The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

CHAPTER XXIV—THE OLD WOMAN ON THE HILL

SHE came forward toward the buckboard, and into the lantern light—and stopped suddenly, looking from Raymond to the Bishop in a bewildered and startled way.

“Why—why, Father Aubert,” she stammered, “I—I hardly knew you in that coat. I—Monsignor”—she bent her knee reverently—“I”—her eyes were searching their faces—“I—-”

Raymond's eyes fixed ahead of him, and he was silent. Valérie! Ay, it was the end! He had thought to see her before they should take him to Tournayville—but he had thought to see her alone. And even then he had not known what he should say to her—what words to speak—or whether she should know from him his love. He was conscious that the Bishop was fumbling with his crucifix, as though loath to take the initiative upon himself.

It was Valérie who spoke—hurriedly, as though in a nervous effort to bridge the awkward silence.

“Mother Blondin became conscious a little while ago. She asked for Father Aubert, and—and begged for the Sacrament. I ran down to the presbytère, and when mother told me that Monsignor was coming I—-I brought back the bag that my uncle, Father Allard, takes with him to—to the dying. Oh, Monsignor, I thought that perhaps—perhaps—she is an excommuniée, Monsignor—but she is a penitent. And when I got back she was unconscious again, and then I came down here to wait by the side of the road so that I would not miss you, for Madame Bouchard is there, and she was to call me if—if there was any change. And so—and so—you will go to her, Monsignor, will you not—and Father Aubert—and—and——” Her lips quivered suddenly, for Raymond's white face was lifted now, and his eyes met hers. “Oh, what is the matter?” she cried out in fear. “Why do you look like that, Father Aubert—and why do you wear that coat, and——”

“My daughter”—the Bishop's grave voice interrupted her. He rose from his seat, and, moving past Raymond, stepped to the ground. “My daughter, Father Aubert is—-”

“No!”—Raymond, too, had stepped to the ground. “No, Monsignor”—his voice caught, then was steadied as he fought fiercely for self-control—“I will tell her, Monsignor.”

How clearly her face was defined in the lantern light, how pure it was, and, in its purity, how far removed from the story that he had to tell! And how beautiful it was, even in its startled fear and wonder—the sweet lips parted; the dark eyes wide, disturbed and troubled, as they held upon his face.