The Alchemist's Secret

by Isabel Cecilia Williams

Once more she lived through that day two years ago, the day when those awful letters had come, one from Philippe, one from the lawyers. She had read them at first without comprehending their meaning. Then as the truth began to dawn upon her, she cried to herself that it could not be true, it could not be. There was some terrible mistake somewhere. But there it was before her in black and white; Philippe's own confession, the lawyers' letter confirming all the facts. They were ruined, penniless, and Philippe had done this thing; Philippe, her tall handsome brother, the pride and darling of their mother's heart. But worse than poverty, worse than ruin faced them. Philippe was a disgraced man, sentenced to jail for fifteen years.

It was an old, old story; she had heard of such cases before but paid little heed to them. Now it was Philippe, her brother, and oh! how different it all seemed. It was simply the story of an ambitious young man, making his way in the world, winning name and fame among the ablest financiers of the Western city in which he had elected to live his life. It was simply the story of one who had much and who wanted more, who strained every nerve to win in the great game he was playing, the game of money-getting. It was the story of one who risked all in one grand final coup, who risked all and lost all. And what was risked and lost was not his alone; everything belonging to his mother and sister had gone too. Worse still, he had made use of money which was not theirs, funds of the bank of which he was treasurer. Of course, he had only borrowed them, he had been so sure of success, and he intended replacing the money in a few days. He had reasoned as so many men before him had reasoned, as men will continue to reason as long as this world shall be.

Such had been the trial which faced Cecile that day two years ago. Her one thought had been that mother must never know; her heart had always been weak and the shock would kill her, simply kill her. Words her mother had once spoken to her returned to her mind as she had finished reading those letters. The remark had been caused by some little act of thoughtfulness on Philippe's part, some little gift he had sent her, for Philippe had always been careful to remember all the little household feast days with beautiful and often costly gifts.

"Cecile," her mother had said, "you have both been good children to me, you and Philippe, good and kind and thoughtful. I think it would break my heart if my children should ever forget me, ever cease to love me. I can imagine but one thing worse, to have them forget their God, to know that they had committed any grievous wrong. I have sometimes heard of mothers whose sons have been led astray into ways of wickedness and proved a disgrace to themselves and to their families, and I have said to myself: 'Poor woman, how can she bear it, how can she go on living knowing what her boy has become? It would kill me, I know it would. Thank God, my Philippe is a good boy, brave and upright like his father; I shall never have cause to worry about him.'"

Those words kept ringing through Cecile's brain as she had read the letters over, and over again, and she had determined then and there, at all costs, her mother should never know. But how was she going to conceal the fact of their poverty, of their absolute ruin?

They had always lived in comfort and where was she to find the money to supply their daily needs? Since her father's death and her mother's affliction, they had lived in the utmost seclusion. The few friends of her earlier life had drifted away one by one and there was no one to whom she could turn for help or advice in her hour of need. She must manage alone somehow, she and faithful black Mandy to whom her mother was still the "li'l Missy" of long years ago, the "l'il Missy" of the happy days on the southern plantation.

For two years they had succeeded, but by what sacrifices to themselves no one would ever know. Many a time they had been reduced almost to the verge of starvation in order to provide for the blind mother the little delicacies to which she had been accustomed. Gradually, articles of furniture disappeared from their accustomed places; costly pieces of bric-a-brac, rare old china, everything of value which Cecile thought her mother would not be likely to miss. Cecile's own apartment had been reduced to four walls, a bare floor, one chair and the bed upon which she slept. The mother's rooms and Philippe's alone remained untouched.

Then Cecile found employment in the office of one of those new factories which had recently been erected over there beyond the town. This step had been the cause of the first disagreement between her mother and herself.

"Why, Cecile, what do you mean?" the poor mother had gasped in her utter bewilderment when informed of her daughter's intention. "Surely, I misunderstood what you just said. Bookkeeper in the office of a factory! Earn your own living! What are you talking about! What strange jest is this, my dear? For you certainly cannot be in earnest."

"Indeed I am not jesting, mother dear, but am very much in earnest. I really want to earn money of my own, and shall be so much happier if I have a regular occupation. And you want me to be happy, do you not?"