She stopped short and looked about her. She was on the road to Father Honore's house. It was just four o'clock, for the long whistle was sounding from the stone sheds down in the valley. She saw the quarrymen start homewards. Dark irregular files of them began crawling up over the granite ledges, many of which were lightly covered with snow. Although it was February, the winter was mild for this lat.i.tude, and the twelve hundred men in The Gore had lost but a few days during the last three months on account of the weather. Work had been plenty, and the spring promised, so the manager said, a rush of business. She watched them for a while.

"And they are going to their homes--and he is still breaking stones!"

Her thoughts revolved about that one fact.

A sudden rush of tears blinded her; she drew her breath hard. What if she were to go to Father Honore and tell him something of her trouble?

Would it help? Would it ease the intolerable pain at her heart, lessen the load on her mind?

She dared not answer, dared not think about it. Involuntarily she started forward at a quick pace towards the stone house over by the pines--a distance of a quarter of a mile.

The sun was nearing the rim of the Flamsted Hills. Far beyond them, the mighty shoulder of Katahdin, mantled with white, caught the red gleam and lent to the deep blue of the northern heavens a faint rose reflection of the setting sun. The children, just from school, were shouting at their rough play--snow-balling, sledding, skating and tobogganning on that portion of the pond which had been cleared of snow.

The great derricks on the ledges creaked and groaned as the remaining men made all fast for the night; like a gigantic cobweb their supporting wires stretched thick, enmeshed, and finely dark over the white expanse of the quarries. From the power-house a column of steam rose straight and steady into the windless air.

Hurrying on, Aileen looked upon it with set lips and a hardening heart.

She had come to hate, almost, the sight of this life of free toil for the sake of love and home.

It was a woman who was thinking these thoughts in her rapid walk to the priest's house--a woman of twenty-six who for more than seven years had suffered in silence; suffered over and over again the humiliation that had been put upon her womanhood; who, despite that humiliation, could not divest herself of the idea that she still clung to her girlhood's love for the man who had humiliated her. She told herself again and again that she was idealizing that first feeling for him, instead of accepting the fact that, as a woman, she would be incapable, if the circ.u.mstances were to repeat themselves now, of experiencing it.

Since that fateful night in The Gore, Champney Googe's name had never voluntarily pa.s.sed her lips. So far as she knew, no one so much as suspected that she was a factor in his escape--for Luigi had kept her secret. Sometimes when she felt, rather than saw, Father Honore's eyes fixed upon her in troubled questioning, the blood would rush to her cheeks and she could but wonder in dumb misery if Champney had told him anything concerning her during those ten days in New York.

For six years there had been a veil, as it were, drawn between the lovely relations that had previously existed between Father Honore and this firstling of his flock in Flamsted. For a year after his experience with Champney Googe in New York, he waited for some sign from Aileen that she was ready to open her heart to him; to clear up the mystery of the handkerchief; to free herself from what was evidently troubling her, wearing upon her, changing her in disposition--but not for the better.

Aileen gave no sign. Another year pa.s.sed, but Aileen gave no sign, and Father Honore was still waiting.

The priest did not believe in forcing open the portals to the secret chambers of the human heart. He respected the individual soul and its workings as a part of the divinely organized human. He believed that, in time, Aileen would come to him of her own accord and seek the help she so sorely needed. Meanwhile, he determined to await patiently the fulness of that time. He had waited already six years.

He was looking over and arranging some large photographs of cathedrals--Cologne, Amiens, Westminster, Mayence, St. Mark's, Chester, and York--and the detail of nave, chancel, and choir. One showed the exquisite sculpture on a flying b.u.t.tress; another the carving of a choir-stall canopy; a third the figure-crowded facade of a western porch. Here was the famous rose window in the Antwerp transept; the statue of one of the apostles in Naumburg; the nave of Cologne; the conglomerate of chapels about the apse of Mayence; the Angel's Pillar at Strasburg--they were a joy in line and proportion to the eye, in effect and spirit of purpose to the understanding mind, the receptive soul.

Father Honore was revelling in the thought of the men's appreciative delight when he should show them these lovely stones--across-the-sea kin to their own quarry granite. His semi-monthly talks with the quarrymen and stone-cutters were a.s.suming, after many years, the proportions of lectures on art and scientific themes. Already many a professor from some far-away university had accepted his invitation to give of his best to the granite men of Maine. Rarely had they found a more fitting or appreciative audience.

"How divine!" he murmured to himself, his eyes dwelling lovingly--at the same time his pencil was making notes--on the 'Prentice Pillar in Roslyn Chapel. Then he smiled at the thought of the contrast it offered to his own chapel in the meadows by the lake sh.o.r.e. In that, every stone, as in the making of the Tabernacle of old, had been a free-will offering from the men--each laid in its place by a willing worker; and, because willing, the rough walls were as eloquent of earnest endeavor as the famed 'Prentice Pillar itself.

"I'd like to see such a one as this in our chapel!" He was talking to himself as was his way when alone. "I believe Luigi Poggi, if he had kept on in the sheds, would in time have given this a close second."

He took up the magnifying gla.s.s to examine the curled edges of the stone kale leaves.

There was a knock at the door.

He hastily placed the photographs in a long box beside the table, and, instead of saying "Come in," stepped to the door and opened it.

Aileen stood there. The look in her eyes as she raised them to his, and said in a subdued voice, "Father Honore, can you spare me a little time, all to myself?" gave him hope that the fulness of time was come.

"I always have time for you, Aileen; come in. I'll start up the fire a bit; it's growing much colder."

He laid the wood on the hearth, and with the bellows blew it to a leaping flame. While he was thus occupied, Aileen looked around her. She knew this room and loved it.

The stone fireplace was deep and ample, built by Father Honore,--indeed, the entire one storey house was his handiwork. Above it hung a large wooden crucifix. On the shelf beneath were ranged some superb specimens of quartz and granite. The plain deal table, also of ample proportions, was piled at one end high with books and pamphlets. Two large windows overlooked the pond, the sloping depression of The Gore, the course of the Rothel, and the headwaters of Lake Mesantic. Some plain wooden armchairs were set against the walls that had been rough plastered and washed with burnt sienna brown. On them was hung an exquisite engraving--the Sistine Madonna and Child. There were also a few etchings, among them a copy of Whistler's _The Thames by London Bridge_, and a view of Niagara by moonlight. A mineral cabinet, filled to overflowing with fine specimens, extended the entire length of one wall.

The pine floor was oiled and stained; large hooked rugs, genuine products of Maine, lay here and there upon it.

Many a man coming in from the quarries or the sheds with a grievance, a burden, or a joy, felt the influence of this simple room. Many a woman brought here her heavy over-charged heart and was eased in its fire-lighted atmosphere of welcome. Many a child brought hither its spring offering of the first mitch.e.l.la, or its autumn gift of checkerberries. Many a girl, many a boy had met here to rehea.r.s.e a Christmas glee or an Easter anthem. Many a night these walls echoed to the strains of the priest's violin, when he sat alone by the fireside with only the Past for a guest. And these combined influences lingered in the room, mellowed it, hallowed it, and made themselves felt to one and all as beneficent--even as now to Aileen.

Father Honore placed two of the wooden chairs before the blazing fire.

Aileen took one.

"Draw up a little nearer, Aileen; you look chilled." He noticed her extreme pallor and the slight trembling of her shoulders.

She glanced out of the window at some quarrymen who were pa.s.sing.

"You don't think we shall be interrupted, do you?" she asked rather nervously.

"Oh, no. I'll just step to the kitchen and give a word to Therese. She is a good watchdog when I am not to be disturbed." He opened a door at the back of the room.

"Therese."

"On y va."

An old French Canadian appeared in answer to his call. He addressed her in French.

"If any one should knock, Therese, just step to the kitchen porch door and say that I am engaged for an hour, at least."

"Oui, oui, Pere Honore."

He closed the door.

"There, now you can have your chat 'all to yourself' as you requested,"

he said smiling. He sat down in the other chair he had drawn to the fire.

"I've been over to Maggie's this afternoon--"

She hesitated; it was not easy to find an opening for her long pent trouble.

Father Honore spread his hands to the blaze.

"She has a fine boy. I'm glad McCann is back again, and I hope anch.o.r.ed here for life. He's trying to buy his home he tells me."

"So Maggie said--Father Honore;" she clasped and unclasped her hands nervously; "I think it's that that has made me come to you to-day."

"That?--I think I don't quite understand, Aileen."

"The home--I think I never felt so alone--so homeless as when I was there with her--and the baby--"

She looked down, struggling to keep back the tears. Despite her efforts the bright drops plashed one after the other on her clasped hands. She raised her eyes, looking almost defiantly through the falling tears at the priest; the blood surged into her white cheeks; the rush of words followed:--

"I have no home--I've never had one--never shall have one--it's not for me, that paradise; it's for men and women like Jim McCann and Maggie.--Oh, why did I come here!" she cried out wildly; "why did you put me there in that house?--Why didn't Mr. Van Ostend let me alone where I was--happy with the rest! Why," she demanded almost fiercely, "why can't a child's life be her own to do with what she chooses? Why has any human being a right to say to another, whether young or old, 'You shall live here and not there'? Oh, it is tyrannical--it is tyranny of the worst kind, and what haven't I had to suffer from it all! It is like h.e.l.l on earth!"

Her breath caught in great sobs that shook her; her eyes flashed through blinding tears; her cheeks were crimson; she continued to clasp and unclasp her hands.

The peculiar ivory tint of the strong pock-marked face opposite her took on, during this outburst, a slightly livid hue. Every word she uttered was a blow; for in it was voiced misery of mind, suffering and hardness of heart, despair, ingrat.i.tude, undeserved reproach, anger, defiance and the ignoring of all facts save those in the recollection of which she had lost all poise, all control--And she was still so young! What was behind these facts that occasioned such a tirade?