Ringfield Part 24

"Nothing of the kind! No, no. You will be married the sooner, I daresay. Where is Mr. Hawtree? Why don't he come up and talk to you?"

"He is being driven with Alexis Tremblay to the station! A train may pa.s.s through this morning."

Pauline now recollected that he had gone to Montreal to make final preparations for the wedding; among other things, the drawing up of an antiquated contract according to the mixed law of the Province. A sudden wish woke in her to run away and join him and so evade the painful scene which must ensue if she obeyed her brother's commands.

"Death's a dreadful thing anyway, I guess," remarked Miss Cordova to fill in the silence, touching Pauline's thick loops of hair as she spoke. "I just know how you feel."

"_Mon Dieu_--be quiet, Sara! It isn't his death I mind so much as his dying. Do you not see--he will make me promise, he will bother me into something; dying people always do--I can't explain. If he would just die and have done with it!"

Even the men felt the unusual distress of mind which prompted this outburst of selfish candour, and Miss Cordova drew away.

"Seems to me your brother's in the hands of the Lord and I guess He's mightier than you are. My mother's a New England woman and was always afraid about my going on the stage, and I suppose I've gone wrong _some_, but I couldn't, like you, go back on a poor, dying creature.

Say, Pauline, hadn't you better see a clergyman? Where's that young man? Where's Mr. Ringfield?"

"I do not require his services, thank you. But yes--you mean well. If I'm anything, I'm a Catholic, my dear--and now take all these things and put them away. I think I shall never _marier_ with anyone in this world. I must go, I suppose. Antoine will drive, and I shall go alone."

Miss Cordova silently moved about the small room, not sharing in the gloomy views of the prospective bride, for she carefully went on packing the scanty trousseau which included badly mended _lingerie_, the red dinner dress, and three gay satin waists bought by Crabbe in the shops of St. Laurent, Main Street, one of canary and black lace, another of rose colour, and a third of apple-green. There were veils enough to stock a store, ties, collars, ribbons, small handkerchiefs and showy stockings in profusion, with a corresponding dearth of strong sensible clothing. The trousseau of Pauline was essentially French in its airiness; its cheap splendours attested to one side of her peculiar character and the st.u.r.dier and more sensible attributes of the _belle Canadienne_ were for the time obliterated. The blanket coat and tuque and the Camille dress were tied up by Miss Cordova for Maisie, and within half an hour Pauline had departed with Antoine, and the others lapsed to the unsettled calm which overtakes a community when it is known that the inevitable must shortly occur. That unpleasant negative condition of waiting for a death was now shared by all at Poussette's as the news spread through St. Ignace. Father Rielle was seen to drive away, and Dr. Renaud was already at the Manor House, but Ringfield, shut up in his own room, reading and pondering, heard nothing of the matter for several hours. However, Poussette and Miss Cordova, to relieve tedium, went into the kitchen, where, secure from both Stanbury and Schenk, the ex-actress took a lesson in cooking, by tea-time producing pancakes so excellent that they rivalled if not excelled those of her instructor. Indeed, with this happily met couple, time flew by on feathered wings. Miss Cordova was quick on her feet, bright in her talk, and her vivacity and grace charmed the susceptible Frenchman, too long accustomed to the shrinking nervous figure of the absent Natalie. She stood on chairs and renewed her youth, looking into tins and boxes and bringing to light jams and biscuits the host had forgotten. She sang s.n.a.t.c.hes of Offenbach and Verdi, she beat the eggs while Poussette made up his fire, and when he squeezed her hand or put his fat arm around her waist she did not prudishly push him away, but, gently resisting, rebuked him in such affectionate terms that he politely restrained those damaging caresses. In short, she managed Poussette instead of being persuaded by him, and this in itself pleased her and restored her self-respect; her previous relations with Stanbury and Schenk suffered by comparison, and if she secretly hoped for the death or removal of Mme. Poussette it was with soft womanly compunction and pity, and with stern resolves not to overstep the mark of purity.

So--in this poor, obscure, half-educated soul, this Guinevere of lowly life, burnt the flame of natural goodness. Ignorant of ritual, she had long ago compiled a prayer for herself which ran; "O G.o.d--I wasn't a good girl, and I haven't been a good woman, but I've tried to be a good mother. Help me to be a Holy Saint after I die. Amen."

CHAPTER XXIII

THE SEIGNEUR Pa.s.sES

"Mortality's last exercise and proof Is undergone; the transit made that shows The very soul, revealed as it departs."

Henry Clairville lay in the ancient and tattered bed which not even the activities of Mme. Poussette could render more than moderately decent.

The sands of life were running out indeed; a great change was apparent in his pinched and freckled features, and his small colourless eyes had sunk entirely back into his head. Two large cats slept at his feet and three more lay under the bed; despite all madame could do to remove them, these five out of the fourteen persisted in returning again and again to the familiar habitat which custom or attachment had made necessary. Their brown tigery sides rose and fell peacefully in the sound slumber induced by the plentiful fare of Clairville, but no sleep came to their master. Occasionally he would stretch forth a withered hand to try and stroke one or other of his pets, but they had gradually slipped to the foot of the bed, their weight, which was considerable, having formed a deep pit in the lumpy feather mattress. Mme. Poussette sat in the room, Dr. Renaud across the hall in the faded _salon_, while the priest arranged the holy office of the Blessed Sacrament in a corner with his back turned, occasionally repeating aves and prayers under his breath.

Pauline's entrance, subdued from her native impetuosity to something chastened and severe, was still out of harmony with the shabby carpet, the patched counterpane, and the meagre daylight; she brought into the room an extraordinary sense of brightness, and yet she had taken some trouble to amend her costume and bring it within the range of things sorrowful and sober. Her side face, in particular, nothing could tame; the exquisite ear, defined by a diamond, showed youthfully against the dark hair looped thickly just behind it, the full chin and curved lips were always on the point, seemingly, of breaking into a smile, whereas the front face betrayed both age and agitation by the vertical lines of the forehead and by the strained expression of the eyes, oftener fiery and worried than calm and pleasing.

Mme. Poussette left her chair and approached the lady of the Manor, but nothing more than a fleeting contemptuous glance did the latter bestow.

At the sight of Henry and the cats all her courage returned and a measure of her temper.

"I was sent for and I am here," she said, advancing to the middle of the room with not a shred of kindness in her manner. Was it not as it had always been--hateful, uncongenial, difficult? Why must she feign hypocritical interest and sympathy? "And I know why you sent for me, but I tell you, Henry, it is of no use. I will promise nothing."

The seigneur moved heavily from his side to his back and weakly opened his small eyes upon her. It was evident that he was clear in his mind.

"You were sent for and you are here," he repeated, "but you did not wish to come. Did not Nature work within you, bidding you come? Did not sisterly love, sweet kins.h.i.+p, weigh with you at all?"

"Not in the least," replied Miss Clairville coldly. She continued to stand, although the other woman proffered a chair, nor did she unfasten her fur coat or draw off her gloves. Her brother took note of this.

"You had better sit," he murmured.

"I will not! In this room--you know I have never sat here since---- You know the vow I made. And why."

"I know, my sister, I know. Nevertheless, sit now."

Father Rielle turned half round. "Sit, my daughter. It will not be for long."

And from Dr. Renaud came the sharp order: "Sit--at once."

Overruled, but with annoyance and aversion in every movement, Pauline took madame's chair.

"I cannot stay--I mean--I cannot stay long. Oh--Henry, why have you brought me here? I can do you no good, and the sight of you will do me harm, it always does!"

This outburst was more natural to her stormy temperament than her previous rigidity; her hands clasped and unclasped, while the frown between her eyes, almost the shape of a barred gate, broke up as a few wild tears fell upon her lap. Clairville, for his part, though a dying man, showed resolution and calm obstinacy.

"You ask that question--and yet you profess to know why I sent for you?

If you do not come to me of your goodwill, I must send for you, that is clear. You are hearing nothing of me, for I have been too long a dead man to the world, but I continue to hear much of you. This marriage--is it true?"

"I was coming to you," she said hastily, and with evasion; "I had made arrangements so that when I leave Canada for good I shall have nothing to reproach myself for."

"I ask--and see that you answer--you are going to be married?"

With an uneasy glance at the priest, Miss Clairville murmured: "Yes".

Then louder, as if in an effort to a.s.sert herself: "It is to Mr.

Hawtree, an old friend, your friend. There is nothing new or surprising, nothing peculiar in that. Only what is new is this--that he will not have to work, that he has come into some money, that we can go away and live in other places; live indeed how or where we like.

Henry--think what that will do for me! Think how it will change all my life and how at last I shall realize my dreams, if not fulfil my ambitions! And then I may be able to help you too, perhaps--and--and Angeel. That is--I am not sure of this, but I shall try and do so."

Clairville seemed to be endeavouring to look at his sister more closely.

"I cannot hear you very well. Will you approach the bed, Pauline? I am feeble, you see--I am----" Terrible coughing now interrupted him, and he called upon the doctor.

"Renaud!" he gasped. "Where is Renaud?"

"Not far off," replied the medical man, sauntering easily to the bedside. "Come then, Mlle. Pauline, do your best for your brother.

Take his hand. Bend your face--so. Lower, if you please! Madame will go to the other side,--a good woman, mademoiselle, a good kind woman!"

"Have I said she was anything else?" returned Pauline, stiffly obeying the doctor's instructions, but with obvious dislike in every movement.

She took the seigneur's hand, she forced herself to place her head almost upon his pillow.

"You are uncomfortable, my poor Pauline! You shrink from me, you would avoid this meeting, this last scene on earth, but remember, this hour, this scene comes to all, will come, must come to you. If you marry, if you have good loving children, when this hour comes, you shall not pray in vain nor weep, for they will surround you, but I, Pauline, I have only you, you and one other."

"But that other! You have not sent for her? She is not here."

"No, not yet. I spare you that, Pauline; she will arrive later, after--I am gone. Father Rielle knows at last; he never suspected.

Renaud knows; speak to her, Renaud, tell her."

Another fit of coughing shook him, and the cats, disturbed in their sleep, stood up, arching their brown backs and yawning.

"Take them off, take them away!" moaned Pauline, her eyes closed, but the seigneur shook a menacing finger.

"They do no harm," said the doctor tersely. "Keep his feet warm, I daresay."