"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.