"Not for a minute or two," said Dr. Renaud. "He is still worried in his mind. It is you, mademoiselle, always you. He is uneasy about the child. I know what he wishes; that you will be friendly with her, treat her as your own blood, stay here with her, it may be, for a season. Promise, mademoiselle, and quickly."
"I cannot! I cannot!"
"Nonsense! Promise—and at once."
Father Rielle whispered in her ear: "Promise, my daughter."
"It will be useless. I should not keep such a promise."
"What does that matter? Promise—to soothe his dying moments, even if you break it afterwards. The Church thus orders, and the Church will make good, will console."
Thus hemmed in, Pauline bent and gave her promise; much shaken and still violently sobbing, she then left the room and Renaud accompanied her. The act was significant, the leech of the body withdrawing to make room for the leech of the soul. The door was softly drawn to by Mme. Poussette; the low sound of Father Rielle's voice was heard at intervals, then there was a silence. Ten minutes later the priest and nurse came out, throwing wide the door on the remains of Henry Clairville, just passed from this world to the next. At the same instant, a strange incongruous sound came from the room, and Pauline, wide-eyed and panting, stopped sobbing, and stood up with her hands pressed over her heart. It was the penetrating chant of three lusty kittens, new-born, blind and helpless, yet quick to scent their mother and grope towards her furry bosom.
Madame hastily re-entered, driving all the cats before her, including the outraged mother, who took this summary eviction with hoarse and angry cries, and the kittens, gathered roughly into madame's apron, continued to emit shrill, smothered squeals all the way to the kitchen. Dr. Renaud passed in to verify the death, and the incident of the cats was not lost upon him; indeed, it appealed to his professional instinct.
"In the midst of Death we are in Life," he remarked jocularly, stepping back into the hall to get ready for the drive homeward.
Miss Clairville glanced at these preparations, and speedily made up her mind. She had grown quiet and was already relieved at the prospect of leaving Clairville immediately.
"It cannot matter now whether I go or stay, surely! Dr. Renaud, I go with you, is it not so?"
"Faith—it doesn't matter any longer now, as you say. Quick with you then, for I have much in the village to arrange; a Clairville does not die every day. Madame has the young Antoine with her, she will not be afraid. I can send somebody out to sit with her, and you will be best at Poussette's."
The day was cold but bright and intensely sunny, and Pauline's relief and gratitude to the doctor brought back her colour; she sat up, casting her care behind her, and let him talk.
"Well, there was not much to be done with him; the 'pic' had weakened the system, and after so many years of incarceration in a sleeping-room the chest and lungs were delicate; hence the congestion and cause of death. Well, well—let me see—I remember your brother twenty-three years ago when I first came to St. Ignace. A strange, bookish, freakish character, but a gentleman, that goes without saying, Ma'amselle Pauline. And you, just a little black-haired girl, reciting French tragedy in the untidy garden! Ah—ah! I see it clearly—no father, no mother, save old Victoria Archambault, and yet you grew up a handsome young lady, always thinking of making your fortune, eh? And you cannot have made it yet or you would not be contemplating marriage with our friend the Englishman."
Pauline's face changed at this; the barred gate stood out over her eyes, and with ease and happiness fading from her mouth and expression she turned on Renaud.
"Who was there to help me make it or to care if I made it at all? Now that you know the truth and see what Henry is and was, how could I be anything or do anything in such amilieu! You taunt me, you—who profess to have known nothing of the Archambault affair all these years!"
"I give you the word of honour, mademoiselle, I swear it to you—I knew nothing! Recollect—your brother never would admit a doctor, you were strong and healthy and much away from Clairville; of the child I only heard from those at Hawthorne and I did not connect what I did hear with either you or the seigneur, as he liked to call himself. These afflicted ones, these peculiar ones—Mme. Poussette kept the secret well. But two days ago he sent for me and told me everything; how he was properly married in the parish of Sault au Recollet to Artémise Archambault, she, the half-witted, the empty-headed—God knows whether that was the charm or what—and of the birth of the child, he told me. What could you expect from the union of two such natures? If you marry, mademoiselle, mate neither with a bad temper nor an unbridled thirst."
"Ah, be quiet, Dr. Renaud! You are the blunt well-wisher, I suppose, a type I detest! How can I help myself! I have chosen, and you know the Clairville character."
"Yes, I know, but count before you jump—'tis safer. Jesting aside, ma'amselle, and although I come from a death-bed I jest with a light heart as one who sees on the whole enough of life and never too much of death—you are still too young and too brilliant a woman to marry anything but well. But I have said, I have finished."
"And not too soon"—was Miss Clairville's inward thought, as with new fears pricking at her heart she kept silence, so unusual a thing with her that the garrulous Renaud observed it and endeavoured to correct his pessimism.
"Enough of Life and not too much of Death," he repeated, gaily flourishing his whip. "It has a queer sound, that, eh? But it is like this, ma'amselle; when I bring to life, when I usher into this world, I see the solemnity and the importance of life in front of me and I am sad; it makes me afraid. When I assist at the grave I am calm and happy, light-hearted even, because there our responsibility for one another ceases, so long as we keep the Masses going."
"The Masses! For their souls you mean, for his soul? How then—do you believe that, Dr. Renaud?"
"Eh? Believe—mademoiselle? Come, you take me at a disadvantage. Am I not a good Catholic then? Pardon me, but I never discuss these questions. Without the Church we should be much worse than we are, and faith—some of us are about as bad as we can be already."
Pauline, tired out, said no more, but leaning back fell into dreaming of her marriage and of the life before her. Her brother was gone, peacefully and honourably on the whole; of Angeel it was not necessary to think, and if Artémise were to remain at Clairville as its mistress, a very good way might be opened toward conciliating the neighbourhood and of managing the child for the future. The Archambaults would most likely all return, evict Mme. Natalie Poussette, who would return to her husband, and Clairville Manor again assume the lively air of a former period, with French retainers young and old overrunning the house and grounds.
Once more in thought Miss Clairville saw the culmination of her hopes all revolving around the interesting Hawtree, and once more she began in fancy to add to, sort over, and finally pack away the airy trousseau which must now be enriched by at least one sober black suit, hat and mourning veil.
"How shall I trace the change, how bear to tellHow he broke faith——"
The Hotel Champlain is a hostelry not on the list which promises the highest class of entertainment for the tourist; one has not to go there unless one is French or in some way connected with or interested in French life and character, yet thecuisineis excellent and the rooms clean and neat. The occasional presence of pompous Senators from the provinces on their way to the legislative halls of the capital ensures a certain average of cooking and attendance; at other times prevail the naturally comfortable instincts of the host and hostess, M. and Mme. Alphonse Prefontaine, a couple bearing the same initials as the Poussettes, the wife a Natalie too, but extremely different in ideals and character. Thus, monsieur, the host, had voyaged, been to "Paris, France," emphasized in case you should think he meant that village, Paris, Ontario; had written a brochure on his travels and was a great patron of such arts as at that time the French population of Montreal were privileged to offer. Madame, the wife, with well-frizzed black hair, strong features and kindly dark eyes, was handsome enough for a Lady Mayoress, had excellent if a little showy taste in dress and had reared a large and healthy family.
To their comfortable roof Crabbe repaired rather than to any English one, because he was not yet completely reinstated in his own self-respect, and to patronize places suited to him in a prosperous future might now invite too much criticism. The Prefontaines knew Miss Clairville well and had heard from her of the rich Englishman to whom she was about to be married, and Crabbe was therefore received with more than Gallic fervour, assigned one of the best rooms, and after seeing a clergyman and attending to other matters touching the approaching ceremony, shut himself up with certain manuscripts that he wished to look over before mailing them to England. He had arrived at noon on the day of Henry Clairville's death and the next morning accordingly brought him the news in print. He grew thoughtful for a while, meant to dispatch a telegram of condolence to Pauline, then forgot it as he became interested in his work. Two poems in particular came in for much revision: "The Lay of an Exiled Englishman," and "Friends on the Astrachan Ranch," pleased him with their lines here and there, yet the general and final effect seemed disappointing to his fine critical side; like many another he saw and felt better than he could perform.
"A Tennysonian ring, I fear. Yet what man alive and writing now can resist it? It slides into the veins, it creeps along the nerves, it informs us as we speak and move and have our being. I'll read aloud—ghastly perhaps, but the only way to judge effect."
He began, and the long lines rose and fell with precision and academic monotony; he was no elocutionist, but read as authors read their own works, as Schubert played his own music, and as he read the snow fell in thick swirling masses outside his window and the cold grew more and more penetrating and intense. A knock at the door roused him. It was a servant of the house who spoke English. The host had sent to know whether the guest was warm.
"Well, come to think of it," said Crabbe, "I'm not too warm, by any means. You can tell them to fire up downstairs, certainly. What time is luncheon here?"
"Do you mean dinner, sir?"
"Oh, yes, dinner, of course. One o'clock? Very well."
"No order, sir? For the bar, I mean?"
Crabbe stared at the speaker then straightened himself and looked out of the window. Was it snowing at St. Ignace, and on Henry Clairville's grave? Would Pauline go into mourning?
"No, I think not. A bottle of Bass at my dinner—that's all."
The interruption over, he went back to his poetry, and this time read on until he had finished. Then he was silent, staring at the table with his legs straight out in front of him, and his hands in his pockets.
"What rot your own poetry can sound!" he finally observed with a frown.
"Verse certainly needs an audience, and there's a turn, a lilt that reminds me of Carleton occasionally—that won't do. Must go at it again. Must go at it again. Better have a smoke."
He found and lit his pipe, read over the stanzas, this time in his head, and the room grew steadily colder, until he could hardly stand it. He rang the bell.
"Look here! Tell Mr. Prefontaine his guests are freezing in this house. Get him to fire up, there's a good fellow—and—look here? How soon will dinner be ready?"
"Not for some time, sir. Perhaps, if you're cold, a hot Scotch——"
But Crabbe was again buried in his work. At one he dined, very much admired by Mme. Prefontaine and her three daughters; he had his innocent tipple and then went back to his room. By three o'clock it was growing dark and he rose to pull down the blind, when a step outside in the hall arrested him. The step seemed familiar, yet incongruous and uncongenial; it was followed by a knock, and, going forward, Crabbe opened the door to Ringfield.
Astonishment showed in the Englishman's face, but he spoke amiably enough and invited the young man inside. Ringfield's countenance wore its perennial grave aspect, but it could also be seen that at that moment he was suffering from the cold. He wore no muffler, and his hands were encased in mere woollen gloves; he had also the appearance of being a martyr to influenza, and Crabbe regarded him with his usual contemptuous familiarity.
"What's brought you to town this infernally cold day?" he said."You're not going to be married, you know."
The pleasantry did not apparently disconcert the other, but he looked carefully around as if searching for something before he answered.
"To be candid, I followed you here to have a talk with you."
"The deuce you did—white choker and all! You have a cheek, haven't you? Then you must be pretty flush, after all, even if you have not any expectations, like me, Ringfield. You've never congratulated me, but let that pass. As you are here, what do you want to talk about?"
The two stood facing each other, with the paper-strewn table between them.
"I should almost think you could guess," murmured Ringfield with an effort to be easy. "But before I, at least, can do any talking I must get warm. I'm chilled—chilled to the bone." And indeed he looked it. His hollow eyes, his bluish lips, his red hands and white fingers indicated his condition, and he had also a short, spasmodic cough, which Crabbe had never noticed at St. Ignace. Suddenly in the guide there awoke the host, the patron, and he drew the blind, placed chairs and grumbled at the stove-pipe.
"Oh for an open fire!" he cried. "Eh, Ringfield? One of your little Canadian open stoves would do, a grate—anything to sit before! Why, man, I'm afraid you have got a touch of the ague, or something worse, perhaps pneumonia."
"Not as bad as that, surely," returned the other with his wry smile. "I walked from the station to save a cab, and I'm only a little chilled."
"A warm drink!" cried Crabbe, from the depths of his new and hospitable instincts. "Say the word, and I'll order it. By heaven, Ringfield,—you look poorly, and I've wanted one myself all day." His hand was on the bell.
"No, no! Don't make a fuss over me. I shall be all right after a while. Besides I never take anything of the kind you mean, I fancy. Some camphor—if you had that, or a cup of boiling hot tea. I'll go downstairs and ask for that. Or coffee."
"Tea! Good Lord! Tea, to a man sickening with pneumonia!"
"But I'm not—really I'm not. I'm feeling warmer already."
"I know better. 'A hot Scotch,'" he said. "Oh for some of theClairville brandy now, eh? By the way, her brother's dead."
Ringfield shivered, but not this time on account of the cold. Some strange sensation always attacked him when Crabbe spoke of Pauline.
"Yes. I did not hear of it until she returned."
"She went to see him, then?"
"Yes."
"That must have been after I left. Poor girl! Well, was she very knocked up? Have you seen her?"
Ringfield shook his head and the guide attributed the action more to cold than to sympathy. His mind was made up; Ringfield must take something, must be warmed up and made fit, and whisky was the only means known to the Englishman, who did not own a "Manual of Homoeopathy". Whisky it must be. Again his hand went to the bell, and again Ringfield remonstrated, but hisgaucheutterances were of no avail in face of Crabbe's decision of character and natural lording of it. The boy appeared, the order was dispatched, and as Ringfield noticed the growing exaltation in the guide's manner, a sort of sickness stole upon him. Here, thrust into his hand, was the greatest opportunity yet given to him to preserve a human soul and to save the woman he loved, but he looked on, dazed, uncomfortable, half guilty.
"If this works you harm," he said, "it will be through me, through me.I'd rather not, Crabbe; I'd rather not."
But the word of the guide prevailed, and in three minutes a couple of hot strong glasses were on the table. Crabbe for his part was really curious. Could it be that this man, his visitor, had never tasted spirituous liquor? Wine, of course, he must have taken, being a clergyman. This thought immediately attracted him, and with a sense of its literary value he sought to question Ringfield as to the effect of the Communion wine upon a teetotal community. By this time there was no doubt the minister had suffered a severe chill and the temptation became very strong to try the hot glass that stood in front of him.
Crabbe jeered.
"What do you suppose will happen to you if you taste it, even if you drain it? What can one glass do? Nonsense. I've taken a whole bottle of Glenlivet in an evening—then you might talk!"
His hand played with the glasses, and watching him, Ringfield felt all the awful responsibility of his office. Once before he had shattered a hateful bottle, once he had lifted up his voice in self-righteous denunciation of the sin of drink and the black fruit thereof, but now he appeared helpless, paralyzed.
At what moment the evil finally entered into him and conquered him does not signify; horrible visions of Pauline and this man going away together, laughing and chatting, embracing and caressing, swam before his jaundiced eyes. To delay, to prevent the marriage had been his dream for weeks, and now he saw one way to accomplish this wished-for hindrance to their union. Should Crabbe be made drunk, should he yield again after so long abstinence from liquor, who could say what the consequences might prove? A shred only of common compunction animated him as he said: "I tell you frankly I'm afraid of the stuff. And I'm afraid for you."
Yet all this time he was watching the guide's expression.
Already the steaming fumes were working upon him; the familiar, comforting, stimulating odour was there, his hand was clasping the glass, in another moment he would drain it, then what would happen!
"Afraid! Afraid? Of one glass! Ringfield—you're a fool, a prig, and a baby. Besides, the spirit is all burnt out by this time, evaporated, flown thence. Come—I'll set you the example. Drink first and preach afterwards."
And with the peculiar gloating eye, the expressively working, watering mouth that the drunkard sometimes shows, the Englishman led off. It was a long, hot drink, but he threw his head back and never paused till he had drained the last drop, and once again tipped the glass towards his throat. Ringfield, alarmed, fascinated, deeply brooding, watched the proceeding in silence, his nature so changed that there was no impulse to seize the offending glass, dash it on the ground or pour the contents on the floor, watched ardently, hungrily, for the sequel. Would Crabbe remain as he had been after the enlivening draught, or would he by rapid and violent stages decline to the low being of former days? While Ringfield thus watched the guide the latter stared back, broadly smiling.
"Still shaking!" he cried; "still 'chilled to the bone' and shivering? You are such an impossible fellow—you will not give my remedy a chance. Perhaps whisky doesn't suit you. I know—it was gin you wanted. 'The gin within the juniper began to make him merry.' Lots of people don't know that's Tennyson. Eh, Ringfield? Afraid? Afraid of imperilling your immortal soul? Nuisance—a soul. Great nuisance. Great mistake. Well—are you or are you not going to drink this other glass? I can't see good stuff wasted. I'm astonished at you. I'm—'stonished."
He leant forward and bent his elbows on the table; the papers fluttered in all directions, but he had forgotten about them. His gaze—wide, blue and choleric—was alternately bent on Ringfield and on the tumbler.
The minister went pale, his heart beat spasmodically and his fingers curled and tingled. No power, no wish to pray was left in him, no sense of responsibility; he was too far gone in jealous vindictiveness to be his own judge or critic, and he stared at the guide, saying: "If you get drunk it is your own fault. You'll be doing it yourself. I have nothing to do with it, nothing. I will not touch the stuff, you shall not make me."
Yet he did not attempt to remove the glass and Crabbe sniffed at the tempting fumes. His right hand embraced them, his hair fell over his forehead, his eyes and mouth worked strangely, and in a twinkling what the other had foreseen happened. With an unsteady, leering flourish Crabbe raised the coveted tumbler to his lips and drank it off.
Appalled and conscience-stricken, Ringfield fell back against the door, the room being small and contracted, and covered his face with his hands. In ten minutes the guide was coarsely drunk, but sensible enough to ring the bell and demand more whisky. Committed to his wrong course, the minister interfered no longer, and suffered a servant to deliver the stuff into his hands at the door, on the plea that the gentleman inside was not very well. Thus things went from bad to worse, Crabbe noisily reciting passages from English poets and the Greek anthology, and insisting on reading his lines to Ringfield after a third "go" of spirits.
"How does this strike you?" he cried, whipping a narrow piece of writing-paper out of his pocket; "I've written many an epitaph, but none that I liked better than this:—
"Chaste I was not, neither honourable, only kind;And lo—the streets with mourners at my death were lined!"
And he added gravely that it was in the best Greek style. "I've got another, 'On a Woman Who Talked too Much,' but I can't remember it. Don't you write poetry? You don't? Oh! I remember now. You're the parson. Want to convert me, want to reform me, eh, Ringfield? You write something better than poetry—sermons. Look here—Ringfield—did you know I was intended for the Church myself at one time? I was. Honour bright—before I came out to this blasted country—excuse freedom of speech—before I knew you, and before I met Henry Clairville and Pauline."
The name seemed to convey some understanding of his condition with it, and he stopped a minute in his talk. The other man was still leaning by the door; it might be expedient to keep people of the house from seeing Crabbe's condition.
"Now—don't you say this isn't your fault," continued the guide, shaking his head wisely. "You ordered the whisky, you know you did. You were 'chilled to the bone' and you ordered it. And you're a parson all the same, can't get over that, can't help yourself, can you, Ringfield? Remember meetin' you many years ago somewhere, there was whisky too on that occasion, and you c'ngratulated me, you know, on going to be married. But you were—premature, that's what you were, Ringfield—premature. Wonder where I met you before! Must have been in the Old Country; must have been at Oxford together."
He now raised his head, and drinking off the fourth and last strong tumblerful of spirit, smiled vacantly in the other's face, and collapsed upon the table.
Ringfield, ashamed and bitter, stood and watched this sad scene with folded arms and tightly drawn mouth. Was it true? Was this his work? This dishevelled, staring-eyed, sodden, incoherent creature, shrewdly wise in his cups, had taken the place of the elegant and easy English gentleman, the educated Oxford man, dabbler in high-class verse and prospective happy bridegroom, and what woman would care to have his arm around her now? With the thought came a wave of self-righteous indignation; he had partially effected what he had hoped to bring about in some other way, the gradual but sure alienation of Crabbe from Pauline, and with a half-guilty satisfaction driving out remorse he descended and found M. Prefontaine, having first locked the door and put the key in his pocket. Explanations of his friend's seizure were made, apparently in good faith, and much solicitude expressed.
"However, I think you had better leave him entirely alone this evening, and I can look in later," concluded Ringfield, whose serious mien and clerical garb commended him; "I am familiar with his attacks and I will also see him in the morning before I leave, in case he requires anything, although by that time he will very probably have quite recovered."
This sounding perfectly frank and natural, M. Prefontaine took no more thought of the guest in No. 9, and gave Ringfield the room opposite, No. 8, from which he could listen for his friend's "attacks" and render assistance if required.
At half-past ten, therefore, he unlocked Crabbe's door, and found the guide almost as he had left him, his head on the table and his legs stretched out underneath, but Ringfield, scanning the room with a careful eye as he had done earlier in the day, on his arrival, at length perceived what he had expected and desired to see—a travelling-flask of wicker and silver-plate half hidden on the dressing table behind a tall collar-box. Turning the gas low, but not completely out, he went away quietly, again locking the door behind him. What Poussette had told him then was true, and it was this, that before his departure for Montreal the guide had purchased enough spirit to fill a large flask, and whether shallow subterfuge or not, Crabbe certainly had a standing temptation at his elbow which he must have forgotten when Ringfield entered, cold and shivering and plainly in need of a stimulant. Poussette's theory—that the Englishman had absented himself in order to enjoy a deliberate "spree" as it is called, was incorrect. Crabbe had simply brought the stuff with him from force of habit, the conventional notion of preparing for a journey, particularly in such a climate. Therefore the burden of his recent fall certainly must be laid to Ringfield, who had lifted neither voice nor hand to hinder; for while pursuing an evil course the latter seemed powerless to cast out the emotions of blinding hate and jealousy that tore at his vitals and rendered him a changed and miserable creature. The next morning he visited Crabbe again and found him, as he had hoped, absolutely sodden and useless; his elasticity and nerve, his good looks, his air of authority, having all disappeared, and a wretched physical sickness begun. He knew his plight, but did not recognize his tempter, did not mention Pauline's name and seemed to wish to be left alone. Ringfield candidly and sorrowfully made further explanations to M. Prefontaine, who promised to say nothing of the matter and to look after Crabbe as soon as he was able.
"Mlle. Clairville has written to us of the gentleman, and we regret this should have happened. You will carry her our best regards and good wishes for her wedding. These Englishmen are sometimes great drinkers, but they recover quickly."
Ringfield paid his bill and walked out as he had walked in, with the same constrained, unhappy expression, and the same cold hand grasping a florid carpet-bag. He had told M. Prefontaine that he was returning to St. Ignace, but he had no such intention; he went along Jacques Cartier Square a few yards, and then disappearing around a corner, found a quiet back street, where, over antiquated shop-fronts, he saw several cards ofappartements à louerand one with a similar legend in English. Here he entered and secured a front room, so situated that its view commanded that side of the square on which stood the Hotel Champlain. He had made up his mind to remain there until he saw Crabbe emerge, when, if possible, he would again detain, hinder, or, in some unthought-out way, keep him from St. Ignace and Miss Clairville. Thus he passed the hours, patiently waiting at his narrow window in the Rue St. Dominique for a sight of his unfortunate rival.
Now M. Alphonse Prefontaine had a friend named Lalonde, a very clever man and a member of that useful profession which lives upon the lives and secrets and follies and crimes of others—in fine, a detective, and having quite recently lost his wife (a cousin of Mme. Prefontaine) he had given up his house and come to live at the Hotel Champlain. He had been present when Ringfield first appeared in the rotunda with his countrified carpet-bag, had heard him ask for his friend, had seen him again later in the afternoon, and also in the morning, and having naturally a highly-developed trait of curiosity, had sauntered out when Ringfield did, and discovered that, instead of returning to the country, the young man with the clergyman's tie and troubled face was lodging in the next street. To anyone else, even to the Prefontaines, this would have signified nothing, but Lalonde was good at his business, and the discovery at least interested him; he could say nothing more. He, too, knew Miss Clairville well, and was expecting to see her on her wedding-day, so that it was quite natural he should express a desire to meet Crabbe, even if the latter were scarcely in a condition to receive callers. M. Prefontaine accordingly took him up, but all they saw was an exceedingly stupid, fuddled, untidy wretch who was not yet conscious of the great mistake he had made in giving way to his deplorable appetite, and who did not realize the import of what was said to him. Lalonde was sufficiently curious to examine the flask and Crabbe's valise, but he retired satisfied that the guide had not been tampered with. Drunkenness and that alone had caused the present sad state of affairs.
"—the bitter language of the heart."
The shop over which Ringfield was lodging for the time was an emporium of Catholic books, pictures and images, one of those peculiarly Lower Canadian stores in the vicinity of the Rue Notre Dame, existing side by side with Indian curio shops, and rendering it possible for the emigrant and tourist to purchase maple sugar, moccasins, and birch bark canoes at the same time that he invested in purple ribbon bookmarks, gaily painted cards of the Virgin, and tiny religious valentines with rosy bleeding hearts, silver arrows and chubby kneeling infants. Amulets and crucifixes, Keys of Heaven and lives of the Blessed Saints, cheap vases of ruby and emerald glass, candles and rosaries, would at another time have afforded Ringfield much matter for speculation, but the fact was that almost as soon as he had deposited his bag on the table of the narrow bedroom assigned to him, the cold he had so long neglected caught him seriously, and for an entire day and a half he insisted on sitting at his window when he should have been in bed. On the next day his feverish symptoms increased to such an extent that the man who owned the room and who was a widower, managing for himself, sent for a nurse. Tossing on the bed, and frequently rising to look out of the window, Ringfield fretfully objected, but his landlord was firm, and sent a message at once to the Hospital of the Incarnation, the nearest charitable institution and the parent of several flourishing branches, among which was that at Lalurette where Ringfield had thought of placing Angeel. It was early on Thursday evening when the message was sent, and at ten o'clock Archibald Groom, the shopkeeper, came to say that a person recently arrived from the country was below, but that she spoke very little English. He was not answered, and bending over the bed he saw that his lodger was delirious, eyes glassy and staring and head rolling from side to side, with high colour and stertorous breathing.
To call the nurse, who was waiting in the shop, was the work of an instant; she came quickly and noiselessly up the dark stair and saw at once a case of brain fever, partly brought on by exposure and neglected cold, also recognizing in the sick man the well-known minister at St. Ignace and her husband'sprotégé.
Mme. Poussette, for it was she, possessed more discretion than sense, and more sense than wit; she looked calmly upon her patient as upon a stranger and set about her work in silence.
Meanwhile Edmund Crabbe, on partially recovering from his first fit of intemperance, sat up, and perceiving the well-filled flask he had brought with him, seized it, and began afresh upon its contents. He had left St. Ignace on Monday morning, and it was now Thursday; Henry Clairville was dead and buried; the funeral obsequies being of a complex nature, shabby and ornate, dignified and paltry, leisurely and hurried, while the ceremony was at least well attended, since, as Dr. Renaud had said, a Seigneur did not die every day. Profuse in the matter of lappets, crucifixes, and in the number of voluble country-folk and stout serious-lipped priests, Father Rielle, who had charge of the proceedings, was compelled to accommodate himself to circumstances, or fate, or "the Will of God," in the shape of the Archambaults—who, as Pauline foresaw, had all returned, this time to claim their own.
The disappearance of Mme. Poussette occasioned no comment; for two days after the death of Henry Clairville no one spoke to her or thanked her for all she had done, and while the funeral was in progress she put her few things in a box, and counting a small store of money Poussette had given her from time to time, went with Antoine Archambault to the station at Bois Clair, and was no more seen at St. Ignace. Of all the characters in this simple history, none perhaps was so sincerely deserving as this unfortunate Mme. Poussette, and as she passes from the stormy little village in behind the gate of the serene but busy hospital, it is pleasant to contemplate the change there in store for her. To many women who are plain and unattractive in the ever-varying hat and gown of fashion, and who, if they try to hold their own, must sooner or later resort to artificial aids to attain even moderate good looks, there is yet a refuge, that of some severe and never-changing style of dress or uniform, which bestows upon them another kind of beauty. The kitchen dish or utensil has its charm as well as the sprigged china of the closet; the jug going to the well is as grateful to the eye as the prismatic beaker upon the table, and, in like manner, the banded or braided hair, the perfect cleanliness of fresh print or linen and the straight serviceable lines of skirt and waist often contribute to make a plain woman fully as attractive as her prettier sisters. Thus Mme. Poussette, about whom there was never anything repulsive or vulgar, presented new features to the world in her exquisitely neat hospital garb; more than this, she liked her work, and gradually her expression grew less vacant; she left off humming and whispering to herself, and we leave her thus, contented, respected and of use, and, therefore, almost happy.
Indeed, many there are beside Mme. Natalie Poussette who find as life slips by and the feverish quest of happiness dies within them, that they become happy almost without knowing it in the pursuit of other things once despised, such as work, friendship, the need of earning, or the love of an abstract subject. What a contrast then does this "afflicted," this "peculiar" one afford to the restless, imaginative, gifted but unstable Pauline, in whom the quest of happiness had so far only resulted in entanglement and riot of conflicting emotions!
As she remained much indoors at this time, awaiting Crabbe's return, she dwelt much on the past, words rising to utterance that she thought would never be heard on earth touching the problems of her lonely childhood, her meeting with Crabbe, her aversion to her brother; also, the brighter pictures of the future in which she already lived the life of a London beauty and belle, or crossed to Paris and continued buying for her trousseau. Miss Cordova, with the superior wisdom of a mother, let her friend talk and agreed with all she said; her own opinion of Pauline's choice in men was not in the guide's favour, but she saw it was too late to interfere. The story of Angeel was now cleared up and, had Ringfield remained in the village, he would have learnt as well as the rest of the unexpected parentage of that poor child, and of the turn in the affairs of the country-side which brought the Archambaults on top. However wasted and however dilapidated, the Clairville domain and Manor House was one of the oldest in the province, and it began to be rumoured that a considerable fortune existed in Henry's collection of books and memoirs, offers for which were already reaching the helpless widow and mother of Angeel.
Occupied with her own dreams, Miss Clairville took little notice of her home under a new regime, and day by day she watched instead for the return of her lover, bringing definite arrangements for the marriage. There seemed at least a diminution other natural active outlook on life as a whole, and if she feared from Crabbe's rather dilatory methods that their union was in danger from too long delay, she did not say so, even to her confidante. The latter was bent upon carrying through her project with regard to Maisie and Jack, but this could not be effected until the spring, and thus, without the stimulus of the Englishman's presence, and with the remembrance of death and agitation so recently in their midst, both women were quieter than usual.
As for Ringfield, no one missed him very acutely until Saturday morning, when, upon the receipt of a letter from Mme. Prefontaine, "Poussette's" was thrown into considerable excitement. Pauline, who could rarely keep anything to herself, read her letter aloud and immediately jumped up in terror.
"Why did not some one tell me they were together; together, at theHotel Champlain? I tell you—something will happen!"
"To which of them?" asked Miss Cordova satirically. In spite of a good deal of nonsense in her composition, there was an under-stratum of shrewd wisdom, inherited, no doubt, from her New England mother, and her admiration for her more brilliant friend did not blind her to certain irregularities of disposition and many weak points in Pauline's character, inseparable from her abnormal bringing up. "I wouldn't excite myself so much if I were you," continued the other. "I've learnt not to worry about men harming other men; it's when they come to harming women I think it's time to worry about them. Look at me—I don't know for certain whether Ned Stanbury's alive or not; I know Schenk's alive, although he may not last long, but I never worry about their meeting. But if Schenk came here to disturb me, or went to my mother's to get the children from her, then I might take on."
"But, my dear, everything's different in my case!" exclaimed MissClairville, fretfully pacing up and down the common room.
A village dressmaker, one of the numerous Tremblays, had, in a great hurry, made her a black dress; her face showed sallow against it now, and even her hands, always conspicuously well-kept and white, looked yellow and old as they hung down at the side of her tall, straight figure, or clasped and unclasped restlessly behind her. A key to much of her present unhappy mood lay in her last exclamation; family pride, another kind of pride in her personal knowledge of the world, in her consciousness of gifts and physical attractions, the feeling that she was in every way Miss Cordova's superior, all this rendered Pauline's affairs, in her own eyes, of vastly greater importance and intrinsic excellence and interest than those of her companion. A Clairville—there could be no doubt of this—was a lady, a gentlewoman, to use an incorruptible phrase, whereas, no matter how unsmirched the simple annals of Sadie Cordova, the small farm, the still smaller shop were behind the narrow beginnings of the painstaking and pious Yankee shoemaker who retired in middle life to the country and died there. Pauline's father and brother, both weakly degenerates, could nevertheless boast of a lineage not inconsiderable for older lands, of possessions identified with the same, such as portraits and books and furniture, of connexions through marriage with the law and the militia, and, above all, of having lived on their land for very many years without doing anything, most distinguished trait of all. Hence, Pauline's remark; how could Miss Cordova fully understand or properly sympathize with the altered conditions by which the daughter of the manor was now second in importance to one of a family of menials, the flighty, giggling, half-witted Artemise-Palmyre, whose marriage to Henry Clairville was an accepted fact.
"You cannot understand," Pauline had said for the tenth or eleventh time, and Miss Cordova listened, outwardly smiling and not immediately replying.
"Do you suppose your brother's marriage was legal and binding?" she said after a while, and Pauline stopped in her walk. The idea was not altogether new.
"I fancy it must have been," she managed to say carelessly. "Dr. Renaud and his Reverence know all about it, and even if it were not, where is the money to enable me to—how do you say—contest it?"
"Wouldn't Mr. Poussette lend it to you?"
"Oh, what an idea! Do you think I would take it from him, I, aClairville?"
She had nearly used the once-despised prefix and called herself a De Clairville, for since Henry's death her intolerant view of his darling project had strangely altered; so many things were slipping from her grasp that she clutched at anything which promised well for the future.
"Well, I'm sure you deserve money, Pauline, from one quarter or another; you've worked hard enough for it, I know, and now I do hope your Mr. Hawtree will turn up soon and be all right, and that you'll be happily married to him and get away for a time from all these troubles. I want you should know, Pauline, that I think it was noble of you to work so hard to raise that money to keep little Angeel; yes, I call it noble, and I'm proud of you and sorry I ever thought——"
She paused and Pauline took up the unfinished phrase.
"Sorry you ever thought she was mine? I forgive you, my dear, but about my nobility, make no mistake. What I did I did, but I did it all coldly, passively, with nothing but hatred and loathing in my heart, with nothing but pride and selfishness setting me on to do it. I know this was wrong, but I could not get into any other frame of mind; I could never overcome my horror and repulsion of the whole matter. And now—it is just as bad—worse. If I thought I should have to live with her, with them, I could not stand it, Sara, I could not, I could not! Why must I be tried so, why must I suffer so? Oh, it is because I have a bad heart, a bad nature! Yes, yes, that must be it! I have a bad nature, Sara, a bad, bad nature!"
"No, no, Pauline!" said her friend soothingly, and the matter dropped.
Later they were sitting, towards evening, sewing at some item of the impalpable trousseau, Pauline alternating her spasmodic needle with reading over Mme. Prefontaine's letter and jumping up to listen down the stair.
"What do you expect's happened, anyhow?" cried Miss Cordova at last, in exasperation. "Mr. Ringfield's a clergyman! he's a perfectly moral man, and I guess that means something. What are you afraid of? Now if it was me and Schenk or Stanbury——"
Pauline's attitude and expression were alike tragic. In her cheap black dress her look of apprehensive despair was full of mournful intensity as she stood with one hand lifted and her expressive eyes fixed on shapes imaginary. Her friend's philosophy was equal to the occasion.
"Seems to me if you think so much about things thatmighthappen but you ain't sure theyhavehappened, you kind ofmake'em happen. Sit down and be calm, for goodness sake, Pauline!"
"I can't, I can't! Oh, what's that now?"
With her hands over her heart she bounded to the top of the narrow stair.
"Reminds me of myself the other day when I thought Schenk was after me.Do you hear anything, Pauline—you look so wild?"
"Yes, yes! Some one has arrived.Grand Dieu—which of them?Sara—go and see!"
Miss Cordova rose and drew her friend back within the room.
"Maybe it's neither; only some one for M. Poussette."
"No, no, it is one of them and for me. I hear my name."
She sank upon a chair as footsteps were heard slowly, heavily, and somewhat unsteadily ascending the stair. The arrival was Edmund Crabbe, with the lurch of recent dissipation in his gait and his blue eyes still inflamed and bleared.
With a half-furtive, half-defiant air he advanced to Pauline, but before he could utter a word, either of justification or apology, she sprang at him with impetuous gestures and deeply frowning brows. To see her thus, in the common little room at Poussette's, clad in the plain garb of cheap mourning, yet with all the instinctive fire and grandeur of the emotional artist, was to recall her as many could, declaiming on the narrow stage of the Theatre of Novelties.
Je suis Romaine, helas! puisque Horace est Romain.J'ai reçevu son titre en reçevant sa main,
or again, in the diaphanous rose-garlanded skirts of Marguerite Gautier, laying bare the secrets of her heart to her adoring lover. Oblivious of Miss Cordova, Pauline rushed at her own lover but did not embrace him.
"Oh, where is he?" she cried. "What have you done to him?—or with him? I insist upon the truth; I must know, I must know all. He followed you!"
"He did, he did. He followed me, as you say, madam, but what of that?" Crabbe stood, greatly astonished and rather mortified. In the presence of Miss Cordova, for Pauline to display such concern for the other man was, to say the least, annoying. To be dignified in his resentment was to invite ridicule, for the drink still showed in his walk, but he managed to frown and in other ways show honest astonishment and wrath. "A nice welcome!" he went on, with difficulty repressing a certain thickness of utterance and steadying himself as well as he was able, the chairs being both occupied. "If you mean the parson, if these airs and sighs, these sulks and tender concerns are for him—you may spare yourself. He is all right. Though I beg pardon—you never sulk, Pauline, whatever you do. I'll swear to that, lady dear. 'Tis good and hot and strong while it lasts, and now I'm back, give it me, for I know I deserve it. I've been at it again, Pauline. Drink, I mean, my girl." Tears stood in his eyes.
"I understand. You need explain no further. But what do you mean about Mr. Ringfield—how is he all right? Where is he? I was afraid, afraid of something happening to one of you. Sara laughs, but she doesn't know how I feel."
"And never will!" said Crabbe, giving Pauline's shoulder a clumsy, caressing pat; "Miss Cordova has her points, but she is not Us, she is not We of the grand emotional parts! Just a bundle of emotions, nerves and impulses—that's all you are, madam!"
His affection, breaking through the still thick speech and weakened movements, was irresistible; Pauline sighed and smiled, shook off her tremors and allowed herself to descend with him to the dining-room, where over supper she listened to the recital of his adventure in Montreal.
"It was the cold then, that made you, that drove you to it again!" she said thoughtfully.
"Cold, and—and—loneliness. I was lonely, Pauline, and by Heaven—if you'll really take me, lady dear, the sooner we're married the better. If your parson were in the house at this moment I should order him to perform the ceremony."
"Oh—that would not suit me! Mr. Ringfield—of course, that could not be. We must leave as soon as possible, that is all, and as this is the nineteenth, and we have arranged for the twenty-fourth, that is only four days to wait."
"Four days! I'll keep straight, I promise you, Pauline."
"And was he—was Mr. Ringfield with you much at the Hotel Champlain?What did he do there? Why did he go?"
Crabbe, to tell the truth, was asking that same question of his brain, as he made heroic endeavours to recollect the details of his last debauch. He paused, and, with a trick characteristic of him, pushed away his plate and cup, although he had only begun his meal.
"That's what I'd like to know myself, Pauline. I was sitting at the table, smoking, and reading over some of my stuff—poor stuff it seems to me at times; however let that pass—when a knock came to the door, and I opened to our clerical friend! That's all I can remember."
"How did he look? How long did he stay? Do try and recollect. Try and answer."
Crabbe did try, but without avail.
"That's all I know, my dear girl. I must have been pretty bad."
"You must, indeed," said Miss Clairville, rising. A little of the hauteur Ringfield associated with her showed in her bearing, and as the guide drew his food again towards him, she eyed him almost with disfavour. "Then you do not know where he is, or what he went for, or how long he stayed."
"I do not, lady dear—I do not."
Pauline was deeply mystified, and perhaps her vanity was also touched; the mental spectacle of the two men fighting each other for possession of her had faded and a certain picturesqueness had gone from life. However, her marriage remained; she had four days, but only four, to make ready in anticipation of the great event which was to remove her at once and for ever from St. Ignace and Clairville, and in the light of which even Crabbe's backsliding seemed a trivial matter. She therefore returned to Sadie Cordova with restored equanimity, and Ringfield—his avowal and his present whereabouts and condition yielded to those prenuptial dreams and imaginings which pursued even so practised a coquette and talented woman of the world as the once brilliant Camille and Duchess of Gerolstein. Nevertheless, agitation was in the air. Poussette went to and fro in much and very voluble distress. The night closed in and brought no letter, no telegram from Ringfield; how then—who, who would conduct the service? It was the week of Christmas and a few more were already in the village, members of families from afar and two or three visitors.
The feast of Noël is full of importance to all of the Romish faith, and Poussette knew of great things in preparation for the stone church on the hill of St. Jean Baptiste in the way of candles, extra music and a kind of Passion-play in miniature representing the manger, with cows and horses, wagons and lanterns, the Mother and Child, all complete. Should Ringfield not return——even as he spoke the wooden clock in the kitchen pointed to ten; the last train had passed through Bois Clair and Poussette abandoned all hope, while in order to prove his intense and abject depression of mind, he broke his promise to the minister and helped himself to some whisky.
Thus, the absence of his mentor worked this unfortunate relapse, and should Crabbe find out, there looked to be an old-time celebration at Poussette's with Pauline and Pauline's rights entirely forgotten. As it was, Miss Cordova caught the culprit before he was quite lost, and mounting guard over the bar, entered upon those duties which, once shouldered, remained hers for a considerable length of time.
"Division of labour," she said smartly, and Poussette gave a foolish smile. "You take the kitchen and I'll take the bar. Then when Maisie and Jack arrive I can look after 'em. As like as not, Maisie'll be hanging round for a drop of lager—what she could get, that is, out of the glasses—I've seen her! And don't you fuss about Sunday, Mr. Poussette! We'll get on just as well as if we had a church to go to and a sermon to listen to. Guess you won't be wanting to see yourself taking around the plate to-morrow, anyway."
Poussette, lying crumpled up in a reclining chair, watched his new friend with dawning reason and admiration.
"Fonny things happens," said he, wagging his head, "I'll go to sleepnow and wake up—just in time—you'll see—to go to church, help Mr.Ringfield take roun' the money—oh—I'll show you, I'll show you, MissCordova."
"You'll show me, will you?" said the barkeeper, absently. "What'll you do if he don't come at all? He can't come now, and you know it."
"I tell you—fonny things happens! I'll preach myself, read from theBible, sure."
"The calm oblivious tendencies of nature."
Probably the most beautiful spectacle ever afforded by the natural world is that of a complete and far-reaching ice-storm, locally known as a glissade, transcending in delicate aerial fantasy the swiftly changing faint green panorama of early spring or the amber hazes of opulent autumn. A true and perfect glissade is comparatively rare; like a fine display of the auroral arches, another wonder in the visible universe, or the vast expanding and nobly symbolical rainbow, it does not often occur, nor when it does, is it always a spectacle of permanence as well as beauty. The conditions under which it develops may frequently exist in the upper atmosphere, but to ensure the magical and lovely effects which so singularly transform the plainest landscape, these conditions must remain unchanged for a certain length of time in order that the work of crystallization may be thoroughly carried out. The movements and fluctuating currents of the air do not often long maintain this tranquil and stationary poise, and consequently we may sometimes witness attempts on the part of Nature to create these distinctive and wondrous results which are quickly doomed to thaw and oblivion. In the next place it follows that what we see so seldom must greatly impress us because of its unfamiliarity and from the fact that its evanescence renders its loveliness more precious; the element of surprise increases our enjoyment, and all the more since the materials in use are the oldest and most familiar in the world. Then, to crown the work, there is not at any other season of the year or during any variation of a winter climate, anything more soothing, entrancing, more grateful and refreshing than the texture of the air itself, the feeling of the air during the period of suspended atmospheric action. It is not joyous, but it is better than joy. There is nothing violent, nothing extreme; there is no dust, no flurry, no glare. It is not cold but only pleasantly, smoothly cool, and the final impression is one of temporary transportation to some calm celestial region of infinite peace and purity.
Standing at the left of Poussette's church on the brink of the Fall, the eye, on the Monday following Crabbe's ignominious return, would have rested lovingly upon such a scene of enchantment. The great triple ledges of water which formed the cascade were only partially frozen, and the spray, still dashing in parts against the rocks and bare branches standing around them, seemed to congeal in mid-air, while the tall pines spreading on either hand were bending from their normal by weight of icy trappings. So much for the general effect—of a soft yet crystalline whiteness covering and outlining every object—but in detail, what a marvel of delicate tracery, what a miracle of intricate interlacing of frosted boughs! Every twig was encased in a transparent cylinder of flashing ice, every hillock crusted over with freshly fallen snow; the evergreens, in shape like giant algae, drooped wide fans to the earth, painted, spangled, and embroidered with glittering encrustations; the wires across the river from Bois Clair to Montmagny were harps of shining silver strings, the rough fences turned to graceful arabesques, the houses changed to domes and turrets and battlements of marble.
The sun was veiled as yet, but occasionally from behind the greyish-white of a cloudless spreading sky a pale yellow gleam stole forth, creating fires of prismatic rose and violet in each glassy twig and leaf. At these times, too, there woke and stirred a faint, faint wind, almost a warm wind, and then, here and there, a little cushion or mat or flag of snow would fall, or an icy stem break off. The silence was absolute, animal life appeared suspended, the squirrels no longer ran chattering in quest of food, as on mild days they will near habitations, no bird was seen or heard. This state of coma or trance held all created things, and as with most Canadian scenery, small chance was there for sentiment; the shepherd of the Lake country or the mountaineer of Switzerland were not represented by any picturesque figure, although small spirals of smoke floated up from the straggling settlements, and a habitant wife sometimes looked out from a door or a window, her face dark and shrivelled for the most part, and with clumsy woollen wraps thrown around head and shoulders.
The absence of human interest and the silence intensified the serene splendours of the forest and great Fall on such a day as this, when growth and change had reached a standstill and when the cool brooding of the air recalled the moments before dawn or the remote and unnatural quiescence that marks an eclipse. To walk near the forest would mean to encounter huge mounds of snow hiding the levelled logs and boulders, stalactites of ponderous icicles depending from the tree trunks where the openings faced the light and the sun; farther in, and once safely past these glacial outposts, scarcely any signs of storm appeared; last year's leaves, still matted together underfoot, were tangled with the green vine of the creeping linnaea and a rare root of the lustrous winter-green. Here, beneath the thick canopy of branches not all devoid of their foliage since many larches and pines were to be found there, was another climate; coming from that bland whiteness which was not cold, these dark arcades of forest struck chills to the feet and face; damp odours rose from rotting mould and wood not protected by a snowy covering, and broad sallow fungi, wide enough to sit upon, looked of an unearthly tint in the drear half-light.
Naturally the sight of these glittering plains and frosted forests, unusual even in that land of snow and ice, called for sightseers, and at Poussette's every one had been up early to gaze on the outside world, among whom were Miss Clairville and Crabbe, the latter feeling his recent backsliding very keenly. Pauline had now finally packed her little trousseau and other belongings, and arrangements were being made to enable Poussette to leave his business and Miss Cordova her sewing; the party of four were to descend on the Hotel Champlain on Wednesday, the wedding would take place on Thursday, the married couple sailing at once for Liverpool.
Leaning on her lover's arm, Pauline therefore easily found warmth and words with which to admire the landscape spread before her, for was she not soon to leave it, exchanging these frigid and glacial glories for life in a European capital, and, once for all, abandoning all ideas of a career and relegating everything at St. Ignace and Clairville to a place in her memory? Beautiful, then, she found it, and gaily proposing a walk along the decorated road, suddenly remembered Angeel and resolved to visit her and say good-bye. Crabbe demurred.
"Why should you?" he said, with the nettled intolerance of a being angry with himself, and prone to visit his ill-temper on others.
"But I must, Edmund! I meant to before. If Henry had not died, or if we had never found out about the other matter, I would have gone!"
"I see no reason. The brat has its mother, hasn't it?"
"Oh, don't be so hard! Yes, yes, of course, but she might like to remember me, wish to see me once again,—it may be for the last time."
"Gad—I think it will. I'm not worth much, 'pon my soul, but I can take you away and save you from all this annoyance. I hate every hour of delay, I dislike this loafing about here now. I wish—by Heaven! I were leaving Poussette's this minute for good and all."
His eye roved discontentedly over the forest and road, and then came back wistfully to Pauline. It was evident that his affection was of a sincere and unselfish order, and that with her to shield and serve and with her lively handsome personality as his constant companion, he might yet recover lost ground and be the man he might have been.
"I keep telling you that we have not so long to wait," she said brightly, as she went indoors to get ready for the walk, and Crabbe, turning his gaze in the direction of the bridge, became interested in the aspect of the Fall, still thundering down in part over those mighty ledges, except where the ice held and created slippery glaciers at whose feet ran the cold brown river for a few hundred yards till it was again met by fields of shining ice. Two objects caught his eye, one, the golden cross on the church over at Montmagny, the only one of its kind in the valley and much admired, the other, a curious spot of reddish colour at the far end of the bridge. The cross he soon tired of, but the bit of red aroused his curiosity; it seemed almost square, like a large book or package, and was apparently propped up against the stonework that supported the bridge. What it was, he did not trouble to conjecture, and as Miss Clairville came out with several parcels which he took from her, he forgot the circumstance as he turned and walked a few steps with her. Thus, her quicker brain was not directed to an explanation of the blot of red; had she seen it, and solved it, which was highly probable, the events of the day might have been vastly different.
"What are these things?" said Crabbe, fingering the parcels with a fretful note in his voice.
"Just some little presents, little trifles for her, Angeel. Nothing I cannot spare, Edmund. She belongs to me, after all. I shall never see her again, and I must not do less for her than for Maisie and Jack. You are coming with me? It is not worth while. I prefer to go alone,mon ami."
"Why not? A walk with you may keep me out of mischief, although with your theatrical friend mounting guard over Poussette I think I can promise you abstinence for the next few days."
Miss Clairville stopped in her brisk walk and searched his worn face."You are not well," she said suddenly, "you are not looking well."
He raised his arms, then dropped them with a kind of whimsical desperation. "How can I be well, or look well? My pride has suffered as well as my health. I'm ill, ashamed, and sorry. What'll we do, Pauline, if I can't keep sober?"
He had often said this to her, but never with such depth of sorrowful meaning as now.
"What shall we do, lady dear?" he repeated in a helpless, fretful murmur. "What shall we do?"
Her figure stiffened, she was again the tragic muse, the woman of the world with experience and authority behind her, and, woman-like, as he weakened, she grew stronger.
"You are not likely to," she cried with a fine encouraging gesture. "It is possible, I admit, but not probable. For you, Edmund, as well as for me, it is new places, new images, for the snows of this forlorn, this desolate, cold Canada; the boulevards of Paris, for the hermit's cell in the black funereal forest.—There goes your friend Martin now,voilà!B'jour, Martin."
"B'jour, mademoiselle!"
"Those apartments you spoke of in London, in German Street. Tell me—is that some colony where musicians, perhaps, gather, or the long-haired art students I have heard so much about?"
Crabbe stared.
"Students! Colony! Jermyn Street? Oh—I see—GermanStreet—I see,I understand."
He laughed, but not quite freely—spontaneously. Indeed, so much did he feel some unaccustomed stress, he did not stop to set her right. What did her ignorance of a certain London locality matter? what did anything matter just now but the one leading uppermost thought—let nothing prevent our leaving this place together and leaving it soon, no failure of mine, no caprice of hers, no interference of another? New resolution showed in his features; he dropped her hand which he had been holding and turned back towards Poussette's.
"You are right, as usual," he said soberly. "There's no need for me to go with you. I'll turn home-along as they used to say in Devonshire, and try to do a little writing while I can, for after to-morrow I fear it will not be easy. So good-bye to you, lady dear, good-bye for an hour or two, good-bye!"
A little chilled by standing, in spite of that soft wind, Pauline ran lightly along towards Lac Calvaire, conscious always of her fine appearance and humming operatic snatches as she ran, bent upon an errand, which if not precisely one of mercy was yet one prompted by good-will and a belated sisterliness. The glowing prospects ahead opened her heart, not by nature a hard one, and happy in the character ofgrande dameand patron of the afflicted she went forth briskly on her long walk at first. She reflected that her thirtieth birthday was past, but that before a year had elapsed she would be firmly planted abroad enjoying plenty of money, change of scene, and variety of occupation, and even should Crabbe relapse, she saw herself rejuvenated and strong in hope, capable of studying fresh parts beneath a new and stimulating sky. Yet under these comforting reflections there lurked an uneasy fear; the Clairville streak in her made her suspicious of her present happiness, and as she perceived the well-known reddish gables of her home, through the surrounding pines and snow, a qualm of unrest shot through her. It was only a week since she had driven away with Dr. Renaud, and here she was, again drawn by irresistible force towards the detested Manor House of her fathers, now completely in the hands of the Archambaults, with the giggling, despised Artémise and the afflicted Angeel seated in possession, and this unrest, this fear, was intimately concerned with the future and the fate of Ringfield.
She said to herself as if speaking to Miss Cordova:—
"You have not felt the force of that strong character pushing against your own, nor the terrible grip of that hand-pressure, nor the insistence of those caresses which hurt as well as delighted, so different from the lazy, careless little appropriations of my present lover,—pats and kisses he might give to a child."
Ringfield's arms had drawn her to him till she could have cried out with fear, his eyes had shudderingly gazed into hers as if determined to wrest any secret she possessed, his lips had pained her with the fierce anger and despair of those two long kisses he had pressed upon her own—how could she forget or belittle such wooing as that, so different from Crabbe's leisurely, complacent courting! She neither forgot nor underrated, but she had deliberately and cruelly left one for the other, and deep in her heart she knew that something sinister, something shocking and desperate, might yet befall, and what she feared to hear was of Ringfield's suicide, for she fancied him capable of this final act of self-pity and despair.
By the time she reached Clairville the sun was again shining and the beauty of the glissade beginning to wane. Dark-haired Archambaults flitted about behind dingy windows—and, wondrous sight on a mid-December day—the white peacock, tempted by the calm air, was taking a walk in the wintry garden. Pauline summoned up her courage to enter the house and was rewarded by the hysterical delight of Angeel, brought up to admire and adore this haughty relation, who was soon dispensing her small bounties in order to make the visit as short as possible.