The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

“Yes,” he answered.

“And—and to-night?”—her eyes were closed again.

“To-night,” said Raymond, and turned away his head, “to-night I am going to—to Tournayville.”

“To your death”—it was again as though she were speaking to herself.

“There is no other way,” he said. “I thought there was another way. I meant at first to escape to-night when I learned that Monsignor was coming. I took this coat, Narcisse Pélude's old clothes from the shed again, the clothes I wore the night I went to Jacques Bourget, and I meant to escape on the train. But”—he hesitated now, groping desperately for words—he could not tell her of that ride along the road; he had no right to tell her of his love, he saw that now, he had no right to tell her that, to make it the harder, the more cruel for her; he had no right to trespass on his knowledge of her love for him, to let her glean from any words of his a hint of that; he had the right only, for her sake and for his own, that, in her eyes and in her soul, the stain of murder and of theft should not rest upon him—“but”—the words seemed weak, inadequate—“but I could not go. Instead, I gave myself up to Monsignor. Mademoiselle”—how bitterly full of irony was that word—mademoiselle—mademoiselle to Valérie—like a gulf between them—mademoiselle to Valérie, who was dearest in life to him—“Mademoiselle Valérie”—he was pleading again, his soul in his voice—“it was in self-defence that night. It was that way that Théophile Blondin was killed. I could not prove it then, and—and the evidence is even blacker against me now through the things that I have done in an effort to escape. But—but it was in that way that Théophile Blondin was killed. The law will not believe. I know that. But you—you—” his voice broke. The love, the yearning for her was rushing him onward beyond self-control, and near, very near to his lips, struggling and battling for expression, were the words he was praying God now for the strength not to speak.

She did not answer him. She only moved away. Her white face was set rigidly, and the dark eyes that had been full upon him were but a blur now, for she was moving slowly backward, away from him, toward where the Bishop stood. And she passed out of the lantern light and into the shadows. And in the shadows her hand was raised from her bosom and was held before her face—and it seemed as though she held it, as she had held it in the dream of that Walled Place; that she held it, as she had held it to shut out the sight of his face from her, as she had closed upon him that door with its studded spikes. And like a stricken man he stood there, gripping at the buckboard's wheel. She did not believe him. Valérie did not believe him! There was agony to come, black depths of torment yawning just before him when the numbness from the blow had passed—but now he was stunned. She did not believe him! That man there, whom he had thought would turn with bitter words upon him, had believed him—but Valérie—Valérie—Valérie did not believe him! Ay, it was the end! The agony and the torment were coming now. It was the dream come true. The studded gate clanged shut, and the horror, without hope, without smile, without human word, of that Walled Place with its slimy walls was his, and, over the shrieking of those winged and hideous things, that swaying carrion seemed to scream the louder: “Dies ilia, dies iro—that day, a day of wrath, of wasting, and of misery, a great day, and exceeding bitter.”

He did not move. Through that blur and through the shadows he watched her, watched her as she reached the Bishop, and sank down upon the ground, and clasped her hands around the Bishop's knees. And then he heard her speak—and it seemed to Raymond that, as though stilled by a mighty uplift that swept upon him, the beating of his heart had ceased.

“Monsignor!” she cried out piteously. “Monsignor! Monsignor! It is true that they will not believe him! I was at the trial, Monsignor, I know the evidence, and I know that they will not believe him. He is going to—to his—death—to save that man. Oh, Monsignor—Monsignor, is there no other way?”

Slowly, mechanically, as slowly as she had retreated from him, Raymond moved toward the kneeling figure. The Bishop was speaking now—he had laid his hands upon her head.

“My daughter,” he said gently, “what other way would you have him take? It is a brave man's way, and for that I honour him; but it is more, it is the way of one who has come out of the darkness into the light, and for that my heart is full of thankfulness to God. It is the way of atonement, not for any wrong he has done the church, for he could do the church no wrong, for the church is pure and holy and beyond the reach of any human hand or act to soil, for it is God's church—but atonement to God for those sins of sacrilege and unbelief that lay between himself and God alone. And so, my daughter, if in those sins he has been brought to see and understand, and in his heart has sought and found God's pardon and forgiveness, he could do no other thing than that which he has done to-night.” The Bishop's voice had faltered; he brushed his hand across his cheek as though to wipe away a tear. “It is God's way, my daughter. There could be no other way.”