Ringfield Part 16

"'Tis never too late to be polite. I'm putting my watch back into my pocket, and I'll go with you, Father Rielle. My refuge--a temporary one--is no longer needed, it's lightening very considerably, and I suppose you'll be going on to Clairville."

"But what am I to do?" exclaimed Pauline. "I would rather not be left here alone!"

"I am afraid you must make up your mind to that. Poussette's horse is hardly fit to be driven. Let Father Rielle take him to the Manor House and then come back for you with one of the others."

This was agreed upon, the two men left at once and for the s.p.a.ce of ten or fifteen minutes she was alone. At the end of that time she could hear footsteps on a rapid run, and soon Edmund Crabbe re-entered the barn. The cool air had invigorated him, and he flung off his cap and faced her.

"I could not leave you in that summary fas.h.i.+on, after so long," he said, "after so long, Pauline! Well--I have lived to be of some service to you--or so I think. Whether Platonic or not, you had better not encourage his reverence to that extent again, do you hear? A veritable Ca.s.sius of a man! And, by the way, you are looking very well just now, lady dear. I never saw you handsomer, Pauline!"

Miss Clairville's colour, already high, leaped more redly in her cheeks and she trembled; the ancient power that this man held over her, the ring of his rich English inflections, the revival of habit and a.s.sociation made her weak as water, so that she suddenly sat down and could find nothing to say. But Crabbe was quite at his ease, the encounter with Father Rielle had sharpened his wits and given him a restored opinion of himself, and in Pauline he saw a very handsome and attractive, warm-hearted and talented woman, still young and once very dear to him. The dormant affection in both was near the surface and Crabbe, knowing from her silence and downcast eyes how she felt, put some check on himself.

"Small use to either of us," he sighed, "to renew those pa.s.sionate scenes of our youth! But I can still admire you and wish with all my heart--my heart you doubtless think black and altogether corrupt, Pauline--that you were for me to win afresh and wear openly this time, and that I might offer you a future unsullied. I suppose that your Methodist parson is after you, too, and that he will be the lucky one!

He's handsome, d----n him--and steady as mountains; he does thy work, O Duty, and knows it not. I have little doubt but that flowers bend before him in their beds, that fragrance in his footing treads, and that the most ancient heavens----what's the rest of it? But you know, Pauline, you know you'll never be happy with him!"

Miss Clairville murmured something he did not catch, and it was a marvel to see how completely she lost her gay, a.s.sertive air, her das.h.i.+ng theatrical address in the presence of the guide.

"He's been at me several times about reforming. Well, if I did what would there be for me here? A big, long purse, Pauline, that's what I want--a big, long purse, my girl, and then you and I might leave this place and all these old harrowing a.s.sociations. What about that Hawthorne business? Do you ever hear?"

"Sometimes," whispered Miss Clairville. "Antoine, as you may have noticed, acts for me. I give him the money, but I never go myself. I could not bear to see it--to see her--and it is not necessary."

"Poor girl!" said Crabbe, with much feeling. "It's hard on you, d.a.m.ned hard, I know. What's the matter? Oh--the swearing! I'm sorry, live too much by myself--forget myself. But Pauline, almost I think Father Rielle's advice will have to be followed. It would be a haven--a haven--better than the stage. If I could reform, could change my skin and lose my spots--but no! Even the fulminations of your latest admirer cannot work that miracle--I'm incorrigible! When I think of what I was, of what I might have been, and of what I am, despair seizes on me and then I'm only fit for--the bottle! There's no help for me, I'm afraid. Why, Pauline, this is Heaven's truth--I'm not perfectly sober now."

As he spoke, again were heard footsteps on a run outside the barn.

"I know you're not," said Miss Clairville in agitation, "but I don't shrink from you as I used to do. Perhaps it was my fault. Oh--who can this be? Father Rielle returning?"

"Hardly. He was told to drive back for you. It's some one seeking shelter, like ourselves. Hark--the hail is stopping, and now the thunder and lightning and a good old-fas.h.i.+oned midwinter storm!"

"I know who it is," said she, still more hurriedly, and pus.h.i.+ng Crabbe towards the ladder,--"it is Mr. Ringfield. You must go back to the loft. I could not have him meet you here. He thinks--he thinks--you know what he thinks."

"And he's not far wrong, either," said Crabbe complacently. "But perhaps I'd better do as you say; don't detain him now. When he's gone I'll get you out of this somehow."

Thus in a few minutes Ringfield entered the barn, found Pauline, as he supposed alone; but afterwards, watching from the high road, saw the guide emerge and noted the familiar relation in which they stood in front of the stricken pine.

More than simple religious feeling entered at this moment Ringfield's young and untried heart, his vanity was deeply wounded, and the thought that Miss Clairville could allow Edmund Crabbe to caress her was like irritating poison in his veins. Yet he was in this respect unfair and over-severe; the fact being that Pauline very soon observed, on coming into closer contact with the guide, the traces of liquor, and she then adroitly kept him at a distance, for in that moment of disenchantment Ringfield's image again came uppermost.

It was not possible for her to be wise either before or after the event; she had not sufficient coldness nor shrewdness of character to enable her to break with all these conflicting surroundings and begin life over again as she had eloquently described to the priest, for without money she could not leave St. Ignace, and she could not raise the money without taking some situation which might unfit her for the stage and prolong the time of probation too far into middle life.

Pauline might age early, and at thirty-five she saw herself maturing into a gaunt and grizzled dame, incapable of all poetic and youthful impersonations. To be thus crippled was torture to her lively imagination, and in this _danse macabre_ of thought, a grim procession of blasted hopes, withered ideals and torturing ambitions, her mind gave itself first to one issue, then to another, while it was clear that her position at St. Ignace was fast growing untenable and that something would have to be done.

To live at Poussette's on the charity of its host was, although the sister of the seigneur, to invite insult. To yield a second time to the ingratiating addresses of the guide was to lose her self-respect, while to indulge in and encourage a pure affection for Ringfield was a waste of time. She recognized the truth of Crabbe's candid statement--how could she do the young man such an injustice as to marry him!

CHAPTER XVII

REVELRY BY NIGHT

"Two pa.s.sions both degenerate, for they both Began in honour, ..."

The scene in the kitchen of the Manor House presented a forcible contrast to the wild world without. The near approach of winter and the news that M. Clairville was convalescent and well enough to receive visitors had brought the Abercorns from Hawthorne to pay their somewhat belated respects--they had never called before--and their arrival at the _metairie_ created much astonishment. The rate at which the mare had raced through the Turneresque "Hail, Snow and Rain" relaxed as she neared Lac Calvaire, and they were able to disembark (in the language of the country) in safety if not in comfort at the door opened by Mme.

Poussette. The parishes being nine miles apart, one entirely French, the other mostly English, not much gossip penetrated, and the Rev.

Marcus and his wife were startled to hear that Henry Clairville had left his room, walked all over his house and even reached half-way to the bridge one afternoon. But as they were both cold and fatigued, madame led them (and shortly after Dr. Renaud and Poussette as well), by dark and tortuous paths, to her kitchen, a large room built on the generous scale of the seventeenth century, with a deep overhanging fireplace, and thick, arched recesses serving as closets, and furnished with swinging shelves and numerous bins where the provisions sent in periodically by Poussette were safely stored, thus being well protected from the rigours of a Lower Canadian winter.

Mrs. Abercorn was glad to come to the fire, her short squat figure lost in the depths of a chair which Mme. Poussette had found in one of the disused rooms, padded and carved, but also torn and moth-eaten; nevertheless a comfortable refuge on such a day, and soon the reverend lady sank into a soothing slumber, while her husband read from a book he carried in his pocket.

It grew dark and madame was lighting a couple of lamps when the priest and Ringfield entered. Explanations were in order, but as neither of them mentioned Edmund Crabbe, Miss Clairville's true position was not made known, and it was arranged that as soon as somebody's clothes were sufficiently dried and somebody's horse rubbed down and fed, somebody should pick her up at Leduc's barn and so return with her to St. Ignace.

"Of course _you_ will go, Dr. Renaud," said Mrs. Abercorn, waking up abruptly and joining in the conversation with her usual judicial air.

"But take some supper first."

"Has not mademoiselle already waited overlong?" exclaimed Poussette.

"It is nearly six o'clock and dark--shall I not return now, and bring her back with me?"

"I think not," said the doctor, who partly understood the situation.

"She will not expect to reach Clairville at all to-night, and, as Mrs.

Abercorn says, as soon as I have something to eat, and a little to wash it down with--I myself shall go for her. Here, Poussette--off with your coat! Stir yourself now, and bring us the best the manor affords.

It's no secret that since Mme. Archambault and her tribe have cleared out, we are masters of all contained in these generous closets--these roomy cellars I have heard of so often. Madame--the cloth, if you please, the dishes, the plates! Poussette--the wine, the old liqueurs, the gla.s.ses!"

"But sir, consider the fate of ma'amselle!" cried Poussette piteously.

"She is alone--oh, poor lady--in Leduc's barn, without light, without warmth, with nothing to eat or drink! How then--do you wish to desert her?"

"Not I," said the doctor composedly. "But I know mademoiselle, she is true Canadienne, not afraid of a little snow, a little storm! And the secret of my profession is--always to eat and always to drink when good food and good drink are going. Madame, make haste there!"

"If I could a.s.sist you,----" began Mr. Abercorn, but stopped, for his glance wandered to his wife, who had never approved of Miss Clairville.

"You must not dream of such a thing, Marcus. Leave me here in this strange house, and go back by yourself along that awful road?

Certainly not. Perhaps Father Rielle is going that way sooner than you, Dr. Renaud. Are you not, sir, anxious to--what do you call it--_chercher_ mademoiselle?" Despite her knowledge of French it was the way of this lady to address the inhabitants of the countryside in English, it "accustomed them to it" and, she fervently hoped, tended to bring about the ultimate "Anglifying of the Province," to borrow a term much used by that distinguished patriot, Louis Honore Papineau, previous to 1857.

The priest, who had as yet no intention of returning to the barn, preferring that others should encounter the uncertain temper of one so recently tried in uncommon and painful ways, professed much interest in her plight, remarking, however, that he feared he did not drive well enough to find his way over the plateau of rock which lay between the road and the shelter.

"Then there is only Mr. Ringfield left!" exclaimed Mrs. Abercorn, much as if she were marshalling people in to dinner. "Yes, yes--_you_ shall go for her, poor thing, but probably she deserves it; living on your charity, I hear, Mr. Poussette, and the other woman too; shocking, I call it! And belonging to quite an old family, _quite_ old, I believe."

The idea of Pauline not paying anything towards her board while staying at Poussette's was painfully new to Ringfield; he had never thought of the matter, but now recalled her chronic condition of impecuniosity, and he saw directly how humiliating this must be for her and why it was necessary that she should find something to do. Henry Clairville, her natural and proper protector, could not apparently help her, the Englishman was fully as impotent, and Ringfield at once decided, while listening to the conversation, to seek her again and offer her a part of his stipend, the first instalment of which had been paid over by Poussette that morning. Everything favoured his quiet withdrawal, for the heat of the fire, the stacks of celery, and the splendid cognac, smuggled from the islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon, and purchased by Poussette for twenty cents a bottle, were beginning to tell on both Mr.

Abercorn and the doctor.

"Twenty cents, did you say?" hastily inquired the former, "I never heard anything like that! I think I must, I really must have a taste, just a drop, just a sip--thank you, Dr., thank you. My dear--a little for you too? No? Well, well, after all that exposure I do not believe, I really do _not_ believe a little would hurt you. Ah! that's it, Dr., a small winegla.s.sful for Mrs. Abercorn. There, my dear, I am sure you require it."

"Do you no harm," said Dr. Renaud. "'Tis fine stuff, the best French.

Makes one feel like a boy." And he began to sing.

"Quand j'etais sur mon pere, Je n'avais rien a faire Quand j'etais sui mon pere Qu'une femme a chercher.

A present j'en ai une, A present j'en ai une Qui me fait enrage.

"Change that to '_en roulant ma boule_' and I'm with you," said Mr.

Abercorn, and the Doctor took him at his word; Mrs. Abercorn becoming very sleepy, was provided with rugs and pillows on a sofa in the hall, while the two gentlemen sipped cognac and munched celery till slumbers also overtook them.