"I hope, said she, that Heaven
Will give me patience to endure the things
Which I behold at home…."

The glorious noonday sun was lighting up all the road to Clairville and making it possible for the peacock to revive his display of a glistening fan of feathers tipped with frosted filaments that were only rivalled by the pendant encrustations of the surrounding trees, and in a window of the manor Pauline was standing looking at the bird after showing Angeel the various little trifles she had brought with her. The child's infirmity did not prevent her from enjoying the good things of life; indeed, as frequently occurs in such cases, her senses were almost preternaturally acute and her faculties bright and sensitive in the extreme. In place of any system of general education, impossible during those sequestered years at Hawthorne in charge of her incapable mother, she had picked up one or two desultory talents which might yet stand her instead of mere bookishness; she was never without a pencil in her long white fingers and busied herself by the hour with little drawings and pictures of what she had seen in her limited experience, and some of these she had been exhibiting now to the person she held both in awe and adoration. Her kinship to this elegant, dark-haired lady had only recently been explained, and Pauline was trying to accustom herself to being addressed as "ma tante" and "tante chÉrie" with other endearing and embarrassing terms of regard.

But the time was going on and Miss Clairville turned from the window; a very little of Angeel was all she could stand just now.

"At this rate our beautiful view will soon disappear," she said, sitting down beside the basket-chair. "See then, mon enfant, how already the ice drips off the trees and all the pretty glass tubes are melting from the wires overhead! It is so warm too, like a day in spring. Eh! bien, I must go now back to my friends who are waiting for me. I have nothing more to show little girls. You have now the beads, the satin pincushion, and the little red coat that is called a Zouave jacket—see how gay! and you will find it warm and pleasant to wear when your kind maman makes it to fit you. And here too are the crayons to paint with and a new slate. Soyez toujours bonne fille, p'tite, and perhaps some day you will see your poor aunt again."

"Not my poor aunt! My rich, rich aunt."

"Ah—tais toi, ma p'tite! But you, too, are not poor any longer.
That reminds me, I must have a little talk with your kind maman."

With some difficulty overcoming her dislike of the individual and aversion to the entire family arrangement, Pauline walked out to the hall which separated the faded salon, where she had been sitting, from the still untidy bedroom and called for ArtÉmise. In a few moments the widow of Henry Clairville came in sight at the top of the staircase leading to the upper room, her bright black eyes dulled and frightened and her hands trembling visibly, for was not Mlle. Clairville her enemy, being not only a relative now by marriage but her late mistress, tyrant and superior? But the certainty of leaving the neighbourhood in a very few days put Pauline so much at her ease that she could afford to show her brightest and most amiable side to her sister-in-law, and thus she made a graceful if authoritative advance to the bottom of the staircase and stretched forth both her white hands, even going the length of imprinting a slow kiss on the other's sunburnt cheek. Few could at any time have resisted the mingled charms of so magnetic a personality, with something of the stage lingering in it, an audacity, an impulsiveness, rare among great ladies, and it must be remembered that in the limited society of St. Ignace, Miss Clairville passed as a great lady, and was one indeed in all minor traits. Then the touch of her skin was so soft, there always exhaled a delicate, elusive, but sweet perfume from her clothes and hair, and even in her mourning she had preserved the artistic touches necessary to please. No wonder that the poor ArtÉmise should burst into weak tears and cry for pity and forgiveness as that soft kiss fell upon her cheek and those proud hands grasped her own.

"Chut!" cried Miss Clairville, drawing the other into the salon. "I am not angry with you, child! If Henry made you his wife it was very right of him and no one shall blame you nor complain. Only had I known—ah, well, it might not have made so much difference after all. You are going to be very comfortable here, ArtÉmise, and I shall write to you from time to time—oh, have no fear! regularly, my dear! And Dr. Renaud and his Reverence are to see about selling Henry's books and papers, and it is possible that they bring you a nice sum of money. With that, there is one thing I should like you to do. Are you listening to me, ArtÉmise?"

"Bien, mademoiselle," answered ArtÉmise, through her sobs. "I listen, I will do anything you say. I am sorry, ma'amselle. I should not be here, I know; it is you who should be here, here at Clairville, and be its mistress."

Still secure in her ideas of impending ease and happiness, and unaware of the course of tragic accident which was operating at that same moment against her visions of release and freedom and depriving her of the future she relied on, Pauline laughed musically at the notion.

"Oh, that—for me? No, thank you, my dear. In any case I had done with Clairville. If not marriage, then the stage. If not the stage—and there were times when it wearied and disgusted me, with the uneducated people one met and the vagaries of that man, Jean Rochelle—then a paid situation somewhere. The last—very difficult for me, a Clairville [and again she very nearly used the prefix, a tardy endorsing of Henry's pet project], and with my peculiar needs. To be sure, a religious house had offered me a good place, thanks to Father Rielle, at a good figure for Canada, but there are other countries, ArtÉmise, there are other countries, and I am still young, n'est-ce-pas?"

"Mademoiselle will never be old. She has the air of a princess, the complexion—d'une vierge!"

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, ArtÉmise, 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, ArtÉmise?"

"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 ArtÉmise, 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——ArtÉmise, 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, petite, 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 ArtÉmise 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 peacock 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 ArtÉmise looked only for a moment at the peacock. 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, ArtÉmise listened no longer at all to Miss Clairville's pronouncements and indeed very little was left to say. Pauline put on her gloves, slung her muff 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, ArtÉmise! 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 ejaculated, "Poor children!" and wiped away a tear.

"Take great care of yourself, ArtÉmise, 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, ArtÉmise?"

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 fiancÉ, 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 assure 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 pronoun 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 God, 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. ArtÉmise, 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."

"You must drive or be driven then. You cannot walk."

It was true. Pauline's breath was now very short, her articulation difficult, her throat contracted and relaxed by turns.

"It is true!" she gasped. "I cannot walk. I cannot even stand up.
Oh, Dr. Renaud, this is more than weakness or fright. I am very sick,
Doctor. Why cannot I stand up?"

Renaud tore off his coat, the priest and Martin did the same. Folding all three beside the fence where the snow was still thick and dry they laid Miss Clairville down and watched her. Martin fetched brandy while the entire Archambault family flocked out to see the sight, and stood gaping and chattering until rebuked by Father Rielle. The doctor knelt a long time at her side. Knowing her so well, he was secretly astonished at the weakness she had shown and he dealt with her most kindly. Tragedy had at last touched her too deeply; a latent tendency of the heart to abnormal action had suddenly developed under pressure of emotion and strain of shock, and he foresaw what she and the others did not—a long and tedious illness with periods of alarming collapse and weakness. For herself, so ill was she for the first time in her active life, she thought more about her own condition than of her loss; she imagined herself dying and following her lover on the same day to the grave. The image of Ringfield too was absent from her thoughts, which were now chiefly concentrated on her symptoms and sufferings.

"Am I not very ill?" she asked presently, after a little of the brandy had somewhat stilled the dreadful beating of her heart, the dreadful booming in her ears.

"Yes, mademoiselle. But you will recover."

"I have never been sick before."

"You are sure of that? Never had any nervous sensations, no tremors, no palpitations?"

"Ah, those! Yes, frequently, but I never thought much about them.
They were part of my life, my emotional life, and natural to me. Shall
I die?"

"I think not, mademoiselle. I believe not, but you may be ill for a while."

"Ill! For how long?"

"That I cannot tell you. You must have care and quiet, absolute quiet."

Pauline said no more. The distress of heart and nerves came on again; she moaned, being exceedingly troubled in spirit and her pallor was great.

"It is clear you must not remain out in the road any longer, mademoiselle. You must be put to bed and have warmth and rest and some kind woman to look after you. Ah! How we would welcome our good Mme. Poussette now, but she has flown, she has flown. So it will be Mme. Archambault perhaps, who knows all about sickness; has she not reared thirteen of her own, or fourteen, I forget which? Come, mademoiselle, we will lift you carefully. The door is open, the manor is hospitable and warm, its kitchen and larder well stocked, its cellars overflowing. Faith—you might do worse, and at Poussette's who would be there to nurse you?"

Pauline was too spent to utter the defiant objections that in health she would have hurled at the speaker. Tragedy indeed had touched her for once too deeply, and she submitted to be helped back into her old home, the house made hateful by a thousand painful associations of an unhappy youth, without uttering a single remonstrance. Some of her native courage knocked timidly at her frightened heart, clamouring to be reassured of days to come, of duties to be taken up, of life to be lived, for over and above her sense of cruel frustration and bereavement she dreaded death, not caring to die. The closing of the episode in which the guide figured so prominently appalled and stupefied her, yet her inherent vitality sprang up, already trying to assert itself.

"What a position is mine!" she thought, when a slight return of strength enabled her, leaning on the doctor's arm, to reach the room so long occupied by her brother. But her lips said nothing. There was no other place to put her; the salon did not contain a sofa, she could not be lodged with ArtÉmise or Angeel, and meanwhile her weakness increased till she asked herself to be put to bed. Maman Archambault was sent for and in a few moments Pauline was lying on the lumpy tattered mattress which had served Henry Clairville for his last couch.

The course of tragic accident had brought her to this, and could she have foreseen the long, long weary time, first of illness, then of convalescence, and finally a physical change so marked as to unfit her for all but a narrow domestic life, it is likely that with her fierce and impatient temper she might have been tempted to end her existence. As one for whom the quest of happiness was ended as far as a prosperous marriage and removal from St. Ignace were involved, she now depended on herself again, and bitterly as she might mourn and lament the disappointment and chagrin which in a moment had permanently saddened her future, her grief and mortification would have been bitterer still could she have foreseen the long nights of half-delirious insomnia, the days of utter apathy and uselessness which stretched blankly before her.

Later that night, when she had tried to compose herself to sleep but without success, she called Maman Archambault into the room.

"Give me a light—for the love of God, a light!" she wailed, sitting up with all her dark hair pouring over the bed. "How dare you leave me without a light and I so ill!"

"But the doctor said——"

"What do I care what he said! In this room, in the dark, are all sorts of creatures, I hear them! Henry is here, or his ghost, and the Poussette woman is here, singing her silly songs, and rats are here, and cats, and worse things, moving and crawling all over me, in the walls, everywhere!"

The old woman set the lamp on the table. She was very angry.

"It is not so, mademoiselle. The room was cleaned. Maybe a ghost, n'sais pas. Maybe a cat or two. Yes, there's the white one now under your bed and her kittens! I'll drive them out."

Miss Clairville sank back and watched. So had her brother lain. So had the cats lain under the bed during his sickness. Maman Archambault went out to her paillasse in the hall, the night wore on, but without sleep for Pauline, and towards morning so intense were her sufferings that a messenger was sent for Dr. Renaud, who came as requested and was destined to come again and again for many a weary month.