"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 hoa.r.s.e, constrained:

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

"G.o.d 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."

"I don't know. I have never heard from her. I can only surmise. But I did receive a letter from her when I was in prison, before my trial--she was summoned as witness; and oh, the infinite mercy of a loving woman's heart!" He was silent a moment.

"She took so much blame upon herself, telling me that she had not known her own heart; that she tried to think she loved me as a brother; that she had been willing to let it go on so, and because she had not been brave enough to be honest with herself, all this trouble had come upon me whom she acknowledged she loved--upon her and her household. She begged me, if acquitted, never to see her, never to communicate with her again. There was but one duty for us both she said, guilty as we both were of what had occurred to wreck a human being for life; to go each _the way apart_ forever--I mine, she hers--to expiate in good works, in loving kindness to those who might need our help....

"I have never known anything further--heard no word--made no inquiry. At that time, after my acquittal, my great-uncle, a well-to-do baker, settled a sum of money on the man who had been in his employ; the interest of it would support him in his incapacity to do a man's work and earn a decent livelihood. My uncle said then I was never again to darken his doors. He desired me to leave no address; to keep secret to myself my destination, and forever after my whereabouts. I obeyed to the letter--now enough of myself. I have told you this because, as a man, I had not the face to sit here in your presence and hear your decision, without showing you my respect for your courage--and I have taken this way to show it."

He held out his hand and Champney wrung it. "You don't know all, or you would have no respect," he said brokenly.

The two men looked understandingly into each other's eyes, but they both felt intuitively that any prolongation of this unwonted emotional strain would be injurious to both, and the work in hand. They, at once, in tacit understanding of each other's condition, put aside "the things that were behind" and "reached forth to those that were before": they laid plans for the speedy execution of all that Champney's decision involved.

"There is one thing I cannot do," he spoke with decision; "that is to see my mother before my commitment--or after. It is the only thing that will break me down. I need all the strength of control I possess to go through this thing."

The priest knew better than to protest.

"Telegraph her to-day what you think best to ease her suspense. I will write her, and ask you to deliver my letter to her after you have seen me through. I want _you_ to go up with me--to the very doors; and I want yours to be the last known face I see on entering. Another request: I don't want you, my mother, or any one else known to me, to communicate with me by letter, message, or even gift of any kind during my term, whether seven years or twenty. This is oblivion. I cease to exist, as an ident.i.ty, outside the walls. I will make one exception: if my mother should fall ill, write me at once.--How she will live, I don't know! I dare not think--it would unsettle my reason; but she has friends; she has you, the Colonel, Tave, Elvira, Caukins; they will not see her want, and there's the house; it's in her name."

He rose, shook himself together, drew a long breath. "Now let us go to work; the sooner it's over the better for all concerned.--I suppose the clothes I had on are worth nothing, but I'd like to look them over."

He spoke indifferently and went into the adjoining bath closet where Father Honore, not liking to dispose of them until Champney should have spoken of them at least, had left the clothes in a bundle. He had put the little handkerchief, discolored almost beyond recognition, in with them. Champney came out in a few minutes.

"They're no good," he said. "I'll have to wear these, if I may. I believe it's one of the regulations that what a man takes in of his own, is saved for him to take out, isn't it?"

"Yes." An hour later when Father Honore disposed of the bundle to the janitor, he knew that Aileen's handkerchief had been abstracted--and he read still deeper into the ways of the human heart....

Within ten days sentence was pa.s.sed: seven years with hard labor.

There was no appeal for mercy, and speedy commitment followed. A paragraph in the daily papers conveyed a knowledge of the fact to the world in general; and within ten days, the world in general, as usual, forgot the circ.u.mstance; it was only one of many.

PART FIFTH

Shed Number Two

I

"It's a wonder ye're not married yet, Aileen, an' you twenty-six."

It was Margaret McCann, the "Freckles" of orphan asylum days, who spoke.

Her utterance was thick, owing to the quant.i.ty of pins she was endeavoring to hold between tightly pressed lips. She was standing on a chair putting up muslin curtains in her new home at The Gore, or Quarry End Park, as it was now named, and Aileen had come to help her.

"It's like ye're too purticular," she added, her first remark not having met with any response. She turned on the chair and looked down upon her old chum.

She was sitting on the floor surrounded by a pile of fresh-cut muslin; the latest McCann baby was tugging with might and main at her ap.r.o.n in vain endeavor to hoist himself upon his pudgy uncertain legs. Aileen was laughing at his efforts. Catching him suddenly in her arms, she covered the little soft head, already sprouting a suspicion of curly red hair, with hearty kisses; and Billy, entering into the fun, crowed and gurgled, clutching wildly at the dark head bent above him and managing now and then, when he did not grasp too wide of the mark, to bury his chubby creased hands deep in its heavy waves.

"Oh, Maggie, you're like all the rest! Because you've a good husband of your own, you think every other girl must go and do likewise."

"Now ye're foolin', Aileen, like as you used to at the asylum. But I mind the time when Luigi was the wan b'y for you--I wonder, now, you couldn't like him, Aileen? He's so handsome and stiddy-like, an' doin'

so well. Jim says he'll be one of the rich men of the town if he kapes on as he's begun. They do say as how Dulcie Caukins'll be cuttin' you out."

"I didn't love him, Maggie; that's reason enough." She spoke shortly.

Maggie turned again from her work to look down on her in amazement.

"You was always that way, Aileen!" she exclaimed impatiently, "thinkin'

n.o.body but a lord was good enough for you, an' droppin' Luigi as soon as ever you got in with the Van Ostend folks; and as for 'love'--let me give you as good a piece of advice as you'll get between the risin' of a May sun and its settin':--if you see a good man as loves you an' is willin' to marry you, take him, an' don't you leave him the chanct to get cool over it. Ye'll love him fast enough if he's good to you--like my Jim," she added proudly.

"Oh, your Jim! You're always quoting him; he isn't quite perfection even if he is 'your Jim.'"

"An' is it parfection ye're after?" Maggie was apt in any state of excitement to revert in her speech to the vernacular. "'Deed an' ye'll look till the end of yer days an' risk dyin' a downright old maid, if it's parfection ye're after marryin' in a man! An' I don't need a gell as has niver been married to tell me my Jim ain't parfection nayther!"

Maggie resumed her work in a huff; Aileen smiled to herself.

"I didn't mean to say anything against your husband, Maggie; I was only speaking in a general way."

"An' how could ye mane anything against me husband in a gineral or a purticular way? Sure I know he's got a temper; an' what man of anny sinse hasn't, I'd like to know? An' he's not settled-like to work in anny wan place, as I'd like to have him be. But Jim's young; an' a man, he says, can't settle to anny regular work before he's thirty. He says all the purfessional men can't get onto their feet in a business way till they be thirty; an' stone-cuttin', Jim says, is his purfession like as if 't was a lawyer's or a doctor's or a priest's; an' Jim says he loves it. An' there ain't a better worker nor Jim in the sheds, so the boss says; an' if he will querrel between whiles--an' I'm not denyin' he don't--it's sure the other man's fault for doin' something mane; Jim can't stand no maneness. He's a good worker, is Jim, an' a good husband, an' a lovin' father, an' a good provider, an' he don't drink, an' he ain't the slithery kind--if he'd 'a' been that I wouldn't married him."

There was a note of extreme authority in what Maggie in her excitement was giving expression to. Now that Jim McCann was back and at work in the sheds after a seven years absence, it was noted by many, who knew his wife of old, that, in the household, it was now Mrs. McCann who had the right of way. She was evidently full of her subject at the present moment and, carried away by the earnestness of her expressed convictions, she paid no heed to Aileen's non-responsiveness.

"An' I'm that proud that I'm Mrs. James Patrick McCann, wid a good house over me head, an' a good husband to pay rint that'll buy it on the insthalment plan, an' two little gells an' a darlin' baby to fill it, that I be thankin' G.o.d whiniver Jim falls to swearin'--an' that's ivery hour in the day; but it's only a habit he can't be broke of, for Father Honore was after talkin' wid him, an' poor Jim was that put out wid himself, that he forgot an' swore his hardest to the priest that he'd lave off swearin' if only he knew whin he was doin' it! But he had to give up tryin', for he found himself swearin' at the baby he loved him so. An' whin he told Father Honore the trouble he had wid himself an'

the b'y, that darlin' man just smiled an' says:--'McCann, there's other ways of thankin' G.o.d for a good home, an' a lovin' wife, and a foine b'y like yours, than tellin' yer beads an' sayin' your prayers.'--He said that, he did; an' I say, I'm thankin' G.o.d ivery hour in the day that I've got a good husband to swear, an' a cellar to fill wid fuel an'

potaters, an' a baby to put to me breast, an'--an'--it's the same I'm wishin' for you, me dear."

There was a suspicious tremble in Maggie's voice as she turned again to her work.

Aileen spoke slowly: "Indeed, I wish I had them all, Maggie; but those things are not for me."

"Not for you!" Maggie dashed a tear from her eyes. "An' why not for you, I'd like to know? Isn't ivery wan sayin' ye've got the voice fit for the oppayra? An' isn't all the children an' the quarrymen just mad over yer teachin' an' singin'? An' look at what yer know an' can do! Didn't wan of the Sisters tell me the other day: 'Mrs. McCann,' says she, 'Aileen Armagh is an expurrt in embroidery, an' could earn her livin' by it.'

An' wasn't Mrs. Caukins after praisin' yer cookin' an' sayin' you beat the whole Gore on yer doughnuts? An' didn't the Sisters come askin' me the other day if I had your receipt for the milk-rice? Jim says there's a man for ivery woman if she did but know it.--There now, I'm glad to see yer smilin' an' lookin' like yer old self! Just tell me if the curtains be up straight? Jim can't abide annything that ain't on the square. Straight, be they?"

"Yes, straight as a string," said Aileen, laughing outright at Freckles'