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Updated: June 4, 2025
"You are in trouble, trouble of the soul, some perplexity of the mind? Tell me then how I can help?" And Ringfield answered: "Father Rielle, I wish to confess to you. I wish you to hear a confession." "Oh! Monsieur, think! We are not of the same communion. You have said so yourself. You would perhaps ridicule my holy office, my beloved Church!" "No, no! I am too much in earnest."
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?
Only promise me; promise not to give up to remorse and contrition too deeply." Ringfield stood pale and quiet and gave the promise, but Father Rielle and Lalonde ran along the road leading back from the fall until they reached a point where the river was sufficiently frozen to admit of walking across.
Father Rielle whispered in her ear: "Promise, my daughter." "It will be useless. I should not keep such a promise." "What does that matter? Promise to soothe his dying moments, even if you break it afterwards. The Church thus orders, and the Church will make good, will console."
He roused himself, however, to think of the morrow's duties, particularly of the music, and at tea that evening he found the person he wanted through the kind offices of Father Rielle, who was a very liberal Catholic, well acquainted with the whole countryside and who could ask, as he said, in eloquent broken English, nothing better than co-operation in good works with his young Methodist confrère.
Madame, make haste there!" "If I could assist you, " began Mr. Abercorn, but stopped, for his glance wandered to his wife, who had never approved of Miss Clairville. "You must not dream of such a thing, Marcus. Leave me here in this strange house, and go back by yourself along that awful road? Certainly not. Perhaps Father Rielle is going that way sooner than you, Dr. Renaud.
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.
Father Rielle, however, was not too preoccupied to observe the hole; he walked around it instead of over or through it and had the presence of mind to pause, and after a few minutes' kneading and compressing lumps of the damp snow into a species of scarecrow, erected the clumsy squat figure of a misshapen man by the side of the yawning gap and passed on.
At first he thought it was Poussette, then it looked like Martin; finally he knew it for Father Rielle, and at this everything cleared and came back to him. He recollected the great hole spoken of by Crabbe and knew that he ought to call out or lift a hand in warning, yet he did neither.
Thus this silent, censorious-looking priest presented a strong contrast to the optimistic young Ontarian, yet one emotion was common to them both Father Rielle had for years nursed a hopeless passion for Miss Clairville. It happened that the knowledge of Mme. Poussette's remaining on at Clairville as housekeeper to its master came to Father Rielle as something of a shock.
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