Ringfield: A Novel

by S. Frances Harrison

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 garçon, 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 Morréall, buy tiquette on the theatre, ride on the street car, make transfer to Hochelaga Park, get out, have nice glass 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 Morréall 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 passions 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 assails 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 God 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."

"Money—money!" Ringfield exclaimed in his turn, "The root of many kinds of evil. How much money have you, my friend? You are accounted rich, as it goes in St. Ignace, at Bois Clair, in Hawthorne, but in Quebec, in Three Rivers, in Montreal—no! You would soon find the difference. The rich man of the country might easily become the poor man of the town; living is expensive there—you might find your business here—I mean the mill—not pay so well with you absent; in short, Poussette, you would be foolish to change your way of life! It is not worth your while to leave St. Ignace, but I know who ought to go, to be sent to the right about pretty quickly too, and that is—this man, Edmund Crabbe. What do you think of helping me to get him away? He's a public nuisance in spite of his education, and we should all do better without him."