The Alchemist's Secret

by Isabel Cecilia Williams

"The next morning Jim attended my Mass and received Holy Communion, and every morning after that when I entered the church to offer up the Holy Sacrifice the first person I would see would be my one-armed tramp kneeling in a far corner, his rosary slipping through his fingers. The rosary had belonged to his mother, and during all his years of tramping he had guarded it as his most precious treasure. He had worn it in a little chamois bag suspended from a string around his neck, but had not used it in many, many years. He came regularly one evening in each week to make his confession and to have a little chat with me. As the summer progressed I wondered more and more at this strange new acquaintance of mine; this rough looking tramp with the manners of a gentleman and the speech, except for a few lapses in the vernacular of the road, of a man of considerable education. The oddest thing of all was the feeling I had that somewhere, at some time, Jim and I had met before. Little tricks of voice and expression would seem strangely familiar.

"The summer gradually faded into autumn, and one evening in late September when I stood at the gate to say good-night to my tramp, he remarked sadly:

"'This is good-by as well as good-night, Father. I have given up my work here and am off early in the morning.'

"'Not the road again!' I cried, and the next second would have given anything to recall the thoughtless words. A pained look crossed Jim's face, but he answered quietly:

"'No, Father, not the road. Never again shall I return to that life. I have saved my wages this summer and am going back into the world to begin life all over again. This time, with God's help, I shall not make such a muddle of it as I did before.'

"The next day he was gone, and many a night as I sat over my study-fire reading or trying to work up my sermon for Sunday, my thoughts would stray from the subject in hand and wander out into the world in search of my friend the tramp. I would listen to the wintry blasts whistling down my chimney and wonder where Jim was, and wonder still more at his complete silence. Surely he might let me know if all were well with him. Had he persevered? Or had he, perhaps, lapsed into his former ways, and was he, even now, tramping the highways and byways?

"Winter passed and spring came; still no news of Jim. Another summer, another fall, another winter. Silence, absolute silence on the part of my tramp. Then, one evening in May, exactly two years from the day when I first met him, Jim stood before me once again. I recognized him by the missing right hand and the scar on the temple. Aside from those two points and the old merry twinkle in his eye he bore absolutely no resemblance to my tramp of two years ago. The face was smooth shaven, the bloat, caused by years of drinking, had all disappeared, and he looked at least ten years younger than my former friend. His ragged tramp's garb had been replaced by neat garments such as a fairly prosperous business man might wear. His whole appearance seemed to indicate that Jim had done well in the world to which he had returned. Sitting in the garden, he told me all about it.

"Yes, he had done well. It had been hard at first, oh! very hard. There had been a time when, his savings all gone and no employment in sight, he had faced actual starvation. But the darkest hour comes before dawn, and that had been Jim's darkest hour. From then on things began to mend. He had obtained a good situation and was happy in it. He had not written because for long, for so very long, he had no news but bad news to send. There was nothing but ill-luck and misfortune to report, and he waited from day to day hoping things would brighten. Then, when the unexpected stroke of good luck came, he decided to wait yet a little longer until he could bring me the good news in person.

"All the time he was talking I watched his face carefully. That puzzling, baffling resemblance to some one whom I had known was stronger than ever since the beard which concealed so much of his face had been removed. I became more and more convinced that we had met before, but when and where? I racked my memory, but the name, the personality I wanted, eluded my grasp. Something of my thoughts must have shown in my face, for when Jim finished his narrative he threw back his head, laughing merrily at my very evident perplexity.

"'It is really too bad to keep you guessing any longer, Father,' he said. 'Let me help you to remember when and where we met before. Listen and I will tell you a little story.