Ringfield: A Novel

by S. Frances Harrison

CHAPTER XXVII

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.