The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

“I am stronger now,” she said. “I—I think God showed me the way. You have been very good to me to-night—not to question me—just to let me have my way. And now bless me, father, and I will go.”

Bless Valérie—ask God's blessing on Valérie—would that be profanation? God's blessing on Valérie! Ay, he could ask that! Profligate, sinner, sham and mocker, he could ask that in reverence and sincerity—God's blessing upon Valérie—because he loved her.

“God keep you, Valérie,” he said, and fought the tremor from his voice. “God keep you, Valérie—and bless you—and guard you through all your life.”

She rose from her knees, and turning quickly because her cheeks were wet, picked up the lamp, and walked to the door. At the threshold she paused, but did not look back.

“Good-night, father,” she said simply.

“Good-night, Valérie,” he answered.

It was dark again in the room. He had risen from his chair as Valérie had risen from her knees—and now his hand felt out for the chair again, and he sank down, and, as when she had come to him, his head was buried again in his arms upon the desk.

Valérie cared! Valérie loved him! Valérie, too, had been through her hour of torment. “Not as a man—as a priest, a priest of God.” No, he would not believe that, he would not let himself believe that. It could not be so! She was troubled, in distress—about something else. What time was it now? Not daylight yet—the merciful daylight—no sign of daylight yet? If it were true—what then? If she cared—what then?

If Valérie loved him—what then? What was he to do in the “afterwards”? It would not be himself alone who was to bear the burden then. It was not true, of course; he would not believe it, he would not let himself believe it. But if it were true how would Valérie endure the hanging by the neck until he was dead of the man she loved, or the knowledge of what he was, or the death by accident—of the man she loved!

He did not stir now. He made no sound, no movement—and his head lay in his outflung arms. And time passed, and through the window crept the gray of dawn—and presently it was daylight—the merciful daylight—and the night was gone. But he was scarcely conscious of it now. It grew lighter still, and filled the room—that merciful daylight. And his brain, sick and stumbling and weary, reeled on and on, and there was the dream of the Walled Place again, and Valérie was closing the gate that was studded with iron spikes—and there was no way out.