THE HOUSE OF CLAIRVILLE
"High instincts, before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised."
The hall through which they passed was sufficiently dark to prevent the
masculine eye of Ringfield noting that long and systematic neglect
marked every inch of the wall, every foot of flooring, every window,
door, stair, sill and sash. Nothing was clean, nothing was orderly,
and as the books and papers contained in the invalid's room had
overflowed into the halls, lying on the steps and propped up on chairs
and in corners, the dirt and confusion was indescribable. Hideous
wallpapers were peeling off the damp and cracking wall, tattered shreds
showing, by the accumulation on their fly-specked yellow edges of thick
dust, how long they had waved upon the close air of this uncared-for
house. All the woodwork was rough and horrid to the touch by reason of
the millions of similar fly-specks; had nothing ever been washed here?
Cats were alarmingly abundant. Three lay about in the hall; four were
stretched on the grass in front of the door, and Ringfield saw two
more--so large and brown and with such huge tigers' heads, prowling
under the trees, that he scarcely took them for cats. The chain of
barns, farm-buildings and sheds was all in the same dilapidated, dirty
condition, and it was hardly strange that the vision of that white
loveliness--the peacock--which had tempted him in this direction,
crossed his mind as they proceeded to the landing-place. And yet the
Clairvilles were not without servants. Mademoiselle, having regained a
measure of her wonted serenity, began to describe her retainers,
proving that servants were almost as numerous as cats in that
neighbourhood. The elderly woman, the man, the two girls and the boy,
were all one family, and living "about" as their mistress carelessly
put it, in the barns and out-buildings, divided the work among them.
The woman's husband, Xavier Archambault, employed at the Fall as
assistant to look after the bridge and dam, helped at odd moments in
the business of the estate, thus making in all six servants, a rather
large contingent for a dwindling concern; and Ringfield, listening to
these wonders, could not fail to observe that their united wages must
reach a high figure.
"Oh--they are not paid!" exclaimed mademoiselle, "at least, not in
money. My brother, who is, as I was going to tell you, a person of
stronger character than you might imagine, has never paid a cent of
wages to anyone in his life. He has managed to infect all his
work-people, and, indeed, many in the village, with his own belief that
it is an honour to labour for him and his, he being a De Clairville and
the highest in rank in this part of the country. Of course you, having
lived in the West, and knowing so much of the world, must see how
foolish this is, how it involves us--my brother and myself--in many
unpleasant and difficult situations."
A note of challenge in her voice led Ringfield, who had taken off his
coat and was paddling, to stop sharply and observe her.
"Pray be careful!" she cried in sudden alarm. "When I was at home all
the time I could stand any kind of behaviour in a canoe, but lately I
seem to be losing my nerve. I suppose you _must_ kneel?"
"Certainly. Much the easier, therefore the safer way."
"Therefore! All easy things--safe?"
He was clumsy at this kind of refined innuendo, and considered before
replying.
"No, perhaps not. But I give you my word not to disturb the
equilibrium again."
The lake, a basin of clear water, small as Lower Canadian lakes go, and
framed with thick foliage reaching to the edge, was absolutely silent,
absolutely deserted, on this warm afternoon. Ringfield found it almost
too hot to talk, but his companion seemed to enjoy the unburdening of
various confidences, and as she had such a willing listener she had
every opportunity, of taking her own time, and of delivering herself in
her own way, of a remarkable tale.
That, within two days of his enforced sojourn at St. Ignace, the young
preacher found himself thus--floating on a silent desolate lake in one
of the remotest parishes of Quebec, listening to a family history of
mediaeval import from the lips of a woman, young too, cultivated,
self-possessed to the degree of hauteur, whose Christian name was as
yet unknown to him, was in itself remarkable.
Ringfield, ardent, gifted, good, inherited directness of aim, purity of
ideals, and narrowness of vision, from the simple working stock from
which he had sprung, and it would have been easy for a man of the world
to foresee the limitations existing in such a nature. When
mademoiselle therefore began the Clairville history by relating some
circumstances in the flighty career of the Sieur De Clairville, hinting
at certain deflections and ridiculing uncertain promises of
reformation, of reparation--for even the seventeenth century had its
cant--the matter was far from being either real or relevant to her
listener. What had he to do with a bundle of old-world memoirs, even
when edited and brought up to date by an interesting woman! What to
him was the spotless character of the ignoble François, son of a
butcher, created a Clairville for his plebeian virtues, or the lives of
each succeeding descendant of François, growing always a little richer,
a little more polished, till in time the wheel turned and the change
came in the fortunes of the house which culminated in the present! All
these were mere abstractions, dull excerpts from some period of remote
and unfamiliar history, because that system which gave him his secular
education did not include knowledge of his country from an historical
standpoint.
Macaulay and Alison, Gibbon and Grote, Motley and Bancroft--but not yet
Garneau or Parkman. The lady might have romanced indeed, with glib
falseness gilding picturesque invention, and he would not have detected
it.
As it was, the truth remained sufficiently high coloured. He listened,
he apprehended, but he could not see that it mattered.
"So now," remarked mademoiselle, trailing her large firm white hand
through the water and knitting her firm black brows still closer, "I
have brought the story up to the appearance on the scene of my brother,
whom you have met, no doubt pondered over, perhaps shrunk from."
"No, no!" cried Ringfield. "You mistake. I was conscious only of
having no right to enter."
"Ah--I could see, I could see. Poor Henry! He is the victim of many
delusions. One--that he is a great invalid and cannot leave his room,
that room you saw him in to-day. Another--that we are properly De
Clairvilles, but that we have somehow lost the prefix, the 'De,' in
course of years, and that a Bill may have to pass in Parliament to
permit us using it legally. There has been already in this antiquated
province a case very similar to ours, but it was a genuine case, which
ours is not. My brother owns the largest collection of old French and
old French-Canadian memoirs and books in the country, I believe, and it
may be that out of constant poring over them has come this ruling
passion, this dominant idea, to prove himself a seigneur, and more, a
noble, _grand seigneur de France_! Voilà! but I forget, Mr. Ringfield
hardly speaks French, and I--hate the sound of it, only it crops out
sometimes."
"But why--and you--how do _you_ speak such good English? I have been
wondering over that much more than over the case of your brother."
Ringfield, as he asked the question, stopped paddling and sat down
cautiously opposite his companion. Her dark brows clouded even more
and the warm colouring of her face went white; she again resembled the
fury who had lectured the unfortunate pedant in the arm-chair.
"I knew you would ask that. Every one does. I suppose it is to be
expected. Well then, my mother was English and I was educated at a
mixed school, ladies' school at Sorel, not a convent. I was quick at
the language--_voilà_!"
"Perhaps it was rude in me to ask. I believe I am deficient in
manners; my friends often tell me so. But you spoke such _good_
English; better far than mine."
"That would not be difficult. You have the accent strange to me, that
of the West. Then I have studied for the stage, in fact, and now I
suppose I shall frighten you altogether and make you upset the canoe
when I tell you that I am _on_ the stage."
It only needed some such declaration to convince Ringfield that, still
floating on this silent, desolate lake he was indeed removed from all
his usual convictions, prejudices and preferences. What had he to do
with the stage! To the Methodist of his day the Stage was deliberately
ignored in the study of social conditions. It was too evil to be
redeemed. Its case was hopeless. Then let it alone and let us pretend
it does not exist. This in effect was his actual state of mind.
"I have never been to the theatre," he said simply. "They say that at
some future day we, as Methodists, may have to take up the question of
amusements and consider the theatre seriously. It may be that we shall
have to face other facts--the craving in this age of people, especially
our young people, for greater liberty of thought, and I suppose,
corresponding liberty of action. But so far these questions have not
come very much before me, and I must plead entire ignorance of all
matters connected with the profession to which you belong."
Mademoiselle Clairville's brow was now completely serene; a laugh was
on her lips and a smile in her eyes as she listened to the staid
phrases of her new friend.
"You and your young people!" she cried. "How old are you yourself,
pray? Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty--no, hardly twenty-seven. You
may tell me your age quite frankly, for I will tell you mine. I am
twenty-nine. Do you not think that I look much younger?"
He was in truth a good deal surprised, for to his age--twenty-six, as
she had correctly guessed--twenty-nine seems old for a woman.
Before he could frame a clumsy allusion to her youthful appearance she
had continued with a change of manner:--
"But sometimes I look older, yes, old enough. Tell me, you who preach
your English sermons, so long, so much longer than our Catholic ones,
about trees and rivers and _fish_--do you never preach too about men
and women and their faults and vices and tempers? Ah! there, _Monsieur
le p'tit curé_, you should know that I am a good subject for a sermon,
I and my temper! For I have a temper. Oh, yes, indeed I have."
There being no instinct--at least not as yet developed--of gallantry in
Ringfield's composition, he did not seek to weakly deny her
self-imputed charge. Had he not already seen a proof of the truth of
it in her treatment of Henry Clairville? Was there not even now a
curious malicious gleam in her dark eye, a frown upon her forehead, a
kind of puckered and contemptuous smile upon her lips? Handsome and
probably clever, even good she might be, and yet remain--unamiable.
"I am afraid you have not had a happy life," said he, very gently, and
the simplicity and kindness of his manner smote upon her stormy
countenance, so that it melted and all the ugly hardness and latent
shrewishness died away.
"I have not, I have not!" she cried. "You see my situation here, my
surroundings. Henry, my poor unfortunate brother; the old house, which
might be so comfortable, falling to pieces for lack of money to keep it
up; these terrible people, the Archambaults, pretending to work, but
living on me and eating up everything on the place; the village, with
none in it to know or speak to that I care about; the lonely country
all around, cold in winter, hot in summer; the conviction that Henry
will get worse; the fear of--the fear of----." She stopped.
"The fear of what?" said Ringfield quietly. "You need have no fear
whatever of anything. You are one of God's children. Perfect love
casteth out fear. Dear Miss Clairville, so recently a stranger, but
rapidly becoming so well known to me, never mind about sermons and
conversions. Never mind about Catholic or Protestant, bond or free,
English Church or Methodist. Just think of one thing. Just cling to
one thought. You are in God's hands. He will not try you too far."
Very impressively he repeated this, bending forward till he could look
into her troubled eyes. "I believe, and you must believe too, that in
His infinite goodness He will not try you too far."
A shiver passed over her frame. She lowered her eyes, her mouth
twitched once or twice, then she remained silent and passive while
Ringfield, thinking he had said enough, resumed his paddling. It was
some minutes before conversation recommenced and then Mademoiselle
Clairville requested him to return.
"Do not think," said she, "that I am offended at your preaching to me,"
and now a mild sadness had succeeded to her wilder mood, "but one of
the servants is signalling to me from the shore; my brother probably is
in need of me. You will come to see us, to see me again, and I shall
hope to hear that you will remain at St. Ignace for the winter at
least. Here is one patient of the soul, and we may soon find another."
"If it would make any difference to you,----" he began, still without
any trace of innuendo or latent gallantry, but she interrupted him with
some flashing out of former merriment:--
"How could it, when I am away nearly all the time or try to be? I am
now, like you, considering an offer, and may say adieu to St. Ignace,
the Fall, and Henry, any day. But even if I go, some fascination will
draw me back. It always does."
As he left her at her own gate the face at the window was still
blinking at them. Dimly the ardent young Methodist began to discern
some contingencies in life of which he had never dreamed. And how
admirably he had perjured himself in the interview! Had he not
forgotten the particular sect to which he belonged? Had he not
besought his hearer to forget whether she was Catholic or Protestant?
Had he not, in short, for the first time in his ministerial experience,
fulfilled the plain duty of a true Christian without stopping to think
of ways and means and artifices? Looking back, he was amazed to
remember how earnest he had been and how sudden but genuine was his
sympathy with this lonely woman. Apprehensive for her safety and
content of mind, stimulated as he had never been before by her frank,
original presence, he mentally resolved to remain at St. Ignace for her
sake, or if her protracted absence ensued, as she hoped, to manage to
return when she did.
He had arrived at this decision when, on drawing near Poussette's, he
perceived that individual himself in little straw hat and large white
apron standing at the door engaged in critically examining an enormous
catch of fish--black bass and lunge, just brought in by the guides.
Ringfield asked the time, for he began to realize how long he had been
absent. It was nearly seven o'clock and the evening meal was over.
Poussette at first tried to be angry. He declared that there was
nothing left. Ringfield smiled and strode to the fish lying in
glittering silver heaps on the grass. He lifted up the biggest bass
and carried it into the house, and the coolness of the deed appeased
Poussette.
"That is all right, Mr. Ringfield," said he, slapping him quite
affectionately on the back. "You shall have a good tea, a good tea,
after which you shall hear what we have to say. Mister Desnoyers,
Patrick, myself, all wait for you and all shall be arrange, eh? Every
one round come in, come in and drink _bon santé_ in something good I
got on Saturday. Ah--you shall see, you shall see!"
As Ringfield went in to his "good tea" Madame Poussette came out.
Rather to his astonishment, she sang to herself in passing, and
although her sad vacant eyes were not bent on him, he felt as if the
words were intended for his ear. What were those words?
His knowledge of French was limited, but still he could make out a kind
of rhyming refrain--
"Derrière
Chez mon père
Il-y-avait un grand oiseau."
He stopped and tried to catch more as Madame went down the walk singing
low to herself.
"Derrière
Chez mon père
Il-y-avait un grand oiseau.
la, la, la, la--
C'était beau ça, c'était beau."