The Alchemist's Secret

by Isabel Cecilia Williams

"I cannot understand you at all, Cecile. I really cannot. In my youth, we of the south considered it a disgrace for a young lady to even dream of earning her living. Your father left us plenty of money. I do not know just how it was invested, for I never cared to trouble my head about money matters. I preferred to leave all that to you and the lawyers. Still, I know my income is quite sufficient for our wants. Even if we should lose our money, there is Philippe to provide for us. He would agree with me, I know. He would never, never allow his sister to work for a living."

Of course Cecile had persisted in her resolution, and it grieved her to feel that her mother had never become reconciled to what she considered a mere whim.

Letters from Philippe came at occasional intervals, letters which were carefully edited before she read them aloud to her mother. Gifts from Philippe came too, just as they had always done, but now each gift meant some added sacrifice for poor Cecile. Her very last bit of jewelry, a gift from her father on the Christmas before he died, had been sold to purchase the lace scarf which had come that morning in Philippe's name.

Of all this Cecile was thinking as she paced the veranda that summer night. It had all been very hard to bear but it was as nothing compared with that last blow which had fallen two nights ago.

She had been to the town for necessary supplies and was returning rather late in the evening. The road was lonely, deserted, and she could not suppress the cry of fright which rose to her lips as a man sprang from a little thicket which she was passing and stood directly before her, barring her path. Her second cry was one, not of fear, but of startled recognition. The man was Philippe, no longer her handsome Philippe, but a ragged, wild-eyed, desperate man. His story was told in a few words. He had grown restive under the confinement of prison life, then frantic, simply frantic, and had made up his mind to escape. How, he did not know, but he schemed and planned and watched his chance and finally succeeded in getting away. He had managed to make his way to her, and now she must give him money to enable him to get out of the country.

Money? Where was she to find money to give him?

"But you must, Cecile; you must give me every cent you can lay hands on," he had cried savagely. "They are after me, I tell you, and if I am taken back it will be to answer to a charge of murder. Of course, I didn't mean it, you understand. One of the guards was in my way, and—well, there's one guard less in the world, that's all."

He had come to the house late that night and she had given him food, some of his own clothes which still hung in his room and which the mother had never allowed anyone to touch, and all the money she "could lay hands on." It was not much but it was every cent she had. She had heard nothing from him since, and the suspense of the last two days had been agonizing, the alternate hopes and fears, the wondering, wondering where he was, what was happening to him at that very moment.

The click of the garden gate and a footstep upon the gravel walk caused her to turn hastily and descend the veranda steps. At first, she thought it was Philippe come back to her, but a second glance showed that the figure approaching through the dusk was that of good Father Anselm, her parish priest. He was a young man, only recently appointed to the town, but he knew her story and had frequently helped her with kindly advice and sympathy. Her heart stood still as she watched his approach. Something in his manner, something in his face seen dimly through the gathering darkness, told her that he was the bearer of evil tidings.

"What is it, Father?" she asked tremulously. "Is it that they have taken him?"