IN THE BARN
"Poor now in tranquil pleasure, he gave way
To thoughts of troubled pleasure."
Pauline had yielded to an erratic but harmless impulse in driving off
recklessly with the priest; her nature, so long restrained by residence
in a dull, circumscribed village instead of a lively town, needed some
such prank to reanimate and amuse it. She seized the reins
dramatically, insisted upon driving, and Father Rielle was nothing
loath since he did not care about nor understand horses very well, and
since it was dangerously novel and bitterly pleasant to sit and watch
Miss Clairville. Her fine features and splendid colouring showed well
against the dull background of sky and forest; the ribbon on which her
muff was slung, tied moreover in a dashing bow, was a bit of true
scarlet matching some rosettes in her hat. As she looked behind for a
wilful instant she caught sight of Ringfield sitting up stiffly on the
two fat laps provided by Amable Poussette and the doctor, and her laugh
rang musically in the priest's ear.
"Poussette's is the fastest horse in the village!" cried she. "See--I
will give him a little of the whip. _Voilà_--now he will think he has
his master behind him. _March-ch, donc, animal_. Get up--bigosh,
_excusez, mon père_. That's it! Watch him now! I'm not an actress
for nothing. See now--he'll be galloping presently, but trotting is
all we care for, my good beast! So you are going to bring Mme.
Poussette back with you, I understand,--tear the fair lady from my poor
brother!"
"Who has told you that _canard_?" said the priest, folding his arms and
leaning back as far as the little _calèche_ would allow. "No, I did
not think of doing so to-day; you doubtless heard me talking of the
matter to Dr. Renaud. I cannot tell what you think of it, but in the
absence of all servants it seems to me that Poussette's wife should
return to her home while you both make new arrangements for managing
his house. But perhaps you intend remaining there to-night,
mademoiselle?"
"I have no such intention, _mon père_, I assure you. I am glad Henry
has recovered; I shall see him once or twice, of course, and then I
shall return to Montreal and not come back here for years--if I can
help it. But look at the snow! It is coming faster and faster and
growing darker and darker. The wolf's throat is sunshine compared to
this. Shall we turn back?"
"No!" said the _curé_ with his sour face steadily turned toward her.
"I do not mind the snow nor shall you. I would drive so--like
this--beside you and looking at you, to the end of the world, of life.
Drive faster, faster yet, till we leave those others behind. Take that
opening there on your left. I know of a shelter that will
serve--Leduc's barn--you may remember it. Arrived there, you must hear
me."
Pauline, irritated though not greatly surprised, stooped, and making a
small hard ball of the wet snow lying thickly around their feet, flung
it backwards into the priest's face; he caught her left wrist, held it
in a tight grip, and although she was a strong woman, he was the
stronger, being a man, and she could not escape. The darkness closed
down upon them, the snow came down in blinding, tickling clouds, and in
her anger and distress she could not drive properly. Poussette's horse
being accustomed to being driven to the barn, went in that direction of
his own accord, and thus they arrived in a whirlwind of snow--the
priest still holding her wrist with something else than sourness
showing in his thin features--a few minutes before the hail commenced
falling. Pauline, dragging herself as she descended to the ground from
an over-zealous admirer, ran into the shelter and tried to fasten the
door, but the other, leaving Poussette's horse and _voiture_ to fare as
best they might, was quick upon her heels and followed her inside the
barn.
Thus they escaped the worst portion of the storm, but the darkness
endured; they remained standing looking at one another, and Pauline,
though she was both cold and frightened, managed to give her habitual
laugh.
"Because you are 'Father Rielle,'" she exclaimed, "you think you are
entitled to pursue a recreant sheep of the flock even over here! Oh!
it is not on account of the storm--I know that--that you follow me! I
have seen this coming for some time, and I have feared it!"
The priest staggered, passed his hands over his eyes and made a hasty
sign of the cross. Opportunity, propinquity, a sudden
temptation--these had assailed him and for one moment all the devils of
hell were let loose in this good man's brain and heart. The silence
seemed eternal that followed on his movement; as the air lightened
around them she fancied his countenance distorted by suffering, and his
averted eyes spoke of his shame and contrition.
"My daughter," he said at length, "fear what you will but never again
fear me. You witness my remorse, my tears--yes, behold, my
daughter--and you know, you tell yourself that I cannot, will not harm
you--nor any woman. But now you would hear what I would say, because
you must not refuse. You have left our Holy Catholic communion, you
are no longer daughter of the true Church, is it not so, my daughter?"
An old habit asserting itself, Pauline automatically answered; "_Oui,
mon père._"
"You have gone on the stage, you have developed into a brilliant but
wayward coquette; you have for your friend a woman who has left her
husband and thinks about marrying another. Is this not so, my
daughter?"
And again, despite her experience of his singular lapse from conduct,
Pauline's lips answered: "Oui, mon père."
"Worst of all, you have set yourself to fascinate and wound this young
man, this stranger among us, and you are leading him on to think of you
night and day, I suppose, as I do!"
"_Mon père_--do not confess it!"
"Why not? You will not use your knowledge of my secret since you will
not be believed. I--thanks to my training and the example of my
glorious Church--can choke, can bridle, can conceal this passion--but
not so this other. Can you deny that you have been with him,
encouraged him?"
Pauline would have answered hotly, her rudimentary fear of the _curé_
disappearing before the mention of Ringfield, when her eyes fell upon a
book that lay at the foot of the ladder, a small green book that she
knew well by sight, having read in it with Edmund Crabbe years before,
when he was known as "Mr. Hawtree" and had been her lover. The book
was a collection of poems by Edwin Arnold, and back into her memory
stole those passionate lines:--
The one prize I have longed for
Was once to find the goal of those dear lips;
Then I could rest, not else; but had you frowned
And bade me go, and barred your door upon me,
Oh, Sweet! I think I should have come with lamps
And axes, and have stolen you like gold!
She stood staring at the cover, for upon it lay three or four large
spreading dark patches; were these wet spots caused by the snow? Her
eyes, then traversing the ladder, noticed footprints, and cakes of
blackened snow upon the steps. To whom belonged these tell-tale signs
of occupation? Glancing farther up she saw the end of a stick
protruding from the loose piles of straw that trickled over the top of
the ladder, and she recognized the stick, a stout one with a peculiar
ferule that also belonged to Crabbe. He must be in the loft, either
sleeping or keeping silence, and now she found herself in the most
uncomfortable position a woman can possibly occupy; to her already
crowded list of lovers had been added another, and as the quarry of
four strongly contrasted men, each possessing more than average
persistence of character, she must have excited pity and sympathy in
the breasts of women less fatally attractive, but scarcely one thrill
of envy. She recognized in the priest potentially the fiercest lover
of them all; a man of only two or three ideas, this one of cruel,
hopeless, unattainable passion for herself would easily dominate him
and render him, fresh to the emotions and therefore ignorant of how to
control and deal with them, utterly unreasonable, even it might be
violent and offensive. What wonder then if her thoughts like her eyes
turned toward the loft above her. Despite her flighty tendencies, her
town and theatre friendships and quarrels, her impulsive and emotional
nature, Crabbe was the only man who had gained an ascendancy over her;
for him she had forsaken prudence, but for him only, and strongest of
associations, closest of ties--he alone had appealed to and satisfied
her physical side. She had given him much but not all, and now in this
moment of hatred of the _curé_, of herself, and a moving disgust at the
conflicting facts of her difficult life, she thought of the Englishman
as a desired refuge. There came crowding into her mind those small
delicate acts and gestures which make as we say "the gentleman." She
recollected Crabbe as he was when he first presented himself at the
_métairie_, the self-possession of his easy manner, subtly tinctured
with that dose of romance necessary to her imagination; the unconscious
way, to do him justice, in which his talk of blight and exile and
ruined fortunes had aroused all her dormant sympathies.
"Oh," she cried, hoping that if in the loft he would hear, "all this is
so dreadful, so different from the life I meant to lead, from the life
I believe I was intended to lead! Hear me, Father Rielle: all men I
hate and abhor, all, save one, and not the one you are thinking of!
Hear me again: if I can find the money I will leave Clairville as I
said, for good, for ever. I shall leave the theatre in Montreal, leave
Canada, and I will go where my talents shall be understood and
requited. It is true I have a temper and a tongue. It is true I am
hard to teach and hard to get on with, and how do I know--perhaps there
lurks in me a trace of that I fear so in Henry--yet I am resolved to
try. If you mean what you say, and are not mad in your turn, will you
help me to carry this out? I would leave at once, make my way abroad,
study and become the actress I know I could if I got my chance.
Perhaps in another country, perhaps if I could reach Paris, where I am
not known, where it is not known, where----"
She stopped, following the priest's gaze so that both saw now what
happened, the heap of straw at the top of the ladder was dislodged, the
stick belonging to Crabbe slid down to the floor of the barn and the
moment after he himself appeared. His face was somewhat red and
swollen but his attire was neater than usual, and the step with which
he descended the ladder almost normally steady, besides, he appeared on
the side of morality, and as champion of feminine rights made a better
figure than one would have deemed possible in so broken a man.
"Sorry to interrupt this _tête-à-tête_," said he, stopping to pick bits
of straw off himself, "but it seemed about time that somebody
interfered. I perceive Miss Clairville is rather tired, and--look
here, Father Rielle--I give you two minutes by this old turnip or
hour-glass of mine--it was with me on the prairie and may not keep very
good time, but it ticks--I give you two minutes to apologize to
mademoiselle for your--ah--detention of her, and then you may leave us
for the Arctic regions outside. Polar, by Heaven, hail falling as big
as walnuts!"
It was true; the darkness still reigned and a terrific noise, caused by
the large stones rattling on the roof and splintering the distant
forest branches. The priest on hearing that authoritative drawl behind
him, cowered, his fear of personal violence from Crabbe, who bore a bad
name, mastering his ecclesiastical dignity; but as he perceived that
the guide was fairly sober he gathered courage and replied in rapid
French:--
"You will not I hope be so evil-minded, monsieur, as to misunderstand
my sentiments towards Mademoiselle Clairville, whom I have known from
her childhood. I am only saying to her what I have felt for a long
time--I would be the means of saving her from herself, from such
friends as you, and from the ills attendant on the profession she has
chosen. My affection for her is solely that of the parish priest who
has watched her career and felt saddened by it, yet who would reward
evil by good."
"How would you reward her? By making love to her?"
"I have been in communication with the Mother Superior of a convent
near Three Rivers, my birthplace. There is a fine appointment there,
waiting for a person of talent--gifted--to instruct in elocution and
possibly music. I thought----"
"You thought it would suit me!" cried Pauline, in a frenzy of disgust
and irritation. "Me! For the stage and its triumphs a convent with
simpering nuns! For Paris with its gay shops and drives, the town of
Three Rivers, Province of Quebec, _dans le Bas Canada_! Oh! I see
myself, thank you, in that _galère_, I assure you! No--no--that
honourable extinction is not for me yet awhile. _Après, mon pere,
après--après_, I may return and be glad of the haven, but not now."
"The two minutes are up," said Crabbe laconically. "I'm sorry to turn
you out in such an afternoon, Father Rielle, but it is best for you and
for mademoiselle. The hail's not quite so big as it was. I advise you
to go at once."
The priest, divining some understanding between Crabbe and Pauline, and
gradually calling to mind certain episodes of several years back,
glanced from one to the other.
"I am not sure that I am not myself in the way," he said grimly. "Such
rapid and excessive sensitiveness on behalf of Mlle. Clairville is
creditable, but scarcely, I should think, its own reward."
"Do you deny that your being here is a menace to Miss Clairville's
peace and that you--you a frocked and tonsured priest--have addressed
words of love to her? If I did not utterly despise you, I should kick
you out into the storm."
"You need do neither. I do not deny that I love Miss Clairville; I
deny only that I have menaced or threatened her in any form. I say
this to you--man of unclean, unholy habits--the priest is human. He is
as God made him. He lives or dies, loves or hates by the will of God.
When I look at Miss Clairville, I think of her as the possible helpmeet
of my life, had it been spent in the service of this world instead of
in the service of God. I think of her, monsieur, even reverently,
purely, as the possible mother of my children."
This astonishing speech had much effect upon Pauline, who commenced
weeping; the priest's voice--always a beautiful one--had dropped with a
mournful cadence on the four last words, and Crabbe did not reply.
"Who can do more than that?" resumed the _curé_. "But that I cannot
offer. Such care and worship, such devotion and tenderness I may not
give. What then! I can at least be the instrument which shall shape
her future career. I can point the way and deliver her from all these
temptations of the world, the flesh and the devil. I do so now. I ask
her to renounce the world now, at this moment, and to enter upon a new
life to which it shall be my high and glorious privilege to introduce
her."
The subtlety of the priest saved him. The noble melancholy of his
words and gestures was abundantly convincing, and suddenly the
situation, at one time threatening to become unpleasantly melodramatic,
became normal. The reversion to the light commonplaces and glib
phrases of society was felt in Crabbe's careless tones as he spoke of
the weather, adding:--
"'Tis never too late to be polite. I'm putting my watch back into my
pocket, and I'll go with you, Father Rielle. My refuge--a temporary
one--is no longer needed, it's lightening very considerably, and I
suppose you'll be going on to Clairville."
"But what am I to do?" exclaimed Pauline. "I would rather not be left
here alone!"
"I am afraid you must make up your mind to that. Poussette's horse is
hardly fit to be driven. Let Father Rielle take him to the Manor House
and then come back for you with one of the others."
This was agreed upon, the two men left at once and for the space of ten
or fifteen minutes she was alone. At the end of that time she could
hear footsteps on a rapid run, and soon Edmund Crabbe re-entered the
barn. The cool air had invigorated him, and he flung off his cap and
faced her.
"I could not leave you in that summary fashion, after so long," he
said, "after so long, Pauline! Well--I have lived to be of some
service to you--or so I think. Whether Platonic or not, you had better
not encourage his reverence to that extent again, do you hear? A
veritable Cassius of a man! And, by the way, you are looking very well
just now, lady dear. I never saw you handsomer, Pauline!"
Miss Clairville's colour, already high, leaped more redly in her cheeks
and she trembled; the ancient power that this man held over her, the
ring of his rich English inflections, the revival of habit and
association made her weak as water, so that she suddenly sat down and
could find nothing to say. But Crabbe was quite at his ease, the
encounter with Father Rielle had sharpened his wits and given him a
restored opinion of himself, and in Pauline he saw a very handsome and
attractive, warm-hearted and talented woman, still young and once very
dear to him. The dormant affection in both was near the surface and
Crabbe, knowing from her silence and downcast eyes how she felt, put
some check on himself.
"Small use to either of us," he sighed, "to renew those passionate
scenes of our youth! But I can still admire you and wish with all my
heart--my heart you doubtless think black and altogether corrupt,
Pauline--that you were for me to win afresh and wear openly this time,
and that I might offer you a future unsullied. I suppose that your
Methodist parson is after you, too, and that he will be the lucky one!
He's handsome, d----n him--and steady as mountains; he does thy work, O
Duty, and knows it not. I have little doubt but that flowers bend
before him in their beds, that fragrance in his footing treads, and
that the most ancient heavens----what's the rest of it? But you know,
Pauline, you know you'll never be happy with him!"
Miss Clairville murmured something he did not catch, and it was a
marvel to see how completely she lost her gay, assertive air, her
dashing theatrical address in the presence of the guide.
"He's been at me several times about reforming. Well, if I did what
would there be for me here? A big, long purse, Pauline, that's what I
want--a big, long purse, my girl, and then you and I might leave this
place and all these old harrowing associations. What about that
Hawthorne business? Do you ever hear?"
"Sometimes," whispered Miss Clairville. "Antoine, as you may have
noticed, acts for me. I give him the money, but I never go myself. I
could not bear to see it--to see her--and it is not necessary."
"Poor girl!" said Crabbe, with much feeling. "It's hard on you, damned
hard, I know. What's the matter? Oh--the swearing! I'm sorry, live
too much by myself--forget myself. But Pauline, almost I think Father
Rielle's advice will have to be followed. It would be a haven--a
haven--better than the stage. If I could reform, could change my skin
and lose my spots--but no! Even the fulminations of your latest
admirer cannot work that miracle--I'm incorrigible! When I think of
what I was, of what I might have been, and of what I am, despair seizes
on me and then I'm only fit for--the bottle! There's no help for me,
I'm afraid. Why, Pauline, this is Heaven's truth--I'm not perfectly
sober now."
As he spoke, again were heard footsteps on a run outside the barn.
"I know you're not," said Miss Clairville in agitation, "but I don't
shrink from you as I used to do. Perhaps it was my fault. Oh--who can
this be? Father Rielle returning?"
"Hardly. He was told to drive back for you. It's some one seeking
shelter, like ourselves. Hark--the hail is stopping, and now the
thunder and lightning and a good old-fashioned midwinter storm!"
"I know who it is," said she, still more hurriedly, and pushing Crabbe
towards the ladder,--"it is Mr. Ringfield. You must go back to the
loft. I could not have him meet you here. He thinks--he thinks--you
know what he thinks."
"And he's not far wrong, either," said Crabbe complacently. "But
perhaps I'd better do as you say; don't detain him now. When he's gone
I'll get you out of this somehow."
Thus in a few minutes Ringfield entered the barn, found Pauline, as he
supposed alone; but afterwards, watching from the high road, saw the
guide emerge and noted the familiar relation in which they stood in
front of the stricken pine.
More than simple religious feeling entered at this moment Ringfield's
young and untried heart, his vanity was deeply wounded, and the thought
that Miss Clairville could allow Edmund Crabbe to caress her was like
irritating poison in his veins. Yet he was in this respect unfair and
over-severe; the fact being that Pauline very soon observed, on coming
into closer contact with the guide, the traces of liquor, and she then
adroitly kept him at a distance, for in that moment of disenchantment
Ringfield's image again came uppermost.
It was not possible for her to be wise either before or after the
event; she had not sufficient coldness nor shrewdness of character to
enable her to break with all these conflicting surroundings and begin
life over again as she had eloquently described to the priest, for
without money she could not leave St. Ignace, and she could not raise
the money without taking some situation which might unfit her for the
stage and prolong the time of probation too far into middle life.
Pauline might age early, and at thirty-five she saw herself maturing
into a gaunt and grizzled dame, incapable of all poetic and youthful
impersonations. To be thus crippled was torture to her lively
imagination, and in this _danse macabre_ of thought, a grim procession
of blasted hopes, withered ideals and torturing ambitions, her mind
gave itself first to one issue, then to another, while it was clear
that her position at St. Ignace was fast growing untenable and that
something would have to be done.
To live at Poussette's on the charity of its host was, although the
sister of the seigneur, to invite insult. To yield a second time to
the ingratiating addresses of the guide was to lose her self-respect,
while to indulge in and encourage a pure affection for Ringfield was a
waste of time. She recognized the truth of Crabbe's candid
statement--how could she do the young man such an injustice as to marry
him!