Ringfield did not say much; of Crabbe no mention was made by the others, and it was probable that nobody had seen him, or dreamt of his being out in the neighbourhood on such a day.
CHAPTER XVI
IN THE BARN
"Poor now in tranquil pleasure, he gave way
To thoughts of troubled pleasure."
Pauline had yielded to an erratic but harmless impulse in driving off recklessly with the priest; her nature, so long restrained by residence in a dull, circumscribed village instead of a lively town, needed some such prank to reanimate and amuse it. She seized the reins dramatically, insisted upon driving, and Father Rielle was nothing loath since he did not care about nor understand horses very well, and since it was dangerously novel and bitterly pleasant to sit and watch Miss Clairville. Her fine features and splendid colouring showed well against the dull background of sky and forest; the ribbon on which her muff was slung, tied moreover in a dashing bow, was a bit of true scarlet matching some rosettes in her hat. As she looked behind for a wilful instant she caught sight of Ringfield sitting up stiffly on the two fat laps provided by Amable Poussette and the doctor, and her laugh rang musically in the priest's ear.
"Poussette's is the fastest horse in the village!" cried she. "See—I will give him a little of the whip. Voilà—now he will think he has his master behind him. March-ch, donc, animal. Get up—bigosh, excusez, mon père. That's it! Watch him now! I'm not an actress for nothing. See now—he'll be galloping presently, but trotting is all we care for, my good beast! So you are going to bring Mme. Poussette back with you, I understand,—tear the fair lady from my poor brother!"
"Who has told you that canard?" said the priest, folding his arms and leaning back as far as the little calèche would allow. "No, I did not think of doing so to-day; you doubtless heard me talking of the matter to Dr. Renaud. I cannot tell what you think of it, but in the absence of all servants it seems to me that Poussette's wife should return to her home while you both make new arrangements for managing his house. But perhaps you intend remaining there to-night, mademoiselle?"
"I have no such intention, mon père, I assure you. I am glad Henry has recovered; I shall see him once or twice, of course, and then I shall return to Montreal and not come back here for years—if I can help it. But look at the snow! It is coming faster and faster and growing darker and darker. The wolf's throat is sunshine compared to this. Shall we turn back?"
"No!" said the curé with his sour face steadily turned toward her. "I do not mind the snow nor shall you. I would drive so—like this—beside you and looking at you, to the end of the world, of life. Drive faster, faster yet, till we leave those others behind. Take that opening there on your left. I know of a shelter that will serve—Leduc's barn—you may remember it. Arrived there, you must hear me."
Pauline, irritated though not greatly surprised, stooped, and making a small hard ball of the wet snow lying thickly around their feet, flung it backwards into the priest's face; he caught her left wrist, held it in a tight grip, and although she was a strong woman, he was the stronger, being a man, and she could not escape. The darkness closed down upon them, the snow came down in blinding, tickling clouds, and in her anger and distress she could not drive properly. Poussette's horse being accustomed to being driven to the barn, went in that direction of his own accord, and thus they arrived in a whirlwind of snow—the priest still holding her wrist with something else than sourness showing in his thin features—a few minutes before the hail commenced falling. Pauline, dragging herself as she descended to the ground from an over-zealous admirer, ran into the shelter and tried to fasten the door, but the other, leaving Poussette's horse and voiture to fare as best they might, was quick upon her heels and followed her inside the barn.