Pauline was much amused and laughed once more with so thrilling a cadence in her rich voice that the child in the basket-chair clapped its hands and laughed too.
"So now, Artemise, try and understand what I tell you, for I shall not see you again before I leave, and these are my last wishes, to be faithfully carried out. I know the world, my dear, and I have had many trying, many sad experiences, and as you grow older, and I trust wiser, you will begin to realize what a charge Angeel will be. Are you attending, Artemise?"
"_Oui, oui, ma"amselle_."
"Very well. I have told Dr. Renaud to come and see you often and advise you; he will be a kind of guardian for you both, and will attend you, as he did Henry, free of charge. The debts in the village and at Poussette"s cannot possibly be paid, but I will speak to Maman Archambault about the future. The sale of Henry"s effects will bring enough, I hope, to enable you to find, still through Dr. Renaud, some kind teacher for Angeel, and I wish, I particularly wish that this talent for drawing and painting shall be encouraged. Do you understand me?"
"_Oui, Ma"amselle_." Pauline"s bright eye had transfixed the wandering gaze of Artemise, who by almost superhuman efforts was trying to collect her thoughts and remember all these directions.
"She can never hope for companionship, nor--certainly not--for school advantages, nor yet marriage; how then? She must amuse herself, fill in the time, be always occupied. Maman Archambault and you will sew for her, cook for her, and watch over her, and if at any time the money comes to an end----Artemise, listen, I tell you! Collect your wits and keep looking at me." For the girl"s attention was clearly wandering now to something outside the house.
"_Oui, Mademoiselle, oui, oui._"
Pauline stamped her foot in her annoyance.
"The creature is not following what I say!" she exclaimed.
"Angeel--you can remember! You know what I have been saying. You are to learn to draw, perhaps to paint, to make little pictures, caricatures--oh, it will be so pleasant for you, and by and by people will pay you to do this for them. See, _pet.i.te_, you must be very wise for yourself, for the poor kind _maman_ cannot be wise for you."
And Angeel"s heavy head nodded sagely in swift discernment of this evident truth, for Artemise was now tired of the subject and of Pauline"s endless farewells and preferred to look out of the window.
Rare sight on a December day, the peac.o.c.k was still pacing to and fro, for the air was as mild and balmy as in June, and although the road ran water and the trees were rapidly losing their icy trappings the courtyard had been swept of snow and therefore remained almost dry.
The beauty of the glissade was over. But Artemise looked only for a moment at the peac.o.c.k. Along the road from the direction of the village were advancing two men, Dr. Renaud and the priest; behind them, a few steps, walked Martin, the Indian. They came near the stone fence, they stopped, all three, and seemed to confer, studying from time to time the front of the house. Absorbed in watching them, Artemise listened no longer at all to Miss Clairville"s p.r.o.nouncements and indeed very little was left to say. Pauline put on her gloves, slung her m.u.f.f around her neck and submitted to a frantic embrace from the warm-hearted, lonely little girl, then turned to bid farewell to the mother.
"Two hours by my watch!" she cried gaily. "Which of us has been the gossip, the chatterbox, eh, Artemise! _Eh! bien_, I wish you a very sincere and a very long good-bye." Some emotion crept into her throat, into her voice. The child was her brother"s. This poor girl, the mother, bore her own name, and she could not harden her heart entirely against the ill-starred couple, and why should she! She was bidding them both farewell, probably for ever, and the prospect so soothed her that she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "Poor children!" and wiped away a tear.
"Take great care of yourself, Artemise, for Angeel"s sake and mine, and for the sake of the name you bear and the place it has held in the country. But what are you looking at so intently? What is the matter out there, Artemise?"
At that instant the priest detached himself from the others and entering the domain walked slowly up to the door and knocked.
Pauline, not comprehending the nature of the visit, went herself and opened to Father Rielle. His long face told her nothing--was it not always long? The presence of Renaud and the guide, whom she also saw in the background, told her nothing; their being there was perhaps only a coincidence and they had not turned their faces as yet in her direction. Precisely as Crabbe had met his fate without seeing it arrive, although half an hour earlier he had foreseen death and prayed against it, she faced the priest with a smiling countenance, her tremors past, her conviction--that her lover was alive and well and able to take her away that instant if necessary--quite unaltered.
Father Rielle had a difficult task to perform and he realized it.
Twice he essayed to speak and twice he stammered only unmeaning words.
Pauline translated his incoherent and confused murmurs with characteristic and vigorous conceit; she believed him so anxious to make her a private farewell instead of a stereotyped adieu in public that she thought he had walked out from St. Ignace on purpose.
"It is all settled and therefore hopeless!" she began. "You cannot interfere or change me now."
The priest repeated the words after her. "Settled? Hopeless?" he uttered in a furtive manner as if anxious to escape.
"I mean my marriage," she went on gaily. "It has been discovered that I am no longer, if I was ever, a good Catholic, and there is consequently no hitch, no difficulty! I am supposed to be nothing at all, so we shall be just married in the one church, his church, you understand. And now you may absolve me, your Reverence, if you choose, for the last time."
"Mademoiselle," began the priest with a scared look at the bright face above him, "it is of that I must speak. Mademoiselle, this marriage, your marriage, it--it will not take place. It cannot take place."
The brilliant eyes hardened, the barred gate stood out upon her forehead.
"You think because I am a Catholic----"
"No, Mademoiselle, it has nothing to do with that. I came here to tell you, I was sent--there is something you must be told, that you must know--it is very difficult for me. Oh! Mademoiselle, I find it even more difficult than I thought, I must have help, I must ask some one else, I cannot--cannot."
His voice broke, stopped. The other men, turning at last towards the house, saw the priest"s bowed head and Pauline"s bright but angry face, and Dr. Renaud at once came to Father Rielle"s rescue.
"Mademoiselle," he began, but Pauline, leaving the door open, rushed down the walk and met him at the gate. Her hands were pressed upon her bosom and her wild eyes sought his in alarm, for she knew now that something had happened, that something was wrong, although the mental picture of Crabbe lying dead or dying did not occur to her. She figured instead, some quibble, some legal matter, a money strait, a delay, but the doctor, quietly taking one of her hands in his, spoke as tenderly as was possible for a man of his bearing.
"Father Rielle is saddened, crushed. He cannot tell you, for he feels it too much. I feel it, too, but I must be brave and put away these feelings, this natural weakness. My dear lady, my dear Mademoiselle, your friend, your _fiance_, the man you were about to marry, has met with a very bad accident."
"A bad accident."
"Yes, a very serious one. You must be prepared."
"He has been killed? Then I know who did it--I know."
"An accident, an accident only, mademoiselle, I a.s.sure you. But a very serious one, as I have said."
"Very serious? He--he--where is he? Take me to him. Oh! I knew something would happen, I am not surprised, I am not surprised. But it shall not prevent my seeing him, waiting on him. It shall not prevent our marriage."
The piteousness of her position softened the doctor"s heart still further; he kept hold of her hand and modulated his voice.
"I am afraid it may. I am afraid you will have to prepare yourself for a great shock. Martin here--found him."
She did not yet understand.
"Martin, I say, was the one who found it."
The change of p.r.o.noun did not fully enlighten her.
"But he is alive! Yes, of course he is alive, only badly hurt. Then we can be married at once wherever he is. Any one can marry us--Father Rielle will tell you that. If we both wish, and we both believe in G.o.d, that is sufficient. Other things will not matter. Any one, any one can marry us. Take me to him."
Dr. Renaud, relinquishing her hand, stepped to the side of the priest and was followed by Martin. Artemise, always curious and flighty, ran out and overheard a word or two as the three men again conferred and fled back to the house, shrieking as she went.
"Dead! Dead! Another death! Within a week! You see I can count!
You see I can count! Dead, drowned, and all in a week!"
The truth was now borne in upon Pauline, and she turned to meet the united gaze of the three men, reading confirmation of the awful news in their averted and sobered eyes. The shock told, her limbs shook, her sight left her, her throat grew sore and dry, but she did not faint.
"I am so cold," she said in English. And again in the same tongue. "I feel so cold. Why is it?"
Dr. Renaud hastened to her, supporting her with his arm.
"You have guessed?" he said hurriedly.
"I heard. Is it true?"
"Dear mademoiselle, I regret to say, quite true. He was carried over the Fall! there was no escape, no hope. Come, let me take you back to the house for a moment where you may sit down." For she continued to tremble so violently that presently she sank upon the low fence, still pressing her hands over her heart. "Come, mademoiselle, let me take you into the house."
"Not that house! Not that house!"
"Faith--I know of no other! You cannot remain here."
"But I can go back, back to Poussette"s."