"I do not, sir, and that is just what my wife and others complains of. You did not content yourself with saying we were all sinners; you said 'if any sinners lurked at the board,' as if pointing the finger, and it is for an explanation of that I have come to you to-night, sir. We all felt that the presence at the feast of the unfortunate little girl you of course observed, must 'ave 'ad something to do with it, and I think you ought to know, coming among us as you did, and may do again, just how we felt about it. I'll tell you all I know, and then I'd be obliged if you, sir, would tell me what you know."

Ringfield looked helplessly around but there was no hope of diverting Enderby's attention; he must go through with it and only trust that he might be believed, and once again that slight sense of the ludicrous came upon him. Tragedy was in the air; yet, as often happens in real life, it was being pushed to comedy point, and he grudged even the shadow of a jest at this important crisis in his dealings with Miss Clairville, who was now sitting at supper with the new edition of Crabbe.

"You had better take a chair, Enderby," he said, setting the example.

"Thank you, sir, and I 'ope I am not detaining you. I wish to say, sir, that now for eight years the constant presence of the child and its nurse in our little village has been a source of much trouble and talk. We are a united and respectable, most respectable community, sir."

The sternness with which this remark was given led Ringfield to say soothingly, "I am sure you are—it is, I mean. I am quite sure you are."

"Not only respectable, and has always been so, but superior."

"Yes, yes, I understand."

"And therefore it goes against our grain to 'ave 'arboured the maid—that's what we used to call them in England—and the time has come, I think, to do something about it."

"I see. Yes, the position is a difficult one. How did she come to the village in the first place? She was not born there, then?"

"No, sir, I am thankful to say, unless greatly and cruelly deceived. The manner of her coming, or rather of her being found, was this; the young person who has charge of her, who is now about twenty-three by all counts, has always been light headed, and cannot or will not, explain clearly who she is or where she comes from. All we know of her is that she came here with the child one stormy night in the middle of winter, just like the stage or a story book, appearing at the Rectory and carrying an anonymous letter begging for shelter and charity. Mr. Abercorn found them—it was on Christmas Eve—and he took them in to his wife and she to the kitchen. The girl was a pretty dark-haired slip of fifteen or so, with the light manner and the gay laugh you may have noticed, gay but empty, and could give no account of herself; the child not as bad as she has since grown to be, but already strange looking, and some thought as stupid as the girl."

An exclamation of dismay escaped from Ringfield.

"Better if it had been!" he cried.

"Well, I may say that I agree with you, sir. The rector and his wife got a home for them in the village, and although we have learned something about them it is very little, and as the money for their support comes from here, I thought it time, sir, to look more thoroughly into the affair."

"From here? You are sure?"

Ringfield was ready to defend, even shield, Miss Clairville if necessary.

"It was brought or sent by one of the servants at the Manor House out by the lake. Without fear of exaggeration, sir, I may state that we 'ave long known this to be the case; Antoine Archambault, the young man around this room not ten minutes ago, is the bearer, and he, I suppose, knows all about it—the girl is apparently his sister, or in some way related to him—but I wouldn't care to talk to him about it and so, sir, I come to you."

"But I know nothing!" exclaimed Ringfield, rising. "Nothing whatever, not nearly as much as you do. It is no use speaking to me upon the matter. I cannot assist you in the least. What do you propose to do?"

"Why," said Enderby, flushing a darker red and rising ponderously, "this is what we propose to do, for we're tired of the affair, as isn't ours, and never was by right. The child will soon be grown up, if it lives, and it's getting stronger on its legs every day and will soon be playing with the other children. We don't want it—we don't want it any longer at Hawthorne, and we propose to find the parents and bestow it again upon those to whom it originally belonged. That's what we propose, and we look to you, sir, to help us."

"Whom do you suspect, or have you direct proof and knowledge?" Ringfield, to whom the situation was full of anguish, could hardly frame his sentences. "Pray recollect," he continued, "that in these unhappy cases it is not always wise, not always necessary, to press the matter home. I am a strong believer in the natural expiation that people undergo who allow themselves to err in these directions; the mere fact that the person or persons responsible for Angeel have had her removed to a distant parish while still caring for her shows how deeply the affair has been felt. I would not advise you to be hasty."

"'Asty—says you—'asty? After a matter of eight years? I'm sorry I didn't begin before this," cried the exasperated storekeeper, holding the virtues and morals of all Hawthorne as it were in his hand. "You ask me if I suspect any one and I answer—that I do," and he huskily whispered Miss Clairville's name.

Knowing what would be expected of him, Ringfield strove to appear even more greatly shocked than he was, and retreated a step or two in consternation.

"Be very careful," he managed to say sternly, "be extremely careful how you thus refer to a lady who bears, I am told, a very high character in her native place, even if she has been obliged to seek the town and the theatre for her living."

"You 'ave not heard this mentioned before?"

"Never."

"But Miss Clairville attends your church?"

"She certainly has attended a few of the services, but I do not think she has ever openly made a profession of the faith; she remains at heart, I think, a Catholic. Perhaps," said Ringfield, lamely, "you might see Father Rielle about this. As parish priest and as a friend of her brother's he would be the proper person to advise you. And now, having assured you that I know nothing more than I have learnt in the last few moments from yourself, you must excuse me if I leave you. It is late, and I perceive your wife and daughter are growing restless in the hall. Are you driving back to Hawthorne to-night?"

"I am," returned Enderby, hastily looking at his watch; "but I shall come over again, sir, and see what can be done. In the meantime, will you not assist me in some way—by speaking to Antoine, who has picked up a little English, or by conferring with the priest?"

Ringfield hesitated.

"The question is," he replied, "whether as this affair is now practically inside another parish and another village, I have any business to interest myself in it at all. Well,—I will think about it, Enderby, I will think about it, and possibly I may be able to help you. You would like to get the child away? I see the propriety, even the need of that."

He suddenly thought of something which had not occurred to him before. "How would it be if I were to assume control of the affair for you? Supposing that without much trouble, I and Father Rielle look into the matter and endeavour to remove the child from her present home and have her admitted to some institution? Would you still insist on its being done in such a way that parentage and—and so on, must all be made clear?"

Enderby was silent, but the angry flushing of his face had subsided a little. Ringfield saw his chance and pressed it home.

"Try and see if that would not be the better way—to let me control the matter and quietly take the child away without any fuss and scandal and naming of names. In the meantime I can make my inquiries and communicate with you. Dr. Renaud now—he will be able to advise us, and I should think your own rector and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Abercorn, for I hear the lady has done a great deal of the parish work; but if you think it better to leave it entirely to me, I will see what can be done."

"The rector, sir, is easy, terrible easy in his ways; he would let anything go on for any length of time to save trouble. Well—good-night to you, sir, and you may expect to see me again soon."

"Good-night, Enderby, good-night. We have had a very successful entertainment, I think.—Here is Poussette going to turn us out; it's after eleven!"

An unusual hauteur in the Frenchman's demeanour did not escape the minister, who was not, however, disposed to ask any questions. The truth was—the unexpected turn in Crabbe's fortunes had been partially explained to the host, but to no one else, and secrecy had been impressed upon him. The ex-guide had displayed a wealth of money, had received and dispatched letters and telegrams full of suggestive mysteries, and—most wonderful of all—had not called for drinks. Poussette was so far keeping his own vow made to Ringfield and Miss Cordova, but at any moment an outbreak might occur, for excitement breeds thirst even in sober individuals.

Outside the lighted window walked Ringfield to and fro, waiting till the Englishman should emerge and go to his shack, but as the reader knows this did not happen. He saw the light carried about, then it entirely disappeared, and afterwards two lights appeared upstairs, but in opposite ends of the house; Crabbe had escorted Pauline to her door and then betaken himself to the small room at one side which coincided with that occupied by Miss Cordova at the other. It was not long before everything was dark and quiet, and Ringfield, extremely baffled and uneasy, turned to go home. But Alexis Gagnon, supposing the minister upstairs and asleep, had locked the door, and now the only mode of entrance possible was the undignified one of climbing the rude fence and scaling the well-remembered balcony which led to his room. This brought him very close to Pauline's chamber, looking on the familiar balcony, but he could detect nothing wrong or unusual; Poussette was wrapped in sleep and even Martin, the Indian guide and choreman, had evidently long gone his rounds and entered the house.

Ringfield could not be expected to understand the sudden change in Crabbe's fortunes, and he spent the rest of that night in dreary and bitter speculations as to the probable causes which had led Pauline to desert him openly for the Englishman. Why had he not the power, the audacity, the social courage which the guide undoubtedly possessed, to seize her and bear her off bodily on these occasions? This—a relic of savagery—would alone overcome the ease with which Crabbe confronted him, and despite vices and faults usually carried off the palm. As one progressed the other retrograded; the Englishman, dreaming of a good name and character restored, lay peacefully beneath Poussette's roof, not worrying about Pauline, for he knew that, short of the marriage ceremony, he had the strongest right and authority any man could have over her; while Ringfield, distrusting and suspecting every one around him, tossed and sighed all night, wondering what stability there was in her mind and what worth he might set upon her promises. Some deterioration, some loss of fine simplicity, some decrease in his healthy optimism, was already visible in his look and bearing; he in his turn was discovering the impotence of Nature to heal, sooth, or direct, and it might have been said of him that he began to go in and out without noting the objects so suggestive and inspiring—the sky, the thundering flood, the noble wood, the lonely river. As Crabbe had cried to him in utter desolation of soul—what had Nature to do with a man's heart and self and life? Nature mocked him, passed him by, viewed him coldly. Poetry—did not Crabbe quote poetry? The bitterness of Job, the pessimism of Solomon, began to colour his attitude of mind, and thus by slow degrees his physical powers declined from their original high level. He did not get enough sleep, he did not eat enough food, he took long walks with his eyes on the ground, he found visiting a bore and preaching a stumblingblock. Nothing saps the strength like the rotting virus of jealousy; nothing so alters the face and vilifies the expression as living in a state of perpetual dislike and suspicion of any person or persons; as Crabbe's countenance cleared, as his eye brightened and his complexion lost its dissipated blotchy hue, Ringfield suffered by comparison. He seemed to fail in some mysterious indefinable way; his thick hair looked thinner on his temples, his eyes were larger and the set of his mouth reminded one of Father Rielle in its slow, new writhing smile. If this were Love—how should any escape? But not only Love, but Hate, and Doubt, and Fear, were all warring in a good man's breast.



CHAPTER XXI

THE NATURAL MAN

"Wretched at home, he gained no peace abroad; Asked comfort of the open air, and found No quiet in the darkness of the night, No pleasure in the beauty of the day."

Pauline, on retiring to her room, was naturally in a whirl of excited feelings; never had she dreamt of escape from her surroundings under such auspices as these. The new affection she had been nursing for several months speedily melted as she lived over again the extraordinary sensations of the past hour. Crabbe came in for some of the glory; she congratulated herself on partly belonging to him, and with characteristic quickness she amused herself, being too wide awake for bed just then, in turning out her drawers and boxes and in tying up the Grand Duchess costume and other accessories in a bundle which she intended to leave as a present for Sadie Cordova.

"I shall never require those again, thank Heaven!" said she to herself as she moved about the plain little room, "or these stage paints and other 'fixings' as Sadie calls them."

The imitation earrings went into the bundle; her old sealskin coat and muff and some photographs of herself and associates in theatrical costume. It was a case of "on with the new life" carried out with that conviction and sincerity that distinguished all Miss Clairville's actions. If she was to marry a rich Englishman, and go to England with him, travel and keep a maid, she would do it thoroughly; the stage as well as "Poussette's," the Hotel Champlain as well as Henry and Angeel must be completely blotted out, else there could be no happiness for her. Yet at moments there survived, along with this directness of upward aims, a curious sense of caution, of dislike to part with certain relics of value, or anything that had figured in her theatrical life; the Clairville instinct was atavistically working against the new creature, Pauline; heredity asserting itself in the midst of new and promising environment.

The next few days brought remarkable changes, veiled by great care and deliberation on Crabbe's part. He gave up the shack to Martin and had a bonfire of his effects. He read the Montreal advertisements of clothing, and sent for a complete wardrobe and two large trunks, yet his manner to the few at Poussette's was sufficiently repressed to discourage curiosity. Every hour Pauline expected him to leave her, be mysteriously lost, then reappear sullen and sodden, but nothing of the kind occurred. The news of his rehabilitation had spread, but the community was too small and the place too remote to understand it thoroughly; meanwhile, the virtuous aspect of both himself and Amable Poussette was almost enough to drive a man to drink, so depressing was the atmosphere of the bar—that place once so cheerful! The lemons grew dry and crinkled one by one; the lager glasses gradually came to require dusting; the spirit bottles were discreetly put behind almanacs and large advertisements of "Fall Fairs"; over all was settling a blight born of conversion and sobriety. Pitiful to relate—the person who should have been most pleased and interested in this moral spectacle was bitterly dubious; Ringfield would not, at this stage, consent to believe in Crabbe's reformation, but winced and shied at reports of altered prospects. The subject was easily of first importance to all at Poussette's, but the Englishman's disdain of explanations and Pauline's fine-lady air precluded much reference to the matter; the minister could only accept the position.

And what was the position? Had not Miss Clairville given him a certain soft and memorably tender answer, turning away all his jealous wrath; and filling his soul with "Comfort and Joy, Comfort and Joy"? Had not his lips pressed hers, his embrace enveloped her yielding form, her eyes, melting and languorous, drooped before his fiery ones? Were these things nothing to her, while to him they almost constituted a marriage? Even with daily evidence of the strongest, he could not bring himself to believe that she was anything but true.

Once they met in the wood, face to face, and there could be no excuse on her part, no elegant evasion of the relations between them, as with those chilling superior accents she persevered in ignoring the past. Snow was again on the ground, every twig encased in a round tube of glassy ice through which showed the grey, brown, or black stem, for a wonderful glissade had followed the milder weather. The pendent branches were freighted with soft, white tufts and cushions, and just as Miss Clairville met Ringfield, under his heavier tread there broke a large arm of larch stretched across the path. Thus he was compelled to halt; the rebound and crash had sent snow flying all over her face and clothes, and naturally he began to brush it off. She kept her hands in her muff—the old one after all, for Crabbe's purchase had not yet arrived—and regarded him, with some abatement, it is true, of the aristocratic hauteur she wore so loftily at Poussette's, but still with an air far removed from the intimate and sympathetic self she had revealed in their first meetings.

"I believe you would have passed me!" said he bitterly, forcing that raw and unpleasant smile. "If it had been a street, I mean, with anyone about, or coming out of church! Surely nothing that has happened can justify you in avoiding me like this!"

"Avoiding you?" She opened her large eyes in haughty incredulity. "Why, I have been waiting for an opportunity like this to meet you and talk it over! tell you something about myself, rather. What odd ideas you get, bizarre, mon ami! Have you heard about my friend, Mr. Hawtree?"

Ringfield answered unintelligibly, looking away from her.

"Have you not? Oh—you have! I thought it very likely. Well, he has come into a little money; more than a little, indeed, but I am not to tell. How then—do you think I shall be able to keep the secret? I am the bad one at that, sure,—as Mr. Poussette would say."

By degrees her old racy manner returned, and looking over her muff she permitted her eloquent mischief-making eyes to speak. "What else have you heard?"

"That—you are going to marry him."

"Ah—and that, of course, you do not believe!"

"For the matter of that, I never believe anything you say. How can I, how can anyone? You promised me—you know, what—and here you coolly talk to me about this other man, this wreck of a man, this sot, this Crabbe! And he is not the only one, I daresay Poussette gets his pay sometimes, and perhaps the priest as well!"

"Gets his—pay! Mon Dieu, but it is you, you, to insult a woman! Yes, to insult me!"

"I am not intending it, I am not aiming insult, but I know whereof I speak. I impute no more than this; no man works for nothing. If Poussette harbours you, as he does, he must exact something, if only silly songs and smiles, the faculty of amusing him now that he has dropped drinking, and must feed his lower senses in some manner. I impute no more—no more than frivolity and waste of time, the abasement of impulses noble enough in themselves."

"Oh—what a creed, what a creed! I deny such a charge, such an imputation. I sing and act before Mr. Poussette as I would before you, and Miss Cordova too. We are artists—do you know what that means, Mr. Ringfield? And suppose we do not pay—what is that? Mr. Poussette is agreeable to the arrangement, it is a plentiful house, and always more than enough in it to eat and drink. I am Ma'amselle de Clairville and Sadie Cordova is my friend. We take our holiday here—that is all. Ma foy, but why must every one anger me? Why do you purposely misunderstand?"

She stamped her foot and trembled.

"I have only one thing to ask you. Do you intend to—my God, that I should have to ask it—to marry him?"

"Certainement." A return to her natural manner was characterized by more French than she customarily used. "I am considering it, thinking of it, as you did when coming to St. Ignace."

"Considering it! And when—when—is it likely to be?"

"Oh—that is for him, for Mr. Hawtree to decide, but I think it will be at Noel, Christmas time, and in Montreal. Next week I pay some visits; after that I go to the Hotel Champlain, in Jacques Cartier Square, to prepare myself for my new role, you see."

"Your new role? But are you not then leaving the theatre? Oh—I understand now, I see what you mean. And you think this is your duty, to end your life thus by consenting to marry this man?"

"To end my life? to begin it rather. Believe me—it is better for me so."

Great distress showed in Ringfield's voice and bearing; he was in that state of mind when it became necessary to insist upon his sufferings, to rehearse his wrongs, and thus an hour wore away in the petty strife which in his case was characterized by ceaseless strivings to win again that place in her heart filched from him by her old lover; on her part the quarrel and the cold weather acted equally in stimulating her to fresh coquetries. Farther and farther they withdrew into the heart of the snowy wood, till, when quite remote, they sat down on a fallen log, beautiful in summer with mosses, lichen and waving ferns, now converted to a long white cylinder, softly rounded at either end. Here Ringfield's ardour and his conscientious feelings for her future broke out in a long and impassioned speech in which he implored her to change her mind while there was time and to remember her warm promises to himself. He did not embrace her, and throughout his discourse, for such it might aptly be termed, he was more the saviour of souls than the lover.

"And although I claim no reward for the fact," he concluded sternly, "it is due me, when I tell you that I know all about that poor child at Hawthorne, poor Angeel, and that I am going to take the whole matter on myself and remove her to a more suitable home and surroundings."

Miss Clairville flushed an angry red. "You—you know all?" she repeated. "But how—how did you find out? You have seen Henry, perhaps—oh! you have been talking to him, my poor brother!"

"No," returned Ringfield. "You forget that people talk to me, bring these stories to me, make me the recipient of confessions. I have seen and I have heard, therefore I know. But I will do as I have said. I shall write to the proper people to look after Angeel, and I shall see that she is removed before long from Hawthorne."

"Where to?"

"Perhaps to a hospital; that of the Incarnation at Lalurette."

"But that is a Catholic institution!"

"So much the better."

"This is extremely kind, extremely generous of you!" said she, in her most English, and therefore haughtiest manner. "But I myself have had the same intention. We can work together, I suppose!"

"No, I prefer that you leave this to me."

To this she replied sneeringly, and a new cause of recrimination ensued.

Pauline rose abruptly from the snowy mound and walked to the road, Ringfield following her, and they did not know that never again on this earth and during this life would they meet thus—part thus—alone, with full opportunity to say what they thought, what they wished.

Sadness fell on both as they shortly went different ways, but whereas the lively nature of one was soon occupied gaily at Poussette's with fresh purchases to look at and approve, in the other grief was succeeded by a gathering of all his forces, as he mentally resolved (swore, to rightly translate his indomitable mood) to prevent the marriage. For this was what he had arrived at; nothing more nor less, and how it might be done haunted him continually as he walked by night on the frozen road, or sat at meals within sound of Crabbe's cynical and lettered humour, and within sight of Pauline's white hands on which gleamed a couple of new and handsome rings.

She must not marry him! That became the burden of his thought, and the time-limit of three weeks, bringing it to Christmas Eve, was to him as the month before execution of the condemned criminal.

She must not marry him! What then, could or in all likelihood would, prevent this consummation? The hours flew by and he thought of no plan. The hard weather still held and grew harder, colder, until the great drifts blocked all the roads, and St. Ignace was cut off from the outside world. Still, any hour a thaw might set in and, at the worst, the railway was hardly ever impracticable for more than a couple of days. Delay there might be, but one could see that Crabbe would not refuse to welcome even delay; he sat at the head of the chief table clad in the regulation tweeds of the country gentleman, and with a kind of fierce and domineering inflation in his manner that subdued the irrepressible hilarity of Poussette, threatening to break out again, for by way of keeping his pledge as to liquor, he seemed to take more beer than was necessary or good for him. The Cordova, held as a willing witness and prospective bridesmaid, had to "learn her place" under the new regime, and felt fully as miserable as she looked, for now no longer revelry graced the night. Poussette's unnaturally long face matched with Pauline's hauteur and Crabbe's careless air of mastery; he, the sullen cad, the drunken loafer, having become the arbiter of manners, the final court of appeal. One day Ringfield had been lashed to even unusual distress and mortification by the offensive manner of the guide, who in the course of conversation at the table had allowed his natural dislike of Dissent and Dissenters to show; "damned Methodists," and all that sort of talk. The very terms annoyed Ringfield; they savoured of the Old Country, not of Canada, where denominational hatred and bigotry should be less pronounced, and as he left the room Poussette joined him in the hall.

"Bigosh, Mr. Ringfield, sir—but I don't know how you stand that talk so long—no, sir, I don't know at all!" He patted the other on the back.

"Well, Poussette, I must do the best to stand it that I know how. You and I agree about a good many things. Tell me—do you believe that—that Mr.—that he is really a reformed man, really changed in his habits? And is he going to marry Miss Clairville? You are around with him a good deal; you are likely to know."

"The day is feex," returned Poussette without enthusiasm. "The day is feex, and I am bes' man."

"What do you think about it, though? Don't you think he'll break out again?"

Ringfield's anxious bitter inflections could not escape Poussette. "Ah-ha! Mr. Ringfield, sir—you remember that I wanted Miss Clairville for myself? Bigosh—but I have got over that, fine! Sir, I tell you this, me, a common man—you can get over anything if you make up the mind. Fonny things happens—and now I snap the finger at Mlle. Pauline. Why? Because I feex up things with Mees Cordova even better."

"Mme. Poussette——" began Ringfield.

"Mme. Poussette is come no more here on me at all, I tell you. No more on St. Ignace at all."

"But you cannot marry Miss Cordova, Poussette!"

"I know very well that, Mr. Ringfield, sir. No. For that, sir, I will wait. My wife must die some day! Mees Cordova will wait too; she will menager here for me, and I will threat her proper—oh! you shall see how I will threat that one!" Poussette seductively nodded his head. "I will threat her proper, sir, like a lady. Mme. Poussette—she may stay with Henry Clairville all the rest of her life! I would not take her back now, for she leave me to go nurse him, and not threat me right. No sir, not threat me, her husband, Amable Poussette, right at all."

"I'm in no mood for these difficult distinctions in morality!" cried Ringfield in exasperation. "What day is this wedding—tell me that!"

Poussette gave him the day and hour—eleven o'clock in a certain Episcopal church in Montreal on the 24th of December, and then they parted.

From this moment a steady pursuit of one idea characterized Ringfield's actions. Already charged to explosive point by pressure of emotions both worthy and the reverse, he immediately entered into correspondence with several charitable institutions with regard to Angeel, and he also wrote to Mr. Enderby and Mr. Abercorn. It was now the ninth of the month and the snow still held. Sobriety still held and long faces; the American organ was never opened, and Pauline and her satellite, Miss Cordova, were mostly buried in their bedrooms, concocting an impromptu trousseau.



CHAPTER XXII

THE TROUSSEAU OF PAULINE

"—the whole domain To some, too lightly minded, might appear A meadow carpet for the dancing hours."

"Tra-la!" sang Miss Clairville, as she pressed heavily on the folds of a purple cloth skirt which had once done service in the "Grand Duchess," but was now being transformed by hot irons, rows of black braid and gilt buttons into a highly respectable travelling dress.

"I thought at first of giving this old thing away, but see how well it's going to look, after all!"

The Cordova, busy heating an iron on the "drum" which stood in a corner of the room, looked at the skirt and at first said nothing.

"It's too dark for a bride's travelling-dress," she said after a while.

"Do you think so? But not for a dark bride," said the other with an uneasy frown. "Well, I'm not a girl, you see; besides, without a sewing machine you and I could never manufacture an entire costume. I meant to give it to you; in fact, I had it tied up in that bundle once, then I changed my mind—woman's prerogative—and here it is."

"Thank you, but I shouldn't care for it anyhow, purple's not my colour; it looks awful with my kind of hair."

Pauline glanced up coldly at the bleached head bending over the irons.

"Perhaps it does. Well—it's too late now even if you did care for it. I'll wear plenty of white around my neck and down the front; a cascade, jabot effect always suits me."

She wound a white scarf around her as she spoke, and bent an old black hat into a three-cornered shape on top of her head.

"There, my dear, there is the true French face, only you don't know it! If I could take you to my home, you would see—well, you would not see much beyond Henry and his eternal books, though they tell me he reads no more. I'm thinking of an old portrait I resemble."

Miss Clairville now sat on the bed, having relinquished the work of doing over the cloth skirt to her friend.

"Why are you keeping that red and black dress there, the theatre dress? You will never need that, travelling!"

"No, I suppose not, only——"

Pauline eyed the dress. The family trait of acquisitiveness combined with a love of hoarding was asserting itself, and she could scarcely make up her mind to part with things when the time came. Besides, this dress carried her back to meetings with Ringfield, and again she saw the passionate admiration in his eyes as they talked in whispers on her balcony.

"Oh—a fancy of mine! I look well in it. I wore it when Henry was taken ill with the 'pic'."

With a loud shriek Miss Cordova dropped an iron on the floor.

"What is it now? Quelle betise! Stupid—I wasn't with him! I meant—about that time. But if you want the dress, take it, take it! Mon Dieu! what a state your nerves must be in!"

"I'm much better than when I came here," said Miss Cordova quickly. "Say, Pauline,—did you know I thought of sending for the children?"

"Your children? To come here?"

"Yes. Now, Pauline, it sounds queer, I know, and worse than anything I've ever done, yet—it isn't as bad as it sounds. But, but—well, I may just as well out with it. Mr. Poussette has proposed!"

"To you?"

Miss Cordova stopped in her work. "Yes. He seems to be serious and I like it here, like him too, so I guess we'll fix it up somehow. Of course his wife's living, but she's not right in her head, so she don't count."

"And your two husbands are alive, but as one drinks and the other was married when he met you, they don't count." Miss Clairville was staring in front of her. "My dear girl—have you never heard of such a thing as bigamy? You're talking nonsense, and you must not allow Mr. Poussette to get you into trouble. You can't marry him, Sara!"

"Of course. I know that. But we are both willing to wait. Schenk can't last long; he's drinking harder than ever from last accounts, and Stanbury—well, perhaps I'd better stop short of saying anything about English swells, but Charlie Stanbury had no right to me in the first instance, and now I'm not going to let the faintest thought of him stop me in my last chance of a home and quiet, peaceful living. Oh—Pauline—I was never the same after I discovered how Stanbury wronged me! Nothing seemed to matter and I went from bad to worse. But since I've been here, I've seen things in a different light, and I'd like to stay here and bring the children away from New York and let them grow up where they'll never hear a word about their father or about me and Schenk."

She spoke with sad conviction, her eyes filling, her hands trembling as she worked on at Pauline's skirt.

"You'd give up the theatre and all the rest of it, and come and live at St. Ignace if you could?"

"Indeed I would, Pauline. Indeed, indeed I would."

"This is too droll! For here am I, pining to get away and be free of this place for ever! But that's because I belong here."

"Yes, and because you have no children to think about. If you had—you'd understand. While Schenk's alive he may find me any day in New York, but I don't believe he'd ever think of looking for me here. My mother'd know how to send the children along, I guess, and they'd always have enough to eat and drink, and fresh air and a place to play in, and I'm sure Mr. Poussette would be kind to them. You know he's a funny-talking man, but he's got a real good heart, and Maisie and Jack might have a good time here."

"Yes, I know, but——" Miss Clairville's aristocratic and sophisticated side was dubious.

"But what? It's all very well for you, just making a fresh start, getting married and going to Europe and wanting to see a little more of the world than the Champlain House and St. Ignace, but I've had enough of the world—too much! I want to bring up my children honest, honest and respectable, and I can't do it, Pauline, in one room on Sixth Ave. Maisie, now, wants to be out in the streets every evening; she'd rather—than stay with me at the theatre even."

"How old is Maisie?" asked Miss Clairville suddenly.

"Why, she's most eleven years of age, I reckon. Let's see! I met Stanbury in—seventy-seven; Maisie—yes, she's just eleven, and Jack's nine and half. Say—wasn't it a good thing that I didn't have any family to Schenk?"

"How can you be so very vulgar!" said Miss Clairville with a curling lip. "But I suppose it was a good thing—the Will of God—according to Father Rielle. Eleven! And Angeel's nine. Nearly ten."

"Angeel? Who's she? You don't mean to tell me that you——"

"What do you mean?" said Miss Clairville fiercely. "What right have you to imagine such things? I'll tell you some day about Angeel, but just now I prefer to discuss something pleasant. We will resume our packing, my dear. Here is this blanket coat. What am I to do with it?"

"Give it away, of course. You'll never wear it again, Pauline, where you're going!"

"I know I shan't," replied Miss Clairville, compressing her lips as she regarded with a critical eye the antiquated wine-red garment adorned with a white sash, and tuque to correspond. "But I look so well in this, too!"

"If you don't want it, let me have it for Maisie. Why—it would be just the thing for her, running around here all winter! Say, Pauline—ain't it funny to think she's the child of an English swell? Stanbury's from a real good family, I can tell you. I guess your Mr. Hawtree would be likely to know all about him. You might ask him. Then there's this white evening dress. My—it's dirty enough, goodness knows! It ought to be French cleaned, but who's to do it in this out-of-the-way place? Here are a lot of roses falling out of it—do they belong to it?"

"That's my Camille dress. The roses go around the skirt—see?—in garlands: same around the waist and on the hair. I might turn it into a peignoir, I suppose. But I think I will give it to you, Sara; you can keep it till Maisie grows up and do it—how do you say?—do it over for her. Is she fair or dark?"

"Dark—just like Stanbury. Say, won't you tell me about Angeel now?"

"No, no! O—pour l'amour de Dieu, don't drag her in at this time! Haven't I enough to worry me? What shall I do if Edmund breaks out again? I haven't seen him all day."

Miss Cordova was very thoughtful for an instant.

"Seems to me you ought to've had more under-clothes," she said solemnly, and Pauline laughed. "And what you have got are far too plain. My—the ones I saw just before I came away from New York! Say, Pauline—there was twenty-five yards of lace, honest, to one nightgown!"

"Was there? At Sorel we were not allowed one yard; frilly things, and too much lace and ribbons are the mark of bad women. Did you ever hear that?"

"I guess my mother held some notions like those. She used to say—quality was the thing, and was never satisfied till she got the best lawn, soft as silk, but she never had much trimming on them. Cut plain and full, was almost always her directions. Well, now—yes, I guess you'll have to wait till you go to Paree before you replenish that side of your wardrobe. Is your Mr. Hawtree free with his money?"

"Yes, yes!" rejoined Pauline hurriedly. The fact being that after the initial flourish and purchase of a few pieces of jewellery and other trinkets Crabbe had tightened his purse-strings, as it were, not from miserliness, but because it was necessary to use caution until they reached London, when larger sums would be paid over on due recognition of his identity. "Free enough for the present. As for me, I have saved nothing, nothing! How could I, with this need for ready money hanging over me? So I do not like to ask too much, just now, and, like a man, he provides me with diamond earrings while I lack proper shoes and an umbrella."

"Take mine!" said Miss Cordova earnestly. "It's real silk and it won't matter if there's an 'S' on the handle. It was his—Stanbury's."

"My dear girl," cried Pauline, "I couldn't! You'll need it yourself. See—it's silver mounted and valuable!"

"I know it, and that's why I want you should have it. We've been good friends, Pauline, even if there is a difference in our education, and I'd like to give you some little thing. Do please take the umbrella."

All Miss Clairville's latent womanliness sprang to the surface as she jumped off the bed and enfolded her friend in a warm embrace.

"God knows, you will never be forgotten by me, Sara! We've struggled together too long for that. You have a sweet temper and a kind heart, and le bon Dieu takes note of that. I wish now you could marry Mr. Poussette, for I see that you'll miss me when I'm gone, and that's not a bad idea about your children. I hope I'll never have any; I'd be afraid, I'd be afraid. Well, I'll accept the umbrella then, in memoriam if you like. And you take the white dress, and these long yellow gloves, and this sash for Maisie, and here's a bijou imitation watch and chain for Jack—eh? What's the matter?"

Miss Cordova leant heavily on her friend.

"They are calling us," she said.

"Who are?"

"I don't know. Listen! Some one's wanted. It's me. It's me. Perhaps Schenk's come! Pauline, what shall I do?"

"Absurd! No one can get here; you forget the roads and the snow. Schenk? He is miles away!"

"Then it's for you. Yes. They're coming up. Listen—it is you, 'Ma'amselle Clairville,' I hear them say!"

"But why be so alarmed?" cried Pauline, and she threw open the door.

Antoine Archambault and Poussette stood outside.

"Your brother the seigneur is dying, mademoiselle," said Poussette, "and desires to see you at once. There is no time to lose."

"What is it?" asked Miss Cordova, not comprehending the foreign tongue, and they told her.

Miss Clairville's face changed. She trembled visibly, made the sign of the cross—so potent is habit, so strong are traditions—but uttered nothing.

"She is ill!" said Miss Cordova, and she led her friend to a chair.

"No, no, I am not ill. But I do not want to go. Je ne le veux pas. I do not wish at all to go. I will not go, Sara!"

"It's hard, I guess," said the other woman sympathetically, "but it's natural he should want to see you before he dies. Of course, she'll go, Mr. Poussette, and I'll go with her."

"No, no!" said Pauline, starting up, "if I go it must be alone. But why should I go?"

She looked piteously from one to the other. "What good can I or anyone do to him if he is dying? Perhaps there is some mistake."

Antoine spoke in voluble French in accompaniment to Poussette's gestures, and at the words she drooped appallingly.

"Come, Pauline, perhaps it will not be so terrible after all. You were going to visit him this week anyway."

"I know, I know, but this is different, dreadful, startling. It makes me so—I cannot describe. Who is with him? Only Mlle. Poussette! Oh, why—why? It will spoil my marriage, Sara; perhaps it will prevent my marriage!"

"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 pass 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 sturdier 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 snatches 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 God—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 PASSES

"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 kinship, 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 assert 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."

"Not even that, Renaud, not even that. But leave them—good cats, good friends."

The cats curled up again in conscious attitudes, while from under the vast and ancient bed came a loud and insistent purring, rising and falling with triumphant, happy cadences—the song of the mother-cat, impervious to all save her immediate surroundings.

"If they were dogs," cried Miss Clairville, in fretful fear and mortification, "they would not sleep like that! They would know you were ill, dying, and they would keep watch and show affection. I always hated cats, and now I shall hate them more than ever."

"What are cats?" said the doctor with a yawn, which vanished as he glanced down at his patient. "Come, you are here to arrange a few details with monsieur your brother—make haste then. Madame, some water and a little brandy in it! So. Now, Mademoiselle, attend."

"There is not so much for me to say," said the sick man, pressing Pauline's hand with wistful entreaty, "as there is from me to hear from you yourself. I have confessed my fault, my sin, and yet, not my sin, Pauline. Angele is my child, by Artemise Archambault, as you have always known, but she is more, she is my daughter, legitimately begotten, in proper wedlock. This you did not know, my poor Pauline. She is a true Clairville, my sister, a De Clairville, I should say."

Pauline was now entirely overcome with a new emotion, that of intense surprise and consternation; instantly the consequences of legitimizing "Angeel" rushed at her. Instead of a low liaison there was marriage; the child and she were heirs alike; they were relations and should be friends, and what she had feared to hear timidly broached—some plan to keep the child near her—would now be insisted upon.

"Oh!" she cried, drawing away, "this is worse than anything I came prepared to hear! This is the worst, cruellest of all. Far better had she been nameless, far, far better. Perhaps—ah! yes—now I understand; he is ill, he wanders, he does not know what he is saying."

"Tell her, Renaud."

"It is all true, mademoiselle. Believe what he says, for he was never clearer in the head, not often so clear in life and health as now."

At this she broke down completely, sobbing aloud. The priest gently intervened.

"I cannot allow this, my daughter. You must respect the hour, the condition of monsieur, the place, the death-bed of a Christian, mademoiselle!"

Pauline's sudden sharp sobs were all that could be heard. She had never wept like this in her life before.

"What is it you want me to do? Not take her with me, not have her to live with me? I could not, Henry, I could not. Even if I could overcome my horror of her—poor innocent child, for it is not her fault she is as she is—I have no right to visit her on Edmund when we are married. Yes, yes—you must see that we shall be separated. Angele and her mother—oh! it is not possible—yet I must call her so since you say it, your wife, Henry, the Archambault girl, will live here. They will be comfortable, and if we do well where we are going, if Edmund comes into his money——"

Clairville interrupted her.

"It is of him, too, Hawtree, that I would speak. I fear, I fear—he is not what he should be, to be your husband, my poor Pauline. His talk—he has told me much of his past, of women, other women. Pauline—he has loved in many places."

"Yes, but I was the last—and best!" broke from Miss Clairville in a burst of self-pity. Her eager accents lent pathos to the triumphant declaration and she fancied the priest laughing in his corner! the doctor gave a snort of ridicule and even the lips of the impassive nurse seemed to contract with a contemptuous smile.

"He tells you so, he tells you so. Well, may it be so then, and Heaven bless you, Pauline. If I—if I——" his lean hand moved jerkily; it wandered in search of her head, but instead of those dark locks of hair it fell on the back of a cat. Pauline was swayed by extraordinary and clashing emotions. He—her hated and despised brother—was trying to bless her, to lay unsanctified and sinful yet yearning hands upon her, and it was a blow to her pride to learn forbearance in such a school and from such a teacher. But he had spoken almost his last words. He collapsed, groaning, and the doctor and Mme. Poussette each passed an arm under him. Father Rielle appeared at the bedside with the sacrament.

"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 a milieu! 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 Artemise 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 Artemise 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.



CHAPTER XXIV

RELAPSE

"How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell How 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 the cuisine is 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 the Clairville 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 his gauche utterances 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 of appartements a louer and 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.



CHAPTER XXV

THE TROUSSEAU AGAIN

"—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's protege.

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 the Hotel 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."