THE "PIC"
"How dreadful the dominion of the impure!"
The September days gave place to October ones and still Miss Clairville
remained away. The tourists had departed and Ringfield could judge
more accurately of the mental and moral status of the countryside. The
congregation of Sunday scarcely numbered two score, but Amable
Poussette and wife were always present and the rule seemed to be that
any who had tired of Father Rielle came to Ringfield whether they
understood him or not; poor Catholics were thus in danger of becoming
even worse Methodists, and he exerted all his faculties and talents in
general directions concerning conduct and character. The beautiful
skies and water, the rocks and great Fall, were as impressive as
before, but they no longer filled so much space in the mind of the
young preacher, who now saw all things in the visible universe from the
standpoint and through the jaundiced eye of the disappointed and
unhappy lover. All Nature mocked him and it would go hard indeed with
him should religion, too, fail him in such a juncture, but the spirit
of work and priestly endeavour kept him as yet from sheer wretchedness;
he prayed daily to think less of the world and more of his calling and
it seemed as if the fate which brought him back to St. Ignace to love
and suffer in loving would spare him further, since there was no sign
of Miss Clairville's return. His preaching could not fail, because he
brought to it a fine original gift and an automatic precision and
certainty resulting from the excellent training of his Church, but
between Sundays the time dragged. His labours among the few scattered
and uneducated families of conflicting race and origin seemed
unconvincing and empty, and a new shyness possessed him; he disliked
hearing any mention of the Clairvilles, for Crabbe's story he had come
to accept as true without a word of questioning; indeed, Miss
Clairville's own words came back to him as a proof.
"Another patient of the soul," she had said. Also, she had referred to
something dark and of sinister import, fatal yet compelling, which
always drew her back from livelier and more congenial places, and, as
he judged, from a sphere of work which paid, to the house at Lac
Calvaire. That the society of her brother was the attraction,
Ringfield could not admit, and what other ties or friends had she? So
far as he could learn--none, and thus he read her story; growing up
unprotected and motherless, without any standard to judge by, she must
have accepted the attentions and fallen under the spell of a man who
probably appealed to her pity and also to her intellect. Crabbe had
been the only man in the neighbourhood capable of understanding her
cultivated allusions; the remnants of the mixed education she had drawn
from the school at Sorel and the pedantic dreary associations of the
manor house. But in the contemplation of such a thing as her marriage
to such a man Ringfield's fancy failed. The whole plan of creation was
altered and blackened. He did not wish to know on what terms Pauline
and this man now met. He tried to shut out all the images such a story
conveyed, and thus he asked no questions nor did he hear any gossip,
proving that the affair was old, and if once known to the country
people, accepted and forgotten. Why could he not treat it in the same
fashion? His faith was not shaken in the sense of belief in a Supreme
Being, but he no longer lived so much for and by his faith; Nature and
God were put back in the past, as he had said to Crabbe, and all his
thought was for the duty of the hour and for the guidance and
sustenance of others. He imagined he had lowered his own dignity by
writing, on the first impulse of desperate first love, the letter which
Crabbe had read with Pauline, and he strove to regain that clerical
calm and judicial bearing that had suffered so violent a shock. But
when six weeks of this repressed existence had sped and autumnal winds
were sweeping down from the glacial north of Terrebonne, bringing cold
rains and occasional snow flurries with them, he felt that he must at
least call at the manor to inquire after Henry Clairville. Little at
any time was heard of the latter except when "Ma'amselle" returned to
her native heath, at which times the Archambaults were whipped into
work and obedience by the forcible tongue and stormy temper of their
mistress. Messages and parcels then passed between the domain and the
village; Father Rielle made his call and the whole village and
_paroisse_ quickened with energy under Pauline's determined sway.
Crabbe--this Ringfield heard from Poussette--was also sent about his
business; he was no longer encouraged to play cards and drink with
Henry, who fared as he might at the hands of the tyrant family swarming
all over the estate.
On a chilly October day, Ringfield once again traversed the muddy road
leading to Lac Calvaire, his heart sore over the revelation that had
reached him, and he could not repress a painful sigh as he came in
sight of the _métairie_. The lake was dull grey, the maples were
shedding their leaves without painting them red and yellow, and the
pines looked unusually sombre against a pale and cheerless sky. A pair
of kingfishers were flying from side to side of the road, and a forked
object sailing high up in the air proclaimed itself a bird, otherwise
there was no sign of life till, approaching the front of the
_métairie_, he observed the peacock taking its airing in a neglected
garden.
Nothing had affected the pose and splendour of this radiant creature as
it paraded up and down, gently swaying its lustrous and shimmering
tail; the drooping fortunes of the house were not reflected in its mien
or expression, and it was not until Ringfield was met by four lean cats
prowling about him in evident expectation of food and petting that he
descried unusual neglect in the appearance of house and garden. Three
ugly blotched and snorting pigs ran out from under some bushes and
followed him. He saw no smoke arising, no face at any window, heard no
lively bustle in the farm-yard, no amusing and contentious chatter in
Canadian French from the barns and out-buildings which sheltered the
various members of the Archambault family. A curious feeling rushed
over him and with it a conviction--the place was deserted. He went at
once to the chain of farm buildings and examined them all; all were
empty, with every sign of hurried and agitated flight rather than of
orderly and complacent departure. The horses were gone, the two wagons
and buggy, the buckboard. Traces of fright and apprehension were met
at every step; a dirty hairbrush dropped on the ground; a clock
abandoned on a bench outside the door as if too heavy; tins opened and
rifled of their contents; a tub half full of soiled clothes in foul
water. All these he saw, scarcely taking in their meaning, until
returning to the manor he opened the front door and went in. There in
the usual place he found Henry Clairville, alive, and no more. Still
clad in the greasy dressing-gown and still seated in the tattered
arm-chair, the unfortunate man was clearly very ill. Patches appeared
on his face, which was both pallid and flushed; his neck showed red and
sore and his body hung down limply over the side of the chair.
Evidently he had tried to get to his bed which stood in a corner, and
failed. His eyes were staring and full, yet glassy; sense and
recognition alike were wanting, while the delirious accents which
escaped now and then from his parched lips were altogether in French.
In short, Ringfield, though unaccustomed to disease, knew that the man
before him was very ill, of what did not enter his head, although there
came to his mind a description of the plague in a boy's story-book. He
did what he could, singlehanded, which was to snatch some warm clothing
from the bed, cover up the sufferer so that draughts might not reach
him, fetch water and leave it on the table near the chair and see that
all animals were excluded. He then quickly sought for a secluded spot
near the lake, hung his own clothes about on branches to air, and took
a plunge into the clean, cool water, after which he was ready to return
to St. Ignace and get assistance.
Dr. Renaud, the village practitioner, drove out at once, taking a woman
with him, who, as soon as she learned she had to deal with the "Pic"
ran screaming from the house, thus clearing up the mystery of the
Archambaults.
"They knew," said Ringfield, "and I didn't. But I guessed something of
the kind and took the only precaution open to me. I washed in pure
water. And now what are we to do? Has M. Clairville no one belonging
to him but his sister?"
"Not to my knowledge," said Dr. Renaud, who spoke good English, "and we
do not wish her to return."
"Certainly not."
"Then I can only think of one person in the village."
"A nurse?"
"Not a professional nurse, but, as I say, the only person I know of
close at hand who can do what is necessary until we get a nurse, if the
man lives to require one. A male nurse would be better, but who is
there here? No. I am thinking of the right one if I can only get her,
if I can only get her?"
"She lives in the village?" Ringfield was curious; he thought he had
met every one in the village, yet here was some paragon of female
skill, virtue and strength with whom he was not acquainted.
"You must have met her. Of course you know her. I speak of Mme.
Poussette. Ah! You shall smile and you shall frown, but you shall see
what a miracle she can work! You shall yet envy this sick seigneur.
Madame is noted for her care of the sick and dying. You are surprised?
Yes?"
"I cannot help it. Anyone would be. She looks so frail, so delicate,
and surely she is also what we call afflicted, peculiar. Is she a fit
and sensible person for a case like this?"
"Ah! Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the doctor with a slight impatience. "These
afflicted ones, these peculiar ones--they are still capable of
something. Many times have I seen it; the old, old tottering
_grandmère_, the crazy aunt, the bad-tempered husband, even the
inebriate, can find, when they are guided, work which suits and
maintains them. Even when the mind is shaken, if it is only a little,
just a little, to care for others, a bird or a cat, or a sick person,
this will keep the wits steady. A case like this moreover!" repeated
Dr. Renaud, laying his finger to his nose. He was round, jolly,
bow-legged, and brusque, with pronounced features overstrong for his
height, merry eyes, and a red birthmark. "This is the case. We are,
you and I and presently Father Rielle, responsible for M. Clairville.
He must not be moved except to his bed; he is too far gone for more.
The wife of Poussette is, to my knowledge, the only person we can get
to sit here, administer drink and medicine, make him comfortable.
Well, not even she can do that but--you _comprenez_. And she is
capable, I know her well. She is as she is" (and the doctor made the
sign of the Cross), "yet she is worth ten saner women, for she has no
nerves, no fears, no imagination. Tell her what to do, place her here
to do it, and she will not fail; I have seen her a dozen times in the
village nursing sick women and their babies. She's as good as most
doctors and better than most nurses. Yes, yes, we will get madame to
him at once."
"But she may take it!"
"I think not. Her body like her mind is purged of all evil humours,
_mon ami_. She is already more than half spirit and waits in peace for
old age and quiet decay."
Ringfield got into the doctor's buggy in silent surprise.
"Besides, if she did take it, and it killed her, I cannot see any great
calamity. I will tell you her history. She was well educated at a
good convent near Montreal; her father was a doctor, as I am, but a far
cleverer one. Yes, I lift the _chapeau_ to that one, that old Dr.
Pacquette as regards the great art and science of medicine. But as a
father--ah! God pity him where he is now, according to our belief, in
purgatory for many long years to come. _Bien_! Dr. Pacquette had lost
his wife, and his daughter, a fairy thing, was allowed, even
encouraged, to grow up as she pleases. They have grand friends in
Montreal, her father's people still live on Rue St. Denis, great rich
people; if you go there, drive out over the mountain and you shall see
her old home, the Pacquette Château. Well, this Mme. Poussette when
she is a girl (Natalie-Elmire-Alexandre, I don't give you all her name)
she is very pretty, and the old doctor wish her to make a grand
marriage, and he has every one up to the house and make a big time for
them, and introduce her to all the young men, all the _rich_ young men.
But while she has been at that convent she has met with Amable
Poussette, who was not so stout then, had a good figure and a lively
tongue, and the end is, they are married at Ancien Lorette by a young
priest, who might have known better. Some months after, she goes home
to her father to be taken in and forgiven and nursed, for she has by
this time a young infant about six weeks old. Well, you can perhaps
imagine _le vieux_ Pacquette when it is all explained. He is enraged,
he drives her from his door, she passes all one long, cold night in the
snow outside the _château_ on Cote des Neiges hill and when she is
found by the servants two days later, she is as you see her, monsieur,
and the baby is dead! Never again the bright little Natalie-Elmire,
but instead, a pale, faded, vacant-eyed, timid woman. Ah! If I ever
meet _le vieux_ Pacquette in the next world!"
The doctor nodded his bald head sagaciously; as for Ringfield, he was
thinking that here was the opportunity for which he unconsciously had
been waiting, to ask for and probably receive Miss Clairville's equally
dramatic story, when he beheld another buggy coming around a corner of
the road driven recklessly by one of the Archambault boys and in the
buggy sat mademoiselle herself. Her attire, always so different from
village modes, was true on this occasion to her theatrical calling, for
to Ringfield's eye at least she appeared like some Oriental personage,
caught and brought home in native garb, coupled with a very bad temper.
Red and black was her habit and black and red her eyes and angry
compressed lips.
The doctor stood up in his buggy and Miss Clairville in hers, and, as
for a quarter of an hour the excited talk was in rapid French,
Ringfield could only gather that the doctor was endeavouring to
restrain her from going to see her brother. At last, turning away from
Renaud with an imperious wave of the hand, she addressed herself to the
minister in English.
"I understand it is to you the doctor owes his knowledge of my poor
brother's sickness. I only heard of it myself last night on the stage
at eleven o'clock, but I came at once--look at me in all this sinful
finery, I can see you are calling it! Oh, yes, you are. Well, now
that I have come and thrown up my part and my place in the company in
Montreal, he will not allow me to finish my journey and go on to
Clairville!"
"Certainly, you must not think of going!" cried Ringfield. "On no
account must you do such a thing. Do you know what is the matter with
him?"
"Oh, the 'Pic' I suppose, but I'm not afraid of it."
"Yet you have not been vaccinated, I fear!"
"Who told you that? Dr. Renaud, I suppose. Of course. No! No one is
ever vaccinated here, no good Catholics at any rate. Good orthodox
ones, like myself."
The doctor frowned, for he disliked the tone of bravado in which these
words were uttered.
"It's no question of faith. It's a question of common sense and
precaution. I have charge of the case and I will not permit you or
anyone else to cross the threshold of Clairville Manor."
"You would class me then with the Archambaults! My own people, who eat
and drink at my expense and who turn their backs on me in the hour of
trial! Poor Henry, it will finish him, I fear, yet I and none other
must be there to nurse him. _Mon Dieu_, but it is a shame!"
"Silly girl!" snapped Renaud. "There is no nursing for you in this
case. Assuredly, Mlle. Pauline, you do not enter the house, I cannot
allow it. Besides, mademoiselle, you return home too late. If you
remained at Clairville longer, and had the place cleaned out, and saw
to it that it was kept clean, your brother might escape these
sicknesses, but poor girl, poor girl, I find it hard to blame you.
Antoine! turn back and drive to the village. Mademoiselle goes now
along with us."
His allusions if they pained did not soften her, but it was at
Ringfield she continued to look.
"I shall have no place to stay," she said poutingly.
"It's a pity you came at all," said the doctor. "They can find you a
room at Poussette's."
"I will die sooner than go to that man's house. It is a common place,
not fit for me."
"Come, come, you are excited. We know Poussette's weakness for a
pretty face and a fine figure, but here is our new and true friend to
look after you."
"Mine is not a pretty face, Dr. Renaud, and I prefer to look after
myself. You do not understand, I am out of a position by coming here.
I only heard last night that Henry was ill and I came at once,
expecting to be in my own home; I did not know what was the sickness he
had; I have left the theatre to come here and now I have nowhere to go."
Ringfield spoke at last.
"There need be no difficulty at all about your going to Poussette's,
Miss Clairville. You will oblige me by taking my room, which is the
largest and best in the house. As for me, I can do with anything. If
you wish I will go back to your house, sleep there in place of the
servants, and keep you aware of all that goes on, of your brother's
progress at least."
"Quite unnecessary," broke in the doctor testily. "I am in charge of
this case, and one patient at one time is all I care for. Drive back,
Antoine, to Poussette's, where you will leave ma'amselle. Drive quick,
too, for I wish to see the carpenter, Alexis Gagnon, next door to M.
Poussette, where I think a room can be got for Mr. Ringfield. Allons!
we have wasted one good half-hour already!"
"You blame me of course for that!" said Pauline, still gazing at
Ringfield, but talking to the doctor.
"Faith, I do," said the latter grimly, and she said no more.
In the Maison Pension of Alexis Gagnon, the village wag, carpenter and
undertaker, Ringfield was accommodated with a room which had a balcony
at the back looking on a square of Arctic garden, where amid circles
and triangles of whitewashed stones the tobacco plant and some
sunflowers lasted into the autumn. The news of monsieur's serious
illness had now filtered through the parish, and Poussette's was full
of men discussing the affair, as Pauline, looking like an outraged and
defeated savage queen, passed into the hall, trailing her cheap red
silken draperies up to Ringfield's room. The door to the bar was
partly open; whisky was going round as supposed to be good to ward off
the "Pic," and prominent in the noisy crowd was the shambling figure of
Crabbe, who did not appear to notice Pauline, nor she him, and
Ringfield, observing them both, could hardly bring himself to believe
their extraordinary story. The brilliant if wayward actress, with her
fine carriage and white hands, could never have belonged to that
derelict of a man, lower even than the rough Frenchmen from the rafts
and chantiers now demanding more "visky blanc". Yet in youth many
things are possible, and the recital of Mme. Poussette's history seemed
to prepare the way for Pauline's. Meanwhile Dr. Renaud had spoken to
madame, and within an hour she was ready, and, being driven to Lac
Calvaire, entered upon her labours without qualm or protest.