The Alchemist's Secret

by Isabel Cecilia Williams

GOD'S WAY.

"We have reached the summit at last, Cecile? The hill seemed unusually steep to-night and the way unusually long."

"Yes, mother, we have reached the top at last and here is the rustic bench on which we usually sit and watch the sun go down behind those blue and misty hills in the distance."

"Ah! those hills, Cecile. How I have always loved them. To me this has ever seemed the fairest spot on earth, and the view from this hill just at sunset the most beautiful I have ever seen. It is ten long years since my eyes have beheld it, but in my mind I still see it all so clearly. Tell me it is all there, Cecile, just as it was on that evening so many, many years ago when I first looked upon its beauties. Your dear father had just brought me, a happy bride, here to his northern home. We walked up the hill together to watch the sun set and I thought then I had never seen a lovelier view: the green fields of waving corn, and the apple orchards all in blossom, sloping down gradually to the river; the river itself tumbling and tossing madly over the waterfall far up there to the left, then swirling and eddying on for a space, only to grow calm once more quietly, steadily, resume its placid journey to the ocean. Beyond the river, those wonderful forests, dark, mysterious and silent. They rise and rise, higher, ever higher, and terminate at last in the blue and misty hills of which you were just speaking. I love it all, Cecile, and I could not bear to think that any part of it had changed with the advancing years. Tell me it is just the same; tell me it is all there as it was so long ago."

"Yes, mother dear," answered the younger woman, "it is all there just as it has ever been; the fields and the river, the forests and the hills beyond."

Cecile neglected to mention that the fields were now mere barren stubble and that the river was visible only here and there as it peeped through between the many buildings lining its banks; immense buildings of factory and mill, smaller structures, cottages and tenement houses occupied by the workers in factory and mill. She supposed the forests were still there but the day had been very sultry with scarce a breath of air stirring and a heavy pall of smoke from the huge chimneys hung over the valley, hiding everything which lay beyond. Only the tops of the distant hills rose in triumph above it.

"I am glad to think it is all unchanged," said the mother with a sigh of content. "I know it is foolish to feel as I do about it, but it would be a real grief to me to think that my beautiful valley had been sacrificed to the need or the greed of advancing civilization."

"God has been very good to me, Cecile, and I thank Him with all my heart for the blessings He has sent me to compensate for that one dreadful calamity, your dear father's sudden death ten years ago and my long illness and subsequent blindness. As I sat to-day in my little garden listening to the twittering of the birds, and inhaling the fragrance of my flowers, I was thinking how peaceful and happy my life is and how grateful I should be. You know, dear, just occasionally I long to be able to see again, to see the birds and the flowers, to see the beautiful world around me. That is very wrong and wicked I know, and I chase the rebellious wish away by thinking of my many blessings, especially of you and my Philippe. You have both been my comfort and consolation. By the way, dear, no letter has come from Philippe to-day?"

"No, mother, not yet."

"It is strange that we have not heard from him. This is the first time he has not written to me for my birthday."

"But he did not forget you, mother. Are you not wearing his beautiful gift to you which arrived this morning?"

"No, he did not forget," replied the older woman, as her fingers strayed lovingly over the lace scarf resting so lightly on her snow-white hair. "My Philippe never forgets and that is why I worried just a little this morning when his usual birthday letter did not come. Then, this afternoon, a sudden idea occurred to me which made me very happy. Shall I tell you what it was, Cecile? I am quite sure I have discovered the reason why Philippe did not write me for my birthday."

It was well the blind eyes could not see the look of startled fear which flashed across Cecile's face.

"You have discovered why he did not write?" she exclaimed, and her voice trembled slightly.

The mother laughed happily. "Yes, I am quite sure I have discovered the reason. I have a feeling, and I know it is a true feeling, that before my birthday is quite over Philippe will be here with us. He is coming, Cecile; he is not far away at this very moment, and before the evening is over he will be with us."

Tears filled Cecile's eyes but she rose quietly and said, trying to speak lightly:

"The night mist is rising from the river, mother dear. Had we not better turn our faces toward the east and home?"

"You are right, child, it will be as well for us to go home a little early to-night. I am feeling unaccountably weary though very, very happy. It will be best for me to go home and rest a little before the evening train arrives bringing my Philippe back to me."

Cecile said nothing, but very gently, very tenderly guided the blind mother's steps as they wended their way homeward in the sweet summer twilight.

Half an hour later Cecile paced restlessly up and down the broad veranda of her home. She had left her mother sleeping on the couch in her pretty sitting-room upstairs and could now face the problems and difficulties which confronted her. In her mind she reviewed the years that had come and gone since that sad night when her dying father had whispered almost with his last breath:

"Your mother, Cecile; I trust her to you. Take care of her for me when I am no longer here to watch over her myself. Promise me you will shield her from every worry, that you will stand between her and all troubles as I have always done."

The girl had promised and right faithfully had she kept her word, but at what a cost to herself! She was thinking now of her promise and of how she had kept it. She was thinking, too, of her mother's serious illness which had followed that night, an illness from which she had recovered, it is true, but which left her blind for life. What a terrible calamity her mother's blindness had appeared to be at that time, and yet, there came a day, that dreadful day two years ago, when she had thanked God on her knees for the affliction which enabled her to conceal the trouble which had come upon them.

Once more she lived through that day two years ago, the day when those awful letters had come, one from Philippe, one from the lawyers. She had read them at first without comprehending their meaning. Then as the truth began to dawn upon her, she cried to herself that it could not be true, it could not be. There was some terrible mistake somewhere. But there it was before her in black and white; Philippe's own confession, the lawyers' letter confirming all the facts. They were ruined, penniless, and Philippe had done this thing; Philippe, her tall handsome brother, the pride and darling of their mother's heart. But worse than poverty, worse than ruin faced them. Philippe was a disgraced man, sentenced to jail for fifteen years.

It was an old, old story; she had heard of such cases before but paid little heed to them. Now it was Philippe, her brother, and oh! how different it all seemed. It was simply the story of an ambitious young man, making his way in the world, winning name and fame among the ablest financiers of the Western city in which he had elected to live his life. It was simply the story of one who had much and who wanted more, who strained every nerve to win in the great game he was playing, the game of money-getting. It was the story of one who risked all in one grand final coup, who risked all and lost all. And what was risked and lost was not his alone; everything belonging to his mother and sister had gone too. Worse still, he had made use of money which was not theirs, funds of the bank of which he was treasurer. Of course, he had only borrowed them, he had been so sure of success, and he intended replacing the money in a few days. He had reasoned as so many men before him had reasoned, as men will continue to reason as long as this world shall be.

Such had been the trial which faced Cecile that day two years ago. Her one thought had been that mother must never know; her heart had always been weak and the shock would kill her, simply kill her. Words her mother had once spoken to her returned to her mind as she had finished reading those letters. The remark had been caused by some little act of thoughtfulness on Philippe's part, some little gift he had sent her, for Philippe had always been careful to remember all the little household feast days with beautiful and often costly gifts.

"Cecile," her mother had said, "you have both been good children to me, you and Philippe, good and kind and thoughtful. I think it would break my heart if my children should ever forget me, ever cease to love me. I can imagine but one thing worse, to have them forget their God, to know that they had committed any grievous wrong. I have sometimes heard of mothers whose sons have been led astray into ways of wickedness and proved a disgrace to themselves and to their families, and I have said to myself: 'Poor woman, how can she bear it, how can she go on living knowing what her boy has become? It would kill me, I know it would. Thank God, my Philippe is a good boy, brave and upright like his father; I shall never have cause to worry about him.'"

Those words kept ringing through Cecile's brain as she had read the letters over, and over again, and she had determined then and there, at all costs, her mother should never know. But how was she going to conceal the fact of their poverty, of their absolute ruin?

They had always lived in comfort and where was she to find the money to supply their daily needs? Since her father's death and her mother's affliction, they had lived in the utmost seclusion. The few friends of her earlier life had drifted away one by one and there was no one to whom she could turn for help or advice in her hour of need. She must manage alone somehow, she and faithful black Mandy to whom her mother was still the "li'l Missy" of long years ago, the "l'il Missy" of the happy days on the southern plantation.

For two years they had succeeded, but by what sacrifices to themselves no one would ever know. Many a time they had been reduced almost to the verge of starvation in order to provide for the blind mother the little delicacies to which she had been accustomed. Gradually, articles of furniture disappeared from their accustomed places; costly pieces of bric-a-brac, rare old china, everything of value which Cecile thought her mother would not be likely to miss. Cecile's own apartment had been reduced to four walls, a bare floor, one chair and the bed upon which she slept. The mother's rooms and Philippe's alone remained untouched.

Then Cecile found employment in the office of one of those new factories which had recently been erected over there beyond the town. This step had been the cause of the first disagreement between her mother and herself.

"Why, Cecile, what do you mean?" the poor mother had gasped in her utter bewilderment when informed of her daughter's intention. "Surely, I misunderstood what you just said. Bookkeeper in the office of a factory! Earn your own living! What are you talking about! What strange jest is this, my dear? For you certainly cannot be in earnest."

"Indeed I am not jesting, mother dear, but am very much in earnest. I really want to earn money of my own, and shall be so much happier if I have a regular occupation. And you want me to be happy, do you not?"

"I cannot understand you at all, Cecile. I really cannot. In my youth, we of the south considered it a disgrace for a young lady to even dream of earning her living. Your father left us plenty of money. I do not know just how it was invested, for I never cared to trouble my head about money matters. I preferred to leave all that to you and the lawyers. Still, I know my income is quite sufficient for our wants. Even if we should lose our money, there is Philippe to provide for us. He would agree with me, I know. He would never, never allow his sister to work for a living."

Of course Cecile had persisted in her resolution, and it grieved her to feel that her mother had never become reconciled to what she considered a mere whim.

Letters from Philippe came at occasional intervals, letters which were carefully edited before she read them aloud to her mother. Gifts from Philippe came too, just as they had always done, but now each gift meant some added sacrifice for poor Cecile. Her very last bit of jewelry, a gift from her father on the Christmas before he died, had been sold to purchase the lace scarf which had come that morning in Philippe's name.

Of all this Cecile was thinking as she paced the veranda that summer night. It had all been very hard to bear but it was as nothing compared with that last blow which had fallen two nights ago.

She had been to the town for necessary supplies and was returning rather late in the evening. The road was lonely, deserted, and she could not suppress the cry of fright which rose to her lips as a man sprang from a little thicket which she was passing and stood directly before her, barring her path. Her second cry was one, not of fear, but of startled recognition. The man was Philippe, no longer her handsome Philippe, but a ragged, wild-eyed, desperate man. His story was told in a few words. He had grown restive under the confinement of prison life, then frantic, simply frantic, and had made up his mind to escape. How, he did not know, but he schemed and planned and watched his chance and finally succeeded in getting away. He had managed to make his way to her, and now she must give him money to enable him to get out of the country.

Money? Where was she to find money to give him?

"But you must, Cecile; you must give me every cent you can lay hands on," he had cried savagely. "They are after me, I tell you, and if I am taken back it will be to answer to a charge of murder. Of course, I didn't mean it, you understand. One of the guards was in my way, and—well, there's one guard less in the world, that's all."

He had come to the house late that night and she had given him food, some of his own clothes which still hung in his room and which the mother had never allowed anyone to touch, and all the money she "could lay hands on." It was not much but it was every cent she had. She had heard nothing from him since, and the suspense of the last two days had been agonizing, the alternate hopes and fears, the wondering, wondering where he was, what was happening to him at that very moment.

The click of the garden gate and a footstep upon the gravel walk caused her to turn hastily and descend the veranda steps. At first, she thought it was Philippe come back to her, but a second glance showed that the figure approaching through the dusk was that of good Father Anselm, her parish priest. He was a young man, only recently appointed to the town, but he knew her story and had frequently helped her with kindly advice and sympathy. Her heart stood still as she watched his approach. Something in his manner, something in his face seen dimly through the gathering darkness, told her that he was the bearer of evil tidings.

"What is it, Father?" she asked tremulously. "Is it that they have taken him?"

"Yes, my child, they have taken him. They are bringing him here."

"Bringing him here! But why, why should they bring him here?" A sudden dreadful thought flashed through her mind. "Father, you have not told me all; there is something else."

"My poor child, there is something else to tell you."

"You need not tell it, Father, I know. They have taken him, but not—alive. My poor Philippe is gone, dead. Tell me how it happened, Father, will you please?"

The girl's unnatural calm was more pitiful than any outburst of grief could have been, and an immeasurable compassion spoke in the priest's voice as he told the story of Philippe's death.

"He was hiding in the deserted hut in Planter's Wood (you know the spot, Cecile) and they discovered his place of concealment. They had been following after him for days but he thought he would be safe there and could come out at night and procure food from you. There was a short, sharp struggle in which he received a mortal wound. Doctors were sent for; I, too, was summoned. Thank God, he was conscious up to the very last and I arrived in time to reconcile him with the Master whose love he had outraged, whose commands he had broken. His end was very quiet and peaceful, he simply closed his eyes and fell asleep as a little baby might.

"But we must not stand here talking, my child. We have a duty to perform, you and I, and we must be brave and perform that duty at once, difficult though it may be. Where is your mother, Cecile? She will have to be told before—before they arrive. I came on ahead for that very purpose."

"We cannot tell her, Father, we cannot. It will kill her."

"We must tell her; it will be impossible to hide it. Take me to her and we will tell her together. God will be with us and will help us, my child."

"Oh! if God would only spare her, if He would only spare her! If He would only open a way so we need not tell her!"

Her brain was in a whirl as she mounted the stairs; she was stunned, broken. Of one thing only was she perfectly conscious. Philippe was coming and his mother must be awakened. That mother's last words as she had closed her eyes were:

"I am strangely weary, Cecile, weary and very drowsy. I think I shall sleep a little, but be sure and wake me when Philippe comes."

Wake her when Philippe comes! Yes, for Philippe is coming and his mother must be wakened.

They stood beside the couch and looked down upon the sleeping woman. How quietly she rested there, how still she was and peaceful! But how very still she was, and what was that scarcely palpable shadow resting on the sweet, calm face? Was it only a shade cast by the lamp which Cecile had brought in and placed upon a table behind them, or was it——?

With a cry of alarm, the girl fell on her knees and caught frantically at her mother's hand. It lay in hers absolutely passive and cold, so cold. The priest raised the lamp till the light shone full upon the face of the sleeper. Sleeping she was indeed, the last long sleep from which not they, not Philippe, not anyone could waken her.

Father Anselm laid his hand on the head of the stricken girl and said gently:

"A moment ago, my child, you prayed that God might spare her. He had granted your prayer even before it was uttered. We need not tell her now for she has learned it all from One who could tell it far more gently, far more mercifully than we could."

The sound of shuffling steps, as of men who carried a heavy burden, came up to them from the gravel walk below.

"Requiescant in pace," whispered the priest.

Cecile knelt as if turned to stone. Mechanically, she listened to the voice of the priest reciting the De Profundis; she listened to the call of the crickets shrilling through the summer night without; she listened to the heart-breaking sobs of faithful black Mandy crouching on the floor by the side of her "li'l Missy;" she listened to those shuffling footsteps as they entered the house, slowly mounted the staircase and paused at the door of what had once been Philippe's room.

Yet again the priest's voice recited:

"Requiescant in pace."

And this time, Cecile, laying her cheek upon the dear cold hand she held in hers, responded brokenly:

"Amen."