Ringfield: A Novel

by S. Frances Harrison

Pauline, on retiring to her room, was naturally in a whirl of excited feelings; never had she dreamt of escape from her surroundings under such auspices as these. The new affection she had been nursing for several months speedily melted as she lived over again the extraordinary sensations of the past hour. Crabbe came in for some of the glory; she congratulated herself on partly belonging to him, and with characteristic quickness she amused herself, being too wide awake for bed just then, in turning out her drawers and boxes and in tying up the Grand Duchess costume and other accessories in a bundle which she intended to leave as a present for Sadie Cordova.

"I shall never require those again, thank Heaven!" said she to herself as she moved about the plain little room, "or these stage paints and other 'fixings' as Sadie calls them."

The imitation earrings went into the bundle; her old sealskin coat and muff and some photographs of herself and associates in theatrical costume. It was a case of "on with the new life" carried out with that conviction and sincerity that distinguished all Miss Clairville's actions. If she was to marry a rich Englishman, and go to England with him, travel and keep a maid, she would do it thoroughly; the stage as well as "Poussette's," the Hotel Champlain as well as Henry and Angeel must be completely blotted out, else there could be no happiness for her. Yet at moments there survived, along with this directness of upward aims, a curious sense of caution, of dislike to part with certain relics of value, or anything that had figured in her theatrical life; the Clairville instinct was atavistically working against the new creature, Pauline; heredity asserting itself in the midst of new and promising environment.

The next few days brought remarkable changes, veiled by great care and deliberation on Crabbe's part. He gave up the shack to Martin and had a bonfire of his effects. He read the Montreal advertisements of clothing, and sent for a complete wardrobe and two large trunks, yet his manner to the few at Poussette's was sufficiently repressed to discourage curiosity. Every hour Pauline expected him to leave her, be mysteriously lost, then reappear sullen and sodden, but nothing of the kind occurred. The news of his rehabilitation had spread, but the community was too small and the place too remote to understand it thoroughly; meanwhile, the virtuous aspect of both himself and Amable Poussette was almost enough to drive a man to drink, so depressing was the atmosphere of the bar—that place once so cheerful! The lemons grew dry and crinkled one by one; the lager glasses gradually came to require dusting; the spirit bottles were discreetly put behind almanacs and large advertisements of "Fall Fairs"; over all was settling a blight born of conversion and sobriety. Pitiful to relate—the person who should have been most pleased and interested in this moral spectacle was bitterly dubious; Ringfield would not, at this stage, consent to believe in Crabbe's reformation, but winced and shied at reports of altered prospects. The subject was easily of first importance to all at Poussette's, but the Englishman's disdain of explanations and Pauline's fine-lady air precluded much reference to the matter; the minister could only accept the position.

And what was the position? Had not Miss Clairville given him a certain soft and memorably tender answer, turning away all his jealous wrath; and filling his soul with "Comfort and Joy, Comfort and Joy"? Had not his lips pressed hers, his embrace enveloped her yielding form, her eyes, melting and languorous, drooped before his fiery ones? Were these things nothing to her, while to him they almost constituted a marriage? Even with daily evidence of the strongest, he could not bring himself to believe that she was anything but true.

Once they met in the wood, face to face, and there could be no excuse on her part, no elegant evasion of the relations between them, as with those chilling superior accents she persevered in ignoring the past. Snow was again on the ground, every twig encased in a round tube of glassy ice through which showed the grey, brown, or black stem, for a wonderful glissade had followed the milder weather. The pendent branches were freighted with soft, white tufts and cushions, and just as Miss Clairville met Ringfield, under his heavier tread there broke a large arm of larch stretched across the path. Thus he was compelled to halt; the rebound and crash had sent snow flying all over her face and clothes, and naturally he began to brush it off. She kept her hands in her muff—the old one after all, for Crabbe's purchase had not yet arrived—and regarded him, with some abatement, it is true, of the aristocratic hauteur she wore so loftily at Poussette's, but still with an air far removed from the intimate and sympathetic self she had revealed in their first meetings.

"I believe you would have passed me!" said he bitterly, forcing that raw and unpleasant smile. "If it had been a street, I mean, with anyone about, or coming out of church! Surely nothing that has happened can justify you in avoiding me like this!"

"Avoiding you?" She opened her large eyes in haughty incredulity. "Why, I have been waiting for an opportunity like this to meet you and talk it over! tell you something about myself, rather. What odd ideas you get, bizarre, mon ami! Have you heard about my friend, Mr. Hawtree?"

Ringfield answered unintelligibly, looking away from her.

"Have you not? Oh—you have! I thought it very likely. Well, he has come into a little money; more than a little, indeed, but I am not to tell. How then—do you think I shall be able to keep the secret? I am the bad one at that, sure,—as Mr. Poussette would say."