Ringfield Part 3

"You and your young people!" she cried. "How old are you yourself, pray? Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty--no, hardly twenty-seven. You may tell me your age quite frankly, for I will tell you mine. I am twenty-nine. Do you not think that I look much younger?"

He was in truth a good deal surprised, for to his age--twenty-six, as she had correctly guessed--twenty-nine seems old for a woman.

Before he could frame a clumsy allusion to her youthful appearance she had continued with a change of manner:--

"But sometimes I look older, yes, old enough. Tell me, you who preach your English sermons, so long, so much longer than our Catholic ones, about trees and rivers and _fish_--do you never preach too about men and women and their faults and vices and tempers? Ah! there, _Monsieur le p't.i.t cure_, you should know that I am a good subject for a sermon, I and my temper! For I have a temper. Oh, yes, indeed I have."

There being no instinct--at least not as yet developed--of gallantry in Ringfield's composition, he did not seek to weakly deny her self-imputed charge. Had he not already seen a proof of the truth of it in her treatment of Henry Clairville? Was there not even now a curious malicious gleam in her dark eye, a frown upon her forehead, a kind of puckered and contemptuous smile upon her lips? Handsome and probably clever, even good she might be, and yet remain--unamiable.

"I am afraid you have not had a happy life," said he, very gently, and the simplicity and kindness of his manner smote upon her stormy countenance, so that it melted and all the ugly hardness and latent shrewishness died away.

"I have not, I have not!" she cried. "You see my situation here, my surroundings. Henry, my poor unfortunate brother; the old house, which might be so comfortable, falling to pieces for lack of money to keep it up; these terrible people, the Archambaults, pretending to work, but living on me and eating up everything on the place; the village, with none in it to know or speak to that I care about; the lonely country all around, cold in winter, hot in summer; the conviction that Henry will get worse; the fear of--the fear of----." She stopped.

"The fear of what?" said Ringfield quietly. "You need have no fear whatever of anything. You are one of G.o.d's children. Perfect love casteth out fear. Dear Miss Clairville, so recently a stranger, but rapidly becoming so well known to me, never mind about sermons and conversions. Never mind about Catholic or Protestant, bond or free, English Church or Methodist. Just think of one thing. Just cling to one thought. You are in G.o.d's hands. He will not try you too far."

Very impressively he repeated this, bending forward till he could look into her troubled eyes. "I believe, and you must believe too, that in His infinite goodness He will not try you too far."

A s.h.i.+ver pa.s.sed over her frame. She lowered her eyes, her mouth twitched once or twice, then she remained silent and pa.s.sive while Ringfield, thinking he had said enough, resumed his paddling. It was some minutes before conversation recommenced and then Mademoiselle Clairville requested him to return.

"Do not think," said she, "that I am offended at your preaching to me,"

and now a mild sadness had succeeded to her wilder mood, "but one of the servants is signalling to me from the sh.o.r.e; my brother probably is in need of me. You will come to see us, to see me again, and I shall hope to hear that you will remain at St. Ignace for the winter at least. Here is one patient of the soul, and we may soon find another."

"If it would make any difference to you,----" he began, still without any trace of innuendo or latent gallantry, but she interrupted him with some flas.h.i.+ng out of former merriment:--

"How could it, when I am away nearly all the time or try to be? I am now, like you, considering an offer, and may say adieu to St. Ignace, the Fall, and Henry, any day. But even if I go, some fascination will draw me back. It always does."

As he left her at her own gate the face at the window was still blinking at them. Dimly the ardent young Methodist began to discern some contingencies in life of which he had never dreamed. And how admirably he had perjured himself in the interview! Had he not forgotten the particular sect to which he belonged? Had he not besought his hearer to forget whether she was Catholic or Protestant?

Had he not, in short, for the first time in his ministerial experience, fulfilled the plain duty of a true Christian without stopping to think of ways and means and artifices? Looking back, he was amazed to remember how earnest he had been and how sudden but genuine was his sympathy with this lonely woman. Apprehensive for her safety and content of mind, stimulated as he had never been before by her frank, original presence, he mentally resolved to remain at St. Ignace for her sake, or if her protracted absence ensued, as she hoped, to manage to return when she did.

He had arrived at this decision when, on drawing near Poussette's, he perceived that individual himself in little straw hat and large white ap.r.o.n standing at the door engaged in critically examining an enormous catch of fish--black ba.s.s and lunge, just brought in by the guides.

Ringfield asked the time, for he began to realize how long he had been absent. It was nearly seven o'clock and the evening meal was over.

Poussette at first tried to be angry. He declared that there was nothing left. Ringfield smiled and strode to the fish lying in glittering silver heaps on the gra.s.s. He lifted up the biggest ba.s.s and carried it into the house, and the coolness of the deed appeased Poussette.

"That is all right, Mr. Ringfield," said he, slapping him quite affectionately on the back. "You shall have a good tea, a good tea, after which you shall hear what we have to say. Mister Desnoyers, Patrick, myself, all wait for you and all shall be arrange, eh? Every one round come in, come in and drink _bon sante_ in something good I got on Sat.u.r.day. Ah--you shall see, you shall see!"

As Ringfield went in to his "good tea" Madame Poussette came out.

Rather to his astonishment, she sang to herself in pa.s.sing, and although her sad vacant eyes were not bent on him, he felt as if the words were intended for his ear. What were those words?

His knowledge of French was limited, but still he could make out a kind of rhyming refrain--

"Derriere Chez mon pere Il-y-avait un grand oiseau."

He stopped and tried to catch more as Madame went down the walk singing low to herself.

"Derriere Chez mon pere Il-y-avait un grand oiseau.

la, la, la, la-- C'etait beau ca, c'etait beau."

CHAPTER V

THE UNSEEN HAND

"The procession of our Fate, howe'er Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being Of infinite benevolence and power."

Had Ringfield continued his conversation with the _chatelaine_ of Clairville he would in all probability have asked a few questions about her theatrical career, placing it in his imagination in one of the large American centres to which in the seventies or eighties all Canadian artists gravitated. In this he would have been wrong.

In a back street in the purely French quarter of Montreal stood a pillared and placarded building once known as the home of an ambitious coterie, the _Cercle Litteraire_, which met fortnightly to discuss in rapid incisive Canadian French such topics as "Our National Literature," "The Destiny of Canada," and "The Dramatists of France,"

from which all _politique_ was supposed to be eliminated. The building had originally been a house and private bank belonging to a courtly descendant of an old family, a De Lotbiniere, who grew French walnut and cherry trees, lettuces and herbs in the back garden. When the banker died the _Cercle Litteraire_ bought the house for a small sum, comparatively, seeing that it was built of good grey stone, had many bright green shutters and an imposing facade of four pillars, and from one part of it issued once a month the extremely high-cla.s.s journal--organ of the society--called "Le Flambeau," the other part which comprised a fair-sized hall, retiring rooms, and secretary's office and quarters, being altered to suit the needs of the _Cercle Litteraire_. But in time the glories of the exclusive and cla.s.sically minded coterie faded, its leading spirits died or disappeared, the superior monthly organ--torch for all the country--burnt itself out, lost subscribers--in fact the whole business was declared insolvent, and the nervous, gifted, but too sanguine editor-in-chief (there were three editors), M. Anselme-Ferdinande Placide De Lery, _avocat_, and the devoted, conscientious, but unprogressive secretary, old Amedee Laframboise, scientific grubber and admirable violinist, had to get out of Rue St. Dominique as best they could and go back to the law and the local orchestra. For several years the house was vacant, and then at last it held a still more gifted, more numerous, and, all things considered, more successful coterie within its walls than "Le Flambeau"

had been able to procure for it. A certain travelling organization, a company of good actors and actresses direct from Paris, which had landed in America the previous year, giving comedies and pretty domestic pieces in New York and other cities, not meeting with the success it expected, came to French Canada in the hope of reaping substantial profits in a congenial atmosphere. Ah--what a mistake was this! To think that if in Philadelphia or Boston "Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme" or "La Joie Fait Peur" did not make money, either play would do so in the Montreal of thirty years ago! It was a mistake, certainly, from the monetary point of view; on the other hand, many friends were made, much good feeling and admiration prevailed and, in short, the company, stranded in a Canadian town, found living cheap and easily earned, plenty of good fellows--French--and settled down as a local stock affair, fitting up at no great expense the banker's house with the walnut-trees and bright green shutters under the name of the Theatre des Nouveautes.

This was the playhouse in which Mlle. Clairville acted. This was the clever company which, secure in New France from blase critics, produced the comedies and tragedies of Moliere, Corneille, Dumas, Halevy, Mme.

de Genlis, as well as serving up adaptations like "Le Vieux Oncle Tom,"

"Le Prince de Denmarque," "Le Cond.a.m.ne," "L'etranger," also attacking with superb, delicious confidence the then popular operas of "La Grande d.u.c.h.esse," "La Belle Helene," and "Il Trovatore." What acting it was, so vigorous, das.h.i.+ng, resourceful! How Mme. d'Estarre jumped easily from a Precieuse to Eva, and from Gertrude, a dark-eyed _bourgeoise_ Queen with frizzed hair and train of cotton velvet, to Camille--wickedest play known at that time! Then when Mlle.

Pauline-Archange-Emma-Louise de Clairville joined the company, what a Hamlet she made with her fine figure and her remarkably firm, white hands, what a Phedre, once when the actor was ill, what an "Oncle Tom"!

What a d.u.c.h.ess of Gerolstein later, when the company discovered that it could sing, collectively at least, and what a Helen, in flowing Greek costume, fillet of gold braid, and sandals!

This was indeed Acting--to merge mannerisms, to defy fate and the jeers of any sober English reporter who strayed into the Theatre of Novelties! When Mme. d'Estarre found that she had to return to France unexpectedly, on account of the ill health of her children, left behind in a provincial town, she was given a grand benefit, and although the public (who were getting a little tired of madame, she was over fifty) did not respond as gallantly as might have been expected, the members of the company with true Gallic chivalry made up the large amount necessary to carry her across, bring her back and provide in the interim for the afflicted children. This was Pauline's opportunity; she naturally succeeded to the position of leading lady, and kept it until her faults of temper developed and she had the pleasurable excitement of a fierce quarrel with her manager. Thus, while her talent was conceded, her stormy temperament prevented her achieving anything like permanent success, and every few months she would reappear at St. Ignace, live drearily in the dingy house, lecture the servants, abuse and weep over her brother, when suddenly tiring of this she would return and have to begin again at the foot of the ladder.

Ignorant of these cloudy and strenuous careers, Ringfield saw only an impulsive and unhappy woman old enough to fascinate him by her unusual command of language and imperiousness of conduct, and young enough for warm ripe brunette beauty. To be plain, first love was already working in him, but he did not recognize its signs and portents; he only knew that an ardent wish to remain at St. Ignace had suddenly taken the place of the tolerant and amused disdain with which he had once considered Poussette's offer.

A couple of days later he had returned from a long afternoon on the river when a man around the place named Crabbe came to him with a letter. Opening it, he found it to contain another offer from a prominent citizen of Radford, a large and thriving Western town, to fill a certain pulpit of some distinction during the absence of the pastor in Europe. The time mentioned was ten months and Ringfield sat down at once to consider the importance of this offer. He would be at last in a cultivated community. Much would be expected of him and he would have every chance to put forth what was best in him. For several years he had been labouring on the missionary circuit and the work was hard indeed, with slender results. Here was sufficient remuneration, comfortable housing in a more sympathetic climate, and the prospect of receiving a still more important call in the future should he make his mark. Such considerations, if mundane, need not also be mercenary; each man is worthy of his hire and his pulse beat in pleased excitement as he viewed the rosy outlook.

But--Miss Clairville! A vague foreboding of the truth flitted through his brain; men wiser in love and affairs of the affections than our young Methodist minister have been self-deceived, and although he sternly put her image away he dimly avowed to himself that she was already occupying far too much of his thought. Here was a clear way opened, or so he imagined, referring each move as it occurred to the guidance and knowledge of the Higher Power, and he could find no other than an affirmative answer to the letter which he kept turning over in his pocket, and still kept reading through the evening in the general room. He had excused himself from the already over-convivial group on the front verandah, and being provided with paper, sat at the table composing his reply.

The lineaments of his singularly fine and n.o.ble countenance were easily seen through the window where the guides, M. Desnoyers and Poussette were sitting, and the vision of the black-coated, serious young scribe inditing what he had informed them was a very "important" letter, subdued the incipient revelry.

Poussette was uneasy. He had not yet received any direct answer from Ringfield to his own offer, and for many reasons he preferred to attach and retain him rather than any other "Parson" he had ever encountered.

But Ringfield was wrapped in his own thoughts and quite unconscious of the highly improving spectacle he made, lifting his eyes only to nod pleasantly to Mme. Poussette who had glided in and was sitting by the window. His letters were three: one to Mr. Beddoe who had invited him to Radford, another to his relatives on the farm at Grand River, and a third to Miss Clairville. He had not hesitated to write to her, for short as their intercourse had been, her emotional nature had manifested itself so warmly and their talk had been so completely out of the ordinary, that higher things than convention must always govern their friends.h.i.+p. His conscientious side held itself responsible for a slightly superfluous act of sudden interest and attachment, and the mentor's tone in which he pleaded with her, to ask herself whether the theatre must be her goal, would have deceived anybody unaccustomed to cold a.n.a.lysis of motives. He gave her, in short, good advice in the guise of kindly sentiments, ending by avowing himself her "friend in Christ" and protesting that her true welfare and happiness would always be of interest to him.

The letter written, he leant back, resolving not to send it by post but by some ignorant, unsuspicious hand (therein was the new-found subtlety and shyness of the true lover), and the change in att.i.tude confused the watchers outside who guiltily resumed their smoking and conversation.

And the strange, silent woman at the window, supposing Ringfield to be in want of something--paper, stamp or ink--rose and stood by his side.

Thus she saw two envelopes addressed and ready for the mail, and a third as yet innocent of any inscription. That she could read English he doubted, yet he felt an objection to letting her look over his shoulder. He rose, and going to the office, where Poussette hastily preceded him, gave in the two letters for Ontario, and then informed him of his decision.

The Frenchman's disappointment was genuine and comic, partaking of tragedy and despair. Desnoyers was called in; also the guests and the two guides, with servants forming a picturesque and interested background, so that Ringfield suddenly found himself the centre of an admiring, friendly, but inclining-to-be quarrelsome crowd. Nothing occurred, however, to alter his decision, and, true to his idea of duty, he set off two mornings later, having committed the letter for Miss Clairville to the man called Crabbe, a slouching sort of Englishman who occasionally served as guide, ran a small open-air general store, and about whom there seemed to be some mystery, his accent and grammar being out of the common.

Forty-eight hours after, Ringfield arrived at his destination, and walking up from the train to the house of Mr. Beddoe, the gentleman who had written to him, was shown into a small parlour to wait a few minutes. Voices came from across the hall for a while, then he heard a visitor depart and the next moment Mr. Beddoe himself entered the room.

The surprise of this individual on perceiving Ringfield was genuine and complete; his countenance fell and he stood gazing.

"You did not expect me so soon, I see," said the young man easily.

"Well, I was in rather a quandary, something else having offered, so I decided quickly, hating indecision. You got my note of acceptance all right, I hope? It should have reached you _at the latest_ yesterday."

"Yes, yes," murmured Mr. Beddoe, "but, sit down, Mr. Ringfield, sit down--the truth is--a rather peculiar thing has occurred. I--ah--I may as well make you acquainted with it at once. Our pastor, who, without being mentally weakened to any extent by a troublesome and obstinate illness, for which, as you know, we have sent him abroad for a trip, was extremely absent-minded in many little ways, and it has transpired that before his departure he wrote himself to the Rev. Mr. Steers of Bradford, arranging with him to take the pulpit for the time he should be away. He neglected to inform us of the fact, but Mr. Steers came in just after we had written to you, and as he is a married man with a family, and as he certainly expected the duty and the remuneration for a period, I felt that you would have to reconsider our offer. I sent you a telegram embodying all this."

"I never got it. Telegraphic facilities are uncertain in that part of Quebec. For example, St. Ignace is the village, but Bois Clair the name of the post office, and there is no telegraph at either place.