Part 6

Had the mistress of Champ-au-Haut stood on the terrace a few minutes longer, she might have seen with those far-sighted eyes of hers a dark form passing quickly along the strip of highroad that showed white between the last houses at The Bow. It was Father Honoré. He walked rapidly along the highway that, skirting the base of the mountain, follows the large curve of the lake shore. Rapid as was the pace, the quickened eyes were seeing all about, around, above. In passing beneath a stretch of towering pines, he caught between their still indefinite foliage the gleam of the lake waters. He stopped short for a full minute to pommel his resonant chest; to breathe deep, deep breaths of the night balm. Then he proceeded on his way.

That way led northwards along the lake shore; it skirted the talus that had fallen from the cliff which rose three hundred feet above him. He heard the sound of a rolling stone gathering in velocity among the rubble. He halted in order to listen; to trace, if possible, its course. The dull monotone of its rumbling rattle started a train of thought: perhaps his foot, treading the highway lightly, had caused the sensitive earth to tremble just sufficiently to jar the delicately poised stone and send it from its resting place! He went on. Thoughts not to be uttered crowded to the forefront of consciousness as he neared the cleft in the Flamsted Hills, whence the Rothel makes known to every wayfarer that it has come direct from the heart of The Gore, and brought with it the secrets of its granite veins.

The road grew steeper; the man's pace did not slacken, but the straight back was bent at an angle which showed the priest had been accustomed to mountain climbing. In the leafy half-light, which is neither dawn nor twilight, but that reverential effulgence which is made by moonlight sifting finely through midsummer foliage, the Rothel murmured over its rocky bed; once, when in a deep pool its babble wholly ceased, an owl broke the silence with his "witti-hoo-hoo-hoo".

Still upwards he kept his way and his pace until he emerged into the full moonlight of the heights. There he halted and looked about him. He was near the apex of The Gore. To the north, above the foreground of the sea of hilltops, loomed Katahdin. At his right, a pond, some five acres in extent, lay at the base of cliff-like rocks topped with a few primeval pines. Everywhere there were barren sheep pastures alternating with acres of stunted fir and hemlock, and in sheltered nooks, adjacent to these coverts, he could discern something which he judged to be stone sheepfolds. Just below him, on the opposite side of the road and the Rothel, which was crossed by a broad bridging of log and plank, stood a long low stone house, to the north of which a double row of firs had been planted for a windbreak. Behind him, on a rise of ground a few rods from the highway, was a large double house of brick with deep granite foundations and white granite window caps. Two shafts of the same stone supported the ample white-painted entrance porch. Ancestral elms over-leafed the roof on the southern side. One light shone from an upper window. Beyond the elms, a rough road led still upwards to the heights behind the house.

The priest retraced his steps; turned into this road, for which the landlord of The Greenbush had given him minute instructions, and followed its rough way for an eighth of a mile; then a sudden turn around a shoulder of the hill--and the beginning of the famous Flamsted granite quarries lay before him, gleaming, sparkling in the moonlight--a snow-white, glistening patch on the barren hilltop. Near it were a few huts of turf and stone for the accommodation of the quarrymen. This was all. But it was the scene, self-chosen, of this priest's future labors; and while he looked upon it, thoughts unutterable crowded fast, too fast for the brain already stimulated by the time and environment. He turned about; retraced his steps at the same rapid pace; passed again up the highroad to the head of The Gore, then around it, across a barren pasture, and climbed the cliff-like rock that was crowned by the ancient pines. He stood there erect, his head thrown back, his forehead to the radiant heavens, his eyes fixed on the pale twinklings of the seven stars in the northernmost constellation of the Bear--rapt, caught away in spirit by the intensity of feeling engendered by the hour, the place. Then he knelt, bowing his head on a lichened rock, and unto his Maker, and the Maker of that humanity he had elected to serve, he consecrated himself anew.

Ten minutes afterwards, he was coming down The Gore on his way back to The Greenbush. He heard the agitated ringing of a bell-wether; then the soft huddling rush of a flock of sheep somewhere in the distance. A sheep dog barked sharply; a hound bayed in answer till the hills north of The Gore gave back a multiple echo; but the Rothel kept its secrets, and with inarticulate murmuring made haste to deposit them in the quiet lake waters.

IV

"But, mother--"

There was an intonation in the protest that hinted at some irritation. Champney Googe emptied his pipe on the grass and knocked it clean against the porch rail before he continued.

"Won't it make a lot of talk? Of course, I can see your side of it; it's hospitable and neighborly and all that, to give the priest his meals for a while, but,--" he hesitated, and his mother answered his thought.

"A little talk more or less after all there has been about the quarry won't do any harm, and I'm used to it." She spoke with some bitterness.

"It _has_ stirred up a hornet's nest about your ears, that's a fact. How does Aunt Meda take this latest move? Meat-axey as usual? I didn't see her when I went there yesterday; she's in Hallsport for two days on business, so Tave says."

His mother smiled. "I haven't seen her since the sale was concluded, but I hear she has strengthened the opposition in consequence. I get my information from Mrs. Caukins."

At the mention of that name Champney laughed out. "Good authority, mother. I must run over and see her to-night. Well, we don't care, do we? I mean about the feeling. Mother, I just wish you were a man for one minute."

"Why?"

"Because I'd like to go up to you, man fashion, grip your hand, slap you on the back, and shout 'By Jove, old man, you've made a deal that would turn the sunny side of Wall Street green with envy!' How did you do it, mother? And without a lawyer! I'll bet Emlie is mad because he didn't get a chance to put his finger in your pie."

"I was thinking of you, of your future, and how you have been used by Almeda Champney; and that gave me the confidence, almost the push of a man--and I dealt with them as a man with men; but I felt unsexed in doing it. I've wondered what they think of me."

"Think of you! I can tell you what one man thinks of you, and that's Mr. Van Ostend. I had a note from him at the time of the sale asking me to come to his office, an affidavit was necessary, and I found he had had eyes in his head for the most beautiful woman in the world--"

"Champney!"

"Fact; and, what's more, I got an invitation to his house on the strength of his recognition of that fact. I dined with him there; his sister is a stunning girl."

"I'm glad such homes are open to you; it is your right and--it compensates."

"For what, mother?"

"Oh, a good many things. How do they live?"

"The Van Ostends?"

"Yes."

Champney Googe hugged his knees and rocked back and forth on the step before he answered. His merry face seemed to lengthen in feature, to harden in line. His mother left her chair and sewing to sit down on the step beside him. She looked up inquiringly.

"Just as _I_ mean to live sometime, mother,"--his fresh young voice rang determined and almost hard; his mother's eyes kindled;--"in a way that expresses Life--as you and I understand it, and don't live it, mother; as you and I have conceived of it while up here among these sheep pastures." He glanced inimically for a moment at the barren slopes above them. "I have you to thank for making me comprehend the difference." He continued the rocking movement for a while, his hands still clasping his knees. Then he went on:

"As for his home on the Avenue, there isn't its like in the city, and as a storehouse of the best in art it hasn't its equal in the country; it's just perfect from picture gallery to billiard room. As for adjuncts, there's a shooting box and a _bona fide_ castle in the Scottish Highlands, a cottage at Bar Harbor with the accessory of a steam yacht, and a racing stud on a Long Island farm. As a financier he's great!"

He sat up straight, and freely used his fists, first on one knee then on the other, to emphasize his words; "His right hand is on one great lever of interstate traffic, his left on the other of foreign trade, and two continents obey his manipulations. His eye exacts trained efficiency from thousands; his word is a world event; Wall Street is his automaton. Oh, the power of it all! I can't wait to get out into the stream, mother! I'm only hugging the shore at present; that's what has made me kick against this last year in college; it has been lost time, for I want to get rich quick."

His mother laid her hand on his knee. "No, Champney, it's not lost time; it's one of your assets as a gentleman."

He looked up at her, his blue eyes smiling into her dark ones.

"I can be a gentleman all right without that asset; you said father didn't go."

"No, but the man for whom you are named went, and he told me once a college education was a 'gentleman's asset.' That expression was his."

"Well, I don't see that the asset did him much good. It didn't seem to discount his liabilities in other ways. Queer, how Uncle Louis went to seed--I mean, didn't amount to anything along any business or professional line. Only last spring I met the father of a second-year man who remembers Uncle Louis well, said he was a classmate of his. He told me he was banner man every time and no end popular; the others didn't have a show with him."

His mother was silent. Champney, apparently unheeding her unresponsiveness, rose quickly, shook himself together, and suddenly burst into a mighty laughter that is best comparable to the inextinguishable species of the blessed gods. He laughed in arpeggios, peal on peal, crescendo and diminuendo, until, finally, he flung himself down on the short turf and in his merriment rolled over and over. He brought himself right side up at last, tears in his eyes and a sigh of satisfying exhaustion on his lips. To his mother's laughing query:

"What is it now, Champney?" He shook his head as if words failed him; then he said huskily:

"It's Aunt Meda's _protégée_. Oh, Great Scott! She'll be the death by shock of some of the Champo people if she stays another three months. I hear Aunt Meda has had her Waterloo. Tavy buttonholed me out in the carriage house yesterday, and told me the whole thing--oh, but it's rich!" He chuckled again. "He got me to feel his vest; says he can lap it three inches already and she has only been here two weeks; and as for Romanzo, he's neither to have nor to hold when the girl's in sight--wits topsy-turvy, actually, oh, Lord!"--he rolled over again on the grass--"what do you think, mother! She got Roman to scour down Jim--you know, the white cart-horse, the Percheron--with Hannah's cleaning powder, and the girl helped him, and together they got one side done and then waited for it to dry to see how it worked. Result: Tave dead ashamed to drive him in the cart for fear some one will see the yellow-white calico-circus horse, that the two rapscallions have left on his hands, and doesn't want Aunt Meda to know it for fear she'll turn down Roman. He says he's going to put Jim out to grass in the Colonel's back sheep pasture, and when Aunt Meda comes home lie about sudden spavin or something. And the joke of it is Roman takes it all as a part of the play, and has owned up to Tave that, by mistake, he blacked Aunt Meda's walking boots, before she went to Hallsport, with axle grease, while the girl was 'telling novels' to him! Tave said Roman told him she knew a lot of the nobility, marchionesses and 'sich'; and now Roman struts around cocksure, high and mighty as if he'd just been made K.C.B., and there's no getting any steady work out of him. You should have seen Tave's face when he was telling me!"

His mother laughed. "I can imagine it; he's worried over this new move of Almeda's. I confess it puzzles me."

"Well, I'm off to see some of the fun--and the girl. Tave said he didn't expect Aunt Meda before to-morrow night, and it's a good time for me to rubber round the old place a little on my own hook;--and, mother,"--he stooped to her; Aurora Googe raised her still beautiful eyes to the frank if somewhat hard blue ones that looked down into hers; a fine color mounted into her cheeks,--"take the priest for his meals, for all me. It's an invasion, but, of course, I recognize that we're responsible for it on account of the quarry business. I suppose we shall have to make some concessions to all classes till we get away from here for good and all--then we'll have our fling, won't we, mother?"

He was off without waiting for a reply. Aurora Googe watched him out of sight, then turned to her work, the flush still upon her cheeks.

V

Champney leaned on the gate of the paddock at Champ-au-Haut and looked about him. The estate at The Bow had been familiar to him throughout his childhood and boyhood. He had been over every foot of it, and at all seasons, with his Uncle Louis. He was realizing that it had never seemed more beautiful to him than now, seen in the warm light of a July sunset. In the garden pleasance, that sloped to the lake, the roses and lilies planted there a generation ago still bloomed and flourished, and in the elm-shaded paddock, on the gate of which he was leaning, filly and foal could trace their pedigree to the sixth and seventh generation of deep-chested, clean-flanked ancestors.

The young man comprehended in part only, the reason of his mother's extreme bitterness towards Almeda Champney. His uncle had loved him; had kept him with him much of the time, encouraging him in his boyish aims and ambitions which his mother fostered--and Louis Champney was childless, the last in direct descent of a long line of fine ancestors--.

Here his thought was checked; those ancestors were his, only in a generation far removed; the Champney blood was in his mother's veins. But his father was Almeda Champney's only brother--why then, should not his mother count on the estate being his in the end? He knew this to have been her hope, although she had never expressed it. He had gained an indefinite knowledge of it through old Joel Quimber and Elmer Wiggins and Mrs. Milton Caukins, a distant relative of his father's. To be sure, Louis Champney might have left him his hunting-piece, which as a boy he had coveted, just for the sake of his name--

He stopped short in his speculations for he heard voices in the lane. The cows were entering it and coming up to the milking shed. The lane led up from the low-lying lake meadows, knee deep with timothy and clover, and was fenced on both sides from the apple orchards which arched and overshadowed its entire length. The sturdy over-reaching boughs hung heavy with myriads of green balls. Now and then one dropped noiselessly on the thick turf in the lane, and a noble Holstein mother, ebony banded with ivory white, her swollen cream-colored bag and dark-blotched teats flushed through and through by the delicate rose of a perfectly healthy skin, lowered her meek head and, snuffing largely, caught sideways as she passed at the enticing green round.

At the end of this lane there swung into view a tall loose-jointed figure which the low strong July sunshine threw into bold relief. It was Romanzo Caukins, one of the Colonel's numerous family, a boy of sixteen who had been bound out recently to the mistress of Champ-au-Haut upon agreement of bed, board, clothes, three terms of "schooling" yearly, and the addition of thirty dollars to be paid annually to the Colonel.

The payment of this amount, by express stipulation, was to be made at the end of each year until Romanzo should come into his majority. By this arrangement, Mrs. Champney assured to herself the interest on the aforesaid thirty dollars, and congratulated herself on the fact that such increment might be credited to Milton Caukins as a minus quantity.

Champney leaped the bars and went down the lane to meet him.

"Hello, Roman, how are you?"

The boy's honest blue eyes, that seemed always to be looking forward in a chronic state of expectancy for the unexpected, beamed with goodness and goodwill. He wiped his hands on his overalls and clasped Champney's.

"Hullo, Champ, when'd you come?"

"Only yesterday. I didn't see you about when I was here in the afternoon. How do you like your job?"

The youth made an uncouth but expressive sign towards the milk shed. "Sh--Tave'll hear you. He and I ain't been just on good terms lately; but 'tain't my fault," he added doggedly.

At that moment a clear childish voice called from somewhere below the lane:

"Romanzo--Romanzo!"

The boy started guiltily. "I've got to go, Champ; she wants me."

Champney seized him with a strong hand by the suspenders. "Here, hold on! Who, you gump?"

"The girl--le' me go." But Champney gripped him fast.

"No, you don't, Roman; let her yell."

"Ro--man--zo-o-o-o!" The range of this peremptory call was two octaves at least.

"By gum--she's up to something, and Tave won't stand any more fooling--le' me go!" He writhed in the strong grasp.

"I won't either. I haven't been half-back on our team for nothing; so stand still." And Romanzo stood still, perforce.

Another minute and Aileen came running up the lane. She was wearing the same heavy shoes, the same dark blue cotton dress, half covered now with a gingham apron--Mrs. Champney had not deemed it expedient to furnish a wardrobe until the probation period should have decided her for or against keeping the child. She was bareheaded, her face flushed with the heat and her violent exercise. She stopped short at a little distance from them so soon as she saw that Romanzo was not alone. She tossed back her braid and stamped her foot to emphasize her words:

"Why didn't yer come, Romanzo Caukins, when I cried ter yer!"

"'Coz I couldn't; he wouldn't let me." He spoke anxiously, making signs towards the shed. But Aileen ignored them; ignored, also, the fact that any one was present besides her slave.

Champney answered for himself. He promptly bared his head and advanced to shake hands; but Aileen jerked hers behind her.

"I'm Mr. Champney Googe, at your service. Who are you?"

The little girl was sizing him up before she accepted the advance; Champney could tell by the "East-side" look with which she favored him.

"I'm Miss Aileen Armagh, and don't yer forget it!--at your service." She mimicked him so perfectly that Champney chuckled and Romanzo doubled up in silent glee.

"I sha'n't be apt to, thank you. Come, let's shake hands, Miss Aileen Armagh-and-don't-yer-forget-it, for we've got to be friends if you're to stay here with my aunt." He held out both hands. But the little girl kept her own obstinately behind her and backed away from him.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"'Coz they're all stuck up with spruce gum and Octavius said nothing would take it off but grease, and--" she turned suddenly upon Romanzo, blazing out upon him in her wrath--"I hollered ter yer so's yer could get some for me from Hannah, and you was just dirt mean not to answer me."

"Champ wouldn't let me go," said Romanzo sulkily; "besides, I dassn't ask Hannah, not since I used the harness cloth she gave to clean down Jim."

"Yer 'dassn't!' Fore I'd be a boy and say 'I dassn't!'" There was inexpressible scorn in her voice. She turned to Champney, her eyes brimming with mischief and flashing a challenge:

"And yer dassn't shake hands with me 'coz mine are all stuck up, so now!"

Champney had not anticipated this _pronunciamento_, but he accepted the challenge on the instant. "Dare not! You can't say that to me! Here, give me your hands." Again he held out his shapely well-kept members, and Aileen with a merry laugh brought her grimy sticky little paws into view and, without a word, laid them in Champney's palms. He held them close, purposely, that they might adhere and provide him with some fun; then, breaking into his gay laugh he said:

"Clear out, Roman; Tave 'll be looking for the milk pails. As for you, Miss Aileen Armagh-and-don't-yer-forget-it, you can't pull away from me now. So, come on, and we'll get Hannah to give us some lard and then we'll go down to the boat house where it is cool and cleanup. Come on!"

Holding her by both hands he raced her down the long lane, through the vegetable garden, all chassez, down the middle, swing your partner--Aileen wild with the fun--up the slate-laid kitchen walk to the kitchen door. His own laughter and the child's, happy, merry, care-free, rang out peal on peal till Ann and Hannah and Octavius paused in their work to listen, and wished that such music might have been heard often during their long years of faithful service in childless Champ-au-Haut.

"I hear you are acquainted with some of the nobility, marchionesses and so forth," said Champney; the two were sitting in the shadow of the boat house cleaning their fingers with the lard Hannah had provided. "Where did you make their acquaintance?"

Aileen paused in the act of sliding her greasy hands rapidly over and over in each other, an occupation which afforded her unmixed delight, to look up at him in amazement. "How did yer know anything 'bout her?"

"Oh, I heard."

"Did Romanzo Caukins tell yer?" she demanded, as usual on the defensive.

"No, oh no; it was only hearsay. Do tell me about her. We don't have any round here."

Aileen giggled and resumed the rapid rotary motion of her still unwashed hands. "If I tell yer 'bout her, yer'll tell her I told yer. P'raps sometime, if yer ever go to New York, yer might see her; and she wouldn't like it."

"How do you know but what I have seen her? I've just come from there."

Aileen looked her surprise again. "That's queer, for I've just landed from New York meself."