IN WHICH, THOUGH THE WORLD IS STILL A VOID, THERE IS THE SHINING OF A GREAT LIGHT
Two days have passed.
Sunday was one long monotony, made up of vain watching and restless contemplation. To-day something really stupendous happened. Something so truly great and vital that, even though Celeste has not returned, and, for aught I know, my death hides in the next minute, I am deliriously happy. I'll tell the glorious news as quickly as I can.
This morning, bright and early, a messenger arrived from Father John. He bore no written communication, but stated in a nervous, jerky, breathless way that his reverence desired my presence at the earliest possible moment, on a matter of the gravest importance. These were not his words, but this is the way his halting vernacular translated into English. I questioned the shabby, awkward rustic. He knew nothing but that I was wanted, and wanted quickly, and that he who sent this word was "tarnation fidgety." Unable to form any sort of conjecture as to the nature of this peculiarly urgent business, I departed at once in company with the half grown youth, not sorry of his presence upon this occasion, as I probably would have been upon any other.
The old priest met me at the door, and I saw at once that he was powerfully impressed, for some reason. His long-stemmed pipe was in his hand, but unlighted. He decorously led me to the chair where I had sat upon a former visit, and took a seat opposite. The library table was between us, as before. I saw two letters upon the table in front of him, side by side. One was almost square, pale blue, and a glance told me the superscription was a woman's. The other was of the regular business size, had a card in the corner which I could not make out, and the address was typewritten. I waited in silence.
"M'sieu—"
He stopped, and I saw that his emotion was pressing hard upon him. His sensitive lips quivered and twitched, and the muscles of his face were agitated. A sympathetic pity took the place of wonder within me, and I had the desire to do or say something which would help him. But there was nothing I could do or say. I was completely in the dark, and could only give him respectful, but silent attention.
"M'sieu," he began again, after a brief interval during which I knew he was struggling manfully with his feelings; "I have somezing to say—much to say. Never was I so shock—so hurt, m'sieu. Never more s'prise'." His voice grew to a surer tone now. "I have here two letter. Zis is from Bereel." He put the tip of one yellow finger upon the pale blue envelope. "In it she confess she tol' ze—ze—ze lie on you. She say now it was ze joke, an' for me to correc'; zat she made ze love to you, an' not you to her. O ze shame, m'sieu—ze shame!" He put one hand across his eyes and shook his head sorrowfully. "I belief her w'en she tol' me zat firs' tale, for she is my blood, an' I love her, an' I was anger wiz you, m'sieu. If Bereel an' I have cause' you to suffer an' to loose ze li'l wil' ma'm'selle—I shall never forgive us! Ah! m'sieu, I am 'shame' to as for pardon—but she was my blood—my Bereel, an' I b'lief her."
"Don't be too grieved, father," I broke in here. "I won't deny that much harm has befallen because of this strange and unprovoked falsehood Miss Drane saw fit to tell you. I was driven from the home at Lizard Point in consequence of it, and soon thereafter Granny disappeared, taking Gran'fer and Celeste with her. Of my own sufferings I will not speak. I forgive Miss Drane, freely, now that she attempts to set matters right; as for yourself, dear sir, there is nothing to forgive. You only acted in good faith, and as you should have acted upon receipt of the information which you did not once doubt was genuine."
He hastily seized my hand in gratitude which was real as it was affecting, and his bright eyes shone with feeling as he answered:
"You are noble, m'sieu; mag—magnan'mous. I cannot sank you—I can only say, God bless you!"
He released my hand and dropped back in his chair, beginning to puff absently at his cold pipe.
Beryl Drane's belated confession, startling as it was in a way, and of a nature to ordinarily work in a most gratifying manner upon my spirit, did not long remain paramount in my thoughts. Father John seemed to have lapsed into a sort of revery, and as the silence lengthened I found my eyes going back again and again to the second envelope. What was in it? Father John had included it almost in his first sentence. It could not be from any of the vanished family, because of the typed address, and yet it evidently contained something of interest to me. Directly I purposely changed my position, and coughed slightly. The effort succeeded. The priest started, lifted his head with a smile and an indistinguishable murmur, and picked up the second envelope.
"Zis, m'sieu," he said, in a voice tinged with awe, as he drew out the enclosure, "is won'erful. It is ze han' of God shapin' human affairs."
Slowly, with an expression almost beatific on his sweet old face, suddenly glorified by some triumphant inner flame of supreme faith, he put out his arm and placed the folded sheets in my hand.
"Read it—all," he said, simply, then cast himself back in his chair, closed his eyes, and intertwined his fingers under his chin.
"Notre Dame, Indiana,
"August 1st, 19—"Rt. Rev. Jean Dupré,
"Hebron, Ky."Dear Fr. Dupré: I write you at the instance and request of one Hannibal Ellsworth, with whose geological researches in the shape of valuable contributions to periodical literature you are doubtless familiar. At any rate you know, or did know the man, for he died last night.
"Late yesterday evening word came from a hospital that a patient dangerously ill wanted to see a priest. I went. I soon found that it was not for the purpose of spiritual confession and preparation for death that I was wanted, for the man was not only non-Catholic, but an unbeliever as well, but for a confession of another sort. I shall put his story in my own words, for I recall well everything he said, though I cannot attempt to give it in his language.
"He said his name was Hannibal Ellsworth—a name with which I was quite familiar, though I had never seen the man before—that he was fifty-five years old, and that twenty years ago he was guilty of a deadly sin. In pursuit of his work, he had gone into the knobs about Hebron, and finding the field so rich, he erected a house, or cabin, about half way up the slope of a certain high knob having a bald, conical peak. Here he lived for more than a year. Here he won the love of a neighborhood girl—her first name was Araminta—and in his mad passion because of her physical beauty, he married her secretly. When the first flush of possession had passed, he realized what he had done. Then, a little while before the baby came he left her, at night; stole away without a word to her, and without leaving anything for the maintenance of his wife and the child which was expected. Such depth of villainy is almost incomprehensible. The man said she had parents living near, who would care for her; that people out in those hills needed only a little to eat and a little to wear. He told of his heartless conduct in the most matter-of-fact way, as though it was nothing extraordinary. He said he did not believe there was a life beyond this, though the persistent Christian propaganda had worried him, as it does all intelligent humans. In case the church was right, and he should pass to judgment, he wanted to make such reparation as he could to those he had wronged. He gave me your name, and asked that I should communicate with you, as you were acquainted with the parties concerned—or at least knew his forsaken wife.
"It seems he was a man of some means, and prior to my arrival he had been in lengthy consultation with a lawyer here, who was his friend. He has arranged to pass all of his money to his wife, should she still live. If she is dead, it is to go to the child—whether son or daughter he does not know. The attorney who has his secular affairs in charge is Rehoboam Justin, at 21 Eighth Street. You may address him there with the necessary proofs concerning the validity of the wife's or child's claim. I tried to interest Mr. Ellsworth in his soul's salvation, but so firmly had the adversary become entrenched that nothing I could say had the slightest effect. He thanked me for my interest, though, courteously.
"He said that his marriage was perfectly legal; that he took the young woman by night to a town called Cedarton, near by, and the ceremony was performed by a Protestant minister, before witnesses. The license, together with the marriage certificate, he says may be found in a small tin box under the stone at the front right-hand corner of the hearth in the cabin, if it still stands. Why he secreted these papers, instead of destroying them, as one would naturally think from his infamous action, he did not explain.
"I trust that wife and child are both living, and that you will speedily bear to them this tardy restitution. Truly, this world is the abode of sin and sorrow.
"Commending you to the care of God, and His holy Saints, believe me,
"Sincerely yours in Christ,
"Alphonsus Eremy, C.S.C."
Ten minutes after I had finished reading this letter—ten minutes during which I sat silent with buzzing brain and elated soul, I raised my head and looked at Father John. His eyes were open now, and he was regarding me with an expression I could not translate. Gladness, humility, compassion, sorrow and love were all blended in his lineaments. Carefully, as though it were a fragile something easily broken, I laid the letter back upon the table.
"Keep it," said Father John in a low voice, making a slight upward gesture. "In itself it is ze ev'dence, in case ze papers be not foun'."
A swift alarm struck at my heart.
"But—" I began.
With his rare, sunshiny smile the priest interrupted.
Then all at once a look of weary melancholy spread over his features, and I knew he was thinking again of the perfidy of his beloved niece. Every muscle in my body was pulling me toward the Lodge, and I now arose.
"I can't thank you as I would for sending for me and confiding in me as you have," I said, my words shaky, because I had been strangely wrought upon by all that had passed.
He made a deprecatory, characteristic gesture with both hands.
"Zey came zis mornin', m'sieu," he replied, sadly, glancing at the table. "I sen' for you w'en I read zem."
He sighed, shook his head, and reached for his tobacco jar.
"I sink zey will be zere, but—sings hap'n, m'sieu, an' we can never tell. It has been ze twenty year'."
"But a tin box, father—that will hold them safely!" I exclaimed, and he beamed tolerantly at my boyish eagerness.
"Yes; zey should be zere."
"You have not heard from Granny—and them?" I ventured, for the wish to see Celeste had grown within the last quarter of an hour into an irresistible force. I waited his reply with bated breath.
"No," he answered, almost at once. "Zey lef' w'ile I was gone. I have heard nuzzin'."
Once again I tried to speak my gratitude, but the gentle old man stopped me. This time he did not press me to stay, for he knew the magnet which was drawing me back to the hut on Bald Knob.
"I sink ze li'l wil' ma'm'selle will come soon," he said, as he held my hand at parting; "zen we tell her, an' she be made vair happy."
Forgotten was Buck and his fell purpose, forgotten was the lost Jeff Angel as, passing through Hebron at a swift walk, I presently broke into a run. Was this the same road, the same forest, the same sky, the same earth? Beautiful as it always had been, it was transfigured now. My Dryad! My lovely, innocent Dryad was free from the stigma which hypercritical moralists would have thrust upon her! I was hastening toward the proof with every breath I drew—toward the proof which had lain within reach of my hand all these weeks! My heart exulted with each onward spring, and I seemed light as air, so magically did my joy act upon me. Swiftly I ran, but the way had never been so long. I reached the Point. Scorning the bridge which heretofore had been a welcome aid in crossing the creek, I dashed into the water at a place where I knew it to be shallow, and a moment later was headed for the Dryad's Glade. Very soon thereafter I was kneeling before the rude hearth in the Lodge, gazing with flushed face and fascinated eyes at the front right-hand corner stone.
It differed in no way from all the others. A rough-surfaced, imperfect square with an average width of ten or twelve inches, the irregular interstices between it and its neighbors being filled with earth. It was on a level with the others. There was nothing to indicate that it hid a secret which meant so much. Now that I had come; now that any moment I could prove the truth or falsity of Hannibal Ellsworth's statement, I hesitated. Perhaps he had lied even at the last. A man capable of the fiendish act he had committed would likewise be capable of this sardonic jest. If this were true—if, when I lifted the stone, nothing was revealed, what then? This torturing thought decided me. I leaped up, took from the table the knife which Buck Steele had driven through my journal, and with its point began to pick away the dirt between the crevices. I worked feverishly, and presently, dropping the knife, I gripped the stone and heaved. It moved. Again I strained backward, and now the rock turned partly in its bed, where it had lain secure for a score of years. Regardless of the jagged edges, I forced my fingers down the rough sides through the loosened dirt, clawed and burrowed until I had secured another and a stronger hold. Again I tugged, and up came my burden bodily—up and out. I flung it rolling on the plank floor, and trembling with anxiety gazed into the cavity it had left. I saw nothing. Nothing but the brown earth sides and the brown earth bottom. I sank backward with a groan. Ah! Hannibal Ellsworth! If you were alive, and these hands were at your throat! You trickster even in death! You chosen of Satan! You——A new thought came. Seizing the knife, I plunged it desperately into the hole, just as I would have thrust it in the black heart of Hannibal Ellsworth had he stood before me then. The point met with partial resistance, then went on. I drew the knife out, and impaled upon it was a small tin box—a tobacco box, nothing more. It had been wrapped around and tied with a string of some kind, for the moldering remnants still clung to it. It opened at the end. Now I was shaking with the violence of one palsied, and presently the top fell down. I sat upon the floor, drew the box from the knife point, and thrust in my finger and thumb. Something was inside—something closely folded which so filled the small space that I could not grasp it. I desisted long enough to hold the opening to the light and peer within. I saw what appeared to be many folds of yellowish-white paper, fitting snugly in the narrow confines. A degree of calmness came now, and once more taking the knife, I managed to extract the contents of the box. What the priest in Notre Dame had written Father John was true. I held in my hand the attested certificate of the marriage of Hannibal Ellsworth and Araminta Kittredge, together with the license issued by the clerk of the county. The papers were dry and crackled in my grasp; they were disfigured by yellow splotches, and bore that peculiar odor which old parchments always acquire.
All afternoon I sat in the same spot, with those priceless documents before me. I read each of them an hundred times, and examined every letter of every written word. They were the passports of my wife to enter into my world. Only when it grew too dark to see did I put them back in the box, put the box in the hole, and replace the stone upon the treasure. It would be safer right there until I could take it away.
After supper I went out to one of the benches in front, and smoked. The moon came up soon; a great, big, yellow moon, hoisting itself majestically over the forest sea. It seemed as big as the end of a sugar barrel, and the face of the lady etched upon it was a cameo of Celeste Ellsworth. I wonder if any other man anywhere in the world has ever dared to imagine this moon-lady bore a resemblance to someone in whom he was interested? He was very silly and presumptuous if he did, for the profile of this lunar enchantress reflects line for line that of my Dryad!
The soft, soundless, midsummer night wrought upon me in a wonderfully peaceful way. Yet a positive, adamantine resolve grew within me ere I came in. I shall wait one more day—one only. If Celeste does not return to-morrow, then the day after I take up the search. There is nothing to be gained by staying here longer, and all to lose, even life. When I find her—when I find her—my God! At the very thought my love surges through me so that my chest hurts and my eyelids are hot upon the balls. I write no more to-night. I am lonely, and I am starving—for her! I want to see her golden hair tremble in the breeze, hear her laugh, look into the deeps of her eyes, hold her to me and tell her that I love her—love her!