He said 'any other infirmity,' did you notice? And we say, 'any other adversity,' don't we? Well, where's the difference?"

"The tairms are not precisely in the nature of synonyms," remarked the schoolmaster, a Scotchman of sandy and freckled appearance, who was cutting a sandwich into small pieces with his penknife and then frugally conveying them to his mouth with the aid of the same useful implement. "But in a sairtain sense ye can _call_ them synonyms."

"It's out of course and all irregular like to pray for the Queen and the Royal Family on a day like this. 'Twould be best keep that for Sundays where it belongs," said the wife of the ancient who had spoken first.

"What can ye expect, ma'am, when they come to it without their notes?

Stands to reason, if any man's going to preach earnest, _earnest_, mind you, he'll require some notes or heads jotted down, clear and easy to be got at, before him." This was the opinion of another elderly man, but of a fat and comfortable if bl.u.s.tering variety, who had come out from the English provinces thirty years before as cook with a regiment, and was now the Hawthorne butcher and general store-keeper, also accounted a rich man.

"But that's not the point," he went on with husky and stertorous fervour. "The point is not whether what he said was well said or ill said; the point is, he should never have spoke them words at all.

Point? To almost point the finger at us sitting around this hospitable board declaring we were all sinners! So we are, all of us. The Litany says so, don't it? Don't it say, 'miserable sinners'?"

"It does, it does," murmured a sympathetic female engaged in feeding two out of eleven kinds of cake to a child on her lap.

"And the rector leaves it there, where it ought to be left. In my opinion, ma'am, it don't do no good to pray nor preach too direct.

It's casting a stone, that's what it is, it's casting a stone."

"Perhaps he was nervous, poor young man, at seeing so many people,"

said the young mother of the child who was crumbling the cake all over its mouth and fingers and dress without swallowing any, having previously been regaled with maple sugar and mola.s.ses candy outside, and consequently not feeling very hungry. "Perhaps he has heard about Angeel."

The latter was the common p.r.o.nunciation of Angele, the name of the little girl in the basket-chair who was engaged like the rest in eating and drinking in company with her nurse not far from Mr. Abercorn.

At the word "Angeel" several warning coughs around her, winks, nudges and a kick under the table, made the young woman so flurried that she slapped the child for not eating properly, and the child immediately beginning to cry, a diversion was created, but not before Ringfield had overheard a few remarks touching his recent prayer, not exactly flattering to his self-esteem. Soon the conversation lapsed as the piles of cake, custard and pumpkin pies and jugs of tea were depleted; and Mr. Abercorn, upon whom the quiet and gathering gloom had a depressing effect, jumped up and asked for volunteers to a.s.sist in lighting the lamps.

"We usually get through without artificial aid to our eyes and our mouths, but that is when the picnic tea is held in October. We are at least a fortnight late this year. We shall want the tall men for this--Jacobs, Enderby, Anselme--you take these three lamps on the other side while I find somebody to help me with mine."

"On the score of height, at least," said Ringfield pleasantly, leaving his seat and striding down the centre of the barn, "I can offer my services. Which are the ones to be lighted? These two and the one just over our heads?"

"Very good of you, I'm sure," responded the rector briefly. "They are quite steady on their brackets, I suppose, men? Now shut those doors; we don't want any draught. Be careful with the matches, everybody!"

The others had got to work first, and along their side of the wall, Anselme, Jacobs, and Enderby, the butcher, slowly lit their three lamps, when, Ringfield, busy over a refractory wick and just in the act of applying a match, in turning his head, saw directly beneath him the basket-chair and its occupant as well as the young woman in charge of it.

The shock of perceiving what was in reality more of a Thing than a person, being an unfortunate child of about nine years of age, otherwise well formed, but with a weak and hanging head enlarged very much beyond its normal size and yet with a pair of shrewd eyes and a smiling mouth, told upon his nerves. He started, leant too heavily on the bracket, and in a second the lighted lamp, as yet without a chimney, fell on the floor.

In another second the straw and decorations were all in a blaze, the barn full of smoke and commotion; and he was conscious only of himself and the rector wildly stamping, grovelling, and pushing with might and main for what seemed hours of fear and suspense. The men tore the great doors open; there were, happily, no corridors to tread, no stairs to descend; the women and children first, and then their husbands and fathers, rushed out, mostly uninjured, into the cool twilight air, and when Ringfield came to himself he found that in some way he too was outside the barn, holding on to the basket-chair, nearly hysterical from the fright he had sustained, but still endeavouring to calm the dreadful child and its nurse, both of whom were shrieking wildly.

"Angeel! Angeel!" cried the girl, and then in French: "Oh, what would they say to me if anything happened to you! It doesn't matter about me, only you, Angeel, only you!"

Ringfield looked around, dazed. The comfort, jollity, and abandon of the picnic tea were things of the past. The barn had been saved and the fire was out, but the groups of excited, tearful women and coatless, dishevelled men, the rector with one hand badly burnt, Mrs.

Abercorn loudly deploring the loss of her hat and an antique bracelet--all was forlorn, changed, miserable! And all this was his fault, his doing, the result of his carelessness! He could scarcely frame the words with which to deeply lament the unfortunate accident, but his very genuine contrition softened the rector's heart even while he felt some resentment at the sudden fatality which had spoiled the day and in his own case was destined to leave a very unpleasant remembrance.

"The question is," said Mr. Abercorn, talking to Enderby and the schoolmaster, "whether we are to go on with the rest of the programme.

I'm the only one, happy to say, at all injured, and already the pain is better. Plunge in, men, and get out all the burnt stuff and tidy the tables. It might have been worse; thank G.o.d, none were hurt! And we mustn't let Mr. Ringfield feel badly about it. The bracket was weak, I'm sure it was weak, and he's a stranger among us. What are you saying, Enderby? A judgment on him? Nonsense. I thought you had more sense. Ask him to remain for the evening and everything shall go on as we intended to have it."

But Ringfield did not care to stay. Everything was against him; for the first time in his life he felt himself a failure,--in the way. How had he come to be so careless? Well he knew, for the face of the dreadful child, in spite of its deformity, evinced a strong, strong, insistent resemblance to a face he knew. The dark hair and eyes, the shape of the forehead, the way the hair grew on the forehead--where had he seen it all reproduced not so very long ago? Miss Clairville's expression, colouring, and animated play of gesture lived again in this mysterious child.

About seven o'clock, just as Mrs. Abercorn's "nice little show" was beginning, he took his way home. The path lay along the darkest road he had ever seen; there was neither moon nor stars, and the blackness of a country road bordered by dense forests can only be understood by those who have travelled at such a time, and for the nine miles that he plodded stupidly along--for he declined to wait to be driven--given up to sombre and sinister thoughts, he was a most unhappy man.

CHAPTER XII

THE HEART OF POUSSETTE

"Yet is the creature rational--endowed With foresight, hears too, every Sabbath day, The Christian promise with attentive ear, Nor disbelieves the tidings which he hears, ..."

About a week later, Ringfield was descending the hilly road behind Poussette's at four o'clock in the afternoon, when he discerned a new arrival at the wharf, and as the tourist season was over, the boat only making a few occasional trips, he was curious concerning the lady who, showily if neither correctly nor expensively attired, was looking about her in disappointment and consternation. Poussette himself hurried out in his character of host; his manner was more than usually warm and familiar as he took her bag and umbrella, and Ringfield soon learnt that she was Miss Sadie Cordova from Montreal, although originally from New York, a member of the Theatre of Novelties, who had come to pay Miss Clairville a visit. This new acquisition to St. Ignace society was more consistently lively than Pauline, not being troubled with moods, and she brightened the place up very considerably in various directions; she did not share Pauline's room, for Poussette gallantly led her to the apartment vacated by Mme. Poussette, but the two friends were constantly together, and Ringfield at first rejoiced in the advent of the gay Cordova, as it intimated a sensible enjoyment of life on Pauline's part in place of moping and brooding, and as it also appeared to keep Edmund Crabbe off the premises. But these two good ends were gained at the expense of a third, for the constant and animated, even tender attentions of the host were altogether too obvious, although at first no complaint could be made, since so much feminine society served to keep Poussette also steady and sober. Still, card-playing in the mornings, noisy operatic music in the afternoons (there was no piano, only an old American organ, in the house) and coquettish scufflings, dancing, and conscious giggling _tete-a-tetes_ in the hall every long, lamp-lit evening soon became wearisome, and Ringfield, made vaguely uneasy, took on himself to reprove Poussette.

The place was the bar--always the most attractive spot in the house, for the Indian guide, a sober, worthy man, kept it absolutely clean and tidy, and there were comfortable _habitant_ chairs and a wide hearth for logs. These were burning brightly now, as the first November snows were falling, and while Ringfield expostulated with Poussette, the latter spread out his fat hands to the blaze. Upon the little finger of the left hand sat a square seal ring of pale cornelian, and as Ringfield looked he clearly saw the capital letter "C" picked out in red upon the white. New and hateful pangs, suspicions, jealousies, a.s.sailed him; he was sure that this must be Pauline's ring, although he had never noticed her wearing it, and the thoughts thereby engendered did not tend to make him listen calmly to Poussette's line of defence.

So far from being offended at the clerical interest in his affairs, the Frenchman was immensely flattered and encouraged to speak out.

"And are you quite sure," said Ringfield in conclusion, "are you perfectly certain that Miss Cordova knows you are a married man? In my opinion there is small harm in the lady! the poor, thoughtless creature is too much occupied with her silly clothes and music and trivial pa.s.sing of the time to work lasting mischief, but I remember that she follows a G.o.dless calling--she is an actress and has been one longer than Miss Clairville. You must be careful. It is time Mme. Poussette was relieved from her charge and came home."

"But how--come home? Come at this place again? Bigosh--but that will not do, Mr. Ringfield--at all, sir! Beeg fuss, sure--my wife come at this place so soon after leave nurse Henry Clairville! Dr. Renaud will tell you that. No, sir,--Madame is come no more on me, on St. Ignace at all. When she leave me, go nurse seeck man down with the 'Pic,' she is no more for me. _Voyez_--m'sieu, I am tired of my wife. I shall try get a divorce."

Ringfield was astounded. "You, Poussette! A divorce! From that poor, unhappy woman who has done you no harm, and will have nothing to live upon? How can you do such a thing? Why, you must not let your mind dwell on such a thing for an instant! I do not believe in divorce, or at least only in rare and exceptional cases, and yours is not one of these. You understand me--your wife may be delicate, even afflicted, but no man puts his wife away for these reasons. All the more you must cherish her, comfort her, keep her by you. If she grew worse you would be justified in putting her, as we say, under restraint, or in the care of those best fitted to look after her, but even then you would remain her husband. That is the unwritten law of our and of all true religion."

Poussette spat into the fire and considered. Father Rielle had told him this in almost the same words many times over; he had left the Catholic communion for that reason, and had hoped for better things from the young minister.

"Don't Methodists divorce?" said this nineteenth-century rural Henry the Eighth.

Ringfield moved uneasily in his chair. "They may--they can--they do--but as I have told you, the causes must be exceptional ones.

Bitter tragedy--abhorrent false conduct, you understand me?"

The other nodded. "My wife--nothing like that the matter with her.

All the contree, all the reever know Mme. Natalie Poussette--good woman, sure. No--but see now, m'sieu, now I am talking, and I tell you my trouble. I'm not so bad _garcon_, you know; kind of fond of drink now and then--I 'pologize, 'pologize, m'sieu, for you see me a leetle bit dhrunk. Now--understand. I'm by nature a most loving kind of man, and I'm fond of leetle children. Yes, sir, bigosh, _excusez_ a leetle bit of swear--but that is my nature, that is me, and I would like, sir, some leetle babee of my own. I make quite a bit of monee, m'sieu, with the 'otel and the mill, and a leetle bet and a leetle horses.

_Bien_--what you say? Very well. What must I do with this monee--while I live, and if I die? 'Give it to the Church,' Father Rielle, he say. 'No, sir,' I say!"

And Poussette jammed a couple of smouldering logs with his heel; they instantly knit together and sent out a big crackling shower of sparks that caused both men to retire their chairs farther from the hearth.

A suspicion crossed Ringfield's mind. "Did you send your wife to nurse Henry Clairville or did she go of her own accord?"

"_Certainement_--my wife go herself. Dr. Renaud--come for her. She will not take the 'pic'. She will take nothing. She will nevaire die, that woman!"

The remark was saved from being distasteful to the listener by the fact that it was given with a melancholy despairing gesture, which to a less serious person than Ringfield might have been amusing. But his sense of humour, originally meagre, was not developing at St. Ignace as fast as it might, and he saw nothing humorous in this view of madame's immunity from disease. Before he could frame a reply, Poussette went on:--

"So you see, I like you, Mr. Ringfield, and I'm going to pay you good monee, and I believe you--good Christian man, and I want you to help me get a divorce. Mme. Poussette (you can say like this to the Government)--Mme. Natalie Poussette, poor woman--she is so delicate, so fonny, so--so ill, she cannot have any leetle babee; no leetle children play round their fader--that's me, Amable Poussette, beeg man, rich man, good Methodist, built a fine church on top of the Fall. So this Mister Poussette after many years live with his wife, after long time he wants to marry another woman and have plenty small babee, play round in the summertime (here Poussette hushed his voice) under the beeg trees, and in the water, learn to swim in the reever, splash like old duck, old feesh! Many a time I feel like go on the dhrunk. Well sir, nice, bright, young wife, sing, act, dance--we'd have beeg tam together, and I'd dhrink nothing but tea, sure! Go to Morreall, buy _tiquette_ on the theatre, ride on the street car, make transfer to Hochelaga Park, get out, have nice gla.s.s beer--just one, m'sieu--go on the _boutiques_, buy nice bonnett, eh? I have monee to do like that, but [with the national shrug] I have no wife. I am tole there is everything very fonny there all year round, but me--I have only been there two, three tam; no good go alone, meet bad company, get on the dhrunk then, sure. Bigosh--_excusez_, Mr. Ringfield, there's nothing like young, handsome wife and plenty babee keep their father straight.

Eh? So I tell you what I want to do. I will be for selling this place; get three thousand dollar for it; go to Morreall every winter; perhaps go on that Hotel Champlain or some other nice _maison pension_ and have big tam--what do you say? That's no bad thing--" Poussette was very earnest here--"for me--to wish young wife, clever wife, and leetle babee play round! Before I have the hairs gray, or lose what I have. _Regardez un peu, m'sieu_!"

And Ringfield could not refuse to examine the fine head of black hair thrust towards him. He was touched in spite of clerical scruples.

"No, no, certainly not a bad thing," he said gently, "not at all an unnatural thing. I think I understand, Poussette, I can see----" and Ringfield seemed to feel something in his throat, at any rate he coughed and hesitated. "I can see that your position has its difficulties and its--its trials. But, Poussette, we all have those.

We all have to deny ourselves in some way, in some unexpected quarter.

We cannot always have what we want, that is, in fact, at the root of all religious feeling, and, if I am not mistaken, at the root of all religious belief as well. If the great Creator of the universe has had to suffer and deny Himself, as we know, in the past, has He not still to suffer as He looks on at the wickedness and sinful pa.s.sions of the sons of men? The universe is not absolutely happy, perfect--would that it were! And so this law of suffering runs through everything and a.s.sails everybody. None can hope to escape. We--ministers of the Gospel--we do not question this; we recognize that it is so, and all we can do is to impress it upon you who listen to us. I have tried to do this; I have preached upon this--that to each individual man, woman and child, there comes--there must and will come a time, when material success, health, wealth and happiness are non-important, and when moral issues, when duty, character and conduct are the great essential facts of life to be met and grappled with. You--Poussette--have been no exception to this rule in the past--you know the habit of life to which I refer--and now here is this new trial, this new difficulty about your wife. Even were I able to do anything for you--because it is a lawyer, a notary you require, not a minister--I could have nothing to do with your marrying again. That--I must tell you plainly--is out of the question. It is not good for man--some men--to live alone; my Church, my Bible tell me this, and may be I am learning to know it from experience of such cases as yours; but once married, and married to one in whom there is no fault, you must not seek to lightly undo what G.o.d and the sacraments of the Church in which you were united have wrought.

I fear, Poussette, that in leaving Father Rielle and coming to me, you were not acting honestly, openly."

Poussette, in admiration of his hero's beautiful pastoral diction, felt no resentment and exhibited no temper. "No fault!" he exclaimed. "Ah, but there--that is not so, Mr. Ringfield. Look, sir, look now, there is fault enough--beeg fault--what I have said. That is enough, and I have plenty monee to make it more than enough."