"That's what I'd like to know myself, Pauline. I was sitting at the table, smoking, and reading over some of my stuff—poor stuff it seems to me at times; however let that pass—when a knock came to the door, and I opened to our clerical friend! That's all I can remember."
"How did he look? How long did he stay? Do try and recollect. Try and answer."
Crabbe did try, but without avail.
"That's all I know, my dear girl. I must have been pretty bad."
"You must, indeed," said Miss Clairville, rising. A little of the hauteur Ringfield associated with her showed in her bearing, and as the guide drew his food again towards him, she eyed him almost with disfavour. "Then you do not know where he is, or what he went for, or how long he stayed."
"I do not, lady dear—I do not."
Pauline was deeply mystified, and perhaps her vanity was also touched; the mental spectacle of the two men fighting each other for possession of her had faded and a certain picturesqueness had gone from life. However, her marriage remained; she had four days, but only four, to make ready in anticipation of the great event which was to remove her at once and for ever from St. Ignace and Clairville, and in the light of which even Crabbe's backsliding seemed a trivial matter. She therefore returned to Sadie Cordova with restored equanimity, and Ringfield—his avowal and his present whereabouts and condition yielded to those prenuptial dreams and imaginings which pursued even so practised a coquette and talented woman of the world as the once brilliant Camille and Duchess of Gerolstein. Nevertheless, agitation was in the air. Poussette went to and fro in much and very voluble distress. The night closed in and brought no letter, no telegram from Ringfield; how then—who, who would conduct the service? It was the week of Christmas and a few more were already in the village, members of families from afar and two or three visitors.
The feast of Noël is full of importance to all of the Romish faith, and Poussette knew of great things in preparation for the stone church on the hill of St. Jean Baptiste in the way of candles, extra music and a kind of Passion-play in miniature representing the manger, with cows and horses, wagons and lanterns, the Mother and Child, all complete. Should Ringfield not return——even as he spoke the wooden clock in the kitchen pointed to ten; the last train had passed through Bois Clair and Poussette abandoned all hope, while in order to prove his intense and abject depression of mind, he broke his promise to the minister and helped himself to some whisky.
Thus, the absence of his mentor worked this unfortunate relapse, and should Crabbe find out, there looked to be an old-time celebration at Poussette's with Pauline and Pauline's rights entirely forgotten. As it was, Miss Cordova caught the culprit before he was quite lost, and mounting guard over the bar, entered upon those duties which, once shouldered, remained hers for a considerable length of time.
"Division of labour," she said smartly, and Poussette gave a foolish smile. "You take the kitchen and I'll take the bar. Then when Maisie and Jack arrive I can look after 'em. As like as not, Maisie'll be hanging round for a drop of lager—what she could get, that is, out of the glasses—I've seen her! And don't you fuss about Sunday, Mr. Poussette! We'll get on just as well as if we had a church to go to and a sermon to listen to. Guess you won't be wanting to see yourself taking around the plate to-morrow, anyway."