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 curé_, 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 Artémise. 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
curé_, 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.