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.