"'Unworthy—unworthy!' was Champney Googe's cry, as he knelt before Aileen"
Aileen lifted his head, laid her arms around his neck, drew him by her young strength and her gentle compelling words to a seat beside her on the granite block. She kept her arms about him.
"No, Champney, not unworthy; but worthy, worthy of it all—all that life can give you in compensation for those seven years. We'll put it all behind us; we'll live in the present and in hope of a blessed future. Take heart, my husband—"
The bowed shoulders heaved beneath her arms.
"So little to offer—so little—"
"'So little'!" she exclaimed; "and is it 'little' you call your love for me? Is it 'little' that I'm to have a home—at last—of my own? Is it 'little' that the husband I love is going out of it and coming home to it in his daily work, and my heart going out to him both ways at once? And is it 'little' you call the gift of a mother to her who is motherless—" her voice faltered.
Champney caught her in his arms; his tears fell upon the dark head.
"I'm a coward, Aileen, and you are just like our Father Honoré; but I will put all behind me. I will not regret. I will work out my own salvation here in my native place, among my own and among strangers. I vow here I will, God helping me, if only in thankfulness for the two hearts that are mine...."
The afterglow faded from the western heavens. The twilight came on apace. The two still sat there in the darkening shed, at times unburdening their over-charged hearts; at others each rested heart and body and soul in the presence of the other, and both were aware of the calming influence of the dim and silent shed.
"How did you happen to come down here just to-night, and after work hours too, Champney?" she asked, curious to know the how and the why of this meeting.
"I came down for my second chisel. I remembered when I got home that it needed sharpening and I could not do without it to-morrow morning. Of course the machine shop was closed, so I thought I'd try my hand at it on the grindstone up home this evening."
"Then is this it?" she exclaimed, picking up the chisel from the block.
"Yes, that's mine." He held out his hand for it.
"Indeed, you're not going to have it—not this one! I'll buy you another, but this is mine. Wasn't I holding it in my hand and thinking of you when I saw you coming over the meadows?"
"Keep it—and I'll keep something I have of yours."
"Of mine? Where did you get anything of mine? Surely it isn't the peppered rosebud?"
"Oh, no. I've had it nearly seven years."
"Seven years!" She exclaimed in genuine surprise. "And whatever have you had of mine I'd like to know that has kept seven years? It's neither silver nor gold—for I've little of either; not that silver or gold can make a man happy," she added quickly, fearing he might be sensitive to her speech.
"No; I've learned that, Aileen, thank God!"
"What is it then?—tell me quick."
He thrust his hand into the workman's blouse and drew forth a small package, wrapped in oiled silk and sewed to a cord that was round his neck. He opened it.
Aileen bent to examine it, her eyes straining in the increasing dusk.
"Why, it's never—it's not my handkerchief!—Champney!"
"Yes, yours, Aileen—that night in all the horror and despair, I heard something in your voice that told me you—didn't hate me—"
"Oh, Champney!"
"Yes. I've kept it ever since—I asked permission to take it in with me?—I mean into my cell. They granted it. It was with me night and day—my head lay on it at night; I got my first sleep so—and it went with me to work during the day. It's been kissed clean thin till it's mere gossamer; it helped, that and the work, to save my brain—"
She caught handkerchief and hand in both hers and pressed her lips to them again and again.
"And now I'm going to keep it, after you're mine in the sight of man, as you are now before God; put it away and keep it for—" He stopped short.
"For whom?" she whispered.
He drew her close to him—closer and more near.
"Aileen, my beloved," his voice was earnestly joyful, "I am hoping for the blessing of children—are you?—"
"Except for you, my arms will feel empty for them till they come—"
"Oh, my wife—my true wife!—now I can tell you all!" he said, and the earnest note was lost in purest joy. He whispered:
"You know, dear, I'm but half a man, and must remain such. I am no citizen, have no citizen's rights, can never vote—have no voice in all that appeals to manhood—my country—"
"I know—I know—" she murmured pityingly.
"And so I used to think there in my cell at night when I kissed the little handkerchief—Please God, if Aileen still loves me when I get out, if she in her loving mercy will forgive to the extent that she will be my wife, then it may be that she will bestow on me the blessing of a child—a boy who will one day stand among men as his father never can again, who will possess the full rights of citizenship; in him I may live again as a man—but only so."
"Please God it may be so."
They walked slowly homewards to The Bow in the clear warm dark of the midsummer-night. They had much to say to each other, and often they lingered on the way. They lingered again when they came to the gate by the paddock in the lane.
Aileen looked towards the house. A light was burning in Mrs. Champney's room.
"I'm afraid Mrs. Champney must be much worse. Tave never would have forgotten me if he hadn't received some telephone message while he was at Father Honoré's. But the nurse said there was nothing I could do when I left with Tave—but oh, I'm so glad he didn't stop! I must go in now, Champney," she said decidedly. But he still held her two hands.
"Tell me, Champney, have you ever thought your aunt might remember you—for the wrong she did you?"
"No; and if she should, I never would take a cent of it."
"Oh, I'm so glad—so glad!" She squeezed both his hands right hard.
He read her thought and smiled to himself; he was glad that in this he had not disappointed her.
"But there's one thing I wish she would do—poor—poor Aunt Meda—" he glanced up at the light in the window.
"Yes, 'poor,' Champney—I know." She was nodding emphatically.
"I wish she would leave enough to Mr. Van Ostend to repay with interest what he repaid for me to the Company; it would be only just, for, work as I may, I can never hope to do that—and I long so to do it—no workman could do it—"
She interrupted gayly: "Oh, but you've a working-woman by your side!" She snatched away her small hands—for she belonged to the small people of the earth. "See, Champney, the two hands! I can work, and I'm not afraid of it. I can earn a lot to help with—and I shall. There's my cooking, and singing, and embroidery—"
He smiled again in the dark at her enthusiasm—it was so like her!
"And I'll lift the care from our mother too,—and you're not to fret your dear soul about the Van Ostend money—if one can't do it, surely two can with God's blessing. Now I must go in—and you may give me another kiss for I've been on starvation diet these last seven years—only one—oh, Champney!"...
The dim light continued to burn in the upper chamber at Champ-au-Haut until the morning; for before Champney and Aileen left the shed, the Inevitable had already crossed the threshold of that chamber—and the dim light burned on to keep him company....
A month later, when Almeda Champney's will was admitted to probate and its contents made public, it was found that there were but six bequests—one of which was contained in the codicil—namely:
To Octavius Buzzby the oil portrait of Louis Champney.
To Ann and Hannah one thousand dollars each in recognition of faithful service for thirty-seven years.
To Aileen Armagh (so read the codicil) a like sum provided she did not marry Champney Googe.
One half of the remainder of the estate, real and personal, was bequeathed to Henry Van Ostend; the other half, in trust, to his daughter, Alice Maud Mary Van Ostend.
The instrument bore the date of Champney Googe's commitment.