"—the bitter language of the heart."
The shop over which Ringfield was lodging for the time was an emporium of Catholic books, pictures and images, one of those peculiarly Lower Canadian stores in the vicinity of the Rue Notre Dame, existing side by side with Indian curio shops, and rendering it possible for the emigrant and tourist to purchase maple sugar, moccasins, and birch bark canoes at the same time that he invested in purple ribbon bookmarks, gaily painted cards of the Virgin, and tiny religious valentines with rosy bleeding hearts, silver arrows and chubby kneeling infants. Amulets and crucifixes, Keys of Heaven and lives of the Blessed Saints, cheap vases of ruby and emerald glass, candles and rosaries, would at another time have afforded Ringfield much matter for speculation, but the fact was that almost as soon as he had deposited his bag on the table of the narrow bedroom assigned to him, the cold he had so long neglected caught him seriously, and for an entire day and a half he insisted on sitting at his window when he should have been in bed. On the next day his feverish symptoms increased to such an extent that the man who owned the room and who was a widower, managing for himself, sent for a nurse. Tossing on the bed, and frequently rising to look out of the window, Ringfield fretfully objected, but his landlord was firm, and sent a message at once to the Hospital of the Incarnation, the nearest charitable institution and the parent of several flourishing branches, among which was that at Lalurette where Ringfield had thought of placing Angeel. It was early on Thursday evening when the message was sent, and at ten o'clock Archibald Groom, the shopkeeper, came to say that a person recently arrived from the country was below, but that she spoke very little English. He was not answered, and bending over the bed he saw that his lodger was delirious, eyes glassy and staring and head rolling from side to side, with high colour and stertorous breathing.
To call the nurse, who was waiting in the shop, was the work of an instant; she came quickly and noiselessly up the dark stair and saw at once a case of brain fever, partly brought on by exposure and neglected cold, also recognizing in the sick man the well-known minister at St. Ignace and her husband's protégé.
Mme. Poussette, for it was she, possessed more discretion than sense, and more sense than wit; she looked calmly upon her patient as upon a stranger and set about her work in silence.
Meanwhile Edmund Crabbe, on partially recovering from his first fit of intemperance, sat up, and perceiving the well-filled flask he had brought with him, seized it, and began afresh upon its contents. He had left St. Ignace on Monday morning, and it was now Thursday; Henry Clairville was dead and buried; the funeral obsequies being of a complex nature, shabby and ornate, dignified and paltry, leisurely and hurried, while the ceremony was at least well attended, since, as Dr. Renaud had said, a Seigneur did not die every day. Profuse in the matter of lappets, crucifixes, and in the number of voluble country-folk and stout serious-lipped priests, Father Rielle, who had charge of the proceedings, was compelled to accommodate himself to circumstances, or fate, or "the Will of God," in the shape of the Archambaults—who, as Pauline foresaw, had all returned, this time to claim their own.
The disappearance of Mme. Poussette occasioned no comment; for two days after the death of Henry Clairville no one spoke to her or thanked her for all she had done, and while the funeral was in progress she put her few things in a box, and counting a small store of money Poussette had given her from time to time, went with Antoine Archambault to the station at Bois Clair, and was no more seen at St. Ignace. Of all the characters in this simple history, none perhaps was so sincerely deserving as this unfortunate Mme. Poussette, and as she passes from the stormy little village in behind the gate of the serene but busy hospital, it is pleasant to contemplate the change there in store for her. To many women who are plain and unattractive in the ever-varying hat and gown of fashion, and who, if they try to hold their own, must sooner or later resort to artificial aids to attain even moderate good looks, there is yet a refuge, that of some severe and never-changing style of dress or uniform, which bestows upon them another kind of beauty. The kitchen dish or utensil has its charm as well as the sprigged china of the closet; the jug going to the well is as grateful to the eye as the prismatic beaker upon the table, and, in like manner, the banded or braided hair, the perfect cleanliness of fresh print or linen and the straight serviceable lines of skirt and waist often contribute to make a plain woman fully as attractive as her prettier sisters. Thus Mme. Poussette, about whom there was never anything repulsive or vulgar, presented new features to the world in her exquisitely neat hospital garb; more than this, she liked her work, and gradually her expression grew less vacant; she left off humming and whispering to herself, and we leave her thus, contented, respected and of use, and, therefore, almost happy.
Indeed, many there are beside Mme. Natalie Poussette who find as life slips by and the feverish quest of happiness dies within them, that they become happy almost without knowing it in the pursuit of other things once despised, such as work, friendship, the need of earning, or the love of an abstract subject. What a contrast then does this "afflicted," this "peculiar" one afford to the restless, imaginative, gifted but unstable Pauline, in whom the quest of happiness had so far only resulted in entanglement and riot of conflicting emotions!
As she remained much indoors at this time, awaiting Crabbe's return, she dwelt much on the past, words rising to utterance that she thought would never be heard on earth touching the problems of her lonely childhood, her meeting with Crabbe, her aversion to her brother; also, the brighter pictures of the future in which she already lived the life of a London beauty and belle, or crossed to Paris and continued buying for her trousseau. Miss Cordova, with the superior wisdom of a mother, let her friend talk and agreed with all she said; her own opinion of Pauline's choice in men was not in the guide's favour, but she saw it was too late to interfere. The story of Angeel was now cleared up and, had Ringfield remained in the village, he would have learnt as well as the rest of the unexpected parentage of that poor child, and of the turn in the affairs of the country-side which brought the Archambaults on top. However wasted and however dilapidated, the Clairville domain and Manor House was one of the oldest in the province, and it began to be rumoured that a considerable fortune existed in Henry's collection of books and memoirs, offers for which were already reaching the helpless widow and mother of Angeel.
Occupied with her own dreams, Miss Clairville took little notice of her home under a new regime, and day by day she watched instead for the return of her lover, bringing definite arrangements for the marriage. There seemed at least a diminution other natural active outlook on life as a whole, and if she feared from Crabbe's rather dilatory methods that their union was in danger from too long delay, she did not say so, even to her confidante. The latter was bent upon carrying through her project with regard to Maisie and Jack, but this could not be effected until the spring, and thus, without the stimulus of the Englishman's presence, and with the remembrance of death and agitation so recently in their midst, both women were quieter than usual.
As for Ringfield, no one missed him very acutely until Saturday morning, when, upon the receipt of a letter from Mme. Prefontaine, "Poussette's" was thrown into considerable excitement. Pauline, who could rarely keep anything to herself, read her letter aloud and immediately jumped up in terror.