saint Mary of the Thorn,—the Arno's jewel, the seafarers' own,—that looks out over the Pisan waters to the Mediterranean.
It was a magnificent showing. No words from Father Honoré were needed to bring home to his audience the lesson of the Marble Quarry.
"I call the next series, which will be shown without explanation and merely named, other members of the Brotherhood of Stone. We study them separately later on in the summer."
The cathedrals of York, Amiens, Westminster, Cologne, Mayence, St. Mark's—a noble array of man's handiwork, were thrown upon the screen. The men showed their appreciation by thunderous applause.
The screen was again a blank; then it filled suddenly with the great Upper Quarry in The Gore. The granite ledges sloped upward to meet the blue of the sky. The great steel derricks and their crisscrossing cables cast curiously foreshortened shadows on the gleaming white expanse. Here and there a group of men showed dark against a ledge. In the centre, one of the monster derricks held suspended in its chains a forty-ton block of granite just lifted from its eternal bed. Beside it a workman showed like a pigmy.
Some one proposed a three times three for the home quarries. The men rose to their feet and the cheers were given with a will. The ringing echo of the last had not died away when the quarry vanished, and in its place stood the finished cathedral of A.—the work which the hands of those present were to create. It was a reproduction of the architect's water-color sketch.
The men still remained standing; they gave no outward expression to their admiration; that, indeed, although evident in their faces, was overshadowed by something like awe.Theirhands were to be the instruments by which this great creation of the mind of man should become a fact. Without those hands the architect's idea could not be materialized; without the "idea" their daily work would fail.
The truth went home to each man present—even to that unknown one beneath the gallery who, when the men had risen to cheer, shrank farther into his dark corner and drew short sharp breaths. The Past would not down at his bidding; he was beginning to feel his weakness when he had most need of strength.
He did not hear Father Honoré's parting words:—"Here you find the third crystal—strength, solidity, the bedrock of endeavor. Take these three home with you:—the pure crystal of human love and trust, the heart believing in its Maker, the strength of good character. There you have the three that make for equality in this world—and nothing else does. Good night, my friends."
Father Honoré got home from the lecture a little before nine. He renewed the fire, drew up a chair to the hearth, took his violin from its case and, seating himself before the springing blaze, made ready to play for a while in the firelight. This was always his refreshment after a successful evening with the men. He drew his thumb along the bow—
There was a knock at the door. He rose and flung it wide with a human enough gesture of impatience; his well-earned rest was disturbed too soon. He failed to recognize the man who was standing bareheaded on the step.
"Father Honoré, I've come home—don't you know me, Champney?"
There was no word in response, but his hands were grasped hard—he was drawn into the room—the door was shut on the chill wind of that March night. Then the two men stood silent, gazing into each other's eyes, while the firelight leaped and showed to each the other's face—the priest's working with a powerful emotion he was struggling to control; Champney Googe's apparently calm, but in reality tense with anxiety. He spoke first:
"I want to know about my mother—is she well?"
Father Honoré found his voice, an uncertain one but emphatic; it left no room for further anxiety in the questioner's mind.
"Yes, well, thank God, and looking forward to this—but it's so soon! I don't understand—when did you come?"
He kept one hand on Champney's as if fearing to lose him, with the other he pulled forward a chair from the wall and placed it near his own; he sat down and drew Champney into the other beside him.
"I came up on the afternoon train; I got out yesterday."
"It's so unexpected. The chaplain wrote me last month that there was a prospect of this within the next six months, but I had no idea it would be so soon—neither, I am sure, had he."
"Nor I—I don't know that I feel sure of it yet. Has my mother any idea of this?"
"I wasn't at liberty to tell her—the communication was confidential. Still she knows that it is customary to shorten the—" he caught up his words.
"—Term for exemplary conduct?" Champney finished for him.
"Yes. I can't realize this, Champney; it's six years and four months—"
"Years—months! You might say six eternities. Do you know, I can't get used to it—the freedom, I mean. At times during these last twenty-four hours, I have actually felt lost without the work, the routine—the solitude." He sighed heavily and spoke further, but as if to himself:
"Last Thanksgiving Day we were all together—eight hundred of us in the assembly room for the exercises. Two men get pardoned out on that day, and the two who were set free were in for manslaughter—one for twenty years, the other for life. They had been in eighteen years. I watched their faces when their numbers were called; they stepped forward to the platform and were told of their pardon. There wasn't a sign of comprehension, not a movement of a muscle, the twitch of an eyelid—simply a dead stolid stare. The truth is, they were benumbed as to feeling, incapable of comprehending anything, of initiating anything, as I was till—till this afternoon; then I began to live, to feel again."
"That's only natural. I've heard other men say the same thing. You'll recover tone here among your own—your friends and other men."
"Have I any?—I mean outside of you and my mother?" he asked in a low voice, but subdued eagerness was audible in it.
"Have you any? Why, man, a friend is a friend for life—and beyond. Who was it put it thus: 'Said one: I would go up to the gates of hell with a friend.—Said the other: I would go in.' That last is the kind you have here in Flamsted, Champney."
The other turned away his face that the firelight might not betray him.
"It's too much—it's too much; I don't deserve it."
"Champney, when you decided of your own accord to expiate in the manner you have through these six years, do you think your friends—and others—didn't recognize your manhood? And didn't you resolve at that time to 'put aside' those things that were behind you once and forever?—clear your life of the clogging part?"
"Yes,—but others won't—"
"Never mind others—you are working out your own salvation."
"But it's going to be harder than I thought—I find I am beginning to dread to meet people—everything is so changed. It's going to be harder than I realized to carry out that resolution. The Past won't down—everything is so changed—everything—"
Father Honoré rose to turn on the electric lights. He did not take his seat again, but stood on the hearth, back to the fire, his hands clasped behind him. The clear light from the shaded bulbs shone full upon the face of the man before him, and the priest, searching that face to read its record, saw set upon it, and his heart contracted at the sight, the indelible seal of six years of penal servitude. The close-cut hair was gray; the brow was marked by two horizontal furrows; the cheeks were deeply lined; and the broad shoulders—they were bent. Formerly he stood before the priest with level eyes, now he was shorter by an inch of the six feet that were once his. He noticed the hands—the hands of the day-laborer.
He managed to reply to Champney's last remark without betraying the emotion that threatened to master him.
"Outwardly, yes; things have changed and will continue to change. The town is making vast strides towards citizenship. But you will find those you know the same—only grown in grace, I hope, with the years; even Mr. Wiggins is convinced by this time that the foreigners are not barbarians."
Champney smiled. "It was rough on Elmer Wiggins at first."
"Yes, but things are smoothing out gradually, and as a son of Maine he has too much common sense at bottom to swim against the current. And there's old Joel Quimber—I never see him that he doesn't tell me he is marking off the days in his 'almanack,' he calls it, in anticipation of your return."
"Dear old Jo!—No!—Is that true? Old Jo doing that?"
"To be sure, why not? And there's Octavius Buzzby—I don't think he would mind my telling you now—indeed, I don't believe he'd have the courage to tell you himself—" Father Honoré smiled happily, for he saw in Champney's face the light of awakening interest in the common life of humanity, and he felt a prolongation of this chat would clear the atmosphere of over-powering emotion,—"there have never three months passed by these last six years that he hasn't deposited half of his quarterly salary with Emlie in the bank in your name—"
"Oh, don't—don't! I can't bear it—dear old Tave—" he groaned rather than spoke; the blood mounted to his temples, but his friend proved merciless.
"And there's Luigi Poggi! I don't know but he will make you a proposition, when he knows you are at home, to enter into partnership with him and young Caukins—the Colonel's fourth eldest. Champney, he wants to atone—he has told me so—"
"Is—is he married?"
Father Honoré noticed that his lips suddenly went dry and he swallowed hard after his question.
"No," the priest hastened to say, then he hesitated; he was wondering how far it was safe to probe; "but it is my strong impression that he is thinking seriously of it—a lovely girl, too, she is—" he saw the man's face before him go white, the jaw set like a vise—"little Dulcie Caukins, you remember her?"
Champney nodded and wet his lips.
"He has been thrown a good deal with the Caukinses since he took their son into partnership; the Colonel's boys are all doing well. Romanzo is in New York."
"Still with the Company?"
"Yes, in the main office. He married in that city two years ago—rather well, I hear, but Mrs. Caukins is not reconciled yet. Now, there's a friend! You don't know the depth of her feeling for you—but she has shown it by worshipping your mother."
Champney Googe's eyes filled to overflowing, but he squeezed the springing drops between his eyelids, and asked with lively interest:
"Why isn't Mrs. Caukins reconciled?"
"Well, because—I suppose it's no secret now, at least Mrs. Caukins has never made one of it, in fact, has aired the subject pretty thoroughly, you know her way—"
Champney looked up and smiled. "I'm glad she hasn't changed."
"But of course you don't know it. The fact is she had set heart on having for a daughter-in-law Aileen Armagh—you remember little Aileen?"
Champney Googe's hands closed spasmodically on the arms of his chair. To cover this involuntary movement, he leaned forward suddenly and kicked a burning brand, that had fallen on the hearth, back into the fireplace. A shower of sparks flew up chimney.
Father Honoré went on without waiting for the answer he knew would not be forthcoming: "Aileen gave me a fright the other day. I met her on the street, and she took that occasion, in the midst of a good deal of noise and confusion, to inform me with her usual vivacity of manner that she was to be housekeeper to a man—'a job for life,' she added with the old mischief dancing in her eyes and the merry laugh that is a tonic for the blues. Upon my asking her gravely who was the fortunate man—for I had no one in mind and feared some impulsive decision—she pursed her lips, hesitated a moment, and, manufacturing a charming blush, said:—'I don't mind telling you; it's Mr. Octavius Buzzby. I'm to be his housekeeper for life and take care of him in his old age after his work and mine is finished at Champo.' I confess, I was relieved."
"My aunt is still living, then?" Champney asked with more eagerness and energy than the occasion demanded. His eyes shone with suppressed excitement, and ever-awakening life animated every feature. Father Honoré, noting the sudden change, read again, as once six years before, deep into this man's heart.
"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 isonewho 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 meanwhathas 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—mymother, Aurora Googe, has been keeping a quarrymen's boarding-house all these years?"
"Yes; it is legitimate work."
"My mother—mymother—" 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 Honoré'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 Honoré," 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-masses, 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 Honoré, 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 Honoré 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 passed 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.
The Saturday-night frequenters of The Greenbush have changed with the passing 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 membership, 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.
The former office is a grill room, and made one with the back parlor, now the club restaurant. On this Saturday night in March, the white-capped chef—Augustus prided himself in keeping abreast the times—was busy in the grill room, and Augustus himself was superintending the laying of a round table for ten. The Colonel was to celebrate his sixty-fifth birthday by giving a little supper.
"Nothing elaborate, Buzzby," he said a week before the event, "a fine saddle of mutton—Southdown—some salmon trout, a stiff bouillon for Quimber, you know his masticatory apparatus is no longer equal to this whole occasion, and a chive salad.Thecake Mrs. Caukins elects to provide herself, and I need not assure you, who know her culinary powers, that it will be ane plus ultraof a cake, both in material and execution; fruits, coffee and cheese—Roquefort. Your accomplished chef can fill in the interstices. Here are the cards—Quimber at my right, if you please."
Augustus looked at the cards and smiled.
"All the old ones included, I see, Colonel," he ran over the names, "Quimber, Tave, Elmer Wiggins, Emlie, Poggi and Caukins"—he laughed outright; "that's a good firm, Colonel," he said slyly, and the Colonel smiled his appreciation of the gentle insinuation—"the manager at the sheds, and the new boss of the Upper Quarry?" He looked inquiringly at the Colonel on reading the last name.
"That's all right, Buzzby; he's due here next Saturday, the festal day; and I want to give some substantial expression to him, as a stranger and neighbor, of Flamsted's hospitality."
Augustus nodded approval, and continued: "And me! Thank you kindly, Colonel, but you'll have to excuse me this time. I want everything to go right on this special occasion. I'll join you with a pipe afterwards."
"As you please, Buzzby, only make it a cigar; and consider yourself included in the spirit if not in the flesh. Nine sharp."
At a quarter of nine, just as Augustus finished putting the last touch to an already perfect table, the Colonel made his appearance at The Greenbush, a pasteboard box containing a dozen boutonnières under his arm. He laid one on the table cloth by each plate, and stood back to enjoy the effect. He rubbed his hands softly in appreciation of the "color scheme" as he termed it—a phrase that puzzled Augustus. He saw no "scheme" and very little "color" in the dark-wainscoted room, except the cheerful fire on the hearth and some heavy red half-curtains at the windows to shut out the cold and dark of this March night. The walls were white; the grill of dark wood, and the floor painted dark brown. But the red carnations on the snow-white damask did somehow "touch the whole thing up," as he confided later to his brother.
The Colonel's welcome to his companions was none the less cordial because he repressed his usual flow of eloquence till "the cloth should be removed." He purposed then to spring a surprise, oratorical and otherwise, on those assembled.
After the various toasts,—all given and drunk in sweet cider made for the occasion from Northern Spies, the Colonel being prohibitive for example's sake,—the good wishes for many prospective birthdays and prosperous years, the Colonel filled his glass to the brim and, holding it in his left hand, literally rose to the occasion.
"Gentlemen," he began in full chest tones, "some fourteen years ago, five of us now present were wont to discuss in the old office of this hospitable hostelry, now the famous grill room of the Club, the Invasion of the New—the opening of the great Flamsted Quarries—the migrations of the nations hitherwards and the consequent prospective industrial development of our native village."
He paused and looked about him impressively; finally his eye settled sternly on Elmer Wiggins who, satisfied inwardly with the choice and bounteous supper provided by the Colonel, had made up his mind to "stand fire", as he said afterwards to Augustus.
The Colonel resumed his speech, his voice acquiring as he proceeded a volume and depth that carried it far beyond the grill room's walls to the ears of edified passers on the street:
"There were those among us who maintained—in the face of extreme opposition, I am sorry to say—that this town of Flamsted would soon make itself a factor in the vast industrial life of our marvellous country. In retrospect, I reflect that those who had this faith, this trust in the resources of their native town, were looked upon with scorn; were subjected to personal derision; were termed, to put it mildly, 'mere dreamers'—if I am not mistaken, the original expression was 'darned boomers.' Mr. Wiggins, here, our esteemed wholesale and retail pharmacist, will correct me if I am wrong on this point—"
He paused again as if expecting an answer; nothing was forthcoming but a decidedly embarrassed "Hem," from the afore-named pharmacist. The Colonel was satisfied.
"Now, gentlemen, in refutation of that term—I will not repeat myself—and what it implied, after fourteen years, comparable to those seven fat kine of Pharaoh's dream, our town can point throughout the length and breadth of our land to its monumental works of art and utility that may well put to blush the renowned record of the Greeks and Romans."
Prolonged applause and a ringing cheer.
"All over our fair land the granite monoliths ofFlamsted, beacon or battle, point heavenwards. The transcontinental roads, that track and nerve our country, cross and re-cross the raging torrents of western rivers on granite abutments from theFlamstedquarries! The laws, alike for the just and unjust,"—the Colonel did not perceive his slip, but Elmer Wiggins smiled to himself,—"are promulgated within the stately granite halls of the capitals of our statehood—Flamstedagain! The gospel of praise and prayer will shortly resound beneath the arches of the choir and nave of the great granite cathedral—the product of the quarries in The Gore!"
Deafening applause, clinking of glasses, and cries of "Good! True—Hear—Hear!"
The Colonel beamed and gathered himself together with a visible effort for his peroration. He laid his hand on his heart.
"A man of feeling, gentlemen, has a heart. He is not oblivious either of the needs of his neighbor, his community, or the world in general. Although he is vulnerable to wounds in the house of his friends,"—a severe look falls upon Wiggins,—"he is not impervious to appeal for sympathy from without. I trust I have defined a man of feeling, gentlemen, a man of heart, as regards the world in general. And now, to make an abrupt descent from the abstract to the concrete, from the general to the particular, I will permit myself to say that those aspersions cast upon me fourteen years ago as a mere promoter, irrespective of my manhood, hurt me as a man of feeling—a man of heart.
"Sir—" he turned again to Elmer Wiggins who was apparently the lightning conductor for the Colonel's fourteen years of pent-up injury—"a father has his feelings. You arenota father—I draw no conclusions; butifyou had been a father fourteen years ago in this very room, I would have trusted to your magnanimity not to give expression to your decided views on the subject of the native Americans' intermarriage with those of a race foreign to us. I assure you, sir, such a view not only narrows the mind, but constricts humanity, and ossifies the heart—that special organ by which the world, despite present-day detractors, lives and moves and has its being." (Murmuring assent.)
"But, sir, I believe you have come to see otherwise, else as my guest on this happy occasion, I should not permit myself to apply to you so personal a remark. And, gentlemen," the Colonel swelled visibly, but those nearest him caught the shimmer of a suspicious moisture in his eyes, "I am in a position to-night—this night whereon you have added to my happiness by your presence at this board—to repeat now what I said fourteen years ago in this very room: I consider myself honored in that a member of my immediate family, one very, very dear to me," his voice shook in spite of his effort to strengthen it, "is contemplating entering into the solemn estate of matrimony at no distant date with—a foreigner, gentlemen, but a naturalized citizen of our great and glorious United States. Gentlemen," he filled his glass again and held it high above his head,—"I give you with all my heart Mr. Luigi Poggi, an honored and prosperous citizen of Flamsted—my future son-in-law—the prospective husband of my youngest daughter, Dulcibella Caukins."
The company rose to a man, young Caukins assisting Quimber to his feet.
With loud and hearty acclaim they welcomed the new member of the Caukins family; they crowded about the Colonel, and no hand that grasped his and Luigi's in congratulation was firmer and more cordial than Elmer Wiggins'. The Colonel's smile expanded; he was satisfied—the old score was wiped out.
Afterwards with cigars and pipes they discussed for an hour the affairs of Flamsted. The influx of foreigners with their families was causing a shortage of houses and housing. Emlie proposed the establishment of a Loan and Mortgage Company to help out the newcomers. Poggi laid before them his plan for an Italian House to receive the unmarried men on their arrival.
"By the way," he said, turning to the new head of the Upper Quarry, "you brought up a crowd with you this afternoon, didn't you?—mostly my countrymen?"
"No, a mixed lot—about thirty. A few Scotch and English came up on the same train. Have they applied to you?" He addressed the manager of the Company's sheds.
"No. I think they'll be along Monday. I've noticed that those two nationalities generally have relations who house and look out for them when they come. But I had an application from an American just after the train came in; I don't often have that now."
"Did you take him on?" the Colonel asked between two puffs of his Havana.
"Yes; and he went to work in Shed Number Two. I confess he puzzles me."
"What was he like?" asked the head of the Upper Quarry.
"Tall, blue eyes, gray hair, but only thirty-four as the register showed—misfit clothes—"
"That's the one—he came up in the train with me. I noticed him in the car. I don't believe he moved a muscle all the way up. I couldn't make him out, could you?"
"Well, no, I couldn't. By the way, Colonel, I noticed the name he entered was a familiar one in this part of Maine—Googe—"
"Googe!" The Colonel looked at the speaker in amazement; "did he give his first name?"
"Yes, Louis—Louis C. Googe—"
"My God!"
Whether the ejaculation proceeded from one mouth or five, the manager and foreman could not distinguish; but the effect on the Flamsted men was varied and remarkable. The Colonel's cigar dropped from his shaking hand; his face was ashen. Emlie and Wiggins stared at each other as if they had taken leave of their senses. Joel Quimber leaned forward, his hands folded on the head of his cane, and spoke to Octavius who sat rigid on his chair:
"What'd he say, Tave?—Champ to home?"
But Octavius Buzzby was beyond the power of speech. Augustus spoke for him:
"He said a man applied for work in the sheds this afternoon, Uncle Jo, who wrote his name Louis C. Googe."
"Thet's him—thet's Champ—Champ's to home. You help me inter my coat, Tave, I 'm goin' to see ef's true—" He rose with difficulty. Then Octavius spoke; his voice shook:
"No, Uncle Jo, you sit still a while; if it's Champney, we can't none of us see him to-night." He pushed him gently into his chair.
The Colonel was rousing himself. He stepped to the telephone and called up Father Honoré.
"Father Honoré—
"This is Colonel Caukins. Can you tell me if there is any truth in the report that Champney Googe has returned to-day?
"Thank God."
He put up the receiver, but still remained standing.
"Gentlemen," he said to the manager and the Upper Quarry guest, his voice was thick with emotion and the tears of thankfulness were coursing down his cheeks, "perhaps no greater gift could be bestowed on my sixty-fifth birthday than Champney Googe's return to his home—his mother—his friends—we are all his friends. Perhaps the years are beginning to tell on me, but I feel that I must excuse myself to you and go home—I want to tell my wife. I will explain all to you, as strangers among us, some other time; for the present I must beg your indulgence—joy never kills, but I am experiencing the fact that it can weaken."
"That's all right, Colonel," said the manager; "we understand it perfectly and it's late now."
"I'll go, too, Colonel," said Octavius; "I'm going to take Uncle Jo home in the trap."
Luigi Poggi helped the Colonel into his great coat. When he left the room with his prospective father-in-law, his handsome face had not regained the color it lost upon the first mention of Champney's name.
Emlie and Wiggins remained a few minutes to explain as best they could the situation to the stranger guests, and the cause of the excitement.
"I remember now hearing about this affair; I read it in the newspapers—it must have been seven or eight years ago."
"Six years and four months." Mr. Wiggins corrected him.
"I guess it'll be just as well not to spread the matter much among the men—they might kick; besides he isn't, of course, a union man."
"There's one thing in his favor," it was Emlie who spoke, "the management and the men have changed since it occurred, and there are very few except our home folks that would be apt to mention it—and they can be trusted where Champney Googe is concerned."
The four went out together.
The grill room of The Greenbush was empty save for Augustus Buzzby who sat smoking before the dying fire. Old visions were before his eyes—one of the office on a June night many years ago; the five friends discussing Champney Googe's prospects; the arrival of Father Honoré and little Aileen Armagh—so Luigi had at last given up hope in that direction for good and all.
The town clock struck twelve. He sighed heavily; it was for the old times, the old days, the old life.
It was several months before Aileen saw him. Her close attendance on Mrs. Champney and her avoidance of the precincts of The Gore—Maggie complained loudly to Mrs. Googe that Aileen no longer ran in as she used to do, and Mrs. Caukins confided to her that she thought Aileen might feel sensitive about Luigi's engagement, for she had been there but twice in five months—precluded the possibility of her meeting him. She excused herself to Mrs. Googe and the Sisters on the ground of her numerous duties at Champ-au-Haut; Ann and Hannah were both well on in years and Mrs. Champney was failing daily.
It was perhaps five months after his return that she was sitting one afternoon in Mrs. Champney's room, in attendance on her while the regular nurse was out for two hours. There had been no conversation between them for nearly the full time, when Mrs. Champney spoke abruptly from the bed:
"I heard last month that Champney Googe is back again—has been back for five months; why didn't you tell me before?"
The voice was very weak, but querulous and sharp. Aileen was sewing at the window. She did not look up.
"Because I didn't suppose you liked him well enough to care about his coming home; besides, it was Octavius' place to tell you."
"Well, I don't care about his coming, or his going either, for that matter, but I do care about knowing things that happen under my very nose within a reasonable time of their happening. I'm not in my dotage yet, I'll have you to understand."
Aileen was silent.
"Come, say something, can't you?" she snapped.
"What do you want me to say, Mrs. Champney?" She spoke wearily, but not impatiently. The daily, almost hourly demands of this sick old woman had, in a way, exhausted her.
"Tell me what he's doing."
"He's at work."
"Where?"
"In the sheds—Shed Number Two."
"What!" Paralysis prevented any movement of her hands, but her head jerked on the pillow to one side, towards Aileen.
"I said he was at work in the sheds."
"What's Champney Googe doing in the sheds?"
"Earning his living, I suppose, like other men."
Almeda Champney was silent for a while. Aileen could but wonder what the thoughts might be that were filling the shrivelled box of the brain—what were the feelings in the ossifying heart of the woman who had denied help to one of her own blood in time of need. Had she any feeling indeed, except that for self?
"Have you seen him?"
"No."
"I should think he would want to hide his head for shame."
"I don't see why." She spoke defiantly.
"Why? Because I don't see how after such a career a man can hold up his head among his own."
Aileen bit her under lip to keep back the sharp retort. She chose another and safer way.
"Oh," she said brightly, looking over to Mrs. Champney with a frank smile, "but he has really just begun his career, you know—"
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean he has just begun honest work among honest men, and that's the best career for him or any other man to my thinking."
"Umph!—little you know about it."
Aileen laughed outright. "Oh, I know more than you think I do, Mrs. Champney. I haven't lived twenty-six years for nothing, and what I've seen, I've seen—and I've no near-sighted eyes to trouble me either; and what I've heard, I've heard, for my ears are good—regular long-distance telephones sometimes."
She was not prepared for the next move on Mrs. Champney's part.
"I believe you would marry him now—after all, if he asked you." She spoke with a sneer.
"Do you really believe it?" She folded her work and prepared to leave the room, for she heard the nurse's step in the hall below. "Well, if you do, I'll tell you something, Mrs. Champney, but I'd like it to be between us." She crossed the room and paused beside the bed.
"What?"
She bent slightly towards her. "I would rather marry a man who earns his three dollars a day at honest work of quarrying or cutting stones,—or breaking them, for that matter,"—she added under her breath, "but I'm not saying he would be any relation of yours—than a man who doesn't know what a day's toil is except to cudgel his brains tired, with contriving the quickest means of making his millions double themselves at other people's expense in twenty-four hours."
The nurse opened the door. Mrs. Champney spoke bitterly:
"You little fool—you think you know, but—" aware of the nurse, she ended fretfully, "you wear me out, talking so much. Tell Hannah to make me some fresh tamarind water—and bring it up quick."
By the time Aileen had brought up the refreshment, she had half repented of her words. Mrs. Champney had been failing perceptibly the last few weeks, and all excitement was forbidden her. For this reason she had been kept so long in ignorance of Champney's return. As Aileen held the drinking tube to her lips, she noticed that the faded sunken eyes, fixed upon her intently, were not inimical—and she was thankful. She desired to live in peace, if possible, with this pitiable old age so long as it should last—a few weeks at the longest. The lesson of the piece of granite was not lost upon her. She kept the specimen on a little shelf over her bed.
She went down stairs into the library to answer a telephone call; it was from Maggie McCann who begged her to come up that afternoon to see her; the matter was important and could not wait. Aileen knew by the pleading tone of the voice, which sounded unnatural, that she was needed for something. She replied she would go up at once. She put on her hat, and while waiting for the tram at The Bow, bought a small bag of gumdrops for Billy.
Maggie received her with open arms and a gush of tears; thereupon Billy, now tottering on his unsteady feet, flopped suddenly on the floor and howled with true Irish good will.
"Why, Maggie, whatisthe matter!" she exclaimed.
"Och, Aileen, darlin', me heart's in smithereens, and I'm that deep in trouble that me head's like to rend—an' Jim's all broke up—"
"What is it; do tell me, Maggie—can I help?" she urged, catching up Billy and endeavoring to smother his howls with kisses.
Mrs. McCann wiped her reddened eyes, took off her apron and sat down in a low chair by Aileen who was filling Billy's small mouth, conveniently open for another howl upon perceiving his mother wipe her eyes, with a sizable gumdrop.
"The little gells be over to the kindergarten with the Sisters, an' I thought I'd clane go out of me mind if I couldn't have a word wid you before Jim gets home—Och, Aileen, dearie, me home I'm so proud of—" She choked, and Billy immediately repudiated his gumdrop upon Aileen's clean linen skirt; his eyes were reading the signs of the times in his mother's face.
"Now, Maggie, dear, tell me all about it. Begin at the beginning, and then I'll know where you're at."
Maggie smiled faintly. "Sure, I wouldn't blame you for not knowin' where I'm at." Mrs. McCann sniffed several times prefatorily.
"You know I told you Jim had a temper, Aileen—"
Aileen nodded in assent; she was busy coaxing the rejected ball into Billy's puckered mouth.
"—And that there's times whin he querrels wid the men—"
"Yes."
"Well, you know Mr. Googe bein' in the same shed an' section wid Jim, I says innercent-like to Jim:—'I'm glad he's in your section, Jim, belike you can make it a bit aisier for him.'
"'Aisy is it?' says Jim.
"'Yes, aisy,' says I.
"'An' wot wud I be after makin' a job aisier for the likes of him?' he says, grouchy-like.
"'An' why not?' says I.
"'For a jail-bird?' says he.
"'Deed,' says I, 'if yer own b'y had been breakin' stones wid a gang of toughs for sivin long years gone, wouldn't ye be after likin' a man to spake wan daycint word wid him?' says I.
"Wid that Jim turned on quick-like an' says:—
"'I'll thank ye, Mrs. McCann, to kape yer advice to yerself. It's not Jim McCann's b'y that'll be doin' the dirthy job that yer Mr. Champney Googe was after doin' six years gone, nor be after takin' the bread an' butter out of an honest man's mout' that has a wife an' three childer to feed. He's a convic',' says Jim.
"'What if he is?' says I.
"'I don't hold wid no convic's,' says Jim; 'I hold wid honest men; an' if it's convic's be comin' to take the best piece-work out of our hands, it's time we struck—to a man,' says Jim.
"Niver, niver but wanct has Jim called me 'Mrs. McCann,'" Maggie said brokenly, but stifled a sob for Billy's sake; "an' niver wanct has he gone to work widout kissin' me an' the childer, sometimes twice round—but he went out yisterday an' niver turned for wan look at wife an' childer; an' me heart was that heavy in my bosom that me b'y refused the breast an' cried like to kill himself for wan mortal hour, an' the little gells cried too, an' me bread burnin' to a crisp, an' I couldn't do wan thing but just sit down wid me hands full of cryin' childer—an' me heart cryin' like a child wid 'em."
Aileen tried to comfort.
"But, Maggie, such things will happen in the happiest married lives, and with the best of husbands. Jim will get over it—I suppose he has by this time; you say it isn't like to him to hold anger long—"
"But he hasn't!" Maggie broke forth afresh, and between mother and son, who immediately followed suit, a deluge threatened. "Wan of the stone-cutters' wives, Mrs. MacLoughanchan, he works in the same section as Jim, told me about it—"
"About what?" Aileen asked, hoping to get some continuity into Maggie's relation of her marital woes.
"The fight at the sheds."
"What fight?" Aileen put the question with a sickening fear at her heart.
"The fight betwixt Jim an' Mr. Googe—"
"What do you mean, Maggie?"
"I mane wot I say," Maggie replied with some show of spirit, for Aileen's tone of voice was peremptory; "Jim McCann, me husband, an' Mr. Googe had words in the shed—"
"What words?"
"Just lave me time an' I'll tell you, Aileen. You be after catchin' me short up betwixt ivery word, an' more be token as if't was your own man, instid of mine, ye was worrittin' about. I said they had words, but by rights I should say it was Jim as had them. Jim was mad because the boss in Shed Number Two give Mr. Googe a piece of work he had been savin' an' promisin' him; an' Jim made a fuss about it, an' the boss said he'd give Jim another, but Jim wantedthat wan piece; an' Jim threatened to get up a strike, an' if there's a strike Jim'll lave the place an' I'll lose me home—ochone—"
"Go on, Maggie." Aileen was trying to anticipate Maggie's tale, and in anticipation of the worst happening to Champney Googe, she lost her patience. She could not bear the suspense.
"But Jim didn't sass the boss—he sassed Mr. Googe. 'T was this way, so Mrs. MacLoughanchan says—Jim said niver a word about the fight to me, but he said he would lave the place if they didn't strike—Mr. Googe says, 'McCann, the foreman says you're to begin on the two keystones at wanct—at wanct,' says he, repating it because Jim said niver a word. An' Jim fires up an' says under his breath:
"'I don't take no orders from convic's,' says he.
"'What did you say, McCann?' says Mr. Googe, steppin' up to him wid a glint in his eye that Jim didn't mind he was so mad; an' instid of repatin' it quiet-like, Jim says, steppin' outside the shed when he see the boss an' Mr. Googe followin' him, loud enough for the whole shed to hear:
'"I don't take orders from no convic's—' an' then—" Maggie laid her hand suddenly over her heart as if in pain, '"Take that back, McCann,' says Mr. Googe—'I'll give you the wan chanct.'—An' then Jim swore an' said he'd see him an' himself in hell first, an' then, before Jim knew wot happened, Mr. Googe lit out wid his fist—an' Jim layin' out on the grass, for Mrs. MacLoughanchan says her man said Mr. Googe picked a soft place to drop him in; an' Mr. Googe helps Jim to his feet, an' holds out his hand an' says:
"'Shake hands, McCann, an' we'll start afresh—'
"But, oh, Aileen! Jim wouldn't, an' Mr. Googe turned away sad-like, an' then Jim comes home, an' widout a word to his wife, says if they don't strike, because there's a convic' an' a no union man a-workin' 'longside of him in his section, he'll lave an' give up his job here—an' it's two hundred he's paid down out of his wages, an' me a-savin' from morn till night on me home—an' 't was to be me very own because Jim says no man alive can tell when he'll be dead in the quarries an' the sheds."
She wept afresh and Billy was left unconsoled, for Maggie, wiping her eyes to look at Aileen and wonder at her silence, saw that she, too, was weeping; but the tears rolled silently one after another down her flushed cheeks.
"Och, Aileen, darlin'! Don't ye cry wid me—me burden's heavy enough widout the weight of wan of your tears—say something to comfort me heart about Jim."
"I can't, Maggie, I think it's wicked for Jim to say such things to Mr. Googe—everybody knows what he has been through. And it would serve Jim McCann but right," she added hotly, "if the time should come when his Billy should have the same cruel words said to him—"
"Don't—don't—for the love of the Mother of God, don't say such things, Aileen!" She caught up the sorely perplexed and troubled Billy, and buried her face in his red curls. "Don't for the sake of the mother I am, an' only a mother can know how the Mother of God himself felt wid her crucified Son an' the bitter words he had to hear—ye're not a mother, Aileen, an' so I won't lay it up too much against ye—"
Aileen interrupted her with exceeding bitterness;
"No, I'm not a mother, Maggie, and I never shall be."
Maggie looked at her in absolute incomprehension. "I thought you was cryin' for me, an' Jim, an' all our prisent troubles, but I belave yer cryin' for—"
Mrs. McCann stopped short; she was still staring at Aileen who suddenly lifted her brimming eyes to hers.—What Mrs. McCann read therein she never accurately defined, even to Jim; but, whatever it was, it caused a revulsion of feeling in Maggie's sorely bruised heart. She set Billy down on the floor without any ceremony, much to that little man's surprise, and throwing her arms around Aileen drew her close with a truly maternal caress.
"Och, darlin'—darlin'—" she said in the voice with which she soothed Billy to sleep, "darlin' Aileen, an' has your puir heart been bearin' this all alone, an' me talkin' an' pratin' about me Jim to ye, an' how beautiful it is to be married!—'Deed an' it is, darlin', an' if Jim wasn't a man he'd be an angel sure; but it's not Maggie McCann that's wantin' her husband to be an angel yet, an' you must just forgive him, Aileen, an' you'll find yerself that no man's parfection, an' a woman has to be after takin' thim as they be—lovin' an' gentle be times, an' cross as Cain whin yer expectin' thim to be swateheartin' wid ye; an' wake when ye think they're after bein' rale giants; an' strong whin ye're least lookin' for it; an ginerous by spells an' spendthrifts wid their 'baccy, an' skinflints wid their own, an'—an'—just common, downright aggravatin', lovable men, darlin'—There now! Yer smilin' again like me old Aileen, an' bad cess to the wan that draws another tear from your swate Irish eyes." She kissed her heartily.
In trying to make amends Mrs. McCann forgot her own woes; taking Billy in her arms, she went to the stove and set on the kettle.
"It's four past, an' Jim'll be comin' in tired and worritted, so I'll put on an extra potater or two an' a good bit of bacon an' some pase. Stay wid us, Aileen."
"No, Maggie, I can't; besides you and Jim will want the house to yourself till you get straightened out—and, Maggie, itwillstraighten out, don't you worry."
"'Deed, an' I'll not waste me breath another time tellin' me troubles to a heart that's sorer than me own—good-bye, darlin', an' me best thanks for comin' up so prompt to me in me trouble. It's good to have a friend, Aileen, an' we've been friendly that long that it seems as if me own burden must be yours."
Aileen smiled, leaning to kiss Billy as he clung to his mother's neck.
"I'll come up whenever you want me and I can get away, Maggie, an' next time I'll bring you more comfort, I hope. Good-bye."
"Och, darlin'!—T'row a kiss, Billy. Look, Aileen, at the kisses me b'y's t'rowin' yer!" she exclaimed delightedly; and Billy, in the exuberance of his joy that tears were things of the past, continued to throw kisses after the lady till she disappeared down the street.
Oh, but her heart was hot with indignation as she walked along the road, her eyes were stung with scalding tears, her thoughts turbulent and rebellious! Why must he suffer such indignities from a man like Jim McCann! How dared a man, that was a man, taunt another like that! The hand holding her sun umbrella gripped the handle tightly, and through set teeth she said to herself: "I hate them all—hate them!"
The declining July sun was hot upon her; the road-bed, gleaming white with granite dust, blinded her. She looked about for some shelter where she could wait for the down car; there was none in sight, except the pines over by Father Honoré's and the sisterhood house an eighth of a mile beyond. She continued to stand there in the glare and the heat—miserable, dejected, rebellious, until the tram halted for her. The car was an open one; there was no other occupant. As it sped down the curving road to the lake shore, the breeze, created by its movement, was more than grateful to her. She took off her shade-hat to enjoy the full benefit of it.
At the switch, half way down, the tram waited for the up car. She could hear it coming from afar; the overhead wires vibrated to the extra power needed on the steep grade. It came in sight, crowded with workmen on their way home to Quarry End; the rear platform was black with them. It passed over the switch slowly, passed within two feet of her seat. She turned to look at it, wondering at its capacity for so many—and looked, instead, directly into the face of Champney Googe who stood on the lower step, his dinner-pail on his arm, the arm thrust through the guard.
At sight of her, so near him that the breath of each might have been felt on the cheek of the other, he raised his workman's cap—
She saw the gray head, the sudden pallor on brow and cheek, the deep, slightly sunken eyes fixed upon her as if on her next move hung the owner's hope of eternal life—the eyes moved with the slowly moving car to focusher....
To Aileen Armagh that face, changed as it was, was a glimpse of heaven on earth, and that heaven was reflected in the smile with which she greeted it. She did more:—unheeding the many faces that were turned towards her, she leaned from the car, her eyes following him, the love-light still radiating from her every feature, till he was carried beyond sight around the curving base of the Flamsted Hills.
She heard nothing more externally, saw nothing more, until she found herself at The Corners instead of The Bow. The tumult within her rendered her deaf to the clanging of the electric gong, blind to the people who had entered along Main Street. Love, and love alone, was ringing its joy-bells in her soul till external sounds grew muffled, indistinct; until she became unaware of her surroundings. Love was knocking so loudly at her heart that the bounding blood pulsed rhythmic in her ears. Love was claiming her wholly, possessing her soul and body—but no longer that idealizing love of her young girlhood and womanhood. Rather it was that love which is akin to the divine rapture of maternity—the love that gives all, that sacrifices all, which demands nothing of the loved one save to love, to shield, to comfort—the love that makes of a true woman's breast not only a rest whereon a man, as well as his babe, may pillow a weary head, but a round tower of strength within which there beats a heart of high courage for him who goes forth to the daily battlefield of Life.
She rode back to The Bow. Hannah called to her from the kitchen door when she saw her coming up the driveway:
"Come round here a minute, Aileen."
"What is it, Hannah?" Her voice trembled in spite of her effort to speak naturally. She prayed Hannah might not notice.
"Here's a little broth I've made for Uncle Jo Quimber. I heard he wasn't very well, and I wish you'd take this down to him before supper. Tell him it won't hurt him and it's real strengthenin'."
"I will go now, and—Hannah, don't mind if I don't come home to supper to-night; I'm not hungry; it's too hot to eat. If I want anything, I'll get a glass of milk in the pantry afterwards. If Mrs. Champney should want me, tell Octavius he'll find me down by the boat house."
"Mis' Champney ain't so well, to-night, the nurse says. I guess it's this heat is telling on her."
"I should think it would—even I feel it." She was off again down the driveway, glad to be moving, for a strange restlessness was upon her.
She found Joel Quimber sitting in his arm chair on the back porch of the little house belonging to his grand-niece. The old man looked feeble, exhausted and white; but his eyes brightened on seeing Aileen come round the corner of the porch.
"What you got there, Aileen?"
"Something good for you, Uncle Jo. Hannah made it for you on purpose." She showed him the broth.
"Hannah's a good soul, I thank her kindly. Set down, Aileen, set down."
"I'm afraid you're too tired to have company to-night, Uncle Jo."
"Lord, no—you ain't comp'ny, Aileen, an' I ain't never too tired to have your comp'ny either."
She smiled and took her seat on the lower step, at his feet.
"Jest thinkin' of you, Aileen—"
"Me, Uncle Jo? What put me into your head?"
"You're in a good part of the time ef you did but know it."
"Oh, Uncle Jo, did they teach you how to flatter like that in the little old schoolhouse you showed me years ago at The Corners?"
Old Joel Quimber chuckled weakly.
"No—not thar. A man, ef he's any kind of a man, don't have to learn his a-b-c before he can tell a good-lookin' gal she's in his head, or his heart—jest which you're a min' ter—most of the time. Yes, I was thinkin' of you, Aileen—you an' Champney."
The color died out entirely from Aileen's cheeks, and then surged into them again till she put her hands to her face to cool their throbbing. She was wondering if Love had entered into some conspiracy with Fate to-day to keep this beloved name ever in her ears.
"What about me and Mr. Googe?" She spoke in a low tone, her face was turned away from the old man to the meadows and the sheds in the distance.
"I was a-thinkin' of this time fourteen year ago this very month. Champ an' me was walkin' up an' down the street, an' he was tellin' me 'bout that serenade, an' how you'd give him a rosebud with pepper in it—Lord, Aileen, you was a case, an' no mistake! An' I was thinkin', too, what Champ said to me thet very night. He was tellin' 'bout thet great hell-gate of New York, an' he said, 'You've got to swim with the rest or you'd go under, Uncle Jo,'—'go under,' them's his very words. An' I said, 'Like enoughyouwould, Champ—I ain't ben thar—'"
He paused a moment, shuffled out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Then he spoke again, but in so low a tone that Aileen could barely catch the words: