Pauline would have answered hotly, her rudimentary fear of the curé disappearing before the mention of Ringfield, when her eyes fell upon a book that lay at the foot of the ladder, a small green book that she knew well by sight, having read in it with Edmund Crabbe years before, when he was known as "Mr. Hawtree" and had been her lover. The book was a collection of poems by Edwin Arnold, and back into her memory stole those passionate lines:—
The one prize I have longed for
Was once to find the goal of those dear lips;
Then I could rest, not else; but had you frowned
And bade me go, and barred your door upon me,
Oh, Sweet! I think I should have come with lamps
And axes, and have stolen you like gold!
She stood staring at the cover, for upon it lay three or four large spreading dark patches; were these wet spots caused by the snow? Her eyes, then traversing the ladder, noticed footprints, and cakes of blackened snow upon the steps. To whom belonged these tell-tale signs of occupation? Glancing farther up she saw the end of a stick protruding from the loose piles of straw that trickled over the top of the ladder, and she recognized the stick, a stout one with a peculiar ferule that also belonged to Crabbe. He must be in the loft, either sleeping or keeping silence, and now she found herself in the most uncomfortable position a woman can possibly occupy; to her already crowded list of lovers had been added another, and as the quarry of four strongly contrasted men, each possessing more than average persistence of character, she must have excited pity and sympathy in the breasts of women less fatally attractive, but scarcely one thrill of envy. She recognized in the priest potentially the fiercest lover of them all; a man of only two or three ideas, this one of cruel, hopeless, unattainable passion for herself would easily dominate him and render him, fresh to the emotions and therefore ignorant of how to control and deal with them, utterly unreasonable, even it might be violent and offensive. What wonder then if her thoughts like her eyes turned toward the loft above her. Despite her flighty tendencies, her town and theatre friendships and quarrels, her impulsive and emotional nature, Crabbe was the only man who had gained an ascendancy over her; for him she had forsaken prudence, but for him only, and strongest of associations, closest of ties—he alone had appealed to and satisfied her physical side. She had given him much but not all, and now in this moment of hatred of the curé, of herself, and a moving disgust at the conflicting facts of her difficult life, she thought of the Englishman as a desired refuge. There came crowding into her mind those small delicate acts and gestures which make as we say "the gentleman." She recollected Crabbe as he was when he first presented himself at the métairie, the self-possession of his easy manner, subtly tinctured with that dose of romance necessary to her imagination; the unconscious way, to do him justice, in which his talk of blight and exile and ruined fortunes had aroused all her dormant sympathies.
"Oh," she cried, hoping that if in the loft he would hear, "all this is so dreadful, so different from the life I meant to lead, from the life I believe I was intended to lead! Hear me, Father Rielle: all men I hate and abhor, all, save one, and not the one you are thinking of! Hear me again: if I can find the money I will leave Clairville as I said, for good, for ever. I shall leave the theatre in Montreal, leave Canada, and I will go where my talents shall be understood and requited. It is true I have a temper and a tongue. It is true I am hard to teach and hard to get on with, and how do I know—perhaps there lurks in me a trace of that I fear so in Henry—yet I am resolved to try. If you mean what you say, and are not mad in your turn, will you help me to carry this out? I would leave at once, make my way abroad, study and become the actress I know I could if I got my chance. Perhaps in another country, perhaps if I could reach Paris, where I am not known, where it is not known, where——"
She stopped, following the priest's gaze so that both saw now what happened, the heap of straw at the top of the ladder was dislodged, the stick belonging to Crabbe slid down to the floor of the barn and the moment after he himself appeared. His face was somewhat red and swollen but his attire was neater than usual, and the step with which he descended the ladder almost normally steady, besides, he appeared on the side of morality, and as champion of feminine rights made a better figure than one would have deemed possible in so broken a man.
"Sorry to interrupt this tête-à-tête," said he, stopping to pick bits of straw off himself, "but it seemed about time that somebody interfered. I perceive Miss Clairville is rather tired, and—look here, Father Rielle—I give you two minutes by this old turnip or hour-glass of mine—it was with me on the prairie and may not keep very good time, but it ticks—I give you two minutes to apologize to mademoiselle for your—ah—detention of her, and then you may leave us for the Arctic regions outside. Polar, by Heaven, hail falling as big as walnuts!"
It was true; the darkness still reigned and a terrific noise, caused by the large stones rattling on the roof and splintering the distant forest branches. The priest on hearing that authoritative drawl behind him, cowered, his fear of personal violence from Crabbe, who bore a bad name, mastering his ecclesiastical dignity; but as he perceived that the guide was fairly sober he gathered courage and replied in rapid French:—
"You will not I hope be so evil-minded, monsieur, as to misunderstand my sentiments towards Mademoiselle Clairville, whom I have known from her childhood. I am only saying to her what I have felt for a long time—I would be the means of saving her from herself, from such friends as you, and from the ills attendant on the profession she has chosen. My affection for her is solely that of the parish priest who has watched her career and felt saddened by it, yet who would reward evil by good."
"How would you reward her? By making love to her?"
"I have been in communication with the Mother Superior of a convent near Three Rivers, my birthplace. There is a fine appointment there, waiting for a person of talent—gifted—to instruct in elocution and possibly music. I thought——"