Enderby was silent, but the angry flushing of his face had subsided a little. Ringfield saw his chance and pressed it home.
"Try and see if that would not be the better way—to let me control the matter and quietly take the child away without any fuss and scandal and naming of names. In the meantime I can make my inquiries and communicate with you. Dr. Renaud now—he will be able to advise us, and I should think your own rector and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Abercorn, for I hear the lady has done a great deal of the parish work; but if you think it better to leave it entirely to me, I will see what can be done."
"The rector, sir, is easy, terrible easy in his ways; he would let anything go on for any length of time to save trouble. Well—good-night to you, sir, and you may expect to see me again soon."
"Good-night, Enderby, good-night. We have had a very successful entertainment, I think.—Here is Poussette going to turn us out; it's after eleven!"
An unusual hauteur in the Frenchman's demeanour did not escape the minister, who was not, however, disposed to ask any questions. The truth was—the unexpected turn in Crabbe's fortunes had been partially explained to the host, but to no one else, and secrecy had been impressed upon him. The ex-guide had displayed a wealth of money, had received and dispatched letters and telegrams full of suggestive mysteries, and—most wonderful of all—had not called for drinks. Poussette was so far keeping his own vow made to Ringfield and Miss Cordova, but at any moment an outbreak might occur, for excitement breeds thirst even in sober individuals.
Outside the lighted window walked Ringfield to and fro, waiting till the Englishman should emerge and go to his shack, but as the reader knows this did not happen. He saw the light carried about, then it entirely disappeared, and afterwards two lights appeared upstairs, but in opposite ends of the house; Crabbe had escorted Pauline to her door and then betaken himself to the small room at one side which coincided with that occupied by Miss Cordova at the other. It was not long before everything was dark and quiet, and Ringfield, extremely baffled and uneasy, turned to go home. But Alexis Gagnon, supposing the minister upstairs and asleep, had locked the door, and now the only mode of entrance possible was the undignified one of climbing the rude fence and scaling the well-remembered balcony which led to his room. This brought him very close to Pauline's chamber, looking on the familiar balcony, but he could detect nothing wrong or unusual; Poussette was wrapped in sleep and even Martin, the Indian guide and choreman, had evidently long gone his rounds and entered the house.
Ringfield could not be expected to understand the sudden change in Crabbe's fortunes, and he spent the rest of that night in dreary and bitter speculations as to the probable causes which had led Pauline to desert him openly for the Englishman. Why had he not the power, the audacity, the social courage which the guide undoubtedly possessed, to seize her and bear her off bodily on these occasions? This—a relic of savagery—would alone overcome the ease with which Crabbe confronted him, and despite vices and faults usually carried off the palm. As one progressed the other retrograded; the Englishman, dreaming of a good name and character restored, lay peacefully beneath Poussette's roof, not worrying about Pauline, for he knew that, short of the marriage ceremony, he had the strongest right and authority any man could have over her; while Ringfield, distrusting and suspecting every one around him, tossed and sighed all night, wondering what stability there was in her mind and what worth he might set upon her promises. Some deterioration, some loss of fine simplicity, some decrease in his healthy optimism, was already visible in his look and bearing; he in his turn was discovering the impotence of Nature to heal, sooth, or direct, and it might have been said of him that he began to go in and out without noting the objects so suggestive and inspiring—the sky, the thundering flood, the noble wood, the lonely river. As Crabbe had cried to him in utter desolation of soul—what had Nature to do with a man's heart and self and life? Nature mocked him, passed him by, viewed him coldly. Poetry—did not Crabbe quote poetry? The bitterness of Job, the pessimism of Solomon, began to colour his attitude of mind, and thus by slow degrees his physical powers declined from their original high level. He did not get enough sleep, he did not eat enough food, he took long walks with his eyes on the ground, he found visiting a bore and preaching a stumblingblock. Nothing saps the strength like the rotting virus of jealousy; nothing so alters the face and vilifies the expression as living in a state of perpetual dislike and suspicion of any person or persons; as Crabbe's countenance cleared, as his eye brightened and his complexion lost its dissipated blotchy hue, Ringfield suffered by comparison. He seemed to fail in some mysterious indefinable way; his thick hair looked thinner on his temples, his eyes were larger and the set of his mouth reminded one of Father Rielle in its slow, new writhing smile. If this were Love—how should any escape? But not only Love, but Hate, and Doubt, and Fear, were all warring in a good man's breast.
CHAPTER XXI
THE NATURAL MAN
"Wretched at home, he gained no peace abroad;
Asked comfort of the open air, and found
No quiet in the darkness of the night,
No pleasure in the beauty of the day."