"But, my dear, everything's different in my case!" exclaimed Miss Clairville, fretfully pacing up and down the common room.

A village dressmaker, one of the numerous Tremblays, had, in a great hurry, made her a black dress; her face showed sallow against it now, and even her hands, always conspicuously well-kept and white, looked yellow and old as they hung down at the side of her tall, straight figure, or clasped and unclasped restlessly behind her. A key to much of her present unhappy mood lay in her last exclamation; family pride, another kind of pride in her personal knowledge of the world, in her consciousness of gifts and physical attractions, the feeling that she was in every way Miss Cordova's superior, all this rendered Pauline's affairs, in her own eyes, of vastly greater importance and intrinsic excellence and interest than those of her companion. A Clairville—there could be no doubt of this—was a lady, a gentlewoman, to use an incorruptible phrase, whereas, no matter how unsmirched the simple annals of Sadie Cordova, the small farm, the still smaller shop were behind the narrow beginnings of the painstaking and pious Yankee shoemaker who retired in middle life to the country and died there. Pauline's father and brother, both weakly degenerates, could nevertheless boast of a lineage not inconsiderable for older lands, of possessions identified with the same, such as portraits and books and furniture, of connexions through marriage with the law and the militia, and, above all, of having lived on their land for very many years without doing anything, most distinguished trait of all. Hence, Pauline's remark; how could Miss Cordova fully understand or properly sympathize with the altered conditions by which the daughter of the manor was now second in importance to one of a family of menials, the flighty, giggling, half-witted Artemise-Palmyre, whose marriage to Henry Clairville was an accepted fact.

"You cannot understand," Pauline had said for the tenth or eleventh time, and Miss Cordova listened, outwardly smiling and not immediately replying.

"Do you suppose your brother's marriage was legal and binding?" she said after a while, and Pauline stopped in her walk. The idea was not altogether new.

"I fancy it must have been," she managed to say carelessly. "Dr. Renaud and his Reverence know all about it, and even if it were not, where is the money to enable me to—how do you say—contest it?"

"Wouldn't Mr. Poussette lend it to you?"

"Oh, what an idea! Do you think I would take it from him, I, a Clairville?"

She had nearly used the once-despised prefix and called herself a De Clairville, for since Henry's death her intolerant view of his darling project had strangely altered; so many things were slipping from her grasp that she clutched at anything which promised well for the future.

"Well, I'm sure you deserve money, Pauline, from one quarter or another; you've worked hard enough for it, I know, and now I do hope your Mr. Hawtree will turn up soon and be all right, and that you'll be happily married to him and get away for a time from all these troubles. I want you should know, Pauline, that I think it was noble of you to work so hard to raise that money to keep little Angeel; yes, I call it noble, and I'm proud of you and sorry I ever thought——"

She paused and Pauline took up the unfinished phrase.

"Sorry you ever thought she was mine? I forgive you, my dear, but about my nobility, make no mistake. What I did I did, but I did it all coldly, passively, with nothing but hatred and loathing in my heart, with nothing but pride and selfishness setting me on to do it. I know this was wrong, but I could not get into any other frame of mind; I could never overcome my horror and repulsion of the whole matter. And now—it is just as bad—worse. If I thought I should have to live with her, with them, I could not stand it, Sara, I could not, I could not! Why must I be tried so, why must I suffer so? Oh, it is because I have a bad heart, a bad nature! Yes, yes, that must be it! I have a bad nature, Sara, a bad, bad nature!"

"No, no, Pauline!" said her friend soothingly, and the matter dropped.

Later they were sitting, towards evening, sewing at some item of the impalpable trousseau, Pauline alternating her spasmodic needle with reading over Mme. Prefontaine's letter and jumping up to listen down the stair.

"What do you expect's happened, anyhow?" cried Miss Cordova at last, in exasperation. "Mr. Ringfield's a clergyman! he's a perfectly moral man, and I guess that means something. What are you afraid of? Now if it was me and Schenk or Stanbury——"

Pauline's attitude and expression were alike tragic. In her cheap black dress her look of apprehensive despair was full of mournful intensity as she stood with one hand lifted and her expressive eyes fixed on shapes imaginary. Her friend's philosophy was equal to the occasion.

"Seems to me if you think so much about things that might happen but you ain't sure they have happened, you kind of make 'em happen. Sit down and be calm, for goodness sake, Pauline!"

"I can't, I can't! Oh, what's that now?"

With her hands over her heart she bounded to the top of the narrow stair.

"Reminds me of myself the other day when I thought Schenk was after me. Do you hear anything, Pauline—you look so wild?"

"Yes, yes! Some one has arrived. Grand Dieu—which of them? Sara—go and see!"

Miss Cordova rose and drew her friend back within the room.

"Maybe it's neither; only some one for M. Poussette."

"No, no, it is one of them and for me. I hear my name."

She sank upon a chair as footsteps were heard slowly, heavily, and somewhat unsteadily ascending the stair. The arrival was Edmund Crabbe, with the lurch of recent dissipation in his gait and his blue eyes still inflamed and bleared.

With a half-furtive, half-defiant air he advanced to Pauline, but before he could utter a word, either of justification or apology, she sprang at him with impetuous gestures and deeply frowning brows. To see her thus, in the common little room at Poussette's, clad in the plain garb of cheap mourning, yet with all the instinctive fire and grandeur of the emotional artist, was to recall her as many could, declaiming on the narrow stage of the Theatre of Novelties.

Je suis Romaine, helas! puisque Horace est Romain. J'ai recevu son titre en recevant sa main,

or again, in the diaphanous rose-garlanded skirts of Marguerite Gautier, laying bare the secrets of her heart to her adoring lover. Oblivious of Miss Cordova, Pauline rushed at her own lover but did not embrace him.

"Oh, where is he?" she cried. "What have you done to him?—or with him? I insist upon the truth; I must know, I must know all. He followed you!"

"He did, he did. He followed me, as you say, madam, but what of that?" Crabbe stood, greatly astonished and rather mortified. In the presence of Miss Cordova, for Pauline to display such concern for the other man was, to say the least, annoying. To be dignified in his resentment was to invite ridicule, for the drink still showed in his walk, but he managed to frown and in other ways show honest astonishment and wrath. "A nice welcome!" he went on, with difficulty repressing a certain thickness of utterance and steadying himself as well as he was able, the chairs being both occupied. "If you mean the parson, if these airs and sighs, these sulks and tender concerns are for him—you may spare yourself. He is all right. Though I beg pardon—you never sulk, Pauline, whatever you do. I'll swear to that, lady dear. 'Tis good and hot and strong while it lasts, and now I'm back, give it me, for I know I deserve it. I've been at it again, Pauline. Drink, I mean, my girl." Tears stood in his eyes.

"I understand. You need explain no further. But what do you mean about Mr. Ringfield—how is he all right? Where is he? I was afraid, afraid of something happening to one of you. Sara laughs, but she doesn't know how I feel."

"And never will!" said Crabbe, giving Pauline's shoulder a clumsy, caressing pat; "Miss Cordova has her points, but she is not Us, she is not We of the grand emotional parts! Just a bundle of emotions, nerves and impulses—that's all you are, madam!"

His affection, breaking through the still thick speech and weakened movements, was irresistible; Pauline sighed and smiled, shook off her tremors and allowed herself to descend with him to the dining-room, where over supper she listened to the recital of his adventure in Montreal.

"It was the cold then, that made you, that drove you to it again!" she said thoughtfully.

"Cold, and—and—loneliness. I was lonely, Pauline, and by Heaven—if you'll really take me, lady dear, the sooner we're married the better. If your parson were in the house at this moment I should order him to perform the ceremony."

"Oh—that would not suit me! Mr. Ringfield—of course, that could not be. We must leave as soon as possible, that is all, and as this is the nineteenth, and we have arranged for the twenty-fourth, that is only four days to wait."

"Four days! I'll keep straight, I promise you, Pauline."

"And was he—was Mr. Ringfield with you much at the Hotel Champlain? What did he do there? Why did he go?"

Crabbe, to tell the truth, was asking that same question of his brain, as he made heroic endeavours to recollect the details of his last debauch. He paused, and, with a trick characteristic of him, pushed away his plate and cup, although he had only begun his meal.

"That's what I'd like to know myself, Pauline. I was sitting at the table, smoking, and reading over some of my stuff—poor stuff it seems to me at times; however let that pass—when a knock came to the door, and I opened to our clerical friend! That's all I can remember."

"How did he look? How long did he stay? Do try and recollect. Try and answer."

Crabbe did try, but without avail.

"That's all I know, my dear girl. I must have been pretty bad."

"You must, indeed," said Miss Clairville, rising. A little of the hauteur Ringfield associated with her showed in her bearing, and as the guide drew his food again towards him, she eyed him almost with disfavour. "Then you do not know where he is, or what he went for, or how long he stayed."

"I do not, lady dear—I do not."

Pauline was deeply mystified, and perhaps her vanity was also touched; the mental spectacle of the two men fighting each other for possession of her had faded and a certain picturesqueness had gone from life. However, her marriage remained; she had four days, but only four, to make ready in anticipation of the great event which was to remove her at once and for ever from St. Ignace and Clairville, and in the light of which even Crabbe's backsliding seemed a trivial matter. She therefore returned to Sadie Cordova with restored equanimity, and Ringfield—his avowal and his present whereabouts and condition yielded to those prenuptial dreams and imaginings which pursued even so practised a coquette and talented woman of the world as the once brilliant Camille and Duchess of Gerolstein. Nevertheless, agitation was in the air. Poussette went to and fro in much and very voluble distress. The night closed in and brought no letter, no telegram from Ringfield; how then—who, who would conduct the service? It was the week of Christmas and a few more were already in the village, members of families from afar and two or three visitors.

The feast of Noel is full of importance to all of the Romish faith, and Poussette knew of great things in preparation for the stone church on the hill of St. Jean Baptiste in the way of candles, extra music and a kind of Passion-play in miniature representing the manger, with cows and horses, wagons and lanterns, the Mother and Child, all complete. Should Ringfield not return——even as he spoke the wooden clock in the kitchen pointed to ten; the last train had passed through Bois Clair and Poussette abandoned all hope, while in order to prove his intense and abject depression of mind, he broke his promise to the minister and helped himself to some whisky.

Thus, the absence of his mentor worked this unfortunate relapse, and should Crabbe find out, there looked to be an old-time celebration at Poussette's with Pauline and Pauline's rights entirely forgotten. As it was, Miss Cordova caught the culprit before he was quite lost, and mounting guard over the bar, entered upon those duties which, once shouldered, remained hers for a considerable length of time.

"Division of labour," she said smartly, and Poussette gave a foolish smile. "You take the kitchen and I'll take the bar. Then when Maisie and Jack arrive I can look after 'em. As like as not, Maisie'll be hanging round for a drop of lager—what she could get, that is, out of the glasses—I've seen her! And don't you fuss about Sunday, Mr. Poussette! We'll get on just as well as if we had a church to go to and a sermon to listen to. Guess you won't be wanting to see yourself taking around the plate to-morrow, anyway."

Poussette, lying crumpled up in a reclining chair, watched his new friend with dawning reason and admiration.

"Fonny things happens," said he, wagging his head, "I'll go to sleep now and wake up—just in time—you'll see—to go to church, help Mr. Ringfield take roun' the money—oh—I'll show you, I'll show you, Miss Cordova."

"You'll show me, will you?" said the barkeeper, absently. "What'll you do if he don't come at all? He can't come now, and you know it."

"I tell you—fonny things happens! I'll preach myself, read from the Bible, sure."



CHAPTER XXVI

THE GLISSADE

"The calm oblivious tendencies of nature."

Probably the most beautiful spectacle ever afforded by the natural world is that of a complete and far-reaching ice-storm, locally known as a glissade, transcending in delicate aerial fantasy the swiftly changing faint green panorama of early spring or the amber hazes of opulent autumn. A true and perfect glissade is comparatively rare; like a fine display of the auroral arches, another wonder in the visible universe, or the vast expanding and nobly symbolical rainbow, it does not often occur, nor when it does, is it always a spectacle of permanence as well as beauty. The conditions under which it develops may frequently exist in the upper atmosphere, but to ensure the magical and lovely effects which so singularly transform the plainest landscape, these conditions must remain unchanged for a certain length of time in order that the work of crystallization may be thoroughly carried out. The movements and fluctuating currents of the air do not often long maintain this tranquil and stationary poise, and consequently we may sometimes witness attempts on the part of Nature to create these distinctive and wondrous results which are quickly doomed to thaw and oblivion. In the next place it follows that what we see so seldom must greatly impress us because of its unfamiliarity and from the fact that its evanescence renders its loveliness more precious; the element of surprise increases our enjoyment, and all the more since the materials in use are the oldest and most familiar in the world. Then, to crown the work, there is not at any other season of the year or during any variation of a winter climate, anything more soothing, entrancing, more grateful and refreshing than the texture of the air itself, the feeling of the air during the period of suspended atmospheric action. It is not joyous, but it is better than joy. There is nothing violent, nothing extreme; there is no dust, no flurry, no glare. It is not cold but only pleasantly, smoothly cool, and the final impression is one of temporary transportation to some calm celestial region of infinite peace and purity.

Standing at the left of Poussette's church on the brink of the Fall, the eye, on the Monday following Crabbe's ignominious return, would have rested lovingly upon such a scene of enchantment. The great triple ledges of water which formed the cascade were only partially frozen, and the spray, still dashing in parts against the rocks and bare branches standing around them, seemed to congeal in mid-air, while the tall pines spreading on either hand were bending from their normal by weight of icy trappings. So much for the general effect—of a soft yet crystalline whiteness covering and outlining every object—but in detail, what a marvel of delicate tracery, what a miracle of intricate interlacing of frosted boughs! Every twig was encased in a transparent cylinder of flashing ice, every hillock crusted over with freshly fallen snow; the evergreens, in shape like giant algae, drooped wide fans to the earth, painted, spangled, and embroidered with glittering encrustations; the wires across the river from Bois Clair to Montmagny were harps of shining silver strings, the rough fences turned to graceful arabesques, the houses changed to domes and turrets and battlements of marble.

The sun was veiled as yet, but occasionally from behind the greyish-white of a cloudless spreading sky a pale yellow gleam stole forth, creating fires of prismatic rose and violet in each glassy twig and leaf. At these times, too, there woke and stirred a faint, faint wind, almost a warm wind, and then, here and there, a little cushion or mat or flag of snow would fall, or an icy stem break off. The silence was absolute, animal life appeared suspended, the squirrels no longer ran chattering in quest of food, as on mild days they will near habitations, no bird was seen or heard. This state of coma or trance held all created things, and as with most Canadian scenery, small chance was there for sentiment; the shepherd of the Lake country or the mountaineer of Switzerland were not represented by any picturesque figure, although small spirals of smoke floated up from the straggling settlements, and a habitant wife sometimes looked out from a door or a window, her face dark and shrivelled for the most part, and with clumsy woollen wraps thrown around head and shoulders.

The absence of human interest and the silence intensified the serene splendours of the forest and great Fall on such a day as this, when growth and change had reached a standstill and when the cool brooding of the air recalled the moments before dawn or the remote and unnatural quiescence that marks an eclipse. To walk near the forest would mean to encounter huge mounds of snow hiding the levelled logs and boulders, stalactites of ponderous icicles depending from the tree trunks where the openings faced the light and the sun; farther in, and once safely past these glacial outposts, scarcely any signs of storm appeared; last year's leaves, still matted together underfoot, were tangled with the green vine of the creeping linnaea and a rare root of the lustrous winter-green. Here, beneath the thick canopy of branches not all devoid of their foliage since many larches and pines were to be found there, was another climate; coming from that bland whiteness which was not cold, these dark arcades of forest struck chills to the feet and face; damp odours rose from rotting mould and wood not protected by a snowy covering, and broad sallow fungi, wide enough to sit upon, looked of an unearthly tint in the drear half-light.

Naturally the sight of these glittering plains and frosted forests, unusual even in that land of snow and ice, called for sightseers, and at Poussette's every one had been up early to gaze on the outside world, among whom were Miss Clairville and Crabbe, the latter feeling his recent backsliding very keenly. Pauline had now finally packed her little trousseau and other belongings, and arrangements were being made to enable Poussette to leave his business and Miss Cordova her sewing; the party of four were to descend on the Hotel Champlain on Wednesday, the wedding would take place on Thursday, the married couple sailing at once for Liverpool.

Leaning on her lover's arm, Pauline therefore easily found warmth and words with which to admire the landscape spread before her, for was she not soon to leave it, exchanging these frigid and glacial glories for life in a European capital, and, once for all, abandoning all ideas of a career and relegating everything at St. Ignace and Clairville to a place in her memory? Beautiful, then, she found it, and gaily proposing a walk along the decorated road, suddenly remembered Angeel and resolved to visit her and say good-bye. Crabbe demurred.

"Why should you?" he said, with the nettled intolerance of a being angry with himself, and prone to visit his ill-temper on others.

"But I must, Edmund! I meant to before. If Henry had not died, or if we had never found out about the other matter, I would have gone!"

"I see no reason. The brat has its mother, hasn't it?"

"Oh, don't be so hard! Yes, yes, of course, but she might like to remember me, wish to see me once again,—it may be for the last time."

"Gad—I think it will. I'm not worth much, 'pon my soul, but I can take you away and save you from all this annoyance. I hate every hour of delay, I dislike this loafing about here now. I wish—by Heaven! I were leaving Poussette's this minute for good and all."

His eye roved discontentedly over the forest and road, and then came back wistfully to Pauline. It was evident that his affection was of a sincere and unselfish order, and that with her to shield and serve and with her lively handsome personality as his constant companion, he might yet recover lost ground and be the man he might have been.

"I keep telling you that we have not so long to wait," she said brightly, as she went indoors to get ready for the walk, and Crabbe, turning his gaze in the direction of the bridge, became interested in the aspect of the Fall, still thundering down in part over those mighty ledges, except where the ice held and created slippery glaciers at whose feet ran the cold brown river for a few hundred yards till it was again met by fields of shining ice. Two objects caught his eye, one, the golden cross on the church over at Montmagny, the only one of its kind in the valley and much admired, the other, a curious spot of reddish colour at the far end of the bridge. The cross he soon tired of, but the bit of red aroused his curiosity; it seemed almost square, like a large book or package, and was apparently propped up against the stonework that supported the bridge. What it was, he did not trouble to conjecture, and as Miss Clairville came out with several parcels which he took from her, he forgot the circumstance as he turned and walked a few steps with her. Thus, her quicker brain was not directed to an explanation of the blot of red; had she seen it, and solved it, which was highly probable, the events of the day might have been vastly different.

"What are these things?" said Crabbe, fingering the parcels with a fretful note in his voice.

"Just some little presents, little trifles for her, Angeel. Nothing I cannot spare, Edmund. She belongs to me, after all. I shall never see her again, and I must not do less for her than for Maisie and Jack. You are coming with me? It is not worth while. I prefer to go alone, mon ami."

"Why not? A walk with you may keep me out of mischief, although with your theatrical friend mounting guard over Poussette I think I can promise you abstinence for the next few days."

Miss Clairville stopped in her brisk walk and searched his worn face. "You are not well," she said suddenly, "you are not looking well."

He raised his arms, then dropped them with a kind of whimsical desperation. "How can I be well, or look well? My pride has suffered as well as my health. I'm ill, ashamed, and sorry. What'll we do, Pauline, if I can't keep sober?"

He had often said this to her, but never with such depth of sorrowful meaning as now.

"What shall we do, lady dear?" he repeated in a helpless, fretful murmur. "What shall we do?"

Her figure stiffened, she was again the tragic muse, the woman of the world with experience and authority behind her, and, woman-like, as he weakened, she grew stronger.

"You are not likely to," she cried with a fine encouraging gesture. "It is possible, I admit, but not probable. For you, Edmund, as well as for me, it is new places, new images, for the snows of this forlorn, this desolate, cold Canada; the boulevards of Paris, for the hermit's cell in the black funereal forest.—There goes your friend Martin now, voila! B'jour, Martin."

"B'jour, mademoiselle!"

"Those apartments you spoke of in London, in German Street. Tell me—is that some colony where musicians, perhaps, gather, or the long-haired art students I have heard so much about?"

Crabbe stared.

"Students! Colony! Jermyn Street? Oh—I see—German Street—I see, I understand."

He laughed, but not quite freely—spontaneously. Indeed, so much did he feel some unaccustomed stress, he did not stop to set her right. What did her ignorance of a certain London locality matter? what did anything matter just now but the one leading uppermost thought—let nothing prevent our leaving this place together and leaving it soon, no failure of mine, no caprice of hers, no interference of another? New resolution showed in his features; he dropped her hand which he had been holding and turned back towards Poussette's.

"You are right, as usual," he said soberly. "There's no need for me to go with you. I'll turn home-along as they used to say in Devonshire, and try to do a little writing while I can, for after to-morrow I fear it will not be easy. So good-bye to you, lady dear, good-bye for an hour or two, good-bye!"

A little chilled by standing, in spite of that soft wind, Pauline ran lightly along towards Lac Calvaire, conscious always of her fine appearance and humming operatic snatches as she ran, bent upon an errand, which if not precisely one of mercy was yet one prompted by good-will and a belated sisterliness. The glowing prospects ahead opened her heart, not by nature a hard one, and happy in the character of grande dame and patron of the afflicted she went forth briskly on her long walk at first. She reflected that her thirtieth birthday was past, but that before a year had elapsed she would be firmly planted abroad enjoying plenty of money, change of scene, and variety of occupation, and even should Crabbe relapse, she saw herself rejuvenated and strong in hope, capable of studying fresh parts beneath a new and stimulating sky. Yet under these comforting reflections there lurked an uneasy fear; the Clairville streak in her made her suspicious of her present happiness, and as she perceived the well-known reddish gables of her home, through the surrounding pines and snow, a qualm of unrest shot through her. It was only a week since she had driven away with Dr. Renaud, and here she was, again drawn by irresistible force towards the detested Manor House of her fathers, now completely in the hands of the Archambaults, with the giggling, despised Artemise and the afflicted Angeel seated in possession, and this unrest, this fear, was intimately concerned with the future and the fate of Ringfield.

She said to herself as if speaking to Miss Cordova:—

"You have not felt the force of that strong character pushing against your own, nor the terrible grip of that hand-pressure, nor the insistence of those caresses which hurt as well as delighted, so different from the lazy, careless little appropriations of my present lover,—pats and kisses he might give to a child."

Ringfield's arms had drawn her to him till she could have cried out with fear, his eyes had shudderingly gazed into hers as if determined to wrest any secret she possessed, his lips had pained her with the fierce anger and despair of those two long kisses he had pressed upon her own—how could she forget or belittle such wooing as that, so different from Crabbe's leisurely, complacent courting! She neither forgot nor underrated, but she had deliberately and cruelly left one for the other, and deep in her heart she knew that something sinister, something shocking and desperate, might yet befall, and what she feared to hear was of Ringfield's suicide, for she fancied him capable of this final act of self-pity and despair.

By the time she reached Clairville the sun was again shining and the beauty of the glissade beginning to wane. Dark-haired Archambaults flitted about behind dingy windows—and, wondrous sight on a mid-December day—the white peacock, tempted by the calm air, was taking a walk in the wintry garden. Pauline summoned up her courage to enter the house and was rewarded by the hysterical delight of Angeel, brought up to admire and adore this haughty relation, who was soon dispensing her small bounties in order to make the visit as short as possible.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE CARPET-BAG

"... this solitude That seems by nature framed to be the seat And very bosom of pure innocence."

The squarish spot of scarlet observed by Crabbe at the farther end of the bridge was the unaesthetic carpet-bag brought by Ringfield with him from the West; a field of glaring Turkey red, in design depicting a kind of colossal sunflower with a green heart instead of a black one. So contemptuous had always been the attitude of the guide towards his clerical rival that he had quite forgotten this bag although it was so conspicuous; such bags, moreover, were quite common at the time, and these facts rendered him unsuspicious. Therefore, as he neared the fall and looked along the bridge and still observed that flaming spot of vivid colour, it was natural that, in place of going to his work as he had told Miss Clairville he intended to do, he should turn off in the opposite direction and leisurely walk forth to examine the phenomenon.

The bridge was knee-deep in unbroken snow, for no vehicle had crossed since the late storm, and there had been no service at Poussette's church. Crabbe walked on, not without some difficulty, lifting his feet higher and higher as he neared the centre of the structure. Underneath roared and tumbled the savage fall, although just above the bridge on his right hand the river was partly frozen, and large cakes of ice, loosened by the milder weather, were going over the first of the brown ledges with a rapid, rocking plunge. Each side of the bridge was a network of icy spars, dazzling in the sunshine, now becoming much brighter, and Crabbe, turning to look on the wonderful scene around and beneath him, had forgotten his ultimate goal—the alluring carpet-bag—when a singular thing occurred. His right foot, as he put it down through the snow went through the snow and went beyond it; he felt the unexpected depth before he realized what had happened, that there was at this point a hole in the planks forming the footway and that probably from the weight of the snow and ice an old and rotting board had suddenly given way and dropped out. His leg had gone entirely through, and in the fright and concern of the moment he fancied the hole wearing larger and the rest of his body following, but this was not the case. He was in some peril, it was true, but the opening was not so large as he thought, the chief danger arising from the fact that in his struggles to pull himself up again he might bring about further loosening of the boards. If he had been watched by any one at Poussette's his relief was at hand, but he feared that at this time of day no one might be looking out, and this was the case. Besides, the bridge lay, not directly in front of the village and the hotel, but rather to one side; a large grove of pine-trees intercepted the view, and unless he could speedily succour himself there was slight prospect of help from outside. Fortunately it was extremely mild.

He hesitated to call, because, as his nervousness subsided, he disliked to cut a poor figure, but at this point in his dilemma what he had feared actually happened; as he brought his leg and almost half of his body up through the hole another piece of planking came away and he was left clasping the edge of rotten wood in a state of collapse hardly to be described, his eyes alternately gazing at the sunny, unfeeling skies above and the gaping cavern immediately beneath. He was swaying now in mid-air and he found his voice and called repeatedly, but it was not likely that amid the surrounding tumult of angry waters his voice would be heard. With a great effort he pulled himself up, praying that the board might hold; he got on to one knee, then on to both, he swung out until he gripped the icy railings, and then with another wrench, he was free of the ugly hole and safe—safe after all and none the worse except in nervous tremors and a slight strain of the back for what must, however, remain in his memory as a thrilling and most alarming experience. Fear of Death for an instant had gripped him, and he saw himself, as do the drowning, engulfed in the rushing icy waters and shot down to a violent fate with Pauline's wild voice in his ears and Pauline's pale face before his eyes. Yet, the peril over, he breathed freely again, and carefully holding on by the rail all along the path lest some other treacherous pitfall should lurk beneath the snow, reached the end of the bridge in safety.

Then he saw the carpet-bag and remembered it, and in that instant a pang of horrid doubt and fear passed through him and he looked around for Ringfield. Escape from death gave him additional courage and sharpened his wits; his brain cleared now and did him good service, he felt himself a man, able to resist and proud to endure, and he hoped to meet the parson and demand explanations from him, for he could scarcely be blamed for divining some connexion between the deadly gap in the bridge and the carefully planted decoy—the carpet-bag. Yet in this induction he was wrong. The hole under the snow had not been known to Ringfield and the bag had been left by him in a certain position of safety while he was inside the little church—nothing more. Even as Crabbe was standing with growing wrath and gathering resolution in his expression and demeanour Ringfield walked out and confronted him.

Hatred, nothing less, looked forth from his lowering brows and bitter mouth, and he was met by answering hate, wedded to cruel scorn, in the guide. The latter spoke first.

"Do you know what has nearly happened?" he cried with a fine tempest of wrath kindling in his usually contemptuous manner. "I could have you arrested, more than that, my good sir, Mr. Methodist Parson!—convicted, perhaps worse, for the trap you led me into! You and your bag—confound you!"

Ringfield, who could hardly look more miserable on this accusation than he did already from illness and other causes, made some dumb motion with his hands and started as he perceived the traces of struggle about the other.

"My bag? The carpet-bag? What has that to do with you, with us? What are you talking of? What trap? I know nothing of any trap."

"Do you know nothing of a man caught there in the middle of the bridge where the footway has fallen out—do you know nothing of that man struggling to lift himself up from that cursed hole and crying for help? You know nothing, do you?"

Ringfield's surprise was genuine, as Crabbe was beginning to see.

"Certainly I know nothing, have heard nothing. I have been in the church some time, an hour I should think. A hole——"

Then he remembered.

"The dog!" he cried. "The little dead dog! Now I understand. He must have fallen through. I wondered at the time how he got out there under the bridge on top of those rolling logs that carried him over the fall. Once there, it was impossible to save him. I remember his eyes."

"What are you talking about now?" said the other angrily. "I'll swear you knew something of that hole and meant to see me go down through it."

Ringfield smiled with that slow, wry smile of his.

"I knew nothing of the hole. But I am not so sure that I would be sorry if I saw you go down through it this moment, so long as it was not my direct work. You and I can never be friends. You and I cannot expect tolerance of each other. We are enemies, we must always be enemies, to the death—to the death!"

Crabbe had, as usual, the upper hand in ease and coolness, and being now quite restored in physical courage he began to note the signs of illness and misery in the other's face. He was almost sorry for him and said so.

"I'm sorry for all this, Ringfield, I really am. It's some misunderstanding, I suppose. I can't blame you for admiring Pauline. I don't blame you for it. You're a man, despite your calling, same as I am. And I have liked you better since you have shown me your rough side.—By Heaven, I have, Ringfield! Things have turned out in an unexpected way with me, and you have suffered on account, and if not in silence, as we might look for from you, why, it only proves you a man like the rest of us! You'll get over it, you know. She's to leave here for good with me the day after to-morrow; everything's settled and it's much the best thing that could happen for both of us. I wish you would be reasonable and understand this and make her going away easier."

This rambling speech was received at first in silence, then Ringfield spoke, his slow utterances affording a contrast to the half-jocular, half-querulous words of the ex-guide.

"That word reasonable! Be reasonable! You—you ask me to be reasonable! As if I were at fault, as if I were doing her the injury! God knows I have my own battle to fight, my own self to overcome, but that is beside the question. Do you see nothing unreasonable in your own relation to—to Miss Clairville? When I came here—and God knows I'm sorry at times I ever came or stayed—I met Miss Clairville. I talked to her and she to me. I learned her mind, or thought I did. I fathomed her heart, or she allowed me to think so, and thus I became acquainted with her story, the story that is concerned with her young life and with you. I was deeply affected, deeply moved, deeply interested—how could it be otherwise! And then to my eternal sorrow, as I fear, I grew to love her. She—she—returned it."

Crabbe made some indistinct remark, but Ringfield went on without caring to ask what it was.

"I tell you—she returned my affection and gave me proof of it. All that, whatever it was between us, is very sacred and I am not going to talk about it. Then you know what happened; you would not leave her alone, you followed and I believe annoyed and pestered her, using the power you have over her for her destruction and despair."

"The whole thing is monstrous," cried the other hotly. "You have cast your damned ugly, black shadow over this place too long as it is! Miss Clairville is no child; she knows, has always known, her own mind, and I do not grudge her a slight flirtation or two with any one she fancies; it is her way, a safe outlet for her strong yet variable temperament. You take things too seriously, that's all."

And the guide, slapping and shaking the snow from his clothing and adjusting his cap, walked down from the bridge to one side and sat upon a rock in sheer fatigue. It was the identical rock from which Poussette had been pulled back by Ringfield on that April day when the affairs of the parish had been discussed, and was no safer now than at that time, in fact, footing was precarious everywhere around the fall, for the same glassy covering, slowly melting and slippery, had spread to all objects in sight.

Ringfield, too, turned and stood a few yards behind the guide and again he kept that peculiar silence.

"Now consider," said Crabbe quietly, looking in his pocket for matches and holding his pipe comfortably in his hand. "I'm perfectly ready to sympathize with you. I know when you first saw me you cannot have been very pleasantly impressed, and all that, but that's all or nearly all over, and I'm going to try and turn over a new leaf, Ringfield. No more Nature for me, nor for her; we are to flee these dismal wilds and try a brighter clime,—a brighter clime! You must be generous and confess that I can do more for her than you can. It will be a new lease of life for us both, but candidly, Ringfield—lazy dog and worse that I have been—I think more of what it will mean for her than for myself."

"If you consider her happiness and her—her good name so much," said Ringfield, trembling and white, "why did you lie to me about your relations with her?"

"When did I lie to you?"

"You cannot have forgotten. That day in the shack, the first day I met you."

"That is easily explained." Crabbe continued to look at and think of his pipe, oblivious of the white countenance behind him. "I spoke after a fashion. The thing—I mean our relations—amounted virtually to a marriage. The difference was in your thought—in your mind. You pictured a ceremony, a religious rite, whereas I intended to convey the idea of a state, a mutual feeling——"

"You allowed me to think of a ceremony, you encouraged me to think of it."

"Nothing of the sort. Besides, I was not sober at the time. Make allowances, my Christian friend, always make allowances."

"Then what of the child? If you mentioned anything it should have been the child."

At this Crabbe turned, and so sudden was his movement that Ringfield retreated as if caught guiltily; in doing so he very nearly slipped on the icy rocks that sloped imperceptibly towards the rushing fall, and he was about to warn the guide, who was farther down the bank than himself when the latter, rising abruptly, cried:—

"The child? What child? There never was any child. Thank heaven, we were spared that complication!"

"You deny it? You deny it in the face of the likeness, of the stories of the village and the entire countryside; in face of the misery its existence has caused her—the mother, and of the proof in your own sodden, embruted condition, in face of her own admission——"

"Admission? It is impossible she can have admitted what never occurred. What did she say?"

"She implied—implied—made me think——"

"Made you think?" said the guide in disgust. "Made you think? That's what's been the matter with you all along;—you think too much. You wanted a bigger parish, Reverend Father, to occupy your time and mind. St. Ignace was too small."

This tone of banter was the one least calculated to appease the jealous and vindictive spirit holding Ringfield in its grasp. He became whiter, more agitated, and held up one hand as if to guard himself, yet there was nothing furious in Crabbe's manner; rather the contrary, for he was relieved at hearing of the natural misapprehension by which he had been looked upon as Angeel's father. But Ringfield was difficult to convince. No gossip had reached him where he lay at Archibald Groom's, with Madame Poussette watching him, nor at the Hotel Champlain where he had staggered the night before for a mad moment only, as he asked for news of Crabbe and was told that he gone back to St. Ignace; therefore he knew nothing of the affaire Archambault, as some of the provincial papers called it, and had heard only the bare facts of Henry Clairville's death and burial. To complete his ignorance, the charitable institutions to which he had written had neglected to answer his letters, for such an offer coming from such a source required time for consideration, and his brain, neither a subtly trained nor naturally cunning one, was incapable of those shifting drifts of thought which occupy themselves with idly fitting certain acts to certain individuals. His literal mind had always connected. Miss Clairville, from the day of the Hawthorne picnic, with Angeel, and to be told that they were not, as he had supposed, mother and child, was only to merge him in the absolutely crushing puzzle of a question—whose child then could she be? Might it not be—for here at last his mind gave a twist, fatal to its usual literal drift—her child by some one other than Crabbe? For who could mistake the eyes and their expression, the way the hair grew on the forehead, the shape of the hands, white and firm like Pauline's,—resemblances all made the stranger by association with the unnaturally formed head and shoulders of the unhappy child?

The two stood facing each other; the Christian minister, originally a being of blameless instincts and moral life, but now showing a countenance and owning a temper distorted to sinful conditions from the overshadowing of the great master passion; and the battered exile, genuine, however, in his dealings with himself, and sincere in the midst of degradation. So the Pharisee and the publican might have stood. So in all ages often stand those extreme types, the moral man who has avoided or by circumstances been free of temptation, and the sinner who yet keeps a universal kindliness or other simple virtue in his heart. Anguish in one was met by cheerful contempt and growing pity in the other, and once more Crabbe essayed to reason with Ringfield.

"Believe me," he said, "I would give way to the better man, and you, of course, are he, if I thought Miss Clairville's future would thereby be benefited, but I cannot imagine anything more uncongenial than the life which you—pardon me—would be likely to offer her. She has no money and she loves money. She is tired of her home and all these surroundings; I can take her from them for ever. She is gifted, intelligent, and brilliant, and I can show her much that will interest and transform her. She runs a risk, certainly, in marrying me, but she knows my worst, and by Heaven—Ringfield, there's a power of comfort in that! No setting on a pedestal, no bowing to an idol—and then perhaps she will help in the working out of the tiger and the ape, make the beast within me die. How the old familiar lines come back to one here in this solitary place! I suppose I'll go down to Oxford some day and see my old rooms,—take Pauline. We'd like to keep in touch with you, Ringfield, send you a line now and then after you leave St. Ignace, for I don't figure you remaining here all your life at the beck and call of Poussette."

Ringfield's eyes were on the ground, for a deep mystification still possessed him; he had scarcely heard the latter part of Crabbe's speech, for there remained unanswered that question in his tortured mind—whose child was Angeel if not Pauline's, for he still saw the basket-chair with the dreadful face in it as he looked down in the barn, and still heard those damaging whispers from Enderby the night of the concert.

A groan escaped him; he threw a pained and bitter glance at Crabbe and again studied the ground.

"I find it hard to believe you. Hard, hard. The people at Hawthorne all say it was—it was her's. Enderby told me."

"God help you for a silly lunatic if you listen to the tales of country people, Ringfield! They may have said so, they may have said all kinds of stuff—I never spoke of it to a living soul myself, even in my cups; I'll swear I left it alone even then."

"But now, now you can speak! The time has come to speak! If not you, then who, who could be that poor child's father!"

"Why, of course I can tell you that!" said Crabbe, coming a pace nearer. "I wonder you have not guessed by now. Her brother, Henry Clairville. It was a bad business, but he paid for it, as we all do, Ringfield, we all do."

With a fierce gesture of extreme astonishment the minister sprang forward and in his excitement struck the guide on the breast, a heavy blow. Startled into forgetting his dangerous position, Crabbe threw himself backward, seeing, as he thought, sudden madness in the other's eyes, and immediately his doom was sealed. He slipped, tripped, tried to save himself, rolled from one ice-covered boulder to another, was cast from one mighty cauldron of furious seething waters to another, and finally disappeared in the deeper pools that formed the lower and greater fall. His poor body, bruised and beaten, choked and maimed, had met the same fate as the little dog—and, strange to relate—he had uttered no cry as he sank backwards into the cold watery abysses from which there was no escape; his face only showed surprise and reproach as he looked his last on Ringfield and this world. When upon the bridge he had expected death, set his teeth and prayed, felt all vital force drop away, then by degrees flow back again, but now, when Death clutched him from behind and thrust him over those slippery precipices, to the last moment there was only a profound consternation in his staring blue eyes, as if he found it impossible to believe he was being sucked down, whirled down, to eternity. Such was the end of Edmund Crabbe Hawtree, Esquire, of Suffolk, England.

Ringfield had not moved since Crabbe had fallen. His face was horrible in the white intensity of its passion, and he continued to stare at the spot where a moment before the guide had been sitting without making the slightest endeavour to go to the rescue, or, by shouting for assistance, attract the attention of people on the inhabited side of the river. The image of the little dead dog merged into that of Crabbe and vice versa; he confused these images and saw unnatural shapes struggling in stormy waters, and thus the time wore on, ten, twenty, thirty minutes, before he perceived a man at the far end of the bridge. At first he thought it was Poussette, then it looked like Martin; finally he knew it for Father Rielle, and at this everything cleared and came back to him. He recollected the great hole spoken of by Crabbe and knew that he ought to call out or lift a hand in warning, yet he did neither. Father Rielle, however, was not too preoccupied to observe the hole; he walked around it instead of over or through it and had the presence of mind to pause, and after a few minutes' kneading and compressing lumps of the damp snow into a species of scarecrow, erected the clumsy squat figure of a misshapen man by the side of the yawning gap and passed on. The sun was radiantly bright by now and the ice beginning to melt off from twigs and wires; the red carpet-bag flamed forth more emphatically than ever, and presently the two men were not more than a few paces apart.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE HAVEN

"Stripp'd as I am of all the golden fruit Of self-esteem; and by the cutting blasts Of self-reproach familiarly assail'd."

Ringfield bared his head as the priest approached, standing with lowered eyes and heaving breast. Father Rielle stopped short in wonder as he noted the pale drawn face, the working hands, the averted eyes and trembling lips.

"Can I do anything for you?" he cried in his excellent English. "Monsieur is not well perhaps? This peculiar day, this air——"

"You are right. I am not well. I have been very ill, but that was nothing, only illness of the body. Yes, there is one thing you can do for me. Oh! man of God! What does it matter that I do not belong to your communion? It must not matter, it shall not matter. Father Rielle, I need your help very much, very, very much."

In still profounder astonishment the priest took a step forward.

"You are in trouble, trouble of the soul, some perplexity of the mind? Tell me then how I can help?"

And Ringfield answered:—

"Father Rielle, I wish to confess to you. I wish you to hear a confession."

"Oh! Monsieur, think! We are not of the same communion. You have said so yourself. You would perhaps ridicule my holy office, my beloved Church!"

"No, no! I am too much in earnest."

"You wish me to hear a confession, you, a minister of another religious body not in sympathy with us, not a son of the only true Church? I do not care to receive this confession, Monsieur."

Ringfield's hand pressed heavily on the priest's arm and his agonized face came very close. Father Rielle's curiosity naturally ran high.

"Monsieur," he said nevertheless coldly, not choosing to display this desire to know too suddenly, as there darted into his mind the image of Miss Clairville, "it is true you have no right to demand absolution from me, a priest of the Holy Catholic Church, it is true I have no right to hear this confession and give or withhold absolution. Yet, monsieur, setting dogma and ritual aside, we both believe in the same Heavenly Father, in the same grand eternal hope. I will hear this confession, my brother, in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen. And may it bring peace to your soul."

There was a silence, and then Ringfield led the way to the little church. Father Rielle, who had never been inside the finished edifice before, although he had frequently walked through it while the builders were at work, entered respectfully and crossed himself in the porch.

"Ah!" he whispered or rather breathed in French as if disinclined to speak louder, "if you were but as I am, my brother, if you were but one of the true flock shepherded by the only Shepherd! Perhaps this is but the beginning. Perhaps you desire to cast away your inadequate faith and come to us, be one with us. My brother, I pray that this may be so. With us alone you shall have comfort to your soul and sweet solace in affliction, peace of mind, honesty of conviction, and after many a struggle, purity of life."

As he ceased, Ringfield, by some extraordinary instinct which mastered him, at once fell upon his knees at the side of Father Rielle, who had taken a seat not far from the door, where he might command a view of the bridge in case of interruption, and with that dangerous hole in the footway in his memory.

"If I say 'Holy Father,' will that be right?"

"Quite right, my son. Have no fear. Say on."

Ringfield bowed his head on his hands and began:—

"Holy Father——"

The priest waited quietly. His thin sensitive visage was transfigured and his whole being uplifted and dignified as he thus became the Mediator between Man and God.

"Holy Father, I know no form of word——"

"That does not matter. Whether you cry 'Peccavi' or 'Father, I have sinned,' it is all the same."

"Holy Father, I have sinned, sinned grievously before God and Heaven, before men and angels, but most of all have I sinned before my own ideals and conceptions of what I meant to be—a Christian clergyman. Hear my confession, Holy Father; with you to love, love a woman, would be sin; it was not sin for me, and yet in loving a woman it became sin also with me, for it blotted out God and humanity. I not only loved—I also hated; I lived to hate. I hated while I was awake and while I slept, in walking, in eating, in drinking, so that my life became a burden to me and I forsook the throne of God in prayer."

The priest, in the moment's pause which had followed these words of self-abasement, had seen something across the river that claimed his attention, nevertheless he gravely encouraged the penitent.

"Keep nothing back, my son. Let me hear all."

What he had seen was a man running up and down in front of Poussette's, in some agitation as he fancied, presently to be joined by two or three others.

"Thus I lived, hating. I left this place, hating, and I followed him, you know whom I mean, hating. I met him there or rather I sought him out and helped him to fall, watched him drink strong liquor and did not intervene, did not stay his hand. I made him drunk—I left him drunk—I left him drunk. I went away and lied. I said he was ill and I locked the door and took the key. I went back again and saw him; he was still drunk and I was glad, because I thought 'This will keep him here, this will make her hate and avoid him, this will prevent the marriage'."

Father Rielle, though listening intently, still kept his gaze riveted on the peculiar actions of the men outside Poussette's. The running to and fro continued, but now suddenly an impulse prompted them to go in one direction; they pointed, gesticulated, and then with startling rapidity disappeared around the corner of the bridge. By this time the priest was convinced that something was transpiring of serious and uncommon import, yet he gave precedence to the wants of the penitent, kneeling with head on his hands.

"I vowed he should never marry her—you know of whom I am speaking, of both?"

"I know, my son."

"I say—I followed him. I took a room—I will tell you where, later—which enabled me to watch him should he go out. Then I fell ill myself and had to be kept in bed. O the torture, the pain, of knowing that I might miss him, that he might leave without my knowledge, I, from weakness, being unable to overtake him! And that happened, that came to pass, as I feared it would."

"You watched him go?"

"No. When I recovered sufficiently to walk, I went to find him. I went to that place where I had helped to make him drunk, but he was gone."

"What day was that?"

"I do not know. I have lost track of the days, lost track of the time."

Father Rielle was now more than professionally interested; he saw that the man before him was in a terrible state of incipient mental collapse.

"Surely you can tell me what day this is?" he cried.

"I cannot."

"Nor yesterday?"

"No."

"Yesterday was Sunday."

"Sunday? The word has no meaning."

"But at least you know where you are, where we both are at this instant."

"Yes, I know that. We are in the church built by M. Poussette."

"Yesterday was Sunday and there should have been a service here, but you were absent. How long have you been here? Were you waiting for me?"

"No."

"For him?"

"Yes."

"And he came? Over the bridge?"

In a flash the priest divined, as he thought, the fate of Crabbe.

"Mon Dieu! M'tenant je comprends! The hole I passed and all-but stumbled through! You cut that, you waited to see him fall through and drown! Perhaps he has ceased to struggle! Ah! that is why the crowd is gathering at Poussette's!"

Father Rielle rose to his feet and thrust aside the appealing hands of the other, but the strength exerted in this supreme moment was terrific and the priest could not escape.

"No, no," sobbed Ringfield, dry-eyed and trembling. "I know what you think—that I pushed him over, that I pushed him down, but I did not. I wished to kill him, I wished to put him out of the way, but I had not the courage. He crossed in safety, the hole was not my doing. He stood there on the rock and he lied to me about her, about Miss Clairville, and I struck him and he stumbled and fell."

"You pushed him, God forgive you, I know you pushed! You have killed him and now you are keeping me here. Let me go, let me go!"

"I did not push, I swear it! Only in my mind, only in my thoughts, did I kill him. I struck him and he fell. But it is true that I am guilty in thought, if not in deed, and I will take my punishment."

"What do you mean? What are you saying? One moment you are innocent of this man's death; the next you are saying you are guilty."

Ringfield at last removed his heavy clasp from the priest's arm and stood quietly waiting, it seemed, as if for condemnation or sentence.

"Before God, it was not my hand that sent him to his death, still, having come to my senses, I desire to suffer for my fault, and I will give myself up to take what punishment I deserve. I have disgraced my calling and my Church. I can never preach again, never live the life of a Christian minister again. Some shelter I must seek, some silence, some reparation I must make——"

He bent his eyes on the ground, his whole mien expressed the contrition of the sinner, but Father Rielle thought more of the affair from the standpoint of crime than from that of sin.

"What do you mean by punishment?" he said, torn between curiosity to know what had really become of the guide and a wish to hear everything Ringfield had to say. While the priest was thus hesitating to move along the road to the point where by making a slight detour among some pines he could cross farther down, a striking but wholly incongruous figure emerged from the trees. With shining top hat, fur-lined coat, gauntlets and cane, M. Lalonde, the Montreal detective, came forward with his professional conceit no whit impaired by juxtaposition with these glacial and solitary surroundings. He handed his card to the priest and bowed to them both.

"Mon Dieu!" muttered Father Rielle, "it is true then! You saw it all! You saw it all—I can see!"

"What there was to see, I certainly saw," returned M. Lalonde, with a careless glance of pity at the forlorn figure of Ringfield. "I not only saw, but I heard. I followed this gentleman from the Hotel Champlain as he followed—our late acquaintance—to this place. Permit me, monsieur, permit me, monsieur le cure, to testify if necessary that you are entirely guiltless of the death."

"In act, yes, but not in thought," groaned Ringfield in deepest anguish.

"The law cannot punish for sins of thought; we leave that to the Church. If, monsieur, you had but inquired further into what is known now in provincial annals as the Archambault affair, perhaps you might have been spared some misapprehension and much suffering. Mr. Henry Clairville left a wife."

"A wife!"

"You did not know that? Eh? A wife certainly, as well as a child. A daughter."

"But who——"

"I reciprocate your astonishment. The child's nurse is its mother; she, the empty-headed, the foolish Artemise. She was not of age, it is true, but there—it is done and who cares now, who will interfere or contest? The matter will drop out of sight completely in a few days; meanwhile, monsieur, I return as I came. The morning is fine and I shall enjoy my walk back to the station at Bois Clair. Monsieur le cure, you have my card. At any time in your paroisse should you have any more interesting family secrets to divulge, pray do not forget my address. Allons! I will walk with you to the scene of the tragedy, as we shall see it shortly described in the papers. As for you, monsieur, have courage and be tranquil. Rest, monsieur, rest for awhile and leave these scenes of strife and unhappiness as soon as you can. I understand your case; my professional knowledge avails me here, but there are some who might not understand, and so make it hard for you."

The priest looked at Lalonde's card and then at Ringfield.

"Sinner, or worse," he cried, "I cannot, cannot stay. I must go where my duty calls me and see if I can be of use, see whether a man lives or has been shot down to death. Do nothing till I return; at least do nothing desperate. I will seek you as soon as I may. There will be a way out for you yet; I know a haven, a refuge. Only promise me; promise not to give up to remorse and contrition too deeply."

Ringfield stood pale and quiet and gave the promise, but Father Rielle and Lalonde ran along the road leading back from the fall until they reached a point where the river was sufficiently frozen to admit of walking across. Arrived at last among those who had left Poussette's a quarter of an hour before, they were just in time to view the body of the guide where it lay wedged between two large ice-covered boulders. In a few minutes Martin drew it forth; Dr. Renaud was speedily summoned, but life was surely quite extinct, and now the priest and physician met in consultation as to the task of breaking the tragic news to Miss Clairville. In a little while the whole of St. Ignace gathered upon the river-bank to discuss the accident in voluble and graphic French. It was seventeen years since any one had gone over the fall in such a manner and only the oldest present remembered it.

The body of the unfortunate Englishman was taken to Gagnon's establishment and placed in the room recently occupied by Ringfield, who went home with the priest and to whom he seemed to turn in ever-increasing confidence and respect.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE WILL OF GOD

"I hope, said she, that Heaven Will give me patience to endure the things Which I behold at home...."

The glorious noonday sun was lighting up all the road to Clairville and making it possible for the peacock to revive his display of a glistening fan of feathers tipped with frosted filaments that were only rivalled by the pendant encrustations of the surrounding trees, and in a window of the manor Pauline was standing looking at the bird after showing Angeel the various little trifles she had brought with her. The child's infirmity did not prevent her from enjoying the good things of life; indeed, as frequently occurs in such cases, her senses were almost preternaturally acute and her faculties bright and sensitive in the extreme. In place of any system of general education, impossible during those sequestered years at Hawthorne in charge of her incapable mother, she had picked up one or two desultory talents which might yet stand her instead of mere bookishness; she was never without a pencil in her long white fingers and busied herself by the hour with little drawings and pictures of what she had seen in her limited experience, and some of these she had been exhibiting now to the person she held both in awe and adoration. Her kinship to this elegant, dark-haired lady had only recently been explained, and Pauline was trying to accustom herself to being addressed as "ma tante" and "tante cherie" with other endearing and embarrassing terms of regard.

But the time was going on and Miss Clairville turned from the window; a very little of Angeel was all she could stand just now.

"At this rate our beautiful view will soon disappear," she said, sitting down beside the basket-chair. "See then, mon enfant, how already the ice drips off the trees and all the pretty glass tubes are melting from the wires overhead! It is so warm too, like a day in spring. Eh! bien, I must go now back to my friends who are waiting for me. I have nothing more to show little girls. You have now the beads, the satin pincushion, and the little red coat that is called a Zouave jacket—see how gay! and you will find it warm and pleasant to wear when your kind maman makes it to fit you. And here too are the crayons to paint with and a new slate. Soyez toujours bonne fille, p'tite, and perhaps some day you will see your poor aunt again."

"Not my poor aunt! My rich, rich aunt."

"Ah—tais toi, ma p'tite! But you, too, are not poor any longer. That reminds me, I must have a little talk with your kind maman."

With some difficulty overcoming her dislike of the individual and aversion to the entire family arrangement, Pauline walked out to the hall which separated the faded salon, where she had been sitting, from the still untidy bedroom and called for Artemise. In a few moments the widow of Henry Clairville came in sight at the top of the staircase leading to the upper room, her bright black eyes dulled and frightened and her hands trembling visibly, for was not Mlle. Clairville her enemy, being not only a relative now by marriage but her late mistress, tyrant and superior? But the certainty of leaving the neighbourhood in a very few days put Pauline so much at her ease that she could afford to show her brightest and most amiable side to her sister-in-law, and thus she made a graceful if authoritative advance to the bottom of the staircase and stretched forth both her white hands, even going the length of imprinting a slow kiss on the other's sunburnt cheek. Few could at any time have resisted the mingled charms of so magnetic a personality, with something of the stage lingering in it, an audacity, an impulsiveness, rare among great ladies, and it must be remembered that in the limited society of St. Ignace, Miss Clairville passed as a great lady, and was one indeed in all minor traits. Then the touch of her skin was so soft, there always exhaled a delicate, elusive, but sweet perfume from her clothes and hair, and even in her mourning she had preserved the artistic touches necessary to please. No wonder that the poor Artemise should burst into weak tears and cry for pity and forgiveness as that soft kiss fell upon her cheek and those proud hands grasped her own.

"Chut!" cried Miss Clairville, drawing the other into the salon. "I am not angry with you, child! If Henry made you his wife it was very right of him and no one shall blame you nor complain. Only had I known—ah, well, it might not have made so much difference after all. You are going to be very comfortable here, Artemise, and I shall write to you from time to time—oh, have no fear! regularly, my dear! And Dr. Renaud and his Reverence are to see about selling Henry's books and papers, and it is possible that they bring you a nice sum of money. With that, there is one thing I should like you to do. Are you listening to me, Artemise?"

"Bien, mademoiselle," answered Artemise, through her sobs. "I listen, I will do anything you say. I am sorry, ma'amselle. I should not be here, I know; it is you who should be here, here at Clairville, and be its mistress."

Still secure in her ideas of impending ease and happiness, and unaware of the course of tragic accident which was operating at that same moment against her visions of release and freedom and depriving her of the future she relied on, Pauline laughed musically at the notion.

"Oh, that—for me? No, thank you, my dear. In any case I had done with Clairville. If not marriage, then the stage. If not the stage—and there were times when it wearied and disgusted me, with the uneducated people one met and the vagaries of that man, Jean Rochelle—then a paid situation somewhere. The last—very difficult for me, a Clairville [and again she very nearly used the prefix, a tardy endorsing of Henry's pet project], and with my peculiar needs. To be sure, a religious house had offered me a good place, thanks to Father Rielle, at a good figure for Canada, but there are other countries, Artemise, there are other countries, and I am still young, n'est-ce-pas?"

"Mademoiselle will never be old. She has the air of a princess, the complexion—d'une vierge!"

Pauline was much amused and laughed once more with so thrilling a cadence in her rich voice that the child in the basket-chair clapped its hands and laughed too.

"So now, Artemise, try and understand what I tell you, for I shall not see you again before I leave, and these are my last wishes, to be faithfully carried out. I know the world, my dear, and I have had many trying, many sad experiences, and as you grow older, and I trust wiser, you will begin to realize what a charge Angeel will be. Are you attending, Artemise?"

"Oui, oui, ma'amselle."

"Very well. I have told Dr. Renaud to come and see you often and advise you; he will be a kind of guardian for you both, and will attend you, as he did Henry, free of charge. The debts in the village and at Poussette's cannot possibly be paid, but I will speak to Maman Archambault about the future. The sale of Henry's effects will bring enough, I hope, to enable you to find, still through Dr. Renaud, some kind teacher for Angeel, and I wish, I particularly wish that this talent for drawing and painting shall be encouraged. Do you understand me?"

"Oui, Ma'amselle." Pauline's bright eye had transfixed the wandering gaze of Artemise, who by almost superhuman efforts was trying to collect her thoughts and remember all these directions.

"She can never hope for companionship, nor—certainly not—for school advantages, nor yet marriage; how then? She must amuse herself, fill in the time, be always occupied. Maman Archambault and you will sew for her, cook for her, and watch over her, and if at any time the money comes to an end——Artemise, listen, I tell you! Collect your wits and keep looking at me." For the girl's attention was clearly wandering now to something outside the house.

"Oui, Mademoiselle, oui, oui."

Pauline stamped her foot in her annoyance.

"The creature is not following what I say!" she exclaimed. "Angeel—you can remember! You know what I have been saying. You are to learn to draw, perhaps to paint, to make little pictures, caricatures—oh, it will be so pleasant for you, and by and by people will pay you to do this for them. See, petite, you must be very wise for yourself, for the poor kind maman cannot be wise for you."

And Angeel's heavy head nodded sagely in swift discernment of this evident truth, for Artemise was now tired of the subject and of Pauline's endless farewells and preferred to look out of the window.

Rare sight on a December day, the peacock was still pacing to and fro, for the air was as mild and balmy as in June, and although the road ran water and the trees were rapidly losing their icy trappings the courtyard had been swept of snow and therefore remained almost dry. The beauty of the glissade was over. But Artemise looked only for a moment at the peacock. Along the road from the direction of the village were advancing two men, Dr. Renaud and the priest; behind them, a few steps, walked Martin, the Indian. They came near the stone fence, they stopped, all three, and seemed to confer, studying from time to time the front of the house. Absorbed in watching them, Artemise listened no longer at all to Miss Clairville's pronouncements and indeed very little was left to say. Pauline put on her gloves, slung her muff around her neck and submitted to a frantic embrace from the warm-hearted, lonely little girl, then turned to bid farewell to the mother.

"Two hours by my watch!" she cried gaily. "Which of us has been the gossip, the chatterbox, eh, Artemise! Eh! bien, I wish you a very sincere and a very long good-bye." Some emotion crept into her throat, into her voice. The child was her brother's. This poor girl, the mother, bore her own name, and she could not harden her heart entirely against the ill-starred couple, and why should she! She was bidding them both farewell, probably for ever, and the prospect so soothed her that she ejaculated, "Poor children!" and wiped away a tear.

"Take great care of yourself, Artemise, for Angeel's sake and mine, and for the sake of the name you bear and the place it has held in the country. But what are you looking at so intently? What is the matter out there, Artemise?"

At that instant the priest detached himself from the others and entering the domain walked slowly up to the door and knocked.

Pauline, not comprehending the nature of the visit, went herself and opened to Father Rielle. His long face told her nothing—was it not always long? The presence of Renaud and the guide, whom she also saw in the background, told her nothing; their being there was perhaps only a coincidence and they had not turned their faces as yet in her direction. Precisely as Crabbe had met his fate without seeing it arrive, although half an hour earlier he had foreseen death and prayed against it, she faced the priest with a smiling countenance, her tremors past, her conviction—that her lover was alive and well and able to take her away that instant if necessary—quite unaltered. Father Rielle had a difficult task to perform and he realized it.

Twice he essayed to speak and twice he stammered only unmeaning words. Pauline translated his incoherent and confused murmurs with characteristic and vigorous conceit; she believed him so anxious to make her a private farewell instead of a stereotyped adieu in public that she thought he had walked out from St. Ignace on purpose.

"It is all settled and therefore hopeless!" she began. "You cannot interfere or change me now."

The priest repeated the words after her. "Settled? Hopeless?" he uttered in a furtive manner as if anxious to escape.

"I mean my marriage," she went on gaily. "It has been discovered that I am no longer, if I was ever, a good Catholic, and there is consequently no hitch, no difficulty! I am supposed to be nothing at all, so we shall be just married in the one church, his church, you understand. And now you may absolve me, your Reverence, if you choose, for the last time."

"Mademoiselle," began the priest with a scared look at the bright face above him, "it is of that I must speak. Mademoiselle, this marriage, your marriage, it—it will not take place. It cannot take place."

The brilliant eyes hardened, the barred gate stood out upon her forehead.

"You think because I am a Catholic——"

"No, Mademoiselle, it has nothing to do with that. I came here to tell you, I was sent—there is something you must be told, that you must know—it is very difficult for me. Oh! Mademoiselle, I find it even more difficult than I thought, I must have help, I must ask some one else, I cannot—cannot."

His voice broke, stopped. The other men, turning at last towards the house, saw the priest's bowed head and Pauline's bright but angry face, and Dr. Renaud at once came to Father Rielle's rescue.

"Mademoiselle," he began, but Pauline, leaving the door open, rushed down the walk and met him at the gate. Her hands were pressed upon her bosom and her wild eyes sought his in alarm, for she knew now that something had happened, that something was wrong, although the mental picture of Crabbe lying dead or dying did not occur to her. She figured instead, some quibble, some legal matter, a money strait, a delay, but the doctor, quietly taking one of her hands in his, spoke as tenderly as was possible for a man of his bearing.

"Father Rielle is saddened, crushed. He cannot tell you, for he feels it too much. I feel it, too, but I must be brave and put away these feelings, this natural weakness. My dear lady, my dear Mademoiselle, your friend, your fiance, the man you were about to marry, has met with a very bad accident."

"A bad accident."

"Yes, a very serious one. You must be prepared."

"He has been killed? Then I know who did it—I know."

"An accident, an accident only, mademoiselle, I assure you. But a very serious one, as I have said."

"Very serious? He—he—where is he? Take me to him. Oh! I knew something would happen, I am not surprised, I am not surprised. But it shall not prevent my seeing him, waiting on him. It shall not prevent our marriage."

The piteousness of her position softened the doctor's heart still further; he kept hold of her hand and modulated his voice.

"I am afraid it may. I am afraid you will have to prepare yourself for a great shock. Martin here—found him."

She did not yet understand.

"Martin, I say, was the one who found it."

The change of pronoun did not fully enlighten her.

"But he is alive! Yes, of course he is alive, only badly hurt. Then we can be married at once wherever he is. Any one can marry us—Father Rielle will tell you that. If we both wish, and we both believe in God, that is sufficient. Other things will not matter. Any one, any one can marry us. Take me to him."

Dr. Renaud, relinquishing her hand, stepped to the side of the priest and was followed by Martin. Artemise, always curious and flighty, ran out and overheard a word or two as the three men again conferred and fled back to the house, shrieking as she went.

"Dead! Dead! Another death! Within a week! You see I can count! You see I can count! Dead, drowned, and all in a week!"

The truth was now borne in upon Pauline, and she turned to meet the united gaze of the three men, reading confirmation of the awful news in their averted and sobered eyes. The shock told, her limbs shook, her sight left her, her throat grew sore and dry, but she did not faint.

"I am so cold," she said in English. And again in the same tongue. "I feel so cold. Why is it?"

Dr. Renaud hastened to her, supporting her with his arm.

"You have guessed?" he said hurriedly.

"I heard. Is it true?"

"Dear mademoiselle, I regret to say, quite true. He was carried over the Fall! there was no escape, no hope. Come, let me take you back to the house for a moment where you may sit down." For she continued to tremble so violently that presently she sank upon the low fence, still pressing her hands over her heart. "Come, mademoiselle, let me take you into the house."

"Not that house! Not that house!"

"Faith—I know of no other! You cannot remain here."

"But I can go back, back to Poussette's."

"You must drive or be driven then. You cannot walk."

It was true. Pauline's breath was now very short, her articulation difficult, her throat contracted and relaxed by turns.

"It is true!" she gasped. "I cannot walk. I cannot even stand up. Oh, Dr. Renaud, this is more than weakness or fright. I am very sick, Doctor. Why cannot I stand up?"

Renaud tore off his coat, the priest and Martin did the same. Folding all three beside the fence where the snow was still thick and dry they laid Miss Clairville down and watched her. Martin fetched brandy while the entire Archambault family flocked out to see the sight, and stood gaping and chattering until rebuked by Father Rielle. The doctor knelt a long time at her side. Knowing her so well, he was secretly astonished at the weakness she had shown and he dealt with her most kindly. Tragedy had at last touched her too deeply; a latent tendency of the heart to abnormal action had suddenly developed under pressure of emotion and strain of shock, and he foresaw what she and the others did not—a long and tedious illness with periods of alarming collapse and weakness. For herself, so ill was she for the first time in her active life, she thought more about her own condition than of her loss; she imagined herself dying and following her lover on the same day to the grave. The image of Ringfield too was absent from her thoughts, which were now chiefly concentrated on her symptoms and sufferings.

"Am I not very ill?" she asked presently, after a little of the brandy had somewhat stilled the dreadful beating of her heart, the dreadful booming in her ears.

"Yes, mademoiselle. But you will recover."

"I have never been sick before."

"You are sure of that? Never had any nervous sensations, no tremors, no palpitations?"

"Ah, those! Yes, frequently, but I never thought much about them. They were part of my life, my emotional life, and natural to me. Shall I die?"

"I think not, mademoiselle. I believe not, but you may be ill for a while."

"Ill! For how long?"

"That I cannot tell you. You must have care and quiet, absolute quiet."

Pauline said no more. The distress of heart and nerves came on again; she moaned, being exceedingly troubled in spirit and her pallor was great.